The Place Once Called Home

After nine, or not quite ten hours, Wisconsin and Minnesota were behind me, as was the 70-odd miles of open landscape running from Fargo to Grand Forks. The day was remarkably cool for early June, with the kind of overcast sky that teases the sun but never quite enough to let any but the palest of rays reach the ground. A steady wind from the northern reaches buffeted my face as I stepped out of the hotel this late Friday afternoon. The gathering was the next day, and with no events planned for the evening, I made my way back to the truck, engine still quite warm from the day’s work.

Within minutes I was headed west, to a little place 20 miles away and 33 years in the past. A place that was, for a while, called home. Within my heart, there was a quickening and a hesitation, that confounding tension that sometimes arises between the dueling senses of uncertainty and adventure.

Driving down roads such as these, considering the times and one’s state of mind, can be disconcerting. For as the landscape glides by, and as the trees, homes, and an occasional business or storefront comes into view, there begins a merger of memory with the now. You see these features, at once familiar and alien, not only as they are, but increasingly as they once were, creating within the experience a poignant sense of double vision. Two universes coming together into view, stealing away any words that may form in your mind or on your tongue, for the moment – and its sensation – crosses over into the surreal.

You may think this description extravagant and overstated, and that would be your right. But we all have these moments of duality that are sensed deep within, moments that no manner of prose or elocution could ever hope to express. This was one of those moments, a dimensional view that upsets the fragile foundation that is our perception of our world – of my world. Still, both the moment and the memory are real. The only thing alien here is me.

This sense of time and duality only intensified as I pulled to a stop just past the post office, the crunch of the gravel beneath my tires kicking up a cloud of dust quickly taken away by the steady breeze. As I put my feet on the ground, and survey the scene, past and present at once began to blur my vision.

The little store, or maybe it was a bar, has been replaced by an empty lot, as has the multiple-dwelling housing unit across from it.

The old schoolhouse, long-abandoned even when this was home, still stands, a little worse for wear than that recalled from memory.

The railroad line has long since closed, iron and ties pulled up and harvested for other use. The abandoned grain elevator has been stripped of its exterior, and it seems to me there is yet more there to salvage. It stands as a forlorn reminder this place had a purpose once, perhaps not grand, but a function just the same.

Walking down the main stretch, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, the remembrances accost me full force. Winter scenes of mountainous snow drifts, ice-filled ditches that serving as a proving ground for boys and their bikes, river walks, and northern lights. Summers and flies, and a job cutting grass on half-a-dozen properties for a pittance in spending cash. Endless fields of wheat, sometimes soybean, sometimes corn, often fallow. Finding things to do in a place where there wasn’t anything to do, and managing to get by and even have fun sometimes.

And the little house, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. Sharing a room with my little brother. The garage we had built, a driveway pad we poured, a basketball goal. At once, I see it as it was, which made the present state of things so much harder to comprehend. For a while the structures still stand and the grass is roughly hewn, the house that was once my home lies abandoned, overgrown, unlivable. And somehow, smaller. A wave of melancholy comes over me, threatening to pull me out to a gray, empty sea. But just then a dog barks, and the driver of a Ford F-250 Super Duty waves as he drives by, friendly but wary of this stranger standing in the road. There is still life here, families getting by, finding things to do in a place there’s not much to do. Still battling the dual images, I turn back the way I came, taking in everything as it was and everything as it is, for later contemplation and retrospection.

At some point, and in our own way, we must come to terms with the passage of time and its impact upon us. All the wisdom and all the sayings about these days of our lives, so often trivialized, are – in those quiet moments of unexpected revelation – are nevertheless seriously profound. What was, what is, what is to come – sometimes just out of range of view, sometimes strikingly clear and yet unsettling.

We can despair, and many do. But perhaps the better course is simply to acknowledge our helplessness in the face of time, and to redeem whatever we can of its passage. Celebrate the joys, lament the sorrows, and respect the struggle and even the pain. But above all, embrace with gratitude and wonder the grace that we’ve been given to live this life. It means something. It means everything.

The present beckons, and tomorrow’s gathering at the school has an anticipation all its own. With the town behind me now, I pull out onto the asphalt, leaving the gravel and dust behind. The memories, and perhaps a greater appreciation of the time, these I take with me. And that is good.

The Drive

When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. - John Steinbeck, "Travels with Charley"

At last, a solo road trip. Destination, purpose, route - all planned out and ready for the undertaking. I said my goodbyes, filled the tank, and pointed the nose of my truck to the north, toward a gathering 33 years in the making. Those first few hours of that first day I succumbed to the impulse to get away, to put as much distance between me and my starting point, reasoning that the further away from the familiar I was, the sooner I could begin to relax and settle into the journey.

Driving has always been therapeutic for me, if not always pragmatic. From the day I got my license, and the job that paid just enough to put gas in my car, behind the wheel was my sanctuary. Each night after closing up shop at the theater, I'd get in the car and drive up and down the main drag, through the McDonald's drive thru once or twice, and round the circuit on the backroads before finally heading home. Windows down, music blaring, the occasional illicit cigarette, it was all part of the routine. Whatever chaos might have been going on in my teenage self, the road was my refuge.

The miles passed by, long stretches where the cognitive engine that so regularly animates me finally took a break, allowing me to simply drive with nothing to distract save the ambient noise of the road and the minor irritation of others with whom I had to share the trail. No talking, no radio, minimal musing - just the drive.

This is what I craved, what finally pushed me to make this trip - five solid driving days and 2600 miles of relative silence and psychological rest. Of course, the mind and the spirit are not always cooperative. Finally given the space and peace to process, the subconscious went to work, offering up to my greater awareness things I had forgotten, problems which needed my attention and analysis, options which required my consideration.

And what do people think of when they drive? On short trips perhaps of arrival at a destination or memory of events at the place of departure. But there is left, particularly on very long trips, a large area for daydreaming or even, God help us, for thought. No one can know what another does in that area. - John Steinbeck, ibid.

Unbidden, I began to ruminate. Ruminate is quite the interesting word. It means to turn things over in your mind, to "chew the cud" as it were. A ruminant, such as a cow, chews that which it regurgitates from its rumen, or its first stomach. A necessary process, but clearly not a very pleasant one. Still, in the solitude of my truck, and the flattening of the landscape flying by outside my window, I allowed my psyche the space it was demanding.

So many things, taken one at a time and yet haphazard. This reunion, opening a long-closed chapter of a tumultuous time - filled me with anticipation and apprehension. My kids - one home from college for the summer, soon to depart again - is he on the right path, is he happy, have I done everything I can to help him including giving him the space to discover, the independence to live his own life? The other kid, newly licensed, just starting to come out of a period of teenage angst (or is he), what does he need, what boundaries can be relaxed, which ones must yet hold? My marriage - am I doing all I can as a husband, where am I falling short, what should I be doing that I am not doing today? The empty nest is just a couple years away, are we prepared relationally for that? My job, my work: a company I helped start, people with whom I've worked for almost 17 years, do I still believe in what we're doing, the direction we're going? These feelings of marginalization and lower value, the sense of an atrophying skill set - is it time to move on, search for other opportunities? What opportunities? The same, or something altogether different? Which is more important, my sense of purpose and fulfillment, or the security of the present and the ability to provide for my family? Is that even a binary choice? And after the reunion, on the road for home, trying to sort out an experience that was both surprisingly delightful and yet deeply melancholy. What a mess the mind can be when left to its own devices.

Round and round it goes, and one would think that my escape to solitude was an abject failure. Just the opposite is true. I need the quiet and the space and the time to work these things out. Time: the all-important resource that one cannot "make". One can choose to spend it various and sundry ways, but its creation, its invention, is beyond the scope of man. Did I stumble upon any answers? No, not really. But just the act of picking up each piece of my life and examining it from various angles provided its own benefit - more knowledge, more understanding, maybe a little less fear. And between each, a momentary return to the mindless passing of the miles.

On the fifth and final day, on the home stretch so to speak, I found that same anticipation and apprehension, this time focused not on the journey to the past, but the return to the present. Looking forward to being home with my family, not so much the rest of it, and still processing the results of the past few days and the changed landscape of my childhood. But without question, I found myself in a better place emotionally and spiritually, as a result of the time away. Of course, three months back in the real world has allowed the clutter to pile up once again, making me already wistful for another drive. Such is life, I suppose.

But when the opportunity presents itself, I'll be ready. Because, in the end, it'll be another chance to drive. To just drive.

Road Trip to Yesteryear: Deciding to Go

Several months ago, virtually and out of the blue, I received an invitation to a reunion from a high school classmate with whom I did not graduate. It was quite unexpected (since I left after the 9th grade), but surprisingly enough, I found myself intrigued. It is not my custom to reopen closed chapters in my life, but in the months since receiving the invitation, I have warmed to the idea. Not in the least because such a journey would give me the opportunity to visit a place I never expected to see again.

There is a danger in the going, however. The image that I have, real or fantasy, may be lost or irrevocably altered. The rich and fertile ground of memory, perception, and impression that so indelibly mark my understanding of things - particularly my past - may be revealed as veneer, unsubstantiated, phony. To lose the mystery, to have it revealed or to be understood as something else entirely, could poison the well that feeds what remains of my imagination.

Aside: I'm not a writer, but I often wish I were. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. Yet bridging the gap between formulations that are essentially disposable to those that weave vibrant tapestries of expression is no small feat, and often beyond my reach. I still endeavor to find ways to express that which, in hindsight, may better remain unexpressed. To contemplate the mystery without seeking its naked reveal. To appreciate that which cannot or should not be reduced by the application of language. And while this probably makes sense to no one but me, trust me when I say that I understand the tension.

On the other hand, what I find on this journey might very well reinforce, reinvigorate, and refresh that stagnant wellspring within me. Rather than rip the veneer, it may in fact enhance and deepen the mystery and wonder of it all. New impressions may be formed that indelibly mark my understanding, impressions that may bring something altogether different and revealing, a via positiva to go with the via negativa.

In the end, I have decided to go. Decided to reopen a chapter long closed, motivated by … curiosity. To see the places and people I last saw in 1986, and to learn what's become of them. You may think it silly of me, and accuse me of drastically overthinking and over(psycho)analyzing a simple high school reunion - and you would probably be right. Nevertheless, in my defense, I'd wager all of us have places and times in our lives that, given the chance to return, the idea would give us pause. What you have read is a product of my "pause". A mere expression of one's self contemplating the mark of time - my time, our time.

Lord willing, this road trip will serve as both a literal and figurative journey: one outward, one inward, yet the same. We need such journeys, each of us. What may be found remains to be seen, or perhaps, unseen. Chasing after the wind may prove to be meaningless, but there remains yet the possibility of surprise. And with it, hope.

If nothing else, of course, I will relish the solitude of a 2600-mile round trip on the road. My middle age body may protest, but my spirit surely won't. Because the best parts of a solo road trip are simply: solo, road, and trip.

Doldrums

It is painfully clear to me, as I'm sure it is to anyone else who happens to stumble upon this site, not much has been happening here the past few years. Sure, there's a post or two, but by and large this blog has become dormant.

Life happens. I've been doing more reading that writing; more living than reflecting; more working than well, than anything else. The writing muscle has atrophied, and will require some "physical therapy" to restore to proper working order.

I have some question as to what form that should take. Do I simply resume where I left off, writing about anything that fancies me in the moment, as this blog more or less represents? Or do I resurrect and refresh writings two decades old, back when devotional material and Bible study materials were my primary output?

I actually have age-old friends who think I should write a book. I cannot help but to chuckle at that idea, if for no other reason than I have nothing about which to write that could fill such a format. A collection of musings and life experiences of a man in his late-40's who is no more or less than anyone else? To be fair, I have considered it - I actually would like to write a book someday (and modern self-publishing in the internet age makes it possible) - but one must have a subject, a purpose, and a direction. At present, I lack all three.

Ah well. It's a cool morning, and pollen is in the air. I have brush on the back line that needs going-after, if I can get the billy goat started. Work calls.