West on the Five Oh

Note: I wrote the following for a Toastmasters Ice Breaker speech. I have not delivered the speech yet, but I want to post it here anyway. If you're in the Toastmasters club and you read it here first, just act surprised. Nobody will know.

Come with me on a trip. We are going to the Midwest. We are going to my home. I'll have you know I've built some wonderfully enduring friendships just sitting and facing the same direction with people for hours on end.

From Annapolis, we’ll head west on Route 50. We’ll wiggle through Washington DC, nip through Winchester Virginia, and wind our way through the peaks and valleys of West Virginia. At Parkersburg, we’ll cross the Ohio River and enter the Buckeye State. Now it's rolling hills and farmland from Athens to Chillicothe to Cincinnati. Cincinnati--that's two Cs, three Ns, three I’s and all that's left is “at.” But we're not done. We're getting warm. We just passed through Seymour, the birthplace of John Cougar Mellencamp. Oh yeah, life goes on!

At the small town of Bedford, we’ll turn south. You’ve probably already seen parts of Bedford. Limestone from the Bedford area is part of the National Cathedral, the Biltmore estate, the Empire State building, and the Pentagon. You see, things along Route 50 travel east, too. We can't stop yet. We need to go through Shoals, famous for its Jug Rock, Luhgo-dee (it looks like it should be pronounced Loo Goo Tee, but trust me on this), Montgomery and its extensive Amish community, and finally – Washington, Indiana.

We've gone 699 miles and we are at the intersection of Routes 50 and 57. I was born here and first lived south of town in an area called Possum Holler. Possum Holler was roughly halfway between Cumback and Lickskillet. It was all back roads leading to gravel roads leading to river bottoms and it was filled with family history. My great-grandfather built the house where we lived. The family business was hybrid seed corn and purebred Angus cattle. We all attended a small Methodist Church not 3 miles away and for us shopping meant either a trip into town or an hour's travel to Evansville.

When I was 10, we moved just north of town. Our southern fence row was the city limit, so we could do outlandish things like burn our trash and not get in trouble. The new house was still old. It was built in the 1930s. I was built at the very end of the 1950s and I arrived in 1960. On my mom and dad's wedding anniversary. True story. I hope he got her a card, too.

Washington is—or was—a farming town of 12,000 people. It was a wonderful place to grow up. We could ride our bikes anywhere. We belonged. We belonged to 4-H clubs, church youth groups, Future Farmers of America chapters, community athletic teams, Cub Scouts, Brownies, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, the local YMCA, and to each other. In a small town, like it or not, you belong to each other.

We had our difficulties. Like traffic. In the planting or harvest season, farm equipment moving from field to field could add 10 minutes to what was already a 15-minute commute. And weather. The humid summers could make bales of alfalfa hay feel like blocks of limestone as we heaved them onto a wagon.

So I left. I'd had four years of high school French and I didn't need to be told by anybody what to do. I knew this exotic language and I was ready to travel and visit foreign lands. So, I joined the Air Force, where I got at least half of what I most wanted. It wasn't the be-my-own-boss half either. I definitely had somebody telling me what to do. Lots of somebodies, in fact. On the bright side, I visited two foreign places within my first year of service, Texas and California. Then I came to Maryland, the very end of Route 50. Here I found a series of careers. I've been a soldier, a ceramic tile salesman, a Government civilian employee, a technical writer, a copywriter, an electrician, a junk hauler, a business analyst, a manager, and some of those things several times.

Along the way, I've been a Methodist, a Mormon, a Baptist, a non-denominationalist (that's a person who doesn't like labels) and I've been fascinated in conversations with friends who are Buddhists, Muslims, atheists, or pagans. These experiences were not available on my western piece of Route 50.

I've also been a brother, a husband, a father, a son, a friend, a stranger, and that guy. You know that guy. Well, you don't know that guy, but this little chat should help resolve that. At least now you have a better idea what to ask. And please do. Be forewarned, I'd rather listen than talk. I’m predisposed to think you’re pretty interesting. But now we have a starting point for a conversation. And some of the very best relationships start with a road trip.