A Journey of Words

Daddy’s Boy-2

We walked the Presidential Trail, and I took a lot of pictures, only a couple of them with my dad, though. I interacted with other tourists, exchanging stories with some of them. They were amazed at our road trip, wishing us the best. It was pretty cool and the few hours we spent at Mount Rushmore will be ingrained in my memory banks forever.

We walked back to the parking area and got back into the car for our next destination, the Crazy Horse Memorial. It wasn’t very far from Mount Rushmore. Unlike the National Memorial at Mount Rushmore, which is federally funded, the Crazy Horse Memorial is privately funded. It cost more to get in, but it was worth it. Touring the museum, taking pictures, and seeing the blueprint of how it will look when it’s finally finished. Hopefully, I’d be able to bring my own sons and grandsons here one day to see this spectacular memorial. I do kind of sound like an advertisement, don’t I?

Once again, we were back in the car, mellow music playing as we drove back towards our hotel. The conversation in the car was about the tragedies of this area we were visiting. The Black Hills had been stolen from the Lakota (Sioux) people, AFTER they’d been promised ownership forever in the treaty of 1868. But then, an expedition led by General George Custer discovered the mineral riches of the Black Hills, causing the United States to renege on its written promises. The Black Hills have been a constant treasure chest for the United States, and the Lakota have never taken a cent of the monies offered them. Ever. They just want their land back. It’s a sad and tragic tale that you might want to read about. It’s depressing to realize the country I love, never honored a single treaty it made with the Native Americans. Not one.

After a simple dinner, we watched television for a while, but the adventures of the day had worn me out. I’d only planned for one excursion the next day, and then we’d drive to our next destination. I slept soundly and peacefully, as did my dad.

I loaded our belongings in the Suburban the next morning, and we checked out. On our drive towards Deadwood, we marveled at the beauty of the land around us. Breathtaking. I couldn’t see myself ever living out here, but it’s a wondrous place to visit. I needed lights and people in order to feel comfortable.

In Deadwood, we went to the saloon where Wild Bill Hickok was murdered while playing poker. He was shot in the head, and the poker hand he was holding has become known as, “The Dead Man’s Hand.” A pair of black aces, and a pair of black eights. Interesting. I played the slots at a couple of casinos, but to no avail. Oh well, I hadn’t expected to win anyway.

Of course when we left Deadwood, we talked about poker, gambling, and I spoke about the evil nature of all addictions. Predictably, my dad never spoke on the subject. I talked about my own cigarette addiction, food addictions, and of course, drug addictions. I talked of how every addiction affects not only the addict, but the people around them as well. I regret I ever started smoking, because it’s hard as hell to quit. I admired the fact my dad was finally able to vanquish his own addiction. He paid a hefty price, though.

The distance from Deadwood to the Grand Canyon is roughly seven hundred miles. I knew better than to even attempt it. It was 2 P.M. when we hit the highway and I’d probably drive about three hundred miles before calling it a night. I’d mapped this trip out, and it was going according to plan. I turned the music on and started driving again.

The day before my high school graduation, two guys came to our house looking for my father. I wasn’t home, but my fifteenyear-old little brother was there. Apparently, my father owed these two gentlemen money, and they couldn’t locate him. Instead, they kicked in the door to our apartment, with the intention of helping themselves to whatever was there. My little brother, Benny, attempted to fight the two gentlemen and one of them pulled out a gun. Benny was shot five times and died on our living room floor. The murderers were apprehended shortly after, and they were sentenced to forty years apiece. There was no satisfaction in their punishment because it wouldn’t bring my little brother back. I wish he’d have hidden under the bed, or in a closet, or something, but he probably just reacted without thinking. There’s a void in my life which can never be filled. Incidentally, my oldest son’s name is Benjamin.

I’ve blamed my father for my brother’s death for a very long time. I know Benny’s murder was the catalyst for my dad getting clean, but if he’d never been in the drug life, our lives would be different. We’d have never been forced to move from our house in a nice neighborhood to a grimy little two-bedroom in the urban jungle. We’d never had to experience first-hand the effects of drug addiction. If my dad had lived differently, Benny would be on this road trip with us.

I was attempting with this road trip, to make peace with my father. I was trying to reestablish a bond which had grown frayed and strained over the years. My dad never missed another graduation, wedding, or any of life’s celebrations. But it’s hard to make up for lost time. The little boy that once worshipped him had been forced to grow to manhood without him. I learned to drive, manage my studies, and learn about women, alone.

It always amazes me how quickly the miles go by when you’re in your thoughts. I’d driven three hundred miles without a break, and I still had my adrenaline going. I decided to forgo staying at a hotel, so I stopped at a truck stop and stretched my legs. We took care of our needs, as far as refueling the truck and ourselves.

Once on the road again, I let my thoughts wander wherever they wanted to. I pretty much dominated the conversation, voicing my thoughts aloud. I shared daydreams with my dad about my future plans, my hopes, and how I would achieve all I wanted. I used my dad as a sounding board, telling him how I was ready to start my own business, which would allow me more mental freedom. When you work for someone else, your lifestyle is dictated by them, but most of us never realize that. I wanted to be able to go on month long vacations with my sons if and when I wanted to, not having to worry about whether or not my boss would let me. I’d get to that plateau one day.

It’s a long drive to the Grand Canyon. As you get into that area of the country, hotels, lights, and truck stops become somewhat rare. I’d mapped it out, and I figured we’d head for the eastern rim of the canyon which seemed to be the easiest route. Well, since I was completely awake, I’d drive all night to reach our destination.

Through those late-night / early morning hours, the quietness of the dark highway was soothing. My dad rested comfortably and the sounds of classic rock ‘n’ roll kept me awake and rolling. My thoughts wandered to and fro, so it wasn’t hard to concentrate on the dark road. Road hypnosis only occurs when your mind is blank, allowing yourself to be hypnotized by the dotted stripes in the middle of the highway.

A few minutes before dawn, I pulled into a parking area adjacent to the eastern rim of the Grand Canyon. There were no other cars there, and I knew we’d be able to see the sunrise. We sat on the roof of the car and watched the sun slowly rise in the east. The sunlight illuminated the canyon behind us and I turned to the west and watched the sunlight paint the gorge with its light. If you’ve never seen a painting or a masterpiece come together, imagine it slowly being filled in as you watch. Undeniable in its majestic beauty, the Grand Canyon was definitely worth the trip. I took pictures of Dad and me, plus pictures of this natural wonder of the world, and I breathed a sigh of contentment. This was calming.

I felt sleepiness beginning to creep in on me, so I told my dad to enjoy the view. I climbed in the backseat of the Suburban, and went to sleep almost immediately. I began to dream, and in the dream, my dad was pouring out his soul. In the dream, he was telling me of his guilt about my brother’s death, about how low his addiction took him, and his many regrets about being absent in my life for so many years. I tried to tell him it was never too late, but he just shook his head sadly at me.

I woke with tears on my face, and I immediately looked around for my dad. He was sitting on the ground in front of the truck, taking in the scenery. I got him settled in the truck, and we got back on the highway.

I figured I’d drive a couple of more hours down to I-40, then I’d get us a room for overnight before continuing our journey. I drove south, then we got on I-40 East and drove for an hour before finding a roadside inn for the night. After I got my dad settled in, I went to the truck stop next door to grab dinner. I was starting to feel a little sad our trip wouldn’t last too many more days. I wish we could just keep driving, up the Eastern seaboard, across Canada, then down the Pacific Coastal Highway. Maybe next year I’d be in the financial position to take that particular trip. Fingers crossed.

Later, as we rested in our room, I told my dad how much I wanted to take a real cross continent trip. We talked about how much it would cost, and I wondered how much time it would take. I told my dad of my plans to clear up as much time as I could by next year. I think it’ll be another great trip.

The next morning, we were rolling by 9 A.M. My conversation wasn’t really flowing today because I was too busy thinking about our next destination. Rhythm and blues played in the car, as my dad and I took in the scenery along the highway. Out of New Mexico into the panhandle of Texas, flowing easily along at about seventy-five miles per hour. Soon, Texas was in the rearview as I drove across Oklahoma. I rolled the windows down, so we could enjoy the breeze and the fresh air. Just west of Oklahoma City, I stopped at a truck stop so I could refuel and stretch my legs. We had a quick meal, then we got back rolling. My goal for the day was to make it to our next stop, Memphis, then stay there for the night.

Ever heard of Tornado Alley? Apparently, the area of the country where we were driving is famous for tornadoes. I know Dorothy was in Kansas, but Oklahoma has more tornadoes per area than any other state. Blazing hot days can turn into nightmares instantly, but luckily, we didn’t have to deal with it. We talked about it though, and I told my dad once we were east of Little Rock, our tornado percentages would decrease. Needless to say, I had the Suburban at eighty miles per hour as we sped across Oklahoma and Arkansas.

Once Little Rock was conquered, Memphis was next. We stopped to stretch at a truck stop, and once back in the Suburban, we discussed all of the different accents we’d heard thus far. America and its many different accents are fascinating when you think about it. It’s funny because all of us have an accent but we don’t realize it. The syrupy sweetness of the South, the long A’s of Bostonians, the New Yorkers, the Californians, Midwesterners, and the twang of the Southwest. Quite beautiful, when you think about it.