Windshield Time

Driving into the Sun - My Sunday Best #157

“the morning sun painting the sky”—Little Things

One of my favorite things about a road trip is the pre-dawn starts, where an hour or two into the drive, the sun begins to rise. The sunrise is a spectacular event every day, but there’s something about driving towards the sun that feels like an intentional, much-anticipated rendezvous—an exciting open-armed reunion with an embrace and a “Hello again, my friend! What shall we do with this brand new day?”

This morning finds me in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, Mickey’s hometown. Our home on wheels is set up in a friend’s driveway—surrounded by big trees, and thirty-eight acres of lush fields and rolling hills, everything freshly watered by a passing thunderstorm last night.

Windshield time is therapeutic, especially from the passenger seat. Usually, I carry my weight with the driving responsibilities. But, since I have been recovering from a nasty virus I picked up a couple of weeks ago, I had an excused absence from my turn behind the wheel.

Travel is always an adventure, like walking on a high wire without a safety net—anything can happen. A big world of fast-moving eighteen-wheelers, surprise potholes, and road construction lane changes, which confuse the GPS.

So far, on this trip, as we were somewhere between Terre Haute and Indianapolis, the van started complaining. Now, in all honesty, I have spent my entire life traveling the two-lane highways on a wing and a prayer, if you will. A wagon train kind of adventure—older model, road-worn vehicles, with a tool-box within reach. I’ve been broke down in Florida, California, Oklahoma, Alabama, Tennessee, Missouri, Wyoming, Colorado—okay, pretty much every state I’ve ever been in. And in those times, I have met some amazing, kind-hearted people.

Exploring isn’t without a few bumps in the road—just ask Lewis and Clark. Life is risky business.

I’m always entertained by the fragments of songs that want to ride along.

These songs show up with a sense of humor, reassuring me that I am not alone. So as we were sputtering our way to Indianapolis and the Bottle Rockets song Indianapolis started playing in my mind, I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t really want to hear that song because you know, ‘the power of suggestion’, but it was there just the same.

Can’t go west, can’t go east

I’m stuck in Indianapolis

With a fuel pump that’s deceased…(very funny 🙄)

As it turned out, the van just wanted off the interstate. So we headed a mile or so south and hung a left onto a trusty old Highway 40, which has seen many a traveler to their destination. There were no potholes, lots of beautiful scenery and old houses, and a lovely roadside restaurant with homemade potato salad and peanut-butter pie. As we sat on the outdoor patio that overlooked a small lake, I watched three different varieties of turtles pop their heads up and climb on the bank for a midday snack.

Although it was a much slower route, the van was happy, and a happy van is a happy life.

We found our way back to I-70 on the Ohio border, where it was smooth traveling again. Sorry, Indiana, we won’t be coming back this way again; lesson learned.

We typically don’t listen to music while we’re driving. For one reason, Mickey is always in an ongoing conversation with the van. They talk about things like the transmission, the oil pressure, and various hisses and whistles. Occasionally, he’ll ask me for some input: “Do you hear that?” To which I usually answer, “What?”

This is alright by me. I’m usually in my own conversation with song anyway—my mystery companion that joined the wagon train a while back. I talk about this phenomenon in the book that is working its way into existence. Here’s what I wrote:

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Who is this mystery companion that comes from out of nowhere? How does it know when to show up? How does it know what my heart is feeling? Is it word association? Nostalgia? When I’m driving across Kansas and see the signs for Topeka, I subconsciously start humming Loretta Lynn’s One’s On The Way.

How does that happen? And what does this particular song want with me? Is it just hanging out on the outskirts of Topeka, waiting to hitch a ride? Do we have mutual friends?

As it turns out, we do.

The song was written by Shel Silverstein, poet, raconteur, and author of many children’s books. Shel used to come into a place called the Gold Rush in Nashville and order a drink from my friends Jack and Kyle, who were bartenders there back in the day. Although I never met Shel in person, I feel as if I know him through these stories and songs.

Although I spend much of my time without music playing, I’ll never tire of the companionship of a song. It comes and goes, whether or not I have a Bluetooth speaker turned on.

Songs speak not just of where we came from, but of how we go forward—companions walking beside us offering easy conversation and gentle guidance for the road ahead.

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Earlier this week, I read that everyone is going through something, and that those somethings are all over the place. But in every “something,” there is a detour where the meaningful moments happen—moments that come with a little peanut-butter pie, a song, and sometimes even a turtle.