the open road

I just got out of the new bathtub. It is still big, which was my main concern, and it feels like staying in a hotel, which is kind of cool. I must have enjoyed my bath a little bit too much though, because I feel overheated and kind of lightheaded now that I am out again. It might be a little bit of melancholy though too, and I thought I would write a poetic post about the dull sort of ache that we all feel sometimes. I had a few great lines in my mind but they kept getting crowded out by song lyrics by poets much better than myself.

My friend Mike made me a fantastic CD of old-time Americana songs, and they do not help a person with melancholy, but they do make you think about who you are, where you come from, and especially where you are going. I have been listening to it almost constantly for a week, and I am about ready to jump in my car and drive south and west until I can't go anymore. Restless, I guess.

I think it is in my blood. The restlessness, and the mountains of Kentucky. My grandmother, Delcie Layne Chafin Ward, what a lovely name, was born in a town called Hode, and the railroad ran right behind the house where she grew up. Her father worked for the railroad, which he preferred to the coal mines. My mom loved to visit her grandparents there every summer, and tells us about pulling water out from the well, and my great grandpa spitting tobacco juice. About purple velvet furniture, always kept covered, and drinking glasses with painted flowers. On one visit as a girl, my Mom ate lunch with a local girl, and my grandma was horrified to learn that lunch was a moonpie and can of Coke. My great grandmother was a midwife, and was known for attending births where the babies lived. Mainly because she knew to be clean. All of these stories have become like legend to me. Even though I saw the house in Hode myself when I was a young teen on a trip with Mom. My great grandparents had passed away and the house was being sold. It was the trip to say goodbye.

But my grandmother, who grew up there hated it. I think of her watching the train cars pass and fade in the distance when I hear lyrics to some of these songs,
"The lonesome sound of the train going by..."
"Come tomorrow, and I'll be satisfied if I can take a fast train and ride..."

When she graduated from high school, she took a bus to Texas and went to college. She studied sociology and married my grandfather and never went back for more than a visit. She hated the music too. My memories of visiting her are in a classy condominium outside of Washington DC. She had a collection of tea cups with gold edges and couch covered with a pattern of pink roses. Her music was classical. She gave me copies of cassette tapes of Mozart and Vivaldi. I so loved her elegance and that she always took what I said seriously, as if it were the most brilliant thing she ever heard.

So now I listen to music from the mountains of Kentucky and think of her. I think of my mom too. Mom loves everything that my grandma left, and would go back in a second. For me, there is a raw and aching truth to these old American songs that there are no words to explain. I want to lean into the harmonies and become like these women who hit the road with their eyes on heaven. I want to be like the matriarchs of my own heritage, who blazed a trail, and knew what they believed in.

I am not always sure that I trust myself, you know? I can be really selfish and impatient. I do not like to wait to know what the right thing is rather than grabbing for what will feel nice at the moment. I can be wishy-washy and change my mind, and watch my emotions ebb and fall with no warning. I can also be bubbly and charming and sometimes I am afraid that I fool myself as much as others, and we'll all find out the the bubble is really just air inside.

Joanna, my namesake, was one of the women at the crucifixion and one of the women who went to the tomb after Jesus had been buried and had risen. My middle name is Layne, after my grandma. Both women loved others, whether in listening to a child or trudging with dirty feet, early in the morning to care for the body of one who was in heaven. Except that he wasn't. He was still here, and he had already hit the road.