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...

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...

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,...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...