Mile posts.

Around this time in the year of some Lord 1985, I was just finishing the first leg of a brutal National tour of three shows in a very small outfit out of Texas.  We drew straws in Cocoa Beach, FL to see who would hump the van back to Corpus Christi, and since I was going that direction anyway, as my CAR was in Corpus Christi, I intentionally drew the short straw.

I set off the following morning, heading north and catching the I-10, and then zipping along on that until I reached the promised land of Houston, and then took a light left hand turn and followed the Gulf coast to paydirt.  I can remember seeing at least one other sunrise.  I also remember sleeping in the back seat for a spell.  But mostly, I can remember the ridiculously cliched country radio stations.  It's a twangy sound that's never left my head.

Did a quick turnaround in Corpus Christi, got the car, gassed her, and headed North toward home. I had two stops to make; one, in Marquette MI, to see some old friends.

I've written about that one before.  You can read about it, if you want.

But before I got there, I needed to stop at a little town in the middle of nowhere, Illinois, called Macomb.

See, before I embarked upon the grueling tour, I had an offer to begin Graduate Studies at Western Illinois University.  They offered about halfway through my last semester of Undergraduate Studies, and I was about as through with classwork as I could possibly be; like the iconic Tom Wingfield, I was tired of the movies and was ready to move.

What a difference a day makes.  Or, to be precise, what a difference 244 days of loading in/loading out, cheap motels and cheaper food, and living out of one suitcase.

So, I made contact and was invited to come up on this day to re-audition, and interview, and all that jazz.  It was almost nightfall when I arrived; but they put me up in a dorm room for the night, gave me tickets to see a production of THE LION IN WINTER, and introduced me to several people that I would eventually work with in the future.

The show was good; the sleep was deep.  And the next day, with a handful of professors in attendance, I went into my song-and-dance (metaphoric) and to make a long story short, they let me in, gave me money to come in, and shook my hand with a hearty, "what took you so long?  we really wanted you last year, and are awfully glad to have you this year!"

There's not much to that particular story, except as aftermath.  I spent two years doing a three year program, fought with and loved dearly the people I came in with, have most if not all of their names on a friends list, and met two instructors that became role models for pretty much everything I did in a classroom for the next fifteen years.

I am in touch with most of them still; some, more than others.  And always, always grateful for the time.

So, in essence, I have always thought that my life turned on the events of later that same December; and yes, that's certainly true.

But the first turn came on a small dimly lit stage in Western Illinois a few weeks before.

Huh.  Go figure.