During my first nineteen years of life, we moved seventeen times; I know the figure is correct, but memory serves me poorly sometimes.
If I sat down with pen and paper, I could sketch out a timeline for you, but I’ll spare you the details. Most often, we were within the boundaries of Maine, but Dad threw us a curve in the summer before my senior year in high school—”What do you think about living in Georgia for a while?”
I didn’t think much of it at all. I didn’t argue, but I recall moping around when he finalized the decision. I was accustomed to loading and unloading furniture up and down the ramps of rented moving vans, so that part was second nature.
He’d taken a pastorship at a small northern Georgia church and was going to work on his theological degree at a college there. He forged ahead with the plan, buying a small brick ranch on a quiet street. The house had central air conditioning, something unheard of in Maine but necessary for a houseful of Yankees hanging around in the hot south.
I was to finish my senior year of high school there, and I was terrified about it. The school was huge, and I was used to being in a small school in a small town. I remember the first time Dad drove me by the behemoth; it looked like a shopping mall compared to any school I’d ever attended.
Maine to Georgia in the cab of a UHaul is a long poke. I was seventeen, so our conversations on that ride were some of our most important. In comparison to earlier, shorter rides, it was an epic adventure.
By June 1980, UHaul box trucks, usually Fords, had AM radios installed in the dash, but you barely could hear them over the roar of the giant gas engine, especially with the windows rolled down.
I remember a lot of Billy Joel songs—and top forty fodder, such as Robbie Dupree, Ambrosia, and Tom Petty. You get the idea.
Rupert Holmes had already charted and wore out our eardrums with “Escape,” but “Him”—a hit that summer—solidified Holmes as a master songwriter in my seventeen-year-old mind. I have always enjoyed trying to copy his subtle, melodic understatement and include some of that spirit in my writing. Whether I’m successful or not is another story. But Holmes was. Agree with me or don’t; that man is a master wordsmith.
I didn’t smoke, but I can’t tell you how many times I sang out the truck’s open window, “Over by the window, there’s a pack of cigarettes, not my brand, you understand; sometimes a girl forgets.” The words flowed so well together, fitting like pieces of a puzzle.
I loved the way Holmes transitioned that piece from a feeling that there was forgetfulness, slipping into the most sinister, “She forgets to hide them, I know who left those smokes behind, She’ll say, “ah, he’s just a friend, and I’ll say, “Oh, I’m not blind.”
I digress.
Dad let me control the radio dial on that trip. But now and then, he’d turn it down on secondary roads and pontificate about this or that. Usually, the only time the engine wasn’t roaring was on slower roads, so he took those opportunities.
“What do you think you’ll do after high school?”
“I dunno, Pop. I really don’t. I was thinking about being a Disc Jockey.”
“There’s not much of a future in that, and probably only a few openings. Whatever you do, do your best, even if it’s being a garbage truck driver, as you used to tell us. Be the best one ever.” he’d say.
And I did have that dream for a long time. I wanted to be just like the guy who picked up our trash. He’d often get out of the truck, grab one of our bicycles, and show us how to ride it around the yard—backward. It was impressive. I saw sanitation as being a doorway to that kind of skill. He was a lovely man.
I’d turn up the radio after Dad finished, giving it enough time to ensure we would not have to turn it down again for a more in-depth conversation.
Often, we stopped for some cold sodas and Slim Jims. My mother and sister were close behind in the blue Impala station wagon.
Somewhere, maybe in Virginia, but I’m not sure, he gave me a piece of advice I’ve clung to forever. Well, at least since 1980.
It was a time when I didn’t believe I’d ever see old age, the death of my dad, the sadnesses of life, a successful short career in radio—my dad listened— and a long career as a cop.
“Timmy, one thing is for sure: you have to have fun in life. The Lord expects us to have fun. He gave us so much on earth to enjoy, and we should, you know? You need to look out ahead. Keep in mind that you should have long-term goals. That’s all well and good. But make sure you plan to do something fun, even if it’s months or years away. Then, make sure you do it.”
I understood him.
Some people, even him, have accused me of not taking everything as seriously as I should. But Dad understood me. We laughed at a lot of things together.
His follow-up, a synopsis, of that conversation came a few years before I married.
“Plan something special—something fun. When you wake up every day to the monotony of life and work, you both will still have something to look forward to down the road. It’s important. It makes life on earth worth living, and there’s something better coming anyway.” Dad had a way of preaching to you without slamming the book in the pulpit.
In an age when suicide is in every news feed, I can’t help but think how my dad’s simple advice could help a whole lot of humans, even to get just one more day. To have something, anything, to look forward to would save lives.
Instill that thought in your kids, and then show them how.
I know many people are in pain, but believing something better is somewhere down the road has always been helpful to me. Dad told me so, and he was right.
We need to keep in mind that there are things to look forward to. It’s a powerful concept.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
Just TC