Coming Home to Dixie

Sweat was dripping down my face as I swayed side to side, crouching low in the dark. My knees were bent, weight balanced on the balls of my feet, ready for anything. In my head, I could hear my high school tennis coach barking, “Ready position! Always be in ready position!” And I was.

This wasn’t a match point or championship round. This was real life.
This was rescue mission: Gracie.

My youngest crouched in front of me, her eyes wide with focus, whispering, “Shake it, Mom, shake it.” I nodded solemnly and shook the bowl of cat food like a seasoned percussionist. The kibble rattled with purpose—my makeshift tambourine—each shake a signal we hoped Gracie would answer.

Then, without warning, my daughter switched from verbal cues to silent hand gestures, her little arms fluttering and slicing the air like a miniature orchestra conductor. I followed her lead—rising crescendos and soft staccatos as I shook the bowl in rhythm, praying the scent and sound would draw our elusive feline closer.

Cobwebs tickled my cheeks and clung to my arms, but I gave them no mind. We were deep in the shadowy corner of the shed, crouched in the dark, hearts pounding like we were on a covert military op. This wasn’t just another night. This was the night. We were on a mission. We were saving Gracie.

Gracie, our beautiful, timid indoor/outdoor cat, had clearly sensed change in the air. Two weeks earlier, we began the process of bringing her inside for good—to prepare for the cross-country move. We thought it would be straightforward: bring her in, keep her safe, transition her gradually. But Gracie had other plans.

She knew.

Every time we came close to catching her, she slipped out of our hands like smoke. A blur of gray fur and sass, darting past legs, through doors, under fences. We tried treats, toys, the promise of belly rubs—but she was onto us. She had memorized our patterns and countered each move with sleek feline precision.

One night, desperate, we set our alarms for 3 a.m.—a time we had quietly noted as her routine snack-and-snooze hour on the patio. Bleary-eyed and half-asleep, we tiptoed to the door with high hopes and soft socks, ready to pounce.

She didn’t come.

Of course she didn’t. She was too smart for that.

And so we adapted. Every night, we tried something new. A new sound. A new route. We scanned places where she had been sighted, hoping to catch her while she was unaware.

That night, our teamwork felt electric. We had patience. We had grit. We had a bowl of cat food.

And then—we saw her.
A gray streak of fur.
A cat darting into the shed.
A faint meow that made my heart stop.

It took two hours of exhausted teamwork and ingenuity, but we finally caught her. My oldest brought a cat carrier to us, and when Gracie was finally close enough, my youngest scooped her up in one swift, desperate motion—knees protesting, arms trembling.

She yowled, squirmed—but we had her.
We finally had her.

And the only reason we did—by some twist of grace and good judgment—is because our move had been delayed by a day.

At the time we caught her, we should have been somewhere in Utah. That was the plan. But the night before, the movers didn’t finish loading the truck until after 9 p.m. The house was in chaos, the kids were tired, the pets were confused, and Jim and I were running on fumes. We were supposed to be up at 4 a.m. to hit the road, but as we sat on the couch that night surrounded by boxes and stress, we looked at each other and silently asked the same question: Can we really do this like this?

We talked it out, weighed the risks of driving across the country exhausted and emotionally maxed out. In the end, we decided to stay behind one more day—just long enough to breathe, rest, and make sure the vehicles were truly road-trip ready.

And thank God we did. Because that was the night we got Gracie. Our beautiful, stubborn girl who had eluded us for weeks was now finally safe inside, all because we had one more day. One more night. One more chance.

Of course, even with the extra day, things weren’t exactly easy. There was still so much to do—loading the last-minute essentials, checking tire pressure, re-packing supplies for the fifth time. Every item, every task felt heavy and final.

Then 4 a.m. came. Too early. Too dark. And entirely too soon.

Getting everyone into their seats was a feat worthy of its own entry, but the real challenge? Archie.

Archie is our big, lovable, 80- to 100-pound shepherd mix. And if there’s one thing Archie hates, it’s getting in the car. Specifically, he loathes being picked up anywhere near his belly. So there we were, in the dark, headlights on the driveway, kids half-asleep, dogs barking, cats meowing, and Archie spinning in anxious circles.

My oldest and I teamed up to lift him. We tried treats. We tried coaxing. We tried calm, encouraging words. Archie responded with growls, squirming, and, in one frustrated moment, a nip on Siena’s arm. (Thankfully it wasn’t serious, just a warning shot.)

But we were determined. He circled again, we reset, and in one awkward, synchronized lift, we got him up and in. Doors closed. Everyone in.

I exhaled for the first time in hours.

Was it chaotic? Yes. Was it stressful? Absolutely. But as we finally pulled out of the driveway, the sun just beginning to rise,  I felt something unexpected.

Peace.

But peace, like so many things on this journey, was fleeting.

We hadn’t made it too far into Nevada before Jim’s Excursion started giving him problems. A clamp broke—something small but essential—and he didn’t have a replacement. He tried to rig a fix with the supplies he had on hand, and for a little while, it held. Long enough to get our hopes up. But it didn’t last.

What should have taken maybe four or five hours to get through Nevada and into Utah stretched on and on. Sixteen hours later, we were still in Nevada. Still chasing the horizon. Still breaking down on the side of the road.

With darkness falling and all of us exhausted, we pulled off and found a small campground on the outskirts of town. We curled up in the back of the Excursion, limbs tangled and hearts heavy. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was shelter, and it was still forward movement.

The next morning, we set out again. Hopeful. Determined.

But Nevada wasn’t done with us yet.

After another four or five frustrating breakdowns, we finally came to the conclusion that the fix wasn’t going to hold. Jim needed a specific part, one we couldn’t find anywhere nearby. A Ford dealership in Salt Lake City said they could order it, but it wouldn’t arrive until 5 p.m. that day—and it was only 10 a.m.

We didn’t have much choice. So we crawled our way—limping, coasting, inching—toward Salt Lake City.

As we approached the outskirts of the city, I finally understood why it was named what it was. The ground all around us sparkled white like snow, but it wasn’t snow—it was salt. Miles and miles of gleaming white dusted the desert in a surreal, almost magical way. In the middle of the chaos, the breakdowns, and the constant worry, there was beauty.

When we finally arrived at the dealership, the part was ready and waiting. Jim had planned to put the part in by himself in the dealership’s parking lot, but an off-duty mechanic gave him a helping hand and made the job go quickly and smoothly. For a moment, everything felt okay.

But still, something wasn’t quite right.

Turns out, a crucial nut hadn’t been tightened during the repair. Thankfully, it was an easy fix—a quick turn of a wrench—and then we were truly, finally, on our way again.

At that point, it was hard to believe we’d only just left California the day before. The emotional weight of each leg of the journey was adding up quickly. But with every delay and detour, we were learning how resilient we really were. And that maybe the hardest roads still lead to the right places.

We had a long way to go. But we were moving. And somehow, Archie now no longer fought us to get back in the car after rest breaks, but instead, eagerly jumped up as far as he could himself and allowed Siena and me to lift him up the rest of the way – even holding him around his belly.

Wyoming greeted us with open skies and rugged beauty. After the chaos and crawl of Nevada and Utah, this leg of the journey felt like a breath of fresh air—literally and figuratively. The highways stretched out before us like wide ribbons, smooth and welcoming. The girls pressed their faces to the windows, marveling at the deep red rock formations and the vast, rolling fields. The dogs finally settled, lulled by the steady hum of the road, and for once, everything felt peaceful.

We made good time, cruising under blue skies with the kind of ease that almost made us forget the headaches behind us. But just as we were approaching the end of our driving day, I saw them—those familiar and dreaded flashing hazard lights blinking from Jim’s Excursion.

My stomach dropped. Again?

Thankfully, it turned out to be a loose clamp—nothing major. Jim tightened it and we were on our way once more. Still, the adrenaline spike had left its mark.

Then, as if on cue, the skies darkened and rain began to fall just as we crossed into Colorado.

The roads immediately changed—bumpy, patchy, chaotic. The rain fell harder, and night closed in fast. It was almost impossible to see with the glare of headlights bouncing off the wet pavement. The highways were filled with impatient drivers zipping past at wild speeds, weaving through narrow lanes and potholes like they knew every turn by heart. Jim and I were both tense, white-knuckled on the wheel, barely exchanging words except to check in over our phones.

By the time we finally found our next campground, it was 11:30 p.m. We were soaked with stress and real rain. And, as if the night wasn’t already pushing us to our limits, we saw it: a flat tire on the trailer Jim had been towing.

No light. No shelter. Just pounding rain and exhaustion.

We huddled together in the back of the Excursion again—wet, muddy, too tired to change out of our clothes. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but at least we were safe and together. We’d deal with the tire in the morning.

And morning, as it tends to do, came too quickly.

But with it came sunlight—and a plan. By some stroke of grace, there was an auto parts store just minutes from the campsite, and our campsite neighbor, bless him, had the tools we needed. Between Jim’s know-how and a little neighborly teamwork, the tire was fixed in no time.

Even better? There was a diner just across the street.

After a week of gas station snacks, crumpled fast food wrappers, and questionable coffee, sitting down at a table with actual plates, real silverware, and a fresh carafe of coffee felt downright luxurious. I didn’t realize how much I missed the simple pleasure of a hot breakfast and a moment of calm.

That little diner gave us more than food. It gave us a pause—a break in the storm of travel, decisions, and breakdowns. We laughed and joked around while we savored our food. It felt like we’d hit a tiny reset button.

And with renewed spirits, we pressed on.

As day four came to a close, we found ourselves in Oklahoma. This time, we decided to splurge—not on anything fancy, just a cheap motel with four walls, real beds, and a bathroom we didn’t have to share with strangers. After three nights of squeezing into the back of the Excursion, juggling dogs, kids, and bathroom trips in the rain, that room felt like the Ritz. We took turns showering, curled up under clean sheets, and let ourselves breathe.

One more day. Just one.

We’re almost home.