The broken journey home.

Thomas Baker and I playing in the dirt. Photo by Cory Peterson.

I did not pass my driver’s test until I was 17, my second attempt. With license in hand and firmly planted in the driver’s seat, there was nothing capable of holding me back, the lattice of concrete and blacktop beckoned. A magnetic force drew me mostly into the mountains, away from the concentrated real estate, sometimes out to the shore, and curiously seeking the cruise down any quiet road shaded by overhead thicket.

My excitable engagement with the journey itself, almost uncontrollable. The hustle aside the serenity, the privacy, and thousands of new experiences per minute through the windshield, if I’m looking. I love to drive; I almost always drive. Rarely the passenger and rarely, almost never do I tire behind the wheel. Of course, I occasionally fade, usually after a 12+ hour pull, mostly at night, the music gets louder, the windows come down, and I attempt to squeak out another hour or two before hanging it up and the ignition finds the off position.

She was my second true love, my singular soulmate, Nora. With my second wife, I traveled more with her than any other human. Nora suffered from what I have diagnosed as automobile-induced narcolepsy, so I was more than happy to most always command our family-sized whip. Only a handful of times in eight years would I reside in the passenger seat, always laid out worthlessly, while my petite pilot Nora with her proper signature Cleopatra-style hairdo stood in for me and took the wheel. If just exhausted to the point of needing to pull over and stop, or rather have my never-ending-dream-date drive, Nora would mostly take the wheel. But at least it seemed to me, she would always prefer me to drive. When my eyelids started dipping and the quick jerks of the wheel began, I would look over to my right and if possibly awake, she sometimes suggested we just pull over and nap in the grass at a rest area, cool by me. Nora’s pull in the driver’s seat would usually only last an hour or so, enough for me to recharge my batteries, and then she was always thrilled to toss me back the keys.

Several times, and not much more, conditions got the better of me. Either hurt, broken, or flat-out kaput, I just couldn’t do it. And then, Nora would sit tall, firmly in command like she does so well, and it was uncharacteristically her excursion to guide, while I did my best sack-of-potatoes impression on the passenger’s side. Her traditional one-hour pull was then extended three times, five times even if I was deemed unable. A funny pride and satisfaction would always overwhelm me, usually as I slept, napped, or at least tried to hide from the sensory sharpness while Nora piloted the ship. Her speed, her music, her rest stops, I cared not, she was in charge, and she was sheltering me, harboring me, transporting me safely, and with love.

My girlfriend Kim Millison from my punk-ass-bitch years had carted me home from Massachusetts one time.  I was just released from a multi-day hospital stay following my first big traumatic brain injury.

Good pal Joe V had to run me home once when my collarbone snapped, deep in the black loam of our local dirt bike trails.

Jason the DJ Knucklz dragged me home from one of those Mt Snow World Cup mountainbike races, after my most glorious head-dart face-smash with a rock, so far.

I pulled a 19-hour road bike ride to Minneapolis when Nora and I were together, and then she chauffeured me the 300 miles home to Madison in the car, the following day. I failed to complete my next 24-hour road bike ride attempt, a 350-mile roundtrip from Madison to Jeff Bradley’s shop in Davenport. I then sat for hours at a rural Wisconsin gas station, waiting for Nora to blow in and save me after my foot pain consumed, then discarded my attempt.   

There are many of you who would, and have, offered to show up to help me if I’m ever in trouble. I figure, at least by my friendship math calculations, that most of your offers would result in you showing up to lend a hand.

Funny, I’ve done that same thing several times, drop everything and go lend a helping hand or two. But for me to speak up, for me to call you, or for me to verbalize the inability to move across the open road under my own power, well, I’m shitty at asking for help. Mostly, I drag my own pathetic broken ass home or to the hospital by myself, mostly. Kim Millison driving me home from New England with my jaw wired-shut was a valiant effort on her part, but she was already there with me. Jason Dodson didn’t much hesitate to collect me and my second broken jaw, five teeth in a bag, from the Vermont hospital and get me home safely to Baltimore. But I had driven Jason up there with me several days before so I was his ride home, or rather he was mine. And of course, Nora Bird never delayed a second getting up to collect me, anywhere, anytime, once she got the call.

And then, there is this time. This time, uniquely different. This time, there is no one here with me, and I’m a little ways from home.

Not much one to hide, certainly not on social media, and not hide my thoughts, my feelings, my past, my pain, and my intentions. Sometimes I view myself a whiny baby and question why any of you would subscribe to that, we all have enough of our own hardship. I joke to myself now and again I’m sick of listening to myself complain. So yeah, these last four months of solo 24/7 caregiving have surpassed any previously self-imposed affliction, and that’s saying a lot for me. I find it difficult to sit here and complain about the suffering of helping someone who can’t help themselves, because duh, I chose to put myself here, so I should just shut the hell up. But I might sneak out a whimper or three.

Walking away from my uncle about six weeks earlier than planned is hard. My schedule change has created a ridiculously tedious fire drill for many people here, a result I bleed to admit. After I quit doing drugs, I have tried my best not to quit much else. Especially to walk away from someone who truly needs me, this is hard, hard AF. But leave I must, and soon. My 30th-something concussion will not afford me the opportunity to stay in Wyoming and help The Admiral. But now, how the hell do I get home? It’s about 1,500 miles door to door from here to the BirdHouseSouth in Madison. I might be able to drive myself but factually, that’s a stupid idea, too much dizziness and nausea for me to responsibly get behind the wheel.

But how do I start to fix this predicament? Hum. I will casually mention it to a few people. I’ll tell my kids, and although they could drive, they both have school to focus on. I’ll reveal to just a few friends, and point out maybe I shouldn’t try to drive myself. I started that process several days ago, and mostly heard, “Let me know if I can help” but really, I could not come back and suggest something like this if they didn’t push it. I was unexpectedly awkward having these conversations, trying to see if there was someone where it seemed to fit, where it seemed correct. If not, maybe I will just rest up in a Jackson hotel for a few days and start the drive myself, taking my time, and monitoring my equilibrium. We are all busy, you are busy, mostly too busy for any of that get up and go shit.

My pal Laird Knight in West Virginia would fumble over himself getting here but I remained quiet, not wanting to disrupt too much of what he had going on at work and home. Good friend Brian Jansen in Madison, his back screwed up and a long drive would hurt him, although he would do it anyway if I would have asked. I almost asked my old GF Kim Millison from Boulder, but she was under the weather after a bothersome response to her COVID vaccine. Yes, absolutely, I know, many more of you would have done it, I know, and thank you dearly. But it was hard for me to speak up and ask, thinking it was a little too much to even suggest, especially for those of you who would have to fly to Jackson, drive me to Madison, then fly yourselves home. That just seems too much to me. I figured the best bet would be to ask a friend in Madison so that once we rolled into town, they could quickly and easily get home from there.

My best friend in Madison, Glenn Thomas, had just passed away a few weeks ago but he probably would have been on his way to the airport as I was talking to him on the phone about it, if he had the chance. So of course, the first casual mention to one of the people I was fairly sure who would force their own way out here to help me, Thomas Baker, well, he didn’t really afford me the opportunity to tell him no. Still, it was hard for me to accept Thomas’s offer to help. I knew he would probably say yes, even with a family, a dog, and a job, I knew he would say yes. So, I guess I chose wisely. Without hesitation, he said yes, and even when I tried to wiggle out of the deal, he said he was coming. Thomas arrives today, after lifting off from Madison airport at 5:45 am, and then when he arrives here in Jackson, we start driving back home this afternoon. There were a few more people who stepped up quickly after they heard, and thank you my dear loved ones, but Thomas was already committed.

Thomas, Baker, photo by his daughter Cora.

I live alone these days, decidedly single for now, and I find it hard to raise my hand and ask for help when maybe, I could have done it on my own. And certainly, this time, I would have done it on my own if not for friends like Thomas. I have no Nora to cart me around, but thankfully there are so many of you who humble me and when push comes to shove, you show up. I try to show up too. I guess we are all mostly the same, sometimes needing help but not really letting each other know.

I feel honored and blessed to have been afforded the opportunity to help my uncle The Admiral. And I certainly feel appreciation and love for all of you in my life.  

Thank you, Thomas Baker, for rescuing me from Jackson and dragging my broken and battered birdbrain home, I look forward to our big roadtrip together my brother. Instead of gambling and executing my customary throw-caution-to-the-wind position, I will as my pal Ann Sweeney says, try to come good home, thanks to Thomas.

~ Bird out.

Thomas’s surf doggie, photo by me, last time we hung out, August 2020.