Sunday, March 20, 2016
282 Days since this nightmare began on June 12th, 2015. Then, I had no idea what was going to happen next, or what I was supposed to do. I have learned from Marylou, who has shared her Lakota beliefs with me for over 30 years, that we are Spiritbefore we come into this life, while we live this life, and after. And, that the Spirit we are in this life may be touched by Spirits in the hereafter, especially those we share an intimate relationship with.
Our three daughters also share that belief; especially our middle daughter, who has been emotionally joined-at-the-hip with me since that day we just call 12. We call it that because we do not believe in death, and we do not speak of Marylou in any form of past-tense. She has not gone anywhereshe lives in our hearts, and she is always with us.
I have learned in the 282 days since 12, that the only people who can believe that, are the people who want to believe. They believe what they want. I have no control over that, and I do not want to control what anyone else wants to believe. Just as long as they dont tell me they know that what I believe is wrong. Because they dont.
When I went back to work as an over-the-road trucker two weeks after 12, I began sharing long emails with our middle daughter. This is one of the early ones, from June 27, 2015. This is the one where I became awarethat Marylous Spirit was able to visit me in the truck. At the time of this email, I felt very privileged to be visited. I thought it was something that was only going to happen once, so that Marylou could move-on, or something like that.
I was to find out in times to come, how wrong I was about that. 282 days later, my wife continues to fill my heart with joy on a regular basis, by visiting me in Spirit.
This was the beginning.
*
If you take exit #236 off I-80 in Eastern Pennsylvania, that puts you on State Route #487 just north of the bustling college town of Bloomsburg, a little bigger than Kent (Ohio). Continue north on 487, and you will travel through some of the most beautiful countryside God ever created. 487 follows the Huntington River as it cuts through the valley of the same name, and just being in the valley makes you feel like you have traveled 50 or 60 years back in time.
I had been up 487 several times about 10 years ago, when I was pulling hazmat. We used to take loads of binding resin from Cleveland up to a little foundry in the tiny town of Benton, about 16 miles north of I-80 on 487. (Binding resin is the stuff they mix with sand so that their sand molds can withstand the heat of molten steel).
I only caught Benton Foundry about a half-dozen times, and only in winter. Truckin up 487, I was always impressed at the beauty of this place; even in winter, the way the snow lays like a pristine carpet in the surrounding woods, with the mountains in the background. It is beautiful at night, especially when the full moon is shining on the snow, it makes it almost glow against the night sky.
Even when you interact with the local people, they make you feel like they are stuck in 1960, like on Andy Griffith or something. You can believe I wouldnt mind being stuck right with em!
More recently, I revisited the Huntington River Valley in mid-March of this year. I was coming back from Jersey on my way to Ohio like I do 3 times a week, and there was an accident on I-80 which had traffic backed up over 5 miles in the Bloomsburg area. I got the heads-up on the CB from some guys coming the other way, and I didnt feel like sitting in that mess, so I pulled over and checked the ol Rand McNally. Sure enough, the go-around was off exit 236, north on 487 about 15 miles to the village of Stillwater, and west on S.R. 254 about 24 miles to Limestoneville, and back on I-80.
It had been so long since I ran Benton Foundry that I didnt remember the route until I was already on it. This was late winter with the snow melting in the sunshine, but it still had that back-in-time quality; a very enjoyable way to get around but another Pennsylvania-parking-lot.
One thing all those trips up 487 had in common, was that your mom was home waiting for me when I was doing it. You remember I told you on the phone that when I got back out here on the road, everywhere I look something reminds me of your mom? In our travels, your mom & I were always looking for Mayberry, USA, and we always had fond memories of the rare occasions we found it.
About 6:30 Friday evening June 26th, this past Friday, I was once again coming back from Jersey on I-80 across eastern Pennsylvania, and missing your mom bad. The weather was fine, sunny about 75, a perfect summer late-afternoon. This part of the trip was reminding me of your mom, not hardly New York/ New Jersey, but more the old-timey country places once I was in Pennsylvania. The Huntington River Valley had been on my mind since I crossed the line from Jersey, and so for no reason under the sun, I got off at exit 236 and headed north on Pa. #487.
That was the first time I ever saw it in summer. As before, the further north you go on 487, the further back in time you go. I even saw a fully-restored 1940s-model Chevy Coupe coming the other way about 5 miles from the exit. Here you are not hammer-down like on the interstate, you can take it a little slower; a lot like life in this place.
The narrow grassy banks on either side of the road are carpeted with that purple clover, and if you open your window you can smell the honeysuckle, God's perfume. You look off into the woods, and the trees are far enough apart that you can see the thick carpet of green on the forest floor under the shade canopy. In one of your moms favorite video games, Banjo & Kazooie, theres a part where you are goofing around in the woods, and there are four parts, spring-summer-fall-winter. I used to be fascinated to watch your mom playing in those woods, because even though it was animation, the woods had a kind of artistic perfection to them. Thats what the woods in Huntington Valley looks like, kind of a mystical fantasy place.
One thing that makes those woods so breath-taking is that the Huntington River runs through it, and you can see it following the road. Its beautiful, like a post card. Several places 487 crosses the river, and from one bridge I could see a guy fly-fishing in his hip-waders at a spot where the water ran over some rocks, about ankle-deep. He looked like he was throwing his line up-stream. Letting them come to him, would be my guess.
Pretty soon there is the sign for the village of Stillwater, where you make the left turn on 254. This is kind of magic for me. When I first started taking your mom on the road with me, I taught her how to use the CB. Instead of telling anybody your real name, you give yourself a nickname, or handle. Your moms handle is Stillwater, as in still-water-runs-deep. It sure does, a perfect handle for your mom.
West on 254 goes through some gently-rolling farmland, a lot of Amish, with the high green-covered peaks of the Montour range shrinking in the distance. Pennsylvania was one of the original 13 colonies, and some of the restored pre-civil-war houses are beautiful along this route. There are even some un-restored pre-civil-war houses that are being lived in.
And then you are going through the small town of Millville, which looks to be smaller than Minerva. Talk about Mayberry! There is a fair in town tonight, you can see the midway over on the other side of the town park, people all over the place. Route 254 is the main drag through town, where everybody is parked on the street that is already a bit too narrow in this pre-interstate part of Pennsylvania, and I have to be real careful threading that semi through there between the cars parked on my right, and oncoming traffic on my left. But all of the cars coming the other way kind of get their passenger wheels up on the sidewalk to give me more room; and instead of screaming and giving me the finger, they all just kind of smile and wave when I roll past. Yes, Toto, this is not New Jersey!
People all over the place. Groups of kids keeping the playground equipment busy. Local teenage boys and girls flirting with each other.
Men with their wives.
The difference between me and them, is that I know things about my wife that I bet they dont know about theirs. Together, your mom & I have been to 46 states; the only ones she hasnt seen were Montana and Florida, and neither one of us has been to Alaska or Hawaii. In our travels, your mom had a list of places that she called sacred, places that had a special meaning for her.
The first one is the town of Frostburg, in the back mountains of Maryland about 150 miles west of Baltimore. That winter we were going west on I-68 which runs the crest of a mountain; Frostburg is on top of the next mountain with a deep valley in between. The distant lights of Frostburg looked like a Christmas tree ornament in the snow, against the night sky.
When we were on our honeymoon, we drove out to Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota, but the place your mom considers one of her sacred places is The Badlands, on the way out. The Badlands looks like another planet, the way the jagged rocks are different colors depending on what kind of rocks they are made of. The Badlands are also sacred to the Sioux. We spent a little time goofing around on the rocks, and I believe somewhere we kept a small plastic bag of dirt from The Badlands. If I find it, sorry, its mine!
Another of your moms sacred places is the Virgin River Canyon, in extreme NW Arizona. I-15 runs through there about 140 miles north of Las Vegas. The run through the canyon is only about 20 miles through that little sliver of Arizona; to the north is Utah and to the south, Nevada. The Virgin River drops about 2500 feet in that 20 miles to the desert floor in Nevada, and over millions of years has carved the canyon out of the high rocks. When youre going through the canyon, the cliffs are so high that it looks like its trying to get dark in the middle of the day. The only use I have for Las Vegas on this planet, is if I was on my way to the Virgin River Gorge.
And Mt. Shasta, California, way up north away from all those war zones in the south. The first time we saw Mt. Shasta was at night, traveling north on I-5 toward Tacoma, Washington. It was summer, and the weather down on I-5 was warm, but the top of Mt. Shasta, over 14,000 feet, was snow-covered. It was magic the way that snow-covered peak glowed under the full moon, 50 miles away. A very special memory for your mom & I.
Now I dont know exactly what it is that makes those places sacred to your mom & I, they just are. And after taking that run through there Friday evening, in my heart-of-hearts, I believe the Huntington River Valley is the latest addition to the Sacred Places for your mom & I.
Because when I was rolling past the fair in Millville, I had something in common with those men who were with their wives
in that moment, I was also with mine.

Much Love,
Dave