Finding My Way with a Chevy Van

I just kept listening. My heart was broken and all I wanted to do was run. I felt raw, like an open wound to the air. Looking back, that feeling was surrender. I listened to an inner voice, thinking maybe it was God, or an ancestor, or maybe even my higher self, guiding me. I kept listening, and trusting, and believing I was hearing from my heart, and just did what I was told. I bought a couple of worn out Chevy work vans, past being able to run, and had to laugh at the irony of it all.

It was a long process, rebuilding an old white van to run strong, again. I thought I’d get one van running, and sell it to fund the other van. Instead, I trusted a hobby mechanic’s work, and seized the rebuilt engine with one turn of the key.  Disgusted, mostly with myself, I scavenged off it, and sold it as a parts van for $300.

Surrender is not the same as giving up—it’s giving in. I’d gotten to this place, this rawness, by not making the best choices for myself. I kept listening to that inner voice, and kept letting myself be guided, as I hadn’t done so great on my own.

I had no idea where I was going with this project, but I just kept going. I couldn’t both look ahead or behind, and deal with the current task at hand, without fucking something up. All I could do was focus on the moment I was in. I remember reminding myself to be ok with keeping to the baby steps, and to continue to listen to that inner voice. Everyday, reminding myself.

I worked on learning as much as I could about that Chevy 350 engine. I spent an awful lot of time on my back, in the grass, taking things apart, and then, finally, giving in. I was never going to trust this engine with a “spun bearing,” and it had to come out. My neighbor, Hoss, thought we could throw a chain over a tree branch and pull it out. I found a junk yard, instead, in Houston, that would pull the engine and put a salvaged one back in, on the cheap, if I could get the van there. I wasted no time renting a big ass trailer to haul a big ass van, to pull behind my big ass truck. It was a two hour drive, and on the far side of Houston, so lots of nasty city driving. I didn’t care.

Trust was something I realized I was having to look really hard at, and again, I came to a place of surrender. Who can I trust? Having a trust broken is out of our control, right, or is it? We trust others, often without good reason, setting ourselves up for disappointment. Giving in, I came to accept I can only truly trust God, and my inner voice, that I believe is connected to God.

I again trailered the van, and with its replacement engine, made the two hour trek back to my little patch of grass. I gave that engine the eagle eye for a couple of days, and I saw some pretty sketchy work. Yes, that junkyard mechanic got the salvaged engine running in my van, but I didn’t trust his work—why should I? I took my time going over the engine and its components, replacing long bolts with stacks of washers, with the right sized, shorter bolts. There were lots of little things to correct, and I did, then I tore open the engine. I replaced worn parts and I upgraded her fuel injection system. I needed to trust this salvaged engine.

What I was learning, though, was I needed to trust myself. I built a simple bed in the back of the van, and picked up a camping stove at a thrift store. I started taking off on small trips, still listening to that inner voice, and doing what I was told. I wanted to trust the van would never leave me stranded. I didn’t want the worry of wondering if I’d be able to make it back to a main road, if I went exploring in the back country, and the van broke down. She did, though, and has, left me stranded—several times, and I’ve had to figure things out.

After many short adventures, and the continued work to build out the inside, I still didn’t know this van would become my tiny home on wheels. After selling my big ass truck, and then, rather suddenly, selling the Airstream I’d been living in for two years, I was starting to see where I was headed, but not really.

Still in Texas, parked on a friend’s land and living in my van, finishing out winter, I still didn’t know where this rebuilding project and van was taking me. Then, after 18 long months since the start, I had an epiphany, of sorts. I’d already made a last minute decision to dedicate the back of the van to my big Pfaff 545 industrial sewing machine. I could carry a small inventory of my waxed canvas bags while traveling and come back periodically to sew some more. Sipping on my morning coffee, standing in the dew soaked grass, and gazing at this van I selfishly rebuilt and built out, for myself, and no one else, it hit me. If I could figure out a way to attach the rolls of waxed canvas fabric to the roof, I’d be untethered and free to roam indefinitely.

So that’s what I did. It’s been nearly five years since I hit the road in my tiny workshop on wheels. I didn’t need to finally trust my van, I needed to finally trust myself, and know that’s enough. I have an inner voice that I listen to—a voice that is connected to God—and I’m pretty handy with tools.

Road Dirt & Pie is a tiny workshop on wheels, where I make simple, but beautiful, waxed canvas and leather bags. I travel full time, stopping for weeks at a time to camp in nature, to explore my surroundings with my pups, and to make bags. I sleep hard and get up early, and each day is my very own.

Please take a moment to explore my collections of handcrafted bags, and consider supporting this wild adventure, certainly off the beaten path, but making my own way, in this world.

Molly