John approached me outside of Spokane.  He was watching me interview another guy, and when that interview was finished, he came up to my seat.  "You writin' a book," he asked.  I immediately thought of my father.  His shtick during my childhood years was to respond to any of my questions with the same line:  "What the hell you doin', writin' a book."  Despite sharing the same first name, John did not remind me of my father.

I told John about the Journey and without asking, he sat next to me saying:  "You'll probably want to tell my story."  It wasn't a question. Then, I noticed the scar running down the right side of his face and neck and, without hesitation, said:  "You'd probably be right."
From 1990 to 2010, John was incarcerated in several of the nation's most notorious Federal prisons.  He was convicted on 11 counts of armed robbery.  I asked what I realized to be a pretty naive question:  "What started you down that path?" 

"I didn't have any skills and couldn't find good paying work," he said. "I realized I had nothing to lose and for a long time, it worked. Then I got stupid." 

Then I pushed my luck, saying:  "Lot's of people can't find good paying work.  They don't all commit armed robbery."  A shrug, resignation.  Nothing else. 

I asked what it was like, how he survived those 20 years.  "You learn how to align yourself with the right people," he said.  Then, he went through a litany of famous felons who he befriended over the years, including famed Mafia figurehead, John Gotti.  Of course, I have no way of corroborating John's story, but the scar on the right side of his face reminded me that it probably wasn't my place to question him. 

So, I asked why he was on the bus.  "I'm living in Seattle now, working construction for $11 an hour."  He was en route from Cleveland, his hometown, where he visited his ailing mother. 

I asked why he didn't just stay in Cleveland and find a similar job.

"I can only make $8.10 an hour in Cleveland," he said.  "I can't live on that.  I can make that extra three dollars go a long way.

The irony of John's situation was not lost on me.  He spent 20 years in prison for armed robbery because he couldn't find good paying work.  But now, he's back working a low paying job and, most likely, just getting by.  I mentioned this to him, asked if he had any regrets about what he had done.

John looked out the window for the longest time, pondering the question.

"I made a lot of mistakes and paid a pretty big price for making those mistakes," he said.  But regrets can kill you.  Twenty years behind bars makes you appreciate what you have, what's important.  It gives you some wisdom."

He smiled for the first time in our conversation and said:  "I don't complain about shit anymore. Life is simple and I'm happy."

This is a post about fatherhood.  

I stopped in Los Angeles to spend a few days with one of my oldest friends, Mike Hand. Mike and I met in 1990 when he was my client, a rising star in the marketing department of Procter & Gamble. We were kindred spirits, blue collar kids from small, factory towns on opposite ends of the Pennsylvania rust belt.  We were the products of parents who struggled with myriad demons, yet managed to patch together some semblance of a family life for us.  

Mike moved West, earning a coveted MBA from Stanford and settled in Los Angeles, where he now runs a successful corporate health insurance brokerage. Along the way he met a women who gave him three boys. I urged him to get married, to make it official for the sake of the boys. He did and never forgets to remind that my counsel was for shit.

I've never met his boys until my stopover in LA.  Henry is 17, a senior.  The twins, Edward and Anthony are 14. They are, like their father, loud, cynical, brash, wholly inappropriate, opinionated and argumentative.  Oh, and spoiled.  Mike's home is like a frat house, with no less than six, big-screen, HD TVs, pizza boxes, donut boxes, clothing, backpacks and books strewn throughout. It was a glorious weekend of football and trash talking.

It would be easy to criticize Mike's parenting style as lax and overly indulgent. But I witnessed a father who is loving and affectionate...and who gives his boys the freedom to be their own person, to express themselves regardless of what the world may think of their mode of expression.

Then there are Sundays.  Mike and the boys prepare bag lunches, a sandwich, fruit, maybe a snack. They then distribute the lunches at one of the many homeless encampments in West LA.  The boys grumble, especially on NFL weekends.  But Mike is deaf to the grumbling, knowing that the humility gained through this simple act of charity will pay dividends for his sons.  At some point.

One thing I didn't know, that Mike forgot to mention, was that two years ago, he and his new wife Kelly, adopted a baby girl, Samantha. She is a dream. One assumes that little Samantha will grow up NOT possessing many of the less endearing personality traits common to her father and siblings. But then again, knowing Mike, I could be wrong.

"My addiction was so bad, that the worst heroin junkies didn't even want me around."

I met Jerrod and his daughter Lela somewhere in Montana.  He is part Chippewa, part Cree Indian who grew up on a Montana reservation.  The markings on his face are symbolic of both the suffering and hope of his people.

He was drinking and using drugs by the age of 12.  In his teens, his mother left the reservation and moved to Portland.  She was struggling with heroin addiction and thought she could start a new life away from the poverty and desolation of the reservation life. After several years, Jerrod went in search of his mother.  Her addiction worsened and eventually she threw her son to the street.  It would not be long before Jerrod found the needle.  He remained a junkie for nearly 20 years, much of that time living on the streets of Portland.

He has been in and out of rehab.  He was kicked out of the Marines.  He met and fell in love with the mother of his three daughters.  But he could not loose himself from the heroin.  Until several years ago, when, during a six-month stint in rehab, a medicine man, sent from Arizona by his family, arrived at the treatment facility.  Most of their work together was on forgiveness, during which time Jerrod was taught how to use visioning exercises to work through the anger and resentment he had towards his mother.  He left rehab, for the first time, with a renewed sense of purpose and a calm he had never known before.

Then Jerrod told me about the Sun Dance Ceremony.  Very little is known or has been written about this most sacred of rituals among the indigenous people of North America. He was very careful about what he told me.  The ceremony takes months of preparation by tribal elders.  It is attened by members from around the country.  It is both an initiation rite for young members of the tribe and a healing ceremony for those, like Jerrod, who struggle with demons, physical, emotional and spiritual.  Those who attend participate in fasting rituals, are given herbal potions and spend hours immersed in the cleansing heat of the sweat lodge.  

The focal point of the four-day ceremony is the Sun Dane itself.  The young men who are invited to participate dance around a pole to which they are fastened by rawhid thongs pegged through the skin of their chests.  Jerrod pulled up his shirt to proudly reveal the extensive scarring from where the thongs were attached to his chest. "These scars remind me that the Sun Dance brought me closer to my creator," he said.  "To know the creator is to begin the process of healing."

Jerrod, now three years clean and sober, has come to terms with his mother, who still battles her heroin addiction.  He is actively involved in raising his three daughters.  And in nine months, he will become certified as a drug and alcohol counselor.  "I want to give back," he said.  "Especially to Native Americans who are being ravaged by drug and alcohol abuse."

He then added: "I understand how our (Native American) culture fuels addictions. But since my experience with the medicine man and the Sun Dance Ceremony, I also know that the solution to addiction lies with that same culture.By knowing and sharing this, I can help our brothers and sisters before all hope is lost."

I agreed to not take her picture. I promised not to use her real name (so, for the purpose of this post, I will refer to her as Camille). She pleaded with me not to share details of her journey, either its origin or final destination.

We sat together from Denver to Cheyenne.  When she learned of my Project, she said "I've got a story for you" and launched into her tale. It was an odd conversation.  Camille would share a segment of her story, then stop abruptly, saying:  "God, I shouldn't be telling you this. Please don't write what I'm saying."  She would then continue with the story.

Camille is in her mid 60s.  Her story began about a year ago. She was coming off a painful divorce to her husband of 20 years. She found solace in a prayer group she joined through Facebook. She knew a handful of members from her local church, but most were Internet strangers claiming an interest in studying scripture. One of the members, a man claiming to be in his mid 60s, showed particular interest in Camille.  She took the bait and they struck up a friendship that soon evolved into an online romance.

"We just connected," she said.  "Before long we were deeply in love and he asked if I would marry him."

​He told Camille he wanted to visit, to propose in person, to hold her in his arms.  But he was short on cash.  He was a business consultant between assignments and most of his assets were tied up in extensive real estate holdings. Camille wanted to be held so she sent him $500. He never made the trip. A strange illness, vertigo or something she could not remember. He said he could not live without her, that he loved her. She sent more money for more trips that never happened.

"Weren't you suspicious," I asked.

A long pause and then: "I should have been, but we were in love. Well, I was in love and the only thing I cared about was seeing him."

After nearly a year, he broke the news to her that there would be no trip, no wedding. Instead of taking her money and slinking away into the night, the man she loved rubbed her face in the indignity of being scammed. He told her he never loved her and that it was only about her money. She tried calling, desperate to convince him that the money didn't matter, to convince herself that the love was real. But her calls were never answered.

Shortly after the "break up," the FBI contacted Camille. Others in the prayer group had been left at the alter, their life savings tapped, hearts broken.  Some of the victims were friends she'd known for years. In a strange way, she found solace in knowing she hadn't given away as much as others.  "My one friend sent him over $25,000," she said.

He called Camille one more time to tell her he knew about the investigation and to threaten her life if she continued talking to the FBI.  He said he knew everything about her, where she lived, where she shopped.  And that he would track her down if she tried to run.  But she ran anyway. She had to run.

Her story complete, she turned to look out the window, to watch the Wyoming plains speed by on her way to a destination I promised not to share. As the bus pulled into the Cheyenne station, she turned back to me and said: "Thank you for listening to my story. It felt good to get it off my chest." I told her I was honored to listen and reassured her that her identity and travel plans would not be revealed.  

As I stood up, she grabbed my arm and smiled. "I'm thinking I probably shouldn't pick up guys on Facebook anymore," she said. I got off the bus thinking that Camille was going to be OK, no matter her final destination.



   

I loved my mom.  Most of the time.  We had a special way of getting on each other’s nerves that was a little short of endearing.  Even the shortest trip, say to the grocery store, could result in minor disagreement, or worse (of course, none of these disagreements was my fault).

Amori and her daughter Heather have been traveling across the country together for more than five years. For the most part, their nerves seemed intact. They are American vagabonds in every sense of the word, boarding Greyhound buses with a few bags and one-way tickets to whatever city they’ve decide to call home for the time being.  They arrive in small towns; work in restaurants to pay for food and cheap motels.  And, when boredom sets in, or when the spirit moves them, Amori and Heather pack their bags and buy a one-way ticket to their next home. 

Amori was only 14 when she had Heather.  When Heather was five, Amori left her in the care of family and bought her first of many one-way Greyhound tickets to someplace in America.  “I loved life knowing that I could do whatever I wanted to do when I woke up each morning,” she said.  When Heather turned 13, she joined her mom on the road.  Mom claimed that she home schooled Heather while they traveled.  I’m thinking not.

Mother and daughter will tell you that they love this life-untethered, no personal attachments, minimal responsibility.  If is, after all, quintessentially American, this fantasy of independence and freedom from the status quo.  But their eyes tell a different story.  They seem sad, road weary, perhaps hungry for whatever it is we call normal.  I’ve only been on this bus for two weeks and I’m road weary, hungry for whatever it is I call normal (can life with three, small, constantly barking, un-housebroken dogs be normal??)

Their most recent one-way ticket drops them in Casper, Wyoming.  Heather, 18, is pregnant and due to deliver in November.  The baby’s father is somewhere.  “Maybe Oklahoma,” says Heather, with a shrug.  Amori, Heather and the baby will live with Heather’s father.  For a while.  But not too long.  “We'll be back on the bus soon,” Amori says.  “I want to teach my grandchild what it’s like to live on the road.” 

Just living the American dream!

“You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks or even months over analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justify what could’ve, would’ve happened…or, you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.”
                                                                                                             Tupac Shakur

To a large degree, my journey is mapped out.  I’ve studied the Greyhound schedules, pre-arranged overnights with willing friends, worked up a budget.  I have a plan.  Of course, plan or no plan, I have the requisite amount of anxiety-will I meet my schedules, will my friends realize that they’ve made a mistake and sell their home before I get there.  But I have a plan.

Then, there are those who move forward without a plan, or any idea of awaits them on the other side.  I wrote about Danny who traveled 3,000 miles for a job that probably never existed.  David is on a similar journey into the unknown.  From the tiny, dusty, nowhere town of Trinity, Texas to the Keystone pipeline fields of North Dakota.  No contract.  No letter of recommendation.  Not even a contact, a friend of a friend.  He makes the trip solely on faith that a job awaits.

David’s story is not dissimilar to so many others:  a chaotic childhood, violence, alcohol, drugs; often lived at or below the poverty line.  He was the loner, who fell in with the outcasts, marginalized and often desperate.  What makes it sad is that he’s engaging and bright, the kind of kid you root for despite his resume of hard luck and failure.

David was on the bus because he had to keep his end of a bargain made with God.  Two weeks earlier, he was arrested for a third offense of driving without insurance or registration.  He was familiar with the jail, an old soul, at 20, in the ways of American incarceration.  But this visit had a twist.  While David sat in his cell, his car sat in the county in-pound lot.  In the trunk-enough methamphetamine to get him a mandatory minimum of 25 years in Federal prison.  He was sure someone would search the car.

It’s said that you’ll never find an atheist in a foxhole.  I suspect the same can often be said of jail cells.  David, the agnostic, said a prayer, asking a favor:  “get me out of here and I’ll give away what I have and change my life.”  God called his bluff, and a few hours later, the duty guard came to the cell and announced that David was free to go. 

David kept his end of the deal.  He says he gave the meth to his friends.  He sold his old pick up truck and packed his bags (which, by the way, Greyhound lost somewhere in Oklahoma) and boarded the bus in Trinity, Texas for the oil fields of North Dakota.  It’s not a perfect plan.  But David needs to keep his end of the bargain.

Like most Americans, I watched the media circus surrounding the “coming out” of Caitlyn Jenner with equal parts fascination and curiosity.  To be honest, I knew very little about transexualism. Indeed, the Jenner story gave me some appreciation of the challenges faced by those who identify as transsexual.  I heard the disturbing statistics on the incidence of depression and suicide.  And Jenner’s stories about being a woman trapped inside the body of an American sports hero were compelling. At the same time, as I watched Jenner being interviewed from her palatial, mountaintop home overlooking the Pacific, I wondered: does her celebrity truly benefit the transsexuals who do not have a voice?  Will those who are still closeted, or worse yet, out and maligned by society, relate to this multi-millionaire reality TV star? I resigned myself to the fact that I might never answer that question.  But then I met Clover.

I first saw Clover in Dayton; it was impossible to not notice someone, IN DAYTON, adorned with extreme black eye liner and lip-gloss, a floral crown, chiffon dress, striped leggings, Doc Martens, countless body piercings, heavy black eyebrows AND…a 5 o’clock shadow. Before the bus to Denver boarded, she gathered her belongings and headed for the Women’s restroom.  This fascinated me.  Not because I thought it was wrong, but because I wondered how other women would react to her walking through that door.  Would they complain?  Call security?  Ask her to leave?  And I also thought:  how often must she deal with such indignities.  My education in transexualism had begun. 

Other than some small talk waiting to board the bus, we never spoke until sitting together on the 10-hour segment from Kansas City to Denver.

Clover’s a nickname.  Her legal name is Jacqueline.  It took her more than a year to get her name changed legally.  It wasn’t the name change that was the issue.  Clerks at the Motor Vehicles Bureau and other government agencies repeatedly refused to identify her as female.  This, despite having the necessary paperwork acknowledging more than a year of hormone replacement therapy, which legally qualifies her to identify as female.  When I asked what her birth name was, she refused to tell me.  “I was never really that person,” she said.  “So that name is irrelevant.”

Clover was the youngest of four children, and the only male child born into a strict Christian household on Cape Cod.  Her father was ecstatic because he was the last male in his family lineage and desperately wanted a son to carry his name forward.  Clover said that she knew she was different when she was five or six, and the feelings only grew in intensity as she got older.  But she never said anything because she lived in fear of how her family, and father in particular, would react. In fact, to fit in with her family and be accepted, Clover attended the same Christian church, joining her family and church friends in demonizing gays, transsexuals…anybody who, like her, was different.

By 13, she began to turn the corner in accepting her true identity.  She first came out to friends.  Then, at 16, she sat down with her parents.  They rejected her.  Completely.  Her father labeled her an abomination and threw his only son out of the house.  Clover spent a lot of time on the street.  If she was lucky, friends would take her in, but only friends with parents who did not hold beliefs as extreme as those of her parent’s.  She was able to get into Tuft’s University, but had to quit after a semester as she battled depression. 

I asked about Caitlyn?  Was it a good thing for transsexuals? “On some level it was good because it raised awareness of the transsexual life,” she said.  “But Caitlyn is not the new normal for transsexuals.  She’s never known what it is like to be unable to find work.  She’s never had to worry about having a place to live or having some government clerk refuse to acknowledge her gender.  Or attempt suicide like more than half of us will. It’s a difficult life for those of us who make the choice to live honestly. It’s even more difficult for those who are too afraid to come out.”

As the bus pulled into Denver, I wished Clover luck as she started her new life.  I asked if she ever spoke to her parents.  “I talk to mom once in awhile,” she said. “But it always feels weird.”  She paused for a second, and then, with a smile continued: “And the last time I spoke to my father,” she said, “was when I called to tell him that I legally changed my last name.  Then I just hung up.”

You go.  Girl!

I wanted to share a short, two-minute video created by my friend Robert Parrish when I was passing through Portland last week.  

Robert works with the Portland Radio Project, an innovative community station that is trying to breath new life into radio.  He has also spent decades as a videographer and television producer.  

Robert is creating a video podcast of my adventure and this is an initial segment.  I'm grateful to Robert and the PRP for helping to promote my American Journey.

Danny got on the bus in Missoula.  I noticed him hovering nearby as I interviewed several people at the back of the bus.  When I took a break, he came to my seat and asked if he could tell his story. I was intrigued because he was the first person to approach me with a story.

Danny grew up in Central Florida and now lives in Ft. Lauderdale with his wife and two daughters, five and six.  He’s had a history of bad luck, or perhaps bad choices, when it comes to jobs, jumping from one short-lived gig to another, always looking to find the right fit.  “I’ve pretty much done every kind of job there is,” he said.  “I just haven’t done any of them good enough to keep them.”

As one might expect, a wife at home with two young kids might grow frustrated with her husband’s inability to stay gainfully employed. (She had a part-time job, but he was tasked with being the primary breadwinner). Earlier in the week, Danny and his wife had what sounded like a particularly strenuous discussion about his value as a husband and father. His manhood maligned, Danny reacted the way any rational, mature man of 45 would be expected to react: he packed his bags, stormed out of the house and got drunk.

Several weeks prior to his marital meltdown, Danny learned, through a friend of a friend, about a job opportunity on a dairy farm in Spokane, Washington.  So, thinking it was time to get his act together, he bought his one-way ticket and headed for Spokane: 79 hours, 39 stops and 3,001 miles away from Ft. Lauderdale.

“Have you ever worked on a dairy farm,” I asked Danny

“Nope,” he said.  “But it can’t be that difficult”

“Did you consider trying to get a similar job at a dairy farm a little closer to home,” I asked. “Iowa, I’m thinking, has lots of dairy farms and is a lot closer than Spokane.”

“Well, I know there were jobs on this dairy farm in Spokane,” he said.  “So, that’s where was going.”

The thing is, there wasn’t a job.  Well, there was, but it came with conditions.  As Danny tells it, he would have been able to work there if he was willing to “invest” in the farm.  Sort of like a pyramid scheme for inexperienced and aspiring dairy farmers.  Well, Danny didn’t have the money to invest and only had exactly what he needed to get back to Florida on Greyhound.  And so, I met Danny from Ft. Lauderdale outside of Missoula, heading back to a disgruntled wife without a job, about to cover a total of 158 hours, 78 stops and 6002 miles in a single, grueling, round trip.

His story complete, Danny pulled himself out of the seat next to me and prepared to make his way back to his seat at the front of the bus.  I said:  “Danny, I’ve not always been the world’s most positive thinker, so, coming from me, this might sound like stupid advice.  But you need to imagine yourself working in Florida, near your kids, with your wife’s support.  You have to just trust that the universe or God or whomever will take care of you.” 

I know it was a corny little pep talk, but the guy was beaten down, with about four bazillion miles of bus travel ahead of him.  And I’ve learned from my nominal experience on this journey, that those can be long, lonely miles if your head’s not on straight.  We shook hands and I wished him luck.

At the next rest stop, I left the bus to get some air and stretch my legs.  I walked by Danny who was deep in the middle of a phone conversation.  When I re-boarded, he was perched on the edge of his seat waiting for me, a badass grin on his face. “You won’t believe this,” he said. “My wife just called and told me that two different people back home called for work and I can start as soon as I get home.”

He added: “She said we’re gonna be alright” 

I suspect it wasn’t news of the two jobs that prompted Danny’s badass grin.  No, I believe he was grinning because his wife did what a partner is supposed to do when the person they love is down and out, frustrated and discouraged.  She lifted him up, energized him with a few, simple words of comfort and reassurance.  “We’re gonna be alright.” 

That’s one badass woman!

“You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.” 
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

MY Journey isn't just about the stories of people I meet on the bus.  To be sure, the search for those stories is what is what drives me, especially during those long, lonely, middle-of-the night stretches, surrounded by darkness, when the dogs of doubt are most likely to hound my spirit. 

No, this Journey is also about reconnecting with the people and places that have defined my story. It's about renewing and celebrating friendships that have both sustained and uplifted me over the years. And, yes because I'm a cheap bastard, it's about having a free, warm bed and hot shower waiting after 24 sleepless hours on a Greyhound freaking Bus.  

I've known Tim Hackett (right) and Bill Kohlepp (Center) for nearly 30 years.  They formed the West Coast office of Local Marketing Corporation (LMC), a Cincinnati-based advertising and promotion company that was my career home for more than two decades.  LMC was doing cutting edge work at the time, and our services were much in demand.  It was both an exciting and gratifying time for me professionally.

Tim and Bill live outside San Diego.  This photo was taken as we walked the ocean trail at Torrey Pines National Park near Encinitas, California.  It was a perfect Southern California day and, as you can see, a stunning panorama.  

Confession: I always feel inadequate when I spend time with guys like Tim and Bill.  That's because their lives are immersed in "real men" activities:

• Like real men, they backpack up steep, treacherous mountain passes and set up camp under the stars, surrounded by bears and mountain lions.  I've had one camping experience as an adult.  It was at a state park 10 miles from our home.  Kate went ahead of me to set up the campsite, at the center of which was a massive tent with four separate wings and a two-car garage.  I arrived at the campsite to a cold martini and perfectly cooked steak. We watched DVDs on our portable TV player. We slept (well, everyone but me slept) on $200 air mattresses.  We were under the stars surrounded by our three pugs.  It was a magical evening, communing with nature.  It was also the last time I ever camped. We gave away the equipment several years later..

• Like real men, they fish in mountain streams, from the beach or on the open seas, using either homemade flies or bait they dig up themselves.  When I was 10, my father, an avid NON-outdoorsman, asked his good friend Dominic to teach me how to fish. Dom was one of the scariest men I've ever known.  He smelled of stale beer.  He had a perpetual scowl, made more menacing by the cigar butt that seemed to be a permanent fixture in the corner of his mouth. We went to a nearby, manmade lake.  Dom gave me careful instructions on how to cast.  I listened intently, all the time knowing that he was capable of killing me.  My first cast got tangled in the tree above me.  Dom mumbled what I'm sure were death threats as he cut the line. I could feel my bowels loosening and tears welling up in my eyes.  Before giving me another chance to cast, Dom moved me away from the tree.  But the tree must have moved with us as my second cast went straight up, tangled hopelessly on the same branch. The lesson complete, Dom dropped me off at home, suggesting to my father (well, no, insisting) that I was too stupid to fish.

• Like real men, they go canoeing or kayaking or surfing or, in particular, rafting down rivers containing Class 6 rapids with signs every 500 feet that say:  "Caution:  You Can Die On This River." Several months ago, Kate watched a PBS special on "fun with kayaking" and promptly purchased a gift certificate for a free kayaking adventure on the Little Miami River. I just as promptly reminded her that 10 years earlier we spent what I believe to be the longest day of my life on a six mile canoe ride on the same Little Miami River. During our "adventure" I lost a $300 pair of glasses when a low-hanging branch swiped my face; I tipped the canoe several times, the first being BEFORE we even pushed off; and that we nearly divorced because I couldn't figure out that, when she screamed "go right," I should have had the oar on the left side of the canoe.  

Despite my feelings of inadequacy, it was great to spend a few days with two of the finest, real men I know.  As for adventure, for now, I'll stick with the Greyhound freaking Bus.