Three musical notes, 1,848 miles
Father escorts daughter to her new husband in a road trip that forges a special bond
I packed my bags for a trip I never expected to take, to a place I never imagined I’d visit.
Three months earlier, on a Sunday night in early January 2019, my 22-yearold daughter, Maggie, walked into our living room and sat down on a love seat facing my wife and me as we watched TV.
“I’m getting married,” she announced.
I panicked. A recent graduate of the University of Connecticut, she had met her beau through social media four months earlier. He was an intelligence analyst in his second year of the Army stationed at Fort Hood, Texas. They were planning to marry soon at the Bell County courthouse in Killeen, Texas, she said.
My wife sat motionless. “Maybe you could move in together,” I suggested in as calm a demeanor as I could muster, shocking myself as I said it.
“We want to make a commitment and be together before he’s deployed,” Maggie responded.
I grew up in Connecticut — the land of steady habits. My wife and I followed custom. We dated for 10 years before we were married, then bought a house, brought two children into the world, and started college funds.
They tied the knot four weeks later at a civil ceremony we couldn’t attend because of the unpredictable schedule at the courthouse. They sent us their wedding video, taken on a smartphone by my new son-in-law’s Army buddy, his best man and witness.
Two weeks later Maggie returned to Connecticut for a few of her things.
“We need a car in Texas, Dad. Would you drive down with me?” she asked. “We’ll make a vacation out of it.”
“Ship the car,” I said.
“It’ll be cheaper to get it there by truck, figuring in gas, hotels, food and the flight back.”
A few days later, Maggie flew to Texas and a new chapter in her life.
I called the next day:
“I’m in for the road trip.” “Awesome!” she said. “There’s one condition,” I responded playfully. “I’d like to stop in Nashville for a few days. I’ve never been and think it’d be fun.”
Music was woven into the fabric of our family. I had been a DJ for a decade after college, and my daughter played three instruments. Visiting Nashville would become part of our musical DNA.
Maggie flew back to Connecticut in early April to help pack her car. We agreed to share driving duties, and be on the road no more than eight hours a day — in daylight. I ordered a Triptik from
AAA, an 8 ½-by-5-inch spiral-bound booklet made up of 61 pages of paper maps, customized for our journey — the trip would be four legs, 1,847.8 miles total, taking 27 hours and 52 minutes of travel time.
We left early, choosing the scenic route on a highway that ran alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway. Vast rolling green hills were dotted by black cows. The dogwoods planted alongside the road in Virginia and Tennessee were singing in full April splendor, their welcoming pink blooms tilting in the gentle breeze and pointing south toward our destination. And there were crosses, all sizes and colors, the Bible Belt’s symbol of continuing hope.
Two days later, we arrived in Nashville. Maggie spied a tattoo shop while we walked down Second Avenue.
“Dad, do you want to get matching tattoos?” she jokingly asked, as she had many times in the past. I was dismissive, never serious about getting inked. But the next day, after a couple of slices at Luigi’s City Pizza, I asked, “So, what kind of tattoos are we getting today?”
“Right, Dad,” Maggie said, thinking I was joking. “Let’s do it.”
“What would we get?” Her eyes grew wide.
“I’m thinking music notes, since we’re in Music City,” I said.
Like a frenzied Whac-amole arcade game player at the county fair, she began pounding out websites on her iphone. Within minutes, she had all shapes and styles of music notes to show me as well as a couple of tattoo shops within walking distance.
We settled on three music notes — one quarter note, one eighth and one sixteenth — in a triangular cluster. We agreed they’d be inked on the inside of our right arms, just above our elbows.
“Remember, Dad, I’ll scope out the shop to make sure it’s clean,” she told me. “If I’m not comfortable, I’ll give you the signal and we’ll book outta there.”
I followed Maggie into a small dimly lit shop. A tattooist worked up the design on a tattered legal pad. “I’d like them together so the placement is exactly the same on both of us,” Maggie said.
“Same. Positions. On. Both. Of. You. Don’t. Worry,” he droned.
They started to argue about the placement on her arm. Her smile disappeared and she looked downward.
“We’re not getting tattoos today,” she said, standing up abruptly and heading for the door.
“I felt disrespected, and wanted no part of it,” she said outside.
“I’m proud how you stood up for yourself,” I said.
Maggie had another shop lined up. The studio was brightly lit with sparkling clean steel trays containing tattoo pens and needles.
“First tattoo?” the artist asked seeing my forehead wrinkling. “It won’t hurt a bit. Just pinch a little.”
I slipped two folded $20s in his hand as a tip as we walked out, each of us beaming in our newly inked bond.
Later, when we passed through Dallas with only two hours left until our destination, “Home to You” by Sigrid drifted from the Spotify playlist my son had created for our trip. Fluffy white clouds floated in a bright blue sky.
Arriving at Fort Hood, my daughter closed the Triptik and ran breathlessly into her husband’s open arms. In the softness of the moment, I witnessed their love for each other.
The night before I boarded my plane back north, Maggie and I sat outside a convenience store, tears streaming down our cheeks.
“I don’t want you to go home,” she said. “I’ve had so much fun with you. I don’t want it to end.”
Nor did I. We’d gotten to know each other as adults in a new way. She’d be OK. I could say goodbye to my little girl who had turned into a confident young woman.
Life could be as unpredictable as transforming “ship the car” into an unexpected road trip, and as surprising as my daughter embracing paper maps.
I gained more from our adventure than I would have in one hurried day at a wedding reception. Instead of a walk down the aisle with flowers gracing each pew, I drove my daughter down a scenic byway lined with pink dogwood blooms to her new husband, a man I could trust and admire. Instead of a wedding toast, I celebrated my son-in-law’s Army promotion. We never had a father-daughter dance, but our shared tattoos represented the synchronized beauty of our bond.
I hugged her at the airport, thanking her for the gift of knowing she’ll never be far away. She’ll always remain as close as the three small music notes I will forever carry with me.