JUNE 16, 2025
The alarm bell rang. It’s 4:30 a.m. My flight is scheduled for 6:30 a.m. 37 miles of bumper-to-bumper slowdowns were likely between our garage and Denver International Airport. I apparently didn’t fully learn my lessons about gambling back in college.
This time I got lucky.
I’ve never flown like this. I packed light. Driver’s license, debit card, iPhone, and a one-way ticket to Texas. No baggage, aside from the relentless voices in my head. I’d soon learn that someone on this flight was packing more—some baggage from his past that will be unpacked during an imminent line of questioning behind closed doors.
I boarded the train from Jeppesen Terminal to the A Gates. I wonder where the person standing next to me is going. Where is he from? Where is that woman going? Then the little guy carrying his toy airplane. Where will his life take him?
Flights will depart to 800 destinations from this airport today. Rome. Dublin. Tokyo. Fargo. Every one of us will soon be five miles high, but none of us have wings. This shouldn’t be possible but we darn do take this for granted. Orville and Wilbur Wright would be astounded to see all this. I wonder if they’d ask themselves, “What have we done?”
This won’t be a typical day for me. This morning, a flight back to the Lone Star State. Later today, a first drive. Tomorrow, a final drive. Up in the air, down on the ground, wheels spinning round and round. My kind of day.
My seat was 8F. Row eight, window seat. There are few places I’d rather be. But my stories were about to take a back seat to the stories emanating from the rows behind me.
But first, the view out the window.
As we departed Denver we flew directly over Cherry Creek Reservoir. This is my second stint in Denver. During my first 18 years, those were my old stomping grounds. I saw the bike trails, “the Dam Road,” and Village Greens Park, also known only to my wife and me as “Noche Park.” It’ the place here we’ve been bringing our dogs for walks for many years. Some of those dogs will be there forever as their ashes rest in the shade near park benches.
Later, our flight will split the Texas panhandle, flying over towns that made an improbable yet remarkable impression on me. Canadian. Pampa. Panhandle. Shamrock. Stinnett. Wheeler. Wellington. I’m miles above those roads, towns, and people but feeling their pull. This plane defies gravity. My emotions intensify it while tugging me downward to Canadian where the “Way of the Wildcats” camp begins today. Few things are better.
I could faintly see the outlines of roads I’ve driven. In a few hours, I’ll be down there while heading back to where I started this day. But on the roadway not this sky way. Wait. Shouldn’t the place where planes are flying be called the highway?
Our Flight Path for the Trip - Courtesy of flightaware.com
Our flight reached a maximum speed of 517 miles per hour. The views were spectacular. The in-flight entertainment wasn’t provided by a screen in front of me. It was delivered by two guys seated one row behind. Row 9, Seats D and F.
9D is from Charlotte.
9F is from Utah.
9D is former military. Middle East stuff. PTSD still triggered by the wrong moments. Always sits in restaurants facing the front door. Exit plans always ready. He’s now a traveling tattoo artist. No need to surrender 40% of his earnings to his boss. Conversationalist. Engaging. Loves to laugh. His art takes him places—physically and emotionally. Places far from the war. He loves telling his stories. His ink now tells other people’s stories.
Permanently.
9F grew up wealthy. Dad was loaded. The house in Utah. The toys. The bright future. Needed nothing—had it all. “It all” became nothing at all after the FBI knocked on their door. 9F’s memories of their white picket fence were fading with each Father’s Day visits to the state prison. Utah and his siblings were taken in by strangers. His hideaway in their temporary home was a cardboard box in the basement. His escape room was smaller than his dad’s prison cell. That flimsy cardboard shielded him from the reality beyond. At least 9F could come and go as he pleased. He was philosophical — a master of metaphors, a “phoenix rising from the ashes” storyteller, as he summarized his life. A positive spirit. Four kids of his own now. He will be the dad he always wanted–and still wants.
Two people who’ve been to hell and back. They laugh as they heal. They inspired 8F to be even more thankful for everything he’s—I mean, I’ve, experienced.
As the plane taxied from runway 17C to Terminal E in Dallas, I turned and confessed to eavesdropping and thanked the guys for sharing their stories. We shook hands, soon to head our separate ways. I’ll never see 9D and 9F again. Here and gone. Yet they’ll stay with me. We’ll continue living for a while. Then we’ll die. Their loved ones won’t know that these two guys had a positive influence on 90 minutes of my life.
9D and 9F. Thank you.
Before deplaning, the flight crew leader grabbed the public address handset and advised everyone to remain seated. Hold tight. The flight attendant’s tone signified this was not a drill. Several Federal Agents boarded the flight and proceeded quickly to Row 18. The guy in Seat F is the one who brought far more baggage onto that plane than me. And he carried one thing off that flight which he didn’t carry on. Snuggly fit handcuffs.
The folks in 18D and 18E had to be thinking, “What the heck”…or something like that.
As we stepped out of the plane’s exit door and onto the jetway, five police officers who hadn’t boarded the plane were gathered. 18F was probably contemplating escape options. Those officers ensured the option to walk from the tarmac back up the stairway and into the plane was eliminated.
I walked into the terminal and then looked out the window. Four law enforcement SUVs, lights flashing, in a slow, tight procession taking Row 18 to a section of the airport I hope to never see. That guy had his own motorcade. I’ll never see 18F again. I’ll live my life, he’ll live his. I’m guessing I might have a bit more freedom to roam about the country than he will.
Five officers served as his blockade. That dude must have some interesting stories to tell. What series of events in his life led him to cross paths with mine? Where was he born? What did he do? Where was he going?
And one more question—how was he even allowed onto that flight?
I took an Uber to Grapevine Ford. I’d purchased a one-way ticket to Texas. If this deal falls through, I’m walking back to Colorado. My nephew, Noah, took the car I found online for a test drive two days earlier. He’s a “car guy.” Thumbs up from him. That’s all I needed. Noah was right.
The salesman, Max, grew up in Bulgaria. Nice guy. How on Earth did he and I end up in the same place at the same time? One son-in-law of ours was born in Poland. The other born in Vietnam. Now, Max from Bulgaria. I write stories about small towns. Maybe I should shift to small worlds.
Seafood ramen with Noah at “Hanabi” in Carrolton, Texas. During lunch, I recalled that Noah’s grandfather was born in French Guinea in South America. His grandmother was born in British Guinea. Early in their lives, their families moved to Trinidad and Tobago. Noah’s mom and dad met while living in Texas.
This was a wonderful visit with my nephew. I’ll see him again this summer in Denver. But now it’s 1:30 p.m., and I’m 771 miles from home.
One can of Red Bull. One gallon of Diet Dr. Pepper. Podcasts. Pink Floyd. The Verve. The Killers. Morgan Wallen. I’ve memorized the route back to Denver but a road construction detour diverted me to Bushland, then Boy’s Ranch, Tascosa then Dalhart. But hey, this will lead to another Sharpied line traced on a map of roads I’ve driven.
Lines on a map. They tell my story. For whatever that’s worth.
Though I love my wife today, I won’t need my wife today. My car will tell me what to do.
“In 4.9 miles, turn right on Farm to Market Road 2389.”
I’ll know when to turn, where to turn, when there’s an object in the road ahead, how many hours, minutes and miles ’till I’m home. If I drift towards the center line, my steering wheel will vibrate. When there’s oncoming traffic, my headlights will automatically switch from the high beams to low. I can listen to a radio station from Timbuktu. How does all this happen?
Henry Ford would be impressed by all this especially since I’ll be in yet another car with his name on it.
“Henry, wait until you see all this! But first, buckle your seat belt.”
What?
Ya, pull that thing over your shoulder and snap it into that thing right there. Trust me, you didn’t think of everything.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Colorado but first you need to see this place called Buc-ees!”
Colorado? How many days will this journey take? And what’s a Buc-ees?
“It’s a beaver and we’ll be in Colorado tonight.”
“What??”
Buying that car wasn’t an easy decision. Ford wasn’t a good dude. But the history of the American and Canadian workers have won out with every car buying decision I’ve made.
“Henry, I have some questions for you.”
I typed then deleted four paragraphs of my hypothetical interrogation and reprimands with Henry Ford.
The steering wheel vibrates.
The voices. “
“Stay in your chosen lane, Tom. No politics. This is a happy day. Apply that word you incessantly see on Facebook timelines.”
Resist.
Twenty-one hours and nine minutes after this day started, I carefully parked the car back in Colorado at 1:39 a.m. Bella welcomed me at the door. Tail wagging. It never stops. A happy girl. She didn’t want to sleep—she threw a toy at my feet. Belle Belle wanted to play. She was happy I was home. So was I. One more adventure completed. Enduring and enjoying long road trips is my only superpower.
At least I have one.
A plane, a train, an automobile, an arrest. Unlikely intersections with other humans just trying to get through a Monday.
Some days are different. Most are forgettable. Not this one.
Tuesday, June 10
Five hours after parking that car, I was back in my favorite seat. No, not 8F. This morning, it’s Starbucks. I laughed to myself when I realized that I, too, always sit facing the entry. Need to keep an eye on who’s coming in. You never know. I was caffeine loading. Not much rest after yesterday’s expedition. Morgan Wallen was singing. A pair of guitarists were picking as Tyler Tomlinson and Dominic Frost served as Wallen’s Row 9. Those two guys looked at a guitar and were sent down a different road than those chosen by Eddie Van Halen or Stevie Ray Vaughn. Same instrument. Different interpretation. All great outcomes.
I don’t write about every day. But yesterday was different.
Today will be too. It’s time to say goodbye.
I drove my 2016 Ford Edge to the used car dealer. I kept telling myself, “It’s just a car — it’s just a freaking car.”
Sure, the facts are that it’s a gray car with 207,000 miles of lines on a wall map of America. Road trips with Vickie. Interstates, country roads, snow-covered roads, dirt roads. Every hockey rink in northern Minnesota. Every football field in Texas. Dog miles. Noche, Matty, Sparky, Bella, Carpet, and Samba. Their little ears all flapped in the opened window’s wind of that gray car.
Hold it together, big boy. It’s just a car.
One last look.
Thanks for the ride.
I didn't leave her at the bar...I left her at the Carvana next to the bar. She was manufactured in Oakville, Ontario.
Postscript - The Cemetery and Baseball
This new white car is starting to understand me. Seven days after our trip together from Texas to Colorado, we traveled together from Colorado to northern Minnesota. This car seems to like being on the road as much as me.
Several friends know I’ve made tentative plans to travel this summer to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania followed by the baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. I’m writing a book about baseball and intend to expand the story beyond those who grew up in the USA. It’s that curiosity in hearing stories from people who grew up in places far from me. I want to go but haven’t fully committed. Other very important things are going on.
Crossing paths with 9D, 9F, 18F, and Max from Bulgaria got me thinking about all that small world stuff. I thought of Noah’s grandparents who were born in South America. Previous research popped into my head. Ancestors on my father’s side of our family tree were traced to a small island north of Nova Scotia. I revisited ancestry.com I discovered that my great, great grandparents are buried in Cloquet, MN. I had no clue. The site included a picture of their gravestone: Theresa and Ramsey Smith.
I drove 24 miles to that cemetery. There’s no office. No directory of gravesites. One elderly gentleman with a weed eater was all. I walked row by row by row by row. No luck. I couldn’t find their gravesite. I walked back to my car–then walked past it. Something compelled me to revisit an area of the cemetery I’d already searched.
And there it was. The final resting place of my great, great, grandparents.
Hours later, I went back online to learn what I could about them. Then, I almost fell out of my chair. My grandmother’s, great grandfather whose name was George Smith was born in Williamsport, Pennsylvania–the home of the Little League World Series. This was like a “Field of Dreams, if you build it, they will come,” moment.
Gravity and fate seem to be pulling me towards Williamsport. I kind of have to go now, don’t I?
More lines on that map. Another story to tell. And another url to buy. I’m now the owner of:
http://www.smallworldbigstories.com
Musical Playlist While Writing This Story
WRITING LOCATIONS
Starbucks
9360 S Colorado Blvd, Highlands Ranch, CO 80126
Starbucks
1002 Woodland Ave, Duluth, MN 55811
A good story Tom. I can hardly wait to read ” the rest of the story”!
❤️
Another great story Tom. If they didn’t mention in their time with you, Terry and Brad spent some time at Boys Ranch. One of Mom’s first jobs in Amarillo was working for Cal Farley, founder of Boys Ranch. Good friend Mike Lozano coached at BR. My high school graduation party date was from Hartley (her mom and mine shared a room when we were born). This world keeps getting smaller and smaller. Guess I need to start looking for my connections to Minnesota. Keep writing. No worries-Mike Gerken (Gerk)
Thanks Gerk! Terry and Brad didn’t mention that connection with Boys Ranch. But it was a pleasure talking to Jared, Eric, Derek, George, and Coach Flowers about “the catch” against Boys Ranch. I’m glad I had to take this detour. It’s a massive state but I’ve been able to drive on more than my fair share or Texas roadways.