Me and the state of Georgia have a love-hate
relationship. I spent almost 7 hours
there today, driving through on its most notable of highways, and as such, went
through a rainbow of emotions. Why does it have to be so long? Why does leaving
the state of Florida require driving through it? For me, the day passed as if
in a time tunnel. It took forever, and yet moved like no time at all. My heart
felt light and leaky, floating, swimming, and flaking, casting off layers like
an onion, but only to uncover another fluttering bruised layer.
I used to like Georgia. It used to mean we were on our way
to Thanksgiving in Tennessee. It housed my first love, and was the holder of
great memories with some really awesome people. Like our trip to South Carolina
in 2005, when our truck broke down on Mother’s Day just past Valdosta. Nothing was
open! But a gentleman stopped for us while we were walking down the street to
offer help. He was headed home with flowers and groceries, and his children in
his truck to cook for his wife. But instead, he searched his home for a screw
to fit our broken brake caliper. When he couldn’t find something suitable, he
drove us to a flea market, where we scoured over piles and piles of screws.
After another trip to his home, he found something to fit, and returned with
tools, fixed out truck, and refused our money. AWESOME people.
However, Georgia also was the place that held my dreams. It was
where I was supposed to get married, build our life, and have my family.
Georgia peaches, we’d call them. Each stop along the way means something: King
Frog, Moody AFB, Moultrie, ABAC, High Falls, Sylvester, 485 to Charlotte, Rome,
Dalton, Unadilla. Why is it that the happiest memories are the ones that cause
us the most grief? As I moved through each station of my life on I-75, my heart
bubbled through each of the associated feelings, though they were not always
the ones I expected. I welled with admiration for my Aunt: who knew that the
little girl she pointed out cows to on the side of the road so many years ago,
would today be trusted with saving their lives? I sunk inside thinking of my
Georgia peaches: my heart aches for the sight of them. I gasped and cried out
at the first sight of the mountains: it had been 8 years, and they were
not-surprisingly, still blue. I panicked at the exit for the Southeast Arena:
old friends I haven’t seen in years, and I debated on stopping or not. It’s
been years, so I didn’t stop. Georgia seems at this point to embody everything
that I wanted, and nothing that I will get. Never before has a dream been so
close as literally next door, and yet so far away.
By the time I made it to the Dalton exit, I was emotionally
drained. Songs had come on the radio at just the right time - hurting me, and
healing me. Memories I had forgotten revealed themselves as I drove. I was
tired. I stopped to pee in the McDonalds at Dalton, before heading the back
road to Erin’s house in Tennessee. In fact, I was looking forward to Tennessee,
hoping for a feeling of relief, of coming home. It was like the last three
yards of an underwater swim, lungs burning for air but not wanting to breathe
for fear of drowning.
In the bathroom, I met someone that changed my feeling, just
as I was hoping for. Upon exiting the stall and heading to the sink, an elderly
lady asked if I was from “around here.” “No ma’am,” I told her, but asked where
she was trying to go.
“I’m on my way to see my great grand-baby be born!” her eyes
lit up. “I’m trying to see how close I am to this hospital.” She pulled out
some hand written notes and I pulled out my iPhone. I did a Google search; she
confirmed what her notes said. I showed her a map of how far she had to go, and
she giggled at the technology. 10 minutes later she was on her way to catch
that baby, but before she left, she told me how blessed she was to be 77 years
old with 6 GREAT grandchildren! I told her I needed to hurry and catch up to
the count! (AWESOME people)
Rolling through the low country on the back highway to Erin’s,
I started to feel it all melt away. I celebrated surviving the great state of
Georgia at the Tennessee state line. I handed a $20 to a homeless man that
looked like he felt awful just to have to be standing there.
I don’t know. It’s a process. Tomorrow I will leave the comfort
of I-75 and venture out into the unknown, my own untraveled path. More spirits,
more heartaches await me, I know. I just ask for the guidance to make it to the
other side.
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