G.H.E.

July 14, 2025

Greetings from the origin,

It is not always possible to frame where something first begins, like trying to capture the wisp of a thought and pin it to a calendar, or label it somehow.  

If you have ever been an eleven-year-old boy, than you already know the driving force of exploration, of creating adventure. When I was that age, I shared space with various partners in adventure, including two friends named Tom.  Everyone always knew which Tom was being referred to when the name was spoken, which is a slice of magic that dissolves when you get older for some reason.

We roamed the space between our houses, the Two Toms and I, wearing paths into the world that connected us. We tramped through the parks, sat next to the creeks and in them, built forts in the woods.  And most every free hour, especially in the summer, we made the world larger, created mile by mile under the wheels of our bicycles.

Often what we did would appear as aimless, but even lying in the grass looking at the clouds had purpose.  That was where the dreaming began, where ruminating about what might be just beyond our experience led to something new.

It’s lost to me, in this moment of reflection, where the idea came from, but somewhere in the confluence of thinking between myself and the Two Toms, we determined to set off on the odyssey of our young lives; we would ride our bikes to my grandparents’ house.

It was a big jump for us, traveling out of our city to a small town not far away, but still a distance that made us excited. There may be a few of you who are underwhelmed at this, and in a way, we anticipated this. One of us, I am going to speculate it was Tom, decided to brand our adventure, and came up with ‘Grandmother’s House Expedition’.  One of the most important parts of the preparation was making cloth armbands with felt letters: G.H.E.

Most of the other plans were less formal.  At some point we must have looked at a map to figure out that it was 22 miles from our neighborhood to my the little cottage where my grandparents lived.  Using our vast experience with aimless bike riding through random neighborhoods, we estimated it would take approximately ‘most of the day’ to reach our destination. 

We gathered in the damp predawn, giggling with nervous energy.  The clocks were still thinking about 4:00 am when we wheeled through our city, so the streets were empty.  We made our way past the businesses and neighborhoods, out to where the trees shaped the world instead of bricks and mortar.

As we pedaled down the two-lane road that split the farmland south of the city, the sun slowly drew a pale line along the horizon.  Darkness faded, shadows appeared, the morning light eased the stars toward the west.

That moment, looking at the strip of road running ahead of us to some next place, I felt a surge of something in me, something that had been planted before I was born, and urged on by the dreaming under summer skies.  In the pages of my life that hold important beginnings, this is in bold print.  I have never looked at a two-lane road again without wanting to know where it went.

We stopped in the parking lot of a convenience store and ate Little Debbie cakes and chocolate milk, laughing at little boy stuff and then laughing at our laughing. Creedence Clearwater Revival played on the transistor radio.  We swung our legs over the saddles and rolled on.

If you have felt it, you already know, but there is something primal about the sound and vibration of bicycle tires on pavement, especially in a quiet morning. It is a powerful feeling, one that can etch into an eleven-year-old boy’s soul.

My grandparents were of the Greatest Generation, and so very few sunrises caught them still in bed.  That morning what woke them up wasn’t the sun, it was the sound of three hungry boys knocking at their door.  We’d arrived so fast that we’d barely registered the time.

That little trip taught us confidence, which led to other things.  It gave us courage to try, to be bolder, to think bigger.  It also showed what happens when a dream gets converted to scratches on a map.  And then plans are made, and a list of stuff to bring, and then one morning you are on your way somewhere new.

Where did it all begin?  Maybe waking up and seeing the summerlight streaking the bedroom floor.  Or the feel of damp grass.  Or the smell of a tent.  Or the shape of a narrow road cresting a hill and disappearing into the horizon.

Sometimes it’s falling in love, or discovering a talent, or finally understanding a passion.  Sometimes it is realizing what makes you wonder, or notice, or curious.  Or happy.  It starts somewhere, and you don’t always look to see where. Sometimes you never know, and sometimes, you pause long enough to see the start, and that makes it even better.

Hope this finds you exploring,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith