What’s In Your Passenger Seat?

 

Okay, I am frustrated this morning. Wanted to post a new poem on my poetry site, but kept getting knocked off when I tried. Was trying to copy and paste because of some of the wordage within the piece, but every time I would click the paste button, the entire page and all that I had written would simply disappear and I was back offline again. So, decided to let it go for the moment.

Because my time is being regulated by other circumstances, I had pretty much decided to stick with this blog and let the others go for a while. But then found poetic inspiration on someone else’s blog. It’s been a while since I wrote any poetry and I dove after the idea with a bit of eagerness. After the third attempt however, I chose to come here and not allow the frustration to waste any more of the few minutes of free time I have been gifted this week.

My usual routines have been scattered to the winds of late. That includes my journal writing. Normally, I get up and immediately settle in to do my journal page for the day. But, I’ve been staying at my Mom’s and fixing her breakfast and waiting for the relief team to show up before I can get home to my computer. Because my morning pages signal the beginning of my day, it’s been a bit discombobulating to begin that day at 2pm, or even later on occasion.

I had a counseling session a few days ago. My counselor, after listening to my none-stop descriptions of what’s been going on, asked me a very simple question. “How are you taking care of yourself in the midst of all of that?” I promptly went blank. My response to her question was somewhat vague even to my own ears. So, of course, she asked it again. Thank goodness the session was almost over, because I was stumped.

I drove home with the question in the passenger seat, belted in with the safety harness, but very present and leaning in to hear something other than vague hand motions and mumbled replies. When I walked through the door of my apartment, I immediately had several clear answers. Why does that always happen? Maybe because on an almost daily basis, I am moving a great deal outside of my own small comfort zone? It takes time to think and I don’t have much time for anything at the moment other than the current changing situation, dealing with whatever task needs attention and what, most often, seems and feels like some sort of controlled chaos.

When I walked through that door, I took a deep breath and found four very specific answers to the counselor’s question. Number one, I was keeping my counseling appointments. That outside space to vent is incredibly important.

Number Two, my oldest daughter was staying with me for a few days, relieving me of planning and cooking meals, but also providing me with a sounding board and a very deeply needed sense of not being completely alone.  

Number Three, I have not given up or let go of my sketchbooks and the relaxation and play that they provide for me. Those few hours I spend exploring the realm of color and shape, allow me ease and comfort, while allowing my mind to bend itself around something completely separate from the current emotional situation.

Number Four, and probably more important than the others, I have not missed a day in my journal. Talking with others, being able to vent to a listening ear is terribly important, but that contact with my own person, that one on one dialogue with myself is far more essential. I would go so far as to say that that is the very reason why, when I opened that door and took that deep breath, I wasn’t scattered and lost as I had been in the counselor’s presence. She is paid to ask those kinds of questions, and if they were easy, I wouldn’t being paying her to ask them.

As a matter of fact, that particular day, I had slept over at my Mom’s, fixed her breakfast, changed her bed, cleaned up her apartment, got her settled in and a load of wash going before my younger sister came in, and I could go home, take a shower, get dressed and get to the counselor’s office. When I got back home, my only thought was to get on the computer and get my page done for the day. That’s when it all fell into place and I had all of the answers I needed.

It isn’t easy staying sane, or healthy,  in the midst of chaos. But, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in this moment. Yes, I am moving outside my normal comfort zone, but I’m making sure that I hang onto the most essential aspects of that zone even if the beginning of the day doesn’t happen until quarter after eleven in the evening. My journal pages are always the beginning.

What are you doing to take care of yourself in the midst of whatever chaos life might be throwing your way in the present moment? Do you have a safety harness and do you use it?

Stone and Water and the Red-Cross Driver

 

I’ve been sitting here, in front of this blank page, for over half an hour. So many thoughts about what I could write have floated in and out of my head, that if strung together, and actually written down, would probably fill a book. Not that the book would make any sense, unless it was a volume of random short essays about diverse topics that might, or might not, connect one with another. I seem to be sitting still in the midst of a flow that just keeps moving around me, like a boulder in a riverbed.

Although that boulder seems unchanging, it isn’t. Stone gets worn away by the friction of constantly flowing water. Which only reminds me of the lyrics of a song: Solid stone is just sand and water, baby, sand and water and a million years gone by (Beth Nielsen Chapman). I don’t have a million years. I have today, this moment, and maybe the next. No more. Don’t want to waste it.

I didn’t come here and write yesterday. Had appointments in the outside world. Things to do, people to be with. That might be why I can’t seem to pick a place and just get started today. Have somehow turned into stone overnight. That was a really short million years.

Think I am still sorting out all that happened yesterday. The people I talked with, some strangers, others family and friends. The things I saw and touched, each left an impression like water flowing around a stone. Each taking a moment of my time, some more moments than others. I wrote about a lot of that in my journal this morning. But, apparently I’m not finished yet. Maybe because the water doesn’t stop flowing, it just keeps moving. And because it does, both the water and the stone are changed.

I wonder, did my presence in all of those moments yesterday, change or alter anything or anyone? The Red-Cross driver, a volunteer who picked me up to deliver me to my appointment. We spoke about his coming drive to Florida where he and his wife have rented a Condo for the coming month. My brother and his wife have done the same for many years, so the driver and I had a point of contact.

My counselor, whom I haven’t seen since before Christmas. The intensity of our discussion which ranged from Creativity, to Meditation, Dissociative Trance States, and mending the holes in my soul, and relationships. That altered me, made me think in new ways, and I know she will do the same.

My sister and Mother and all the staff and customers at the Goodwill store where we went shopping. The practical things I bought, and the one exquisite gift I chose to give myself, all for under twenty dollars. Those will change the way I deal with future moments. And I will alter them by that use.

The calm quiet exchanges between myself and my Mother and sister. The trading of opinions, giving of directions, and the slow smiles of shared feelings and thoughts. Changes from the hectic exchanges during the holidays, and a bit of mending in what could have been strained moments, will definitely alter all of us, perhaps minutely, but those alterations were felt and accepted with ease and gladness.

Yes, the stone has moved and been moved. Is still settling back into place. Has more experiences scheduled for today and tomorrow and the next. And in all those moments there were, and will be, changes and exchanges. Minute bits of stone becoming sand once again, altering its purpose and function, and its environment. Being equally altered in the process.

Were any of those exchanges more important than the others? Depends on where I am looking at them from. In this moment, the exchanges with family members hold more weight, but who is to say that the Red-Cross driver won’t meet my brother in Florida and find they enjoy playing golf together and eventually thank me for whatever occurs while they do so? And will I even remember that initial exchange months from now?

When I arrived back home, there was a package leaning against my door. A small book of coloring designs for me to dive into. Something I ordered on a whim last week. And spent most of the evening pouring through and working with last night. A new avenue to explore and enjoy. Some of the best exchanges are those I have with myself. Someone else might define it as just more sand, lost in the flow of time and water, but I would certainly beg to differ.

Each day that passes is filled with moments. Moments that mean exchanges with everything and everyone I brush up against. They alter me, as I alter them. I am not a stone, not a boulder in the middle of life’s stream, even though I may feel that way on any given day. I am flesh and blood, living and breathing through each of those moments. I am both water and stone, time and sand, and so much more, all at the same time. Which of these are you in the present moment?

Personal Take Cont. (WT, as well)

 

I came home from the hospital to a totally different environment than the one I had left beneath the rear wheel of my father’s big black Pontiac. My world had been altered and, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see what I had grown accustomed to seeing. I was changed both inside and outside. Besides having to deal with my changed and altered appearance, I had been thrust into learning the most important lesson we may all have to learn. I could have died, had come very close to that reality, at age four. And a four year old hasn’t yet developed all of the necessary synapses to untangle that large of an equation in a real, or adequate, manner. I couldn’t, didn’t even come close.

What I did conclude, at age four, was pretty garbled at best. My first day home is a good example. There were two built-in window seats opposite from one another, but situated between the kitchen and the dining room. My Mother had placed me on one of them, so that she could keep a close eye on me, and if I needed anything, she would be within reach immediately. I was terribly excited to be home again, and couldn’t wait to see my siblings, who were across the street at school. I could see through the back door window, and when my brother appeared, without any thought, I jumped up and ran giggling to the other window seat so that I could surprise him. My Mother reacted immediately, saying that I could not, under any circumstances, do that again, and I needed to remember that I wasn’t to move, or get up on my feet for any reason, due to doctor’s orders. My brother hung his head mumbling, perhaps thinking he was at fault for this latest admonishment.

What I felt, and experienced, was a deep deep loss. This was home, but I had no idea how I fit in anymore. My Mother was busy doing what she always did, fixing a meal and tending to things. My brother was coming home from school, as usual, and my older sister would be shortly doing the same. I had so missed being a part of all of that. But, they had obviously gone on being exactly who and what they were. Now I was back, but somehow different and needed to understand the new rules and how all of it worked. Somehow that all translated into the idea that my family had gone on being a family and they didn’t need me to complete that definition. Not only did I not fit, but I wasn’t necessary to the picture any more. I was something different, something outside that circle. Although I could be a part of it, somehow I no longer fit “inside” of it.

Let me stop here for a moment. As we move through our lives, we filter our experiences through the world view we created as a child. That worldview becomes the basic structure upon which we hang whatever we come into contact with. Thus, there are individuals who have never questioned some of the beliefs they have held most of their lives. It is what they were taught and it is what they go right on believing unless life throws them a serious curve and they become aware that maybe their view has been skewed. There are whole families that never leave the small neighborhoods in which they find themselves, because it has been that way for generations and they can’t begin to think of doing otherwise. Until one of their number actually moves outside that map of awareness, they wouldn’t even consider it and sometimes actually do remain through several consecutive generations.

I have spoken many times of the comfort zone we all erect. That comfort zone is established within the boundaries of ones worldview. Thus one stays where one is most comfortable, even when it is no longer so, because it is what one knows and has yet to discover there might actually be a different, even better way of doing, thinking, and even feeling about all of it. The best example I can think of, is a woman who returns again and again to an abusive mate. She may try to move on, but unless she actually finds that she can do so, and survive, she will return to what she knows. There is a saying that expresses that, but fits the definition of what I am talking about as well: Better the bogey man you know, than the one you don’t know. It is extremely hard to live with constant fear and anxiety, and that is what is created when one moves outside that comfort zone, or catches a glimpse of what might exist beyond ones established worldview. It is far easier to fight the change that might entail, than to push oneself to move toward or actually into it.

I had been outside the circle of my family at a very impressionable age. I had tasted that outside space, lived in it, and survived that experience. I had even explored it a bit, been wheeled around to see and visit other children on the ward while I was there. Spent more than one whole afternoon in the company of a stranger, albeit, another child, bedridden and needing some distraction, but I had been exposed to other views and modes of being. And with the trust of a child, had embraced a great deal of what I had come into contact with. And that outside flavor clung to my person. It was there and without my conscious thought, it crept into the way I saw and felt my own experience, my own person, and my sense of how the world as a whole operated, as well as my particular place in that world. In other words, it became a part of my own developing worldview. And it was decidedly different from the one my siblings knew, and the one my parents were attempting to teach me.

I felt lonely. Had just been away from home for the first time in my life, but was suddenly aware of being lonely in a way I had never felt before. I was in the very heart of my family, yet I didn’t feel at home. I was different, and would perhaps remain so for all of my life, and even had that ugly scar to prove it. They were the same, but they were different. And like any child of that age, I took on full responsibility for that difference. It must have been my fault, I was the one who ran behind the car. I was the one who slipped and fell, failed to get myself out of the way and caused myself and both of my parents an extreme amount of pain.

This was not an easy write, even though I know the material backward and forward after years of exploring it. I have been interrupted several times and every time was grateful for the distraction. The voice of resistance has been screaming in my ear, “don’t go there. Let it alone. Nothing will be changed if you stop. No one has to know any of this. And you’ll be far more comfortable not saying it at all. Besides, maybe the interruptions are meant to stop you from making an even bigger mistake, making this public, exposing yourself in this manner. What’s to be gained by it?”

What is to be gained is this: If only one individual reads this and finally understands and accepts their own view of their own story, I have accomplished exactly what I set out to do. This is, after all, the story of the birth of the Wild Things inside of me. And their story may be far more important than my own. Especially if another person listens and recognizes it as a piece of their own experience. Not to be dismissed or ignored, but of utmost importance in understanding who and what they are, and why they are. I am certainly not the only individual who has lived a majority of her life uncomfortable within her own skin. I will certainly not be the last one.

The resistance has been resisted, and I may relax because, just for today, I have done exactly what I set out to do. And, that’s never anything to sniff at. What’s more, the story will continue, next time.

A Very Personal Take

 

At age four, I went through possibly the most traumatic experience of my life. I was playing outside with my younger sister. It was winter and we’d just had another snowfall in a snow filled Wisconsin season. Sidewalks were cleared, but snow banks were higher than the heads of a three or four year old. And ice had formed on the sidewalks because the melt had no place else to go. My sister and I, dressed for the weather, were gleefully pushing ourselves and our sleds across the ice on the front sidewalk, short chubby legs churning and then belly flopping onto the wooden sleds for a short ride.

Dad, who had cleared the sidewalk was about to leave for work. He might have been in a hurry, or distracted by any number of things, as he reversed out of the driveway, unable to see the two of us heading down the sidewalk once again on our sleds. The inevitable collision of small body and large vehicle took place. My sister had rolled off her sled and it disappeared beneath the car, becoming nothing more than broken slats. I, on the other hand, still on my feet, attempted to run behind the car to safety on the other side, but slipped on the ice and fell beneath the rear wheel of the reversing behemoth. Actually, it was my head that became wedged between sidewalk and said tire, by the time my father stopped the car’s further movement.

My Mother, who had been standing watching in the front window when she realized what was about to happen, had frantically been pounding on the window yelling for my father to stop and saw me go down beneath the back end of the car. My dad, immediately ran behind the car, picked up my inert and unconscious body and ran for the back door. He slipped on the thin swatch of ice on the back steps and went down with me in his arms, and my head thudded against the wooden steps. I know all of this because I was told afterward.

The result was a severe concussion and a sliver of skull bone protruding inward toward my brain. This was back in the very early 1950’s, and not a great deal of knowledge was had about head or brain surgery. But, a blood clot was forming and there was no question that surgery had to take place. It did and the result was a small steel pin inserted as a patch, and I now had a scar on the side of my head, shaped like a horseshoe and sheltering my ear. And all of my natural blond curls were gone, shaved off and placed in a brown paper bag that was handed to my Mother when she arrived at the hospital the morning of the surgery. They were delayed by more bad weather and so, were immediately escorted to a waiting room because the surgery had already been begun.

I am attempting to keep this brief because there is a very important aspect of this that I wish to discuss. That is the formation of a worldview and the coping mechanisms each of us learns by the time we are five. Obviously, mine were effected by this incident in countless ways. But, it is also important to know that I didn’t go through this trauma alone. My family, both parents, and all three of my siblings were affected as well, in differing degrees. So, back to the story.

Before the surgery, my parents were told that chances were slim that I would recover without sustaining some form of brain injury. They were also told that that would more than likely be some form of cerebral palsy, and perhaps a level of motor nerve retardation. I spent between two or three weeks in the hospital, which was in a near-by city, and by the time I was released it was obvious that all dire predictions had been proven false. Our family doctor called me his little Miracle Girl for years afterward.

But I went home a different little girl and found a totally different environment from the one I had been so rudely plucked from. The doctors involved had little experience of just how such an injury would effect a very curious and active four year old child. They suggested that I wear a helmet to protect my newly shaved head. My mother refused that idea immediately, opting for a soft knit cap instead, a piece of apparel I lost, misplaced, more often than wore.

I was restrained from any overtly active behaviors, and my father was pressed into place to carry me around for at least a month afterward. Which meant that even going to the bathroom in our two story duplex was a bit of a chore as the facilities were on the second floor and my Mother was adamant that I be as much a part of the family goings on as possible. Lots and lots of adjustments concerning the small everyday routines of a very active family of six individuals. And even more adjustments for a curious four year old and her developing view of the world and how it worked and, more important, her individual place within that world. Perhaps adjustments isn’t the right word here. A complete overhaul might be more adequate and far closer to the reality.

In an attempt to understand human nature and the individual, specifically my own person, I have spent a great deal of time and energy exploring the concept of the Wild Thing and how it comes to be present within the human psyche. Because it played a rather large role in my own development, my particular area of interest has been in communication, especially written expression. This is my story and how I came to know and view the Wild Things inside of me. I believe they pertain, to some extent, to all individuals, even those of you who might not have been run over by a parent figure. I also believe that personal experience, ones own story, is the best supportive argument for personal truth and its inherent value.

Next time, I will make an attempt to relate how all of the above figures into why I am here, doing what I do, which is attempting to show people that expression of ones own truth is one of the most important aspects of human existence. We all have a story. We all need to express that story because it holds a message the rest of the world needs to hear, needs to take into consideration, needs to learn from, if we are ever to create a future that holds promise for each and everyone of us.

Distillation

The day before yesterday, my siblings and I hosted a party to celebrate my Mother’s ninetieth birthday. We rented the back room of a local restaurant and invited some family and friends. About 60 people showed up to share in the experience, delighting in Mom’s eager participation of wearing a silver tiara sporting the number 90 in purple across its width, and being queen for the day. And oh, what a queen she was, leading the entire group in a rousing rendition of You Are My Sunshine, while playing her harmonica accompanied by her 76 year-old baby sister, who had been asked to bring hers, as well. We do know how to have fun.

My cousins, Mom’s brother Joe’s children, proudly carried in a tree they had made from white plastic tubes for branches, with ninety one dollar bills tied with colorful ribbons to it. Mom, who is usually a bit on the shy side, seemed to expand in the spotlight, sharing in the teasing and laughter that accompanies such festivities.

My sister, the ultimate arranger, had brought along a digital frame and turned it on for a slide show of family photos dating back over 120 years of our shared history. Small groups of guests would gather around the table, where it sat, trying to guess who was who in the photos. My cousin Fred proudly turned to me to say that he had been named after our grandfather, who was thirteen, at the time of one family portrait. And I, in turn, explained the ease with which I had converted well over three hundred photographs onto a flash disc for this current perusal.

Cameras abounded as Mom opened gifts and cards of well wishes amidst extensive banter about the ‘favorite’ daughter, while my two sisters and I helped her organize and write down what came from who so she’d have a list for thank you cards. When it came time to blow out the candles (only one large one, to insure against burning the place down), Mom was helped by five or six of her great-grandchildren. The cake was strawberry (one of Mom’s favorites), and lovingly baked and decorated with deep purple roses (again Mom’s favorite color) by my niece Patti, who just happens to be an expert in that arena.

The food was plentiful and extremely good, the service unobtrusive, but swift and friendly. And people lingered long beyond the time we had reserved for the reception. There was a great deal of laughter as individuals drifted around the room to talk, reminisce, and catch up with others they hadn’t seen, sometimes in years. And my sisters and I were terribly grateful that none of us had to stay and clean up the mess.

It was a small party, especially when you realize that my grandmother had nine children and 156 grandchildren. I called my Mother yesterday morning and she was still bubbling with giggles and laughter at the memories we had made the day before. Memories I have distilled here and in the pages of my journal.

Distillation is a process by which a substance is broken down, it’s components separated to make another, different substance, like moonshine made with a ’still’. And that is what we do with memories even as we are making them. I am certain that there are as many versions of that birthday party as there were guests, each one capturing some of the components that I, myself, have written here, but many different ones as well. Kimberly, my niece’s almost two year-old daughter, would definitely have a much different perspective than any of the adults in that room, if she remembers at all, other than through the photographs that were taken as she maneuvered her way through the stalks of adults who stood around speaking and laughing. My Mother will remember certain faces, a flash of gifted silver jewelry, a particularly funny anecdote someone told her, etc.

The photographs are a different kind of still. They capture one moment in the life of the individuals who are caught on film, yet separated by the photographic process. Someone recently said to me that the past casts a far dimmer light than that of today. That is true except for those of us who take the time to distill a few of those moments, breaking them done into separate components, making a different kind of substance from all of them.

A record that is far better than a photograph because it captures more than one stilled moment. Our words give that moment a taste, a feel, a smell, along with the sound of laughter. Our words give it life in the way that a photograph never could, and our memories might not have noticed, or have lost in the passage of time. To borrow from my own verbiage, those words shed a brighter reflection of moonshine on the shadows that might be all that remains for many of our guests. But they do something even more important.

When my own grandchildren are adults, and hopefully curious about where they came from, they might find particular meaning, or a bit of delight, in knowing that their great-grandmother entertained a roomful of well wishers, by playing her harmonica at her ninetieth birthday party. “The very best one,” she says, she has ever had.

“Roll On 18 Wheeler, Roll On”

Last evening, my oldest daughter and I spent several hours downloading music onto a playlist which will accept 100 pieces of music. That seemed rather daunting to begin with, but in a matter of hours, between the two us, we had actually accomplished the task. What’s more, both of us woke up this morning, with at least another 100 suggestions popping into our heads. My daughter told me that she intends to make up another playlist to be titled, Songs My Mother Made Me Sing While I Was Growing Up. These are songs she loves as much as I do, because they bring up memories and the feelings attached to those memories.

And yes, that is where I got the idea for this particular blog. I mentioned, a few blogs ago, that mountain of Associations we carry within us. Music may be one of the quickest avenues to that Mountain, or, if you are as eclectic in your musical taste as I am, we might want to call it a Mountain Range. A big piece of our story is imbedded in the music we listen to. Each song, piece, holds some aspect of what we believe, remember, hold close and dear, as well as what triggers our anger, admiration, and our ability to love and be compassionate human beings. With each of our choices, we emphasize, and express how we understand the world around us, and how we see ourselves in that world.

That, in turn, makes my playlist a whole lot more than entertainment. It is, to a great extent, a record of my personal experiences, and some of the story of how I came to be who and what I am. When I was teaching, I would show my students how to create a time line on which they could note their experiences and create a chronology of their life. I would tell them to glue it inside their journal and when they had the time, go back and make those notations. I think I just discovered a far easier, and more entertaining manner to do the same thing. What if, say, one day a week, I go back, listen to one of those songs intently, let it take me to whatever Associations it reveals and make notes on those flashes of memory and past life. Then, later, fill in the notations with the story that hovers stoically behind them, waiting to speak? Not only of my experience, but the people, places, the emotions, feelings and thoughts the song, its words, and melody bring to mind? What a rich and colorful tapestry that would create, especially because of that eclectic taste I spoke of earlier.

There is another technique that I used in class that would fit into the above outlined exercise. Something I used to call letting the subconscious lead, or Writing Roulette.Creating the list is a simple matter of listing the titles, but this seems to lend almost too much structure to the experience. Here I would simply close my eyes and drop my pen into that list, using whatever song title the pen ended up pointing at. And yes, I know from years of experience, that the pen will very likely drop on a place I would prefer not to go. Those places are as important as the other happier ones. Knowing they exist, and wait there, is the first step in becoming aware of the meatier issues I will eventually have to deal with if I am ever to complete the list and move onto the next playlist which is already forming in my head.

Now, I will give you an example of all of this, using the title of this blog, which is a song done by Alabama. My father drove an 18 wheeler. For most of my childhood and into adulthood, he made nightly drives from our hometown to either Milwaukee or Chicago. Obviously, the song reminds me of my Dad, and the pleasure he took in what he did. I have memories of all six of us (Mom, Dad, 1 brother, and 2 sisters), packed into the car with Dad doing the driving of course. He had a flair for taking a busman’s holiday at any given moment. I can see my Mother’s shoulders dip as she settled in, hear the groans, sighs, and emphatic “yes’s” that would follow his words, “I wonder where this road leads, I’ve never been down it before.”

He would often accompany these side trips with old songs that were silly and made us all laugh and join in, no matter how many times we’d heard them. Like the one about the man who planted onions on his wife’s grave, so that when he passed by, he could pick one up and cry. Or he would regale us with some of his stories from his own childhood, like the one about his old dog Wrinkles, a bulldog that would let anyone in the house, but wouldn’t let them leave again, if they held anything in their hands. And of course, there were always the stories about his adventures, and close calls, as a truck driver.

Then there were those occasional mornings when the house would come alive with excitement because he’d driven to Chicago and stopped at the Spudnut shop. He would bring home a sack of fresh doughnuts, at least half of which had soft, thick, chololate frosting spread on them, so everyone could have their favorite. Even my Mother would smile and join in the banter as she ate her share, because it meant she didn’t have to make breakfast and clean up afterward.

That in turn, along with the story inside of the song, reminds me of how my Mother didn’t sleep well most nights, tossing and turning. Worried, I’m sure, about the responsibilities of being a temporary single parent until my Father would return. The knowledge that out there, out on the road, anything could happen and she might get a phone call, some blustering, snowy winter night that would alter her life irrevocably. And later, when I was a married adult, I would often think of her because my father had been forced into driving overland, which meant he’d be gone for a week at a time.

How occasionally, my phone would ring at 6:30 in the morning and it would be my Dad asking me if I wanted to come to the truck stop on the Interstate and have breakfast with him. We would talk about fishing, or a hundred other things. I was always eager to agree to that early morning jaunt, and time spent with my grinning parent, especially if the place had a pool table, because he always laughed out loud when I beat him.

My father died over twenty years ago, but I carry him and his memory in my blood stream. The day of his funeral, as the cortege behind the hearse that was carrying him to the Mausoleum, flowed around the curve onto the Interstate, an 18 wheeler curved onto the highway next to us from another ramp. When I saw it, I raised my arm, pumping my fist, and all four of my children eagerly did the same. The driver realized we were only about three cars behind the hearse and were obviously a part of the procession, and gave a long pull on his air horn. A very appropriate tribute to a man who was gentle, fun loving, and filled with music and playfulness. A man who would definitely grin and nod his head at the words, “Roll on, 18 wheeler, roll on.”