sounds familiar

Occasionally I get these flashes, short bursts of dire thought: “I’m not doing this right! I’m squandering this time!”

Continuing now into what, if you’ve followed along here at all, will be familiar ground – I’m still having these moments where I worry that the very way I’m thinking about and doing this trip is robbing me of some of its beauty.

I’ve mentioned before that I feel like I have (an almost instinctual) mindset of envisioning this journey less as one gorgeous, long thing and more as a series segments, linear, each with beginnings and end, but having to “finish” one to start the next. It’s almost as if years clambering up the rungs of the corporate ladder, and the hallowed halls of education before that, have conditioned me to this sequential grind.

And I know this is awful. I can feel it; breaking what should be a grand and languid unfolding into just another checklist of achievements. I’ve got to figure out how to transcend this (Western? American?) mentality and simply live in this space (surely I’ve said this many times before).

Three months! It’s been three months! And, yet, here I am still in my head thinking, “We’re almost to the Florida part. Then it’ll be the after-Florida part, then…”

Shameful, I feel… but maybe also just me? I mean, it’s not like I haven’t enjoyed these three months, I have – absolutely. But where and how do they sit in the bigger story of my changing through the entirety of the experience? Or maybe I just need something to worry about at all times, because I’ve been programmed that way through upbringing.

To end the rambling then, I’ll redouble efforts to stop and slow down. To walk more, no phone in-pocket; to pray and meditate and read more, not following what’s happened in politics that morning, afternoon, most recently-elapsed half-hour.

Maybe my acute awareness that this time is a gift and can, worst case, be squandered is a good thing. Maybe it’s a pox of hyper-awareness. Maybe this writing was done three paragraphs ago.

Peace.

The skies over Mississippi threaten rain. Across the whole of the southeast, for that matter, swollen clouds are stretched thin.

The prospect of a day trapped the RV taking refuge from mother nature sits very differently with Sharaun vs. with me. She’s gotta move, even if it’s just walk loops around the campground. And while I enjoy walking just fine, a day stuck inside playing games as a family, watching a movie, maybe making some sort of chowder, reading, etc., is something I love.

She’s over at the campground showers. We’re planning on driving into Biloxi today so I spent the morning doing all the road-readiness chores. If we’re just leaving the site for a day I’ll usually do a less thorough job, but since it’s going to be raining tomorrow and I don’t want to be outside breaking down in the weather I’ve gone ahead and done it proper:

Putting the bikes back up on the rack and securing them with the bungees and tie-down and lock; emptying the ashes from, cleaning, and stowing the charcoal grill after last night’s hamburgers; folding up the camp chairs; taking down the American flag; making the master bed and putting the solar panel and guitar and ukulele and big box full of school books on top; unplugging and tucking away our tiny Christmas tree; unhooking from water and shore power; washing up and putting away the dishes.

It’s a bit of work, living in a tiny space. Lots to move around, back and forth, to utilize space in different ways. Honestly, though, I like the routine of it. Before you can do A, you must do B, C, and D. After A, reverse it back to how it was by undoing D, then C, then B. It’s clean and almost military in protocol – perfect for my logical, stepwise mind. Work, sure, but the effort is super manageable – and the time to do it is both predictable and short. I can have the thing ready to roll in well under half an hour.

And into town we go, ahead of the rains if we’re lucky. Until next time.

Somehow I always forget that visiting big tourist-frequented cities means encountering and interacting with the people of the street. It’s just not on my mind as we plan our days before heading into town. Then we arrive where we’re going and I’m immediately reminded.

It’s easy to dismiss these folks, assume they’re all drunks or junkies, walk by them like they’re ghosts with a forced lack of eye-contact, employing a firm “don’t engage” policy. I guess that’s honestly what I do most, but sometimes I can’t help myself. These are people, humans. Maybe they’re not taking care of themselves in the best ways at the moment, or maybe they’re living precisely how they intend to, but regardless I sometimes find it hard to completely disregard them as my brothers or sisters.

So I engaged. Gave a particularly broken looking young man “a dollar for coffee.” Told him, “Good luck, bruh,” and walked on with my family. Slumped, he looked to almost be relying on the French Quarter wall he was leaning against as an outside source of physical stability. Face covered in tattoos, hair dreaded rather nastily. Cue lectures about enabling and toxic chairty and blindly giving money; I know, I know.

Later that afternoon we saw that very same young man being hauled away in an ambulance, unmoved from the spot on the sidewalk where I’d earlier offered my “charity.” The shopkeeper was hosing down the area where he’d lain in repose so I can only imagine what may have happened. Did my dollar help pop this kid’s last balloon? Dunno.

I do know, though, that we could do better talking to the kids about classism and racism and homelessness and addiction and mental health the social aspects of it all.

Know better do better, right?

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.