I'm not sure how the van made it that far

The Firebird - St. Louis, Missouri

In 2007, we decided we were a touring band. Monetary resources were low and transportation was needed. After weeks of agonizing over how we would manifest a vehicle, the answer came in the form of fried chicken. Value menus at fast food restaurants were our typical go to when eating out. On a whim, one of the bandmates decided on KFC, which took us a route we normally wouldn't have driven. 

As we left the drive-thru lane and pulled out on the residential street, there it sat: a yellow 1988 Ford Club Wagon. We called the number on the “For Sale” sign. All but the front two seats had been removed, and it had spent the last decade as a work van. The owner was asking $800, which was the precise cap of our budget. It was a budget based on recently acquired paychecks from telemarketing jobs and couch cushion scrounging.  

There were a lot of reasons that we shouldn't have bought the van, but we needed something and there it was. Once we got on the interstate with the other band we were touring with, things got adventurous. We discovered that exceeding 65 miles per hour caused the engine to shake violently. There was a colony of ants who had made their home somewhere within the engine block. They became restless and sought new accommodations in the cab with us after a hundred miles or so. Perhaps they considered the first layer of snack and beverage containers on the floorboard an invitation.

We limped the van into Memphis about an hour and a half behind the other band. They finagled their way into a room at the Heartbreak Hotel. Since our budget didn't allow for such extravagance, we politely asked the parking lot security guard if we could sleep in our van inside the gates. He allowed it, and we slept well in relative safety, after we chatted for nearly an hour with the guard about his job and our music.

The next day we cruised along to Murfreesboro at a leisurely 65 miles an hour. A member of the ska band that played the show with us, graciously offered a place for all of us to stay. After a home cooked meal, my fascination with the Civil War came up. Our host had once been a park ranger at the Stones River battlefield in Murfreesboro. He offered to give us a private tour of the park the following day, which we gladly took him up on. Later that evening, he brought me two books, a Civil War necktie, and a sergeant chevrons from an authentic Civil War uniform. He decided during our conversations that I would get more enjoyment from the items.  

The van made it the rest of the six days of tour. It wasn't a comfortable ride and it wasn't a stress-free ride, but it was ours. A few short trips following that tour, the van gave up the ghost for good. Its final resting place was a scrap yard in Joplin, and we took the proceeds to our favorite Chinese food buffet, and feasted. 

They can scrap our vans, they can tell us our investments are foolish, but they can't ever take the memories of the miles.

Joyeux Noel

Back in the mid-nineties when inline skating and the X-Games got wildly popular, I went through a rollerblade phase. I put all my eggs in one basket and only asked for skates at Christmas. I am a persistent human if nothing else. When I got my inline skates for Christmas he hid a series of clues around the house. After a dozen or so clues, my dreams of becoming an X-Games medalist started forming. Unfortunately, I grew up in rural Missouri on a dirt road. Such surfaces don’t lend themselves to small wheels. Occasionally, when were at school after hours, I was able to use the skates on level ground. If someone needs a pair of gently used rollerblades, I think they still exist in a basement in Cassville Missouri.  

Christmas 2003 was my favorite. Dad and I had moved to northwest Arkansas after my adoptive parent’s divorce. Dad worked in one school district, and I was in high school at another. His responsibilities paired with my school activities made our weeks very hectic. Slowly I started to stay at my grandma’s house more often than not, it was easier and convenient for me.  I still hold guilt about that time. I should have spent more time with Dad.

We acquired a small rental house in Cassville halfway through the fall. I still mark those days as some of the best I’ve had. I remember the slight rental smell from years of temporary inhabitants, the generic paint color for the walls, and that it was ours. The Turner men had a place to call their own again.

Money was tight, but ain’t it always? We had left behind years of memories at our old house. Fifteen minutes to gather our most precious items meant we had unwillingly become minimalists. Life is about perspective.  It’s hard to answer the question “What do you want for Christmas” when all you possess is what you could quickly throw into a garbage bag and throw in the truck. I could only think of one thing I felt was missing, but I couldn’t ask. There wasn’t money.

Music had always called to me. Anytime I brought up an instrument or music I was discouraged from pursuing it from half of my parents.  After a decade, you just stop trying, but Christmas 2003 was different. It was Dad and I. We weren’t held back anymore. I let slip my interest in an electric guitar. I tried to make sure Dad knew there was no obligation or expectation.

Christmas morning we made pancakes. Breakfast food is always present during our best times. We tore into our humble stash of presents.

Gift number one: VHS copy of Gettysburg. Dad knows me.

Gift number two: Monopoly. We used to play on snow days after feeding the cattle.

Stocking: A clue.

Dad’s clues lead me around the whole house. Kitchen. My room. Laundry area. Bathroom. The final clue directed me toward the Dollar General drum ornaments on our tree. In the decorative gold braiding, I found a guitar pick. Then another and another. A closer examination of the fake tree trunk unveiled a ¼ inch instrument cable, carefully placed from the base to the star.

“Look under the couch,” Dad said.

A Fender Squire Stratocaster was tucked neatly below where I had been sitting.

I don’t know how many times my poor father watched Gettysburg or how many games of Monopoly I talked him into, but I can tell you I spent hours playing that guitar. I like to think that guitar and I really helped Dad learn a great deal about patience and grace.

As a kid who had seen dark times, I had been looking for my voice. I was trying to scream out that I was hurting, that I had things to say, that I noticed some things about life. In youth, we have a hard time knowing what our voice is and how to use it. Christmas of 2003, my father gave me a voice, and although at times it’s a growl filled with red clay dust, it’s my voice.

WE DROVE ON NEXT TO OUR BROTHERS

Photos: Aaron Kafton @clovenlife

“Not sure how we’d pay the rent, just knew we had to keep going.”

We were on tour and that was all that mattered. Parents and friends did their part in reminding us of how foolish touring was. Our band had possibly the most unreliable vehicle I’ve ever had the misfortune of driving. Sometimes $900 for a vehicle and big dreams is enough to get you a few thousand miles. The van wouldn’t surpass 65 mph without cutting out. That made keeping up with the other band REALLY hard. We also discovered that the colony of ants in the engine compartment was very displeased with the heat from the engine. For a minor respite from the heat, they joined us in the cab of the van. There were no seats, save for the driver and passenger seats up front. We acquired some nice after market seating that had obviously accidently been left by a dumpster. Sometimes it IS the simple things in life. 

July of 2008 brought torrential rains to Texas and Louisiana. The ground couldn’t absorb any more water, so it stood nearly ankle high everywhere. The sun came out and the lower Mississippi River states became saunas.  Mind you, I hate humidity more than I hate menthol cigarettes, and I really hate menthol cigarettes. So much water was evaporating into the summer sun that it was almost foggy.

We arrived at the venue in Baton Rogue late the evening the day before our show. We were just two vans of punk rock/hippie/reggae/metal head kids chilling out in the parking lot, living our dreams. From the other side of the venue, we heard a distinct noise. There’s a sound that baseball bats and beer bottles make when being wielded as battle weapons that one never forgets.

At that moment my adrenaline removed any thought of the persistent humidity. I’m sure that our minds eye equated our situation to an epic medieval battlefield prior to a charge. In reality it probably looked more like a Spaghetti Western. One of us somehow found the capacity to utter something regarding playing at the venue the next evening. Guards and baseball bats came down and coolers of beer came out. We shared the rest of the evening with our new Baton Rouge friends in our makeshift parking lot camp.

Rats had the privilege of opening for some really amazing artists. Since those days it’s been enjoyable to see many of them carry on to bigger and better shows than the punk clubs in Joplin, Missouri. Of all those encounters, I remember talking with Brian Fallon in the green room (concrete room used for storage) before a show. Either he said one of the most simply profound things I’ve ever heard, or my brain decided he should have said something profound and interjected it in my memory. “We just decided to get in a van and go until it worked out or we ran out of money.”

 Fact or fanciful imagery, I think I’m just going to get in the van and hope it works out.

-Mississippi Jake