Quiet

 

Lost dreams of travel

 

Self-portrait 19 Feb 2009

 

What's Important

Driving home from work today, I passed a camper in the bed of a pick-up truck hurtling down the interstate, leaving Mississippi and heading west through Louisiana. It reminded me of a recently read book about the author John Steinbeck’s journey across America more than forty years earlier in a similar camper, lovingly named Rocinante, which you might vaguely remember as the name of Don Quixote’s horse. This camper looked as though it might have been a close relative of the original Rocinante, which for its time was luxurious, but would likely be as tattered as this camper was now, had it survived to the present day.

As I passed the truck, I glanced across at the driver. An older man with a leathered face grimly stared straight ahead, plowing through the miles to his destination. Where was he going, I wondered. I briefly imagined his drawn face creasing into a smile at the sight of grandchildren, or being welcomed with a friendly handshake by a young couple – grown children, perhaps? Or maybe no one at all would greet him, either to a dark house or a shabby motel room somewhere along the road.

I speculated on what he was carrying in his metal horse – perhaps some books, although he would probably be too worn out by the end of the day to read more than a page or two. These days, some might expect to find a laptop in there, but I imagined that he was the sort of person who would write a real letter rather than resorting to the formatted and informal modern email. Maybe a pipe with a sweet-tobacco smell tucked into his shirt pocket, or the local newspaper bought from a chain gas station, carefully refolded and tucked between the seats next to the worn paper maps.

I passed his truck, pondering at how we all travel through life, sometimes alone, other times with company, whether pleasant or tiresome, dragging with us the things we think are essential – usually far more than we need. When you have done some serious traveling, the kind where you change time zones, perhaps more than one, and you begin to notice a difference in the road signs or even the language, the realization begins to sink into you that nothing we own is truly essential. The books, the movies, the heirloom jewelry, the photo albums – they only have meaning and value because of the people who make the memories, pass down the jewelry, write the books, star in the movies, and take the photos. Without the relationships with people who have passed through your life, all the things of life become simply accessories. You become a Don Quixote, chasing after foolish things which aren’t real, riding an iron Rocinante across the country.

I would trade all the things I own for a chance to meet my mother’s dad, a man who held a simple, calm love for the people in his life. He once drove an hour to help his panicky wife who called explained that her car wouldn’t drive forward, only backward. He drove an hour, got in her car, took off the emergency brake, and said, you just wanted me to take you out to lunch, didn’t you? He was a man who knew the value of the people in his life, knew that they were the only things of value.

I glance back at the driver of the modern Rocinante and wish there was some way for me to show him that kind of love, to share with him what he had just taught me during this brief brush of our lives on this interstate.