Day One-Hundred, Lazy Sundays

I managed to sleep until eight o'clock. I guess I'd done tuckered myself. One of these days I may have to invest in a smallish alarm clock. I had one for a while before it dropped dead. It never did me much good. I never could hear the little thing. It was talking to itself.

My bag kept me warm as advertised. It is made out of baby ducks. But I was haunted by dreams in which I was cold, and very cold indeed. No ducks were harmed when they made my computer. It suffered mightily. The battery died; it refused to turn over and complained a great deal once it did. I will have to sleep with it stuck to my chest. I once tried to warm pizza that way.

By eight it was a beautiful day; an autumn day, nonetheless. It was sunny and cool and as good a day for walking as I could ever hope for. Autumn days make me happy, which in turn makes me sad. As would explaining why. I'll fill you in one of these days when I've got joy to spare.

I feel the same about late spring days. Summer can stand on its own. Winter I don't dare contemplate. It will be here soon enough.

I all but enjoyed my walk to town. It was a mere five or six miles. I was listening to Car Talk on NPR. Man, them guys make me laugh. They are joyous. I wish I could be like that. I wish we all could.

You don't have to wait until pledge week, you know. Go ahead, write 'em a check.

Gordon, Nebraska is not a big town; maybe a thousand people or so. About like Rushville but not in decline. But not really prospering, either. A grain elevator marks the center of town, and quite a big one, at that. I was pleased to make my way to the cafe for a hearty breakfast.

The Antelope Creek, I believe it is called. I was not wholly impressed. Town is off to the left but it was on the highway in what appeared to be an abandoned McDonald's. Posters and plaques covered the walls, letting you know it was a Christian establishment. "Cowboy by birth, Christian by the Grace of God." That sort of thing. Everywhere.

The one waitress was harried and mad. She was letting it show. The owner stood at the cash register, looking like Joyce Meyer. That is if Joyce Meyer (A) tarted herself up a bit, and (B) suffered from painful itching and swelling. The both of them greeted me at the door as if I were a hobo.

Now as I understand it, Jesus liked hobos. Loved them, as it were. He did not have much use for money lenders. He kept mum on restaurateurs. I abused them with extravagant courtesy. That'll learn 'em, thought I.

And I ordered two breakfasts. I was starving half to death and prices are low in Nebraska. I still spent less than I would have for one in Montana. Less still, after my tip. They could chew on my courtesy all they liked, but my change went back in my pocket. And their biscuits and gravy tasted like paste. My coffee cup was not refilled. It is folks like this, I tell you, I do, that give religion a bad name.

Then I went looking for Mr. Long Soldier, the artist I met two days back. I had his number but this is the Nineties. There are no pay phones anymore. So I walked to his house but he was not home. I tried the Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall. He was well into that, I remembered. I thought I might find him there.

I was not really dressed for church, and I am a little scruffy these days. I loitered outside until someone came out. It was Bobby, the Elder. Man, he looked sharp. He was so neatly pressed. And trimmed; I felt like a hobo. But he greeted me warmly and helped track down my friend and invited me to their church picnic.

Jehovah's Witnesses, 1. Snotty self-righteous cafe lady, 0.

The Jehovah's Witnesses have been around for a while. I know they pissed Hitler off. Which is not a bad thing. They are conscientious objectors and refuse to do military service. Which, I think, is marvelous, but it only really works if everyone on earth does the same thing. If anyone doesn't, we're in a mess. I am doing my part. I hereby refuse to do military service, unless they really really need me.

But if things get that bad, we're done for already. Better we should all work for Peace.

I'll read up on the Witnesses when I get a chance. They are just outside the mainstream. They seem to run themselves a bit like the Mormons, with no professional clergy. They too knock on doors but not just when they're kids. They keep at it all of their lives. The "Thy kingdom come" bit of the Lord's Prayer seems to be much of their focus. Sooner, rather than later. They keep a close eye on world events to find out just when that will be.

And, while it should be unremarkable in these 1990s, they have a nice mix of folks. Indian, Asian, black and white. Maybe a Latino or two. You don't always see that in other churches, and when you do they're self-conscious about it.

And while they were happy to share their Good News with me, there was no salesmanship. I told them I'd think it over and I will, and that was good enough for them. They are good people, kind and sincere. I wish them the best.

And they stuffed me full of some remarkably good fried chicken and thirteen different kinds of potato salad. And pie and chips and other things good. And coffee, not like them Mormons. And they were nice to me and I got to talk to Mr. Long Soldier. I don't think he is your typical Jehovah's Witness. He is straight up now but his sinful past is a little too fresh in his mind. He is grateful that he has at last been Saved, but still tells some funny stories.

I hung out there just a little too long. I am of course meant to be walking. And these cold nights are testing my resolve as no mountain or blister ever did. But I needed to get my computer charged and I like seeing how people live. We played a sort of horseshoe game with beanbags. No money changed hands. But if it had I'd have schooled them. I think I may be a natural.

Find me now near a field of sunflowers, not ten miles out of town. It was a rather poor walking day but I had things to do. Tomorrow there will be no such distractions. My next town is a long way off.


DANIEL LONG SOLDIER had a grandfather called Red Cloud, which is a pretty cool name, and another called Scared of His Horses, which made me laugh. At Crow Agency I was reading a memorial plaque and saw that some Indians do better than others with their names. For every Fights Like Bear and Iron Buffalo, there is a Giggles Like Woman and a Big Nose. I shudder to think what my Indian name would be. Fails to Meet Potential. Bitches About Feet. Weeps For No Reason. Dies Alone.

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