From The Phoenix News Times.
For decades, I have had a dream, a Merry Pranksters kind of dream: a psychedelic school bus, wheels whining on the asphalt, my Birkenstock-clad feet on the dashboard, wind whipping my long hair, my guitar in the back, headed toward a serendipitous happening.
I grew up in Hawaii, at the tail end of the hippie era, drawing floor plans for a converted school bus, longing for interstate highways, driving my ’59 Volkswagen on the longest road I could find until the tires crunched over drifts of white sand by the breaking waves.
Just like the waves, the years rolled on. I got older. I moved to the mainland, finished college, got a job as a newspaper reporter, got married, got a little older, bought a house, had a beautiful baby boy, and got a little older. I lost the Birkenstocks and cut my hair. My guitar dried up in the Arizona heat and the neck started to separate from the body.
I fed my travel bug in different ways. As newlyweds, my husband, Tom, and I took our backpacks to Europe for a month. As a reporter, I traveled from Arizona to north of the Arctic Circle seeking interesting stories. I took my son, Nate, on months-long road trips across the United States.
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