More often than not, we went west

In the early 90s, my dad would sign up for these extra programs for teachers, Which gave us enough extra money to take vacations. While he spent his after-school hours in teachers' meetings I sat at the brand new computers that some grant money for the school had acquired. That’s where I found chess. 

As with any beginning, I was completely unaware of how to play and rarely captured a piece. But the pieces in Chess Master 2000 saunter across the board while wielding medieval weapons, so it made losing bearable enough to continue. I played Dad for a while but he became less enthusiastic as my win streak increased. I’d always prefer to play with a human sitting across the board from me. 

More often than not, we went west on these vacations. West always meant long drives and unimaginable natural beauty along the way. I’d stare at the Rand McNally atlas and track our progress. A keen eye out the Ford Windstar window for any green or brown road sign. Green to find my location on the atlas page and brown to figure out what crucial historical event occurred near where I was sitting. 

I’ve more photographs from that vacation than I do of vivid memories of the salt lake or the salt flats. It was a delight to see that some of those photos worked well for the album artwork of I Promise to be Brave. Otherwise, my attachment to the area was only vague recollections of folks floating on the water with ease and the sounds of gulls overhead. But I’ve thought of it often and desired to return as an adult. 

Last year I was able to play shows in Utah and I took the opportunity to wander around the Great Salt Lake again. The water had receded nearly a quarter of a mile and there were far fewer visitors than I recalled as a kid. After meandering down the salt beach for a while, I set up my chessboard on a picnic table and FaceTimed a friend. She set hers up in Des Moines and we traded pieces across the board for about thirty minutes.

It’s a seventeen-hour drive home from Salt Lake City. That evening I drove under an October Hunter’s Moon and I thought a lot about my different trips to Utah over the years. Their differences and similarities. My differences and similarities. I thought a lot about the things that had led me back to that lake and back to games of chess. And how happy I was in that moment on the picnic table.

What or where captures your imagination again and again?

Troubadour Tales: I

Troubadour Tales: I

November, 2022

Des Moines, Iowa: 3:30 am Friday

In the spirit of the guerrillas and gangsters I’ve spent so much time reading about, I traveled light and mostly at night. 

Appleton, Wisconsin Noon Friday

I had the opportunity to play the Fox Valley Roots Festival in Appleton Wisconsin. I kicked the day off with a set at noon and visited with other artists in the greenroom. Dave Gibson runs the music hall and The Mile of Music Festival each year. We chatted about the venue and our mutual acquaintances in the midwest music scene. It’s always fun to see your pals’ names on flyers in places you play.

Chicago, Illinois: Friday Evening

As is customary when in Chicago, there was good and meaningful conversion over a few drinks at a dive bar. Chicago always makes sure to throw a few locals and their flare my way. I’m always along for the ride. This time it ranged from tragic stories of loss to an unsolicited story about DMT. A few hours of sleep and I was headed east on 80 ahead of the sun.

Columbiana, Ohio: Saturday Afternoon

After the show and the van was loaded, I had intended to drive a few hours and then sleep in a rest area somewhere in Pennsylvania. I’m glad I didn’t. 

I sat at the bar for a pint and met my new best friend from Ohio. His name is Dick and he’s a retired geologist. He’s lived all over the world doing geology things. I learned about the Australian Outback and Scotland and Wisconsin. After he retired, Dick pursued all his interests. After an unexpected meeting with an Alaskan Malamute years back, he’s now got a small sled and dog team. We shared about our captivation as kids of the Iditarod Trail. Maybe one day I’ll still get to ride one of those sleds.

Dick has a sailboat up on a lake in Wisconsin. Sounds like he spends a good chunk of the summer sailing about. He’s not much into fishing. We had opposite experiences with fishing as kids, and I can almost picture his boredom at the age I was aching to fish. 

His debut on the community play stage was Miracle on 34th Street. You’d never guess which character he played. I told him that it sounded like he’d lived a very full life. He looked me in the eye and said “it sounds like you have. And you got started before me.” At the time I shrugged it off, but I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it since. 

I took off from the brewery and about ten miles away thought “I should have got a photo with Dick.” So, I went back and the surprise on his face was more than worth the added effort.Alway got back for the photo.

Sometimes the places I want to travel to keep me up at night. I figured this would be no different with tantalizing options for adventure so near to my path the following day.So I headed toward New York City.

Manhattan, New York: 6:45 Sunday morning

The outskirts and suburbs of most major U.S. cities look pretty similar, but once you approach the George Washington Bridge there’s no doubt Manhattan is near. I strolled around Central Park for a couple of hours as folks were still ending their Saturday nights and others were starting their Sundays. In that amount of time I was able to compile a sizable list of subjects regarding New York City history that I’ll be scouring used book stores for. I loaded my curiosity into the Honda Odyssey and drove to New Jersey via the Holland Tunnel.

Cream Ridge, New Jersey Noon Sunday

The fine folks at the New Egypt Flea Market sure do know how to make a fella feel welcome a thousand miles from home. It was the kind of fortifying experience you need before you start a seventeen hour trek home. Mike sent me with plenty of Pineridge Coffee beans and the vendors made sure I wouldn’t need any gas station food for most of the drive. After the show I heard about their experiences growing up in New Jersey so near to historic venues and bands. I couldn’t imagine being so near to the heartbeat of the music I loved at that age. To bookend the east coast run I took a few minutes on the Asbury Park beach and boardwalk to gaze at the Atlantic. In less than twelve months, music has taken me from Venice Beach to the Jersey Shore and this country mouse from Missouri is pretty proud.

Des Moines, Iowa: Monday Evening

1,100 miles and then I was home. I’d only change one thing about the drive. Unfortunately, both passes through the Alleghenies were at night, and next time I’d sure like to see them.

“You’re either headed somewhere or you’re ending up somewhere.”

We're just trying to be more than burnt out cigarettes.

Photo Credit: Sam Battaglia

It’s been a long couple of years, but I’m starting to feel like I’m getting back into the swing of this life. The last few months have been full of reminders about how important the human connections I’ve found are to me. When I’m home I long for mountains, rivers, new cities, battlefields, and even rest areas, but the folks along the way really mean the world to me. I couldn’t pick one single location to ever stay too stationary, so maybe I’ll just live in them all. As I’ve been hitting the southern interstates the last few days I’ve been reflecting on so many of  my friends. From Ames to Los Alamos and Sacramento to Tampa there are so many humans who hold space in my head and heart. 

There have been too many visits (and French 75s) in Salina to possibly keep them all sorted. But I was pretty well sold from the crawfish boil I first played. The last time in town we had to have broken the weight limit for that front porch. I’d swear there were 30 folks on it. Guitars, cello, jimbe, neighborhood cats, and so much laughter you couldn’t hear a single instrument. I remember thinking “THIS is my job.” I’ve had a grin on my face since that evening a few weeks ago and I might be pining for Kansas a bit.

“Well, you’ve pretty much met all the best scumbags in Salina, Kanas.” - K. J.

Following a show in Rapid City we collected our group and prepared pork chops for a grill as a light but determined sprinkle began. The garage lounge was filled with stories and laughter. Stories of cherished vinyl collections and how they were acquired. Tales of concerts attended and Black Hills driving adventures still ring in my mind as if it were yesterday, but I need to get back to the hills.

“How about you tell me and we’ll both know?” R.R.

In Memphis we grilled in the backyard where bamboo has been thriving so well that they donate it to the pandas at the zoo. We sat on the patio and talked about our journey of music discovery since our youth. Discussions of Texas infrastructure and urban gentrification were punctuated by Memphis gunshots across the city. Chris shared some of his vinyl collection while we played a few games of chess over a few old fashioned. I reckon we’ve got a Mississippi River run to do in 2023. 

These adventures are so much more than shows. I’ve run out of fingers and toes to count the places that feel like home. I’m very grateful that so many of you have allowed me to pop into your lives and communities over the years. For everyone who has willingly let me be your couch kid a few times a year, THANK YOU. The time with you is never as plentiful as I’d like, but we sure do have a grand time with what we have. And to those who have helped make sure that my vehicle woes didn’t prevent me from getting to my shows, THANK YOU. Y’all keep me going. 

This machine is powered by one cup of coffee and one gallon of fuel at a time!

These boots of mine

Photo: Sam Battaglieri

There’s a hole in the side of a hill down the Old Wire Road in southwest Missouri called Ash Cave. As a kid, we passed that cave every time we drove into town. I recall it being unnerving. The unknown of the darkness was terrifying. Maybe it was all the Mark Twain I consumed as a kid, or just sheer curiosity, I still wanted to explore it. One day I finally got the nerve to walk the mile and a half down the creek to the cave entrance. Inside the first partially open room were the remains of a pickup truck. It had received the worst of someone's weekend revenge, little was left but a charred frame and shattered glass. The second room held candles arranged purposefully for some sort of ritual. I’ve spent more time in that small cavern since then, even slept in it a time or two. The opening is always more ominous and foreboding in my mind than it ever is in person. Somehow I’ve never been able to remove the dramatic view and meaning I gave it in my youth. 

Concord Cemetery is nestled down a series of Barry County backroads. I’m not entirely confident I can find it by memory again, but I’m going to try soon. There were always deep cut ruts down the center of the last road. Thick red clay mixed with sharp jagged rocks protruding from the ground like they wanted to lay in the sun. At the end of that road sat a few dozen graves, some of which dated back before the Civil War. Many of the stones had fallen victim to time or vandalism. The cemetery also held numerous tales of ghostly experiences. Most of which can be heard about any other rural American graveyard, but youth is full of intrigue and quick emotions, and my friends and I certainly had the shit scared out of us at times.  

A few years back I became blatantly aware of how much the cold Iowa winter wore me down. I’d luckily booked a tour down to Kentucky and back through St. Louis. The change in latitude was just enough to catch the first blooms of spring. This was yet weeks before Iowa would see it’s first signs of thaw and spring. I roamed the Bellefontaine Cemetery in St. Louis for a few hours. Missouri writers and senators are buried there, as well as William Clark and Adolphus Busch. The sprawling grounds are kept immaculate, and you forget you’re standing between the Mississippi River and a major metropolitan area. Perhaps it was the new and old of springtime in that graveyard, but I felt alive. 

I’ve read more books about Civil War battlefields than I care to admit. Throughout the years I’ve managed to put my boots on the soil of many. They’re often serene and spectacular tracks of land. From elementary school libraries to lonely archives, I’ve read stories from those who saw or studied the tragic events of these sites. Those facts still don’t betray the beauty found at Shiloh or Gettysburg. Yet, my mind sees artillery and infantry: humans doing their damndest to destroy other humans. I can better relate to the conflict of the past than the peace of the present. I’m comfortable in conflict and chaos, that was the setting for a lot of my early years. I’m trying to be better at sitting with peace.  

I acquired some western dust on my boots last week with my dear friend, Jordan. We roamed the Black Hills and some not so empty ghost towns in Colorado. It was both far more a gathering of shacks than any kind of town and far less vacant than “ghost” would imply. That seemed like the perfect imagery of my mind: a very active ghost town.

THE SNOW CLIMBED DOWN

Winters in the Ozarks aren’t nearly as harsh as the ones I’ve come to know in central Iowa. Folks up north scoff at southern drives in snowstorms, but bare in mind, our roads are rather dangerous even in ideal conditions. Over the years the old snaking logging roads turned into paved roads that require keen observation to navigate.

Grandma lived half a mile down the road from my childhood home. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday she served bacon, eggs, and flakey biscuits. Tuesday and Thursday were biscuits and gravy with sausage patties. Saturdays, pancakes and waffles, and Sundays we ate breakfast rice.

Our snow day started with refilling the wood box by the cast-iron fireplace. I used to spit on the top just to watch it sizzle away into oblivion. We drove our 88 Dodge Ram Charger over and ate the appropriate breakfast for the day of the week. Second-hand Carhartts were wrapped around to keep a body warm.

The old Ford farm truck was an odd combination of mustard yellow, rust, and mud. The heater never warmed up to a sufficient temperature, which didn’t much matter, as I spent most of my time riding in the back. We would lower the hay spike on the back of the truck, spike a round hay bale, and take it to the top of a hill. Few things are as fun as shoving a round bale of hay down a hill. After a few rotations downhill the bale lost all control and careened over or through most obstacles.

I don’t know how many hours I spent in the barn pictured above. With the imagination of a young boy, the barn became a rallying point for the 101st Airborne in northern France in 1944. When the snow covered the ground, it became Bastogne.  I could bend my surroundings to fit the narrative of any historic setting I desired. That barn was the equivalent of a treehouse from all the 90’s kid movies I grew up with. It was an escape from reality and a refuge from the elements.

One particularly bad ice storm sums up life on an Ozarks farm. Across the lower field from grandmas house sat one of our steepest hills. Debris often rolled down the hill, took the 20-foot drop into Flat Creek, and began its journey downstream. The cattle had found cover under a cedar tree grove on that hill. The incline proved too much for their hooves, and we watched as our main source of income slide off that hill toward the creek. There was nothing to be done, other than watch the bovine bobsleds make their decent.

All the animals survived the fall and began walking up the creek toward the safety of the barn. Except for one. She climbed out of the creek bank and started across the field toward the barn. While her way was shorter than the rest of the herd, the ice prevented her from a speedy journey. This ice storm had caused such slick conditions that we had to wear socks on the outside of our boots just to gain traction. She fell on the ice and could not regain her legs. We pushed, pulled, and asked politely, but she could gain no purchase. Then I asked if we should put socks on the cow. Which we did. It didn’t work but after some more coaxing, and the addition of ashes from the woodstove as an abrasive, she made her way to the rest of the herd in the barn.

In my youth, nature made life harder; the same goes for life as a troubadour. Shows cancel, attendance can be low, and travel is risky at best. Perhaps childhood tales of Jeremiah Johnson and Hugh Glass have fortified themselves in my psyche, making it impossible not to enjoy the danger or challenge of a Midwestern snowstorm.

-Jake

Middle West Weather

Iowa added the word “Derecho” to its vocabulary this summer. It was a storm we hadn’t experienced before and certainly didn’t know how to pronounce it. Essentially, it’s an inland hurricane. Parts of the state experienced 140 mph winds during a massive thunderstorm. Some of our population are living in tents with their families. Folks will one day speak of August 10, 2020, with the same hushed voices that we speak of the Flood of ‘93.

I moved away from Joplin the year prior to the destructive tornado in 2011. A crew of friends went down with three carloads of donations. Folks had donated clothes and diapers, toothpaste, and bottled water. I worked at a home improvement store at the time. The morning after the tornado hit Joplin, the first words out of everyone’s mouths were “How can we help?” After gathering resources and people, we drove south from I-35 to I-49. 

Two days of watching social media and trying to contact friends gave little preparation for the destruction in the town I felt like I’d spent a lot of time growing up in. I got lost. Driving down Main Street I found myself to be five blocks from where I thought I was. The buildings were gone, and only piles of rubble existed. It was eerily similar to images of bombed-out European cities after World War II. I realized my miscalculation in location when I passed what used to be a Sonic. The slanted concrete curbs for parking stalls exposed the error in my sense of location. 

Donations of time and resources flooded into Joplin. The problem was still getting those to the folks in need. Near a venue that’d I’d played punk festivals just a few years before, massive tents went up. Semi-trucks of donations rolled in. Nobody was in charge, but everyone found a role to fill. The American Red Cross set up camp near our grassroots distribution center, and our parking lots became a hub. Joplin is an old mining town, right in the middle of the United States. It’s no surprise that the generosity of the midwest and beyond would come flowing into the county the moment enough trees had been cleared from roads.

The following year, Moore, Oklahoma experienced one of its many tornados. To the best of my knowledge, that was the first time I’d paid attention while driving through Moore. Boats were hanging in trees that’d been stripped of their leaves and young branches. Their branches looked like they were reaching toward the sky and asking for help while expecting none. A family searched through their rubble, clearly searching for something specific. They explained that the crumbled pickup truck one hundred yards beyond the house foundation hadn’t been slowed down by the second floor of the house.

Somewhere in what remained of their home, and the remnants of dozens of other homes, they hoped to find a small safe. They had a few thousand dollars tucked away for hard times. While that’s not much to some, to these folks it gave them confidence in their ability to start over. As our group began sorting through as best we could, others joined the effort. Skid loaders showed up and moved large chunks of debris. Those of us on the ground kept eyes on the bucket loads for anything resembling a safe. Two hours into the endeavor, one of us kicked at the top of a washing machine, to find that they were standing on the safe. 

When the derecho hit Iowa on August 10, many of the Iowans in my circles had already had a hell of a year. Perhaps the presidential primaries should have been an indication for the year to come. Service industry and musician friends have been struggling to stay afloat since bars and breweries have been sporadically closed. On top of all that, folks were trying to keep the safety of others in mind as they move about. That storm really threw a curve into an already turbulent year for many folks.  After a few days without electricity, neighbors stepped up to help each other. Line crews from across the continent worked tirelessly to restore power. In the meantime, grocery stores and food trucks provided food for those without, rather than letting food spoil. When you live with Middle West weather, you grow accustomed to helping your neighbors in times of need. Keep helping each other, friends, there’s always more weather coming. 

And it would’t be so cold if it weren’t for that damn wind.

I Promise To Be Brave

I’ve earned all the holes in my clothes and my shoes.

Photo Credit: Sam Battaglieri

Grandpa Jake was a tough man who showed few emotional cards. My dad recalls one of the few times he ever saw Grandpa afraid. With a blade attached under the somehow still running John Deere, Grandpa was moving dirt on a steep incline above our house. I’m not sure if the tire shifted or the earth just gave way, but that tractor acted like it wanted to roll. Kids back home grow up with horror stories of tractors rolling over their operators on Ozark hills. Control was regained but the twenty seconds or so that Grandpa fought for balance felt like a slow-burning fuse. 

Folks in Iowa occasionally see a big cat in the wild and social media blows up about the sighting. That’s a pretty common occurrence back on the farm. Neighbors regularly called each other regarding sightings of mountain lions or the livestock they’d harassed. Hearing about them and HEARING them are two very different experiences. We set up our tents one summer evening, near the creek, and under a huge hedge tree. Well after the fire had robbed us of any ability to distinguish shapes in the dark with our eyes, our hearing picked up new details. Deer and raccoons often ran by our site when we camped on the creek, but that night the activity was heightened. Like a crack of lighting you didn’t expect, a cat screamed. If the sun had been out I’m confident we could have seen it. “Scream” is the best way to describe what a mountain lion sounds like. It’s wild, maniacal, and you can feel it to your bones. We remained unharmed, but nobody could stop hearing that scream on repeat in their minds. 

My first band was woefully unprepared for the first show I booked. We had practiced for a few months but hadn’t tightened up a set. I had been driving past what had been an abandoned mechanic shop. “All Ages Music Venue” had recently been spray-painted on the front door. I whipped the car around and marched inside. They were painting and making sure all fire hazards were adequately hidden from view of a fire marshall. I said I had a band that would like to play, and they offered a slot on the opening night. In two days. 

Were we ready? Not really. 

Did we make it work? We did.

Three of our friends showed up at 6 pm to see us play. At 2 am, when we finally played, our band and our three friends were all that remained. I’m not even sure where the owners had staggered off to. It was rough, messy, and maybe the start of this obsession. We kept practicing and booking shows. We met great friends in other bands and opened for some of our heroes along the way, but it started with being terrified. 

When life holds a water hose to your face and says learn to swim or sink, all you can do is flail about and hope for the best. I could blame a worldwide pandemic for that feeling, but truthfully I can’t remember not feeling like I was flailing about. I prefer chess to poker. I enjoy calculation more than chance, but in life, I’ve always found reasons to gamble on my silly ideas. Sometimes it’s difficult to find the data to support the gamble when the gamble is you, but here we are. Perhaps I need to join a group for gambling addiction.  

I’ve worn the soles out of my boots. I found out just the other day when Iowa got our first snow of the year. My wet socks were the first to announce the findings. My last record talked about putting miles under me. It’s time for new boots, and it’s time for a new album of songs. I’ve been writing these songs over the last year and a half. They’ve been inspired by struggles and victories that others have shared with me. Usually on a porch, after a show, with whiskey or boxed wine. I find myself repeating those conversations in my head as I travel to the next dive bar on tour. 

I’m excited to hit the studio in November. I’ve been throwing these melodies and lyrics together on stage for a while, and I can’t wait to have my friends bring them to life. 

At the end of the day, I’m honored to share some notes from front porch conversations with incredible people. I’ll try not to throw in too much of my own interstate ruminating. 

Civil War Club

1993

Shell Knob Elementary

Upon returning to school after summer vacation, we participated in the ritual of sharing about our experiences the last three months. There were always a few stories of far away places and plenty more of lake stories. When you grow up near Table Rock Lake, there isn’t always a large urge to travel elsewhere for serenity. At the beginning of my 8th grade year, I finally had my “ultimate summer vacation” story: Gettysburg. 

Gettysburg wasn’t the Disney vacation most kids wanted. I’ve always been an odd duck like that. When we finally got satellite television I was most excited for the History Channel. This was back when they had actual history content, instead of reality television lightly coated in a slight shade of knowledge. Standing at Culp’s Hill or on Little Round Top at Gettysburg was far more important to me than any ride or amusement experience. 

I acted up in school a lot. I was bored, or so they say. Learning was never the problem, that’s a hobby of mine. My problem was the “what” and “how” of learning that didn’t align with my active brain. While talking during class, the teacher called me out.

“Would you like to teach the class?”

“As a matter of fact, yes I would.” My smart ass gladly accepted the task. We were finally talking about the Civil War, be it very briefly, and I was stoked. There were only two times that the Civil War came up in curriculum between kindergarten and eighth grade. The first was fifth grade, and I had been invited back each year after to talk to younger classes about my passion for history. 

So I got my day to teach my class on the Civil War. I came up with outlines, and we even took class outside. I organized them into lines of battle to better understand how Civil War battles moved. I don’t think I cared about school as much as I did that day until graduate school. I had tried to share my love of history with my classmates for years. Do you know how hard it is to get most elementary school kids to care about boring old history? Do you know how hard it is to get them to join your Civil War Club? I sure do. Damn near impossible. My first academic history attempt was a failure. Nobody showed up. Apparently recess on the playground was more fun than sitting in the library to look at black and white photos of battlefields and army encampments. 

When I finally decided to go to college, graduate school was the logical choice. I didn’t have a desire to willingly put myself in a position to receive the karma I deserved for my hellion years. I knew I wanted to teach history. I longed for an excuse to travel and dig through archives. Then I wanted to share what I found with the masses! What a lovely thought. 

I studied guerrilla warfare, specifically in the American Civil War after my undergraduate. I studied folks who realized that doing things the “normal” way just wasn’t for them. While guerrilla ideals vary wildly (let’s grab a pint and I can tell you about ALL of them!), the concept of forging one's own path is prevalent. I miss aspects of grad school and academia. The intellectual boxing ring can be a lot of fun, but I like my creative freedom. I know I SHOULD finish my master’s, but I think I’ll just start a guerrilla history podcast, instead. 

Not that starting kindergarten during a pandemic is a good gauge, but I’m seeing the early signs of boredom in my own kiddo. We’ve focused on two goals: taking care of others and knowing when to do things the standard way, and when to do them your own way.

-Jake

*If you find yourself with the means and desire to contribute to this journey, please follow the link. Want to buy me a cup of coffee a month for $3? Great! Want to drop $20 in the tip jar? Great! Any bit helps and goes to creating and sharing the journey and sharing that adventure with you. Thanks so much for your time!

Woody Guthrie Center - Tulsa, Oklahoma

I think Woody Guthrie thought of the world as a beautiful place, even in tragedy. His music and story have influenced my own writing and life over the years. I wasn’t sure how I would feel standing among artifacts of his life, I’ve always sought connections with historic items and places. An early guitar Woody gave to Arlo is on display, with numerous other mandolins, banjos, and artwork. Handwritten copies of This Land is Your Land, I Ain’t Got No Home, and Grand Coulee Dam adorn the walls between Woody’s political doodles. After a couple of hours I understood something new about Woody: he was just a man. The only thing that set him apart was his effort to make the journey a little more bearable for folks.

I spent ten minutes in an Oklahoma dust storm, thanks to the help of virtual reality. I sat on the mock front porch and placed the VR system on. A voice spoke the journal of a first hand account of a typical dust bowl storm. I’m not technologically savvy, and I was certain the jack rabbit I saw was going to jump in my lap.

“Flocks of birds raced ahead of the dust cloud. The smallest ones died first.”

Birds fell all around my Oklahoma porch.

The sun got hazy. Windows rattled. I could taste the dust and almost feel it invading my lungs. More birds.

The storm was close enough now that I could see how quickly it was moving. Just before it shrouded my porch and me, a car swerved down the road toward my home. The driver lost all visibility and careened into a fence post. The poor man struggled against the wind trying to find shelter as if it were a Minnesota blizzard. He wandered helplessly in and out of the barely visible head lights of his vehicle as he finally disappeared in the cloud.

I’ve always been drawn to historic sites and artifacts. Often I find myself wandering a Civil War battlefield or staring at weapons created for the destruction of humanity. To be around Woody’s guitars and seeing his own hand, brought a hope over the place. Even with the startling step into the Dust Bowl, peace and hope ruminate on every aspect of the exhibits.

I believe that Woody was a sensitive soul who wanted to help folks get by. Every tragedy, joy, challenge, and victory he felt deeply and carried a collective sorrow with him but proudly and with purpose. The Woody Guthrie Center also promotes community, in the same way it’s namesake did. They organize music on the lawn for the warm months and traveling exhibits that highlight other musicians in the folk world. Of all the pilgrimages I’ve taken, this one may have been the most comforting.