Going Home

I believe the year was 1991. I know it was before 1992 because I was still living in a run-down trailer in front of the old horse show grounds in Ooltewah and I hadn’t yet fallen in love and married. I don’t know what day or what time it was, but it was dark and the music in my newly acquired 1980 Honda Civic Station Wagon was pumping out some pretty sweet tunes. Who the passenger was, I’m quite fuzzy on, but I know there was someone in the seat to my right. We had just left ____’s house where we had picked up a nice quantity of something that naturally grows out of God’s green earth, something that ought not to have been transported in a car with Grateful Dead stickers running across the bumper and rear window.

The place was downtown Ooltewah. I believe the Racetrac was brand new and gas was still under the $1.50 mark. Red Food was still the grocery store of choice and Wal Mart could only dream of owning the prime piece of real estate where it now lures the feeble willed (hear, hear!) to come and shuffle through the aisles and save, save, save! George H. Bush was President of these here United States and I was sitting on the side of Ooltewah-Georgetown Road with blue lights in the rear view and jail time in the future. The “stuff” had already been placed under the rear seat which folded up and folded down with ease and the idea was “out of sight, out of mind.” Hearts racing sweat trickling, alibis being created on the spot…

Why in the name of Marcus Mosiah Garvey was I even being pulled over? Lights were on, speed laws were being observed (perhaps a little too observant), and the plates were…fine, I thought. After “Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, please” came the looooooong pause between boots clomping back to the cruiser and the arrival of the second cruiser. Backup, if you please. Got a couple of hippies in a hippie mobile. Dangerous. Outlaws.

Now I was young. I was still in college, living off campus in the aforementioned trailer with three other people. Not going to name them here, but they know who they are. I was less than two miles from home! Less than 3 minutes to smoky freedom! All kinds of jailhouse scenarios were going through my mind, not to mention seeing myself being possibly kicked out of school.

The first officer came back up to my window and I was already hearing the whole “step out of the vehicle, sir” being spoken in my mind. I was spread legged, palms on the hood, patted down and cuffed when the officer spoke and brought me back to sitting in the driver’s seat with my hands at 11 and 2.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No sir.”

“These plates don’t match this vehicle.”

Now I had just recently transferred the plates from my dark-tinted windowed, dancing bear sticker covered, first car ever owned, jacked-up 1980 Pontiac Phoenix, complete with Yosemite Sam mud flaps telling whoever was behind me to “Back Off!” I knew the plates were legal. I had the paperwork to prove it. Why those in authority didn’t have the correct information was beyond me. And that’s what I told him. At that point, the other officer must have called him back because he told me to hold on and he walked to the rear of my car. A minute later, the other officer came up to my window, and even though he was an officer of the law, with gleaming badge, shiny belt buckle and Johnny Law hat, I felt relief. He was somebody I knew. He was “family.”

“What’s going on?”

“Um…that’s what I’d like to know.”

I told him exactly what I had told the other officer; that the plates had been transferred from one vehicle to another and surely it should be in the system by now. A few exchanges of words between us and my license and other papers were being handed back to me.

“Go on home. And be safe.”

“Yes sir.”

The relief that filled the cabin of my car was as thick as billowing smoke from Cheech and Chong’s upholstery van. The last few miles to home were spent in almost complete silence as perhaps many prayers were given in thanks that the next decade or so would not be spent in a 6’ X 8’ room with bars on the window and bars for a door. Did I learn a lesson that night? Perhaps not. Business went on as usual for quite some time after that. But there was a lesson to be learned, filed away for when I was able to understand and comprehend and see just how much my life would have been different if someone hadn’t stepped in and told me to “Go on home.”

I would see this officer many times on the road and at family gatherings. On the road, he would pass and there would be a finger pointing and shaking at me. I think perhaps he knew more than I thought he knew. Even after he was no longer employed by the City of Collegedale, that finger would be pointing and shaking. Nothing was ever said to me more than “Behave yourself,” but I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that I…

Today…today I stood in a room as a group of bluegrass musicians played gospel music to this man. This man was laying in a hospital bed in his living room; a man who had once been a giant in my eyes was laying there, eyes closed, seemingly unresponsive to those around him. He had been sent home from the hospital to hospice care. There isn’t much time left for him. His wife was holding his hand and other family members and friends were gathered together and the sound of guitar, upright bass and mandolin reverberated through the small room…and that trademark bluegrass voice that all good bluegrass musicians have was sweetly singing backwoods gospel. You know what I’m talking about.

As the tears that I so desperately tried to hold back started breaking free and streaming down my face, his wife came up to me and I just held her. I told her that I had no words to say, but I would hold her. She told me that it was okay, that she knew that I had dealt with pain before and that I knew exactly what it felt like. What she said was true. I have dealt with pain, but not the pain of losing a spouse to death’s cold grip. I’ve lost family members and friends that way; I’ve lost love more times than I care to count. I’ve lost hope and faith and desire and will…but not this.

I don’t know how much more time he has. I do know it won’t be long. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know that this guy right here is not the same guy from that night in Ooltewah circa 1991.

Look around you. Is there someone you love that you haven’t told? Is there distance between you and a loved one, perhaps a distance created by mistrust or jealousy or some other stupid humanistic defect in the perfect plan of life? Is there someone out there shaking their finger in your face telling you to “behave” and your pride is keeping you from acknowledging your misdeeds?

You and you and you and you and you…ad infinitum. “I love you. I’m sorry. Let’s get together sometime. Keep in touch.”

You know the drill.

I’m going to miss that finger in my face.