Page 41 of The Roads We Follow

You’re probably wondering about the sketch of the bridge on the next page. Luella and I sat right there for nearly eight hours, listening to nature and writing songs. There’s one I wrote that I can’t wait to play for you. If you look closely, you’ll find the lyrics hidden in this sketch.

I told Luella about him tonight before bed, the Monster I lived with before you rescued me. She cried, and because she cried, I did, too. She asked if he’s the reason I never want to get married or have kids of my own. I told her the Monster doesn’t get to be the reason for anything I do or don’t do anymore. I’m not sure she believed me, but she did suggestwe make a pact. So right there atop our sleeping mats, we vowed to never let any man come between us. We promised to protect each other always, not only as best friends, but as sisters.

Tomorrow we’re going to see the Pacific Ocean because Luella said no sister of hers can go all the way to Nashville without knowing what it feels like to stick her toes in the surf for the first time. I can’t even imagine what it will feel like. I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight.

I love you,

Lynn

August 26, 1975

San Francisco, California

Dear Chickee,

So much has happened since I last wrote. Shortly after we left the Redwoods, we met a van full of new friends from the same area where that big oil spill was last year. They invited us to come with them to San Francisco. Turns out, they all live together in a commune and call themselves Jesus People. In a way, the place reminded me of Camp Selkirk. They took us to the ocean, and it was even better than anything I could have imagined! I went shoeless the entire day. We’ve stayed with them for the last three nights, and a part of me doesn’t want to leave. We’ve been working on more songs, and there’s something that feels especially inspiring about singing outside.

Tonight they asked us to lead the song service. I don’t know how many of us there were in total, and that part doesn’t really matter anyway, but when we sang tonight, something happened inside me—like the spark of a fire. People were singing and clapping and even dancing to our songs, and I didn’t want it to stop. I think I feel it now, the passion Luella speaks about so often.

Maybe she doesn’t need to share her dream with me anymore, because I think her dream just became mine.

I love you,

Lynn

August 31, 1975

Amarillo, Tulsa, Hot Springs, Memphis

Dear Chickee,

Well, you made me promise to say yes to all the adventures you would say yes to if you could, and boy oh boy have I kept my promise. You wouldn’t even believe all the things we’ve done! I can’t write out everything, as it would take a week, but as you can see, I’ve sketched out some of my best memories (except for the rattlesnake under our tire in Amarillo. That was truly horrifying, and I don’t want to give you nightmares).

One of the highlights was a bathhouse in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Luella and I were long past ready to wash our hair and smell of something other than stale road food. I never knew clean could feel so good.

You’ll also find a sketch of a historic ballroom in Tulsa. That’s where a radio dance-off contest was held to win two tickets to see Elvis at his concert in Memphis ... Chickee, I won!!! I don’t have the faintest clue what I was doing with my feet, I just told myself to keep on doing it until I fell on the floor in exhaustion. Luella cheered so loud for me that she nearly lost her voice. After I won, we deemed this place our lucky ballroom and promised we’d be back one day, hopefully, to perform songs of our own.

We see Elvis tomorrow night. Can you even believe it? Elvis!

Thank you for pushing me to do this.

We’ll be in Nashville in two days.

I love you,

Lynn

P.S. I’m working on a map of our epic adventures this summer! I think it will make for a nice keepsake down the road. I’ll send you a copy when I send you this journal.

11

Micah

As much as I desire a follow-up conversation with Raegan after last night, I decline the offer to trail behind the Farrow ladies as they shop in strip-mall stores with names likeHeavens to Betsy Boutique.I opt instead for some downtime with my mother’s journals inside a coffee shop calledFixin’ To Café. I thumb through several entries of her road trip, as well as multiple sketches, poems, and travel games she created throughout. It feels surreal to read her words from a time long before I ever called her mom.

Once my waitress sets a steaming bowl of grits at my table—a first for me—I switch my focus to another family member. I give the journals a rest and decide it’s time to fill my dad in on my summer gig as a bus driver. As I expect, my call goes directly to his voicemail. I leave him a message along with a promise to leave another for him at our next stop. Perhaps these check-ins will make the difficult conversation we’ll have after he returns a tad less painful.

Garrett is next on my list. The few texts we’ve exchanged since I arrived have been transactional at best, so I’m relieved to see his name flash on my screen only a minute after reaching his voicemail. In his line of work, that kind of response time is rare.

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