HOME IS NOT A HOUSE
After a long stretch on Oklahoma’s I-40, we backtracked west from Okemah, hopped on Highway 48 towards Bristow, and merged onto the I-44 heading into Missouri. I had started the day feeling strong, driving the RV with a renewed sense of purpose. My wife, Shannon, my one-year-old daughter, Frankie, and I planned to spend the night in the guesthouse of my former roommate. We were on ourninth day of a month-long excursion criss-crossing the US, and the thought of a night in a proper bed brought out the lead foot in me. As the hours rolled by and the sun in my rearview mirror set, I caught myself veering a few times onto the growling treads on the side of the freeway. We’d been on the road for a good 12 to 13 hours at that point, and it dawned on me: perhaps I should not be driving. But the highway signs for St. Louis indicated us that we were close, and, knowing full well that our host was waiting up for us, I decided to push through.
