Chapter 8
Tennessee
In another few months, all hell would break loose in the Arkansas wildlife refuge I camped at overnight: the various hunting seasons would begin. Rabbits, squirrel, ducks, geese, deer, and even chipmunks beware! The hunters are coming! The hunters are coming!
In absolute stillness, I stood with a small empty envelope in my hand, alone on the banks of the White River in Arkansas, as I watched my late wife's ashes drift slowly away from me on the surface of the water carried by hidden eddies. I thought of the symbolism: ashes instead of life, drifting away instead of increasing intimacy; eddies representing the unpredictable events in our lives that change us forever, and the river personifying our continuing existence and flow through life.
I shook my head, still in disbelief that Karen had departed this life. I believed that her spirit carried on, and could even become part of another being who returned to this realm to continue their spiritual evolution and growth, maybe even to interact with me in some way. Maybe we were still soul mates. I completed my small ceremony and walked back to the Harley. I'd packed up most of my campsite, so I only needed a few more minutes before getting back on the road.
I'd ridden my motorcycle to this campsite the day before from El Dorado, Arkansas, leaving behind a beautiful woman named Pat that I easily could have spent more time with, but instead I chose to continue my meandering path through my grief and self examination, and through the remainder of the lower forty-eight states. I wondered if I were maudlin or ghoulish by continuing to dwell on Karen's death and by spreading her ashes in every state I visited. I wondered if I'd finish my healing by the end of my trip – so young, so beautiful, so loving, so exciting, and so dead – and even now, mysterious, as I continued to discover things about her from her sister Lauren – things she chose to hide from me.
I crossed over an impressive and aging metal bridge that spanned the Mississippi River and by ten o'clock I'd started rolling through the southern suburbs of Memphis.
Memphis was another exception on my journey. I had chosen to side step most of the large cities along my route. I was of a mind that if you'd seen one large city, you'd seen them all; further, I'd had to travel heavily the past ten years in my technology work, and I had seen so many of them they all started to look alike. Thus, I'd skipped such interesting places as New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlanta, and even New Orleans. I'd also chosen to avoid the Interstate highways when I could; I wanted to see the America away from the heavily traveled paths, see what had happened to small town life, and open myself to new adventures that I believed lay off high speed routes. Somehow, I knew my destiny lay on these back roads, and not on some Interstate.
As I got near Memphis, I cut east until I found Elvis Presley Boulevard. A short ride north and I found Graceland – home of the King of Rock and Roll for two decades starting in the mid-1950s. Sometimes a sucker for 'schmaltz,' I stopped to tour the attractions at Elvis' house and the surrounding buildings. I walked through the small mansion staying behind the velvet cordons, enjoying views of the white living room, the green carpeted and famous Jungle Room, and even the King's grave. I got a look within his custom jet named after his daughter Lisa Marie, the large collection of his clothing, awards and memorabilia, and some of his cars –the famous pink Cadillac and even his Harley Davidson motorcycles. I had a late lunch at the Rock and Roll Café, and later concluded that everything within at least three miles of Graceland was named 'Elvis Presley" something.
I had always been a fan of Elvis. I admired how he transformed music, almost single handedly launching the rock and roll craze, as well as the era that persists today where the lead singer has to be at least slightly outrageous. My love of music brought me to Memphis and would take me to Nashville; it also reminded me of how much I'd missed in the past few months as I grieved. I missed the music; I missed the happiness the music brought me. I resolved to get both back soon.
It started to rain about an hour out of Memphis. I changed my plans and ended the day at the Natchez Trace State Park an hour later. I set up the tarp and tent in the rain, not a pleasant task. As I did, I had a transistor radio playing through my headset; the weatherman assuring his listeners that the weather front would be gone by morning.
After I got under the cover of the tent and tarp, I unpacked my laptop computer and spent the rest of the afternoon composing emails to my sister Anna, my sister-in-law Lauren, Kim, and a couple of other friends. I told Anna and Lauren about my week in El Dorado as a counterman in a diner, and how I'd helped the police apprehend the man that looked like me and rode a similar bike – the similarities that had resulted in my spending a night in jail before I could prove my innocence.
Somewhat cavalierly, I told Anna and Lauren about my assignation with Pat, the daughter of the owner of the diner and mayor of El Dorado. I made brief mention of my civic medal in connection with apprehending the man doing the chain of robberies. This was the first time I'd sent Anna an email containing mention of my 'love life,' although I omitted the lurid details that I did share with Lauren – how Pat and I made love our first night together all over the diner: on counters, tables, kitchen work surfaces, stools, and the bar; and how we flirted outrageously at work. Lauren, my kinky sister-in-law, would chastise me if I didn't send her an explicit email – something that would titillate her fantasies and provide her masturbatory material. When I got near a Wi-Fi connection the next day, I'd send the emails.
I also wrote in my journal, pasting into the document file both of the emails, and then adding more details about what I thought about Pat, my mother-daughter experience in Louisiana, the current state of my rapidly healing wounds from the Alabama shooting, and my most recent thoughts about Karen and her passing. I could tell by how I wrote and my selection of words that I'd started my transformation back to being a whole person – someone not constantly saddled by loss and grief.
I managed to start a small fire, even in the rain, and fixed dinner from my small collection of nearly-ready-to-serve meals. I read while there was still light, and when I found myself squinting to see the words on the page, I put things away so they'd stay dry and went to sleep.
* * * * *
The weatherman was partially correct. I awoke not to rain, but to deep penetrating fog that wafted through the forest and gave everything an almost eerie appearance. I did some exercises for the first time since the shooting, taking care not to stress my lower left side. I did enough to work up a sweat that necessitated a swim in the river. I packed up the wet tent, tarp, clothes, and camp gear; got everything stowed in place on the motorcycle; and left the campsite. I took time on my way out of the preserve to walk part of the trace or trail, feeling in the ghostly fog the presence of the thousands of famous explorers, settlers, and Native Americans that had used the trail since the beginning of time.
