2004-12-28 - 9:49 a.m.

Tunes to type by: Pedro the Lion, Control.

Ahhh.

Rejuvination. I spent a week and a half on the road, traveling to visit relatives and friends, and just soaking up as much of the mountain air as a young man can before the city beckons him back.

I left Columbia a week before Christmas, a somewhat broken and if nothing else, spiritually dehydrated soul. With the exception of the kickass Christmas gift-giving I did, I was feeling empty and devoid of that little spark that makes us smile, giggle, excited, etc.

I was ok, just content with floating lazily from day to day, but nothing more.

So Sunday morning, after a long night bartending, I held my head under freezing cold water and plotted out a 1500+ mile journey back to my homeland.

A Sort of Homecoming, if you will. (Poor U2 reference).

The trip to Nashville was only about 450 miles, and the time flew by. I watched flat farm lands give way to rolling hills and then (finally) huge snowcapped mountains. My car groaned as it climbed thousands of feet in elevation, eventually reaching the peak of Monteagle, I almost suffocated as the view played out in front of me.

Travelling 80mph down a 5% grade, flying by runaway truck pull-offs, windows down, cold mountain air stabbing my eyes and forcing tears to form at the edges. The smell was so foreign, no pollutants, no exhaust, just ozone. I whipped by a state patrolman who must have seen the excstay in my eyes, letting me continue on at 30+ over the speed limit without any kind of hinderance.

Arriving in Nashville I spent time with an old friend and got to have dinner at the infamous Boundary. (See Ryan Adams song "Tenneessee Sucks" off of his Demolition album.

I didn't sleep a wink that night, too anxious to get back on the road. When the sun came up, I threw back the scratchy hotel comforter and tore through the generic paper-wrapped hand soap, taking a 4 minute shower, just long enough to wash the stink of smoke and gin off of my body.

300 miles later, I pulled up to my older brother's house, a living, breathing ball of joy, unable to contain the feeling of homecoming and at-one-ness. Doorbell rings, door swings open, embrace between brothers, and a little nephew, hugging my leg.

Hallelujah.

The next few days were spent manipulating James Bond through snow levels filled with evil bad guys, hiding in forts with lazer guns trained at imaginary zombies, and yes, even wiping the occasional butt when my brother was at work. I look into my nephews eyes and I see that Dale potential that continues to snowball from generation to generation. He's a trip. Only 4, but already so alive and so cogniscient of the world around him. I should be so blessed to have a child like him. Perhaps one day. Or perhaps not.

Karaoke and the Dale brothers seem to go hand in hand. My drinking days are numbered, but it was good to tie one on in the company of my brother. The Jack and Cokes conjuring memories from our childhood. And to the 10 or so people who had to sit through our William Hung-like performance of Don't Go Breakin My Heart, sorry.

Somewhere in the middle of my vacation, we tucked my nephew into the backseat of the car and headed north to my grandmother's house. To be continued.

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