The older I get, the more I find myself grateful for the small things instead of Thanksgiving’s pageantry and fuss. I’m thankful for the overlooked- the parts of the world that sit just off the shoulder of the road, waiting for someone with a curious streak to pull over and take a picture.

Yesterday morning, tragic news cut through my commute as I crossed over I-69 on my way to work. Indiana Public Radio reported that a Delaware County Sheriff’s Deputy had been fatally struck by a semi in the early hours, just four miles up the road. The news was heartbreaking on its own, but the weight of it didn’t land until later, when I learned the victim’s name: it was Blake Reynolds, an old friend and bandmate of mine. 

It was about half a lifetime ago that my inner history geek stirred awake for good. After long nights working at Subway or the call center, my friends and I would pile into my car, grab fountain pops and cigarettes from the RIggin Road Market, and set off down the backroads in search of something, though we never could have said what. Old bridges? Forgotten schoolhouses? Flowing wells? We found a lot of those, but perhaps we were pining for the thrill of discovery itself. Those drives were our escape, our rebellion, and, in many ways, the start of everything I do now.

Back in May, I wrote about how I was entering a Bipolar II depressive episode. What I didn’t know then was just how long and deep it would be. The past four months felt like quicksand, with every day pulling me deeper thanks to the weight of the depression. Recently, though, it seems like something has changed. Morning temperatures have slipped into the forties, the PSL is back, and I’m beginning to stagger out from one of the darkest stretches I’ve ever faced.