Late last week the trailer for On the Road came out. After a long wait–the book was published in 1957–On the Road is finally coming out as a movie.

On the Road was the first book I read when I graduated from college. I sat on a cool beach in Clearwater or St. Petersburg pushing through the pages I couldn’t see to put down. There was so much that resonated with me at the time despite OTR being published 40 years earlier.

My grandfather was with me on that trip and in someways he was the antithesis of the characters in On the Road. He was a post-World War II vet who came home, went to work, raised a family and was haunted. His was a story that was never written.

On March 12 this year, Kerouac’s bones lying in a grave in Lowell, Massachusetts turned 90. Later this week my grandfather would have been 88. He may have been the one who tempered an idealistic young man who dreamt of hitting the road with the belief that that’s where the answers exist; somewhere along a long stretch of asphalt.

There’s many different roads, but experience has taught me there’s a lot fewer answers than there are questions.

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