Not all journeys have to come to an end

It’s been 11 years since I rode a motorcycle around, across and right through the very middle of these United States. The trip lasted for two months during the summer of 2015, and I travelled more than 19,000 miles. I saw all of the Great Lakes, dipped my toes in both oceans, and got eaten alive by mosquitoes in both the upper peninsula of Michigan as well as on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico.

 

The best part of the adventure? Meeting people along the way who made me proud to be a part of the human race. The worst part? Friday, July 31, 2015 — the journey’s end.

I sold that motorcycle several years ago. It was 17 years old with more than 110,000 miles on the odometer, and it was still running fine. I have no doubt it still is. But that journey for me is over. I have no intention of buying a new motorcycle and trying to recreate that Summer of 2015. It’s time for me to move on.

If a musician is someone who performs music for a living, then I’ve never been one. But if a musician is someone who enjoys making music, even if it’s for nobody but themself, then I’ve been a musician for more than 50 years. Guitar, penny whistle, violin, banjo, washtub bass — I’ve tried them all. Well, except for the alphorn and bagpipes. But there’s still time.

I started off playing trombone. It served me well in high school. Got me a scholarship to college. Paved the way to a 37-year teaching career. I performed a little bit on the side. Made a fair amount of cheeseburger money with it. But at some point along the way I wasn’t playing as well as I wanted to. So I packed it up and put it away. Eventually, I sold it to an upcoming musician. I have no doubt he’s still making good use of it. As for me, my time was over. Or so I thought.

After 10 years of not playing the trombone, I bought another one with the hope of rekindling the joy I used to have in playing it. But sadly, it didn’t happen. I might have been better off learning how to play the didjeridoo. Oh well, lesson learned.

Up until the time I joined the U.S. Air Force, I never imagined serving any time in the military at all. But my father had been in the Navy, my uncles had been in the Marines, and my brother had been in the Army. One thing led to another, and I found myself serving for five years as a public affairs specialist, which meant I was a journalist.

As a child growing up in the DFW area, I started writing stories not long after I learned how to read. Poems, adventure, science fiction, song lyrics. None of it really spectacular. No child prodigy here. But I enjoyed it. So it made sense to hop into a writing job with the Air Force when the recruiter said one was available. That was in 1986, and I haven’t stopped writing since.

But it is getting harder. I find myself writing about the same subjects over and over again. Cats, dogs, fruitcakes, finding ways to dodge having to mow the yard. And even though I want to be a better writer, I can’t help but think this journey is coming to an end. But maybe not right now. Not today. Maybe I’ll try a little harder. Give it a bit more thought. Find old dusty roads that I’ve never ridden on before, and relish whatever new music comes my way.