The most boring route
alive.
The hand of the Lord was on me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”
I said, “Sovereign Lord, you alone know.” —
The Valley of Dry Bones - Ezekiel 37
Like a troubadour. Tick tick tick. Back and forth, forth and back. We have traveled highway 5 — in all seasons. For years. And years. Summer is particularly brutal, drenched in dry — steaming from semi’s, speeder’s wheels, life changers in split seconds. Faint sounds of sirens emerging, endless traffic — and an overwhelming stench of caged black cows standing hunched together waiting to die — while free range black cows stand on golden California hills under miles of electrical towers — as far as the eye can see. Thin lines of shade under open pyramids. DiNapoli family trucks, chalked to the red glistening brim with organic freshly picked Italian Roma tomatoes, travel north for deliveries. Black crows in Los Banos dive into endless almond groves. Smokey clouds brush the faint blue sky looming over fire blackened field patches and dry bones revive themselves at the next Motel 6. Lodging ahead. The exit to Hollister makes me think of the Hells Angels riding up on us loud and hard.
I rewind the podcast with Billy Graham’s granddaughter.
"I shall be more alive than I am now. I will just have changed my address." — Billy Graham — on dying.
Did he drive the five? Over and over and over? The lone horse grazes barren land next to a sinking home where old bones have been revived again. And again. The old mare will change her address soon. We pull into a rest area. “Are you a victim of human trafficking? Call this number.” Reading material on the inside of the toilet door. California, where wild sunflowers work their way through ravines, waving at the top of overpasses. Useless barns hold useless cars. Unhealthy palm trees rise in the distance off the Gustine off-ramp with just enough flare for the curious gas seeker. We have diesel for $7.06 a gallon. Get it while you can. The aqueduct weaves hope through miles of high definition citrus trees in Newman. A dozen free range cows dot a hill near Ferry’s Crossing. A radio tower grows out of dry grass. Douglas Fir telephone poles stretch across the plain. And we talk and talk and talk — without a care in the world. A palmed circular oasis appears on the side of the road for three seconds, displaying an enormous American Flag. The turnoff to San Francisco and a single solar windmill are in the distance. A group of six white roofed barns reflect random graffiti and Oleander wind breaks. Cranes, food trucks and mobile homes are organized into chainlink construction yards in Lathrop. First signs of Dutch Bros drive-thrus. Ivy walled HOA’s butt up to more storage companies. There is a never ending supply of trucking and farming equipment rentals. County jail next stop. Camping World’s enormous U.S. flag flies at half-mast for two American soldiers. An old radio station is under lock, key — and boards. Silo jobs aren’t for sissies and one red truck parked in front of an abandoned Econo Lodge begs the question. Stockton’s marina is abuzz with working silos — sprouting like whales — and mid century buildings, dotting downtown, ask if you know about Benjamin Holt Drive? We’ve passed his exit a million times and never asked. Who would know his global history. And the Caterpillar tractor. We pass yet another truck wash, another cow farm of sweet black and white babies, rows of dog igloos and tiny enclosures. Sired for liver in plain site. I never did understand this appetite. Nextdoor corn grows in rows like long zippers.
Thorton, Lodi, and wine country. A contrast of rich and poor. Sacramento, Farm to Fork. If only. A river with it’s city’s name runs 400 miles north through a capital on the brink. Its beauty holding the saga of indigenous hope, a thirst for gold, and engineering feats which changed the land forever. Modern broken down highway bridges pass cleverly formed ancient railway trestles with bright green carpets of weed grass — invaders floating below. Velocity Island lightly bustles in water-play a stone’s throw away. Almond groves observe and Yolo, “abounds in rushes.” The Patwin natives knew the truth about water. And revival. A small pink house sits in unison with a dozen matching pink boxes where goats play. A Starbucks shines in the middle of a deceased strip mall. An old tug boat sits under a collapsing canopy. More silos and crops come to life under distilled light like a Grant Wood painting. Mounds of buried speed boats — their rears rising upward — decorate a defunct theme restaurant, as Dunnigan approaches and splits to the City by the Bay. And someday I’ll pass through Grimes, a city steeped in 175 year old history of what was once a bustling river port. Now a quiet farming community of 300. Williams is the gateway to lake life and a famous Italian eatery. Maxwell brims with red-winged blackbirds hovering over the rice fields like a framed wall image. Will the staging site of the new Sites Reservoir help our state? our farmers? Finally? Orland is the “Queen Bee Capital of North America” where thousands of queens are raised, packaged and sent across the world to pollinate crops — and Redding, at the base of the Cascades, a city that didn’t judge during 2020 — with it’s oak trees, river views and desert-style temps — a warm hug halfway to the great Pacific Northwest.
This is where we lay our heads for one night. And remember peace — in conflict.
That we are nothing more than a valley of dry bones away — no better than anyone else.
On the most boring route
alive…
in His promises.
< An observation of notes driving the I-5 North in California >
A wonderful description of that most boring leg of travel. I could see it as I read it! Can't wait to see you all soon! 😇😎❤🐕🐶
Beautiful description of long drives, felt like I was right there with you. So true of the many back roads I drive … abandoned buildings, dying towns, sketchy rest stops… then come around the corner and there’s the horses grazing or a cattle ranch. Workers in the aggy fields …so much life and living! I drive alone and cannot get photos very well…but I’ve stopped/pulled over when I could. Love your writing so much dear Deb… you are so gifted in the way you weave in bible verses,
give credit for everything to God… always watching over us. ☺️I know you’re going home to mama; I know this area around Redding from our early days of marriage. It made me smile that you finally stopped for the night. 😅Are you back home yet?
Keep being you, so creative and your passion for our Lord means so much. Love you! 🤗💕🥰