Sunday, 27 May
Eating on the Road |
It will probably break ninety today and the air is already
thick enough to pour from a jug. I’ve
taken in my morning walk and I’ve cracked the windows on the Suburban. What possible rationale could I have for
holding onto what is considered to be an eight passenger truck? As far as I’m concerned it is the best car
I’ve ever had, period. It really is my
home on wheels. It’s road worthy in most
any weather condition and it’s comfortable, with room for a cooler to store
food, any change of clothes and plenty of space to sprawl out in if I need to
catch a snooze. I can store my camera,
some books and set out for any place on the map served by a road, or no place
in particular, just whatever it is I stumble onto looking for a face to exchange
hellos. There’s no place I need to be and there’s no
date or time to put me on the clock.
Where it is I am is where it is I’m supposed to be. With that in mind I stick pretty much to the
back roads when traveling. I find the
nooks and crannies of outback America
by far the most rewarding. There’s no
big deals, just a life filled with a series of small stories that, over time,
makes for an epic view of people and their surroundings, a space that serves
for living a life where crickets are part of the night air and people don’t
freak out at a whiff of tobacco smoke that drifts and lingers. The best stories aren’t served glossed up on
cable TV but in the night spots of lonely outposts where people congregate to
swap lies while dogs lay flopped out near their feet. Humanity dwells near the buzz of a small neon
star and the circle of light cast from a naked pole mounted bulb. There’s the crunch of gravel when you drive
up and the screech of a screen door as you enter a barely lit cave of a wood
floored room, silhouetted with a familiar mix of sturdy men and warm scented
women, all dressed for easy comfort and ready for a few really good laughs that
have a way of making the rounds at everyone’s expense.
I’m getting my ducks in a row. I’m looking to sell used lawn mowers to the
Indians on a reservation nearby. It
doesn’t have to be Charley Drycreek of the Pawnee nation. It could be Ed Dreier, a machinist with the
better part of two fingers missing, or Edna Woodley, known to her church-going
neighbors for the great spread she cooks up Sunday afternoons following
services. I’m not fixed on selling lawn
mowers, either. It could just as easily
be cheap tires from Ray’s Auto Service, romance novels from Marla’s Book Nook
or the full beauty treatment from Shirley’s Hair Salon. It doesn’t much matter what I hock. I’m
looking for a microphone, found in a forgotten stucco building that was last
seen in a distant field nearly buried by negligent weeds. I want to talk root beer when its sticky and
propane when breath frosts glass on the pane.
The point is that everything becomes a short story when the audience is
small and the once-in-a-lifetime adventures are limited to the four color travel
brochures given away for free to overnighters in motel lobbies everywhere out
on the interstate.
I’m thinking out loud, Jacob. I’m forgetting these thoughts are all ahead
of you and not now, not in the beginning point of your life. What an adventure you have in store. I guess the important thing is to always keep
your perspective. If you land on
Boardwalk and it has a hotel on it, that is not yours, and all you have is ten
dollars to your name – guess what? It’s
not the end of the game. You keep on
keeping on. Keep your mind filled with
wondrous possibilities and your heart strong with courage. Speak your best thoughts freely and build
your dreams with your hands. And if you
find yourself sharing a table with the one person most important to you don’t
let anything or anyone distract you from that moment. Much of life seems little more than getting
from here to there. The life you want to
know, the life worth always remembering, seems harbored in surprising places at
unexpected times, and often with a person where, it seems as though, you almost
share the same breath. Treasure it. You’ve just spilled out all the eternity
you’ll ever know.