Yes, I know it's been a while, and I have much catching up to do, so let's get to it.
First things first, as they say, the good news is I have recently (finally!) escaped from commie California to Real America in a semi-permanent way. About two weeks ago, I landed in the swing state of North Carolina and couldn't be happier to be free-ish and near my newly minted granddaughter and my son's family. The air is different here, and so, thank goodness, are the people and most elected officials.
It wasn't my plan to move across the country during this election cycle into a state devastated by a hurricane, but lately, much of my life seems to involve making plans while God laughs. Anyway, I trust He puts me where I need to be when I need to be there. And don't worry — I absolutely voted before I left.
I made the cross-country drive from the Los Angeles area to the Winston-Salem area with my youngest son, my 80-year-old mother, and a middle-aged housecat in a 16-foot box truck and my mother's small car. It took thirty-five hours of actual driving and three and a half days. Yes, we pushed it, only stopping early on Saturday night to watch The Ohio State Buckeyes sadly lose by one point to the Oregon Ducks with help from several bad calls by the refs. Sigh.
Regardless of the state we were in (California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina), almost every gas station, convenience store, fast food joint, and hotel was noticeably understaffed. This was especially apparent in the hotels, where the staff seemed to consist of one unenthusiastic and overworked front desk clerk who also covered the other positions, such as laundress, breakfast server, security guard, and telephone operator. These weren't flea-bag motels in the bad parts of town, either. They were name-brand hotels you have heard of and likely stayed in. There were also hotels where I was a member (sometimes high-ranking) of their rewards programs.
The worst hotel in a state that shall remain nameless was a four-star, twelve-story nightmare. At 10 p.m., I found the front desk wholly abandoned, and I woke the front desk clerk from a back office nap. How do I know she was napping? After waiting 15 minutes, the weary clerk, clad in rumpled street clothes (no uniform, no nametag), came out bleary-eyed and toothless. Yes, you read that right.
The worst part of the worst hotel was that, according to the apps, it was the only one for miles around with a vacancy. We soon learned why.
It was under massive renovation. It was a renovation so complete and poorly planned that my 80-year-old mother had to climb three flights of stairs while my son and I lugged all of our luggage to reach our room because there was no working elevator. Once we reached the room, we couldn't get in. All three keycards did not work, which meant another trek down and up the stairs. The same thing happened the following day after breakfast. Oh, and just for fun, there was no working public bathroom on the first floor, so our plan to have Mom traverse the stairs only once that day didn't work either.
And that wasn't the only bad experience we had along the drive. There were also broken gas pumps, empty gas station fuel tanks, and slow-as-molasses fast food workers who couldn't make change with actual cash while incorrectly filling orders (What? That isn't what you ordered? Shrug.).
Anyway, I don't relay these stories to complain as much as to point out that they were representative of the many poor customer service experiences we had during our trip, which are themselves indicative of the failing economy and the disappearing service class. Gone are the days when you and I humbly worked a starter service job and were glad to have it. Meanwhile, states continue raising the minimum wage as if a Taco Bell job was ever meant to be a lifetime "living wage" career. What it's doing is forcing staff cuts and lowering service quality, which will ultimately kill businesses.
Strangely, the best adventure along the way was also the most embarrassing. One night in Tennessee, I took a wrong turn getting back on the highway after fueling up the box truck. This turn landed me in an actual ditch on a dead-end service road. Now, in my defense, I'd soon learn I'm not the only one who has performed this feat on this particular stretch of local road. Like the semi-truck drivers before me, I blame the wonky signage and lagging Google Maps app.
Even though we certainly could've been on that seldom-used road for countless hours that late at night, it didn't take long before help appeared. A short time later, the third car to pass by was a Wilson County, Tenn., Sheriff's deputy on his way home after a long shift. I'm sure he would've instead liked to have been home with his family at that moment, but he didn't hesitate to help — and laugh at me. And it was his sardonic sense of humor and sense of duty that saved the box truck and my pride.
Here's a YUGE thank you for your service, Deputy Brandenburg, both that night and as a member of the U.S. Marines. You left me with my dignity intact, a smile on my face, and a timely reminder that "we don't know why God had a plan for [me] not to be on the highway at that moment" but that "we should trust He had a reason for the delay."
And thank you, Cory, from Tow Pro, for being the massively skilled semi-truck tow truck driver I needed. Capable men and those like you are the true backbone of America. We'd honestly be stuck in a ditch without you. Consider following me on Substack or Facebook for more on this adventure (with pictures!).
Truly, the trip's most memorable part was witnessing the scores of rescue workers and everyday Americans heading east to western North Carolina. We first noticed them returning west when we were in New Mexico — convoys of muddy electric trucks and pickups with empty hauling trailers and weary drivers.
On the eastern side, we passed innumerable trucks and trailers loaded with supplies, heavy equipment, prefab houses with scout and chaser cars, full portable water tanks, stacks of tents and camping equipment, generators, coolers of every size, and just about anything else the victims of Hurricane Helene might need. Americans give to Americans who have lost everything — does it get any more American than that? I think not.
That's all this grateful American has for now. While I do have to return periodically to the Left Coast, it's certainly good to be free in Real America as we await the November 5 results.
