The 17-hour Ride

My nephew moved into his apartment this weekend.  He’ll soon be married to a fantastic young lady and I predict they’ll have a great life together.  My wife and I smiled as we helped him carry his stuff into their small one-bedroom. Why? Because twenty years we were doing the same thing.

It was 1993 and we were just back from our honeymoon. We were tired, sunburned and facing a drive from Atlanta to Houston, Texas (where I had just accepted a job at a small newspaper, The Conroe Courier.) Our parents had loaded a large Ryder Truck for us with all of our worldly possessions.  We hugged them goodbye and started out on our grand adventure. My wife’s little white dog sat between us in the cab as we drove Southwest.

It was the start of a long and arduous journey.

Three wrecks (thankfully none involving us), two thunderstorms, a backup on the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge in Louisiana and a couple of divorces (kidding), we finally pulled into our apartment’s parking lot at 1 a.m. — seventeen hours after we had left. This was before cell phones, iPods, satellite radio and iPads.  It was just two newlyweds and a truck.  We got to know each other better on that trip than we had during the previous two years of dating and our engagement.

I had to be at work at 8 a.m. the next day. So we started unloading the truck in the thick, humid Houston air.  We had to walk around one building to get to the backside of our’s — and then up a flight of stairs.  We moved a mattress, box springs, washer, dryer and enough junk to fill a hoarder’s episode that night.  We had hoped that the mattress had been packed on the back of the truck so we could get some sleep. We found out it was in the front. So we worked through the night.

Living away has been tough because we miss our families.  Time has marched on and at times has been cruel. But living in Houston, San Diego and now Jackson has been very good for us.  We learned very quickly we couldn’t pick up the phone and call home.  We discovered that we had to depend on each other.  If our car broke, we had to deal with it. A call home about a flat tire does no good when you live 800 miles away.  Daddy won’t come and change it for you.

Now twenty years later we watch as my nephew and his bride learn the same lessons. It’s tempting to try to smother them with advice. But we won’t.  They have to figure this stuff out on their own.  But we’re here if they need us. We’re a few miles and one phone-call away.

But as I carried in the mattress Friday night I smiled at my wife. Memories of that steamy night in Houston poured over me like sweat. I saw her beautiful face and I realized how darn lucky I am that I married someone so tough. A 17-hour ride started a 20-year journey that has been nothing short of amazing.