The Road to Portland: 16 Years Later

I was driving Moby (our new-to-us white F350) with the camper on it, all 3 kids comfortably secured in their car seats in the back seat. It’s huge. I mean, the truck is just enormous and I feel like a redneck-y hippie slice of pie driving it.

So anyway.

I was driving it and my thoughts wandered as I drove north, remembering the last time I drove this route. I was 25, I had finished grad school in Vermont and had my heart set on a cross-country trip. Only… I didn’t have a car and I was pretty broke. Little things, right?!

I found out about some program called “Drive Away” where you transport other people’s cars for them – I signed up and that’s how I ended up going to Seattle.

At that time in my life, I was in love with a boy from Japan, whom I actually followed back to Japan for (after dropping off the car in Seattle of course). I was unceremoniously dumped upon arrival. That’s a whole ‘nother story.

But you know, on that first drive up north, I would have been psyched to have known that I’d be making this trip again, 16 years later with my 3 kids. And that I’d have a farmer-husband busting his cute farmer-man butt with harvest while I made a road trip with the kids and galivanted around Portland!

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So far, it’s been easy and sweet. I guess there’s nothing like the Lost Coast for really prepping anyone – it dips you in this stuff of steel that makes your hide like krypton or something. “Explosive blowout right when we are about to get in the truck, Mack… and Moxie?! glad your bowels work so well” – and yeah, I cracked my knuckles and changed them both on the tailgate.

It’s cool. It’s good. It’s all good.

****

PS

Wondering how I got the photos of Moby? – I apologize for it all being iphone, by the way – Mikey followed us to Eureka to make sure the camper was bolted on tightly.

 

Meriah

is a deaf blogger, global nomad, tech-junkie, cat-lover, Trekkie, Celto-Teutonic-peasant-handed mom of 3 (one with Down syndrome and one gifted 2E).

She likes her coffee black and hot.


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