stories of travel, medical missions, and more
the stars came out this morning
as i sat in the blackness of morning-night
that teetering point between the two
long before the sun peeks through
the empty black before me
sparkled suddenly
first one
then four
then a forever more
and before i knew it
i sat not alone
the stars came out this morning
anthony forrest
Pic by J. Jones over at Epic Pathways. Check him out.
I’m standing and waiting at a hotel in Van Buren, Arkensas. The lady in line before me couldn’t take any longer if she tried. She has a ton of questions: how many beds in the room? How many rooms in the hotel? Can she have a room close to the door? She starts in on giving the poor hotel employee her and her husband’s entire medical history. Then, when I think it couldn’t get more ridiculous, she pauses and says, “oh my, your hair is so nice! Is it real?
I look up from my phone. I gotta see this.
“Um, yes,” says the female employee.
“Oh, it’s so lovely, it could be a wig.”
I’m floored that the employee standing at the counter wasn’t apparently offended. But what shocks me the most is that this lady actually finds wig hair preferable to the real deal. I have never had the bravery, nay, audacity to make comments like that. I have to give her credit. She sure knows how to hold a conversation. I had an old boss tell me one time that the key to talking to people was to talk about them or, at least, talk about what they wanted to talk about. This is true about the people who seemingly make friends easily and all over the world. They meet somebody in the airport and see that they have snorkel gear with them. They talk about snorkeling for a while, and before you know it, they get invited to stay for dinner, then the weekend. Bang, friends for life. I want that boldness. But not too much boldness, like wig lady. Invitation to stay the weekend? I think not.
After a reasonable night of sleep, I climb back into the car to drive to the McDonald’s for breakfast. (No Starbucks. I’m slumming it.) As soon as I turn the key an oldies station begins pummeling me with an advertisement for cars.
“A new car attracts better looking girls, unless you’re ugly. Take a chance. Buy a new car.”
It’s early. And the logic seems sound. A+B=new car and good-looking girls. But it feels like there may be holes in that argument. Besides, I already have a good-looking girl. I’ll stick with my 2003 Subaru.
Slowly the approach of Tennessee came upon us and we were greeted by the skyline of Memphis in the distance. If we had any time at all, I would most certainly have recommended stopping into Marlowe’s BBQ (They will pick you up from a hotel in a pink limousine, for fee). The hill country on the Eastern side of Memphis rolls and rolls. Both deciduous and coniferous trees blind the freeway as do billboards that advertise such things as Loretta Lynn’s Ranch and Kitchen. The contrast between the land on the flats of New Mexico and the hills of Tennessee it’s fairly difficult to grasp. We drove nearly 2,000 miles on I-40 without seeing a lake. The first body of water we saw was someplace in Oklahoma. But now woods and houses-within-woods dot the landscape. Rivers snake underneath the freeway. And between the eastern border of Tennessee and Nashville, I see no less than a dozen signs for different Tennessee State Parks. It seems this place has much to offer.
Though California offers mountains and farmland and cities and coastline, Tennessee appears to be a good trade. Yes, Tennessee may get the occasional cold spell and the culture may be completely different. And yes, in California you don’t have to shovel sunshine. From what I’ve seen, the people in Tennessee are caring people. They say yes sir and yes ma’am. They smile and wish you a nice day. The State is far less crowded and the traffic, a breeze. Also, taxes are minimal. That’s not to say that California is evil. Sometimes, you just need different surroundings. My parents have lived in many different states. And that’s a good thing.
Variety creates a character observant to different cultures and people groups. Living in various places can literally make you a better person. It builds empathy and promotes love for others. A journey from California to Tennessee is more than just a road trip. Forgive the cliché. It’s more like a life trip. The same goes for travel.
Know a place.
Know its people.
An understanding begins to form.
Living and traveling to different places molds us into better Americans and better humans.
anthony forrest
Start at the beginning of the road trip:
She cannot be stopped in her mud-snowy tracks
—these vernal vibrations of a Spring day.
In a war with Winter, she takes no prisoners.
—With a budding sword of green, she hacks at icy cracks.
Her sun-shiny hand, foul Winter cannot stay.
anthony forrest
I groggily hop into the car and drive toward the Starbucks. Have I turned into a Starbucks person? Back when I worked as a barista at The Beta Coffeehouse in Cody, WY I used to say that, “friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” We mocked the overpriced company openly, claiming the coffee shop’s lack of soul. I want my coffee made by people passionate about coffee, not a college freshman who lack motivation and doesn’t even drink coffee. But that was a long time ago. Wyoming didn’t even have a Starbucks back then. In fact, neither did Minnesota.
But here I am pulling up to the window at a Starbucks. And besides, nothing else is open this early. Such is the road life. Remind me to chastise myself later. Over the intercom, a cheerful and bright voice beckons I give her my order. After moderate negotiation, I’ve ordered two blueberry oatmeals, a black coffee, and a latte. She regales me with a musical retelling of my order. It’s so early and I can’t help but smile as I pull up to the window. She takes my card, and I’ve never been so happy to give somebody $16 in my life.
“You know,” I remark to the ‘bucks employee, “they’ve really selected the right person for the counter this morning. You are so happy, bubbly, and cheerful. I hope you have a great day.”
“Ah,” she giggles dramatically placing her hand on her chest, “well, bless your heart! That’s so sweet of you. Have a wonderful day!” (If you just read that without some sort of southern accent, go back to the beginning of the paragraph and try again.) It’s desperately hard to have a bad day when people treat you like that.
Road, road, more road, range, prairie, mountains, and more of the same. Hours on end, ever easterly the wheels turned. New Mexico turns into Texas, and Texas turned into Oklahoma.
What’s this? A sign up ahead.
All capital letters: HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES.
This comes as bit of a shock to me. I’ve picked up probably a dozen hitchhikers, none of which had killed me. How many were escaping inmates? It’s not a pleasant thought. I’m reminded of the joke that tells of a driver picking up a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker gets in and says that he is surprised to be picked up. He asks the driver, “what if I was some kind of serial killer?” The driver laughed and remarked, “well, what are the odds of two serial killers being in the same car?” Note to self, don’t pick up hitchhikers on interstate 40 between the Texas border and Oklahoma City.
It seems like every 10 minutes a dashboard warning light flashes in front of the steering wheel. The bright red caution sign blinks a coffee cup with the words “Caution Tired Driver: Seek Rest Now.” Gee, thanks for the advice. Tell me something I don’t know. Though I pride myself as someone who is moderately environmentally mindful, I find that my passenger seat has begun to look like the museum of forgotten coffee cups, and I the curator. At one point on this trip, I walked into a gas station and all the coffee cups bowed to me, they’re king. At least that’s what’s happened in my imagination. It is a 33-hour drive. I may be delirious.
Somewhere in Oklahoma a building on my left declares in spray painted scrawls, “Joan Jett for President.” If that’s not an American political decision, I don’t know what is. I’ve seen political statements of all kinds so far. But this is by far the most interesting. I’m floored at how vocal we are as a nation. We want everybody to know where we stand—who we support. In fields, there lie huge bails of hay spray painted with the names of candidates. Guys in hats. Trucks with affiliated flags. Subarus with 30 or 40 bumper stickers. Americans are passionate people who feel strongly for their Nation. They love it here, as they should. Back in Texas, we made it to Rudy’s Barbeque for a burnt-ends sandwich (delicious, go there). Above us hung an enormous American flag. Not long ago, I was struck with the thought that I don’t really care if America is great. All I want is an America that is good. I do not love America for its politics or politicians. I do not love America for its ethics or morality, for those things waver and faulter. I love America for the Americans—the people. I love America for the Land. I love America for the heart and soul of loving our neighbors. This Land is my Land, this Land is your Land, as the old song says. And if we get Joan Jett for President, so be it.
anthony forrest
Start at the beginning of the road trip:
bright lights
red and white
flash on
off
nonstop
they bounce from stop sign
to road line
reflected back to my nighttime eyes
ears thirst for drunken burst
of up/down horns
like Miles Davis’ trumpet mourn
an uneven sing-song
dissident and wrong
but right, just the same
and in the darkness
in all this chaotic fineness
people call out for a caring hand
a soul to understand
so, we go
anthony forrest
A 33-hour road trip across the country begs for more than just music. I perused the options on my phone for an audiobook. Lo and behold, the entire volume of The Chronicles of Narnia runs in approximate 33 hours. Jackpot. I’ll listen to that. But each time I hit pause on the audiobook, all I can think of is the radio jockey back in California announcing the next song and a chorus of cheesy singers blurting out:
Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees hits!
It will haunt me the entire trip.
It seems to take us longer to go through California than we had expected. In fact, we stayed the night in the thriving metropolis of Barstow, CA. We breathed a sigh of relief when we crossed the border. Gas prices dropped. The speed limit rose. Restaurant signs exclaimed their dining rooms open.
Though Arizona has much to offer, not much of it can be experienced while driving 80 mph on interstate 40. Up ahead a sign advertises a bear sanctuary called Bearizona. On my left a freight train moves in a cliched manner across a piney ridge. An RV pulls a 30-year-old Geotracker. I take a sip of my Coke zero. 23 hours to go.
And a green sign along the highway appeared to look at me in a sad fashion while I read on its face, “378 mi to Albuquerque.”
We would absolutely love to simply drive and drive, without stopping. But I drink too much coffee, and dad drinks too much Diet Coke. Besides, this trip would kill us if we didn’t stop. We seem to stop often. And then there’s the dogs. They have to walk around and drink too. The two little rascals sit in the front seat of my dad’s vehicle panting and sleeping and panting and sleeping. I can smell the dog breath a quarter mile behind him, in another car.
Somewhere in New Mexico we pull off at some exit looking for a gas station. The distance between locales with any kind of civilization keeps growing longer. We park the cars in front of the pumps and walk up to the door. It’s a dive. A sign on the door announces that the restrooms are only for paying customers and that they have to haul their water 50-miles to get it to this gas station. Of course, none of that matters. They’re closed anyway. Why would they be opened at 7:30 a.m. on a Wednesday literally right next to the interstate? No matter, I walk behind the dilapidated building and pee on a rusted over shipping container that must have been some kind of nightmarish lawn ornament for the broken-down RV sitting next to it. We drive on.
We’re desperately trying to drive the full distance in 3 days and 2 nights, really we are. But honestly, we will probably shamefully add another night. I have nothing to prove.
The sun disappeared behind us and the desert blackened almost instantly. The lack of life out here shocks me, but not for long. The road drops down into a lower plane and Albuquerque lights look like an ocean filled with orange dots.
anthony forrest
Start at the beginning of the road trip:
“We’re moving,” my dad said, “Heading to Tennessee.”
They had been wanting to get out of California for quite some time. And now seemed about as good a time as any.
I’m on the phone with him.
“That’s great!”
Honestly, I’d been expecting it and wanting to see them closer to us in the Midwest.
“When are you leaving?”
He answered that he had to be at his next place of work in about 2 weeks. My eyes got very big. I had already promised to help them move and drive their two cars across the country. California to Tennessee. With some finagling, I’d be able to get some extra time off work and fly to Sacramento in a couple of weeks.
Cut to two weeks later.
I stand at the garage sipping coffee, and looking outside. From the nearby radio speakers, a song by Tears for Fears declares that, “everybody wants to rule the world.” While I ponder the possibility of this declaration’s truthfulness, the song fades away and the station announces, “Continuous ’80s hits!”
But the cheese-ball, sing-song radio station group sings the words and pronounces each syllable forcefully.
It sounds more like, “Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees HITS!”
The sun warms me.
California is indeed beautiful. And though it’s winter time here too, you never have to shovel sunshine. California’s natural beauty is it’s best and most valuable resource. Mountains, deserts, ocean, and forests—California has it all. There should really be no reason for people to move out of California. But alas, there are many reasons, and most of them apolitical, though politics may be one of the catalysts for moving to a different state.
The cost of living is skyrocketing, taxes are outrageous, and the increasing homelessness verges on the post-apocalyptic. And don’t even think about the crime-rate. Now, people are leaving in droves.
As I stand sipping my coffee, I turn my head to see an enormous armored SWAT vehicle slowly (with haunting silence) coast by the house. Three SUV squad vehicles follow closely behind. And in the middle is a black van with six heavily armed officers hanging out of the sliding doors. They stop at a house a couple of blocks away and bust a huge illegal marijuana grow.
This is a normal thing. This happens all the time. My folks are looking forward to the change in venue.
So, we finish with the packing. And when the moving crew cleans out the boxes and beds, et cetera, we pack our own vehicles and begin the road trip. But before we leave, the truck driver gazes seriously into our eyes and tells us that we must stop for lunch at Rudy’s Barbeque in Amarillo, TX. My dad and I agree to these terms.
We left before noon. Still plenty of drivable day.
Ah, the great American road trip. It has been birthed out of the American culture, growing mainly from the post-world war II era. The glories of an excellent economy, reasonably priced vehicles, and an excellent highway system developed the tradition of the American road trip back in the ’50s. And starting in 1956, construction began on the interstate system. Most families had at least one car. The economy flourished. Families took to the road in search of the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, cheap camping, and Wall Drug.
Such nostalgia like the famed route 66 and cheesy roadside tourist traps help to make Americana what it is today.
But our road trip more closely resembles a scene from The Cannonball Run than a leisurely road trip.
anthony forrest
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