Ȟe Sápa Dawn

I’d left our home in Wisconsin and driven for nearly fifteen hours the previous day. Had I taken the main roads I may have saved a few hours but I would have woken less rested. Doing this trip “my way,” rambling down dirt roads when I could. It wasn't just about trying to explore or find a thrill. Ever since my very first jeep gave me the means to escape everything the sound of tires on dirt has soothed my mind. I think it’s a personality trait directly influenced by my mother’s father, “Papa” as I called him.

In fact there’s not a day that passes where he’s NOT in my thoughts at some point. “Crazy Louie” would just roam in his car indulging his obsession with CB radios during his later days. Character voices played out their roles on a stage built of radio frequencies. A staticy echo of when he drove a forward spotting jeep during “The War” for Patton’s artillery. From Tunisia, through Sicily, Italy, France, Germany and into Eastern Europe he rained hell on his enemies. In his later years it was the radio waves that he vented that same hell onto. His broken, angry mind free to reach as far as his voice could be carried on the ether. His sharp, “friendly” banter on air is usually dark and harsh. He laughs only at other’s folly. People often hate him and he thinks it’s all a joke.

And I’d be a kid just riding along in the backseat. Listening.

The sound of the road seemed to soothe his anger. He’d relax. So would I.

The sound of gravel on dirt connects me to who I am, which is not my grandfather. His wounds are his own, and mine are mine and together we share anger. The drone of gravel had sanded away much of my anxiety and chaotic thoughts of the day before. I woke feeling ready. It was going to be an awesome day to get back on the road.

I still had two days to go before I could pick up Peggy, whoever she may be.

#GottaGetPeggy #OIIIIIIIO #JourneyToTheWest