“The
Americans have found the healing of God in a variety of things, the most
pleasant of which is probably automobile drives.”
(William Saroyan, Short
Drive, Sweet Chariot)
Saturday morning. Long before the sun had risen. The long-anticipated road trip arrived
without a whole bunch of fanfare, but with a lot of expectations. The destination . . . Missoula, Montana . . .
where the oldest son and I were heading to meet his sister and brother-in-law
for an Avett Brothers concert on
Sunday evening. It had been a while . .
. over a year . . . since the oldest and I had taken any sort of a trip—much less
a road trip--together. The last time was
when I traveled to assist the son on his move to Montana . . . to welcome him
home after his life had unraveled. In a
way, this was just a continuation of the original journey.
Road trips are not supposed to be
completely planned, but we did know our destination . . . Missoula. When I think about road trips I think about
hopping in the car, traveling down the road, and seeing where I end up . . . no
maps, no expectations . . . just the trip itself. But, this trip had a destination, a stated
purpose, and a lot of expectations for having a good time. Not only were we heading off to see a
concert, I was on a mission to show the oldest parts of Montana he had yet to
see. Trust me, there is a lot of Montana
to see between here and there!
So, you are probably wondering how the
road trip went. Well, let me tell you
what I learned . . .
I learned that when one takes a long
road trip that it is probably not good if one is an introvert and the other is
an extrovert. Ideally, this trip would
have been so much more enriching for me had I gone on it by myself . . . that
is an introverts ideal vacation . . . being on the road by him or herself. We were two mismatched traveling companions—me
the introvert, him the extravert.
Needless to say, it drove the oldest crazy . . . me, not so much. I don’t need a lot of conversation or
interaction when I am on the road. Oh, I
must admit, there were moments on the trip when I wish I had brought ear plugs
. . . but, I listened. I am a good
father . . . I listened. And, in all
honesty, I really do not care to hear anything else about fantasy football for
a long, long time. Yet, I was not much company for a person who starved for
company . . . but, such is a trip with an introvert. I was content with the silence or listening
to the music.
The music . . . another sticking point
on the trip. The Keener tradition is
that the person driving controls the music . . . which meant whatever was on my
MP3 player was it. Over the years my
children have inundated me with all sorts of music . . . lots of it I like, but
on my MP3 player I run the gamut of musical selections. I have everything from the big band era to
country, blue grass, rock, rock and roll, blues, jazz, heavy metal, Americana,
country rock, pop, soft rock, folk . . . just about everything but hip hop and
rap. The oldest was cordial and did not
complain . . . even said that he survived the majority of what we listened to .
. . and, actually enjoyed some of it. I
think that he drew the line at the big band stuff!
So, in the actually driving to
Missoula, the score was one to one . . . he talked when I longed for silence, I
blared my music when he longed for real music.
Another thing I learned is that I am
getting too old for the road trips I remember as a younger adult. Upon arriving I think that the two of us had
the same expectations . . . we were going to have a great time, explore the
city, experience its life, and make a fun time of it. And, we started out well . . . but somewhere
along the way, something I ate or drank, decided to exert its presence in the
deepest bowels of my body. About our
third stop, a brewery, my body rebelled.
I couldn’t even finish my beer that I had ordered. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet . . . the day
and evening was still young . . . and there I sat with a growling bowel, hoping
that I could keep everything down, and wishing I was twenty years younger with
that cast iron stomach I used to have.
As an introvert, I wanted to sit there
and quietly die. Luckily for my son, he
is an extravert. My dilemma did not slow
him down too much . . . he made the most of the opportunity to hob knob with
those around us. He easily talks to
others and others are attracted to him . . . he is a charismatic sort of
guy. It is his blessing and his
curse. While he was socializing with the
best of them, I was praying that whatever it was that was using my intestines
as a trampoline would hurry up and settle down.
By the time the oldest had had his brewery defined limit, I was almost
back among the living . . . the key term here is “almost”. Where he was ready to hit the next spot, I
was ready for hitting the sack . . . and, the night was young.
My car, my gas, my money . . . we went
to eat and it was only seven o’clock.
Though worried, the son was disappointed . . . even though we did eat at
a Hooters. There wasn’t much to hoot about . . . I ate,
paid the bill, and we headed back to the hotel.
I was ready to call it a night at eight o’clock. Somewhere in the rules of road tripping I am
sure there is a rule that states that bedtime is never before midnight at the
earliest . . . I could see it in the face of my son and hear it in his
voice. But, it sure felt good to hit the
bed. Ernest Hemingway wrote: “Never go
on trips with anyone you do not love.”
Thankfully, my son loves me . . . and, I love my son.
Sunday was a new day. It had new lessons to be learned. I got to have breakfast by myself . . . I got
to walk around, see the area, and take pictures. I witness people out on a hot air balloon
ride over the mountains . . . and, I longed to be there with them. But, I appreciated the quietness. The culprit from the day before was long
gone, and I felt a hundred times better. In the meantime, the son slept.
One of the new lessons I learned, only
later, is that there is a difference between men and women . . . especially
when it comes to fine eating experiences.
The daughter and son-in-law arrived and we headed out for lunch. I wanted food that I had to eat with a fork .
. . that came from a cow . . . and was cooked on a grill. I chose Outback
Steakhouse . . . a place I had not eaten at in over six years . . . a place
I thought was fancy. Little did I
know. I forgot that when in a new place,
women want to go someplace where the food is a little more elegant and artsy-fartsy
. . . not a steakhouse. I thought I was
being a gracious host . . . but, the wife informed me that I had disappointed
the daughter when we pulled up to the Outback. I explained to my wife that they were lucky
it wasn’t Mickey D’s Golden Rainbow Room!
But, since then, I have made a mental note . . . next time on a road
trip with the daughter in tow . . . that I will eat a meal at some place where
the napkins are not a roll of paper towels on the table, the water had lemon
wedges in it, and they do not have a football blaring away on twenty
televisions. I will eat in a place where
the portions are way too small for the amount of money I am paying, napkins are
made of better material than the clothes I am wearing, and the music is more
chamber-like than rock-n-roll. Well, the
daughter was out-numbered—three to one, but the company was wonderful. I just need to remember . . . men and women
see things differently. Though I was in
heaven, others were in hell!
The afternoon was spent on the brewery
trail between Missoula and Hamilton . . . something all of us would have usually
enjoyed . . . all of us enjoy microbrews and Montana has some of the best in
the United States . . . but, there were complications. First complication was the fact that the
daughter was not feeling well. Feeling sick and
breweries do not mix well . . . no microbrews for the daughter . . . the
daughter who loves her brew. It was no fun watching everyone else enjoy the
many wonderful brews being offered.
Second complication was limiting the amount anyone could drink. This was due to time, distance, and the fact
that I was driving. Once again, the
expectations of a road trip were dashed for the oldest son. He wanted extravagant imbibing and was only
getting a tease of what could be. But,
the company was great!
The purpose of the road trip—the concert—was
up next. Needless to say, the kids did
not steer me wrong on the Avett Brothers. They were great. The music was great. The concert was one of the best I had ever
been to. Full of energy. It was the highlight of the trip. Plus, they sold beer there. The oldest was in heaven . . . good music,
good beer, and great company. Even at my
age, I still quiver in the temple of good music, and I was touched. None of us walked away from the concert
disappointed . . . maybe with a little less hearing, but not disappointed. It took me a good hour to calm down enough to
fall asleep after the oldest and I wished the daughter and son-in-law a safe
trip home. I learned that good music
speaks to all generations, and the Avett
Brothers were preaching that evening.
Of course, the edge wears off of any
road trip when reality of having to go home sets in. The trip home was quiet . . . no music . . .
very little conversation . . . lots of beautiful scenery. A quick brunch in Bozeman. We were home by one in the afternoon. The oldest hit his bed, I did laundry and
work I needed to get done. And, that was
it. I learned that reality never lives
up to expectations . . . what started out as having the potential to being a
big bang, ended up being a fizzle.
Yet, it was a good road trip. It was good to get away from the
routine. It was good to be with my
children. It was good to be able to go
someplace new, observe it, experience it, and wonder. It was good to connect, even in the silence
and awkward moments, with one another.
It was good to see how far the oldest had come from his trip home a year
ago . . . but, to realize there is still a long ways to go. It was good to see the daughter and
son-in-law . . . to enjoy her laughter, his wittiness . . . to watch them
express their love towards one another . . . to be in the presence of family. It was good to just be quiet . . . to
appreciate the beauty of the place and the places we pasted coming. It was fun to take pictures of the obscure
and beautiful in places no one ever looks despite it being right before their
eyes. It was just good to be. It was a good road trip . . . despite the
silence it ended in. It wasn’t the
destination, it was the journey and the people it was shared with that made it
wonderful.
As Morgan Matson writes in Amy and Roger’s Epic Detour:
“And I
felt, in the silence that followed,
everything
that had happened on the trip
to bring me to this place.”
And, it was a good place to be.
