big fat sack of yes

(somewhere in idaho)

this time last year, we were on the road. we were wondering if we were going to make it. this time last year, we were contemplating what our new life might be like out in the great pacific northwest. this time last year, our lives were sort of up in the air.

on our way out of atlanta, I decided to keep a different kind of journal-- one to hold the small, more forgettable details of our days on the road, one that would give gas station food and fluctuating grouchiness as much attention as the majestic nature of the mountains we'd no doubt soon all be oohing and aahing over. something about this decision liberated me. I didn't feel pressure to document every profound moment. instead, I wrote about spicy guacamole pringles, strange roadside signs and the music we listened to. I wrote about the way some hotels smelled like chlorine (and how much I loved that) and the advantages and disadvantages of sleeping fully clothed. because I'd given myself permission to write whatever and whenever I wanted (or not), I suddenly wanted to write all the time. and that's what I did. if I wasn't messing with the camera, I was writing stuff down. one year later and I've had more fun reading these entries than I could have ever predicted. which inspired list-making, of course. almost everything in my life seems to lead to list-making.


(gas station in tennessee)


(somewhere in utah)

not missing:

gas stations that smell like burnt coffee

sleeping through the night fully clothed (denim skirts especially not recommended)

thinking you're going to see the world's largest prairie dog when, in fact, you are not

pimply, distracted teenage restaurant workers who pretend they are listening while they are taking your order

children who want bacon and ranch-flavored pringles for breakfast

entire towns that smell like dog food

toys that wedge themselves into the tight spaces between seats inside cars and cannot be retrieved, no matter how ingenious the retrieving contraption is

gas station bathrooms that destroy all faith in humanity

missed opportunities, i.e. deliciously odd roadside attractions that look like old wooden dutch mills and boast views of six states

crusty old men who give your son a penny and then tell him to go 'buy himself a beer'

sharing tiny hotel swimming pools with the splash-happy twins

incorrect apostrophe usage on roadside billboards-- most notably, the porn shop in the middle of nowhere called PASSION'S

bad songs that get stuck in your head and won't go away because, you know, it's hard out here for a pimp

book lights that do not illuminate the desired reading area AT ALL

hotels that look nice in the picture but then feel inexplicably creepy once you check in

waking up in a dark hotel room at three in the morning to the sounds of high-pitched screaming and the shattering of glass, wondering what to do first-- call the police or pack up and flee

toy gumball machines that absolutely do not deliver anything even remotely close to the goods

meltdowns in laramie, wyoming



(on the road in kansas)


(ava in the great state of oregon)


totally missing:

so many freshly opened boxes of crayons

enormous bundles of balloons that break free and escape from car dealerships

kitschy gift shops that cause you to lose all reason and purchase totally unnecessary souvenir items

listening to sufjan's come on feel the illinoise while driving through my home state of illinois

finding four leaf clovers at the base of the st. louis arch

friends that lovingly make you home-cooked meals and let you crash at their house for the night

the permission to: eat mcdonald's hotcakes every morning, buy as many trashy gossip magazines as necessary

wide open turquoise-colored skies

walmart greeters that wear hats made of feathers

made-up stories about freddy and fern and the bicycle that goes nowhere

traveling along the original route 66

the sharing of pink frosted cupcakes with one 96 year-old birthday girl

bare feet propped comfortably (and permanently) up on the dashboard

traveling on roads that feel as if they were dropped from the sky into the narrow crevices of magnificent mountains

the tails of stale marshmallow peeps

jared's good morning (and good night) mixes

outstretched arms, windswept hair

views so scenic you have no choice but to put down your book and stare out the window (DARN YOU, UTAH)

extra-fine black pilot pens

late night dips in illuminated indoor swimming pools

ripping into mystery care packages put together by family and friends

freshly filled buckets of hotel ice

things worth excitedly pointing out: shoes hung like christmas ornaments on trees, one very slow moving tumbleweed, the world's largest pair of underwear, spectacular snow-capped mountains, entire lengths of trains, wind farms, moss (like supernatural chartreuse carpet) covering absolutely everything in sight, fantastic waterfalls

waking up in a dark hotel room at three in the morning to hear the sounds of family sleeping soundly, deeply

the crossing of each and every state line