Projection

In those moments where my brain feels like a whistling kettle, my favorite way to relieve pressure, take it off the burner, is to go for a country drive.

Rain had been tapping on the roof of the trailer off and on, the outside skies a clumsy mess of clouds. I made some English breakfast tea in a to-go cup, clipped the leash on Elvis, and hopped into the passenger seat of the Tundra.

Chad stabbed the key into the ignition. The engine burst to life, and the windshield wipers cleared the waterlogged leaves and drops from view.

We turned right at the T, and drove down the narrow road.

Past the sprawling green lawns.

Past the lopsided single-wide’s with rust exposed sides, and air conditioner units balancing precariously out of dingy gray windows.

People park their cars and trucks on the grass here, and it’s fine. It doesn’t damage it. Alabama grass is strong and tough. Thick, green, and bursting with nutrients. Not like the fragile grass in California, which needs a sprinkler to tick back and forth for hours, as well as supplements, fertilizer, and a thick skin to ward off the glares from neighbors who view lawns as a frivolous waste of water.

Here, people whip around wildly on their riding mowers. T-shirts stripped off their backs and tied to their heads, they ride their cherry red Briggs & Stratton like bare chested cowboys. Leaning back to balance the bucking machine when it dips down, then sharply up, as they navigate the water runoff trenches that line the road. Some use the road to turn around; we’ve had to slow down many a time, grass and dirt clods kicked up, as they spin their yard machine around and charge off in the opposite direction.

Mowing is vital. If you don’t do it regularly, the dense lush foliage will quickly swallow your home.

We continue down the road past the trailer. There’s a brand-new house with multiple wings. A big ornate wrought iron gate with no fence, and a long driveway that curves – as far as I could tell – for the hell of it.

We drive past cotton fields. I always pictured bushes that grew cotton to be taller. Now, they stand about a foot high. White and purple flowers bud against dark green leaves.

We pass fields containing hay bales wound like spools of thread, sitting on their sides, waiting for whatever happens next.

We continue down the two-lane road, and into Tennessee.

Together, the windshield wipers and rain create a rhythm. Outside, the green fields, tree covered hills, and wisps of mist that weave through it, creates a mood: that cozy creative introspective kind.

We cross a narrow bridge over a churning brown gush of water. It’s been raining for a while. We continue past cows, hides shiny and slick with rain.

I gaze at the little farm houses set back in the bright green fields. So appealing with tin roofs, chipped white paint, and screened in porches. Beyond the home, a big wood barn leans slightly to one side, and the open field ends in trees shrouded with mist.

I imagine myself waking up in one of those homes. Stepping out of bed with the sunrise, carefully edging my way over certain creaky floorboards.

In the kitchen, I’d fill the kettle then turn on the gas. I’d listen to the ticking sound of the burner as I fumbled with the lighter, and then settled the kettle over the whoosh of blue flame.

I think it’s natural to always project; wonder what life would be like somewhere else.

In one of those homes, I’d be a better banjo player. Driving it home from the screened in porch, absentmindedly sipping coffee – nah, whisky – from a tea-stained mug that reads, “nacho average uncle” or something equally off.

For years, my mind couldn’t wait to be exactly where I am now. All those moments throughout the day where things felt out of my control, my mind would hop to the adventure. I couldn’t wait to be out of the office, free from the strict and rigid hands of the clock.

So now that I’m here (we did it!) my mind unapologetically dances around to see what’s next.

In a few days, we’ll find out.

Destination: Midwest.