Author: Dave

We took 90 into New Orleans, decided that anything other than 10 might be a nice break, thought maybe it’d be scenic. Probably should’ve stuck to 10.

Didn’t realize how badly the sugarcane-county roads get beat down by the trucks that move harvested stalks. The truck lane is worn and so bumpy at points I was worried the steady drumbeat of vibration might see the RV rattle itself apart. Like an army breaking step to avoid bringing down a bridge, I rode over the center line when possible to avoid the worst of it.

Driving through the miles and miles of cane field, I felt the same the sense of discovery as when we drove through Texas oil country. That realization and awe at entire industries and livelihoods and ways of life wholly unfamiliar to me. It’s fascinating, really, how foreign regional cultures can feel within the same country or even state – seems the more vibrant the culture the steeper the learning curve.

I enjoy discovering what locals are shocked we don’t simply know. “Plate lunch” lines in sit-down restaurants, drive through daiquiri shops, chicory in coffee. Things they’ve never not known, things we’ve never known. Blew a waitress’s mind when we told her you can’t just order a “sweet tea” in California.

And so the trip continues to teach me. About culture, about people, about my family and myself and our country. I pray I pay attention, I learn, I change for the better.

Peace.

We’re staying at a lovely state park in Louisiana.

Two heavily-treed, tight little RV loops with a central dump at the back and free laundry near the middle. Yeah OK only one washer works, the campground showers (which I never use anyway) are cold and on those stupid push-timers, and the sites are tighter than I typically prefer, but the place has a real homey feel to it.

This is our third and last night here, we’re leaving early tomorrow morning. It’ll be a typical road Sunday: we’ll do church in the nearest town, then a shopping run, then head onto the next stop. Honestly, though, I’d happily stay here another several days – I really like the vibes in this place.

Last night I heard Keaton sniffling up in her bed. I asked if she was OK and she said yes that she just had a stuffy nose. About 15min later I found out she was lying when she said, slowly and tearfully, “Dad? … I really miss home right now,” and quit trying to hide the fact that she was crying.

Now, we’ve established that my daughter’s emotional reactions to/during this trip, both positive and negative, have a high impact on me.

I hear the homesickness and heartache in her voice and my own throat immediately tightens; I taste salt at the top and back of my mouth. I take a deep breath and do not respond right away. I carefully consider what I’m going to say. When I’m ready, I answer:

“I’m sorry babe. I miss home sometimes too. Do you want to come back here and we can be sad about it together a little?”

I don’t know if this will be effective, but it’s honest. There are things I miss about home, though I’m sure not as many as she. Maybe it’d be good for us to be open to that, commiserate, work through it by sharing a cry.

She doesn’t want to come back, though. She’s still sobbing and sniffling, the emotion sounding very pure the way real crying does; honest and raw. The sound continues to hurt my heart.

I take a few moments to think again. I say, “OK. Well, what do you miss most about home?”

I know this is maybe dumb, and may get her even more upset, but I’ve decided I’ve chosen “acknowledgement” as my theme here and I’m just going to run with it – let’s just be real here and discuss these feelings.

It works, she opens up. She misses her room the most. How cozy and “hers” it is. I’m glad for this, as it’s actually fairly relatable to me and easier to talk to than the “all my friends” answer I’ve heard before. I share that I sometimes miss our big bathroom, with the large shower that has infinite water and our own toilet.

She decides she wants to come back after all. She climbs into bed between Sharaun and I, she’s in her long fuzzy Christmas PJ pants and carrying her stuffed animal, a floppy shaggy dog named Waffles.

She’s just a kid, she’s homesick. I snuggle with her, thank God for her silently and remind myself that her feelings are completely reasonable.

At some point she tells me, “I know how much you love this trip and I feel bad that I miss home.” “No,” I say, and continue with something like, “You don’t need to feel bad, it’s fine to miss home. That doesn’t upset me at all. I just hope that we have enough good times together on the trip to offset the sad.”

We talk a little more and she stops crying. Eventually she realizes this bed ain’t made for three fully grown humans and goes back to her own.

I’m thankful for the way the whole interaction went, glad that I took time to just listen and permit what she was feeling, not try to reason with her or convince her out of her sadness.

Today she was fine, in a grand mood, actually. We had fun, laughed, enjoyed the homey little Louisiana state park as a family.

Sharaun did several loads of free laundry, I drove the RV over to dump the tanks, we took a walk along the river and watched the SEC championship and grilled hot dogs. I met a nice guy named Alan who shared a cigarette with me and reminded me why I don’t smoke.

Was a good day.

I’m exhausted.

Yesterday evening we rolled into a gulf coast state park on the very border of Texas and Louisiana. It was dusk when we arrived and I went out to hook up the water and electricity. I had read some reviews of the park online and was glad that, while outside, I wasn’t swarmed with the mosquitoes so many folks seemed to have mentioned. There was a slight breeze and I didn’t see even one of the bloodsuckers.

Oh, but that was just their strategy; hide out for a bit. I would learn later that they were simply lying in wait, holding their cards, amassing the troops and closing in our flanks. We would soon be fully under siege.

Sometime around 8pm we noticed a few in the RV. Unsure where they came from, we double checked all the windows and vents before smacking them dead. By 9pm I knew we had a real problem, even with all the possible cracks stuffed with towels and all the appliance vents covered with Press-n-Seal they were still thick enough outside that they were finding ways inside we hadn’t blocked.

I stuffed more towels into more cracks, I turned off all the interior lights thinking maybe they were attracted to them and finding a way in. We tried to go to bed. Our try was unsuccessful.

They doubled their efforts. I donned a long sleeve shirt and covered myself entirely in a tent of sheets. We got up regularly to smack more dead, and their smashing grew bloodier as the night wore on and they feasted on us more.

Stupid Sea Rim State Park, you can have my other $20, we’re not staying here another night. Hardly slept at all, all bumpy with itchy bites.

FaceDragon out.

I brought my guitar on this big trip.

How could I not? I’ve had the thing for several years now, having gotten it for Christmas a ways back. I’ve always and forever wanted to learn how to play, but the guitar has simply hung in our living room, mostly unplayed (by me, at least), all these years.

Oh, a few times I tried. Went at it for days or even weeks trying to learn some chords or songs, but I just never put the time ot focus into it. Even brought the thing on our previous long-haul RV sojourn, lugging it around the continent but literally never taking it out of the closet where I stowed it.

Anyway I’m determined to do better this time, to practice every day I can for at least a few minutes. I’ve chosen Friend of the Devil as the first song I want to know how to play (in basic form, that is). Just a few relatively simple chords to master.

I think I’m doing OK. The chords came easy enough, and I’ve got little callouses building on my fingers. It’s the changes and keeping a decent strumming rhythm, one that’s different from the rhythm of the words I’m singing, that’s hard for me.

But I practice every day, and I’m enjoying it. The same song, over and over and over. Keaton asks me why I’m not trying anything different… but I really just want to be able to do something half-OK before I move on, and this seems a fine place to start.

I do enjoy the looks and waves I get from other campers as I sit outside and strum. I’m sure they think I can really play; that feels kinda nice. Maybe one day I won’t have to pretend.

Peace.

I really enjoyed our few days in Austin with friends for Thanksgiving.

The kids had playmates again and we hardly saw them at al during the four days there. Sharaun and I went out for dinner and coffee on a double-date with our hosts, leaving all the kids home. I had two cocktails and we picked up the bill to thank them for their hospitality.

Thanksgiving dinner was all the traditional sides but with medium-rare steaks instead of turkey. I didn’t mind the lack of bird, the red meat went well with the wine and, if I’m being honest, Thanksgiving for me has always been much more about the dressing and potatoes and beans than about the bird.

Also nice was four days in a real house. Big house; Sharaun and I had our own room and I took showers every morning like the water was in infinite supply. We watched TV, sat on the porch and looked at the trees changing color, carried on grown-up conversations with other adults, and had sex without broadcasting it to everyone in the house via shocks and struts.

Yeah, it really was enjoyable.

But you know what? I’m sitting here in the RV, in a space so cozy I’m inhaling what everyone else just exhaled, setup for a few nights in a state park near Houston, taking the last sips of a Highland nightcap… and, I am so glad to be back here.

I mean, today wasn’t even easy. First day back to school for the kids after having the Thanksgiving week off. Anything but easy.

But man, maaan, it is so good to be back.

Goodnight.

All is not the thrill and joy of adventure, even when living entirely in pursuit adventure. There are not-so-good moments right along with the brilliant ones. Things like mangled, run-over mufflers and truck stop dump stations backing up and spraying you with your own waste.

The aforementioned are definite low points, to be sure. Far and away my personal lowest points thus far, however, are those times when Keaton has gotten upset and said, through tears, things like, “I hate this trip,” and, “Can’t we just go home?,” and, “I wish we never did this.”

Ouch.

Like, those hurt, man. Hurt big. Mostly because I know that, even though I believe it to be true that she’s not absolutely overcome by them, when she does express those sentiments she’s merely being honest. When things go wrong, when she’s reminded of her friends, when we have to get onto her… in those moments of stress she’s not bashful.

I still believe that, even for Keaton, the good times and happy moods outnumber the bad. I believe this not just out of hope or faith, but because I’ve observed and experienced it. Smiles and laughs and memories being made – and not just for me, I’m (relatively) certain.

I’m particularly sensitive to her feelings in this regard because her wellbeing, as a captive pre-teen on the road for a year in close quarters with family and away from friends, was #2 on my list of concerns as we considered our trip. I mulled it, chewed it, weighed and measured it, labored over it, considered it well, as did Sharaun.

Cohen, at eight, I knew, would be fine. For Keaton, though, I wondered how badly things might go with, and for, her if they indeed turned bad. Might there be real consequences to her burgeoning social life? Her intellectual or spiritual development? Could she return and struggle to reintegrate? Could she end up resenting us long-term? Broken or under-developed in some other way?

Obviously, I either convinced myself that none of these fates would befall her, or decided that I wanted the trip enough to possibly subject her to them, or that she is strong enough to best them, even if they did. Not sure which; maybe some of all three. Analysis aside, we’re out here now doing this.

And when she’s down, she’s down.

Then I’m down.

That’s today.

I skinned the knuckle of the thumb on my right hand a few days ago. Trying to get our water hose threaded onto the bib at a national park. Under the steady gaze of these fucking immense steadfast mountains – so fucking immense, in fact, that the national park takes its name from the very same.

The mountains were once a coral reef. Like the kind of thing that’s fully underwater, with the fish and the anemones and the, well, the corals. But the Earth changed. Millions of years happened and the seas retreated and the dinosaurs all died and the coral reefs became mountains. The same mountains that watched me coldly unmoving as I knicked my knuckle filling our freshwater tank.

It’s really fantastic, isn’t it? That an ocean should become a desert and underwater reefs should become mountains straining overhead instead? What a plot twist! It’s like the whole tableau was inverted!

You there! Area once filled with water and and all the beasts carried by it: you’ll now be an arid barren place without so much as a reliable drop of your former excess. Gills and fins shall give way to thorns and dust. Bet you didn’t see that coming!

Ahh… but I’ll leave clues. Little hints for the curious ones to come… bits of plant and animal frozen in stone to be read like tea leaves, to tell the story, reconstruct the histories so they’ll know.

Anyway, I like to look at the little thin scab on that knicked knuckle. I like to pretend I earned it through real, honest, hard work. That it’s accompanied by the rough hands of a real, honest laborer, not the pussy-soft hands of a pussy-soft pussy. Ah, but it is not. It is just a thin scab.

But, but maybe… maybe it could be. I mean, it was earned… it’s coming did culminate with fresh water for my family. I provided. Is it, then, so different from a scab earned hundreds of years ago by the man at the well or spring before it, gathering water to sustain his family? Is it not honestly and proudly earned, is it not to be revered?

No. A man doesn’t stop to admire his own accomplishment, that is precisely why he’s created with such a deep need for validation and appreciation! A self-confidence gap so gaping, so vast, that the true weaker sex will often chase affirmation into their own depression.

Nah… not me though, I’m sitting here beaming shitty at this little scratch, this infinitesimal badge of courage. Reveling in it, self-affirming myself by it daily. In fact I hope it never goes away and I may just get the damn thing tattooed on me when it inevitably does.

Because this thing, this this little scab, this says something. I’m doing something. I’m not sitting at a desk, writing another pussy-soft email, I’m pulling Goddamned lifeblood from the Earth in the shadows of a fucking million-year-old, sky-high coral reef.

Beat that.