The Drive Part 3

Sorry,  had to remove this...it was in dire need of editing-more than usual

The Drive Part 2

“The west is the best

get here, and we’ll do the rest”

-The Doors

Oooooh-klahoma.  

When I was in the military, they flew us from Camp Pendleton, California to Somalia, Africa.  The flight took over twenty-four hours.  Straight.  With the exception of a couple of interesting stops for refueling, the whole thing was so long and so uneventful that it is just a blur that I don’t really even remember.  

That’s how it is driving through Oklahoma on highway 60.  There are huge expanses of nothingness.  Boring for a drive, however, I tried to take some time to appreciate that. There is a special kind of nobility in that the land is unspoiled.   There are signs posted across the entire state that mark the beginning of the land set aside for specific Native American tribes.  From Choctaw to Osage to Cherokee to Pawnee.  Perhaps the kind of place I might like to settle in a later chapter of life.

A few years ago I went hiking with my daughter’s girl scout troop through a section of a wilderness preserve that marked the path of the trail of tears through Kentucky.  The next few days were miserable thanks to chiggers, but that’s beside the point for now.  Although as I reflect back, it was miserable then, too.  Sections of the trail were just a narrow path on its way to overgrown, but that’s due to the visitors and lack thereof, over the last hundred years.  The original trail had to be much wider.  The natives were moved in groups of up to a thousand people.

At one point, the path curved around a giant boulder cliff, which to the delight of some of the scouts , I simply had to climb.  They all joined me in time after finding a much simpler route.  But before they did I stood at the top and looked down upon the path.  

The light shimmered through leafy branches and I could see them.  Hundreds of them. They were dusty from the road, worn and tattered, and even the children dragged their feet.  Some wore very little clothing, and some wore thick skins and long heavy robes because they had too much else to carry.   Poles stretched between the some of the men where bundles were suspended for transport.  Many were sick with open wounds and all were hungry.   The men tried to stay brave, but not too brave, for the bravest among them had already been shot.  One woman fell.  Her black and grey hair was tied back revealing deep leathery wrinkles.  Her age may have been impossible and she was gaunt.  With her knees busted on the ground she reached up her hands and threw back her head.  Everything went black-and-white except the beads of every color around her neck, a gift made by a great granddaughter.  The cry of anguish she cast to the heavens stopped the entire movement for a mile and even the birds went mute.  The sound of the drawn out cry was melodic yet dying.  Even as the vision wavered and vanished the sound lingered.  It had a sharpness that pierced me so that I gasped, and I hurt inside with a suddenness that launched a bout of shoulder shuddering sobbing.  My eyes were closed.

The top of Texas was even less interesting with one notable exception: some eccentric millionaire had buried a row of Cadillacs  with their backs sticking up out of the sand.  Sadly, they were covered in amateur graffiti.  

Texas marked what was supposed to be the end of this leg of the journey.  With my route mapped out days earlier, hotel reservations were already in place, and I was scheduled to stop my days’ travels and check in at the-hotel-whatever in Amarillo.  The morning had come and gone and the afternoon was waning, but the sun was still bright and hot.  My left arm was noticeably more red and tender than the other thanks to its place along the driver-side window ledge.  

So I weighed my options:  I could check into the hotel in Amarillo, late afternoon, find some food, take the chance that the pool was outside and closed, flick through 40 channels of nothing to watch before ending up staring at “The Princess Bride” on HBO Family, crash early, and head out again in the morning.

Or I keep going.  Next scheduled stop-Flagstaff, Arizona.  If I made decent time, I could be there just after midnight, local time.  That would make it a sixteen hour day, but…with the time I save, I could take a small detour to the Grand Canyon tomorrow.

I knew I had made my choice when that familiar GPS-lady voice, which had been silent for so long, said “Recalculating…”

There goes my exit.  So I kept on riding the highway west.

The Drive, Part 1

I left Kentucky for California in a Volkswagen Beetle with the back seat packed up to the horizon of my rearview.  Belted in the passenger seat was my guitar, and the radio was my highway companion.  It might have been 2015 or 1968.

I wasn’t heading west in search of stardom; in fact I can only play a few songs all the way through.  I wasn’t headed west for the weather, although it doesn’t hurt.  I wasn’t headed west to make any sort of statement.  On the surface it seems I have very little in common with the hippies of yesteryear.  What I do have is a thirteen year old mortgage, close proximity to parents on both sides, an active church home, a loving wife, three kids, one in college in the area, and a secure job.  Deep roots.  What kind of man pulls those deep roots and moves his family across the country?

That question crawls deep under a dozen layers of excitement for now, but the road is long.

Spring in Kentucky is beautiful.  The earth is covered in bright greens speckled with bursts of flower colors.  Tall forests follow the bumps of the hills and knobs along the highway.  The sun lights their tops and reflects reminders of the recent rains.  Only a fool would leave this for the desert.  A fool in search of the promised land.  

Tennessee and Missouri both match Kentucky’s wonder and adds miles of rolling pasture and elevation.  I stop at each state’s welcome sign to take a picture and stretch my legs.  The seats of the modern Volkswagen bug are actually quite comfortable, but even sitting on dandelion fluff must get old eventually.

I mindlessly eat from a paper bag, and at times realize the radio has been scanning through staticky stations for miles while my mind was far away.  I think about important things like why  doesn’t everyone use cruise control, and what life must be like for a semi truck driver.  Occasionally, the speakers would catch my attention with a song I love and I would crank it and sing loud.  Songs on the radio are somehow better than the same song on a cd or playlist.   I suppose its the surprise and spontaneity.

The clouds rolled in somewhere in Arkansas threatening an afternoon shower.  The sun hid then shone then hid again.  It was during the hiding that the question wormed its way to the surface and I had doubt.  The dark said there’s no going back.  The things you love are behind you.  Ahead is the unknown.  It would have been so much easier to stay put.  What the hell were you thinking.  Where are you going?  You’re too old for such nonsense.  The dark said you’re scared and my eyes glassed.  

I slipped away for a moment, then the sun broke the clouds again and with a burst of light pushed the dark.  It said follow me, I’m headed west, too.  Ahead is mystery and the thrill of taking life as it comes.  The bright whites mingled with the dark blues and grays and the clouds made an image.  Driving along that highway in Arkansas, high in the sky outside my car window, I saw a face in the clouds.  You might expect me to say that there was Christ chasing away the darkness and giving me a sign, but that’s not what I saw.   As clear as could be, there was a young Tom Petty with glinting sleepy eyes and a pursing smirk assuring me that everything is alright.  

I never thought to stop for a picture as proof, but you can’t make this stuff up.  I laughed out loud, brushed the single tear away, turn up the radio, and sang along:  Runnin’ down a dream, that never would come to me...