I’m heading to the last known address of the Mansion family while listening to “The Doors” rider on the storm. This is a trip of discovery where I ask the question of who am I and what is my purpose in this crazy world I call home.
I’m leaving the safety and insanity of millions of being buzzing around like bumblebee to the introspective nightmare of a schipperke’s mind. May I remind you that I’m not like most schipperkes or other beings in that case. I’m Bob if you’ve forgotten.
It is appropriate that I’m going to the desert because such a vision quest requires the solitude that the barren landscape can provide.
Cat Stevenson song “Miles from Nowhere” comes to mind as the green foothills sweep by as I head towards my destination. The destination isn’t the journey it is just a maker in my life. It is the journey to who I am that is important.
This baits the first question, which is who am I? Am I Bob my given name, the sum of my experience or something more? My name is Bob, but that is what I’ve been called all my life, is that all there is to me? I doubt it because I am more than just my name.
I am the experiences I’ve had and the people I’ve met and the world I live in, all help creat who I am.
Inside a truck in the Central Valley is a gun toting, God fearing, Apple pie eating part of America. This is the area for people with true grit and I happen to be one of them.
The baseball caps embroidered logos of Bud, Mack Truck and American eagles is surrounded by solders, American flags and 2nd Amendment right t-shirts. This is the area where men are men and women are men. There is no safe space and gender neutral bathrooms. This is America damnit!
I pick up a Rock Star energy drinks and a Slim Jim, but quickly realize I don’t have any pockets or money, so I put them back then head out to the truck. Proud to be an American because of the merchandise I could buy in the any truck stop across this great nation. Only the free can travel and buy stuff like this.
This is part of America is where real work is done by country music listening, chew spitting and truck driving down to earth people. There are no soft hands here. They earned their calluses.
There isn’t any NPR or PBS listening person working these fields. They are the Country station listening and Fox News watching kind of folks. They eat hearty breaks that clogs the arteries and drink beer in a can to hydrate. None of that granola with yogurt then a micro brew type of people here.
By the end of the day I’m sitting in a burger joint listing to country music piped in by digital radio between the highest and lowest point in America. I may have started out a ladies pets but slowly turning into a working dog. This journey is becoming more of what is to be an America than who I am. Maybe they are one in the same.