Notes from the Road
If I ever needed moccasins, ammo, a personal injury lawyer, or BBQ Brisket, I’d know exactly where to go.
Every time I go on the road, I write. It’s something about driving. The long, quiet monotony of it. The rhythm of the wheels. Usually by the time I’m home again, I have the idea for an essay or two, or some piece half written—this last trip, I had my most recent essay finished by the time I was home. Even if I don’t write a big piece, though, I’m always jotting down notes through the day. I write down little things that strike me, things I suddenly remember while driving, strange sights along the road. I end each of my trips with pages of disconnected notes, and then sometimes I think it’s interesting to grab a few of them later and see how they look on a page. The only thing uniting everything (including the photos) in this piece is where each came to me—somewhere along the highway—and when. These are all from my most recent cross-country trip with Paul, last month … TM
We left New York early this morning, a Sunday. The streets were still quiet. The nonstop construction site across the street was empty. There were pink petals from ornamental cherry trees on the cobblestones and scattered over the tops of parked cars.
It’s easy to love the city on a Sunday morning, in the warm sleepy hours before it belongs to everyone. No sirens. No trucks backing up. I could actually hear the wheels of our car against the pavement, and birds in the trees, and one or two voices carried down from apartments with open windows. After weeks of wanting so much to leave—I’ve felt a desperate need for quiet—as we turned onto 7th Avenue, I almost said, “Let’s stay.” But we needed to leave, regardless. Things to do. Too many things to do.
For the first couple years I lived here, I was nervous when I left. I don’t know what I thought—that maybe the city would disappear while I was gone. Or maybe they wouldn’t let me back in. I still felt a stray cat’s gratitude for my welcome here, and a stray cat’s uncertainty that the door would continue to open for me.
God, I am grateful I’ve lost that feeling.
No one is asking me, but if they did, I’d say that billboards are the ideal form of advertising. What else are you going to look at? I haven’t clicked on a single online ad since roughly 2001—those cascading pop-ups scarred me for life—but I have read every single billboard between St. Louis and Kansas City, in both directions, multiple times. If I ever needed moccasins, ammo, a personal injury lawyer, or BBQ Brisket, I’d know exactly where to go.
I read about a study a few years ago that said roughly 7 or 8% of men, and some smaller percentage of women, will swerve out of their way in order to deliberately hit a turtle on the road. A reassuring percentage will swerve to save the animal’s life, and a not-surprising percentage won’t swerve either way, but the true deliberate assholes rang in at 7 to 8% (of men, and fewer women.) I can’t remember whether the framing of the study was positive or negative. Is 7% a good or bad percentage? But I do remember reading, at roughly the same time, that roughly 7 or 8% of men (and, again, some smaller percentage of women) are responsible for 90-something percent of violent crime in this country. I read those two things close enough to each other to make the obvious connection.
So, the question: can we use this information to get rid of those people? Some sort of fake turtle traps, maybe?
Driving into New Mexico still hits me with the same wave of relief it always did. The friendly chili peppers on the “Welcome” sign, after the long night of the soul through western Oklahoma and/or Texas. In this case, Texas. Everything hits differently once you cross that line in the pavement. The grasses. The weather-beaten trees. You can’t see the mountains yet, but you can see the clouds building up on the western horizon, where the mountains will be.
Back when I was still married to my ex-husband, I bought a little scrub-patch of land in southern New Mexico, outside Carrizozo. The land was so cheap, it didn’t feel like much of a risk, even if we never used it. I haven’t seen that land since I left him. I’ve been telling myself, since it fell back into my hands this year, that it’s okay if I decide I don’t really love it now. No one is going to want to buy it from me, but I can just sit on it and make a decision later. It isn’t a big deal.
That said, now that we’re about to get there, I know I’ll be disappointed if I don’t love it anymore. I chose that land in the last year of that marriage, when I was flailing wildly, trying to find something to love about my life. Trying to create an adventure for myself inside the boundaries of the life I was living. That land was my adventure—a place I thought I could outfit cheaply as a retreat for myself, a place to write or paint, or just to be a woman alone. He didn’t know I imagined it as a place to be alone, but that’s what it was.
Was Carrizozo just the best I could do for myself, within the constraints of where I was at the time? Was it the best I thought I could get? It was land no one else wanted, and now I wonder if it’ll be something I want myself. I know it’s okay if I don’t, but I hate the thought of finding that I don’t love it at all. That it was just another mistake in a string of mistakes. I don’t want to discover that my old dreams are shabby now, now that I have the freedom to dream other things.
The Washes, Ditches, and Arroyos of the Salton Sea (Western Shore)
Travertine Palms Wash, Garner Wash, Wonderstone Wash, Gravel Wash, Big Wash, Grave Wash, Coral Wash, Palm Wash, Anza Ditch, Iberia Wash, Zenas Wash, Arroyo Salada, Surprise Wash, Tule Wash, Campbell Wash, Lupin Wash, S. Sand Dune Wash, Barley Ditch, Willow Wash, Lone Tree Wash, Inspection Wash, Deep Wash, Trifolium Storm Drain…
Leaving my ex-husband’s cabin in Utah, feeling low. It has taken me this long in life to understand (no, only to begin to understand) that I never had the ability to make his story better. In some lives, the arc of time doesn’t bring any revelations or fresh insight. The opportunities for change are all wasted. Forgiveness isn’t ever given. Grudges aren’t released.
Ultimately, I’m now realizing, some stories are just sad. And they stay sad. No matter how you try to make them better.
A few things I do miss about living in Kansas:
Empty highways.
Fireflies in the ditches.
The May wheat, when the wind gets into it and blows through in waves.
The ungodly big, orange moon rising over the fields.
I wish I could taste again a few of the things I tasted as a kid. Just to know whether I remember them accurately. We’re in Wichita tonight, which is the original home of Pizza Hut—most people don’t know this. And, god, I just loved Pizza Hut as a kid. I wish I knew I could walk into a Pizza Hut now and order a pizza that would taste like the pizza I ate back then. I’d like to taste a circa-1995 pizza, if possible. I have such a strong sense of how it would taste.
Sidenote: Wichita was also the birthplace of White Castle. Oddly, there are no White Castles here now.
Why is it, in my dreams, people are always handing me their babies to look after? I tend to go on doing whatever I’m doing, happily, until the moment I remember, oh yeah, didn’t somebody give me a baby? And where the hell did I leave that baby?
What fear is that, do you think? Some mistake I’ve already made? Some irreversible error I’ve already committed?
I still need to define what it is, actually, that I want.
Starting easy. Do I want to be famous? There’s no real threat of it, but no. I’ve seen a little of what fame looks like, and it doesn’t look good.
Do I want to make a bunch of money? Again, it’s not likely. And, sure, little more would be helpful, but I’ve seen people spend their lives chasing money, and I don’t want to live like them. No.
Not fame, not wealth. I could keep going with “not this” and “not that” but it seems like a distraction. What is it that I want?
I want to have people I care about. I want to be cared about, myself. I want to relax in my friendships.
I want to express myself in ways that I respect. I want to enjoy my time. I want keep on spreading roots.
To be a part of a community—so much a part of a community that if I weren’t there, people would notice and want to find me.
I want to be challenged, to continue to be challenged by life (because, granted, it isn’t like I haven’t been challenged) and I want those challenges to make me softer, to bring me closer to other people, to expand how I perceive the world.
I want to get closer to the ground, where things grow.
I want to have an appetite and not be afraid of it.
I want to speak, and make jokes, and dance, and not be afraid of looking foolish.
I want to be at peace with the sense of time passing.
I want to find some kind of stillness.
I want to not be ashamed of my small place, my impermanence in the world, the littleness of what I will offer.
I want to be kind—not just kinder, but actually kind—to myself. To the enough of what I can do.
I can’t say I don’t know what I want. Obviously I do know what I want.
The question is, knowing it, where do I begin?
Tonya Morton is, among other things, the publisher of Juke.
If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ to let us know.
If you have any thoughts about it, leave a comment.
If you think others would like it, hit re-stack or share:
If you’d like to read more:
And if you’d like to help create more Juke, upgrade to a paid subscription (same button above). Otherwise, you can always contribute a one-time donation via Paypal or Venmo.
there is such a "lightness" to this piece. Is that a word to describe writing???? I love the ease with which the words flow - a bit of stream on consciousness maybe. lovely read, thanks Tonya.(and I feel the same way about New Mexico, a magical place)
Really enjoyed this, Tonya! It reads like a good, long drive. It has been awhile since I’ve taken such a road. Air travel doesn’t allow for the same meandering thoughts and perspectives. And I’m with you about those New Mexico signs. Even when the land doesn’t shift immediately, the promise of leaving whatever it is behind on the way to whatever New Mexico might hold comes with reliable relief.