Later that night, I sat down with Jeremy, Cindy's son, to talk about hunting while we watched hunting shows on TV. Jeremy found a career specializing in firearms and scopes for hunting, and thanks to his job, has gone on a lot of filmed hunts with famous hunters such as Steven Rinella and Jim Shockey. While Jeremy isn't famous, he's still well-known in the hunting community thanks to his filmed hunts and his knowledge on hunting gear.
We stayed up for hours, sharing our most memorable outdoor experiences, discussing some of the most successful hunting tips and tricks we'd either heard of or discovered ourselves, complaining about shitty weather, anti-hunters, politicians, and very bad political ideas (*cough* *cough* red flag laws, gun bans, and identity politics *cough*), and commenting on what we were watching on TV, all the while trying not to get too loud and passionate because the rest of the house was asleep. We didn't even notice the clock until we glanced out the eastern facing window and realized the sky was just beginning to light up. We'd stayed up for 9 hours, until 5:00 in the morning, talking about hunting, and I had to be out on the road again at 7:30 AM!
I wished Jeremy a goodnight, and headed upstairs to my bedroom as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, there's no way in hell anyone's gonna move throughout a 150-year-old farmhouse with original wood flooring very quietly, so I just hoped everyone in the house was a heavy sleeper while I made my way to the guest room closest to the top of the stairs. The door to my room was partially closed. It was one of those antique wooden doors that creak very loudly every millimeter it moved. It was so loud, it made me physically cringe, but miraculously, I don't think I woke anyone else up. I put one of my boots against the door to keep it open so I could get some air from the AC unit, and then threw myself into bed before I could make any more ear-shattering noises at 5:00 in the morning.
As much as I wanted to go to sleep, I couldn't. I just laid awake in the dark, with my eyes closed, but still fully aware of my surroundings. I could hear crickets and frogs chirping outside through an open window, the hum of the AC unit in the hallway, and the occasional creak and moan as the house settled and pipes rattled. At first those noises startled me, but eventually I accepted that the house was just very old and still pretty original, and calmed down. I was still very excited about hunting, especially since I planned on ordering my hunting tags in just a couple short days. Jeremy's stories really hyped me up. I was also eager to get back on the road, and mentally mapped out the rest of our journey to Minnesota over and over again in my head. At 6:30 AM, I decided I'd laid down long enough. I threw off my covers, pulled on a pair of jeans, made sure all of my bags were packed with all of my necessities, and crept downstairs as quietly as possible.
Once downstairs, I pulled open the fridge, got myself a cold Mountain Dew and a bag of beef jerky to take my pills with. Then, I gently closed the fridge and headed outside into the misty country air.
Outside, I was greeted by Jet, who was all gross and muddy from playing around in the dewy grass and then rolling around in the cow yard. He jumped up and put his muddy paws on my shoulders. If I'd been in a worse mood, I would've shoved him off of me. But instead, I let him stay where he was, and made an effort to pet him, while avoiding rubbing my hand in the blotches of mud and cow shit that drenched Jet's silky coat. Thankfully, he didn't have a whole lot of mud on him, but there was still enough to make me mindful of where I pet him.
When I stopped petting Jet, he eagerly ran around me, barking and pressing himself against me as if he wanted to show me something. I followed him to wherever he wanted me to go, but stopped at a gate which he slipped under. I looked up and locked eyes with a gentle black angus bull, who was on his way to the hay feeder. He was alone, and had left his herd of cows in the pasture. Jet mischievously approached the bull, while I called out to him, "I wouldn't do that if I were you!". Jet paused, and looked at me, then gazed over at the bull, locked eyes with me again, then stared at the bull. Meanwhile, I gently talked to the dog, coaxing him, but not very sternly, to come back to me and leave the bull alone. He knew better, and after looking between me and the bull a few more times, Jet finally crawled back under the gate to safety.
With Jet by my side, I wandered back to the farmhouse, taking in all of my surroundings. I'd been separated from those surroundings for way too long. At home, I struggled to breathe in the polluted air. I felt anxious and trapped by all of the traffic and tall buildings. Even in the suburbs on the western outskirts of town, I've always felt confined. There's just too many people, too many buildings, too much cement, and too much light at night, and not enough wide open spaces or wildlife. While I've frequently sought some true peace and quiet at Clarke's house, within a year's time, even that will be taken away from me thanks to a new development that's 1,500 houses large.
Out in the true country, where I was at that moment with Jet, I can breathe and relax. I don't feel nearly as alone out on the farm as I do back at home, because out in the country, I actually connect with people on a much deeper level than I do with those who have spent their whole lives in the city. With the Internet, I don't struggle to talk with farmers and ranchers about more complex things. Sure, that may have been an issue 20 or 30 years ago, when the Internet wasn't popular. But today, country people are usually just as educated as city people. They're just easier to talk to than city people. They're friendlier, more gentle, less arrogant, and more understanding than those who live in the city, at least in my experience.
My grandma Connie's family was a lot more understanding and accepting towards me and my health issues than my maternal relatives in Seattle, whom I was intentionally avoiding by scheduling a road trip to Minnesota during the exact same week my mom scheduled a trip to Washington.
My maternal relatives in Seattle mean well, but they don't treat me with the dignity and trustworthiness I deserve. They command me to do things, rather than ask. They try to force me to do things, rather than stepping back and allowing me to do things in my own time and ways. They seem to believe they know more about me than I know about me, because they think that elders always know better, and a few hours of research on Google scholarly pages is the same as living with CF for 18 years. They try to force me to be more social, more willing to do things, more willing to put myself out there, because they see my very introverted nature as a disorder that must be forcefully fixed, rather than just another personality trait. The family in Seattle seems to be too arrogant to ask me any serious questions, which is why I've pushed so far away from them. It's not that I don't love them. Of course I do! I just can't deal with being pushed, shoved, forced, belittled, and helicoptered like I often am out there.
I have to be free.
I feared that my grandma Connie's family would be the same way, especially since they are so unfamiliar with Cystic Fibrosis and so fussy about rules. Instead, Cindy and Greg were both very understanding and accommodating. Cindy originally planned a casserole dinner for us, but when my grandma Connie informed her of my digestive issues, she instead served us a dinner of steaks, peas, broccoli, sweet corn, and cheesy mashed potatoes, all on separate serving plates, so I could be included in the family dinner without having to worry about getting sick. When discussing my condition with her, Cindy did not press me for details or claim that "because X worked for me, X must work for you". Nobody questioned me when I excused myself from dinner early, so I could escape the chaos in the house and reset myself for a few minutes, before returning to finish my meal. Everything I did on that farm was my own choice. I was not pressured or forced to do anything, or belittled and interrogated when I chose to do something. I was allowed to take care of myself, and was listened to when I spoke up for my needs.
If only I got a fraction of that same treatment in Washington.
My thoughts scattered when Jet suddenly sprang up and barked towards the driveway to my right. There, zipping across the driveway was a wiry grey squirrel, and Jet was determined to catch it. Jet was just a second too late. He nearly snatched the squirrel as it skittered up a tree, but he was just too slow. Jet was left on the ground, barking and scratching up the century old oak tree, while the squirrel moved onto a branch and stared back down at Jet, as if to mock him. I heard the front door of the house squeak open, and Cindy called out to Jet while she shook a steel bowl of dog food for him. Behind her, I could see my grandparents getting their things together.
Within a few minutes, we'd be on the road again, headed east towards the Nibbe family farm in the bluffs of southeastern Minnesota. It 7 hours or so, I'd be approaching the front door of my grandma Shirley's house; the same house that's been in the family for almost 80 years. Then, I'd get to stay there for five nights surrounded by family and old friends. I could finally relax completely, and wouldn't have to think about anything that was bothering me in life. My life constantly changes, but the Nibbe family farm rarely changes.
I made sure my dirtbike was still securely strapped down to its rack. I tightened a couple of ratchet tie-downs that felt too loose, and shook the dirtbike a few times to make sure every movement it made was mirrored by the rack. Then, I reached into the trunk of the SUV and pulled out a can of room-temperature Mountain Dew, which I didn't mind the taste or temperature of. I knew I'd need that extra dose of caffeine to make it through the day. Then, I turned around and let Jet jump up on me one last time as I stroked his muddy fur, before embarking on the other half of our journey to Minnesota.
