We rolled out of New Mexico, and anyone who’s done so can
attest to its vastness and lack of, well, anything.
But it wasn’t nothing.
It was everything—sunburnt silence, wide sky, land stripped down to the
bone.
Every few miles, a row of mailboxes stood the test of time on the edge of the
highway,
a lonely dirt road heading off into the distance, reaching toward barren rock
towers.
Who lived down that road?
Where were the houses?
Nothing but dirt as far as the eye could see—and yet, it whispered a different
kind of truth.
A truth about isolation. About resilience. About planting roots where no one
else would dare.
Dad pointed out a cluster of cacti, Seguro, that had grown
high towards the sun. Desert soldiers, silently at attention.
We picked up a rock station out of Oklahoma, and traveled in comfortable silence,
the wind still strong coming in through the wide-open windows.
But not every stretch of road has a soundtrack—some moments
demand stillness.
And maybe that was the lesson of the mailboxes:
Messages can linger, even when they’re no longer being sent.
There are 2,880 miles between San Diego and Portland,
Connecticut.
42.5 hours if you drove it straight—but we weren’t in a hurry, and I
wouldn’t have wanted to be.
Each mile needed to land.
Every sunrise on a cheap motel pillow, every dusty stretch between gas
stations—
They had stories to tell, and we were listening.
I was so grateful to have my father along for the journey.
He brought wisdom, humor, and a healthy dose of mischief to every turn of the
road.
The kind of travel partner who could point out a rock formation shaped like a
sleeping dog
while also recalling a story from 1964 about nearly buying a truck that
would’ve never made it over the Rockies.
Driving, my dad was at his most comfortable, always eager
for the next mile, to see what was around the bend or over the next hill. We share
that curiosity to this day.
Crossing the state line into Oklahoma, the conversation
naturally turned toward the Salty Sailor I’d met months before.
I’d spoken with Mom the night before—she casually let me know there was mail
waiting for me at home. A letter, sure. But also… a package.
A package?
That was interesting.
Dad glanced over as we approached OKC. “Where’s Pat’s
hometown? How far out of the way is it?”
At the next truck stop, we pulled out the map.
Stillwater wasn’t far. Just a
flick of the wrist and a turn of the wheel.
Dad leaned back, tapped the table, and said, “How about a pit stop?”
I tilted my head like, really?
Rhetorical for sure. Momentum building, absolutely.
“And we rolled / And we rolled clean out of sight…” —
Bob Seger, Roll Me Away
We left I-40 for I-35 and headed north out of OKC, aiming
for Stillwater and 1501 N Jardot.
No Google Maps. No cellphone.
Just a good old-fashioned Rand McNally Atlas spread across our knees.
The road headed north, the car humming, and the detour felt less like a side
trip and more like a story unfolding.
Rolling into Stillwater, I couldn’t pass up the chance to
grab a picture next to the Stillwater sign.
Dad was more than happy to oblige—grinning as he lined up the shot, probably
thinking, this one’s going in the scrapbook.
The buggy idled nearby, probably grateful for the stop.
It wasn’t just a photo. It was proof.
Proof that we’d made the turn. That we’d let curiosity steer us. That the road
could hold more than just asphalt—it could hold story.
Then Dad said, “Let’s find his house. Say hello to his mom.”
What?!
I blinked.
He shrugged, casual as ever. “Well, we’re here. Might as well drop by.”
WOWZA! Well, ok, I’m in, Dad’s partner in crime or curiosity
more like.
Onward to N Jardot, our atlas guiding each turn until we
arrived and pulled into the driveway.
And there we were—front and center, the little green buggy resting in the
gravel like it belonged there.
The house stood quiet, familiar in a way that surprised me.
Dad looked over, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
The moment spoke for itself.
And just like that—the detour became a doorstep.
I approached the door with equal parts enthusiasm,
excitement, and dread.
It’s not like I was going to get arrested, right?
What could possibly happen?
His sister answered—young daughter in tow—and there I was,
trying to explain away the stranger facing her.
“I’m… a friend of Pat’s,” I offered, voice steady but soft. “We met a while
back. I was passing through and thought I’d say hello.”
Dad stood beside me with that twinkle in his eye and a
reserved grin.
He offered his hello with the ease of someone who’d been making strangers feel
welcome for decades.
We all introduced ourselves, the air light with curiosity and kindness.
Pat’s mother wasn’t home, his sister explained, but she
offered us in.
There we were, sitting on the couch, conversing with his sister and her
daughter.
I glanced at the end table and spotted a photo of Pat in his Navy uniform.
Not flashy—just posed with a goofy grin.
The kind of smile that says, “Yeah, I’m in uniform, but I’m still me.”
It made me smile too.
After about fifteen minutes, the conversation drifted out
onto the front lawn.
We were disappointed not to meet his mother, sure.
But the visit had already offered more than expected:
A photo with a grin, a porch full of kindness, and a detour that turned into a
doorway.
Dad and I were both giddy with laughter as we climbed back
into the buggy.
“What do you think she’ll say when she finds out a couple of strangers “just
dropped by?”
“What was her sister thinking now that we left?”
“What was she thinking when we were there?”
We didn’t have answers.
Just the road.
“But your thoughts will soon be wanderin’ the way they
always do /
When you’re ridin’ sixteen hours and there’s nothin’ there to do…”
— Bob Seger, Turn the Page
There were no detours now. No porch stops. Just the stretch
between what had been and whatever came next.
Soon the conversation drifted quiet.
The road had its own rhythm now.
And as Seger drifted through the speakers, I felt it:
the shift from destination to daydream.
Your thoughts start to wander out there.
They spool out over the guardrails, tuck themselves into rest stops,
and spill into the cracks between asphalt and memory.
Maybe it’s the sky. Maybe it’s the hum.
Maybe it’s the way the road feels like it’s writing your story for you.
Dad caught me staring out the window and asked,
“You still thinking about Stillwater?”
I shrugged.
“I’m thinking about a lot of things.”
He nodded. He knew that feeling. We’d both worn it across state lines before.
The road was open, the trees greening up for summer, and Dad
had settled into that silent rhythm beside me.
Conversation had faded.
The radio played low, and suddenly, my thoughts weren't just wandering—they
were weaving.
Was Pat thinking about me too?
What did his sister tell his mom when she came home?
Would she laugh? Raise an eyebrow?
Would that goofy grin in the photo mean more now that it had context?
And then it widened—
I thought about leaving San Diego.
The night before the drive.
The nerves, the compass spinning wildly between logic and leap.
I thought about Dad.
His willingness to chase curiosities, to tap the dash and say “why not.”
How he made pit stops feel like pilgrimage.
I thought about mailboxes in the desert.
About messages unclaimed.
About what it means to leave something behind, even if you hope someone finds
it.
And I thought about Connecticut.
What might be waiting when I got there—
the package, the letter, the unknown folded inside cardboard corners.
Dad has his own unique quiet brand of wisdom.
And it rode inside the car with us like a third passenger.
It lived in raised eyebrows, in well-timed silences, in the way he'd tap the
dash not to give directions, but to invite detours. He knew that moments
unfolded best when left alone to breathe, and his kind of knowing never asked
for applause.
That twinkle in his eye during the Stillwater stop?
That was him reading the room before anyone spoke.
That reserved grin? It said, “Let’s see what happens.”
He was the kind of man who let maps guide but let instincts steer.
Even when we were giddy with laughter, wondering what Pat’s
mother might say when she heard about the strangers who dropped in, Dad didn’t
overanalyze. He just chuckled and rolled the window down a little more, like
that breeze might offer its own insight.
It’s funny—his quiet made room for my thoughts to wander.
And somehow, that felt like guidance too.
strategery. A little tongue-in-cheek, a little wink
to deliberate decision-making wrapped in humor. And my dad? He embodied
it.
He didn’t just plan—he orchestrated. From that subtle pivot
to Stillwater to the casual, “Let’s drop by,” he had a knack for calculating
chaos with charm. The kind of man who knew the value of intuition, but could
back it with quiet foresight. His “tap-the-dash” moments weren’t
spontaneous—they were strategic nudges disguised as whims.
I would call it improvisational mastery.
We didn’t just follow the road—the road followed his rhythm.
And me? I knew exactly when to lean into it.
Dad was the expert, not just in road trips, but in
life’s quiet choreography.
I remember traversing Oak Creek Canyon with its hairpin turns,
my car picked up a high-pitched squeak. Dad just turned down the radio, leaned
in, and listened—not to the music, not to me, but to the car itself.
“Brake pads are wore out,” he said, like he was diagnosing a cough.
No drama. No fuss. Just expertise.
He didn’t need manuals. He didn’t need to Google.
He had miles in his bones and a knack for knowing what mattered.
Whether it was navigating a detour, reading a stranger’s mood, or fixing a a
car with a grin and a shoelace—Dad was the guy you wanted in your traveling
partner when the road got weird.
And maybe that’s why Stillwater worked.
Because when he said, “Let’s drop by,” it wasn’t reckless.
It was intuition.
The kind only experts carry.
Because some detours aren’t deviations.
They’re destinations in disguise.
And this one?
This one will linger.
Stay tuned for the next installment on the journey home! #theprairieYankee. #FromNewEnglandtoOklahoma #ALoveStoryAcrossTheOceans #theJourneyHome
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