Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Three, Leaving Home

I woke up at seven-thirty, just in time to say goodbye to Darren. He works hard; he has to; he's got four kids. I don't think he needs one more. Not one who eats as much as I do, at least. I had to get back on the road. Though it was not easy. I liked being a Smith. Most families have their black sheep.

I know mine does.

Of course I did not bolt right out of the door. First I had a big breakfast. And played with the dog and counted the cats and shot BB guns out in yard. And admired the house and wrassled with Wyatt and had a nice talk with Maren. Who made sure I had gloves and repaired my split pants and stuffed my backpack full of snacks. And who did not threaten to pray for my soul, though I'm pretty sure that she will.

And has.

I don't very much care for long goodbyes, or short ones, for that matter. But they are rarely a burden to me. I make very few attachments. I'd say it's because I'm soured on all mankind, and there's some truth in that. But it has as much to do with the fact that I'm shy around people. I'm not good at making friends. So those few I have I intend to hang onto.

Even the Republicans.

There will come a day, I've stated as much, many long years from now, when there will come a knock on my door. I don't know where I'll be living. A bearded stranger will growl at me. "I'm Wyatt," he's going to say. And I'm going to make him call his mother before he falls asleep on my couch.

Or drinks up all my good beer.

Back on the road my feet were sore. It happens to me every time. I rest my muscles but my soles grow soft. Hot showers and easy living. I'll toughen 'em up but it reveals a truth. One that most of you know. Walking Across America is a grand adventure. But not Walking Across America is nice, too.

In that way it's like Being in Love.

I trudged on for three or four miles. Distances are tricky here. After an hour I turned around. The Smith compound was right there. Smaller perhaps but easy to see. I was tempted to walk right back. Why not, I thought. I can live in the barn. I know how to do small repairs. I can teach the boy to speak Japanese. I could help with the dishes. I would go to church and meet a nice girl.

I'd become a Vikings fan.

Instead I shot down a gravel road. I did not consult my map. In Iowa the roads are a mile apart. They run east/west and north/south. Some don't go through but most of them do. It is pretty hard to get lost. The major highways can be a bit tricky, but the gravel roads are easy. But they're hard on my feet and when a car does pass you inhale a lot of dust. And a few farmers looked more than once at me, like I was some kind of weirdo. And a St. Bernard nearly beat me to death with his friendly thumping tail.

I sawtoothed my way to 175 and the small town of Odebolt. Which Mrs. Smith said was named when some unhappy Swede discovered what was wrong with his wagon. Which I don't think should reflect too poorly on her. I just want to show she's not perfect.

Odebolt sits at an angle between highways and seems neat enough. I did not fall in love with the place. I nodded to a biker who did not nod back. A woman gave me directions. But she looked me over from head to toe with a look of shock and disgust. The girl at the gas station was fairly kind, but by that time I'd formed my opinion. The Smiths are nicer than most Iowans, whether they know it or not. I'd done got spoiled. I started thinking I'd be greeted like a beloved uncle everywhere I went.

I did not linger in Odebolt.

From there it was east. I am still unhappy with the way they make their roads. The shoulders are covered with sharp gravel, heaped up a bit too thick. There has for years now been an annual bicycle ride across Iowa. RAGBRAI, look it up. But it draws tens of thousands of participants. They can ride in the street. But the shoulders seem to have been designed to keep the hobos out.

"Hobo!" I was recently called. Rotten little brat.

Between cars I can walk on the pavement, but I certainly cannot relax. I am as likely to be struck down dead from behind, by some idiot who just has to pass.

Back when I drove I enjoyed passing. I really liked driving fast. But I was an idiot and so are you. You have my life in your hands. And I remember every car that almost kills me, on the off chance I'll see it again in the next town. It ain't happened yet but I do entertain a particular revenge fantasy. I hope the poor fellow whose nose I bloody understands that he is but the unfortunate stand-in for every idiot driver I have met so far.

If he's too big I'll wait for the next one. Somebody has to pay.

I know too that there are a number of otherwise good people who think it is just fine to jibber on their cell phones while they drive. It isn't. Knock it off.

"But... but..." I don't want to hear it. Do as I say. Knock it off.

I stopped three or four miles short of Lake View, Iowa. That was just sixteen miles for the day. Not too too bad for how late I started. Twenty would have been better still. But, though it is harder in Iowa, I did find a great place to camp. I am in a sort of gravel pit, amongst some rusty truck parts. Someone might come and yell at me, but probably not until morning. And probably not even then. I am well out of everyone's way.

THANK YOU again to the good Smiths, their friends and extended family. It is a good thing everyone's watching me or I might get downright mushy.

MY LITTLE RADIO is dead. I quite liked it while it lasted. But I've now got a dozen new audio book Mp3s. Charles Dickens rocks.

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Day One-Hundred-Twenty-One, Bounce

I enjoyed another fine day as a guest of the Smiths, Iowa's favorite family.  They stuffed me with bacon and dragged me to church.  They thought it might do me some good.  In point of fact I was given an option.  Miss Maren said I could stay home.  But all of their goodness had gone done rubbed off.  I found a place in the pews.

It weren't so bad; I was nervous at first.  Not least about my condition.  I am, as has been stated, looking shaggy these days.  More like Christ than His followers.  Of course Back in the Day, long hair was good.  Long hair made you distinguished.  But now it as likely makes you a thug.  An object of healthy suspicion.

But the Arthur Evangelical Free Church ain't so horribly formal.  I'm not sure I saw one necktie.  The girls were pretty but they'd probably dress up no matter where they were going.  I don't guess I was the scruffiest one there, but not by a country mile.

I did have some small trepidation.  I was worried they would pray for me.  I will not specifically object to that.  I need all the Help I can get.  But I did have vague visions of mad Iowans crowding around me in a tight circle and shouting "Sinner! Sinner!", casting out my demons and such.  Instead everyone was just kind of nice.  Not such an awful thing.

Miss Elsie, youngest daughter of the proud Smith clan, was up there singing on stage.  I couldn't help but feel a brotherly pride at being in so tight with the choir.  Overall though, the music on offer was about as soulful and stirring as one might expect from a gaggle of Iowans.  Hymns were all but whispered.  No booming baritones here.  I guess to get that full-on Spirit-of-the-Lord blast of purely Joyful Noise you really have to go to a black church.  I imagine I would feel the tiniest bit out of place there, as well.

The sermon, such as it was, was not too much brimstone and fire.  The point was that we should not quarrel and that we should be nice to each other.  Cool.  I can dig it.  I like it when people are nice to me.

Which the Good Smiths have been, above and beyond.  I was less welcome in my own home growing up.  Mrs. Smith is a marvelous cook.  Mr. Smith can do some grilling.  The Smith Girls are wonderful bakers.  Boy Wyatt is a pill.

Which does not put him anywhere beyond redemption.  I can be a pill myself.  And it goes a long way to humanise a family that at first glance seems too good for words.  And they have a pet mouse named Turd.  They are human, after all.  And Mrs. Smith cheats when she plays games with the kids in the Christian Youth Group.

"Not really," she would tell you.  "Not very much, at least."  And her overall ambitions are good.  Still, it does make me laugh.  And I tend to believe Jesus would laugh, as well, when He told the story at parties.

After church I excused myself long enough to walk the three and a half miles I owed my journey.  They had come and got me the night before.  I was feeling guilty about it.  I covered that distance without my pack.  I didn't feel guilty about that at all.  It was a lovely fall day and the sky was blue.  There were corn combines to watch.  And it is a blessing to at last be off Highway 20.  I had the road to myself.

I arrivedat the house to a fabulous lunch of "steak or hamburgers or both."  Mr. Smith and I went with both.  I thought it was a nice compromise.  And there was spinach and cookies and such.  I got myself very well fed.  And watched the Vikings blow a twenty-point lead.  Mr. Smith is a fan.  Apparently they do this all the time.  That is what keeps him humble.

Because he could brag if he wanted to.  He has a nice family and home.  They live in a lovely old farm house, now separate from the farm.  It has all the advantages of country living with none of the plowing to do.  And they have an old barn--properly, a corn crib--that I am very fond of indeed.  It is barn-shaped with a cupola.  I wish I could make it my studio.

Over lunch I was pleased to make the acquaintance of Brian and Jenny, the Smiths good neighbors and friends.  I must say I was thrilled to meet them.  They are to me celebrities.  For no good reason, I am afraid.  They have the dubious distinction of having had their house and outbuildings destroyed by a tornado. 

I pestered them with all manner of questions. I guess I should have been more sensitive.  Brian had built it with his own two hands as a gift for his loving bride.  At the time she was in Florida.  He was hiding under the porch.  "Did you think you were going to die?" I asked him.  "I didn't know," he said.

It all strikes me as horribly romantic.  Better it should happen to newlyweds.  Life's tragedies are easier when you have someone to hug. 

That's in the abstract, of course.  The photos are less romantic.  Barns destroyed, trees ripped out, a tractor-trailer on its side..  We were all thrilled to look at the pictures.  Brian looked just a bit pale.  And he's a big guy, no sissy at all.  But I guess that he's been scared once.

In the evening we visited Grandpa's house.  Grandpa maitains a farm.  With all kinds of neat tractors and combines and such.  But, I swear, that's just the beginning.  There is in his basement a trampoline, concealed in a deep round pit.  It can be covered with carpeting.  It's like something out of James Bond.  Press a button and you fall from sight.  But in this case you bounce right back.

I had a go for a minute or so.  I am not sure I have ever felt so old.  Or heavy, at least.  And ungraceful.  Trampolining is hard.  But good fun, I swear to golly.  Perhaps easier with nobody watching.  It is hard to maintain your dignity when you are being flung this way and that.

In a perfect world, everyone would have a secret trampoline in their basement. 

Goodnight.

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Day One-Hundred-Twenty, Mr. & Mrs. Smith. And the Little Smiths.

Find me now in a warm soft bed, guest of the good Smith family. I enjoyed a fine dinner of meat and potatoes and a big piece of cake for dessert. With strawberries. Outside it is meant to dip well into the thirties. I couldn't have picked a nicer night to have friends in Iowa.

It is late, though. We stayed up talking. Tomorrow we go to church. I don't know when I've looked scruffier. I will shock the congregation. Though not by my manner; I am always polite. And it should be interesting. I ain't real religious myself. And that's understating things.

I was on the road by eight-thirty. That's not too awfully bad. I could have started walking hours before. I'd had an awful dream. Too awful, perhaps, to recount here. It sat me up in my bed. Only the warmth of my new fleece pants convinced me to go back to sleep.

Gosh, they're nice. They're just a bit bulky. They're kind of a trick to pack. But worth the effort; I'm certain of it. They let me laugh at the cold. From the waist down, at any rate. I'm warm up top as well. And wear a warm stocking cap that covers my ears and fastens under my chin. Only my face remains exposed, though less so than you might imagine. With some wriggling I can zip my good bag right up over my head.

It gets a little hard to breath in there, but that just helps me sleep. And it does get moist but that's a small price to pay to retain my most vital warmth. And when my dreams are light it is easy to imagine that I am zippered up inside my pack. Like a papoose or a very old woman on her way to Ubasuteyama.

I woke again at seven-thirty. That means a soggy tent. I can no longer leave my vents open. I had better get used to it. And my tentpoles were unspeakably cold. I should invest in some mittens. Or gloves, at least. I've been hesitant. I know they won't last long. I have a fine habit of losing the things. I've never owned a pair for more than a week.

I do find gloves from time to time, along the edge of the road. But I never think to pick them up for fear they contain a hand. I've seen trunks, too, treasure chests. You'd think they were full of gold coins. But I do not try to open them. I am sure there is death within.

A good ten or more miles took me to town, Holstein, Iowa. And another mile on top of that. It is some distance off the road. I had my burger in the local cafe. My waitress was brusque and grumpy. Not just to me, to everyone. It was noon and the place was crowded. I took a place in the corner and watched the folk, Iowans at play.

Football was the topic at hand. They seem to revere the game. "Them politicians need to play more football." It is a noble game. And, it was agreed, a likely cure for the ills in Washington.

Competion. Victory. Paying whatsoever it costs. Bending the rules. Conspiring to humiliate your opponent. Taking No Prisoners. Pre-game boasting. Post-game excuses. Trysts with cheerleaders. Locker room talk. Rabid fans. Fistfights among the spectators. Drug use. Prison time. Trick plays. Egos. Retiring to become an announcer. Equating it somehow with patriotism. Selling your autograph. Whoring what at one time may have been pure to so many corporate sponsors.

"Them boys needs to play more football." That'll man 'em up. Meanwhile print up some bumper stickers, I'M STUPID AND I VOTE.

As I was leaving a small boy pointed at me and looked me dead in the eye. "Hobo!" he said and I laughed aloud. But that doesn't excuse his bad manners.

It was too an interesting choice of words. It is what I've been calling myself. But then I chose the word carefully. It has an antique charm. One wonders where a boy of five would get the vocabulary. Or the courage.

Perhaps from his doting grandfather. Idiot. Football fan.

Quite uninfluenced by this commentary, I set out to find a barber. I was scheduled to go and stay with the Smiths. It seemed the right thing to do. They're such a clean and attractive family. They're used to me, of course. But what of their neighbors and family friends. What of their reputation. I would keep my long hair; I like it that way. I've earned my shaggy beard. I thought I'd just clean it all up a little. Every little bit helps.

There is no barber in Holstein, Iowa. There was a beauty salon. I would have gone there. What do they care. Give the ladies something to gossip about. But they were closed. I hiked back to the road, looking like a diminutive Sasquatch.

Not far up the road I met four little kids. They ran to the road to greet me. They demanded to know just what I was doing. I explained as well as I could. They were small but unafraid. They gave me their frank opinion. "You walk too much."

I could not agree more. It was, they informed me, their mother's birthday. Join me in wishing her well. She's got great kids and that's worth something. I expect she's a pretty good mom.

I was then pleased to meet Anna and Wyatt. Anna had made me a sandwich. There's no better way to win my affection. They brought a banana too. And some cucumber slices and a can of cold Coke. They're taking good care of me. I stuffed everything into my pockets and trusted them with my tent.

That is five punds out of my pack but it is more than that. It was a symbol of my dedication. I had to make it that last dozen miles or I would be homeless indeed. But I had all the fuel I needed and the promise of dinner as well. I am awfully fond of the family Smith. I bet I'm the most irredeemable friend they've got.

I was in good spirits but my feet were sore. It's some pretty hard walking here. It's a busy road and where there is a shoulder it is heaped with sharp gravel. I'm sure it will settle in by spring but I'll be gone by then. For the time being it is like running on sand. It robs my forward motion.

But the day was nice and not too too windy. It is pretty country, this. That is if you like cornfields. I didn't think I would. But I do. They're a sign of prosperity. We need all of that we can get. And the wind blowing through the drying stalks makes a pleasing sound like rain. The rolling hills keep things interesting. It never gets too steep. And the clouds were unnaturally beautiful, each fluffy and distinct.

And there is a vast wind farm up and running, the first I have seen close up. Great towers, fifty of them, one-hundred-fifty feet high. White, with three great blades, each about ninety feet long. They turn at about fifteen RPM. I don't think they're a danger to birds. Any bird dumb enough to get hit by one was probably destined to die.

There is some debate locally about how practical or efficient these things are. I'd have to see all the data. But instinctually I quite like them. Alternative energy thrills me. And they'll get better as they build more. These engineers are nobody's chimp. I just like the idea of pulling power directly from the air. And they're pretty, though they do make you dizzy if you stare at them too long.

Dawn is fast approaching. It will not do to sleep in church. I hope the preacher is dynamic enough to be interesting, but not so dynamic that he wants to Save me, specifically, then and there.

I MET TOO four high school men. They were cheerful and polite. It may be too soon to give up altogether on the future of this nation.

(DUDES! Send me a picture.)

AND I WAS HONORED to meet my very first roller derby team, gassing up in Holstein. They are DC/DC, the Dakota City Destruction Crew, and I wish them a successful season. They were, too, pretty and kind. That's what politics needs.

(LADIES! Send me a picture.)

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Day One-Hundred-Nineteen, Toasted Buns

The sun was shining when I woke up. It wasn't so cold at all. Because I had slept for eleven straight hours. It was by then 9:42. That's late even by my standards, at least out here on the road. But I was fluey and needed the rest. I woke up more or less cured.

And my tent had dried out, even deep in the trees. And my tentpoles weren't cold at all. But I still took my time getting back on the road. I had gone and out-hoboed myself. And not for the first time. I come up with these spectacularly well concealed tent sites and then have the damnedest time remembering how I got in there in the first place. I was surrounded by prickle bushes. I sat down to contemplate life.

Back on the road my legs were weak. You expect that after an illness. Real or imagined. I had too a fairly uncomfortable blister. I should have doctored it the night before but I tell you it is really hard to generate enthusiasm for that kind of thing. It would have meant climbing out of my sleeping bag and skewering myself with nosehair scissors. It hurts and it hurts my feelings. Which is why I'm neglecting that same task tonight. Let it fester till morning.

I will be up much earlier tomorrow. I've left myself little choice. I am camped on the edge of Highway 20. The State Patrol may wake me up. I am quite invisible here in the dark but will be easy to see come the dawn. The shame of sleeping in in front of everyone ought to have me up by seven or so. We'll see, we'll see.

The earlier the better, I am inclined to think, though I know my tentpoles will be cold. I am scheduled to visit my friends the Smiths, whom you may remember as the nice family I met in southeastern Montana. They were delivering their daughter Grace to college when one of their wheels fell off. I stopped to offer impotent sympathy and they've been friends of mine ever since.

And great friends to have, it has turned out. You'll never guess what I'm wearing now. Fleece pants. I'm wearing fleece pants. It's cold but I have never felt so toasty. You'll recall that just yesterday I was lamenting the fact that there is no such thing as fleece pants. Good Mrs. Smith sat down and made me a pair. And delivered them to me here on the road, not two short hours ago. I almost cried.

Gosh, they're warm. I've got thermals too, but I have not bothered with them. I am perfectly warm in my fleece pants. I feel like a teddy bear. Yesterday, though, I said I would wear my fleece pants to parties, but I am afraid that is quite impossible. They're warm but they make me look fat. My thermals are in fact rather slimming. They just don't work as good.

The whole jolly family came out to greet me, less Grace who is off getting smart. There is Elsie, a flower, and Wyatt, a pill, and Anna, whose name I forgot. That delightful little palindrome made me chocolate chip cookies. I am chewing on one even now. And Mrs. Smith brought me soup, hot from the stove, chicken noodle in a styrofoam cup. And Mr. Smith, no doubt a little tired from his three and a half jobs, condescended to deliver them all. It was like Christmas, I swear.

Oh, and Grandma sent me socks. She worries about me, you know. I have not had the honor of meeting her, but it is her interest perhaps more than anyone's that keeps me from getting too foul and blasphemous in my blog. I don't know, even now, that she would approve of my every scribbling, but I thank her for her kind indulgence.

I didn't break any records walking today. Late start and lazy habits. I was able to visit but one small town, Correctionville, Iowa. It seems pleaeant enough but I did not stay long enough to find out how many people live there or learn how it got its name. I do know they used to have a grocery store but it burned down. Foul play is not suspected.

And I believe I have answered a question that has been puzzling me. As you know, I live on hamburgers, largely because they are cheap and filling, widely available and predictably digestible. But I've long wondered why, given so little variation in ingredients, some burgers are really good and most others aren't. The secret? Toasted buns. I swear that's it.

Anyway, I'm cold and my battery is dead. I must bid you goodnight. Thanks for tuning in.


I JUST KNOW that some of you are already planning to build an empire based on fleece pants. Well, I am afraid that invention is shared by Mrs. Smith and myself. And she may yet sue me for my half. It is a million dollar idea, though. You're right about that.

MOM?

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