In the solitary miles of an extended road trip there comes an unexpected companion in loneliness, a relentless follower along the ribbon of road that stretches unendingly forward. It is in these moments, suspended between the familiar and the frontier, that I come to know the true weight of separation from my person, my soulmate, my home.

Each town passed, each landscape that slips by the window, is marked not by what is seen, but by what is missing. The vacancy beside me speaks in a language of silence, a tongue understood only by those who have loved deeply and are now parted. The road, once a symbol of freedom and adventure, becomes a measure of distance, an ever-lengthening tether stretching back to her, the anchor of my heart.

The ache for her is palpable, a longing that manifests as an empty space beside me that no call or message can fill. I crave the simple, profound pleasures denied by miles: the touch of her hand, the sound of her laugh, the comfort found in the quiet of shared spaces. At night, in the stillness of the rolling metal shell that is now my refuge, I hear the loneliness mirrored in her voice over the phone, each word one of shared solitude.

The ache for her is palpable, a longing that manifests as an
empty space beside me that no call or message can fill.

Our conversations are lifelines, thrown across the expanse, but they are also reminders of the vastness between us. I reassure her with words that feel increasingly inadequate, washed out by the static of distance. We speak of endurance, of temporary separations, of the reunion to come, but the words tremble under the burden of distance. 

I had been on the road for hours, the kind of long, winding journey that lets a man ponder the vastness of the land and the smallness of his place in it. Josie, my trusted companion of steel and rubber, purred along the highway as we crossed into Arkansas. The sign read "Siloam Springs," and something about the name beckoned me to slow down, to take a pause from the relentless push eastward.

Siloam Springs sits in that curious space between a small town and a burgeoning city, its population just over 1,700. The presence of John Brown University lent it a youthful vibrancy, students milling about, manning the cafe’s and restaurants, dreams in their eyes. Yet, as I steered Josie into the historic downtown, time seemed to fold back on itself. The sidewalks were lined with red bricks, each one a testament to those who had come before. Some bore inscriptions—names, dates, messages—a mosaic of personal histories etched into the path beneath my feet.

I found a spot to rest Josie along a narrow street flanked by old buildings that whispered stories of a bygone era. As I stepped out, stretching limbs stiff from the drive, I noticed that some of the streets were cordoned off. Barricades stood like silent sentinels, and a man in a reflective vest directed cars with the casual authority of someone who belonged.

"What's happening?" I asked him, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Veterans Day Parade," he said with a nod, a hint of pride in his voice. "It's just about here." He tilted his head toward the distant strains of a marching band, the music lilting over the rooftops and settling softly into the cool, overcast afternoon.

There's a peculiar kind of darkness that comes with addiction, not the honest darkness of night that promises dawn, but a twilight world where shadows have substance and hope becomes a stranger. Cate Gubanov, a woman of 32 years from the small town of Antlers, Oklahoma, knew this darkness well. She lived in it, breathed it, let it seep into her bones until she could no longer recall the taste of clean air or the feel of sunlight on unmarked skin.

They say every addict's story starts somewhere else, in some other life where choices still stood like open doors instead of slammed shut windows. Cate's tale isn't unique in its beginnings—hard times breeding harder choices, each step down that twilight road seeming inevitable as gravity. Where the needle or the pipe or the pill rides shotgun and never gives up its seat.

They say every addict's story starts somewhere else, in some other life
where choices still stood like open doors instead of slammed shut windows.

But Cate's story takes a turn that some would call miracle and others might name stubborn grace. Eight years back, she did what those still in the darkness swear cannot be done. She climbed out. Not all at once—there's no Hollywood moment here, no sudden burst of light and angelic chorus. Instead, it was a slow crawl, every nerve in her body screaming betrayal, every synapse firing messages of want and need and mustmusthave. But she crawled anyway, one minute stacked on another until they became hours, became days, became weeks.

The thing about climbing out of a pit is you have to do something once you reach the top. Can't just sit there on the edge, legs dangling back toward the darkness. Cate knew this truth in her bones. She'd seen too many fall back, their sobriety measured in weeks or months before the darkness reached up with familiar arms and pulled them home.

There's a town in the southeastern corner of Oklahoma where the wind doesn't howl across endless plains like it does up in the Panhandle, but instead whispers through pine trees and red oaks that blanket the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains. Antlers, they call it—named not for the trophy bucks that still roam these woods, though there are plenty of those (the town’s motto is “Deer Capital of the World”), but for the countless deer antlers that adorned the first train station, a nod to the rich hunting grounds that surrounded it when it was nothing more than a sign post on the Frisco Railroad line.

About 2,300 people call this place home now, though the number changes some with the seasons and the fortunes of the times. They're a mix of people—Choctaw blood runs deep here, mingling with the settler stock that came after, creating a tapestry of faces that tells the story of this land better than any history book could.

The town sits like a patient cat in the heart of Pushmataha County, named for the great Choctaw chief who fought alongside Andrew Jackson and died in Washington, D.C., in 1824. The irony of that alliance isn't lost on the people here—they know their history and carry it in their bones.

Main Street runs straight and true, the way small town main streets do, lined with brick buildings that have weathered storms both natural and economic. Some storefronts stand empty now, their windows like hollow eyes watching the pickup trucks roll past, but others still pulse with life—the kind of family-owned businesses that keep small towns breathing: the hardware store where you can still buy a single nail, cafes where the coffee's always hot and the pie crust's made by hand.

The railroad still runs through, though it doesn't stop as often as it used to. The tracks cut the town like a scar that never quite healed, but like all old wounds, it's become part of the landscape. The locals barely hear the whistle anymore, except maybe late at night when the sound carries across the fields and through the trees, stirring something ancestral in their dreams.

The late afternoon sun cast long, languid shadows across the dusty road, the kind that seemed to stretch on forever, much like the memories that crowded my mind. The news of my mother's impending death had arrived like an unwelcome traveler, settling heavily into the corners of my consciousness. Days, perhaps a week, my sister said—a measured allotment of time that felt both cruelly brief and agonizingly prolonged.

I found myself grappling with the notion of becoming an orphan, a term I had always associated with children lost and alone, not grown men weathered by half a century of life's tempests. It was an odd feeling, unsettling in its unfamiliarity. My father passed several years ago, his absence carving out a quiet void. But the thought of my mother leaving—her spirit extinguished—felt like the final severing of roots that had tethered me to the bedrock of my existence.

She had always been more warrior than nurturer, a hardened shield against the world's injustices. I recalled vividly two instances from my youth when she had leapt into the fray, physically confronting older boys who thought to torment my brother and me. Like an enraged mother bear, she'd waded into the chaos, her heavy purse swinging with righteous fury, words sharp and unyielding. The harassers retreated, cowed not by size but by the sheer force of her will. In those moments, she was invincible—a fortress of protection and defiance.

Now, the warrior lay frail and weakened, her body besieged
by the relentless advance of three converging cancers.

Now, that warrior lay frail and weakened, her body besieged by the relentless advance of three converging cancers. A perfect storm of pain and decay, it consumed her from within, reducing her to a shadow of what she once was. Hospice had enveloped her in its clinical embrace, and my sister has become the steward of her final days, administering morphine in measured doses, each one a step further along the path to oblivion.

As I wandered into the laundromat on this dreary Sunday morning—a humble establishment with flickering neon lights that buzzed like weary cicadas—I couldn't help but feel an odd sense of isolation. Here I was, on the great American road, seeking adventure and enlightenment, yet finding myself tethered to the mundane task of washing clothes. The road has been long, the miles plenty, and my garments bear the dust and stories of dozens small towns whose names I can scarcely recall. 

The room was populated, yet it felt as empty as one of those abandoned homesteads I am inexplicably drawn to. People moved mechanically, eyes fixed on the spinning vortices within the washers, as if hoping to divine some meaning from the soapy chaos. Their gazes were distant—the kind one might see in those who've wandered too long in their own thoughts or perhaps witnessed more of life's hardships than they'd care to remember.

In the corner, a man and a woman had set up a modest display of pamphlets and brochures—the telltale signs of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Yet, contrary to their mission of spreading the good word, they seemed more engrossed in the glow of Candy Crush on their smartphones than in the salvation of our wayward souls. Occasionally, they'd glance up, perhaps contemplating an approach, but then their eyes would drift back to the screens, the digital allure proving too strong to resist.

The air was thick with the steady hum of dryers, a monotonous drone that provided a sort of perverse comfort. It was the soundtrack of waiting—a symphony of patience and necessity. This was punctuated by the backbeat thumping of washers struggling against overloaded and uneven loads. Each thud resonated like a heartbeat, a reminder of the persistent march of time even in this place where moments seemed to blur together.

I took a seat on a rigid plastic chair, its surface worn smooth by countless others who had also paused here in transit. My thoughts drifted to the road ahead and the road behind, to the places I'd been and those yet unseen. The laundromat became a microcosm of the journey—a place of cleansing, of shedding the old layers to make room for the new.

In the rolling prairies of Kansas, where the land stretches out like a vast ocean under an endless sky, lies the small town of Cuba. It's a place easily overlooked by those speeding along the highways, but to the souls who dwell there, it's a world rich with quiet beauty and enduring strength. The winds that sweep over the wheat fields carry whispers of generations, and among these whispers walks a man named Tom Lesovsky.

Tom is a farmer, as his father was, and his father before him—a lineage rooted deep in the soil of this 950-acre farm that’s stood for more than 100 years that yields both sustenance and stories. His hands are worn and strong, etched with the lines of countless seasons spent coaxing life from the reluctant earth. The land knows him, and he knows the land, but it is the town that holds his heart just as firmly.

Cuba is not a place of grand monuments or bustling streets; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of its people, each one adding color and texture. Tom moves among them not as a leader crowned by acclaim but as a neighbor, ever ready to lend his hand where it's needed. His wife, Peg, walks beside him—a steadfast companion of 50 years who holds the keys to the town's treasures on a ring heavy with responsibility.

Cuba is not a place of grand monuments or bustling
streets; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of its
people, each one adding color and texture.

When the Sunday morning sun casts its golden light upon the steeple of the Presbyterian church, the congregation gathers, faces lined with the week's labors and hopes. There are days when the preacher, delayed by fate or distance, does not appear. On those days, a quiet stir runs through the pews until Tom rises, his shoes echoing softly on the wooden floor. He stands before them, not with the polished air of a practiced orator but with the sincerity of a man who believes in the power of togetherness.

In the heart of the Kansas Plains, where the horizon stretches unbroken and the wind whispers through fields of wheat, lies the small town of Cuba. It's a place so modest that travelers might pass through without a second glance, mistaking its quiet streets and weathered buildings for the remnants of a bygone era. Yet, beneath the unassuming façade beats the resilient heart of a community bound by the shared rhythms of land and time.

Cuba is not a town that boasts of grandeur or pretense. Its roots sink deep into the soil, much like the sturdy oaks that dot the landscape. The streets are lined with houses that have stood for generations, bearing witness to the joys and sorrows of the families who have called this place home. It's a town where everyone knows not just your name but the stories that shaped you—stories etched into the very fabric of daily life.

The people of Cuba are forged from the same elements that define the prairie—hard work, quiet dignity, and an unspoken understanding that their lives are intertwined with the land and each other. They rise with the sun, tending to fields of corn and soybeans, their hands toughened by labor yet gentle enough to cradle the fragile hopes of their children. In the evenings, they gather on porches, sharing tales that blend memory and myth, the laughter rolling across the open spaces like a balm against the solitude.

For years, Cuba existed in relative obscurity, content in its own rhythms, until the gaze of an outsider turned inward upon it. Jim Richardson, a photographer with an eye attuned to the subtleties of small town life, found his way to Cuba. He wasn't drawn by spectacle or sensationalism but by the quiet authenticity that the town exuded. With each click of his camera, he captured not just images but the very essence of a place where time seemed to hold its breath.

Richardson's photographs told stories that words could scarcely convey—the weathered hands of a farmer clutching a handful of rich soil, the weary yet determined gaze of a shopkeeper opening his store at dawn, the interplay of light and shadow on the face of a child chasing fireflies at dusk. His lens became a bridge between Cuba and the wider world, revealing the universal truths nestled within this tiny dot on the map.

There is a certain alchemy that unfolds when illness takes hold—a transformation that strips away the superfluous and leaves one exposed to the raw elements of existence. I've found myself marooned in a desolate parking lot of a weary travel stop, Josie parked on the fringes as if shying away from the dim glow of neon lights that flicker uncertainly in the downpour. I suspect we'll be here all night, and perhaps that's for the best.

The thunderstorm that chased us off the open road is a lightning bolt short of biblical proportions. The sky unleashes a relentless barrage of raindrops the size of grapes, each one striking the metal roof of Josie with a force that is both unsettling and oddly soothing. The cacophony of the storm drowns out the hum of distant highway traffic, leaving me cocooned in a world reduced to the interplay of water and steel. It's a symphony conducted by nature herself, and I am its solitary audience.

The thunderstorm that chased us off the open
road is a lightning bolt short of biblical proportions.

Sitting here, enveloped by the fury of the elements, I am compelled into reflection. There's a clarity that comes when one is forced to pause, to sit quietly as the world rages outside. My mission, the purpose that propelled me down endless stretches of asphalt, seems distant now—a banner fluttering somewhere on the horizon, obscured by sheets of rain. With my voice reduced to tatters, any attempt to press on feels futile. After mere seconds of speaking, words escape me as a raspy whisper, a shadow of articulation that carries apology in every syllable. I find myself saying sorry not just for the weakness of my voice, but perhaps for deeper inadequacies that illness has brought to the surface.

This forced interlude feels like a reckoning. Time to reassess, to recalibrate the compass that guides me. Soul searching, they call it, and maybe there's truth in that. It's an opportunity to strip away the veneer of purpose and examine the foundations beneath. Downtime can be a gift, though it often comes wrapped in discomfort and restlessness.

I’ve been hunkered down in the driveway of the Dave Cook family in Wamego, KS, for the past couple of days. Trying to get both myself and Josie healthy again.

Because I couldn’t exactly be going out and meeting people—my voice alone would scare a small child—I decided to go get some medical attention at the local walk-in-clinic. No definitive diagnosis other than probably bronchitis of some kind, the doc loaded me up with antibiotics and antihistamines.

I then turned to Josie—with Dave’s expert assistance, he owns several VWs, including a bus and a Westfalia (pop top camper) Vanagon. We were trying to nail down why she would intermittently “buck” on me.

I bought a new coil and installed that. Then we went to check the dwell angle (long technical explanation placed here). The dwell angle was out of spec, so we adjusted that. At some point I thought to pull the coil wire out of the distributor and give it a look, when I did, what I saw shocked me.

The firing end of the coil was completely corroded! As was the hole in the distributor that it plugged into. It was a wonder how it was generating any spark at all. I then pulled the spark plug wires and three of the four were also corroded. 

This winding, endless network of backroads is mocking me. Once, it called to me with the promise of adventure and the solace of solitude. But now, as the weight of illness bears down on me, it feels more like an endless path to nowhere. The strength that once fueled my wanderings has been siphoned away, leaving me hollow and adrift.

Yesterday, I dared to set out again, thinking perhaps the open air would chase away the shadows lurking in my lungs. The sky was a pale expanse, and the wind carried with it a hint of chill. I should have heeded the signs, but stubbornness has always ridden shotgun while my better angels haggle for the choice seat. By nightfall, I paid for my hubris with torturous bouts of coughing, each one tearing through me like a tempest. I spat up god-knows-what from the depths of my lungs, remnants of some internal battle I was losing.

Stubbornness has always ridden shotgun
while my better angels haggle for the choice seat.

There's a peculiar loneliness that comes with being unwell on the road. The vastness that once brought comfort now amplifies the isolation. Weakness seeps into my bones, and with it, an insidious insecurity. I am a solitary figure against an indifferent horizon, yearning for the strength I once took for granted. The stars above, which once whispered secrets and possibilities, now seem cold and distant, their light unable to pierce this heaviness that envelops me.

I find myself longing for a quiet corner, a place to crawl into and hide until this affliction passes. The idea of seeking help tugs at the edges of my mind. Clinics and doctors bring thoughts of sterility and the clinical detachment of strangers probing at vulnerabilities I'd just as soon keep hidden. Yet, a voice within tells me that this might be a path I cannot avoid for much longer. (And it’s also the voice of my wife, half scolding, half imploring me to get some medical first aid…)

In the quiet folds of Missouri, where the land rolls gently and the towns are small enough that everyone knows the color of your front door, lives a woman named Michaela Cate, in Clarksburg. Its the kind of place where the horizon meets the cornfields, and the population sign reads a modest "245"—though some say it's optimistic by a few souls. It's a town where the dogs wander as freely as the winds that rustle the oak trees, and where the concept of an animal shelter is as foreign as a skyscraper.

Michaela didn't set out to be a Savior. She was, by all accounts, an ordinary woman with an ordinary life. But fate has a way of twisting the mundane into the extraordinary when least expected. It was in the cracked asphalt of a shopping center parking lot that she first felt the pull of a new destiny. A stray dog, all ribs and hope, looked up at her with eyes that spoke of a thousand silent pleas. She couldn't walk away. Not then, not ever again.

She brought the dog home, adding a fifth to her already lively household of four canines. A metal kennel in the garage became a makeshift sanctuary. It wasn't much, but it was safe, and it was hers to give. Word traveled fast in places like Clarksburg and neighboring California, a slightly larger dot on the map with 4,400 souls but no place for the unwanted animals either. Soon, more dogs found their way to her door, guided perhaps by some invisible beacon of kindness.

The local authorities did what they could when complaints came in—rounding up strays and delivering them to the local vet. But resources were thin, and space even thinner. Unclaimed dogs met a swift and unforgiving end, a practice that settled like a stone in Michaela's stomach. She couldn't accept that life and death hinged on such a brittle system. So, she did the only thing she knew how to do: she opened her door wider.

Each new dog meant another mouth to feed, another set of shots, another spay or neuter surgery—all expenses she shouldered without hesitation. She became a one-woman crusade, finding homes for twenty-seven dogs to date. Her garage is all neat, chainlink, state-approved kennels, and wagging tails, a symphony of barks echoes her unwavering commitment.

In the heartland of Missouri, where the fields stretch out like vast, green oceans and the horizon is a distant dream, lies the small town of Clarksburg. It's a place unmarked by the grand strokes of history, yet rich with the quiet dignity of everyday life. The town nestles gently against the land, as if mindful not to disturb the rolling plains that have cradled it for over a century.

Clarksburg is a modest cluster of homes and buildings, where the population hovers around two hundred. It's the kind of place where each face is familiar, and every name carries a story that threads through the fabric of the community. The town sprang up around the turn of the century, named after a merchant whose legacy has faded into the whispers of time. Yet, his spirit lingers in the streets and the simple architecture that speaks of an era unhurried by the relentless march of progress.

The post office, established in 1897, stands as a silent guardian of the town's memories. Its weathered walls have seen generations come and go—farmers with soil-stained hands, children with eyes wide to the possibilities of the world, and elders whose wisdom is etched in the lines of their faces. The building is more than brick and mortar; it's a repository of the town's heartbeat, collecting the hopes and sorrows carried in letters and parcels.

The town sprang up around the turn of the century, named after
a merchant whose legacy has faded into the whispers of time.

Walking along the main road, you can hear the soft murmur of life—dogs barking lazily in backyards, the distant hum of a tractor, and the gentle clink of a spoon against a coffee cup at the local diner. There's a simplicity here that's almost poetic, a rhythm to the days that flows with the changing seasons. In spring, the fields burst forth with new life, and the scent of fresh earth fills the air. Summers are a tapestry of golden sunlight and the laughter of children chasing fireflies at dusk.

Gloria Evans stands like an oak in the heart of Marshall, Missouri, a quiet figure of strength in a town where time moves slow and folks rely on one another more than anything else. At 82, she’s known most simply as “Grandma,” a name that carries with it a sense of warmth and reliability. It’s a name earned through years of service, of showing up when others might not, of giving when it seems there’s little left to give.

Gloria has been part of the Foster Grandparents program for 17 years now, making her the longest-serving volunteer in the area. She found the program after her husband passed 22 years ago, at a time when grief had left a hollow space in her days and nights. “I was just lonely and needed something to do,” she says, though there’s a softness in her voice that tells a different story—one of a woman searching not for activity, but for meaning, for a way to matter again in a world that had taken so much from her.

She found that meaning in the children that became her charges in the Foster Grandparents program, and most recently at Spainhower Primary School, where she spends most of her time. The program, a part of a national initiative, pairs seniors with children who need extra guidance, patience, and a gentle hand. It’s a job that requires the kind of endurance only someone who has lived through decades of life’s highs and lows can provide. Gloria has always loved children, and in this role, she has found a way to give them something they may not find elsewhere—a quiet constancy, a person who shows up day after day, ready to help them grow.

I watched her work one day in the kindergarten class, where she sat beside a small child, flashcards in hand, gently helping the little one identify upper and lower case letters. Her patience was remarkable—the kind of patience that doesn’t fray when the child stumbles over the same card three or four times. She leaned in close, her face softened with a smile that seemed to erase the years, and coaxed the child forward. There was no rush, no push for perfection—just the quiet encouragement that allowed the child to believe they could succeed.

At one point, a child began to draw, and Gloria, curious, asked, “Oh, what’s that?” The child, without hesitation, responded, “It’s a gun, and it’s going to shoot...” Without breaking her calm, Gloria redirected the moment. “Oh my, no,” she said, her voice firm but kind, “we don’t want to draw any guns now.” The child erased the picture without protest; Gloria shot me a look, half wide-eyed, half grimaced, but with a twinkle of humor. In that moment, it was clear that her magic lies not in what she says, but in the deep well of love and patience from which she draws.

I rolled into Marshall, Missouri, looking for someone I hadn’t met… yet.

Marshall, like many small towns nestled in the Midwest, wears its history with a quiet dignity. It is a place shaped by time and toil, where the land is as much a part of the town’s identity as the people who’ve worked it for generations. Established in 1839, Marshall was named in honor of John Marshall, the revered fourth Chief Justice of the United States. At its heart, the town is a reflection of the larger American story—a place of growth, hardship, and quiet perseverance, where each generation leaves its mark, even if the world outside pays little notice.

From the beginning, agriculture defined Marshall. The rich, fertile soils of Saline County made it an ideal location for farming, and the town quickly grew into a bustling center for the region’s agricultural output. Crops like corn and soybeans thrived in the surrounding fields, and with the arrival of the railroad, Marshall became a key shipping hub. It was a town where the rhythms of life were dictated by the land—by the planting and harvesting seasons, by the rains and the droughts.

It was a town where the rhythms of life were dictated
by the land—by the planting and harvesting seasons,
by the rains and the droughts.

Marshall’s early years were not without struggle. During the Civil War, the town, like much of Missouri, was divided between Union and Confederate loyalties. In 1863, the Battle of Marshall took place just north of the town, a brief but violent clash between Union forces and Confederate raiders. The scars of the war left brilliant traces in Marshall, as they did in much of the divided state, but in the years that followed, the town found a way to heal and rebuild, its people resilient in the face of hardship.

There’s magic in a Midwestern thunderstorm, the kind that sweeps in without warning, darkening the skies over the wide, flat expanse of the heartland. It’s a force both familiar and awe-inspiring, one that stirs the senses and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up as if the very air itself is alive. The storm announces its arrival with a distant rumble, the sound of thunder, low and deep, like the earth itself is growling. The sky, heavy with clouds, hangs low over the land, pressing down with an ominous weight that makes everything feel smaller, as if the storm could swallow the whole world in a single bite. 

Then, in a moment, it begins—the first crack of thunder, distant and low, rumbling like a conversation too far away to hear clearly. The hair on the back of your neck stands up in response. There's something primal in that sound, something that reminds you how small you are. The smell of the air shifts, the clean scent of ozone mingling with the rich, fertile aroma of the fallow earth. It’s a smell that speaks of life and death, of things grown and things returned to the soil.

The smell of the air shifts, the clean scent of ozone
mingling with the rich, fertile aroma of the fallow earth.

The first drops of rain fall warm and fat, hitting the ground with a sound that is both gentle and insistent. It’s a soft tap at first, but it builds, like fingers drumming a rhythm that the earth knows well. Soon, the rain comes in earnest, and with it, the sound of a million tiny impacts on tin roofs and the leaves of the trees. The rhythm of the rain is hypnotic, soothing, washing away the dust, soaking into the soil. You can feel it under your skin, the way it calms you even as it swells the rivers and fills the creeks.

And then the lightning begins. It tears across the sky, bright and jagged, illuminating the world for brief, blinding moments. It’s not the soft flicker of distant storms, but the raw, searing kind that cracks the night wide open. The sky glows, pulses, and then goes dark again, leaving you waiting for the next flash. In that waiting, there’s a kind of exhilaration, the anticipation of the next moment of brilliance.

There’s a strange bond between a man and his machine, especially when that machine is as old and temperamental as Josie, my 1982 VW Vanagon. She’s not just metal and moving parts; she’s a companion, one who carries with her the quirks and mysteries of time. Machines like Josie don’t simply break down—they communicate, albeit in roundabout and sometimes baffling ways. The longer you live with them, the more you start to understand their language, even if that understanding comes slowly, through moments of frustration and confusion.

It started innocently enough. I was at a stop, foot on the clutch, and without warning, the windshield wipers turned themselves on, slicing across the glass in the bright sunlight. No rain, not a cloud in the sky—just Josie, deciding that the day needed a little more movement. It wasn’t just a fluke, either. A few bumps in the road later, and the wipers were back at it, this time refusing to quit for the next 13 miles, no matter what I did. It was like she was playing a joke, reminding me that, despite my best efforts to keep her in working order, she had a mind of her own.

I’ll admit, I was baffled. The wipers had no business doing what they did, and I had no earthly clue why. So, I did what any sensible man would do: I called Steve. Steve knows Josie’s breed well—he’s got an ‘82 VW van himself. When I explained the problem, Steve didn’t have a definite answer. But in the way that only another Vanagon owner could, he suggested I check under the dash, near where the clutch entered the cab, for any loose wires. I had no idea what I was looking for, but when a man suggests something, you take it seriously.

Josie, in her quirky, roundabout way, had led me to the real issue.

Armed with a halogen flashlight, I twisted my body in ways that would make a yogi proud and peered up under the dash. And here’s where things took an unexpected turn. I wasn’t even looking in the right spot, but my eye caught something out of place—the base of the steering wheel was wet. It didn’t make sense at first, until I realized that it wasn’t water—it was brake fluid. Josie, in her quirky, roundabout way, had led me to the real issue.

The road was long, and the sky hung low, heavy with clouds that seemed to press the earth flat. Out in the countryside, where the hum of the city’s machinery fades and the air grows thick with the smell of damp soil and hay, I found myself rolling into a town I’d never heard of, searching for the heart of something I couldn’t yet name. A place called "Poppy's Coffee, Tea, and Remedies" sat just off the road, tucked into a row of small time establishments located in downtown” Gallipolis, Ohio. It’s hand-painted modest sign beamed out an inviting vibe to all wanderers, wayfarers, and souls who’ve lost their way.

As I opened the ancient door, I passed a faded, non-descript sign in a front corner of the plate glass window that said, “Food Pantry inside for Children and Homeless." Just come in and ask.” I paid scant notice and filed it into the miscellaneous file of my brain. 

Inside the subdued lighting, wooden floors offered a cozy, homey atmosphere. I sat down at a corner table, pulled out my laptop, and was just getting ready to work when Gregg "Poppy" Hill appeared at my table to take my order. Greg is a bit of an imposing figure. His height soaks up all the oxygen in your immediate space; his hands thickened from years of labor.  His full, shaggy beard a few years away from a full Santa Claus. Any imposing feeling of his physical presence is immediately offset by a pair of brown, soulful eyes and his slow, deliberate manner of speech. His face carries the weathered lines of a man who had known hardship and, more importantly, overcome it. The shop had a glow about it, not from the lamps or the warm steam curling out of coffee mugs, but from something deeper—something that felt rooted in the soil of this little Ohio town.

Within the first hour of sitting in the place, no less than four people came in looking for some kind of handout, free food (not from the pantry), free coffee, or both. Each request was met with an upbeat, warm, and inviting greeting—the kind that passes for everyday faire in small towns. And that's when I knew there was more behind this coffee shop than its bookshelf full of homeopathic remedies. I knew I had to know more about this place serving as an unassuming front for something much bigger than first met the eye. 

It was a better story than I could have imagined...

Gallipolis, Ohio, is a place that clings to the banks of the Ohio River like an old soul too tired to move but too stubborn to let go. Founded in 1790 by French settlers, it was never a city made for grand ambitions, but rather for endurance. The streets run quiet under the weight of time, with the occasional stirring of life reminding folks–all 3,313 of them–that there’s still work to be done.

I am hold up here, not by design, but fate. After attending the farm festival I found myself with only a day’s worth of a critical medication I take. Gallipolis held the closest pharmacy that would fill an out-of-state prescription. But the exercise became more of a lesson in bait & switch. 

They would happily fill the script for me; however, they had to order the medication because none was in stock. This was on a Friday, the earliest they could fill the order was Monday, assuming all went well and the shipment arrived. That meant I was staring into the teeth of at least three days without this medication; my skin began to crawl just thinking about it.

Monday came and went, then Tuesday. By early evening Tuesday I decided to excise myself from my current predicament and simply head to a bigger town, one about twice the size of Gallipolis. This effort came up a success and I’m now back on track. 

In Gallipolis, you’ll find the weather-worn courthouse standing sentinel
in the town square, surrounded by simple homes with front porches that
hold their share of secrets.

There’s a certain romance to traveling the back roads in a 42-year-old VW Vanagon camper named Josie. She’s no sleek modern marvel, but she has something better: character. Josie is a boxy, unhurried beast, painted a faded shade of Assuan Brown and Cream that once gleamed in the sun, now softened by the years. Her engine purrs with the steady rhythm of an old friend, though it sputters and coughs now and then, a reminder that time waits for no machine. But it’s in those sputters and coughs, in the unpredictable breakdowns along the way, that the true spirit of the journey emerges.

Josie is more than just a vehicle; she’s a companion, a trusty steed on this wandering quest through America’s forgotten byways. There’s something about her that draws people in, makes them stop and stare, maybe even smile. You see, Josie isn’t just carrying me from place to place—she’s carrying stories, memories, a life lived on four wheels. And when she pulls into a small town, she does so with a quiet dignity, like an old traveler who’s seen it all but still finds wonder in the world.

The breakdowns are inevitable, of course. You don’t travel in a 42-year-old van without expecting a few hiccups along the way. But that’s part of the adventure, part of the charm. One day, you might find yourself on the side of a dusty road, the sun beating down as you stare at an engine that’s decided it’s had enough for now. Maybe it’s the alternator this time, or a belt that’s snapped and left you stranded miles from anywhere. It’s frustrating, sure, but it’s also a chance to slow down, to really see where you are. You set up camp where you stand, make a pot of coffee on the old propane stove, and wait for help to come—or for Josie to decide she’s ready to roll again.

Josie isn’t just carrying me from place to place—she’s
carrying stories, memories, a life lived on four wheels.

And help always does come. That’s one of the joys of traveling in a van like Josie. She has a way of attracting the right kind of attention. Folks in small towns recognize something in her—maybe it’s nostalgia, maybe it’s a kinship with something well-worn but still useful. They’ll come out of their houses or their shops, and they’ll offer a hand. It’s not just about fixing what’s broken; it’s about the connection made in those moments. The shared stories over a greasy engine, the laughter at some absurdity of the situation, the kindness of strangers who become, if only for a little while, part of your journey.