See ya later, Winnebager!
About three months ago, I thought: self, let's go! Let's get rid of all this cumbersome junk and hit the road. See things. Do things. Search for the ultimate place, the best place, a place that feels like home. It must have very few people, 5,000 or less. It's got to have some hippies, some rednecks, some blue collars, some people I don't agree with on any level. Just a bunch of different people who all coexist in a super happy way, playing music and making life more like a festival. These are my requirements.
So, fast forward through selling my house, getting rid of my piles and piles of junk I really didn't need (and feel so relieved to be free of), and making a plan. I thought I'd save money just taking the Winnebago I already had. Heck, it had made it to Santa Fe and back, without a quibble. Most things were broken-- the furnace didn't heat, the refrigerator didn't chill, the generator backfired once and quit (sounded like a shotgun!), I couldn't get water in the tanks, so they were useless, the A/C didn't blow in the cab, and there was basically no radio. So we rolled down the windows, sang to ourselves and rolled on down the road, knowing at some point Jesse Pinkman would die, we were just thinking it would last longer than a day. By we, I mean myself, a goldendoodle named Dude and a chihuahua named Alice Cooper. Jesse Pinkman was named after a central character in Breaking Bad, mainly because the Winnebago looked like something that should be used for cooking meth. It was that fancy; people occasionally pointed and laughed. They often cheered on my efforts to get up steep hills at 25mph by honking and waving their fists as they passed me. The people you meet on the road are the best!
DAY ONE-- so ready to go. SO ready. Three days since my house was taken over and three days at my parents' house at my age were plenty. More than plenty. I can't figure out why they've redone their house at least three times since I lived there and none of them included replacing the world's most horrible shower. Even the shower head would be a vast, vast improvement. I digress.
I get in an argument (ahem) with my step dad because he doesn't understand using a regular talking voice. Ever. HE SPEAKS IN ALL CAPS. ALL THE TIME. SOMETIMES I JUMP. IT'S SO WEIRD TO TALK LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME. JONNIEEEEEE!!!! PASS ME THE PEPPER!!! JONNIIIIEEEEEEE!!! HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR OIL????? ETC. ETC. ETC.
Don't get me wrong, he's quite helpful. Fixed the lights on the trailer, helped change oil in the generator, all kinds of stuff. Oh! And he taught me how to do some badass wiring tricks. That was very cool of him. BUT THE ALL CAPS TALKING IS TOO MUCH.
So, there was a fight. And I took off in Jesse, soon to realize that the air ride system wasn't blowing up... BAD news. I took Jesse to Joby and he agreed to look that day. He is a good dude. So helpful. Called a few hours later and said, "Great news! It was just a fuse!" I showed up overjoyed, and thanking him profusely for getting me on the road. All was well with Jesse, riding nice again and we were on our way!
Stopped over at my little brother Levi's house for the night. His daughter, my niece, Ainsley told us all kinds of things. She's at that age. So many ideas... so she said, "Aunt Jonnie, in the morning we'll go for a bike ride!" I said, "Sure thing!" and she then told me the time of our sunrise jaunt, "How about 4am?" Ummmmm, how about 9?
DAY TWO-- Sunrise bike ride, Levi fixes the radio (remember the awesome wiring I learned yesterday? Turns out I'm not as good as I thought). Down the road again. This time to my cousin Brooke's... her daughter Shelby has prom tonight and I couldn't be more excited to take pictures of her and her boyfriend. Looked forward to it all day, then we did some pictures, later got some beers, then crashed.
DAY THREE-- running around Sedalia, Missouri, then Brooke got back from Shelby's dance competition in KC and we hung out a bit. Figured out Brooke is more of a sister than a cousin. Sometimes you don't realize things til later in life. Wish I'd have figured that one out sooner. She's awesome. I love her to pieces. She found a sweet, sweet man and oh man, they have a sweet, sweet kid. She's kinda got it made ya know? One of these days, I'm going to have one of those sweet dudes and we're going to be like peas and carrots. But I don't care for peas or carrots, so forget that. We're going to be like chocolate and peanut butter. Deliciouser together.
Went to Hermann, MO. It's beautiful. Rolling hills, old houses. Tons of wine. They grow lots of Norton grapes there, not that it matters, but because someday I'll think of it and not remember and they'll be all out of google by then and I'll have to reread this to remember that grape for a story, but that grape probably won't be of any relevance whatsoever, it'll just bug me that I don't remember, and I'll tell myself things like, "I'm getting old," and "What if this is the beginning of dimentia?" and then blah, blah, blah, I'm at a doctor like holy shit, I can't remember shit, and he's like that happens to everyone and looks at me over his glasses, which is exactly like eye rolling.
Pushed on to Hannibal, via Scenic Byway. It was beautiful, a perfect drive. Without A/C or radio. The radio works, mind you, but you can't get it loud enough to hear it over the sound of Jesse. Jesse's LOUD.
DAY FOUR-- Went on a cave tour, which began a love of caves. Now I go to every one I get near. Caves are amazing. And quite cold. Stayed in Hannibal, MO again. Mark Twain Cave Campground, right next to Mark Twain Cave, where he dreamed up stories for Tom and Huck. I'm not a huge fan of Tom or Huck, but I'm a fan of the man. He was beautiful. A free thinker, capable of huge bounds of consciousness and insane humor. None of that seems to be recognized in his home town. All they quote is Tom and Huck. Everything is named in reference to one of those two books. His brilliant but transgressive work has been tabled, in favor of the stuff that has been deemed a "classic," a term he hated openly. It's cool though, the town is beautiful, the cave is fun, and I had nothing but a great time there. I'd definitely go back. And the Great River Road! There's nothing better than driving the Great River Road down the Mississippi. It's beautiful, and has just the right amount of vintage and kitsch.
Also, on this day I drove through St. Louis, MO. A year ago I was here to pick up my beautiful pup, Dude. She's all the love in the world, but I have NOT ONE good thing to say about St. Louis. That time and this time there were road closures. When you use phone GPS, if you miss an exit, that broad takes you back to that exit, and either she DELIGHTS in running you through bad neighborhoods, OR there are only bad neighborhoods in St. Louis. I'm not certain which. Last year I saw a guy steal a car at 1am being "redirected" through this industrial area that I DEFINITELY SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN IN, and this time that broad on GPS said, "Take MLK bridge, it'll be fun." Yeah, no. I about had a nervous breakdown. Where am I? Why did you bring me here? People are staring. Jesse Pinkman and this huge orange kayak stick out.
DAY FIVE--Pushed way on down the road, knowing I need to be in Beaver Dam by the 11th to see John Prine and Tyler Childers play in freaking Meuhlenberg County! Holy cow! That will be amazing! So I'm trying to run towards my heroes, when the brake light comes on the Winnebago. I call my brother, one of two who rock engines and know all kinds of Yoda stuff about them. He said, "yeahhhhhh, you're going to want to find someone to look at that." So I went all over. They sent me here and there, there and here, and finally I landed at Midwest Truck in Cape Girardeau, MO. This is where I met Bo and Luke Duke. Or I thought I did. It turns out, it was just Bo. That other dude, the brunette, wasn't his brother. But he was blond and from Hazzard, KY and the thought that Bo and Luke Duke were working on my motorhome really made sitting there in the heat for three plus hours more tolerable. At the end, he refused payment, showed me how to put brake oil in the master cylinder, and sent me on my way; he shook my hand and looked at me deeply and said, "I don't know who your God is, but I'll be praying for you." That was sweet as heck.
I was on the road again! Crossing the Mississippi, what must have been the fifth time, I finally hit Illinois, then Kentucky. Finally closer to Beaver Dam!
DAY SIX-- Made it to Beaver Dam with time to spare. Decided to visit the homeplace of Bill Monroe, the inventer of bluegrass. Climbed Jerusalem Ridge in Jesse. Tiny road, tight curves, steep incline. Took the tour and the man gave me a "I Climbed Jerusalem Ridge" bumper sticker, which I promptly installed, proud of Jesse for making it there with an obvious brakes problem. We even made it down Jerusalem Ridge, uneventfully.
I went back to the ampitheater in Beaver Dam to secure a good spot by noon. Took the dogs on a walk by the people running the door for entering vendors and bands, and they told me I could park Jesse right there, next to a tiny lake, just next to the ampitheater. Awesome. Several hours in the heat-- I think it got to 85 that day, and I'd had it. I got into the camper to take a break and just broke down. The stress of needing to get there, spending too much time driving Jesse without A/C in that heat, just got me. With all the windows open and a decent breeze, it was too much to stay inside and several campers and cars had begun showing up, but I had to get out of the HEAT. So I ventured outside, hot dogs in tow, not hot dogs, but dogs who were hot, and tried to discreetly cry without making a scene. I'd HAD IT. I didn't want to have to crawl up under the camper to put brake oil in the master cylinder. I didn't want to be hot anymore. I just wanted to give up.
But the ROAD, the road hazes you. It has to. If you don't have the stuff, the guts, the balls or whatever, you can't be on the ROAD. It's only for people who can laugh at darn near anything. If you get annoyed easily, NO ROAD FOR YOU. If things break you, NO ROAD FOR YOU. But you'll find out if you have the stuff. You'll find out even quicker if you load up and take off in a 1987 Winnebago that seems to have... a few issues of its own.
Instead of seeing John Prine in Mehlenberg County, outside the Green River, where Paradise lays, I sat outside an aging Winnebago with two hot dogs, crying and feeling sorry for myself, but knowing I didn't regret it, not a second of it. I've always known: the day nothing really bugs me anymore, the day I can laugh ANYTHING off, is the day I'm free. So I've been working towards GETTING FREE. It's not easy. I wrote in a journal at nine that there were so many things I wanted in life.
The list, of what I wanted from life, at 9 years old:
Go to Harvard (I went to Yale, seems fair, only private school kids get to go to Harvard)
Swim with sharks (I didn't really do this yet, 9 year old me, but I will. Perhaps I did; I lived in Las Vegas for 7 years and there were some sharks there)
Know how to do EVERYTHING, and know all the secrets of stuff (I also listed things like, "know why hamsters run on wheels and why meringue rises" both of which I still DO NOT know and don't really care about anymore.
I remember wanting to be a writer too, and an artist, and write country songs.
There was other stuff on the list, but I can't find it. I think that's the important stuff. I remember wanting to be famous too, but now wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Because fame is the worst. A little fame is awesome, like if lots of people who know you like you, that's the best it's ever going to get. If lots of people who don't know you like you, it's going to be a bumpy ride back down that hill. I've often seen Lyndsey Lohan and wished to be an actual friend to her; it must be so hard. People seem to use her star, and she never chose it. She never chose fame. It's one thing to see people struggling with fame and think, "Well, you get what you ask for," but she didn't. I think she just needed approval of her parents, so she did whatever she needed to do, totally rose to it, then realized that living other peoples' dreams is insanely hollow and must be avoided. Too late though, how do you chase yourself, learn yourself, if everyone is always watching? I want the best for her. Pray for her, if that's your jam. I'm not even really sure why I feel that strongly... I'm not certain I've ever seen her in anything, just that her struggle touches me somehow. People say things like, "Ooooh, with all that money, why feel bad for her?" but the truth is, money can't buy you love; it's the enemy of love; you have to constantly wonder if the people in your life are there for money? or love? That's the worst debate a person can ever have with themselves, "does this person LOVE ME? The me that is me? Or do they want the perks?" Asking that question of yourself is hard. It's very hard. Even if they don't want her money, they certainly seem to seek her fame. Asking yourself if people TRULY love you is the shittiest question of all. Because love is what we're all here for-- it's the source, the wellspring, all the goodness-- and money's just a resource-- it comes in handy in a pinch, but for the most part, it's an incredible burden.
OK, signing out for tonight. I'll finish this deal tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I have time. It's so wonderful to have time.
So, fast forward through selling my house, getting rid of my piles and piles of junk I really didn't need (and feel so relieved to be free of), and making a plan. I thought I'd save money just taking the Winnebago I already had. Heck, it had made it to Santa Fe and back, without a quibble. Most things were broken-- the furnace didn't heat, the refrigerator didn't chill, the generator backfired once and quit (sounded like a shotgun!), I couldn't get water in the tanks, so they were useless, the A/C didn't blow in the cab, and there was basically no radio. So we rolled down the windows, sang to ourselves and rolled on down the road, knowing at some point Jesse Pinkman would die, we were just thinking it would last longer than a day. By we, I mean myself, a goldendoodle named Dude and a chihuahua named Alice Cooper. Jesse Pinkman was named after a central character in Breaking Bad, mainly because the Winnebago looked like something that should be used for cooking meth. It was that fancy; people occasionally pointed and laughed. They often cheered on my efforts to get up steep hills at 25mph by honking and waving their fists as they passed me. The people you meet on the road are the best!
DAY ONE-- so ready to go. SO ready. Three days since my house was taken over and three days at my parents' house at my age were plenty. More than plenty. I can't figure out why they've redone their house at least three times since I lived there and none of them included replacing the world's most horrible shower. Even the shower head would be a vast, vast improvement. I digress.
I get in an argument (ahem) with my step dad because he doesn't understand using a regular talking voice. Ever. HE SPEAKS IN ALL CAPS. ALL THE TIME. SOMETIMES I JUMP. IT'S SO WEIRD TO TALK LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME. JONNIEEEEEE!!!! PASS ME THE PEPPER!!! JONNIIIIEEEEEEE!!! HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR OIL????? ETC. ETC. ETC.
Don't get me wrong, he's quite helpful. Fixed the lights on the trailer, helped change oil in the generator, all kinds of stuff. Oh! And he taught me how to do some badass wiring tricks. That was very cool of him. BUT THE ALL CAPS TALKING IS TOO MUCH.
So, there was a fight. And I took off in Jesse, soon to realize that the air ride system wasn't blowing up... BAD news. I took Jesse to Joby and he agreed to look that day. He is a good dude. So helpful. Called a few hours later and said, "Great news! It was just a fuse!" I showed up overjoyed, and thanking him profusely for getting me on the road. All was well with Jesse, riding nice again and we were on our way!
Stopped over at my little brother Levi's house for the night. His daughter, my niece, Ainsley told us all kinds of things. She's at that age. So many ideas... so she said, "Aunt Jonnie, in the morning we'll go for a bike ride!" I said, "Sure thing!" and she then told me the time of our sunrise jaunt, "How about 4am?" Ummmmm, how about 9?
DAY TWO-- Sunrise bike ride, Levi fixes the radio (remember the awesome wiring I learned yesterday? Turns out I'm not as good as I thought). Down the road again. This time to my cousin Brooke's... her daughter Shelby has prom tonight and I couldn't be more excited to take pictures of her and her boyfriend. Looked forward to it all day, then we did some pictures, later got some beers, then crashed.
DAY THREE-- running around Sedalia, Missouri, then Brooke got back from Shelby's dance competition in KC and we hung out a bit. Figured out Brooke is more of a sister than a cousin. Sometimes you don't realize things til later in life. Wish I'd have figured that one out sooner. She's awesome. I love her to pieces. She found a sweet, sweet man and oh man, they have a sweet, sweet kid. She's kinda got it made ya know? One of these days, I'm going to have one of those sweet dudes and we're going to be like peas and carrots. But I don't care for peas or carrots, so forget that. We're going to be like chocolate and peanut butter. Deliciouser together.
Went to Hermann, MO. It's beautiful. Rolling hills, old houses. Tons of wine. They grow lots of Norton grapes there, not that it matters, but because someday I'll think of it and not remember and they'll be all out of google by then and I'll have to reread this to remember that grape for a story, but that grape probably won't be of any relevance whatsoever, it'll just bug me that I don't remember, and I'll tell myself things like, "I'm getting old," and "What if this is the beginning of dimentia?" and then blah, blah, blah, I'm at a doctor like holy shit, I can't remember shit, and he's like that happens to everyone and looks at me over his glasses, which is exactly like eye rolling.
Pushed on to Hannibal, via Scenic Byway. It was beautiful, a perfect drive. Without A/C or radio. The radio works, mind you, but you can't get it loud enough to hear it over the sound of Jesse. Jesse's LOUD.
DAY FOUR-- Went on a cave tour, which began a love of caves. Now I go to every one I get near. Caves are amazing. And quite cold. Stayed in Hannibal, MO again. Mark Twain Cave Campground, right next to Mark Twain Cave, where he dreamed up stories for Tom and Huck. I'm not a huge fan of Tom or Huck, but I'm a fan of the man. He was beautiful. A free thinker, capable of huge bounds of consciousness and insane humor. None of that seems to be recognized in his home town. All they quote is Tom and Huck. Everything is named in reference to one of those two books. His brilliant but transgressive work has been tabled, in favor of the stuff that has been deemed a "classic," a term he hated openly. It's cool though, the town is beautiful, the cave is fun, and I had nothing but a great time there. I'd definitely go back. And the Great River Road! There's nothing better than driving the Great River Road down the Mississippi. It's beautiful, and has just the right amount of vintage and kitsch.
Also, on this day I drove through St. Louis, MO. A year ago I was here to pick up my beautiful pup, Dude. She's all the love in the world, but I have NOT ONE good thing to say about St. Louis. That time and this time there were road closures. When you use phone GPS, if you miss an exit, that broad takes you back to that exit, and either she DELIGHTS in running you through bad neighborhoods, OR there are only bad neighborhoods in St. Louis. I'm not certain which. Last year I saw a guy steal a car at 1am being "redirected" through this industrial area that I DEFINITELY SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN IN, and this time that broad on GPS said, "Take MLK bridge, it'll be fun." Yeah, no. I about had a nervous breakdown. Where am I? Why did you bring me here? People are staring. Jesse Pinkman and this huge orange kayak stick out.
DAY FIVE--Pushed way on down the road, knowing I need to be in Beaver Dam by the 11th to see John Prine and Tyler Childers play in freaking Meuhlenberg County! Holy cow! That will be amazing! So I'm trying to run towards my heroes, when the brake light comes on the Winnebago. I call my brother, one of two who rock engines and know all kinds of Yoda stuff about them. He said, "yeahhhhhh, you're going to want to find someone to look at that." So I went all over. They sent me here and there, there and here, and finally I landed at Midwest Truck in Cape Girardeau, MO. This is where I met Bo and Luke Duke. Or I thought I did. It turns out, it was just Bo. That other dude, the brunette, wasn't his brother. But he was blond and from Hazzard, KY and the thought that Bo and Luke Duke were working on my motorhome really made sitting there in the heat for three plus hours more tolerable. At the end, he refused payment, showed me how to put brake oil in the master cylinder, and sent me on my way; he shook my hand and looked at me deeply and said, "I don't know who your God is, but I'll be praying for you." That was sweet as heck.
I was on the road again! Crossing the Mississippi, what must have been the fifth time, I finally hit Illinois, then Kentucky. Finally closer to Beaver Dam!
DAY SIX-- Made it to Beaver Dam with time to spare. Decided to visit the homeplace of Bill Monroe, the inventer of bluegrass. Climbed Jerusalem Ridge in Jesse. Tiny road, tight curves, steep incline. Took the tour and the man gave me a "I Climbed Jerusalem Ridge" bumper sticker, which I promptly installed, proud of Jesse for making it there with an obvious brakes problem. We even made it down Jerusalem Ridge, uneventfully.
I went back to the ampitheater in Beaver Dam to secure a good spot by noon. Took the dogs on a walk by the people running the door for entering vendors and bands, and they told me I could park Jesse right there, next to a tiny lake, just next to the ampitheater. Awesome. Several hours in the heat-- I think it got to 85 that day, and I'd had it. I got into the camper to take a break and just broke down. The stress of needing to get there, spending too much time driving Jesse without A/C in that heat, just got me. With all the windows open and a decent breeze, it was too much to stay inside and several campers and cars had begun showing up, but I had to get out of the HEAT. So I ventured outside, hot dogs in tow, not hot dogs, but dogs who were hot, and tried to discreetly cry without making a scene. I'd HAD IT. I didn't want to have to crawl up under the camper to put brake oil in the master cylinder. I didn't want to be hot anymore. I just wanted to give up.
But the ROAD, the road hazes you. It has to. If you don't have the stuff, the guts, the balls or whatever, you can't be on the ROAD. It's only for people who can laugh at darn near anything. If you get annoyed easily, NO ROAD FOR YOU. If things break you, NO ROAD FOR YOU. But you'll find out if you have the stuff. You'll find out even quicker if you load up and take off in a 1987 Winnebago that seems to have... a few issues of its own.
Instead of seeing John Prine in Mehlenberg County, outside the Green River, where Paradise lays, I sat outside an aging Winnebago with two hot dogs, crying and feeling sorry for myself, but knowing I didn't regret it, not a second of it. I've always known: the day nothing really bugs me anymore, the day I can laugh ANYTHING off, is the day I'm free. So I've been working towards GETTING FREE. It's not easy. I wrote in a journal at nine that there were so many things I wanted in life.
The list, of what I wanted from life, at 9 years old:
Go to Harvard (I went to Yale, seems fair, only private school kids get to go to Harvard)
Swim with sharks (I didn't really do this yet, 9 year old me, but I will. Perhaps I did; I lived in Las Vegas for 7 years and there were some sharks there)
Know how to do EVERYTHING, and know all the secrets of stuff (I also listed things like, "know why hamsters run on wheels and why meringue rises" both of which I still DO NOT know and don't really care about anymore.
I remember wanting to be a writer too, and an artist, and write country songs.
There was other stuff on the list, but I can't find it. I think that's the important stuff. I remember wanting to be famous too, but now wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Because fame is the worst. A little fame is awesome, like if lots of people who know you like you, that's the best it's ever going to get. If lots of people who don't know you like you, it's going to be a bumpy ride back down that hill. I've often seen Lyndsey Lohan and wished to be an actual friend to her; it must be so hard. People seem to use her star, and she never chose it. She never chose fame. It's one thing to see people struggling with fame and think, "Well, you get what you ask for," but she didn't. I think she just needed approval of her parents, so she did whatever she needed to do, totally rose to it, then realized that living other peoples' dreams is insanely hollow and must be avoided. Too late though, how do you chase yourself, learn yourself, if everyone is always watching? I want the best for her. Pray for her, if that's your jam. I'm not even really sure why I feel that strongly... I'm not certain I've ever seen her in anything, just that her struggle touches me somehow. People say things like, "Ooooh, with all that money, why feel bad for her?" but the truth is, money can't buy you love; it's the enemy of love; you have to constantly wonder if the people in your life are there for money? or love? That's the worst debate a person can ever have with themselves, "does this person LOVE ME? The me that is me? Or do they want the perks?" Asking that question of yourself is hard. It's very hard. Even if they don't want her money, they certainly seem to seek her fame. Asking yourself if people TRULY love you is the shittiest question of all. Because love is what we're all here for-- it's the source, the wellspring, all the goodness-- and money's just a resource-- it comes in handy in a pinch, but for the most part, it's an incredible burden.
OK, signing out for tonight. I'll finish this deal tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I have time. It's so wonderful to have time.
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