by Seth Wieck

I met Ryan Culwell on Highway 183, west of Necessity, Texas.  I was leaping one of those five-line barb-wire fences that separates Texan from Texas, I landed in the bar ditch, lost my footing, and stumbled down and up the other side ‘til I caught myself standing in the first of two lanes of state highway.  I also was staring at the glint off the windshield of an eighties conversion van as it locked all four tires, squealing into the other lane.   As the van slid by, passing my life in the oncoming, Ryan looked out the open passenger window, and that acknowledgement was our introduction.

Ryan was kind enough to give me a ride because it was hot that day.  He offered his hand to shake when I stepped up into the passenger seat, but his offer made me suddenly conscious of the prickly pear cactus needles coating my palms like fur.  And then we both noticed the needles riveting my jeans to my legs.

 “Where ya headed?” he asked.

“Nowhere in particular.”

“You ain’t a fugitive or nothing are ya?”

“No.  I just don’t have anywhere I gotta be.”

Right around here, I believe he said something like: 

“I’ve recently gotten off the train myself.” 

“I like that,” I said.  “I got off the train.”  And it stuck.  That became our mantra in our subsequent travels. 

“Hope you don’t mind that the A/C is off.  The van’ll overheat if I turn it on.”

“I think the breeze feels fine,” I said as I picked needles out of my hands and flicked them out the window.  After a while he told me to reach in the pocket behind my seat and grab the map of Texas.  There were two things in the pocket: the map, and a blue cloth-bound hymnal.  I tossed the hymnal on the dash and unfolded the map.

“What are we looking for?” I asked.

“The closest lake.  I gotta cool off.”

“Lake Daniel.  It’s about,” as I measured with my fingers, “three or four miles from here.”

The first entry road to the lake took us to a group of rental cabins.  As we drove into the camping area, we passed a sign welcoming us to the Reynold’s Family Reunion.  We stopped at an empty picnic table as close to the water as we could manage, and unloaded an ice chest Ryan had in the back of the van.  We sat shirtless and barefoot at the table drinking some water when a mom in a tie-dyed shirt approached from a matching tie-dyed family. 

“I’m Sandy,” she said.  Which seemed appropriate because her hair was about the color of sand, and her face bore orange freckles over the palest of skin, like wet sand that had been scattered over hot dry sand.  “Which branch of the Reynolds do y’all come from?”

Ryan and I looked at each other briefly, and I think we both had the same thought.  In fact, I know we did because we discussed it afterwards. The thought consisted of picking out a name, attaching it to some place far off that nobody in this area was likely to visit, and then helping ourselves to the potluck feast that was drifting across our noses as we drank our waters.  But in the instant of that thought sprouting, it also died.  I like to tell the truth.  I believe that is something that Ryan and I have in common.

“We’re not here for the reunion, ma’am.  Just the lake,” said Ryan.

“This ain’t much of a lake,” replied Sandy.  And she was right.  A person had to climb down a set of rocks to get to the water.  There was no easy resting beach, at least not from the vantage we had come in.  The lake may be fine for boating, but not relaxing, and we clearly didn’t have a boat.  “Are you boys hungry?” she continued.

“I have some peanut butter and jelly in the ice-chest,” explained Ryan.

“Don’t be silly.  We got plenty of food.  Y’all come over and eat with us.”

We didn’t argue, but we did put our shirts back on. 

I could hear the bratwursts split open and the juice sizzle on the fire as we walked into their camp.  Smoke from the fat cooking on the charcoal plumed up and blew off to the lake, and a new kind of hunger bloomed up in my belly that I hadn’t realized was there.  Sandy scooped chunks of watermelon onto paper plates for us, and she pushed her daughters, Natalie and Rachel, off the picnic benches so we could sit down.  Sandy’s husband Johnny asked us where we were from.  I allowed Ryan to do the talking, he seems to do that anyway, and I allowed the Reynolds to think that we had started out this journey together.  We spat seeds as we got to know each other.

Johnny cleared off the grill and we all carried our plates around the picnic bench, spooning food onto the paper.  A pile of yellow potato salad, green beans with chunks of bacon that Johnny had grilled for breakfast, yellow sweet corn with a stick of yellow butter melting in the heat of the day, and chocolate pudding with a white dollop of cool whip floating on top.  The bratwursts came with yellow mustard and yellow kraut from a jar.  The juice from the green beans mixed with the potato salad and the butter from the corn, and we sopped it all up with slices of bread we pulled from the plastic bag.  Ice tea was available in a plastic pitcher to wash down the bits of food that might have gotten stuck in our teeth.  When we were all sated and leaned over on the table in the heat, Sandy said, “Let’s entertain our guests.”

Sandy told the girls to fetch some instruments and in no time they were back with a harmonica and a guitar.  Johnny began playing a tune and the girls struck off on a path of harmonies.  I wish now I could remember what songs they were singing, but I didn’t recognize any of them.  Old standards from a standard that wasn’t mine.  But the songs were beautiful.  I hadn’t really ever known anybody who could sing.  I just watched with my mouth hanging open, and my hands absently picked needles out of my legs to the rhythm.  Ryan on the other hand sang along, kinda quiet, but he knew the songs and he knew how to sing a harmony.  Sandy heard him singing and gave him a knowing wink.

After a few, she asked if we wanted to sing some. 

Johnny said, “Yes, how bout you travelers.  You got any songs?”  He offered his guitar to whoever would take it.  Ryan reached for it.

He sang a couple by himself, songs that the Reynolds family didn’t know.  The girls watched him in awe as he leaned back and sang, banging out wood-toned chords on Johnny’s guitar.  At one point, he opened his eyes and saw the girls watching, so he started making up a song about them.  They giggled and started dancing how little kids dance, mostly just twisting until they lost balance.  Another clan of Reynolds walked down from their cabin and joined in with the crowd.  When he was finished he handed the guitar back to Johnny, and the families clapped.

Sandy looked at me and asked if I had any songs I wanted to sing. 

“I don’t sing, ma’am.”

“You got any you want us to sing?”

“I don’t think I know any of the songs y’all sing.”

“Anything.  Some old country songs?  Or hymns, you know any hymns?”

I thought for a second, and ran back to the van to grab the hymnal off the dash.  I thumbed through it to see if I recognized any of the songs. Nothing.  Nothing.  

One.

I handed the book to Sandy and she showed it to Johnny.  He strummed the chord, and Sandy began singing the first verse.  The girls recognized it and picked out their harmonies.  The other Reynolds family chimed in, and so did Ryan.  When the chorus came around, I joined them and we were all singing:

I’ll fly away in the morning / I’ll fly away / When I die, hallelujah by and by / I’ll fly away / .

Towards evening Sandy packed each of us plates, wrapped them in cellophane, and stuck them in zip lock bags to stow in our ice chest.  And we got back on the road.

As we pulled onto I-20, Ryan said, “I got a buddy in Denton is expecting me in the next few days.”

“Would you mind if I tagged along?  I’ll pay half the gas.”

“Long as you don’t mind listening to me talk.  And driving fifty-five the whole time.  The van’ll overheat if I go any faster.”

“That’s fair, I guess.  I got off the train, so it don’t matter.”

“I almost killed you on the road earlier.  You know that?”

“I do.  But trips like these don’t work without the hospitality of strangers.”