They call me the breeze ...

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by those who choose to live without roots ... on the road. For Halloween, I often dressed up as a hobo. (The picture's of me when I was six or seven.)  My dad worked on the railroad. I quizzed him about the men he found riding in the boxcars and how he dealt with them. I imagined myself sitting with them at night around a campfire, heating (and eating) canned beans and listening to their stories ... where they'd been, what they'd seen, people they'd met.
When I became a young adult, I imagined myself riding a motorcycle up the west coast, from border to border. Finding work along the way. Staying where I wanted to stay. Going when I was ready to go. Naturally, I didn't do those things. I went to school and tried to assume responsible adult roles.
Well, the time has come. I've rented my townhouse, bought a trailer and hit the road. And while a pickup truck and travel trailer is substantially different than a knapsack, I do have everything I own with me. The goal is the same: Stay as long as I want to stay, then move on until I find another place I want to stay. I intend to see a lot of things I've never seen (see the USA in my Chevrolet) and hopefully find a place where I want to settle when I'm ready to.

I'm goin' home
And when I wanna go home
I'm goin' mobile
Well, I'm gonna find a home
And we'll see how it feels
Goin' mobile
Keep me movin'

I can pull up by the curb
I can make it on the road
Goin' mobile
I can stop in any street
And talk with people that we meet
Goin' mobile
Keep me movin'

Out in the woods
Or in the city
It's all the same to me
When I'm drivin' free, the world's my home
When I'm mobile

 Play the tape machine
Make the toast and tea
When I'm mobile
Well I can lay in bed
With only highway ahead
When I'm mobile
Keep me movin'

Keep me movin'
Over 50
Keep me groovin'
Just a hippie gypsy

Come on move now
Movin'
Keep me movin', yeah

-Pete Townshend

A Small Act Of Kindness

It was early one Friday evening. An old friend and I found ourselves in a little college town where we hadn't been since we were freshmen. We'd had dinner at our favorite student hangout and were strolling along the main street reminiscing and noting changes. As we passed a dance club, he asked, "Do you remember the last time we were here?
"Yeah, I do. But not tonight."
"C'mon!" He insisted. "We pledged that the next time we were in town, we'd go dancing here!" He opened the door and stood, waiting for me.
"Look at me!" I'd just gotten a really embarrassing haircut (unintentionally). I was wearing the same terribly outdated clothes I'd been wearing on the roadtrip. And then there was the Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I'd eaten for dinner. (The D&H was a combination hamburger with franks and LOTS of onions.)
He gestured for me to enter the open door. I mumbled a bad word and walked past him into the club.
He danced. I listened to the music. (Great band. Played mostly Doobie Brothers and Neil Young music.) Faintly, in the din of music and conversation, I heard a voice: "David?"  I looked around, but didn't recognize anyone. "David!" There was a hand on my arm. I hadn't expected to run into anyone I knew. Certainly not Susan.
Susan and I grew up in the same town, but hadn't met until we were in college. Her roommate was a friend of mine. Their dorm was near ours, so we crossed paths occasionally. On those occasions, I chatted with her roommate while she looked bored and anxious to get going again. She was gorgeous. And stylish. And intimidating. And it never occurred to me to ask her out.
We found a place in the club to sit down and caught each other up with where we had been and what we had been doing. Suddenly, she jumped up. "Oh, David! I love this song! Dance with me!" I hesitated, but despite my apprehensions, took her hand and we danced. I couldn't believe that a chance to dance with Susan had come at such an inopportune time. Then, mid-dance, a thought exploded in my mind that made me smile:  "Bad hair; bad clothes; bad breath ... and Susan still wanted to dance with me. There must be something about me that's OK!"
In the 40 years since, I've recalled that moment more times than I can even remember. When I've found myself in one of life's valleys, when I've needed some encouragement (or when I hear "Pieces Of April"), I remind myself: "Bad hair; bad clothes; bad breath ... and Susan still wanted to dance with me. There must be something about me that's OK!"

There are no small acts of kindness.