Recently, I found myself driving down an old dirt road that led me home in more ways than one.
I began chasing a fire — as it is seemingly the nature of a journalist to run towards fire. By the time I had tracked down the source of the bellowing black smoke the actual flames had dissipated and all that remained was a field of blackened grass, damp ground, a single fire truck straggler, and a winding dirt road. With no flames or urgency left to report it was time to retire back into my mild-mannered alter ego and head home.
I had a choice; backtrack to the quickest route of the familiar asphalt highway or take the advice of Ralph Waldo Emerson and take the road less traveled. I chose the latter, although, “less traveled” was not a precise description in this case.
This particular red dirt road was very well traveled. In fact, it was well traveled by myself — just not for many years. It was the kind of road that looks the same as all the other dirt roads in rural Oklahoma. Rutted and dusty it stretched into acres of open country that could make you feel like driving was an eternity. On those roads driving is an eternity especially when you carry a decade of life in your rearview mirror. On those roads time doesn’t rush, it doesn’t hurry, it just settles.
It settles on an old withered tree trunk that’s more bone than bark that is somehow still standing after a moment of rebellion left its mark. The moment when a ’67 Chevy truck painted sleek black with an “I dare you” cherry pinstripe was forced into retirement and a salvage yard after the unwarranted confidence of a new driver was released. The tree and the truck to this day could fit together like two puzzle pieces, curve for curve, now with faded edges and softened defiance.
From that road you could see a cabin-like building — a once well attended bar and grill known as Boot Hill overlooking a grassy plain. It was established in a place where no business had any business being but somehow managed to thrive in its tiny corner of the world. It stood as a testament to a chapter of life when I was finding my own; when I was old enough to learn but still too young to experience. I spent my days there — eating and learning. I was taught pool by a weary old shark, shuffle board by the seasoned pros, dominos in a cloud of cigar smoke, and bridge by those entering their grandparent era. My music appreciation was enhanced by listening to karaoke and jukebox choices selected every which when from Ritchie Valens to Beyonce. I could still see it in its glory days with a full gravel parking lot, the neon glow of brand signs on the walls, and Sweet Caroline drifting out into the humid Oklahoma air.
I drove that road alongside a long overgrown path. A path I once walked when I was too inexperienced to know to keep a gas can in my truck. Or more accurately too stubborn to listen when I was told I needed one. That same stubbornness played a part in a relationship that was never meant to survive the miles I tried to force it through.
That road marked the beginning of the end to that relationship when we took our last drive together. One moment the windows are down with the autumn air feeling like freedom from a stifling summer heat, the next it was cold and felt like pin-pricks across ever inch of my body that wasn’t already numb from the heartbreak. The same road that was once my escape morphed into a long drive to nowhere after my heart had been shattered.
It’s strange how a stretch of road — a simple track of sand, dirt, gravel, or mud can hold so much.
The deep tire treads carved into the earth were worn from the uniquely country pastime of mudding. An activity that can turn a perfectly good truck into a caked-up badge of honor in a matter of minutes. A badge that at least one vehicle in my high school parking lot displayed proudly the day after each and every rain filled weekend. I could hear the laughter, revving engines, and cheers on the whistling wind coming through my windows as I drove.
I passed the fields of hay bales that once served as the only audience to a country boy with more confidence than pitch singing Kenny Chesney songs. I remembered a crowded truck bed full of fireworks and excitable kids making our way to the lake for a Fourth of July cookout.
The road hasn’t changed much but I certainly have. Driving it now, what once felt like the middle of nowhere I realized was the center of everything. It was where I learned that not everything last nor should it. I learned heartbreak does not have to leave you broken. I discovered what feels like an end could be a new beginning. Those lessons are carved into that red clay. It still held echoes of fireworks and country songs, marks of past mistakes, traces of what was, and memories of what I’ve learned.
That’s the thing about those roads they aren’t there to rush you, they’re there to remind you. That red dirt road didn’t just take me home — it reminded me of who I am. I have red dirt running through my veins.