The Journey Part 48

SUCH A SWEET FAMILY

I spent last night in an RV park, as is my norm . . . three nights boondocking, one night at an RV park or similar park arrangement. I find this formula is affordable, and I also find I can’t go more than three days without a shower without offending myself.

Parked maybe twenty yards from me was a Ford Connect van, and I noticed a pop-up tent on the roof of that van, so during of my dog walks I made some passing remark to the mother who was standing by the van.

Celeste was her name, husband Mike, two young kids, all from Colorado, and they immediately fawned over my dogs, wanted to pet them, wanted to know all about them, wanted to give each of them a treat.  How could I refuse such an offer.

We talked for a good fifteen minutes, maybe longer, I heard all about Colorado, heard all about their current trip, shared with them about Bev, compared notes about my shorty bus as opposed to their van, laughed and commiserated and shared and, well, spent quality time getting to know each other.

All because I took a chance and yelled out a greeting as I passed by.

That kind of thing really oils my personal engine, folks. I love it. I love hearing the stories. I love bridging the gaps.  Chances are I will never again meet Celeste and Mike, but I promise I will remember them fondly as the upcoming years wash over me.

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I

About seven this morning the rest area I was staying in was aroused by a woman yelling at someone, followed by loud weeping.

Investigation followed, finding out that it was a woman, maybe late thirties, who had spent the night in a car with her boyfriend? Husband? I have no idea, but it all culminated with him throwing her stuff out of the car onto the parking lot and leaving her at the rest area.

What followed was profoundly sad, the woman, sitting in the parking lot, next to her worldly possessions, sobbing as the Columbia River mist slowly drenched her.

An hour later the boyfriend/husband/whatever came back, words were exchanged, she tossed her possessions back into the car, and they drove off together.

My first thought was “thank the gods” my life is not in that kind of disarray. I thought to myself no way would my life ever be that bad, could never reach that kind of low, my self-esteem would never be that crumpled and damaged.

Let me tell you a story.

About ten years ago, maybe a little less, through Ancestry.com, I was able to track down my biological family.  Exchanged emails with a couple distant cousins, had so many blank pages of my birth parents filled in.  Turns out my birth father died in prison in a knife fight. My birth mother died at thirty-five from liver disease, a hopeless alcoholic when she finally took her last breath. An older brother died, drunk, in a motorcycle accident, and another older brother committed suicide by car.

There but for the grace of God, my friends.

I was spared it all when I was sent to an orphanage and finally adopted by a loving couple, but ladies and gentlemen, the difference between the life I actually led, and the life that woman in the rest area parking lot was leading, is razon thin.

Someone needs to seriously kick my ass the day I start thinking I’m better than anyone else.

LIVE LIKE YOU WERE DYING

Do you remember the song?  It came out in 2004, Tim McGraw, monster hit, seven weeks as Country’s #1, won Best Song of the Year, defined McGraw in that way some songs do, like Garth Brooks and Friend’s In Low Places, or Adele singing Hello.

I remember clearly that song being released, the fervor it created, the social media posts, the memes it generated, the sincere declarations from so many people that the song really nailed it, message received, live life to the fullest, don’t just sit around watching other people live the lives you want, and on and on and on . . .

And then people went back to the lives they were living, the song dropped slowly in the charts, and the woulda’s, shoulda’s, and coulda’s list got longer.

For those not familiar with the message, it was written by a fairly famous songwriting team which had lengthy discussions with a friend who was misdiagnosed with deadly cancer. The conversations centered on how a person’s life changes when they realize, really realize, that their days are numbered, as in four months to live, and what would you do if you knew that.

I was sitting in the county park today when a bald eagle flew overhead. For those familiar with the song, you will understand why I mentioned that . . . and that eagle reminded me of the song . . . which reminded me of “if not now, when?”

When my best friend, from high school and college and beyond, Frank, was diagnosed with Stage Four spinal cancer, he and I got together a couple times. Of course we reminisced, as old friends will do, but we also got right down to the heart of the matter, what does that kind of news feel like? What do you think of? Are you afraid? What do you want to do before the end arrives?

Those conversations affected me deeply and, as I look back now, were the catalyst for me living in a bus and not owning a brick and mortar home. There are things I want to do in the time I have remaining. There are places I want to see, and people I want to meet, and I can’t let insecurity or fear or uncertainty keep me from doing those things, seeing those things, and meeting those people.  There are a thousand excuses; there are a thousand good reasons for not taking risks; but there is only one death, and one life leading up to it, and I can’t talk for anyone else, I’m not making judgements about anyone else, but good golly, Miss Molly, . . .

If not now, when?

“I went skydiving,

I went Rocky Mountain climbing,

I spent two-point-seven seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu.”

Sing it with me!

“Someday I hope you get the chance

To live like you were dying.”

BACK IN OLYMPIA WHILE BEV PICKS UP THE PACE

It’s been a long day. Drove back to Olympia today, from Chinook, arrived at my friend’s house about noon, immediately set in doing the chores which needed doing while he sits in the hospital.  He will be there until Sunday, this being Friday, and I want him to come home to neat and tidy, ya know?

I’ve had several people tell me I’m a good friend for doing this for my buddy, and I gotta tell ya, I don’t understand that.  It’s nice that they think so, but to my way of thinking, this is just something you do for friends, isn’t it? Are you telling me that some of you would refuse to help your good friend? I don’t think so. I know you would step up to the plate and pitch-hit for them, and I know that because the people who are reading this are quality people, so there you go.

So much is reported about the horrendous acts of a few in society, but the fact of the matter is that most humans are basically good and helpful. I really do believe that.