Exodus

Driving through the clay and sand hills of central South Carolina, 12am. Pines standing sentinel as a light mist falls. The truck purrs along Interstate 77, the holy road, stretching North to South, South to North. The road that carried my family to Columbia, SC in 1984, my father at the wheel of his sedan, my mother at his side, my sisters and me in the back seat. Interstate to future dreams. Interstate to new work. Interstate of love and hope. Interstate of familial longing. Interstate of pilgrims. Huge in my life. Towering in my life history, the Mediterranean of my Myth, my Odyssey.

I was terrified to make this drive. So unlike me. My truck had been burning oil. I was pulling a flat-bed trailer loaded down with my four wheeler, the back of the truck filled with my father’s tools, his shotgun, my grandfather’s shotgun, my pistols, my chef knives, all tucked into the capsule of the truck as it ate up pavement in the dark of night. Rock Hill, Charlotte, Mooresville, Statesville. The truck drifting along and carrying me away. There is an art to driving a truck while pulling a load. It is a symbiotic relationship between driver and vehicle. You become one with the engine. You tune in. A slight grade and I knock it out of overdrive, kill the cruise, ease back off the accelerator and feel the engine grab a lower gear. The rpms drift up to 3500; the engine roars and pulls us all along. You feel a companionship with long haul truckers. You hang back. You don’t gun it. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Mount Airy. Where the rolling forested hills of the Carolinas end and the steep weathered granite Blue Ridge mountains begin. This mountain destroyed my friends Volkswagen van 19 years ago, the first time I tried to live at my family’s farm. I was 19 years old, just a boy. Tonight I am 38. Half of my life has happened between that first trip and now. The dream has not died. It’s only gotten stronger. I buried my dad two months ago. He’s here with me tonight. Here in this truck. Here in my heart. I hear him when I ease off the gas and drop a gear. He taught me this. He taught me how to live, how to be. he didn’t just tell me…he SHOWED me. He ;lived it. My dad was an amazing driver. One of the greats. The man lived in his car. It was a thing of beauty. The trunk of his sedan was organized with military precision. His engine always serviced, tires properly inflated, windshield cleaned and coated with rain-x. The man was always on top of his game when it came to his vehicle. His favorite car ever was a 1984 Light Blue Chevrolet Impala. Remember those gigantic boxy things? Yeah, it was one of those. The car was enormous…and a “plain brown wrapper” as my dad liked to call it. “No bells and whistles. No sir!” Vinyl seats, crank windows, manual locks, not deluxe trim. It was like a cop car but even more Spartan. Dad rocked the white walls on the Impala though. And he had me hand wash and wax it. I was 12 years old. I had to get a ladder to reach the roof of the thing. He was very specific as to how it was to be cleaned and polished. There was a certain method and practice to each aspect of its upkeep. First it was rinsed, next wheel cleaner was applied to the stock rims. While they were soaking, suds and a large sponge were used to lovingly scrub the vehicle from top to bottom. One side at a time. “If the suds dry before you rinse it will mess up the paint, son.” “Okayyyy, dad.” I rolled my eyes. But I did it his way. I always did it his way.