The old ford pick up truck spit and sputtered down the road, dad at the wheel and me sitting next to him with my arm dangling out the passenger window. It’s a rusted out old truck, but a classic at that, with memories etched in its vintage cab. The sun kissed the horizon and a haze of pink and peach-orange painted the sky as we drove down the back roads that ran alongside farm fields and patches of woods.
There’s comfort in the grasses and the trees and the wide open skies. Nothing is ever as good on the heart as the way the winds and plants are. Or the way the fresh air revitalizes my senses.
A sense of nostalgia floods the moment as the truck cruises on. I begin to reminisce over those nights of sitting on the front porch swing and listening to the choir of crickets and frogs serenade us to sleep. Leaving the doors unlocked or listening to the rain on an old tin roof. Stargazing in an open field, talking about our dreams, excited for the future. Sitting around the bonfire, guitars strumming and kids singing their hearts out. Cowgirl hats and cowboy boots lined up along the metal railing, breathing in the dust of the horses rushing by. Spotting deer in a hay field. Flying down a back road, catching the last bit of sunset. Coming in after a long day’s of work, all sitting around the table together listening to dad read the good book.
I look at my dad sitting next to me, and imagine his childhood. He grew up surrounded by farmland with long stretches of open sky. Baseball and old trucks, deep conversations and a passion to learn and grow I imagine filled up much of his time. He came from a small family with a simple way of living but never lacking in love. Callous hands tell the story of this man, hard honest work building character and pride for what he has learned through the years. There’s wisdom etched into the creases of his forehead and his heart beats fast with more selflessness than anyone I know.
He has not always done the right things, and he has been through troubling circumstances. They say storms make trees take deeper roots. I believe it is deep roots that grow strong wings. And when the roots are deep and the wings are strong there is no reason to fear the wind. My dad is a man of deep roots, and his branches reach far into the sky.
A path to new discoveries and treasure chests yet to be unlocked awaits me on the other end of the journey. Smaller than the roads on this map is one of the greatest things I have, the dirt in which my roots may grow, and the right to call it home. No matter where in this world I go or what new people I meet, there’s only one place I call home. It’s where I learned to love and learned to fight and stand up for everything I believe in. I don’t know what lies ahead, what paths I will walk or what new ideas I will surely discover. But as the wind runs through my fingers and I experience the simplicity of the life I have become so fond of, I hear the whisper of the trees and sense the prodding of the wind.
“Don’t forget your roots.”
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