The Journey Part 30

SO FAR REMOVED FROM THE PAST

4022 North 18^th, Tacoma, Washington, and ain’t it strange the details we remember from so long ago. That was the address of my childhood home, from age 5 to age 25, my formidable years, dognab it, years I hope I never forget.

It was there I had my first crush, threw my first baseball, learned horseshoes and pool and Ping-Pong, had my heart broken for the first time, met my best friend for life, got into my first fight, lost my first fight, played Kick the Can and Hide and Seek and Red Rover Come Over, played more whiffle ball games than I can remember, sledded in the winter, learned the importance of hard work, learned the importance of self-sufficiency, learned to be respectful and compassionate and empathetic, was taught the value of charity, took organ lessons, mowed my first lawn, sang my first song, learned right from wrong, learned to drive a car, wrecked my first car and yes, had my first beer, and although it was no red dirt road, my apologies to Brooks and Dunn, it was there I turned the corner in my soul.

But, as with almost everything in life, it ended, the idyllic childhood, those quintessential teen years, the formidable twenties, buried with my father, memories dusted off occasionally when reminiscing was called for, and nothing in the ensuing fifty years has come close to matching those twenty years for lessons learned or attachment to a brick and mortar domicile.

A long-winded way for me to say that this traveling lifestyle, well, it feels, finally, like the home of long ago, and ain’t that the strangest thing? I have no explanation for it, but I can tell you, steely-eyed and confidently, that my home on wheels feels as comfortable as 4022 North 18^th did, and I’m so looking forward to the lessons to be learned.

THE JOKE

As so often happens, a song will come along at exactly the right time for me to hear it.

I’ve marveled at Brandi Carlisle’s song “The Joke” for quite some time now, but today I was reminded, rather forcefully, rather sadly, of its important message.

I’m not going to get into the specifics of it all; it was just a sad display of human beings following a script they were programmed to follow, and what I believed was a very hopeful, comfortable, laidback situation spiraled out of control rather quickly and forcefully.

The song, “The Joke,” is about acceptance of others, recognizing that the differences we all display, daily in our lives, and the uniqueness of each of us, and the fact that we are all the sum total of every single action and decision and happenstance during our lives, and consequences follow as the light follows the dark, and every one of us is damaged in one way of another, and what a damned wonderful world it would be if we all took the time to, and I’m borrowing from some long-ago chieftain, walk a mile in each other’s skin.

On what has been, to this point, an unblemished, incredibly satisfying journey, yesterday was a rather large pimple, a reminder that Nirvana was nothing more than a musical group, and fairy tales are, in fact, only tales.  Life will always have its sad moments, and humans will always act in less-than-perfect ways.

IT’S TIME TO HEAL

It is the last day of April, 2023, Bev is about 375 miles into this, and today she finally had to say no more for a few days.

Shin splints are the cause, and rest and stretching are called for, so the only thing to do, if she wants to continue forward, is to shut it all down for a week, which she is doing. We will relax at the RV park in Tehachapi, and let healing nature work its magic.

A BRAINSTORM TWO MONTHS LATE

Here is one of those shoulda, coulda, wouldas that will drive a person bonkers.

Yesterday I woke up, oddly clear-headed, which is not my norm, and had this idea. I decided, by six-thirty a.m., that it would be fantastically, orgasmically, cool if I had all of the hikers I meet sign their names on Puddle Walker, in permanent marker of course, in a rainbow of colors, of course, but the obvious problem with my plan hit me like a freight train . . .

We are two months into this trip, and conservatively there have been a couple hundred hikers met who will never have the chance, even though well-deserved, to be part of my traveling journal/register on wheels.

Not much I can do about that, and I feel bad . . . but we move forward.

I know some of you, admit it, are thinking “he’s going to ruin the value of that bus, marking it up with nonsense, hundreds of names of people unknown other than to me, and you know what? You would be right, and I couldn’t care less.

Even after Bev’s assault on the PCT, I can continue this legacy as I trek my way across this country, meeting America one handshake at a time, having my new friends sign the bus, and I just can’t think of anything cooler than that.

With that said, I apologize to the many hikers already met but not visible on Puddle Walker.  Perhaps, and this is my sincere hope, we will meet again somewhere along the Trail of Life.