Call me “ Lucky “ - Musings from the Road
A rusty, ice covered Chevy stood idling in the sleet of the farmyard parking lot. Cloud cover formed a blinding white dome over the late November Wisconsin landscape and very carefully, as to not slip and fall out on the ice, I picked up my bag and made my way out the door. It was early and the familiar sounds of the massive dairy farm filled the morning with things to do and anticipation of a new day ahead. I had said all my goodbyes to friends and colleagues, I had on a new pair of jeans and Carhartt jacket and in my pocket I had a neatly folded, fresh stack of US dollar bills, ready for the trip ahead.
Fresh road salt cracked under the tires as we turned South onto highway K and all along the winding county road, there were several pickup trucks with blaze orange clad hunters preparing for a day in the woods, hoping for the opportunity to once again harvest a big, healthy white tail deer. I recognized some of them. Donny, Chad, Frankie…I gave them a wave from behind the fogged up window. They couldn’t place me. They didn’t wave back. I just smiled and turned the radio up. I like being on the move and Waylon and Willie always fuels the hunger. On the Road Again, Ramblin’ Man….101.9 WDEZ blasting out of the car speakers with its, not so obsolete yet, hundred thousand watts of raw broadcasting power. Holstein cows wearing their winter coats lined the fences and a murder of black crows were picking fresh meat off of an unrecognizable piece of road kill. There was fresh snow in the corn rows. William wasn’t saying much, he just smoked and flipped cigarette butts through a small sliver in the driver side window. The icy wind left his cheeks rosy and his salt and pepper stubble occasionally trapped rapidly melting ice crystals which he wiped away with dirty coverall sleeves. Cresting the ridge just past Merrill Avenue, Wausau rolled into view and with Rib Mountain and its ski slopes in the distance we made our way down I39 to the Lamers Bus depot South of the city.
The depot was bustling with folks slugging heavy suitcases to the line of chrome rimmed busses parked out back. Mounds of plowed snow lining the parking lot and sharp stalactites of ice drooped down over the building roof edges. It was really cold. The type of cold that creeps into your bones and refuses to let go. I shook Williams calloused hand and thanked him for the ride. He wished me well and I stood there, watching him disappear around the bend. It was too stuffy in the building but with my bus ticket in hand I decided to find a spot around the corner, out of the blistering wind. There I stood, my back against the wall, staring out at the great Northwoods. Smokestacks were puffing steam in the distance and not far behind me, cutting its ancient path through the magnificent forest, was the mighty Wisconsin River. Everything was deathly silent, apart from the voices and buses idling in the lot. The wind sliced into my face and I watched the steam from my breath rise into the empty sky. An elderly couple were sizing me up and asked if was in the Service. I could not fault them for the assumption. I was skinny, sported a military style haircut and I had my very own version of the thousand yard stare. The look you often see in people traveling by themselves. A weary, street smart look born out of hard earned lessons and too many nights alone. Besides, the “Global War on Terror” was entering its second year and the road, bus depots, airports and train stations were littered with servicemen and women on their way to or from the Middle East. I explained who I was and reluctantly I had to navigate a barrage of questions about Africa ( Its a country, not a continent in the eyes of most folks I spoke to in the Midwest) and just exactly what I was doing in the land of the wind chill factor, ten thousand miles from home. A boarding announcement interrupted and relieved me from my ad-hoc geography lesson and as I boarded the bus I was surprised to realize that I was unable to truthfully answer that very question. What exactly was I doing, living and working in a place as alien to an African as the Kalahari desert is to a pale-skinned Midwesterner ? Answering the obvious, material questions were easy. Money, saving for my studies and getting away from my childhood on the farm. Despite the fact that it had been wonderful one, it just felt like it was time to go. I knew I was looking for adventure, I needed to see and hear some of my heroes play their songs and I wanted to experience the mystery of the Great North Woods with its vast forests, rivers and lakes the size of seas. But there was something else. A void that needed to be filled. A deep desire to answer the call to adventure. I wanted to show everyone back home that I could take care of myself and contribute. I wanted to finance my own dreams and adventures and I was hell bent on doing it my own way. I was not going to settle for a university degree, a traditional trajectory of studying, marriage and a nine to five. It seemed, and still seems like the most depressing version of a life I could ever imagine. I don’t judge anyone for their individual pursuits but I realized early on that it would not be my life. Most of all I needed material, I needed more “real life” experience that I could distill into songs and poetry. I had a flame burning in my heart and soul. I felt that I had something to say, stories to tell. I recognized that my poems and letters moved people and I was just starting to put music to them. I did not know it at the time, but it was going to be a winding, eventful road to the present day. A road I am glad I got to experience thus far. Lessons learnt, friends and lovers lost and found. Finding and doing my dream job. Forming a band and playing shows to audiences big and small. Being able to call my parents my best friends. Continuing the work on the family farm. Forging lifelong friendships and seeing many a city, open road and smoky bar. Living life, having my heart broken, seeing my nephews grow up and knowing my grandparents well into my thirties. Pages and Pages of words, thoughts and songs. I am the luckiest man I know. I am grateful. I would do it all again but maybe not exactly the same when it comes to some things. The Road is always calling, the horizon always beckons…..
The bus left the parking lot bound for Chicago. She was waiting for me there. I leaned up against the window staring at the frozen landscape stretching out like a silent, black and white western movie. We stopped at several small towns along the way, picking up and dropping off travelers. I slept on and off the whole way, I didn’t dream. Wisconsin was rolling past outside the frosty window and the mighty diesel was reassuringly rumbling down the open highway…..my favourite place.
JB