The Journey Part 49

ODDS AND ENDS

The word “nomad” is one used to describe the sort of thing I’m doing, living upon four wheels, traveling around enjoying the freedom of the road, and I like knowing that I am a nomad.

I met two other nomads just before heading back to Olympia, met them at the rest area where I spent several nights, two women in their 50s, I’m guessing, both living out of their cars.  I didn’t deep-dive into their lives, but I did spend a fair amount of time talking to them as they admired my dogs, and I enjoyed their company.  One was heading back to California for an operation she has been putting off; the other unsure of where she is headed.

Both are nomads because life threw them a curveball when they were expecting a fastball. They both would most likely be facing part-time work while on the road, enough for food and gas, and both love what they are doing.

My point is this, without making it sound like a lecture: two people living out of their cars would be misconstrued, by most people, as destitute and homeless and on the last financial leg, future wards of the social services system, people the rest of us taxpayers support, and that could not be further from the truth.  They are simply following a voice in their heads, leading them away from past pain and into a future which may be unknown, but is certainly no worse than the ones they left.

And you would be blown away by how many nomads are traveling around this country, and the number is rapidly increasing.  It’s a new day dawning, my friends, and that’s not a bad thing by any measure.

Bev is doing well on her own. In fact, I would say she is flourishing.  Despite the heat and mosquitoes, she is hiking more miles daily than ever before, and she is absolutely relishing each day.  As I write this she is resting for the day at Shelter Cove on Odell Lake, then on towards Elk Lake. After that is the city of Bend in the high desert of eastern Oregon, a jewel of a city I have written about before.

If things go according to plan, I will meet up with Bev when she reaches Cascade Locks, which is on the Columbia River, in about three weeks from the date of this writing (this being July 24^th.  I should have my buddy capable of handling things with just the help of his wife by then, so Bev and I can both attend the big PCT celebration, PCT Days, held on August 18^th and 19^th at Cascade Locks.

So looking forward to that!

Two hours after I wrote that last paragraph, I heard from some PCT friends who are in Bend, and they said it was smokey there. Sure enough, there are two new wildfires in Oregon, one southwest of where Bev is, one northwest of her current location. They are a long way from her, so no worries. And if they do become troublesome, she will be alerted in time to get off trail.  There are safeguards in place on the trail. People do get hurt; occasionally someone dies; but there is a larger risk of that happening in Olympia than on the trail.

It’s been six months since I moved into the bus. I don’t have the exact date, but I’m within a couple days of that anniversary.  Regrets? Not a one!

I saw a bear in this neighborhood this morning.  Walking the dogs, six-thirty, couldn’t be a more HOA environment, and twenty yards, maybe thirty ahead of us, I spied a black bear walk from the road, in-between two houses, and into a woodlot behind those houses.

How weird is that? Bev is hiking through wilderness and has not seen a bear yet. I am walking through some Norman Rockwell painting and I see one.

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE

Remember that movie, the Sixth Sense, with Bruce Willis? Talk about a classic line from a movie. And it was delivered perfectly by that young actor.

I think of it from time to time, not because I have a sixth sense, but because I see my adopted family in me quite often when I look in the mirror or review my day.

I have talked enough about my biological family, their tragic lives, their “fondness” for alcohol, that lasting legacy, deep within my genes, that they gave me.  But what about nurture over nature?

What I am doing right now, living out of a bus, with no permanent address under my feet, would have driven my adopted parents crazy. They would not have understood my wanderlust at all, not one iota, no chance, Lance! In fact, my dad would have been angry and would have told me in no uncertain terms, in that endearing way he had, that I needed to pull my head out of my arse and get a grip on reality.

They were not dream-chasers, my adopted parents. They were nose to the grindstone hard workers, fatalists if I had to take my pick of personality traits. They believed, although I doubt they could have verbalized it, that you work hard, you gain a few possessions, you live out your life with a minimum of drama, and you die.  My sister, the same.  In fact, I cannot name for you one Holland or O’Dowd (my mother’s maiden name) who showed any inclination to chase a dream or do anything not scripted or pre-ordained. I was, am, and always will be the black sheep of my family.

That does not mean I walked away gift-less, and the greatest gift they gave me was the Gift of Perseverance.  You always move forward. My dad was fond of saying you never take a step backwards, Billy Boy, and you never let the bastards think they are winning.  You do not give up.  If you get knocked down, by God you better find a way to get your ass off the ground.

They taught me loyalty.  A friend is a friend, period, end of discussion. If that friend does something which is less than acceptable, you forgive them because, well, they are your friend. If that friend needs your help, you drop what you are doing and you help.  Again, there is no wiggle room with that belief.

You never, ever look down on someone else.  You are their equal, Bill, never their superior, and I better not catch you acting high and mighty or I’ll tan your hide, son of mine!

And one other trait, which I will touch upon in my next segment.

I look in the mirror today and I do not see the alcoholic legacy of my birth parents. I look in the mirror today and I see the lessons learned from two people who took a chance on a blind kid, adopted him, and gave him a safe home filled with love.

Not bad at all!

I AM WHAT I THINK

I say this with all the honesty I can muster: I spent twenty years with my father, and I never heard him complain about his life.  Not once. I know you’re thinking I’m spinning a yarn right now. Surely he must have said he wasn’t feeling well some morning, or his back was hurting him, or that s.o.b. boss of his had it out for him . . . nope!

My dad was stoic that way. I attribute part of that to growing up during The Great Depression. His life was doo-doo during those disastrous economic years, and he followed that up by serving in the Italian Campaign of World War 2, so perhaps he figured a sore back didn’t rate a complaint.  However, I also think it was just his personality, and an unspoken belief that complaining and whining don’t do anyone any good. I don’t think he could have chosen the right words to describe his philosophy, but I think my dad believed that you are what you think.  If you think positive thoughts, positive things will happen. If you think positively about your health, you will feel good most days.  If you skip the complaining about work and just concentrate on being a hard worker, things will work out.

Welcome to my world, 2023.

You will not hear me seriously complain, not about my health, not about someone who has insulted me, not about the slow mail delivery, not about a flat tire, if I ever got one, not about, not about, not about.  I take life’s bumps and bruises, I look at them as learning experiences, chances to grow, and I move on with the next thing on my list.

A positive mental attitude is what I have and, for me, it works.  Who wrote that book The Power of Positive Thinking? Peale?  Anyway, I never read it, but I believe it 100%, and truthfully, negative people, people who whine, people who complain about every little thing, well, I have very little patience with that type. I wish them well, but I really don’t want them in my life for more than five minutes.

And I will share with you my personal belief, something which might shock you, something which might annoy you, something you will never subscribe to. . . I don’t believe everyone is capable of positive thinking. I think there are millions on this planet who cannot muster a positive thought, or do a positive action, and the reasons for that are varied and many. I do not blame them for not being positive. I do not cast aspersions upon them for always being negative.  And I certainly don’t judge them for it.  They are who they are, and many are incapable, or unwilling, of orchestrating massive changes, or they are firmly rooted in circumstances which are so monumentally depressing or depraved as to render any attempt at positivity as a lesson in futility.

Self help books are wonderful; I’ve read my share of them; however, for some in this society, the boat to Self Help Nirvana left the dock a long time ago, never to return.

And that is profoundly sad, just as Darwinism is inherently sad, just as leading lives of quiet desperation is sad, just as, just as, and just as. I can only control my happiness.

Anyway, I am what I think, and what I think is I was incredibly lucky at birth (it’s the only moment of luck, in my life, that I believe in), and I have constructed a very beautiful life since then.

YA CAN’T PLEASE EVERYONE, SO YA . . . .

You can sing that song later. I have a point to make, so we can all sing along with Ricky Nelson some other time.

Consider this reflection I had recently. There are what, over seven billion people on this planet.  Now I’m just going to use myself as an example in this exercise, but you can play along using yourself if you want.  I would guess, just a random, ballpark estimate, that there are maybe fifty people in Olympia who do not like me.  We’re talking over thirty years in this city, so I’m not sure if fifty is a good number or a bad number.  Let’s go on.  Spread out over my entire life, but only counting those who are still living, there are maybe, oh gosh, a couple thousand people who do not like me, or did not like me when they knew me, or . . . and now we are getting to the point, so wait patiently while I get there.

Have you ever met someone randomly and instantly decided you didn’t like that person? Of course you have. We all have, if truth is being used in this exercise. There are times when nothing more than animal instincts kick in and tell us there is something about someone we just don’t like.  And there are the people we have met, who we really don’t know very well, but they said something which rubbed us the wrong way, or they did something which bothered us, and we decided we really didn’t like them based on that brief moment.

Heck, the number I quoted, a couple thousand, may be low. There could easily be five-thousand people I have met who don’t like me or didn’t like me when they had contact with me. I don’t know most of them, wouldn’t be able to pick them out of a lineup, but our paths crossed at some point, and at that point they did not like what they saw in Bill Holland.

Should I be bothered by that? Would you be? Are you when it happens to you? I mean, we all want to be loved, right? We don’t want to think there are people who don’t like us, do we?

My point really is a simple one, and it is a point I’m trying to remember while I meet America one handshake at a time.  I have had times, in my life, when I made an instant appraisal of another human being and found them lacking, so it really shouldn’t upset me too much if the same happens to me.

My main job, as a human sharing this planet with seven billion other pilgrims, is to treat others with respect.  If I do that, and if I treat myself with respect, then I can sleep well knowing there will be the occasional man, or woman, who does not like me.  I’m not running for office. I’m not up for sainthood.  To borrow from Tennyson:

“That which we are, we are.

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate

But strong of will.

To strive, to seek, to find,

And not to yield.”