Lost (and Found) in Kentucky

One day in 1979, I was traveling on Highway 75 from Richmond to Louisville, Kentucky. On the way, I took a short break in the town of London. I struck up a conversation with a man named John, a retiree and widower. Talking with strangers is one of my favorite things to do. That’s why I never used maps. I preferred asking for directions, because I met all kinds of people that way. This was true no matter where my business travels took me. 

I told John I would be traveling through London again and would love to have lunch with him. He invited me to stay with him and said he would show me around.

On my next trip to Richmond, I called John. He repeated his invitation for me to stay with him. Since he lived on a farm about 10 miles from town and had a rural route number for his address, he offered to meet me in London and lead me to his farm—especially since I would be arriving after dark. We agreed to meet at the entrance of a bridge near the Long John Silver’s restaurant on the outskirts of town. I carefully jotted down the instructions and repeated them to him. 

I reached the bridge 10 minutes early. John was not there yet. Half-an-hour passed and still no John. I crossed the bridge. No John. I rechecked the written instructions; I was at the designated place. I made half-a-dozen calls from the restaurant to his home. The phone just rang endlessly. This was a time when there were no cell phones or even answering machines. 

Growing tired of listening to the same news repeated on the radio for the umpteenth time, I said to my rental car, “The universe knows where John lives. You listen to the universe and take me there.” I patted the steering wheel as if the car were a trusted horse. And we started. 

Immediately, upon crossing the bridge, we were on a dirt road with no street lights. It was a moonless, pitch-black night. Driving along the curvy, hilly roads, the car seemed to be flying by intersections and forks in the road. While my eyes were watching the road, the rest of my body seemed to be acutely tuned in to the automobile itself. It was the only thing connecting me to the universe at that time. I could feel the slightest bump and hear the slightest sound. Most notable of all, my fingertips were throbbing. There was some kind of electricity between my fingers and the steering wheel. They were communicating in a code I could not comprehend. I just knew that my task was to be in tune and steer the car as promptly as possible. There could be no delay between the signals and my action. It had to be simultaneous. There were no thoughts or doubts. It was as if I were caught inside a spellbinding, fast-paced movie, and multitudes were watching.

After about 20 minutes of curves, twists and turns in the dark, the automobile lights suddenly turned off and the car came to an abrupt stop. I tried to restart the car several times, but to no avail. The electrical system had died. Panic struck me. I was in the middle of a dark road somewhere in Kentucky, and I had no idea where I was. Even though I had not seen a single car since I started this journey, I could imagine a truck barreling down that country road and mowing me down before it realized it had hit something. The car was dead, beyond hope. 

My logic kicked in: What on earth possessed me to make such a stupid decision? Why was I trying to meet a stranger anyway? I was waiting exactly where he told me to wait for him. Why didn’t I just continue driving to Richmond when John didn’t show up? If I really wanted to meet him, why didn’t I check into a motel for the night and call John in the morning? I had counted on stopping to ask a few people at some local stores or gas stations and continuing my journey if I couldn’t find John. A rental car failing in the middle of a country road was not in the equation! But now I was stuck. I couldn’t get out and walk, because the area was known for having rattlesnakes. How would I ever explain this stupidity to anyone? My mind was racing.

After a few minutes–which seemed like an eternity–the sky suddenly lit up. The source of the light was directly above the car. It felt like floodlights. The shadows were moving, as if something were hovering above the car. There was no sound. Was a flying saucer hovering over the car? My mind was playing tricks! I don’t know if it was the suddenness of the lights or the expectation of some terror that caused me to voluntarily shut my eyes. After a few long seconds, I cautiously opened them. 

It took another few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I could see that on my right was a house, barely two or three feet from the car. That close. What if I had run right into the house?! The source of the light was not a flying saucer, but a bright light over the house. The lamp was swaying with the breeze, casting moving shadows. The door to the house was open ever so slightly, and I could tell someone was peeking out. I imagined a hillbilly farmer with a double-barreled shotgun aimed straight at me. One wrong move and the gun would go off.

I tried to find the handle to roll down my window, but my nervous hands could not locate it. I opened the car door, just a little bit, and apologized to the homeowner for inconveniencing them in the middle of the night. I said I was lost and trying to find the house of my friend John. 

In response, I heard a deep southern drawl: “I’ll be damned.” Soon the lights in the whole house went on, and a figure appeared behind the screen door. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt and pajama bottoms. His beer belly was accentuated, peeking out below his undershirt. No gun was in his hands.

“Who is this?” he shouted. It was obvious the old man was confused. Perplexed might be a better word. Quickly and loudly, I said my name and where I was from, and I repeated what I was doing there.

“Is that Maatoor?” he shouted back. 

I confirmed.

It took me a few moments to realize I was talking to John, himself! I had only seen him once before and did not recognize him in his night clothes. John walked the few steps over to me. He was unsteady, almost in shock. My body was also a bundle of nerves, and my legs were shaking. When we walked in his front door, the first thing I did was to look at the large grandfather clock in the room. It was exactly 10:20 p.m.

John and I exchanged our stories. As luck would have it, there were two bridges in London, and we had each waited at a different bridge.

“Ah, so you ended up taking the back roads,” John explained. 

He had just returned home, changed his clothes, and had barely tucked himself in bed when he heard someone drive up. Of all the people in the world, he could not imagine it was me finding my way to his house. He was incredulous, asking me over and over again how I got there. “Just luck,” was all I could tell him. Any attempt at an explanation would have spooked John for the rest of his life. 

The sun was pretty high in the sky when I woke up the next morning. John had already laid out breakfast on his kitchen table. After a leisurely breakfast, we went outside. I had not told John that my car had died. I made up some excuse so I could go and try to start the car. It started right up, as if nothing had happened.

“Just leave it there,” John shouted. “It’s OK there.” I knew it was.

John lived in a small, single-story cottage at the top of a hill. Both the inside and outside of his house were orderly and neat. The panoramic view down the hill was picturesque. Or perhaps my eyes were seeing things differently after the experience of the night before. Everything looked so fresh. My nerves had settled, and I felt totally at peace.

Then I saw the long, winding road up from the bottom of the hill and the sharp turn into his private driveway. I could not believe that, in the dark of night, the car had made those intricate choices. In fact, I didn’t even remember being on that road. To make sure my eyes were seeing correctly, I looked at the long, uphill road and the driveway over and over again. I was awestruck.

Standing on top of that hill, I had a feeling I was in some magic land and had just experienced pure magic. There was no other word for it. Gentle vibrations started to pass through my body, and a thought entered my mind: “The experience was the journey.”

The thought blended with the purity and gentleness of the breeze on top of the hill. I could not capture it, analyze it, or share it with anyone else. I could only experience it. At that moment, everything seemed familiar. A strong sense of déjà vu took over. It was as if I had driven those back roads many times. It became obvious that the car had not driven me. I had accidently connected to some kind of knowing. 

What that experience in Kentucky taught me was that my journey was not from point A to point B. It was to be in that space where our common déjà vu exists. For lack of words, I have called that space our psyche. But in my mind, I perceive it as the space where the Earth and Heaven meet.

I didn’t know it then, but my experience finding my way to John’s house would be a reference point for me over and over in the future: When the lights went off, it was not a time to panic but to realize, This is the place.