Springer's Journey

Some days become memorable because everything goes wrong.

And some days become memorable because nothing does.

Today was the second kind.

No drama. No emergencies. No tears in the Walmart parking lot. No “ARE YOU SERIOUS??!!” moments requiring a deep breath and a pep talk.

Just libraries.

Maps.

Reflection.

And a very questionable woodworking project.

Honestly? It was a really good day.

I spent time in one of those beautiful Oregon libraries that make me want to move in permanently.

Quiet people.

Soft light.

Big tables.

The kind of place where thoughts finally settle down enough to be heard.

I’ve been planning the next leg of the trip — me, Cora, Ferrari, and the newest official member of the traveling circus:

Mayday Murphy.

Now, for those of you just joining us, Mayday Murphy is a Steller’s Jay.

Not a REAL Steller’s Jay. At least I don’t think so.

Mayday Murphy is the voice in my head that believes every pinecone falling in the woods is the opening scene of a disaster movie.

A twig snaps? MAYDAY MAYDAY WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Dashboard light flickers? ABANDON SHIP.

Cloud moves suspiciously? CLEARLY A SIGN.

The beautiful thing is this: Mayday Murphy is so dramatic that sometimes I calm down just to settle the bird.

And honestly? It works.

Meanwhile:

• Cora (my trusty Subaru) remains calm and dependable.
• Ferrari is my instinct — fast, protective, and occasionally loud.
• And me? I’m somewhere in the middle trying to keep everybody pointed in the same direction.

The truth is, they’re all parts of me.

The calm.

The fear.

The instinct.

The courage.

The catastrophizing.

The laughter.

Turns out a person can survive quite a bit if they learn how to laugh at the panic before it swallows them whole.

Speaking of questionable decisions…

I stopped by Harbor Freight the other day.

I LOVE that ridiculous store. You walk in needing one thing and walk out holding three flashlights, zip ties, a tarp, and something called a “tactical magnetic grabber” that nobody actually needs but suddenly feels essential.

What caught my eye this time was a wood carving set.

Now remember Stick?

Stick is my walking stick.

Or at least he WAS a walking stick before I apparently enrolled him in emergency surgery.

In my mind, I was going to create a rugged masterpiece worthy of an old forest wanderer.

In reality?

Stick currently looks like he should probably seek urgent medical attention.

But somewhere in the middle of all the carving and sanding and muttering, I carved a heart.

And inside it?

CORA.

Not the other names. Absolutely not.

If a park ranger found a beautifully carved stick with:

• a graceful heart that says “CORA” …and underneath:
• “FERRARI”
• “MAYDAY MURPHY”

They would assume they’d stumbled across evidence from a deeply unusual woodland cult.

So Cora got the heart.

Because she deserves it.

That car has carried my entire life.

Safely.

Quietly.

Without complaint.

And somehow that little carving made me emotional.

Funny, the things that matter.

Not expensive things. Not flashy things.

A library.

A map.

A stick.

A name carved into wood.

A day without fear.

That’s enough. More than enough.

Tonight I’m sitting quietly with my traveling companions — the practical one, the fast one, the panicked bird, and me.

And for the first time in a long while, the whole crew feels balanced.

Even Mayday Murphy has settled down.

Although I’m pretty sure he’s still suspicious of pinecones.

Always, Lorrie