Life in the Kingdom | Best-Laid Plans

In September, with the nights just beginning to cool, my boys and I have plans to travel to Washington, D.C., to see our favorite band, the Turnpike Troubadours. The Troubadours are from Tahlequah, Oklahoma, and, if you believe Wikipedia, they are a “country music band,” although I suspect that anyone familiar with their music would find this description wanting. I know I do. But no matter how you define their style, they have been our favorite band for as long as we’ve known they existed, which now is nearly a decade. Ever since their reunion in 2022 following an extended hiatus, they’ve become popular enough to routinely sell out large stadiums; the D.C. gig is one of only two smallish, general-admission shows they’ll play this year, which is all the excuse we needed to procure tickets way back in April, while there were still tickets to be had.

The idea is for Fin and me to drive 10 hours to D.C., leaving in the wee hours in order to make it to the distant airport in time to pick up Rye, who will fly in from Wyoming, where he’s spent the summer on a ranch, training horses and leading rides into the mountains. I’ve got it all figured out: There’s an Airbnb reservation with our name on it, and I’ve filled a cooler with enough food to (hopefully) last us the weekend. There is a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of homemade bread plus another of store-bought, a two-pound block of cheese, and more carrots than it seems possible can be consumed in three days. There’s granola and milk, and not one but two quarts of yogurt. I’ve even packed a bag of coffee beans, my little hand-crank grinder, and a Moka pot. By my standards, all this demonstrates an impressive degree of forethought and planning (Tickets purchased in April! Airbnb reserved in June! Rye’s flight booked in July! Food procured an entire week in advance!), and I’m feeling very much pleased with myself.

So pleased, in fact, that it hardly bothers me when, five days before our scheduled departure, I’m driving over the Mountain Road and manage to dislodge a rock that is somehow propelled upward with enough force to puncture a hole in the oil pan of my old Volvo. It’s a mortal wound: The oil runs out in a steady stream, like a ruptured artery. This is a bit stressful, to be sure, but look at how prepared I am otherwise! Surely I can weather this minor wrinkle. I limp the car to Bryan’s, who runs a small garage one town over. To reach it, you have to cross a one-way bridge and then navigate a narrow, rutted road that doubles as a snowmobile trail in winter. I like using Bryan as a mechanic in part because he’s good and fair, in part because he’s close, and in part because of that bridge and that little stretch of road.

Bryan says, sure, no problem, he’ll have it ready to go in plenty of time for our trip, which is probably all the foreshadowing you need to know that, in fact, my car will not be ready to go in plenty of time for our trip. Again, I take this in stride. The old Ram truck is also a fine touring vehicle—a little thirsty, perhaps, but one adapts to these things, especially when one has no choice.  

Except: Two days before we are scheduled to leave, the truck begins throwing fits. First, the check engine light illuminates, and while it’s true that I’ve remedied many a check engine light with the time-tested technique of covering it with electrical tape (there, all better!), that’s not going to work this time. Because pretty soon the light isn’t merely illuminated but actually flashing on and off frenetically, as if to say: Yo, there’s actually something wrong here, dude. Pay attention! Plus, the truck is running in an alarmingly sputtery way that does not bode well for a 600-mile drive into the heart of our nation’s capital. So: time for plan B. Or maybe plan C. Or whichever plan we’re on by now.

I’ll spare you the details of my last-minute scramble to procure a rental car in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont (which, as it turns out, actually requires procuring a rental car in New Hampshire), and divulge that we made it to D.C. on time, retrieved Rye from the airport, explored the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History as well as the National Gallery of Art, walked a few dozen miles, achieved the seemingly impossible feat of vanishing every last carrot I’d packed, and had, by all accounts, a whopping good time. 

Everywhere we went, I was amazed at the diversity of faces and dress, and I was struck anew by just how big the world truly is, at how much difference it accommodates. And, not unrelated, by just how small I’ve made my own life. This might sound like self-deprecation, but I don’t intend it that way; a modest life is not inherently wrong. But I think it would be wrong to not acknowledge such smallness, along with the accompanying truth of how varied the human experience truly is.

The concert exceeded our wildest expectations, and thanks to the boys’ insistence that we line up outside the venue five hours early, in the rain, we were front and center from beginning to end, singing along to every word of every song they played. The energy was sufficient to carry me through the following day’s drive home on four hours of sleep, with Fin conked out in the passenger seat, only my thoughts for company.

Yet for me, the show wasn’t the highlight. Rather, it was that the weekend planted the seed of an understanding of how I’ll continue to connect with my sons, even as they move into the world far beyond this tiny town in a remote corner of this small state. For all these years—nearly 22 of them now—I’ve not had to be so intentional. The path we chose made connection come naturally, without much forethought or planning. But things have changed, as they were always bound to do, even when such change seemed unimaginable. 

Now, there will be planning. Now, there will be tickets to concerts and to airplanes. There will be long drives and coolers full of carrots and cheese. Given my proclivity for end-stage vehicles, there may yet be last-minute scrambles for rental cars. It won’t be as simple as it once was. It won’t be as easy as it once was. But will it be worth it? As any of you with adult children already know, the answer is simple: more than I could possibly imagine.  

This column was originally published in the January/February 2024 issue of Yankee.

Ben Hewitt

Born and raised in Vermont, Ben Hewitt has played several roles throughout his life, including as a homesteader, carpenter, writer, and parent. He is very grateful to his readers for their ongoing support.

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