Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Four, Southbound

I was longer on the road than I was yesterday. I managed just about the same distance. Sixteen, maybe seventeen miles. I am frankly ashamed of myself. My soles were sore and my legs were weak. My pack felt unusually heavy. I found myself looking forward to sundown, and an excuse to put up my tent.

The day started fine. I was up at seven. I was sleepy but I'd slept enough. I struggled to find the energy to pack up my gear, but I was sure I'd have a fine day of walking. But these things are hard to predict. I never know what will happen. Some days I just thunder up the road. Other days are better suited to sitting.

My first three or four miles were not too too bad. I arrived in Lake View, Iowa. Where I sat on a corner for ten or twelve minutes to wait for my friend Maren. She had made me some new business cards. My supply has dwindled some. I pass them out along the road. The give me legitimacy.

Or the suggestion of it. At any rate they distinguish me from the other hobos. And distract policemen and promote my blog and get me discounts at motels. Sometimes. I feel rather naked without them. I thank her for taking the time.

It is getting to be overwhelming, really, these kindnesses of the Smiths. When I think of all they have done for me I feel like a mean little dog. It seems the least I can do to be Born Again, but that is sort of a stretch. I didn't even add my Amen when they said grace. It would be a hypocrisy. I don't feel it; I am quite without Faith. It seems disrespectful. Sorry.

I did promise to reread my Bible. That doesn't seem too much to ask. I've read Moby Dick a half-dozen times, footnotes and commentary. A little biblical knowledge won't do me much harm. There are times when it does come in handy. Even if I do go unsaved I'll be better at Jeopardy.

It was my honor to be Mrs. Smith's guest for breakfast. I ate with my usual vigor. And enjoyed what I guess is our last chance to talk before I darken their door again. I don't know for certain when that will be, but I do have an interest now. It is nice to have friends in Iowa. I bet you wish you did too.

Lake View, by the way, is a nice little town. I was much impressed. It has maybe thirteen-hundred people and a number of tidy homes. Everyone I met there was nice to me. An old man laughed at my beard. He gave me something of a hard time, but it was nice that he got the joke.

They've spent some money making things pretty. There are flowers and trees and lawns. And park benches. The laudromat is upholstered in green carpet. There's a good cafe and a grocery store. The lake sits east of town. Black Hawk Lake, I think it is called. It contrasts nicely with the corn.

Like a lot of lakes it is surrounded with homes. I wouldn't mind living in one. Perhaps not for the rest of my life, but it sure seems a comfortable spot. I like water skiing, or I once did. I could take up ice fishing. Or just watch the water and admire the trees and enjoy life in Iowa. I really liked the vibe of the place, to employ that outmoded expression.

I was further delighted to find the Sauk Rail Trail, the Sauk Bluebird Trail in spots. And not quite arbitrarily; I did see some birds that were blue. Not close enough to describe them to you, but they were no bird I've ever seen. They may have been jays, but I could not tell you. Look it up or ask a bird geek.

I was in the mood to find a trail. The highways were wearing me out. They are too well travelled, the gravel's too thick, there aren't enough places to camp. And I still had pretensions of walking today, of putting in some real miles. And as an unimaginable luxury, the Sauk Rail Trail is paved.

I talked with a nice bicycle lady (recumbant, my theory stands). She said it cost $1,000,000 to build this one sidewalk. I don't doubt it cost even more than that. Concrete does not come cheap. Thirty-three miles, smooth enough for skates. It will take me all the way to Carroll. And through some beautiful countryside, now very much showing the season. The snakes are sluggish, the leaves are changing, there's harvesting being done.

I got an encouraging note from Billy, youth pastor, baby brother of Maren. He's putting in some very long days to get the corn in on time. He's pleased with the weather, but he's a positive guy. He'd be just as happy with rain. It was in fact rather warm today. A bank sign said eighty-three. And I think too it was fairly humid, which may go some distance towards explaining my sluggishness.

I sort of felt like I should have hung back, to help the Bergmans with their harvest. But they know what they're doing. I'd just be in the way. I don't know how to run a combine. At least their trailers are easy to hook up, unlike those few poor saps who have yet to invest in an Agri Speed Hitch.

What're you waiting for, by the way. It's an investment that pays for itself. Order your own Agri Speed Hitch today. Tell 'em James sent you.

There is something very real, if that makes sense, about harvesting. It is nice to see where food comes from. I don't want to see them slaughter a cow. Or milk one, if the truth be told. It all seems so indelicate. But harvest time seems kind of fun. You can feel it in the air.

When I lived in Japan I eagerly volunteered to participate in a rice harvest, but I backed out when I learned there'd be snakes. They thought I was just being lazy, but I swear that wasn't it. I would have been paid with a big bag of rice. I thought that would have been neat. I would have felt sort of proud of myself, every time I ate curry.

I am less frightened of snakes than I once was, but I don't like them any better.

My trail took me through one little town. I do not remember the name. There was nothing there but a closed saloon and a hardware store/post office. And a used speed boat lot, of all wonderful things. Alas, I am not in the market. Nor did I buy pop from their vending machine. They wanted a buck twenty-five.

I once took an exotic vacation on a tiny Pacific island not Hawaii, and in the honor fridge in my room the Cokes were going for five dollars. I had money then and mine is a generous nature, but I tell you, I was pissed off. I found the very implication that I might pay five bucks for a can of pop personally insulting. It was like they were calling me a bitch.

My apologies to my good Christian friends. I am compelled to express myself.

The next little town began with a B. I am not holding back its name. It just does not occur to me. I believe it ended in a vowel. I stopped there at the saloon for my dinner. Red's, I think it was called. All they had were things deep fried. It didn't do me much good. Nice place, though. Red was kind. They are auctioning a shotgun for charity. I debated whether to purchase a ticket, but I was afraid I might win.

From there I did not get far. Find me now on the edge of my trail. Camped amongst the blades of another wind farm. I am close enough to one of these monsters to hear its roar. It is something like the sound of the ocean. Which can be a good deal louder than many midwesterners may even suspect.

But not unpleasant. Until a bearing gives out. Then I bet it would crack your skull. Anyway, goodnight. I'll try to do better tomorrow.

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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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