Having walked halfway toward the house, I stopped to look back at the bus, which was now cooling down in the driveway. It was a strange moment because I was being invaded by a completely foreign sense of sadness and it caused me to wonder if a similar feeling didn't overcome other great adventurers in our past. If so, I doubted very few of them ever came to terms with it the way I did nor with the same finesse as I paused just long enough to flip it off. I turned away feeling much better and walked into the house.

The home I'd known since 1986 sits in a little subdivision about 3 miles out of the town of Culpeper on Woodland Church Road. It's a great neighborhood. It also sits smack dab in the middle of an area rich in history.

At one time all of the surrounding property was part of someone's farm and during the Civil War the entire area played a significant role as host during that great struggle. Brandy Station served center stage for the largest cavalry battle of the war and was fought a scant 3 miles away to the north. Thirteen miles south, along Route #3, Stonewall Jackson was mortally wounded in the Battle of Chancellorsville. Culpeper itself has a few honorable mentions; it is the boyhood home of Ambrose Powell Hill, one of Robert E. Lee's greatest generals. And, she provided sons for yet another army during The Revolutionary War; they were dubbed The Culpeper Minutemen. Perhaps most important of all is the tiny bakery located on East Davis Street - it's called Kanakals. I say it's important because I happen to thoroughly enjoy their custard filled doughnuts. Other than longevity, I don't believe they've played any other historical roles.

While we sat around the table talking another vehicle pulled into the driveway. It was my Mother who was home early from her job at Wally World - considerably early since Dad had just moments ago told me she'd left for work barely an hour earlier - and who, from all apparent, was playing hooky. I shuddered to think of all the times I'd done the same thing during mundane events like school or church and the various forms of discipline I'd received for the exchange. It hardly seemed fair and like a responsible adult I contemplated calling Wal-Mart to report her truancy but the serious threat of me, a grown 42-year-old adult male, being dragged out to the woodshed brought me to my better senses.

I had about a week to rekindle my fondness for the area and devoted quite a bit of time driving around in an effort to become familiar with it once again. It's amazing the changes you're instantly aware of when you're not there to watch them when they occur.

"Jesus, would you look over there! Why, they're…they're building a Ruby Tuesday's? Here in Culpeper?" I had to rub my eyes in the belief I had embarked on an out-of-body experience and during that split-second someone had popped in and fitted me with a pair of painted glasses. I swear, in that town businesses come and go with such regularity that I think they should be advertised like a movie theater…

Thursday thru Saturday only!

Zipperhead's Delicatessen & Opera house

Sunday's Matinee - Loubal's Gin Palace

Coming Soon...

Remus's Porridge 'n Gruel!

I think if they did that no one would be surprised whenever a construction truck pulled into a parking lot. I daydreamed of Jacob and Martha out for a Sunday drive; their windows are rolled down and it's a fine, bright spring day…

"I imagine our house is glad you're outta it, too, Jacob." Martha quipped, "It'd be nice if the air inside our car was as fresh as outside - you're way past time for your spring bath if you ask me."

 

Jacob ignores the haranguing and smiles like a kid with a new bike, taking in all the sites as his head pivots about like that stupid plastic dog what's sitting on the ledge behind the rear seat of his car.

Jake slows and sees a team of carpenters storm the place like they're giving away free beer.

Jake, the busy body, mashes on the accelerator and whips the car in a vicious U-turn, causing Martha's head to be tossed out the side window while the dog's head is launched from its body like a rock from a slingshot. He drives like that because he knows there isn't much time and screeches to a halt in the parking lot.

Men, materials, dust and pandemonium are all Jake and Martha can see as everything that used to be Franz's is stripped away right before their very eyes. Their car's tires are still smoldering from the sudden stop when Jake, sitting mouth agape, turns to look at Martha who's busy fitting her neck with a cervical collar…

The following Friday I caught a plane back to Montana to prepare for the next phase of our great adventure: renting a U-Haul trailer, throwing our two dogs and ourselves into the van, waving goodbye then driving away. It was a trip so totally uneventful trip that three days later, on the 6th of June, we were sitting in Virginia with all our worldly and animal possessions. On what seemed like the 7th of June we discovered things were not meshing together as we had planned and hoped. Many things acted out their parts to convince us that we'd made a pretty keen mistake. The greatest of them was our being wholly and totally homesick. We're not embarrassed to admit it, either. We missed everything, especially the little things…things like our telephone service.

Ronan is a small town and like all small towns everyone knows everyone, however, Ronan is quite unlike most small towns in that the telephone company is privately owned. How many of you can pick up their phone and call the telephone company and have a conversation like this one…?

Rrrrinnnnggg. "Ronan Telephone Company. This is Cheryl."

"Hey Cheryl, this is Joe, how're you doin'?"

"Hey Joe, doing great, how 'bout Lauri?"

"She's just fine, I'll tell her you asked. Say, I need a phone number. Remember Jack Fay sold his welding shop to Rod? What's the new number?"

"Same number that Jack had, 676-2846."

"Thanks much, 'preciate it. Tell Miles I said hey."

"Will do, see ya later."

I always thought it'd be damned snazzy if someone named Sarah worked at RTC, that way Ronan would be just like Mayberry, only sans the charming southern accents.

It was actually the 16th of July when we knew Virginia wasn't for us. Further, I knew we needed a clear and concise plan. I also knew it needed to be sound and without complication and I decided that to formulate it properly, I should do it by myself and without interruption. So, late in the evening I ventured out onto the front lawn, equipped with numerous refreshing adult beverages and plopped down in a comfy chair to begin forming my stunning plan. Somewhere between the 3rd and 19th beer I couldn't help thinking that the only thing I had accomplished during all of this was to take everything we owned and everyone who owned it for an ultimate 9,800 mile ride.

The next thing I couldn't help thinking about was, "Man! Why didn't I sell tickets?"

It is my firm belief that clear and concise planning shouldn't take too awful long because the drudgery of it will often smother the planner. Imagine how it would look to everyone if your clear and concise planner sat around gasping for air like a guppy on a warm rock.

As plans go, my new one wasn't much different from the one I had leaving Montana. Everything stayed the same, only we were going the other way and I began what seemed like a whirlwind tour of some obscure rock band by renting another trailer and loaded it for the trip back home to Montana. Every half hour or so I needed to pass by the bus to load this or that and in so doing I would receive all manner of subliminal signals and messages.

Then the right windshield wiper would come on and make a single pass as if it were a wink. "Huh?" I said, "What the hell…?"

"Egads!" I said, biting my fingernails, "It's pissed for my flipping it off?" Then, just like that, somebody would come outside and catch me standing in the driveway talking to a stupid bus. There's nothing worse than being heckled for talking to inanimate objects.

The crescendo of my clear and concise plan was for the bus to stay in Virginia. Later, I would fly back, plop my ass back on top of Bert's 'n Ernie's stump for a seat and drive it back to where this goat rodeo started. And, I reasoned, in culmination it would surpass every historical trip heretofore by such vast monetary proportions that our national debt would seem like a hotdog and soda lunch at Costco.

It seemed like a good plan.

Things aren't always as they seem.

Continue to CHAPTER TEN