Drive By

4/27/2023

Many of you following this blog have asked me to document Gary and I’s voyage back to his home in Coupeville, WA, and then my own in San Diego. And as I’ve nothing better to do most nights along the way, why not.

Last Sunday, after we dropped Bob at the airport in Jacksonville, Gary and I started our diagonal trek across the country, with a planned stop in Des Moines, IA to visit my sisters and their families. Google Maps told me where to turn and how far it would be until I was instructed to turn again, and I quickly settled into the comfort of merely driving a car instead of riding a bike…it felt wonderful, the ease of moving with minimal physical exertion a thing I’ll never take for granted again. Gary and I talked, we sat in silence, we listened to music, we stopped at Starbucks, we got smoothies, and we ingested far more calories than we burned for the first time in nearly 2 months. The bike ride seemed so long ago, like maybe it had really been a dream, or a story that someone else had told me and I had merely written myself into the lead role. We both felt it, a strange and expanding distance that seemed to be pushing our recent adventure too-quickly to the back shelf. The current reality of comfort and rapid progress had already supplanted our status as conquerors of The Southern Tier, and there was nothing to be done about it beyond lamenting its passing.

Passing into Georgia we started to notice a lot of Confederate Flags displayed in prominent locations alongside the roads, over businesses, in manicured lawns, and many of these flags were of the ginormous category on 40 or 50 ft flagpoles. It was unsettling to see this symbol of the deep south that represents much deeper pain and anguish for far too many being flown so blatantly, and seemingly with great pride. We continued to see these flags throughout Georgia, Tennessee and even Kentucky before finally leaving them in our wake as we crossed into Missouri. Not cool…

On the third day of our new format of traveling, we wound our way into Southern Iowa and passed through Osceola, the place of my birth. I drove us by Clark County Hospital, where I was born on a hot July day in 1956 before the hospital was air conditioned, 36 hours after my mother first went into labor, before finally making my appearance at 10:07 pm, my skin purple, the cord wrapped tightly around my neck. I survived, as did my mother, who told me the story of my birth many times, our shared history fraught with intrigue from the very beginning.

I drove by the house my maternal grandparents had lived in, a place of great joy and laughter, and some of the best food I’ve ever eaten. I drove by the house of my paternal grandparents, a place that might have lacked the energy and joy of my other grandparent’s home, but nonetheless provided my sisters and I with sanctuary as we would often walk there on our way home from school, our parents eventually retrieving us on their way home from work. I drove us by the first house I remember, the one on Clay Street with wooden floors that I would slide across in stocking feet, or dance upon while my mother banged out a wonderous tune on her piano that would send my sisters and I into a glorious frenzy. I drove by the Standard Oil gas station first owned by my grandfather and then my father and found only an empty lot of weeds. I drove slowly through this nondescript small town in the heartland and narrated my origins to Gary, the whole time wishing I could go knock on the doors of my youth and gain entry to my past, but instead we just kept driving, each of us mute and marinating in our memories.

In Des Moines we stayed with my nephew Brad. He has a marvelous house filled with wonderous and eclectic items that I suspect were acquired and inspired by his wife Annie. Their children, Cecilia Scout, age 4, and Big Bo, age 2, hold the real power in this house, and are bolstered in their day to day manipulations by a dog named Rhino and a cat named Bruno. It’s organized chaos 24/7, and a most magical place indeed, and it has become the de facto gathering spot for family shenanigans and holidays.

This morning Gary and I got up early, said our goodbyes, and headed for Rapid City, SD, some 650 miles northwest. We powered our way west to the Missouri River along Interstate 80, then turned north and followed the western spine of Iowa into South Dakota, before turning west once more upon reaching Sioux Falls. It was tremendously windy, and The OREM was jostled rudely about as we drove alongside still-fallow fields sprinkled here and there with determined patches of dirty snow. Intermittent rain peppered the windshield and eventually cleaned off the smashed bugs that had been baked by a hot southern sun. It felt good to be on the move because we were moving with a plan and purpose, moving west toward home and hearth and who we used to be. Tomorrow will hopefully find us landing in Missoula, MT…Until then, cheers to you all!