Day Two-Hundred-Two, Insofar as I Remember It

It is now the morning of Day 203.  I should have typed this up last night.  But you get to talking.  I'm again at the Knightens'.  In beautiful Crestview, Florida.

I spend all my weekends here.  This is my third time here.  But I earned it this time.  They did not come and get me.  I got here under my own steam.  It's nice to be back.  I do pity them.   A little James goes a long way.

Which is not to say that I'm so awful, but even if I didn't stink.  I am big and clumsy and in the way.  I hold contrary opinions.  I talk a lot.  I eat all their food.  I keep unusual hours.  I snore.  I know it is but a matter of time before I spill something on their couch.  Or break something or clog their drains with clumps of hippie hair.

Bless their kind hospitality.  Reward their forgiving nature.  The Knightens have been the saving of me.  The Knightens have dragged me to church.  The Knightens have lent me their street address, which I need to fix my computer.

They've been a grand help.  What's in it for them?  Perhaps I will make them stronger.  I'm a Biblical plague, a minor one.  I'm one of life's many trials.  I have been sent to Test Their Faith.  I'm a boil in corporeal form.

Which is not what I aspire to be.  I want to be a Force for Good.  A radiant source of sweetness and light.  I'm happiest when I'm smiling.  Which I'm doing more often in my old age.  It may be this Florida weather. 

There have been warm days since Winter hit.  Tupelo was nice.  But it is always the sun doing most of the work.  The air itself remains cold.  But it's summer here.  It is this week.  There are summery smells in the air.  Scents remembered.  Places I've been.  Kyushu.  Dubuque, Iowa.

I put in close to two-dozen miles.  That's a respectable day.  I woke up early.  That's the key.  I woke up too close to the road.  It was dark; I did not want to explore the woods.  There might have been gators back there.  Or hogs or snakes or wild dogs.  I was in a thoughtful mood.  I had to pack up before I was noticed.  I think I was in someone's yard.

The Panhandle.  Lower Alabama.  I like The Florida Alps.  My own coinage.  There are hills here.  Which is odd because everything's flat.  Everything.  Lawns.  Forests.  Farms.  The land has no features.  Not a bump, not a furrow.  Just a whole lot of flat.  Except, of course, for the hills.

Which I could manage.  They ain't the Cascades.  I've been uphill for days.  In a ditch by a road.  They keep it well mowed.  I'm always on the lookout for gators.  You cannot see them; that's how you know they're there.  They are prehistoric killing machines.  Their favorite food is James.

It does put a little bounce in my stride, that spike of adrenaline.  The one our cave ancestors used to flee the dinosaurs.  And beard the mighty mastodon.  Not a lot has changed.  It's still Man vs. Nature.  I don't care who wins.  I don't know whose side I'm on.

May the best man win and I hope it don't hurt.  That is my happy motto.  I'd just as soon not be murdered by snakes, but if it happens it happens.  I don't question Fate.  I shun it.  I am free.  I am off  the Grid.

I found down the road the city of Holt.  There I had a lovely breakfast.  At Uncle Something-or-Other's Country Buffet.  They had biscuits and gravy.  And a Christmas tree hung with ketchup and mustard in little plastic packs.  And plastic forks and a hunting cap.  A Redneck Christmas Tree, it was called.  And it was lovely.  I would have used condoms.  They come in all colors these days.

My pack was rather bothering me.  I have two or three tender toes.  I was feeling fat and unattractive because I'd eaten too much candy.  But good weather is good for a lot.  I did not feel the walk.  I was sweating like a monkey but that was OK.  Like I said, it was warm.

In Milligan at a gas station I met a man called Vaughn.  Pulling a load on a bicycle.  The guys with the trailers aren't bad.  Turns out he's involved in a race.  From Key West to San Diego.  Which is a good haul.  They plan to do it in something like fourteen days.  That's more than two-hundred miles a day.  He's a superhero.

It's a race for special forces guys.  Vaughn is young but retired.  From the British army.  Now he lives here.  I guess that makes him SAS.  But that's a secret.  He seemed real nice.  I'm sure glad he's on our side.  Big fellow.  Big enough to look good in a bicycle jersey.

They are in most cases emasculating.

Let's wish him luck.  I hope he wins.  It is all in good fun.  If it were a war I would cheer for an American.  War is so polarising.

I ambled on into Crestview and to a Verizon shop.  Where we discussed some things.  Promises were made.  My optimism is gone.  But you give it a shot.  What more can you do.  Sometimes Verizon just sucks.

They're real nice, don't get me wrong.  I've only met one or two jerks.  The rest have been really nice to me.  And I've met hundreds of them.  But I'd like to move on.  I've got places to go.  I've got gators to feed.

It was on up the road to the Knighten's house.  They've taken me in once again.  And here I sit at Verizon's whim.  Bless them for their good intentions.

GATOR'S FAVORITE FOOD?  Marshmallows.  You heard it here first.

IF I WERE a big muscle man, I wouldn't wear a cycling jersey.  I wouldn't even wear a shirt.  I'd just go around flexing at people.

Day Two-Hundred-One, House Guests and Fish

I didn't leave home until two maybe three.  I had finished my typing by noon.  It gets dark at five.  I didn't get far.  You do the best that you can.

It took me an hour to get on my socks.  I had to repack my bag.  And explain it all to Rebel the Dog.  He's come to look up to me.  To regard me as a friend and a brother.  It was hard to say goodbye.

But someone has got to do the walking.  I made it maybe eight miles.  And put up my tent some time after dark.  I will almost surely be eaten.  By cats or dogs or wild pigs.  By bears or crocodiles.  But I am not afraid.  I'm feeling fine.  I welcome my forest brothers.

I can give them lemon drops.  I stocked up at the store.  I had too a Moon Pie but I ate that.  It was not very good.  Good enough for a gator I guess.  Good enough for a pig.

Anyway, I'm sleepy.  Crestview is some distance off.  We'll make tomorrow a proper long day.  We'll let you know how it goes.

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Day Two-Hundred, The Beholder

Find me still at the Massey's house, the morning of Day 201.  It is early yet.  I'll get back on the road.  I know what's expected of me.  This ain't all about chilling out, drinking wine with the World's Most Beautiful People.

The Masseys, I mean.  They're spectacular.  They're Brad and Angelina.  They are not fooling anyone by keeping an ugly dog.  Or with the odd house guest who has seen better days, and very few of them at that.

It would be easier if they weren't so nice.  Everything's casual here.  They have kept me flattered and fed.  I have fallen in love with Miss Stacy.  And tried to convince her to walk off with me.  All she could do was laugh. 

Not at all derisively.  Not so very much so.  She is content to stay with her husband.  Lee.  Not a bad guy.  If you like that tall, muscular, square-jawed, Hollywood handsome, strong-but-sensitive type.  Some chicks do.  To each her own.  I can take him or leave him.

But I'll overcome my jealousy.  I am happy to call him a friend.  He has had by now had time to get used to men falling in Love with his wife.  And women.  It happens everywhere they go.  He's learned to take it in stride.  So long as everyone's polite about it.  It enhances his victory.

I would like to tell you more about Lee.  I think he should tell his own story.  He's been famous twice.  He's been up he's been down.  He has been persecuted.  He has been a folk hero.  He's been targeted by Federal agencies. 

Successfully.  They're good at their jobs.  They are not really money well spent.  Lee isn't bothering anyone.  He has always been pleasant to me.  And has taken me in and treated me like a brother. Better still, an honored guest.

I had not really planned to stop here.  I thought I'd swing by and say hi.  The Masseys had found me somewhere online when I was just down the road from their house.  There are no co-incidents in Life.  Some Greater Force drew me here.  And will draw me away.  Sooner or later.  I have been side-tracked before.  In Elk, Washington and Arlee, Montana.  In small town Iowa.  In roadside saloons and baseball games in Fredericktown, Missouri.  I've been spending most of my weekends at church.  I change states every three weeks.  It turns you around.  I never know where I am.  Looking back, I never have.

The Masseys of course are off at work.  No lazy hippies, them.  I am left alone with Rebel, the world's ugliest dog.  As it turns out I've fallen in love with him too.  He is an American bull dog.  With papers, no less.  There's no intelligence test.  He reminds me of my dead friend Dozer.  Who was a genius compared to this hound.  I like him anyway.

He is nine months old.  He cannot be trusted.  He spends his days in a big cage.  But since I'm here to watch him I let him out.  He is a companionable creature.  A bit jowly.  His forehead is creased as if it's been struck with an axe.  He weighs 80 lbs. before dinner.  He has got at least forty to grow.

He's a coward.  He has an underbite.  He looks like Winston Churchill.  You would not blink if you saw him with a big old cigar in his mouth.

Or God knows what else.  He is just a dog.  He's eaten all kinds of things.  He'd eat the squirrels if he could catch them.  They are too clever for him.

Crestview, Florida is just up the road, "a coon-scoot, as the crow flies."  Maybe twenty, twenty-five miles off if I go overland.  Through swamps and over crocodiles.  I have never seen so many cops.  And prisons and probation offices.  And inmates picking up litter.  Under guard at the side of the road.  There but for the Grace of God.

They have none of them much noticed me.  I have not yet been interviewed.  Or cuffed or beaten or locked in a car.  Or menaced with pistol and taser.  Or mirrored sunglasses or close trimmed moustache.  It is just a matter of time.  The number one industry in the Panhandle seems to be convict labor.

A little hard work ain't going to kill me.  It would be a blow to my pride.  Brought down low.  Dehumanised.  Made to wear prison stripes.  Cool Hand Luke.  Brubaker.  Hardcastle and McCormick.  Smokey and the Bandit.  The Rockford Files.  Oscar Wilde. Scared Straight.

There is a hiking path for some miles.  How many, I cannot be sure.  It runs by the road but it makes sense to people who see you hiking there.  And friend Friar Dennis has washed my hat.  He did it out of disgust.  It was stinking up his house and car.  I can see how it might.

So I look less like a hobo than I once did.  I should probably chop off my beard.  This isn't the weather for facial hair.  It is all but Summer outside.  In the afternoons at any rate.  The mornings can be a bit cold.  It does rain some.  There are winds and fog.  Crestview is "the ice-box of Florida."

It's all relative you understand.  The Truth almost always is.  Anyone who's ever used an adjective is pushing his own point-of-view.  She's rich.  She's pretty.  I'm hungry.  We're Free.  What is in it for me.

So cold in Florida is not awfully bad.  I have other concerns.  Twice Verizon has promised to send me a replacement for my computer.  And twice they have failed.  I am less upset than I have.  I've had places to plug in.  But it was Samsung that started this stutter step when I was still in Kentucky. 

Battery problems.  They have upset my pace.  They have taken my mind of my journey.  They're the Gargamel in this magical forest.  They Will Get Me If It's the Last Thing They Do.

But I stay cheerful.  It's all an act.  There are worse things I could pretend.  I could act all tough.  I could deny my fear.  I could act like I know all the answers.  Instead I'd just as soon bumble along.  You do my lying for me.

Lee promised to make me famous.  We'd had a few drinks at the time.  But that won't cost him his agent's commission.  I could do with a little fame.  I know I'm ill-suited to anonymousness.  Let's see how the other half lives.

Don't think I'll forget you.  I'll stay my humble self.  I do have some debts to repay.  But for the most part I will be the same old James.  Only taller.  And better looking.

I don't know if I have a photo of the Masseys.  I know I tried several times.  But my camera shakes.  They are too beautiful.  I tremble at their majesty.

They have too a second dog.  Their first dog, if you prefer.  A very old man, an Irish wolf hound with some Airedal for luck.  He has a wise and thoughtful face.  He looks just a little bit sad.  And as if he has better things to do than pose for silly pictures.

It is coming up on twelve-thirty.  I guess I had better ship out.  To put a dent in this Crestview run.  To start living life in my tent.

If I found a way to hang back a while the Masseys would take me fishing.  I want to go fishing.  I like eating fish.  I'm sure there'd be plenty to drink.  But a boy's got to walk, in spite of himself.  America won't walk itself.

THANK-YOU Stac and thank you Lee.  Love to both of your hounds.  Thank you much for keeping me fed.  And watered.  And fertilised.

I'VE DONE my typing.  There is nothing now to stop me from heading out.  And yet I'm still here.  It's magical.  Inertia is a double-edged blade.

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Day One-Hundred-Ninety-Nine, Garfunkel

Find me on the morning of the very next day, sitting in someone's kitchen.  The good Masseys, if their name must be known.  They are Stac and Lee.  And they are off; they had business to do.  I am alone with the dogs.  One ugly, one thoughtful.  Both with good hearts.  Both of an impressive size.

Yesterday seems miles away.  It has faded some in my mind.  Diluted by vodka and a good many beers.  I have some memory of wine.  The Masseys ain't Baptists.  They are on a Path.  You might call it the Road to Perdition.  But you would be wrong.  Lighten up some.  We were having a party.

In celebration of what I don't know.  Let's call it Life in general.  And all that is good.  And friendship.  And fun.  Throw in some philosophy.  And a gentle understanding of those dark forces who don't dig what we're all about.

We forgive you.  Forgive us.

I do believe my innards have suffered some.  I'm old for this revelry.  But I have all but recovered.  I'll be better still if I get around to walking.

The Masseys were fine.  I'd be inclined to resent them if they weren't so awfully kind.  Newlyweds, more or less.  They are young and disgustingly deep in Love.  And have got to be the most attractive couple that I have ever seen.  Movie star good looks.  The both of them.  And yet they turned out OK.  God knows what I'd do with that kind of burden.  I'd wind up hurting myself.

They found me through Ross, a friend of mine.  I met him in India.  He's a prophet, a scholar, a philosopher priest.  He is mad as a hatter.  The good ones all are, in my opinion.  I must cultivate that side of my nature.

And he has our own best interest at heart.  That's one way to piss them off.  The Powers that Be.  They keep locking him up.  Ross keeps getting free.  He's a Seeker of Truth.  He's made a science of it.  No doubt he's being watched.

As am I, I hope.  I thrive on attention.  It makes me feel less alone.  We are, after all, in this together.  Christ made some pretty good points.  About Love and Forgiveness and That Sort of Thing.  I won't paraphrase that good man.  It's all written down somewhere or other.  You can read it yourself if you'd like.

Jesus was a walker, you know.  So was Martin Luther King.  And good Gandhi.  And Art Garfunkel.  Only Art had proper shoes.  And he was the only one they didn't lock up, the only one they didn't murder.  Not yet, at any rate.  He really ought to keep his head down.

They were all after the Beautiful.  Call it Truth if you must.  And I'm not sure you have to walk to find it.  I only hope walking helps.  But I'm on my slow crawl through Florida.  I'm reaching the end of the line.  If All Will Be Revealed to Me, I wish it would hurry up.

I guess I have learned a couple of things. There is Power in Positive Thought.  And people aren't bad, most of them.  I'd suspected them for the longest time. 

I've learned Fear is something you've got to get used to.  It's not going away.  Most people deny it or call it mere worry.  But we're all terrified.  Except Friar Dennis.  He's an odd case.  He is a walker too.

We dropped him at work yesterday morning.  Kind Ronné drove me down the road.  To the far side of Pace, Florida where they'd picked me up some days before.  So I could pick up where I had left off.  It felt good to be walking again.  In the suburbs this time.  Down that same old road which defines modern America. 

It is the walking I was long accustomed to, on sidewalks and through parking lots.  Suburban walking.  Vastly different than what ai found in the Big Sky State.  I'm not sure I prefer one to the other.  Time goes by faster in town.  I walked a good dozen miles or so without noticing the effort.  There was plenty to look at.  Traffic to dodge.  It takes you out of yourself.  Sometimes in Montana there was nothing to see but the emptiness of my own heart.

It worried me though.  I was starting to wonder if Florida was not just one big suburb.  But past the surprisingly charming town of Milton I found myself in the country again.  With a hiking trail running alongside the road.  It is nice to get out of the gutter.  It is the original Spanish Trail, maybe the first highway in America.  Ponce de León no doubt walked on it, at least until he got old.

It took me right to the Massey's house.  Call it a coincidence if you want.  They only stumbled across my blog a very few days ago.  And extended to me their warm invitation.  They fed me and liquored me up.  Bless their gentle hearts.  It is well past noon and damned if I'm not still here.

I'll get back on the road eventually.  Probably.  I'm almost certain. 

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Day One-Hundred-Ninety-Eight, Atheism

I spent all day Sunday in church.  God knows what you were up to.  No good, no doubt.   You are not without hope, but the time has come to repent.

Repent.

Church happens in the Knighten's livingroom.  It wasn't a very long walk.  From my soft bed.  I had to go there.  It was between me and the kitchen.  Which was full of all kinds of good.  Temptation, you may want to call it.  And a little churching ain't going to kill me.  It was more interesting than you'd guess.

For that we have to credit Dennis.  Deacon Dennis, if you prefer.  I have spoken for "Friar Dennis" but it has yet to catch on.  I have mentioned that the man is a lunatic.  I mean that in the nicest way.  He has got to be the most irreverent preacher I have ever seen at work.

It works.  He knows who he's talking to.  A lot of them he met in jail.  None of them are too awfully rich.  There are some problems there.  The odd zombie reference in the middle of a sermon keeps us all paying attention.

More or less.

I didn't much care for the singing part.  To know me is to know that I'm shy.  Unless you pour some liquor in me.  That did not seem the right way to go.  Dennis says we should forget ourselves.  He says it should be about God.  Nice theory.  Still I ain't going to sing.  I only hope God understands.

After church we ate some more.  Than I went out and played with the kids.  Who kicked and clawed and chewed on me.  What little treasures they are.  I got their ball stuck up in a tree.  As far as I know it's still there.

Eventually everyone went home.  That left me to talk with the Knightens.  Which I rather enjoy.  They are talkers too.  I've learned all about the Air Force and God. And criminal justice and ghetto life.  We do find plenty to say.  Fellowship, they may want to call it.  For me it was a pretty good day.

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Day One-Hundred-Ninety-Seven, Stuck in the Middle

My campsite wasn't as good as I thought it was.  I did find it in the dark.  And it was awfully good, don't get me wrong.  Cozy and clever and safe.  My own tent-sized oasis, apart from the world.  Invisible to all mankind.  But it was not, as I thought, in the midst of a city.  It was in the middle of nowhere.

On a ridge overlooking Interstate 10 where it crosses my Highway 90.  And there was a gas station just up the road.  I do like to have my coffee.  But did not need it as much as I might.  I had slept until almost eight o'clock.  It is my custom to wake up with the rising sun.  The sun did not rise today.

Or not until mid-afternoon.  I would have preferred that it had.  Forget the palm-tree propaganda.  Florida can get awfully cold.

I breakfasted at that gas station.  It has its own Subway shop.  And their breakfast sandwiches are not in fact the very worst thing they produce.  Still I feel hypocritical.  I am against Subway in theory.  I resent what they've done to the American Sandwich,  They've driven more deserving shops out of business.  And orphaned a whole generation, who will never know just what a sandwich can be.

Sad.

I was back on the road at God knows what time.  No sun in the sky gave a clue.  And soon found myself on that same old road.  The one you see in every town.  This one took me north of Pensacola.  I hear that's a pretty big town.  But all I saw were muffler shops, fast food and carpet warehouses.  The odd Walmart, some auto parts stores.  One or two low-rent attorneys.  Used and new cars, video rentals.  Hardware and mini-malls.

It made for a physically easy walk.  I was on pavement most of the time.  Or on close-cropped grass or in parking lots.  It did get a bit hard on my nerves.  You have to keep your eyes open with that many cars about.  Three almost killed me.  Two were uniformed cops.

Now I like donuts as much as the next guy.  More, if the truth must be known.  And I know they're best fresh.  You want to get there before all the good ones are gone.
 
But at what cost.  The signal was mine.  They were taking illegal right turns.  If it gets to where you're murdering pedestrians, I tell you, you have a problem.  Scrape that monkey off your back.  Gnaw on some carrot sticks.  Do a sit-up or two and obey the laws you have sworn to uphold.

Seriously.  Shame on you, you miserable fried-dough junkies.  Do we really want to live in a world where the cops run people down?  Least of all blameless pedestrians.  I never hurt anyone.  I have a good heart.  I do mean well.  I am growing more humble by the day.

I gave them the finger.  It's my Constitutional right.  I did it subtly.  There was no need to burden these donut fiends with my deep need for self-expression.  We can review the First Amendment when they've mastered the traffic laws.

I was a man on a mission of sorts.  I had to hit the Verizon shop.  Good intentions and my own sad carelessness had cost me my charger cable.  Thirty bucks.  Plus tax.  For eighty-nine cents worth of plastic and three feet of wire.  I'm no opponent of capitalism.  But let us leave room for decency.  How much profit is enough.  Pirates.  Shame on them, too.  They're the Subway of equitable computer parts pricing.

While I was there I had them check on the replacement device I'm expecting.  "We have no record of that," said they.  I began that process anew.  And if all goes well I'll be back online by some time Tuesday.  Or so.

I was out of there by noon or so.  I had another bay to cross.  A swamp, really, where a number of rivers empty themselves into the gulf.  I worried there would be more bridges.  It was in fact mostly causeway.  And it had by then developed into a fairly beautiful day.

Windy, though.  Blowing right in my face.  It did not upset my mood.  It was pretty out there.  I kept fairly safe.  I maintained a very quick pace.  I was determined to get to Pace, Florida before meeting the Knightens again.

You may remember them as the religious fanatics who abducted me last weekend.  They gave me their gracious permission to have my new computer sent to them.  I had been hoping to pick it up.  Of course it has not arrived.  But they did not rescind their invitation to spend the weekend with them.  In fact they came and picked me up.  I am closer but it's still a drive.  And they stuffed me full of steak and beans and prayed for my damaged soul.

So here I am in a soft bed.  I'll likely stay Sunday night too.  Too enjoy their very good company and to avoid the Florida cold.  Then it's back on the road for a day or two.  Then I'll be back here again.  By which time they will likely be sick of me.  They've brought this bad luck on themselves.  You don't want to feed stray dogs and hobos.  You don't want to laugh at their jokes.  You'll have the damnedest time getting rid of them, despite their very best intentions.

SPEAKING OF CLOWNS, I passed a car full of Shriners dressed up in their Sunday best.  I smiled and waved; what else can you do.  They looked at me with contempt.  Dissed by clowns.  That's a new low.  Sometimes you just have to laugh.

CHANCIES, I think it was called.  "Chancy's

I PASSED A NUMBER of cyclists.  It's thin but it suggests warmer weather.  Stuck up jerks.  They still aren't saying hi.  It hurts less than it once did.  Let us pity those people with no Love for James.  I'm a good egg.  The loss is theirs.

CHEERS to the lovely Mrs. Marne Smith.  She made my teddy bear pants.  And pieced together the above photo.  Genius.  I almost cried.

"Wild hogs is more dangerous than gators, and they's a lot more of them.  They'll eat ya."

Day One-Hundred-Ninety-Six, Florida!

Genius.  There's no better way to describe it.  I'm at a new level of hobo skills.  A flat patch of ground, thick in the city.  Invisible even from space.  Under a warming streetlight, no less.  I ought to get a prize.  Or a gold-plated medal.  Or a certified check.  I ought to teach a class.  For new hobos just starting out.  I could build a cabin up here.

Sure I drew blood climbing in.  I don't know how I'll get out.  And traffic is loud.  I'm overlooking a freeway but that only makes it better.  Thousands of people driving by without the first clue that I'm here.

Genius.

Yet, as too often happens these days, I did not get much walking in.  It would be tempting, and not unjust, to blame the Samsung corp.  They conspire against me.  They blister my feet.  They give me indigestion.  They make me spend too much money on pie.  They cover my tent with ice.

I know our men had it rough at Valley Forge.  Winters in Korea were no fun.  But those were brave soldiers; I'm a poet at heart.  I'm not cut out for discomfort.  I was meant to winter in front of a fire, sipping cocoa and warming my toes.

I got plenty wet walking back to the road.  I had to walk through some very tall grass.  Which was wet with melted frost and alive with crocodiles.  And far ain'ts and pythons and possums and such.  I did not pick my way through.  I ran across as fast as I could and wound up soaked to the shorts.

But remained cheerful.  I generate heat.  I am a passionate man.  My shorts were dry by the time I got to the State Line gas station.  Three or four miles up the road.  I was glad it was there.  But not very.  I'd have preferred a cafe.  I was in no mood for heat-lamp biscuits.

Happy Day.  I'll tell you a secret about the State Line. They cook up real food there.

"This is Alabama," they explained.  They try to keep their men fed. 

I had the best breakfast I've had in months.  It was better than Waffle House.  Or as good, at any rate, and a very nice surprise.  The eggs were great.  I think they squeeze them from chickens of their very own.  The nice lady there called everyone Honey.  She called me Sweet Pea.

Which was all I want from my breakfast place.  There were lots of nice people to talk to.  A few too many perhaps.  My chief ambition in loitering there was to type yesterday's report.  I didn't get it done until noon or so, only a half a day late.

The State Line is not on the state line.  I had a couple miles to go.  Down and across a river or two, on this same narrow road.  I stopped when I got to the Florida sign.  It's my custom to take a photograph.  Idaho.  Montana.  Wyoming.  South Dakota.  Nebraska.  Iowa.  Missouri.  Illinois.  Kentucky.  Tennessee.  Mississippi and Alabama.  I got 'em all.  But not Florida. 

Because Samsung sucks.

Worse yet, and it is hard not to blame them for this, I had forgotten my charger.  Plugged into a wall is about the only way I can make my computer work these days.  So it was back up the hill to the State Line.  I took my old seat and ordered lunch.

Chicken pot pie.  It was OK.  It wasn't as good as breakfast.  And the good ladies there had sent my charger ahead.  A man was meant to find me on the road.  He didn't, though.  Now I need a new one.  They'll probably want fifty bucks.

It was a nice gesture.  Everyone meant well.  He must have missed me when I stopped to pee.  It is my usual practice to get well off the road.  I don't want to frighten the ladies.  Or hurt the fellows' self-esteem.  So much for my good intentions.  Now I've got to find a Verizon shop.  Won't they be happy to see me.

The whole misadventue cost me time.  I left the State Line again at two-thirty.  More or less resigned to getting stuck in another motel.  Which made this spot a special blessing.  I found it in the dark.  And saved myself forty bucks and a sleepless night.  So what if it's just a bit cold. 

I'm in Florida now.  Break out your map.  I walked here from Washington State.  That's an impressive hike.  The rest is pudding.  I have conquered the United States.

WOULDN'T IT BE ironic if I were eaten by an alligator.  Half the people I talk to think I will be.  I understand.  They are projecting their own fears.  It is mere coincidence that they always seem to line up so well with mine.

I WISH Phil Spector had put out two Christmas albums.  Seriously.  I can't get enough.

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