Tag: road trip

• November 23, 2022

  The Many Faces of Thanksgiving

  

  Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. A time of family, of food, of rest — what’s not to love? For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been the holiday I most look forward to as the days grow shorter and the leaves change. But my relationship with Thanksgiving has evolved over the years along with my understanding of its history and the many twists and turns in my own life.

  The Early Years

  Ah, the ’90s. The carefree years of Bill Clinton, the Fresh Prince, boy bands, and Tamagotchis (mine was a T-Rex, in case you were wondering). As a kid, Thanksgiving was synonymous with some of my favorite things: my mom’s pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce from a can and sliced into perfect gelatinous discs, time off from school. Once or twice, we flew to the East Coast to celebrate with my extended family. In my memories of those visits, I can see all my cousins, aunts, uncles, and my grandmother gathered around a long table and I can still feel that sense of awe and wonder I felt at seeing trees change color, which they decidedly did not do in the desert Southwest. This was also the time in my life when I was first introduced to the classic telling of the Thanksgiving story through pageants and events at school where we would fashion feather headdresses and buckled hats out of construction paper.

  The Years of Pilgrimage

  I was in my high school U.S. history class when I first encountered the idea that the Thanksgiving story of kind-hearted Native Americans offering food to the hungry Plymouth colonists was a fabrication. Was there a feast at some point? Possibly, but the whole story reeks of colonial ideas of manifest destiny and obscures a complicated political reality. By the time the English settlers arrived in what is now Massachusettes, the native tribes, Wampanoags and the Narragansetts, already had a century of experience dealing with Europeans. When the Wampanoag chief offered an alliance to the new arrivals, it was with an eye toward securing a political and military advantage over their rivals. What neither tribe realized at the time was that disease, war, and wave upon wave of immigrants from Europe would decimate their people and drive them out of their ancestral lands. When Christopher Columbus sailed into the Caribbean in 1492, there were an estimated 54 million indigenous people populating every corner of the Americas. By 1650, only 6 million remained.

  During college, my immediate family moved to Nevada. Each year at the end of November, I made the drive from Flagstaff to Las Vegas, a journey of four and a half hours each way down Interstate 40. The solitude of those Thanksgiving drives left me with lots of time to enjoy the scenery, listen to music, and think. In many ways, those few years of making the pilgrimage to my parents’ house are some of the most memorable and meaningful Thanksgiving celebrations of my life. It was never just a meal. It was a homecoming, a chance to reconnect, a return to family I only saw a few times a year. Pumpkin pie has never tasted so good.

  The Years of New Traditions

  These days, I live over a thousand miles from my family, but I’ve also gained family along the way. I’m married and we have a child of our own. Now, we alternate our Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations. Thanksgivings with my in-laws are different than the ones I grew up with and wonderful in their own way, with multiple turkeys cooked many ways, leftovers transformed into Turkle Burgles, and long walks through the woods. I’ve added bits and pieces of my family’s traditions to the mix, including our world-famous stuffing balls.

  I’m not sure what Thanksgiving traditions our daughter grow up with, but I hope we can give her memories she’ll cherish all her life. I also hope she’ll be able to accept two truths which at first glance many seem contradictory — that Thanksgiving is both a beautiful tradition of gathering around good food with friends and family and that the myth of Thanksgiving whitewashes an ugly truth about oppression and genocide that is a part of the American story. That’s something we all must reckon with, not to feel guilty about the actions of our ancestors but to reorient ourselves toward acts that heal and l contribute to bending the long moral arc of the universe toward justice.

  So, this week, I will remember all the Thanksgivings that have led to this one and be thankful that I am here, now, in this place, with this family. Wherever you are in the world, I hope you find yourself this week crowded around a long table with people you care about, to share a meal and share stories and just be together.

  Oh, and do me a favor — save me a slice of pumpkin pie.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and podcaster in Tacoma, WA. His work has appeared in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. You can follow him on Twitter, join his mailing list, and listen to his audio drama, The Adventures of Captain Radio, wherever you enjoy podcasts. Want to hear this blog post in podcast form? Subscribe to Dispatches with Jonny Eberle.

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  Bonus: Thanksgiving Stuffing Ball Recipe

  Prep: 20 min. | Cook: 40 min. | Total: 55 min. | Servings: 16

  Ingredients

  • 2 loaves of bread (preferably different varieties, ie. rye, sourdough, multigrain, etc. )
  • 1 cup yellow onion, diced
  • 1 ½ stalks celery, diced
  • 2-3 sticks butter
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 2 teaspoons ground sage
  • 3 eggs

  Preparation

  1. A few days before assembly, shred bread into 1-inch pieces and let dry on a baking sheet.
  2. Preheat oven to 350℉.
  3. Melt butter in a skillet over medium heat. Add onion and celery and saute until softened, about 10-15 minutes. Add salt.
  4. Sprinkle sage over onions and celery and cook until aromatic. Remove from heat.
  5. In a large mixing bowl, combine bread; onion, celery, and sage mixture; and eggs. Press into snowball-sized balls and place in a 9×13 baking dish or wrap in foil.
  6. Bake stuffing balls for 20-25 minutes or until heated through and slightly darkened in color. Serve warm.

  Note: Assembly works best if bread is dry. If mixture doesn’t hold together, add an additional egg or half stick of melted butter. Enjoy!
• June 27, 2019

  King of the Open Road

  

  Last week, I handed over the keys to my 2005 Honda Pilot to my younger sister. It was an emotional moment, because my baby sister is now old enough to drive. It was also emotional for me because I was saying farewell to an old friend. Call me sentimental, but I have a tendency to get attached to inanimate objects, and it was hard to say goodbye to my trusty companion.

  The Lone Ranger had Silver. Thor had his hammer. I had my Honda Pilot EX-L.

  My Pilot was the first car I ever bought on my own. It was the car I drove to college, the car that I used to help numerous friends move, the car that defied gravity on a steep and ill-advised passing maneuver on a one-lane desert road. It was the car I took down to Oak Creek in the summer and the car I packed with friends for a drive to the Grand Canyon at 4 a.m. to watch the sunrise.

  It was the ultimate road trip machine, including recent trips to Canada and the Oregon Coast. I loved that you could fill the back with camping gear and escape into the wilderness at a moment’s notice. It was perfect for our week-long, 1,800+ mile trip to Yellowstone with American Gods playing on CD.

  It had the world’s loudest and least effective windshield wipers (which wasn’t an issue until we moved to Washington) and it was old enough to come with a cassette tape deck, which was only used once to play the Complete James Bond Theme Songs.

  My Pilot was reliable. It never got stuck, never broke down, and never failed to start whether it was -13 degrees or 113 degrees (except for that one time at a fancy hotel when the battery and alternator died simultaneously and the valet had to jump it to get it to the parking lot…that was embarrassing).

  From the faded pirate bobble head on the dashboard to the NAU decal in the back window to the mysterious scratch on the back bumper that I still can’t explain, it was and is a great little SUV.

  

  It’s strange how a metal box on wheels can exert such a pull on the human heart, but it’s undeniable. My Pilot is a testament to the power of good design and engineering to build a thing that not only serves its intended purpose — to get people from point A to point B — but to feel almost like a living thing. Everything about it, from the rev of the engine to the feel of the steering wheel imbued it with personality.

  Perhaps that’s why cars have held a special place in the American psyche for over a hundred years. We care for them, we collect them, we fill them with memories. We spend so much time with them that it’s hard not to feel a connection with our favorite machines.

  And while it’s sad to think I won’t be climbing behind the wheel every day, I’m glad to pass it on to someone who will appreciate it. Because at the end of the day, the best thing a machine can be is useful. It’s time for it to retire to warmer climes. There’s a poetry to the fact that in the process, it will complete a 100,000-mile round trip to the city and state where I first test drove it 10 years ago. Now it can help make memories for my sisters.

  The road is long, but I have the feeling its journey is just beginning.

  

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker in Tacoma, WA and is currently in the market for a new chariot of mythic proportions to fill with memories. You can read his short fiction on Creative Colloquy and follow him on Twitter.
  
• May 28, 2014

  Sleeping Giant

  

  Today, the ridge overlooking the snow-covered northern face of Mount St. Helens is dotted with small brush, lichen and wild grass. Chipmunks dart between the rocks. Tourists take photos to post later on their Facebook profiles. But 34 years ago, the place where I stand was buried by a boiling mudslide, smothered by pumice and superheated rock and cloaked in a cloud of choking ash. As striking as the barren foothills of the mountain are, I’m more surprised by the recovery here — by the small trees and bushes that have a foothold in the wasteland.

  I feel small as I peer up into the clouds that hide the jagged mouth of the crater. The top third of the volcano was blasted off by the force of the explosion. Boulders flew miles. An entire forest was leveled in a matter of seconds, their strong trunks snapped like balsa wood. If I was standing here when the bomb went off, I would be vaporized. The giant is sleeping now, but I know that deep in the heart of the mountain, ancient forces are building up. Magma is rising from the depths of the Earth, building a dome in the caldera. Someday, it will rain fire here again.

  The devastation is difficult to put into words. And yet there is something beautiful about the destruction that stretches for miles around. There is more to be seen here than the Northwest’s youngest and most famous volcano. The landscape reminds us that humanity is not the most powerful force in the world. We only exist at the mercy of a planet that could bury us in lava with little warning. However, Mount St. Helens is not only a place of death. It is a cradle for new life. Hardy saplings are taking root in the blast zone. The volcano that burned and sterilized a centuries old forest provides nutrient-rich soil to feed the new forest.

  Mount St. Helens impresses on me the cyclical nature of time and events. Long before we descended from the trees, geologic forces of creation and destruction were in motion. Long after we’re gone, it will continue. Volcanoes, fires and earthquakes will erase old life to make way for new life. Mount St. Helens will awaken and when it does, I hope that I’m far, far away.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. He has spent much of his life tempting fate by living in close proximity to volcanoes, from the San Francisco Peaks to Mount Rainier. You can comment below or follow him on Twitter.
• April 29, 2014

  The Rain In Washington Falls Mainly On the Tulips

  

  Washington is a beautiful state. It is lush and green; brimming with life. And there’s a reason for it. Washington is the rainiest place I have ever lived (recall that before this, I was in the high desert of Northern Arizona). There is a price for beauty — months of drizzle interspersed with torrential downpours.

  This weekend, I was lucky to visit the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, an annual celebration of Western Washington’s tulip farms, which are some of the largest outside of the Netherlands. Four of us trekked north, beyond Seattle to the pastoral lands of the Skagit Valley. Tractor dealerships and sleepy towns were nestled on the banks of winding rivers. We finally arrived in the fields outside of Mount Vernon at the famous RoozenGaarde gardens. Acres and acres of pastel flowers lay before us, so of course, the valley welcomed us with a cloudburst. The flowers were nice, but it was clear that the season was drawing to a close and much of the former glory had dimmed. Much of the land around it was fallow. Many rows of tulips had already been cut down. And it was pouring on us. We quickly snapped our photos.

  We retreated from the muddy, slippery rows of tulips into the safety of my car. All seemed lost. But if there’s a secret to living in Washington, it’s patience. We were just about to leave in search of a better spot to admire the flowers when the raindrops on the windshield slowed. A few rays of sunshine poked through the mass of black thunderclouds. The storm had passed. Before the next one arrived, we decided to see what the other side of the road held, behind its tall hedge.

  What we found was an intricate garden of tulips, planted in swirls and labyrinths. Tulips of every color and variety (and the varieties have super interesting names, like Flaming Parrot, Sensual Touch and Moneymaker). It was perfect. We wandered through the gardens and windmills for another hour before we meandered on to a vineyard for a quick wine tasting and a through street fair in the town of Mount Vernon before heading home. Sure, we got a little muddy. I still haven’t dried out, but I think it’s sometimes necessary to forgo comfort in pursuit of adventure.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a slightly sodden writer and adventurer in Tacoma, WA. You can follow his written work in a steady stream from the Twitter hose. Thanks for reading!
• August 5, 2013

  Day Three: Pirates of the Oregon Trail

  

  The open road is synonymous with freedom. If you have wheels, you can go anywhere you want. The further I get from Arizona, the more free I feel. Not to say that I felt trapped in Flagstaff, but going somewhere new on my own is extraordinarily liberating. The stresses are miles in the rear view mirror. Ahead, lies the future.

  We left Susanville early and struck out for the Oregon state line. The road snaked up through open farmland and rugged hills with sparse stands of young pine. Soon, though, we were enveloped in lush, dense forest. Trees ten stories high loomed on either side of the mountain roads, as if forming a tunnel for us. Everything is strange — especially having an attendant pump your gas.

  

  Oregon is gorgeous; full of mountains and hidden lakes. Compared to the vast desolation of Nevada, it is an alien planet. I can only imagine the awe it must have struck in the hearts of Lewis and Clark when they paddled through the Cascades. It’s no wonder so many set out on the Oregon Trail in the 1840s to claim their little plot of paradise.

  As we meet up with the I-5 (the first real freeway we’ve seen in days), Will and I feel energized. The desert sucks you dry, but the forest rejuvenates. Rolling through Portland at a quarter to ten at night, we decide to push on into the night. There was a couch in the middle of the road that we almost hit and the truck says it requires an oil change, but we will not be deterred. Tacoma is starting to appear on the road signs. We’re too close to stop now.

  We don’t get into Tacoma until after midnight and Stephanie is waiting up for us. It takes a while for me to realize that this is my new home; that these strange sounding names (Point Defiance, Nesqually, Umpqua) will soon be familiar.

  We’ve crossed more than 1,350 miles and five states to get here. I’m far from my roots; free to start over in a foreign land. The journey is over and it’s beginning.

  

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer who just moved from Flagstaff, AZ to Tacoma, WA. You can follow his exploits on Twitter or connect with him on LinkedIn.

  Related Posts:
  Day Two: Ninja Cows
  Day One: Oasis
  A Writer’s Identity
• May 16, 2012

  The Adventures of a Sometimes Bus Driver

  

  I’m not really a bus driver; I just play one on TV. Sadly, I don’t have a fancy commercial driver’s license or air brakes that make a satisfying hiss, but I did have the opportunity to fake it earlier this week. The reasons why I was driving a small bus this week aren’t important. What is important is the way my mind solves problems — and how more than 500 miles behind the wheel helps me work things out.

  Since before finals began, I’ve been working on several short stories. I tend to work like this, starting multiple projects and picking away at each one in turn until I either finish them or lose interest. But there comes a time, inevitably, when I run into a roadblock. The story grinds to a halt and refuses to move forward. Maybe a character’s motivations change or a plot derails and I get stuck. Sunday afternoon, all the stories I was constructing hit that wall.

  Lucky for me, I had a long time to think about it. There is something about the continuous roar of the engine and the long, straight stretches of desert highway that frees the mind. The driver is isolated. You’re too far from the passengers to hear or be heard in conversation and you’re too absorbed in the operations of your underpowered vehicle (without cruise control, I might add) to interact with anyone. It’s as close to pure solitude as you can get in today’s highly-connected world.

  As the miles rolled away behind me, I let my troubled brain wander were it pleased. It wasn’t long before it hit upon the issues in my stories. During the unbroken time I had at my disposal, my mind managed to solve a few of the problems that were bogging down the progress of my fiction. It was a beautiful thing. The obstacles that seemed impossible to conquer fell away like the mileposts on the shoulder of the I-10 East. One after another.

  I don’t know why driving has this effect on the creative centers of the brain. Maybe it has something to do with the thrum of tires on pavement or the vibration of the torque in the gas pedal. All I know is, thanks to a long, exhausting drive, I can now move forward.

  — 30 —

  Are you the kind of person who likes to read the kinds of things that I write? If so, I write daily on Twitter. Check out the endless flow of words at @jonnyeberle.