BY MICHELE MILLER
What’s What New Port Richey
Somewhere between Knoxville, Tennessee, and New Port Richey, Florida the old man and I are going down the road feeling a whole lot of things while listening to an old bootleg CD of a Grateful Dead concert we attended in 1979 when we were young and new and kind of carefree.
“Throw a little caution to the wind,” we figure, trying to capture a little of that by downing double-stuffed Oreos knowing full-well that the “gluten-free” label doesn’t really make it any better. But what the heck? We’re old, retired and the temporary sugar rush might carry us as we forge ahead to the next rest stop, turning what was supposed to be a two-day ride into one with the thought of getting home before sunset.
“We can do this,” we tell each other, and come to think of it, we do remember that concert. We remember the US Blues encore and how the marathon drum solo had a couple in our crew nodding off in their seats as the smell of Acapulco Gold, Columbian Red, and whatever else was being lit up wafted to the rafters at the Providence Civic Center.
Lightweights.
We’re kind of there now – hence the “no night driving” rule. It’s bad enough with age taking a toll on the old peepers as we roll down the highway, but we’re all out of sorts these days with the blinding blue and LED headlights wreaking havoc with the trifocals.
But we did it. Made it home before the streetlights came on, safe and sound despite a couple of harried “road atlas vs. GPS” moments, a wrong turn or two, and an unfortunate rotary/round-about incident that had us being honored with the one-fingered salute from what I am assuming was a native Ohioan, who is obviously a pro at driving on crappy roads.
Sorry about that. Really.
Now we’re several days into recuperating from our seven-week excursion – AKA our “two weddings and a funeral summer road trip.” The trek took us from Florida to Massachusetts to Michigan and back to Florida with a few stops along the way. (Cleveland does rock, by the way, despite the potholes.)
We saw friends and family, some we had not been in touch with for years. I got to bring home some old photographs and the 100-year-old family bible that came into my possession after my dad’s death. (Which after all these years, I discovered, is actually another family’s family bible filled with the birth and death dates of strangers from my hometown that I now feel obligated to look up.) The old man got to try his hand at catch-and-release fresh-water fishing on a New England lake – a fairly successful outing that seems to have sparked a new hobby that might keep him from climbing the walls now that we’re back to Florida and stricter pandemic protocols…again.
Our summer respite was splendidly topped by a week of wedding prep and celebrations. Best of all was the Sunday evening walk together down a grassy slope with our daughter who was finally marrying the young man who has long been a part of the family. It all happened under a weeping willow on a grassy peninsula by a little lake. And yes, I was weeping as much as the willow as they exchanged vows.
Picture that. Hold on to that vision.
It’s something that can carry you along with the memory of that Dead concert the old man and I went to when we were new – before kids or marriage or all the ups and downs, the joys and tragedies, the blessings and losses that have happened since.
It’s not been all good. Not been all bad. It’s our Ripple road, nonetheless. And we’re still on it.
Look on the bright side and you can be somewhere good in a flash, laughing about how off-key the Dead can sound in concert while singing a rather labored rendition of Truckin’. Or better yet, enjoying a glorious summer wedding threaded with thoughtful touches and a young and already enduring love sealed with a kiss under a willow tree, some hints of the moments that brought us here, and perhaps, an inkling of what’s to come post, “I Do.”
They can do this, I’m thinking.
I know.
Now onward.
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