The meanderings of the mindless…

I sit in the passenger seat of our diesel dually, Bully, sharing a moment with my old friend boredom. While stuffing my mouth with Mentos chic-lets, Christian pop rock serenades my journey and a plastic hula girl gently sways to the beat. The faint smell of manure trickles into our vent every now and again as we pass countless farms along a rural Florida Highway.

Ben commands his steed with such precision I have forgotten that 42 feet of our home trails behind. We are heading north.

We have just completed our seventh month on the road, wondering hither and yon.

I suppose we could call “hither” North Carolina, since that is where the journey began. However, the last half of the year has been filled with mountains and valleys, prairies and big cities. Field of corn. Groves of citrus.

After a month hidden away in the Ocala National Forest, we are lifting our shadowed faces to the Sun. We are heading to the beach.

Did I say six pieces of gum in my mouth? I just upped the ante to eight. A gallon of saliva pools under my tongue. My eyes water with the fresh minty sting. I like that. It makes me feel alive.

I gaze upon my paper coffee cup from 100 miles back. It seems like a lifetime ago that I had a hot shot of Java. Maybe we will stop again soon.

We are guilty of committing insecticide… A swarm of innocent honey bees. As I gaze upon the splattered corpses, however, I can’t shake the feeling that perhaps it was a mass suicide. Yet, a dragonfly, with a wingspan of a seraphim, wedged beneath the hood mocks my attempts to shrug off these insect-ious transgressions.

I am nauseous. The bugs. The coffee. The gum. The manure. I must close my eyes and rest.

After a four day respite on the coast, we continue. Northbound. The road–tho yet to be explored- screams with familiarity. The music, the dancing hula girl and the man in the driver seat. Boredom again prowls around my living space.

Today marks my 50th Resurrection Sunday, known as Easter to many. We set up on the road smiles on our faces and praises to our Lord on our lips on this . Yet now, one small bag of peanuts later, I long for the Easter dinners of yesteryear. A ham? Turkey breast? A leg of lamb? Could a Cracker Barrel be in my near future?  Probably, just a lonely Huddle House, yet I hold onto the hope of a savory biscuit.

My lids droop. I must rest.

The island named for the famous mad scientist is now in our rear view. Jekyll Island, the realm of yesteryear, and host to many surprises. Charming? Or just maddening like the island’s  namesake implies? I still can feel the ocean muddy shore between my toes. Does high tide ever come to this strange place or has the moon also forgotten it’s existence?

We travel on route 95. Many billboards declare a land known as South Of the Border is coming. It confuses me. A peanut butter and jelly fills my belly. It was good. I want another. Perhaps coffee will help settle my pangs. I must look for the Starbucks sign. Traffic is stop and go.  I must rest.

The bionic leg has healed well. Therefore we have packed up our belongings and are heading South. Ironically, we find ourselves on route 95 yet again. As we travel, the clouds begin to part. we were not privy to blue skies while in the Carolinas. North? South? I can’t be sure, but have confidence the jungle rot will recede as we approach our destination.

The rain came down in droves. it seemed the more we tried to outrun the darkened skies, the tighter Mother Nature held us to her soggy bosom. We sat unnoticed in a Cracker Barrel, hoping that as we remained patiently waiting for a hot cup of Jo, the rain would cease. But to no avail so we tarry.

As we cross the Georgiabama curtain,  the skies open up. As I as I write this, a distant patch of blue beckons me to the shores.   That is were I will find peace. My lids droop. I feel at peace.


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