Mississippi....looking good on day two.....

Day two in Mississippi---not much to report, long dull roads and nothing much else, with one notable exception. Last night, walking along Old Rt. 72, in Iuka, MS, I was beginning to wonder if I would find a place to sleep. I noticed a storefront type church letting out, and it looked like it might be safe harbor for me. (That means in the back, hidden from the road, in my case, with tent).
Inquiries led me to Brother Darrell Stafford, a bearded and gray-haired and very fit 61 year old man who, with his wife Judy, run the New Life Church in Iuka, MS. I told him who I was and what I was doing, and asked if it would be possible to set up my tent behind the church. Brother Stafford immediately agreed and even requested a picture of me with my cart, which, of course, I obliged happily. He also asked me for permission to use any of my blog entries in the New Life News, a paper that he and Just edit, and that serves Mississippi, Alabama and Tennessee. Again, I obliged happily. I dug out a John Lennon Imagine NO Hunger pin that I was given to give away, and asked him if he liked John’s music but he said that he did not. I think that John’s disdain for religions has tainted his genius in the eyes of the pious, but his message of peace and love is a universal one that is hard to dislike, since it echoes the teachings of Jesus in the Bible.
I awoke early the next morning and headed out before traffic got bad. I was 7 miles up the road, resting my feet at a gas station, when I heard a voice calling to me. It was Brother Darrell, pumping gas. I greeted him and asked if everything was okay back at the church (I am very very fastidious and leave places exactly as I found them). He assured me that it was fine, and wanted to ask me a question. He wanted to know if I had accepted Jesus as my personal savior, and I assured him that I had not. He told me that his life had been going nowhere until he surrendered himself completely to his faith, and now things are going much better and he has purpose in his life.
I told him that my journey, as it is, is, in part my quest to understand my life and to help me grow better as a person and to help me to see my clear path and direction in life, but that I was not ready to make any kind of commitment like that just yet. I sincerely doubt that I will ever be anything but an atheist, but I do understand the good power of faith, in something, whether it is the power of nature, the power of love, the embracing of kindness to others and seeing beauty where others do not. I once got a fortune cookie that had the following: “You have the ability to see beauty in everything. Do not lose this talent.” I like to think it was MY fortune, written specifically for me, not for a crappy cookie. Oh, wait…make that a BEAUTIFUL crappy cookie.
Huh. I guess it was right.
And to Brother Darrell, who kindly bought me lunch after we talked, I say, thank you. It was a beautiful lunch!

Mississippi....................not just a river.......

Forty eight years ago Phil Ochs, the greatest of our protest singers, wrote a song called “Here’s to the State of Mississippi” in which he pretty much excoriated every single person and aspect and institution of the state, which at the time had the worst civil rights violations record in the country, and was known for a blatantly racist law enforcement division, and more. “Behind their broken badges they are murderers and more…,” Ochs said.
The chorus is unforgettable. “Here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of. ..Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of. “
Ive never been to Mississippi, but that song has always stuck in my head whenever I hear the name. So, you can bet that as I entered Mississippi today at around 2:00 pm, I was singing a hearty chorus of something….
So now, it begins. Will Mississippi prove to me that it has changed since Ochs penned his vitriolic tune? I had read or heard somewhere that Mississippi at one time in recent years had advanced so far into the present that there were more black office holders than any other state in the union. Whether this is still true I do not know but obviously lessons were learned and times did indeed change. Now I want to see it for myself.
Alabama was a surprise to me. The people were lovely, almost to a person. I think I met one or two jerks, namely that rent a cop in Walnut Grove and the woman who clipped my cart with her car on purpose in Gadsden, but by and large everyone, even suspect looking people, turned out to be wonderful and as generous as they could be with food, cash on occasion, and offers of showers, supplies and more. The police everywhere have been terrific (the real ones anyway) and have asked appropriate questions and even helped me find safe places to set up my tent, as happened last night in Cherokee, where I not only camped between the fire and rescue building and the police department, but was offered pizza and Pepsi as well, which was delicious.
My main gripe so far, and not one that will be addressed, is the roads. I know they are meant for cars, not strollers pushed by burly guys, but at times the shoulders are so bad, or non existent, that it makes life sheer hell. But that’s part of the adventure,
So far, I have only travelled about 7 miles into Mississippi. I have not seen much and have not spoken to anyone except a couple who were taking their picture by the Welcome to Mississippi sign, where they kindly took my photo as well. They were driving across the country and hope to visit 20 states by the time they are done.
Every step I take from here on out is a step further west than I have ever been before. Pigeon Forge Tennessee was my old landmark and now every step is an extension. Im happy you all (y’all) are enjoying the stories I tell you. Ill try to keep them as enjoyable and thought provoking as I can.

Last thoughts on tornadoes, damn them....

Yesterday, as I walked away from the tornado ravaged area that I had spent a pair of nights in, sometimes scared, sometimes in awe of the power of nature, it was one of the most beautiful days I have yet experienced on the road. The temperature was cool and very comfortable, the highway west towards Mississippi was as good as any I have been on---good shoulder, smooth rolling, and my feet finally stopped being two objects I wanted to ….well, here is a gallows humor joke I made up just for them----“My feet told me they wanted me to amputate them, but I told them to take a hike”----okay, not the greatest joke but a pretty good one…
I looked at the sky, and the rolling and puffy cumulus clouds were pretty and looking like clouds are supposed to look, and I tried to make sense of things, like the fact that the day before, those same beautiful skies had delivered destruction and death to this place, killing over 200 people and wiping out a small town called Phil Campbell, less than 25 miles from where I was staying. The only thing left was, ironically, the police station, according to locals. Now, with nothing to police, what will they do?
Ive seen a feature on CBS, on TV, where someone will take a globe or a map and randomly put their finger down on a spot, and then will go to that place and do a story. Tornadoes are nature’s powerful finger,down at random from the skies, and the story they do is never a happy one. And nowhere is safe. Atlanta Georgia got hit a few years ago, as did Brooklyn, NY, and other cities as well occasionally feel the power. Burt usually it seems to be rural spots where there are a lot of mobile homes ( a tornado’s favorite target, they say, is a trailer park, as if the folks living in them need anymore grief….). I think the insurance companies are in cahoots with the tornadoes…trailers are less expensive to replace…
But seriously, I was lucky to be safe, though without tv or internet to know what was going on for a long time, and when it was all over yesterday morning, April 28, I went to the McDonalds across from where I Was at, and saw something that really drove it home for me---a family---young man, his wife, and their small daughter were sitting at a booth with their breakfast burritos, or whatever, and the man was on his cell phone. His face slowly turned red, and his chest began to heave slowly, and tears rolled down his face and he began to sob audibly. He handed the phone to his wife and she listened and began to cry as well, and it was very uncomfortable to see. Their daughter asked them what was wrong, and I heard the mother say, “Mawmaw and pawpaw got killed in the tornado, honey.”
They were from the tiny and now extinct town of Phil Campbell.
Whatever powers that be, call it god, call it nature…is there any reason for this? Any reason at all???

Leaving the storms behind.....

Its strange to be sitting in a McDonalds at noon, on a day after a tornado wall destroyed a lot of a place, and even though I was not directly hit, I was close enough to see the storms and hear the noise. Even Muscle Shoals, where I am, was not spared and a lot of people that are coming in the restaurant are talking about their families and people that they knew who were killed yesterday. I listen to them and feel almost like I should stay around to see if I can help but in truth I am on foot, with no real resources, and I know Id probably be more in the way than a help. Still, it is very somber day and the mood here is quiet. I also know that back home in Georgia, just a state away still, people were killed and in Jackson . where I live, it was a rough night too. I hope with all my heart that everyone is okay and that the pain from the destruction and loss will pass quickly.
So onward I go, into places that also were hit hard and hit bad. What will I see? Will my number come up in the next round of storms? I hope not. I will keep my jornal/blog updates as I can, and if anyone wants to directly call me my number is 678-883-6510. No prank calls or insurance salesmen, please.
PS> The pic on the blog is Helen Kellers Birthplace. The trees blew down yesterday.

The deal with Cookie Monster, and Facebook...

The deal with Cookie Monster is this; I found the little guy back in Georgia, just sitting there abandoned on the side of the road. I was gonna leave him but something reminded me that since Tom Hanks had to draw a face on a volleyball in Castaway, and here I was with a pal woth eyes and a big mouth already in pace, I wasl already ahead of the game compared to old Tom, so I kept Cookie Monster. (I confess, I thought he was Ernie, until a child called him Cookie Monster at a gas station. “Of course I knew that”…heh heh.
So I brought him along for the ride. I decided that to make it fun, and not just a dopey muppet with a broken arm, I would pose him along the way for photos, and I have. Some of the pix include dead critters, sure, but others are nice involve flowers, and even posing as if he was in high society. Its just a fun thing to do and I hope you all enjoy the pix on the blog and on my facebook page. The link to that is:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1128666472
and it is open to all. Don’t need to be my friend. The reason I don’t post all my pix on the blog is that it takes too long since I have to do them one at a time. Facebook is really a great tool and I try to use it responsibly and for the purpose it was created, as a social network, and not a hub for gossip and other crap, as has happened in the past.
I don’t label many of the photos that I post on Facebook. I am travelling with a mini laptop, and sadly my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and it takes a long time to go through them all. I take pics of things I see that look pretty and interesting. Sometimes they aren’t. The digital camera is a truly revolutionary tool though, even the cheap one I am using. My good camera never materialized in my stocking last Christmas so its this one or nothing. It seems to do a good job and I hope my eye and sense of framibg and all of the technical jargon are making this an enjoyable experience for you all. If you enjoy is as much as my feet hurt, you are having a GREAT time with it all. I will keep going as much as I can each day and I will finish this or almost die trying.
Please, also consider that I am doing this for a charity so please, if you have not donated to Whyhunger.org, you still can. They don’t turn off any internet at midnight, so you can donate early, late and often. I don’t see how much you donate, and unless I ask, I don’t know who donated in my name. When they do tell me, it is simply a last name, or a list of them, with a total amount after—no individual amounts. (You can be cheap and I won’t know it! ) Again though, it is a great and worthy cause and as I have travelled through some pretty poor places so far, I see a lot of fat people who don’t look like they will live to be another year older, and bad nutrition is almost as bad as no nutrition, so we have a lot of work to do.
Anyway, I will go as long as I can, and maybe when this is over will adapt it to book form, or something. It is a blast, even though the pain is at times excruciating and spirit breaking, but then I get a little sleep and the next day usually feel much better and ready to go. Once my feet toughen a bit more I will have fewer complaints inthat department, Im sure, My two years of training were perfect and physical endurance is not an issue at all, just my human feet.
Next step…..and another…and before you know it….San Francisco!!!!
One last Cookie Monster story: I passed a house a few days ago, in rural Alabama. On the front porch swing were all of the Sesame Street crew, except Cookie Monster and Kermit. I looked at the swing full of stuffed little guys, and I looked at Cookie Monster. I looked back at the swing and said to him: “You wanna go hang out with your family?”
A truck passed by just as he uttered his response. I wasn’t sure but I think he said, “No, I wanna go for the ride with you.” Actually, I KNOW he said that. And the journey continues…….

Samantha, tough as nails...

This is my new friend Samantha. Samantha works at a little store in White Oaks, Alabama, a middle of nowhere type of community that I passed through recently.
The first thing that Samantha said to me was “I was in a wreck yesterday and that’s why I look this way.”
I hadn’t noticed anything, but upon closer inspection saw that a very pretty face had indeed been marred by an accident. There were several small abrasions and cuts on her forehead, bruising on her nose, and worst of all her entire right eyebrow was stitched together, almost looking like she had called Mike Tyson a bad name. I asked her what had happened.
She related how she had been four wheeling in her 1994 Jeep Renegade off road vehicle. She was only going a few miles an hour when the front of the Jeep went down into a ditch. The ditch was a very steep one and as a result the Jeep was almost balanced on its nose when it finally stopped its forward momentum. Another result was that Samantha, not wearing a seat belt of helmet, went flying face first into the windshield. The windshield won that encounter. Tough as nails, she got patched up and stitched up. Had she been a New Jersey girl, there is no doubt that this would have been an excuse to be off from work for at least 6 months with therapy included, a lawsuit and reality show to follow. Being an Alabama tough as nails girl though, she was at work on time the following day, no complaints, suit or reality show. Heck, not even a day off.
What do you say about THAT , Snookie?

A minister sandwich, or: how a good day turned ugly and then got good again...

Well, this was one of those days that make a writer feel good, because it was a day full of events and people. By day’s end, I’d be dressed, stressed, and blessed.
Your intrepid walker/blogger/reporter awoke at dawn in a field behind some storage sheds that were amassed in a field on the outskirts of Moulton, Alabama. Small, armadillo shaped bugs were crawling everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Harmless enough but the “ewww” factor is very very high. I slept on only my air mattress and with the sleeping bag as a cover, so I was exposed to every crawler that came along. All part of the experience, I say. Nuts, you say. Both answers are right.
Off I headed to McDonald’s, just down the street, for some breakfast and wifi. While there, I struck up a conversation with a nice young lady of 94 named Irene Layman, who was having breakfast with her son Don. Don is a retired science and English teacher, and minister who lives just down the road a piece from the McDonalds. After a very nice chat he invited me to come to his house for a shower, and considering my small sleeping companions, I accepted happily. He gave me the address and we parted.
I finished up at McDonald’s and headed towards his house, just down the road. I noticed a Walmart so decided to make a detour, where I picked up a bag of apples, some Vienna sausages (a very easy item to bring on a trip like this---full of protein, and probably even containing some of the little armadillo-like bugs I woke up with) and a few other items.
I arrived at the Layman’s house a few minutes later. Don’s wife Donna, a charming and friendly woman, greeted me at the door and invited me into their home. They made me feel comfortable and after some chit chat I went to take my shower.
Taking a shower in a stranger’s house is a very strange experience for the uninitiated. It’s a very personal act in a very UN-personal place, and you want to be very careful to not draw attention to yourself. When I finished my shower I sat down on the edge of the tub so to better examine my damaged feet. As I started to lean forward, I realized that I was sliding backwards and the next thing I knew I fell hard into the tub, before I could grab anything to stop my fall. There was a metal bar in the tub that is for washcloths to hang on and the back of my head hit it very, very hard, to the point where I saw stars and the world went fuzzy for a minute. I must have been quite a sight, a tanned, still somewhat chunky naked man bottoms up in a stranger’s bathtub, feet waving in the air, and for a moment I feared that the Laymans would come rushing in to that sight, after hearing the loud bang that I made. But they heard nothing. I extricated myself from my trap and dried and dressed myself and went back out. Don Layman had asked me if I wanted any media coverage for my walk and when I answered in the affirmative, he made a call to the local paper, and within minutes a reporter arrived at the house to do an interview and take a photo. A brief interview later, and with plenty of food and supplies supplied by the wonder Laymans, I headed back out on the road, posing for one last picture for the newspaper with the ball and chain that is my cart.
I don’t think I made it more than three miles when I realized that something was not right. I was getting very dizzy, my head was hurting and I began to feel nauseous. And to top it off my feet began to develop bad blisters in places where none had been before. Really bad, and painful. The combination of all of the above factors made walking so difficult that by days end I had covered less than 9 miles, and was in the middle of nowhere, almost literally, with a bad storm system coming.
At some point during the middle of the day, in the hot Alabama sun, I began to flag badly and needed to lie down. I was almost literally out of it, and was in bad shape. I had neglected to get Don Layman’s phone number, and really felt alone for the first time in a while. I saw a shady spot next to a driveway and put my small tarp on the ground. I laid down on it and curled up there, by the side of the road. I was aware of cars passing by occasionally. At some point I heard a vehicle stop in the driveway of the house I was near and I looked up to see the rural mailman in his SUV looking at me. I gave a feeble “Im ok” wave and he pulled into the driveway, out of sight. I heard him again a moment later and looked up again, and he was just sitting there, looking at me. No words were exchanged but I knew he wanted to talk to me, and I staggered up and limped barefoot to his window. He told me that he had thought that I wanted to talk to him. Since I had his attention I told him a quick version of my story and the charity, and gave him a card. He mentioned a town a few miles down the road and said that maybe he would see me later.
Little did I know…
I trudged onward. In severe pain, I was only able to go very slowly, and with the knowledge that a bad storm system was coming I was worried about shelter for the night. I knew that a small town awaited me where there was a Dollar General and a gas station, so I figured that I would be able to rest up there and maybe find an empty house to set up my tent near. I finally got to the town, Hatton by name, and sure enough there were a Dollar General and a gas station. And nothing else. I rested awhile, asked a few people where there might be a safe place to spend the night due to the storm, which had tornado implications, but no one would or could help me.
I had pretty much given up on Hatton as a place to sleep for the night, and started up on my way to Moulton, another 20 miles. I figured I would just take my chances with the weather. One thing that happens to a person as you get more and more fatigued is that your safety sometimes seems less logical or important. Its crap, I know, but that is what I have observed.
I had only gotten about 1000 feet when a nicely dressed young man emerged from a small church, walking towards me. It was beginning to get dark and I Wasn’t sure what he wanted. He introduced me to himself as Dustin Warren, pastor of the small church, and that he had heard from a relative that I was looking for a safe place to stay. He offered me the back of the church property as a refuge for the night, which I gladly accepted. He also invited me in for the prayer meeting that he and a few parishioners were having, and after a quick tent set-up and shirt change, I went in. Who should I see there but…the mailman. And several other men and women, and a small boy named James, wearing a handmade Spongebob shirt. He was the son of Dustin Warren and his wife Laura. I introduced yself and at the invitation of Pastor Warren, gave a short speech to the group about my walk and its mission, and then they offered to have a group prayer for me, if I wanted it. I accepted and listened with head bowed as they all simultaneously prayed for my success and safety. It was a lovely moment I wont soon forget.
Afterward, another parishioner, Don Deitz, txook me to the store downthe road in his vehicle and bought me dinner, and wouldnt take no for an answer. I told him that I was walking FOR charity, and was not THE charity. He laughed and said, “We all need help sometimes.”
He drove me back, I said my thank yous and good nights, and they left me alone in the trust and care of their church and property.
It was a day that started with the help and concern froma minister, Don Layman and his wife Donna,and ended with the help and care of a minister , Dustin Warren and his wife Laura.
Im not religious, but I do believe in the grace and good deeds that human beings with hearts and souls do on this earth. These people are living proof of that, for me. And that is all I need to know.

Patience, Perseverence and Practice......

Another breezy and cool morning in northwestern Alabama. Another morning sitting in a McDonalds, eating the breakfast platter…I think this is where the term “Same shit, different day” came from.
Nothing too deep today, just some thoughts and comments on things to entertain/provoke/hopefully not bore you.
I spoke to Caleb Gosa yesterday morning, and he was very thrilled to hear from me. He is still a kinda/sorta guru for me when it comes to the ways of the road, and one of the things he told me yesterday was to remember the three “P”s. They are Patience, Perseverance and Practice. As they apply to the walking all day aspect of my current existence, I can certainly understand the first two, Patience and Perseverance, but Practice? How does one practice walking? When I first met Caleb in Savannah (at a McDonalds, before it became “same shit different day”) he told me about how to lessen the strain by just allowing your legs to move as if under their own power. It is a hard concept to explain, but there is a definite difference between purposefully taking a step, which requires its own bit of enegy being expended, and allowing the step to just happen. Forward momentum has a bit to do with it, and it helps to be lost in your thoughts or in some reverie, or just zoned out. The miles pile up a little less painfully that way. In my pathetic case, though, blisters have almost crippled me to the point that on some mornings standing is almost impossible and walking is a hot coal experience. In those cases, no amount of practice or patience is going to help. Perseverance definitely is called for though…
And so it is in life. Sometimes we go through our days purposefully making every move, getting our work done with good intentions, and at the end of the day we are exhausted from our efforts. But it’s a good exhaustion because we were doing something with a goal in mind and got it done. But when we go to our work-a day jobs that we don’t like, we drift towards quitting time and go home a different kind of exhausted from just trying to make it through the damned day. Is that what life is all about?
I commented the other day about the folks I have seen here in Alabama. Their lives seem to be a cycle of work, home and beer, to be blunt. That seems to me to be a very dull existence, and Im having none of it.
So I walk. Perseverance, Patience and Practice will get me through. As they will you, on your own journeys. Caleb Gosa may just be the smartest man I know. Or he may just have a lot of common sense. Either way, his words are wise, and I am pleased to share them with you.
Please make a DONATION in my name to WhyHunger.org
That is why I am out here. Thank you.

A Little Piece of Heaven---Morgan County, Alabama

Well, for an Easter Sunday, I guess it is appropriate to write about a little piece of heaven that I passed through today. And it all happened because I went left when I should have turned right.
Morgan County, Alabama….as lovely and as peaceful as any place that I have walked through on this big old trip of mine. For once, no drivers tried to run me over, and almost everyone waved to me, it seemed. For the first time, too, I did not feel as if there were secret shotguns pointed at my back, or people whispering about what my motives might be, or any sense of angst on anyone’s part, including my own. Those things can quickly get old and suck the life out of you if you let it.
An interesting thing happened in Morgan County: I fell in love with this little part of Alabama. In the north we often hear a lot of negative things about the south, and in particular the state of Alabama. I’ve now passed through Georgia, where I live, and almost all of Alabama and I was much more dismayed and disappointed in Georgia than I have been here.
I was pulled over by a sheriff’s deputy today. He passed me by a few times, and I assumed he would eventually get around to stopping, and he did. I had just had a fabulous two dollar turkey sandwich at a small place called the Ironman Restaurant, ansd was basking in the post meal glow, and though, “well, here goes the old nonsense” with the cop. He got out of his SUV, appproched and saked me where I was headed. When I told him California, he seemed amused, but when he saw my card, and heard m story, he said something that not one of the oprevious 15 or so law enforcement officials have said. He simply said, “This is so cool” a couple of times. Didn’t even run my ID. He even took my name down for the purposes of trying to find me on Facebook so he could follow my blog pieces about my trip. He wished me well and drove off, leaving me not with a feeling of relief on my face, as is usually the case, but a smile. I walked on, and about an hour later he pulled up again next to me and told me he had found my profile on Facebook and had sent me a friend request. So I am pleased to now have Morgan County Sheriff’s Deputy Eric Douglass as a new friend. He is certainly an exemplary spokesman for the county’s law enforcement division.
I continued walking. The goldenrod were in bloom, the horses were all extra handsome and pretty, the farms all looked like they were thriving, the people I met and spoke to were all incredibly friendly. Trash along the highway was at a minimum and the houses all looked well cared for.
If I had not taken a wrong turn this morning early, I might have missed a lot of very cool and pretty scenery. I’m glad I did. It was a perfect day for a little walk through a southern paradise.

Walk a mile in my shoes (or someone else's)

I just watched a very thought provoking 18 minute long video that a friend shared with me on Facebook. The subject of the video, a stage presentation by sociologist Sam Richards, is empathy. Do you know what empathy is? Many don’t understand the simple concept. It is, simply, the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, and to see and feel things from their point of view. Different from sympathy, the outpouring of emotion and caring for someone else in a bad situation, empathy is perhaps as important to the human condition as love, and almost as certainly one cannot truly exist without the other.
Ive always considered myself to be empathetic. I see people in a situation, and almost always try to imagine myself in their shoes, and sometimes I can, sometimes I cannot. The seven years I spent as friend and guardian to the late Jackson C. Frank http://heyyyyyabbott.blogspot.com/2010/12/jackson-c-frank-remembered.html were a challenge because no matter how hard I tried I could not exactly understand what burns over 50 percent of the body must feel like, not to mention having my joints fused together by massive amounts of calcium deposits. But for less extraordinary situations I can do pretty well in the empathy department.
Or so I thought.
Walking through the deep south, with no one around to talk to save for a few phone calls daily, I have all kinds of time to reflect and observe the human condition, deep south version, and it is dismaying. When I get food and drink at gas stations (my principal stopping places) I see all kinds of stereotypical “redneck southern “ types, and I think about what made them that way, and the only logical conclusion, based on the condition of the buildings, and the places I have passed through, is abject poverty, combined with sub-standard education. That mix creates a person who is easily led down the wrong roads, whether it is as drugs, booze, crime or something else. For exampke: the epidemic of meth usage here is stunning in its destructiveness, and at each town I pass through I hear someone talking about how bad their town is overrun with meth heads, and I usually get the “Watch out for them” as I pass by. It does wear me down to always fear that Ill get held up for my phone, laptop, or whatever else I might have, whether it makes sense or not.
I see them… men, and some women, as they get out of work, head to the gas station for a case of beer and cigarettes, and wonder if that is all their lives are about---work, beer, cigarettes, work, beer cigarettes,,,ad infinitum…and it makes me sad. Life is so much more, and so much more rewarding the fuller and richer it is. These folks, with their lack of education and poor standard of living, are fodder for the political machinery that would sweet talk them in their own accent, would promise them the world, and then not deliver, and giving complicated excuses why they were unable to deliver, and it is just accepted because these people do n t know any better.
So, empathy, standing in someone else’s shoes….is not a pretty thing sometimes. It takes courage to really step out of your own comfort zone and make the effort to see what you might not want to see.
Can you do it?

A Kindhearted Woman

Hoboes traveling the countryside used to utilize a simple system that alerted other travelers where they might find help or comfort. They would leave a drawing on the side of a building or a house. When the drawing was of a cat, it meant that there was a kind hearted woman inside....
Well, after the Cullman McDonalds debacle, I needed something to cheer me up, and
it took only a few hours for something cool to happen today. Allow me to introduce you to my second incredibly special heroic person. Her name is Judy Hall.
I left Cullman and headed toward Hartselle, Alabama, some 23 or so miles away, to the north and. As I walked along the highway, up and down steep hills, my feet really began to hurt. Walking level roads is not too bad, but the stress that hills up and down put on the feet creates a whole other kind of pain, and I was pretty sore by the time I reached the top of the mountain and was dreading the long downhill slope ahead. I had just begun the descent when through my headphones, (playing the Who, by the way) I heard someone yelling. I turned around and a woman was walking toward me shouting something. I pulled off my headphones and stopped walking. “What can I do for you?” I asked her.
She replied that she was wondering what she could do for ME. I told her I was really in need of a shower, but if that was too much to ask, I understood. She said it wasn’t a problem at all, and we headed the 100 or so feet to her house, where I had just walked past. She told me her name was Judy Hall, and earlier had seen me walking down yet another big hill, but when she was able to turn around to find me I had disappeared. (Went into a park to rest for a few). She came home and was just sitting down to watch television when she “the tail end of me go by” is how I think she phrased it. She showed me to a room that her brother had used when he was visiting and said if I wanted to spend the night there I was more than welcome. She also showed me the shower and brought out soap, shampoo, towels and everything a weary and footsore traveller might want or need. I took a nice shower, threw on fresh clothes and joined Judy inher living room. She told me her story.
Fifty five years old, and with a very badly deteriorating back, Judy lives on a small monthly SS check, in a house that is too big for her and she is almost trapped. Moving is too expensive and staying put is just as bad. Years ago she was homeless for a while and lived rough, very rough, and suffered abuse and more at the hands of people both familiar and strangers. She knows the pain and shame of homelessness and thought that I was homeless when she saw my pathetic form strolling along today, and she wanted to help. She took a chance allowing a stranger into her home, but her intuition told her I was okay, and she went with her instincts, to my eternal gratitude.
The conversation started with food talk. She had made some chicken casserole and wanted to know if I wanted some. I helped myself to not enough, because I didn’t want to seem too hungry. I have to learn to not worry about that. When people offer food…eat it! Lesson No. 1 from the road!
We sat and talked at length about life and its vagaries. A Christian woman, Judy has of late gotten interested in eastern religions and philosophies. She is reading a book by Deepak Chopra and has a small shrine of elephants and pearls in her living room. She told me she is interested in going to India but its not affordable.
She lives alone but does not seem lonely. She kept reassuring me that she wasn’t interested in “anything from me” and was almost trying too hard to be the perfect hostess. No worries, Judy, if you read this. You were a great hostess, and I can’t thank you enough for having the grace and kindness in your soul to take a leap of faith to help a stranger whom you though might need help. And thank you for the gift of your late brother’s clothes, which will serve me well on the trek ahead.
I was lacking a paintbrush, but if I had one, there would be a cat on Judy Hall's wall...

McDonalds.....eh. Oh, and Earth Day!!!!

Communication ---it is the single most important skill we have developed as human beings and yet, we choose to use it only for nonsensical reasons sometimes instead of maximizing its potential. To wit: Yesterday, as I travel across the United States, I stopped into a McDonalds to have a meal and to use the free wifi that they so graciously provide for customers. I parked my cart/stroller/car up a small hill next to the restaurant, to avoid having it messed with by the interstate travellers. I went in, ordered my food and sat down to eat and to work on some internet stuff. When I ordered my food I told the young lady at the coiunter that I was travelling on foot and had parked my stroller on the hill, out of the way, in case she was wondering. She told me that it was not a problem, and I went off to enjoy my meal and do my work.
About an hour later, as I gave a glance toward my stroller, I noticed that a cop was checking it out. I hobbled outside and informed him that it was mine and why it was there. He immediately made me show ID, and then proceeded to order me to lock my fingers together on top of my head while he searched me, right there in front of the entire restaurant. It was humiliating, to say the least. He then informed me that the manager of the restaurant had called them about me and that I was going to be sleeping up there and that was not acceptable. The only problem was that I was not going to be sleeping there at all and had never made any kind of inference that I was. After I explained to the cop that I am a writer and walking for charity, he asked me to prove it. I gave him my card from WhyHunger and he accompanied me into the restaurant where I showed him the piece I was working on about my visit to Ave Maria Grotto, and when he saw that he apologized and left me to my work, but telling me that he thought that the managers of the restaurant would prefer I move on soon. I thanked him and ten minutes later I was outta there.
Before I left, I approached the managers and told them that I did not mean to cause them any alarm or concern, and that if they had just come to me and asked me to move the cart or to at least talk to me, since they knew full well whose cart it was, I would have been very happy to comply. The younger manager, a blonde woman in her 20’s, feebly explained that if corporate inspectors came by and saw the cart there they would have had a complaint. The other older gentleman manager just said nothing.
I told her, eye to eye that it would have saved a lot of embarrassment and possibly ill will if she had just communicated with me instead of calling the police. I think as Americans, and as human beings we deserve at least that much courtesy and respect.
Which brings me to the logical followup—it is Earth Day.
I remember the first Earth Day, when I was in the fifth or 6th grade, and our class all went outside with bags and cleaned up trash around the school. Its not a subject I think about much specifically but I do try to live an environmentally friendly existence. As I walk across these states I am shocked and appalled at the huge amount and variety of the garbage that people have tossed and dumped on these beautiful highways. Truly disgusting, to say the least.
A famous quote, attributed to Carl Sagan but actually by someone else, it is as accurate as any quote I know. I can’t believe how we shit in our own beds, to put it plainly. As I walk, I have seen everything from TV’s to discarded diapers, full of human waste and much more. As I walked through a forest preserve here in Alabama a week ago, I was amazed at how much trash there was in the pine barrens that I passed. People had backed trucks into open spaces and dumped tons of crap and trash there and just drove away. What was really amazing to me was the fact that I walked through there for an entire day and only saw maybe ten cars.
So, to sum up, as I get ready to hit the road for another day of adventure, unsure of where I will next find wifi, I say to you: Treat the earth as if it the most precious asset you have. Treat the people you love twice as good as that, and tell them that you love them, every day. Love for each other and for the planet that allows us to live on it. How much more do you need?
Oh, and by the way, I am sitting in THAT McDonalds as I type this. Heh heh.

Good Grotto!!!

A friend suggested that when I was passing though Cullman, Alabama, I should stop in and check out the Ave Maria Grotto, which was, as it was related to me to be some sort of monastery and retreat, world famous for miniatures of religious shrines. Only a fraction of a mile off the beaten path, I decided to check it out.
I left the busy highway into Cullman, and within a few hundred feet the sound of trucks and cars and civilization disappeared. A trickling, running water sound began to be heard and got louder as I walked further toward the grotto. I thought to to myself, “What a serene and peaceful place” and as I looked at the neatly manicured grass along the roadside, and searched for the source of the water’s song, I realized something.
Years ago I went to concerts all the time. Loud, soft, in between, it didn’t matter. I love music and went to hundreds of shows. At one show in Poughkeepsie in 1975, I stupidly went as close to the stage to see Bruuuuuce Springsteen as I could, and it was so loud that I could not hear after the show. The following morning, I woke up to find blood on my pillow from my ear, and as the years have progressed I have developed tinnitus, a sound that is like the distant, low volume shrill of crickets or frogs. It is constant and unceasing and at some point years ago I realized that I would never hear the sounds of silence again, just the shrill whistle and tones.
Now, as I located the source of the water sounds, I realized that for the first time in over ten years the ringing in my ears had stopped. It was so eerie that it almost literally took my breath away, and it was beautiful and powerful. There is much to recommend when it comes to silence.
That was only the first surprise of the day for me. When I finally reached the grotto I discovered that there was an admission charge, and I had just spent my last money, so I was about to leave when a woman who works at the gift shop called to me and told me that I could just go on in. I thanked her and asked her about the grotto.
A monk named Brother Joseph Zoetl, who lived at the monastery, St. Bernard Abbey, for almost 70 years, had created 125 miniature replicas of religious shrines and scenarios from history, and they had been arranged beautifully in the woods in such a way as to maximize their impact.
I was expecting something like that which one would see at a college or high school art show, but what I discovered was an incredible display of virtuousity and creativity. Not only were the buildings beautifully constructed (it should be noted that Br. Zoetl used discarded materials much of the time) but in addition, imagination and creativity had been used to make them interesting to see, and not just for their architectural accuracy. (See my pic of the actual basilica at Knock and compare it to Brother Zoetl’s creation)Beautiful does not begin to describe the grotto and its wonderful contents.
Leaving the grotto with a camera full of pictures, I suddenly was overcome with a sense of real peace, the first I have had in a long time. The atmosphere, my sudden hearing improvement, the peaceful waters flowing, really sunk in, and it felt good. I felt calmer, more focused…more alive.
I am not religious. I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in the healing power of nature, the healing power of love and in the goodness of people, no matter their faith, or lack of faith. I believe in art, and think that creating something beautiful for others to enjoy is a religious experience in and of itself. What Brother Zoetl created on the grounds of St Bernard Abbey was indeed a religious experience for me, and I will treasure the knowledge that I was fortunate to have a friend recommend it, sight unseen, to me. It has been the amazing highlight of my walk so far and I am at a loss for words to really explain why. Sadly, my tinnitus has returned but the short time I was able to hear silence was…priceless.
Note: I have uploaded many pictures to my facebook page. The link is http://www.facebook.com/media/set/fbx/?set=a.1963703488781.2117244.1128666472
and you don’t have to be on Facebook to enjoy my albums. I keep my page open for all to see.

The Sacrifice? and Cookie Monster hits the road....

It was so strange that it has still unsettled me. As I walked along Highway 278, westbound toward the lovely little town of Holly Pond, I passed the unmistakable stench of death. Looking down the 10 foot drop to the bottom of a hill, off the side of the road I saw the large, decaying body of a Labrador retriever. Next to it appeared to be a slightly larger burnt spot on the ground, with a piece of paper in the center. Parking my cart, I worked my way down to see what I was looking at. The lab was not very far along the decomposition trail, and was wearing a large black nylon harness,, the type seen on guide dogs. He was a male, and appeared to have been in good health. The large black burnt spot nearby was more of a puzzle. While there were definite signs of something burning there, there were also large amounts of black hair around the edges of the circle. Planted directly in the center of the burnt area was a portion of a rather disgusting porno magazine featuring a very young black girl engaging in certain acts with several faceless men. It didn’t appear to be accidental that the pornography was dead center in the burnt area, but who can say. What was I looking at? Was this the animal sacrifice thatI have heard about before, conducted by disturbed individuals? Or was it simply a dog that had been hit by a car? What was the black burned area? If something burned there, and had left hair, where were the bones? The lab was intact and basically just dead. What the hell was this??
On another front, lighter in nature, I picked up a road companion. His name is Cookie Monster and apparently he had fallen out of favor, or out of a car, yesterday, to be picked up by yours truly. nHe has been a real good listener, and generally does not complain about wearing his seatbelt.
Today we were walking along and Cookie Monster got thirsty. I decided to let him have anice drink from a fancy sippee cup It so relaxed him that he wanted to sleep, so when we came to a bunch of flowers, Cookie Monster decided it was nap time. Upon awakening, he was very bleary eyed, and hungry. He grabbed the first thing that he saw that looked like a cookie BUT…It was a baby turtle. He almost ate it before spitting it out into his hand.
I don’t know if Cookie Monster is going to make the whole trip with me but if he does, I don’t want to hear him complain about sore feet. No one wants to hear that crap.

Something about Walnut Grove.....

On April 19, 2011 I walked all day from Attalla, Alabama to the small town of Walnut Grove. I looked forward to it for a few reasons, the least of which was that it had such a nice sounding pleasant name, the same name as the town that the Ingalls family lived in in Little House on the Prairie. It also offered an oasis in the middle of a longer journey to Snead, Alabama. And rest, and a chance to heal my feet for an hour or two.
With that thought in mind I rolled into the only gas station in town. A busy and clean place, it was full of folks getting off from work, or just gassing up, automotively AND culinarily. I parked my cart on the edge of the parking lot and walked in. I bought a pair of diet Cokes, walked back out and sat down by my cart, where I enjoyed a soda while letting my bare feet air out and loosen up.
A tall, plainly dressed guy approached me after circling the parking lot. I had seen him standing in the store and wondered about him. He worked his way over and in a southern drawl thick as good grits, said,
‘“How you doin’ there buddy?”
Said I, “I’m well, thank you”
“You know there’s a lotta folks who are nervous about ya seein’ as how you’re pushing that there cart along.”
I laughed. “Nervous? What do they thinkIm going to do? Commit a crime and walk away at 2.5 miles an hour? There are cops back in Georgia that are so fat that they couldn’t catch me, though.”
He said, puffing his chest up a little bit, “Well, I can’t run fast but I could catch you.” It was then that I noticed the gun peeking out below his shirt tail. (This was a casually dressed guy)
“Are you a cop?” I asked.
“Yup”, he said.
“So why didn’t you identify yourself?”
“I don’t have to if I’m working undercover”
“Well, if you are working undercover you must have an agenda.”
He then took a more aggressive posture. “You sure know a lot about the law. How is that?”
I told him my dad was a corrections offi cer for thirty years and I had learned a lot that way. This seemed to mollify him.
He thought for a moment and then said, “Well, let me ask you a question…….if you know so much about the law, which one are you breaking right now?”
I thought for a moment, seeing where this was going.
“None.” I told him.
He paused, and then asked me, “Well , what about vagrancy?”
Now I REALLY saw what he was trying to do, except that it was obvious that he was clueless about the law.
Wikipedia: A vagrant is a person in poverty, who wanders from place to place without a home or regular employment or income. Many towns in the Developed World have shelters for vagrants. Common terminology is a tramp or a 'gentleman of the road'. In legal terminology, a person with a source of income is not a vagrant, even if he/she is homeless.
“How am I committing vagrancy?”
“Wellll, you don’t maintain a permanent residence in this state.”
I laughed out loud at him. “I don’t maintain a permanent residence in 49 states! I live in Georgia,. Im not a vagrant---I have ID, I have money, I have a business, I have family. Im walking through here for charity and I am a writer as well back home in Georgia and for a website, and you can better believe that I will be writing a story about Walnut Grove Alabama.”
He then told me that the owners of the establishment wanted me to leave, and that my story had better be a good one.”Have you given me a reason to write a good story about Walnut Grove? Everyone I have met in this state has been lovely and kind until I met you.” I put my shoes and socks on and began to walk towards the road.
He turned and walked slowly away, saying, “Have a nice day sir.”
Later, I managed to just make it to Snead, an interstate intersection type of town, with a few restaurants and nothing much else. At the McDonalds, attached to a BP,; I met a pair of young men who were friendly and helpful. I mentioned the Walnut Grove incident to them and one of them, Mark by name, was a cop in Snead. He knew the guy at the gas station in Walnut Grove. As it turns out, the jerk really WAS a….jerk. Not a police officer at all but a rent a cop security guard known for being a turd to strangers. I felt relieved, and decided that maybe just maybe Walnut Grzove was not fairly represented by him.
Cut to the next morning. At the McDonalds, I met a man named Richard, a gregarious and informed and informative man who related an incident from a few years back. It seems that his daughter was a participant in the school marching band and when her school’s football team had a game scheduled in Walnut Grove, she went to the game to participate with the band during pregame ceremonies on the field. The visiting band would perform first, and they took the field. As they played, Richard noticed that from the lovely parents of Walnut Grove, boos, and then soda cans and bottles and all sorts of trash were being thrown onto the field at the band. He later reported the incident to the higher ups at the school and informed them that his child would NEVER return there for any reason until action was taken to make sure that the nonsense never happened again.
I wasn’t going to write about the rent a cop in Walnut Grove, wanting to keep things as positive as I could. Then I heard the story that Richard related to me and realized that life isn’t always peaches and cream and nice people and cotton candy and wax lips…sometimes people are just jerks. Apparently a lot of them live in Walnut Grove, Alabama. So, to Richard for his story and great conversation at McDonalds, I say thank you. To the rent a cop, I say…….

A Garden in Attalla

The other day, walking through the early morning hours if Attalla, Alabama, a nice typical small southern town, I happened upon a ramshackle (a lot of the buildings here in the deep south can be described as ramshackle—a sad commentary) house with about an eighth of an acre of what appeared to be handplowed rich black dirt. Closer inspection revealed little neat rows of lovely green leaves that had just began to sprout. The uneven-ness of the rows told me that a lot of work was done to get that ground turned over, and the lack of any detritus told me that a lot of care went onto keeping it healthy and fertile.
It made me think of WhyHunger, and their mission. One of the items on their agenda is to teach those who can’t afford to buy food in great quantities the ability to grown their own, as these folks were doing. A country with as much fertile land as this one should be using that asset, not wasting it, or polluting it. It was a nice sight to see that early morning, and for some reason it made my day feel a lot more optimistic.

Jimmy Hasse was wrong!

As often happens when out in the middle of nowhere, the call of nature becomes too loud to ignore. Often one must take the job to the woods, but today, an oasis with plumbing appeared in the form of a rundown looking mechanic’s garage vaguely in the middle of a long stretch between Attalla, Alabama and the quaint sounding little burg of Walnut Grove.
Approaching the garage entrance I saw a smallish man sitting at a desk working on a piston ring with a caliper of some sort. I asked for permission to use the facilities, which he immediately granted and instructed me that they were outside the building through an unlocked door. When I was done I returned to him to thank him, and he invited me to sit for a minute. He introduced himself to me as Jimmy Hasse. He asked me about my walk, and I told him the story. He offered me a big Gatorade and offered to buy me lunch as well. I drank the Gatorade as he talked. Looking around I realized that although the outside of the place looked rundown and decrepit, inside he had everything neat, very organized and clean, the kind of mechanic I would bring my cars to. I commented to him that I had though that the place didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside was very impressive. He said, “Well, it’s not much because I aint much.”
He told me that as a younger man he had been a hellraiser of sorts but in recent years had turned to religion and the scriptures, and he gently chastised me when I told I wasn’t religious. He proceeded to show me several bibles of various age and origin, and told me the stories behind them.
Around thins time, a tall, well coiffed sheriff’s deputy, D. Greer, showed up at the entrance of the garage. He walked in and said, “Im looking for hombre who’s pushing that three wheeled cart. I’m told he looks suspicious.” He was smiling when he said this.
“I am indeed that hombre, and I am suspicious….of everybody.” I replied to his query.
He laughed and quietly accepted my proffered ID, which I handed him without his having to ask. He radioed my info in and got the all clear on me a minute later. Then he and Jimmy, and to a lesser degree myself, entered onto a religious discussion. Jimmy did most of the talking and both Deputy Greer and myself were fidgety and trying to leave after a while, but while we were still there Jimmy had us transfixed.
He went on about the state of the church in America, and how the trouble all started at the top. “We need the leaders of the church to be accountable and represent us better. They are the face of the church in the country’s eyes.” At this point Deputy Greer commented that the same was true for law enforcement, and that the big shots needed to be scrupulously honest because it made the rank and file look bad if they looked bad.
Jimmy countered with more plain language stories about his rowdier, younger days and how the church had turned his life around.
Now, those who know me know I am an atheist. But no matter. I don’t believe in a god. I have said in the past that it doesn’t matter if there is a god or not because it all falls to the human beings here on earth to do good, to do the right things, and to make this planet a nice, peaceful and livable place. Churches are full of good people doing good things and that won’t change. But it is PEOPLE doing the good.
Recently I was given a lovely gift of a book called Everett Ruess: A Vagabond for Beauty. For those of you who don’t know about Everett Ruess, he was a young man in his teens who left a good life in California to search for the elusive “beauty” in the world, walking, riding horses and burros, into the area now known as Monument Valley in Utah and surrounding states. At the time it was an almost unexplored territory, and Everett ventured among the Navajo and nature, sleeping on pine needles and living rough, but writing many letters home, painting, drawing and making woodcuts. In his letters, he described the vast and amazing beauty of the land and all that it contained. Then in November of 1934, at age 20, he abruptly vanished, and was never heard from again. The mystery remains.
I mention this because as I read the book, a compilation of his letters, artwork and with many photos of him, I see a lot of Everett Ruess in myself and in the walk I am doing. I also see myself as a sort of “oddling”, a term that was used to describe Everett, and to which I can somehow relate. I have always marched to my own drummer…hence, this venture.
And as I go forth, I keep in mind that Everett just vanished one day. I certainly do not want to meet the same fate, but anything is possible. You run into the wrong person, and you vanish, like Everett Ruess did.
Listening to Jimmy Hasse today, talking about life, and relating his experiences, I was struck by his kindness. He told Deputy Greer and myself this story: one day he came into work at the garage. He had left a customer’s car unlocked outside (it was easier if someone was going to steal a tape deck to just let them take it than to have to replace the broken window, he said), and at some point he noticed that someone was asleep in the car. It had been raining the night before and he decided that it was okay to just let the fellow sleep and let it go at that. When he heard the door open, he saw the sleeper walking down the road, and went to see if the car was trashed. It wasn’t, although the stench of booze was fairly evident. Some men might have wanted to have the guy arrested, some might have beaten him to a pulp, or worse. Jimmy Hasse let him sleep and walk away. For that reason, I say to Jimmy Hasse: You were wrong when you said you aint much. You certainly are, and you are a beautiful guy. Thank you for lunch, the Gatorade, and the lesson in life.

Happy ending to this tail.....

Story: no story.
Walking westward yesterday along route 278, from Piedmont to Gadsden, I came upon a small ramshackle wishing well. Wishes: 5 cents. A bargain indeed, and certainly cheaper than a lottery ticket.
I looked at the surrounding houses, and they were sadly as ramshackle as this old wishing well. I snapped a few pix of the thing, and approached, digging in my pocket for a nickel, coming up with a dime instead. I figured whuat the hell, Ill just do two wishes. After all, there are a lot of things that could be wished for: world peace, a cure for all disease, that friends in stressful situations be relieved of their burdens, and oh so many more, including an end to aching feet…..
I peaked inside the well. Instead of some rancid green water with a few once-shiny coins beneath the murky surface, there was overgrown grass and a couple boards, part of the well itself, where they had fallen from the front. There also were several nickels and dimes visible, but no more. As I said, this was a poor man’s wishing well.
I stepped back, closed my eyes and made a couple of wishes and threw the dime in.
As I walked away, I noticed, in the background, a young boy running along my general direction, waving at me. He was shirtless and very pale. He waved hard, and I waved back. I was going to talk to him but something told me not to, since there were no parents around and I don’t need any problems as I walk along. I noticed that he had no hair, or only a few strands blowing around in the wind, and I knew in an instant what the wishing well was for, and I felt terribly sad. I have seen “cancer kids” and he had that pale look, and I was surprised his parents let him run around outside like that, but who was I to judge?
I left and made my way to Donnie Hamilton’s gas station in Hokes Bluff. I asked Donnie of he knew the situation with the sick boy down the road a few miles. “What boy is that?” he asked.
“Where the wishing well is,” I responded.
“Oh, the kid with the mohawk? He’s not sick, his parents just let him get that haircut,” he said.
And that was the very first time I have ever been happy to see a mohawk on a kid.

Alabama does NOT suck. Here is why...

After what had to be one of the lowest days of my life, I had a very good one, and came to the realization that Alabama does not suck. Well, at least where I am right now. Ironically, I am walking to promote awareness of hunger in the world, and last night I turned down a free pizza. Here is what happened:
My day started in Piedmont, where I had a nice breakfast, did my laundry, and walked around town a bit. A very quaint, To Kill A Mockingbird’s fictitious Macomb, Alabama kind of atmosphere. Telling: When I did my laundry, there were 6 people there doing laundry in the time I was there---all men. I asked one what happened that all the men were doing the laundry. He dryly drawled, “Cuz all the whores are in church.” He didn’t look like he had seen the inside of a church himself for a long time. The inside of a whore I could believe…
Clothes clean, I headed out. Several miles down the road I came to a small store/service station called Doug’s Grocery. A woman and two older gentlemen were sitting outside smoking and shooting the breeze, (or shootin’ the shit, depending on your education.) The woman jumped up, greeting me like I was along lost cousin, and ushered me inside. I bought a grilled chicken sandwich and a soda, and the woman, Alice, charged me three dollars. When I told her that I was walking across the country for charity, she immediately gave me back two of the three dollars, and told me to take another sandwich for later. I told her that was not necessary, but she insisted, so I gratefully accepted her generosity. Outside I talked to the two old men who were selling pocket knives that were laid out nicely on the table in front of them. I chateed a bit about my days at Schrade Cutlerym in Ellenville, NY, and one of the men related that he had just sold an LB-7, a very popular and well made best seller for that now defunct company.
Down the road a few more miles, I stopped at another station, where the owner, Donnie Hamilton, also offered me free snacks and advice for the road. While I was there a young man in a pickup truck pulled up and bought gas. I said “How you doing, young fella?” and he answered “Very well, thank you sir.” And left. A little later I left there and as I headed down the road I noticed a pickup truck backed into a dirt area idling. I figured someone wanted to have a little fun with the guy walking, and prepared for the worst. The passenger door opened and a young boy stepped out with a takeout cpontainer in his hand. “You want fish?” he asked. I saw that the driver was the young man who had bought gas a little earlier. I introduced myself and and they did as well. Landon Pruett was the older young man and his younger brother, whose name I have forgotten, sadly. They had just returned from a church fish fry and had brought me some fish (it was a LOT) and fries and cole slaw. Terribly kind of them and I graciously thanked them. We parted ways and I continued on my way, passing the Pruett house a little later as Landon was mowing the lawn with the gas he had bought earlier. We exchanged waves and that was that.
The miles seemed endless, but eventually I found a field adjacent to a Piggly Wiggly plaza to set up camp. I walked to the “Pig” as they call it colloquially and purchased some juice, peanut butter and flatbreads, and as I was returning to my cap passed a pizza place called Julio’s Pizza. Two teens were sitting on a bench outside smoking and they called out to me.
Allow me to introduce you to JT and Drake. Sixteen year old JT works for the pizza place, and his buddy Drake just hangs around there, probably too young to work, but not, apparently to smoke. I noticed that next door to the pizza shop was a place called LOL, a prank and gag gift shop, featuring a lamp that was featured in the classic movie, A Christmas Story. I suggested that the pizza shop should work with the gag shop and make pizzas with plastic worms on them. They laughed and invited me to sit with them for a minute. They offered me a smoke, which I declined and gave them a little chastisement for their own smoking. JT looked down and sheepishly said that he had been trying to quit since he was 14. Ah, the young…
I asked them what they did for fun around Hoke’s Bluff, Alabama. JT told me he liked to sake, meaning skateboarding. Drake indicated that he liked to practice parkour, the French athletic activity that involves running up trees, walls, and leaping from place to place like Spiderman on speed. I had sen videos and they were impressive. When asked to demonstrate, he declined, though.
I told them that when they first called out to me I thought that they were rednecks looking to mess with me, but that I wasn’t sure what being a redneck really meant. JT thought for a moment and said, “Well, I guess I’m a redneck.” He didn’t elaborate, but I got the sense that in his 16 year old mind, being a redneck meant hanging out with his buddy, smoking, talking about skating and girls and driving big trucks, and all of that innocence. Later he’d find out that rednec,k also had an ugly side, as I saw earlier in the day when I asked someone about Gadsden, where I will be passing through today. He told me, through a mouth lacking more than a few teeth, to stick to the main road because if I didn’t Id be going through “nigger quarters.” The ugly side of recneckdom…
I took a photo of JT and Drake, and as I was leaving JT called out to me, asking if I wanted a free pizza. For the first time in my life I turned down a free pizza. Who turns down a free pizza? Someone who had fish, chicken sandwiches, apple pies, slim Jims, fried and cole slaw practically thrown at them all day, that is who.
Returning to my tent, in its secret spot, and reflected that Alabama seemed to be a pretty nice place after all. It might even be safe enough for Neil Young to visit.

Solitude and the changing psyche

“I didn’t come out here to change anyone’s mind… I came out here to ease my own…” (Todd Snider)

Solitude…
I was having a discussion with someone about my walk across America, and how much it was going to change me, inasfar as really being alone and getting to know myself, and sort out the things that need sorting out, and fixing the things that need fixing, and focusing on the things that need to be focused on, and learning to filter out what is extraneous and unnecessary within myself. It was pointed out that that type of change does not happen overnight----an agreeable statement to be sure but one that is based on everyday logic. I am here to tell you that there is nothing logical about what I am doing: a 51 year old man walking 2900 or so miles? Rough on the feet, legs ,and at times the psyche, and to correct the earlier statement, you can FEEL the change happen, almost literally overnight. It might need to keep happening over an extended period but you can indeed tell when things are rearranging their totem pole positions in your head. It is similar to immersion learning, where you dive in head first and surround yourself with nothing but your goal. The endless hours of walking with mostly no human interaction, and a constant barrage of thoughts and questions and songs and words and images and feelngs and emotions swirling around in your head and soul…you can feel it. New thoughts and logics and conclusions and even songs will pop into and out of the brain at the oddest times. “You KNOW something is happening here, but you dont know what it is….”
Change is happening. Everyday.

Alabama Getaway. Or is it Get Away!!!

Sunday, April 17, 2011. Piedmont, Alabama. In a McDonald’s, on route 278 westbound.
I woke up this morning in the back semi-hidden grassy lot part of an abandoned storage facility. When I arrived there last night I could not see much of anything save for shadows and light. No detail to speak of, but I didn’t care. I was that tired.
I arrived in Piedmont not on foot, but in the back of a Lincoln Continental, a mercy ride from two strangers, Marty Laminack and his wife Pam, who had passed me twice yesterday, way back in Tallapoosa, Georgia and again on the back unnamed county road that my good old Googlemaps had told me was the best way to get to wherever I am going on foot. Googlemaps is crazy.
When the Laminacks asked me which route I was taking to get to Piedmont, I showed them. They then proceeded to show me something. We loaded my stuff in the trunk of their car (the boot for my British friend Tessa) and Marty told me he would take me to Piedmont via that route so I could see why it wasn’t a good idea. Well, shit. I was facing almost 12 miles of almost unpassable-by-car dirt road, rendered that way by the combination of the bad weather two nights ago and just neglect, I would have rather cut off a leg than try that with my cart. The Laminacks…my saviors! *(That’s “saviours” for my British friend Tessa). Marty figure figured out that I had walked over 25 miles yesterday since I departed Bremen, Georgia, where I had to stay ensconced in the local Walmart all night long due to the tornado warning and watches and realities—17 killed in Mississippi, I hear….
That night in Walmart was a stpry in itself. The manager was kind enough to allow me to store my cart in the alcove where the shopping carts are lined up. Then only problem for me was that because this Walmart is a newer one and the area is not yet developed too much there was nothing around except for a few restaurants. I spent most of the night sitting on a bench near the entrance talking to the lovernight door greeter lady named Donna, an elderly woman who had a slight hunchback and seemed to be in pain quite a bit of the time while standing there. I asked her why she didn’t get a chair or stool to sit on since she was quite elderly. She informed that it was against Walmart policy, and that she was required to stand for her 8 hour shift. So, I have two things to say to Walmart: Thank you for allowing me to hang safely there all night during the storms, and shame on you for treating your human being employees, who make your stores what they are, like fucking sheep. Shame!!!
The bad weather passed and I headed out at 4:00 AM, wanting to make up some time. Almost immediately I realized that after a bad storm system moves out, a front of colder air follows, as happened a couple of weeks ago , when I awoke to ice on the morning after a bad storm killed two people in Georgia. The next night was lovely, so I am hoping tonight will be a good one too.
Yesterday, though, I ended up trying to sleep on my tarp a mile from the Walmart, where I found a church cemetery, but it was just so cold that I decided to keep on walking. And walking. And..well, you get the idea. Til the Laminacks found and rescued me. I get by with a little help from my friends…and some strangers too!
Last night I posted a conundrum on my Facebook wall, wondering if this was worth it, since it certainly has not been the dream I had though it was going to be. In fact, its been more a nightmare at times…and here is what makes it thus: I might have erred in deciding to start in the deep south. Without being judgmental, the south and its reputation are often well deserved. There is a strong anti-Yankee sentiment still in parts of it, and they proudly fly their Confederate flags all over the place, especially in the rural areas. Yesterday a small pickup truck with a large Confederate flag drove straight at me, swerving at the last minute and blowing his horn at me…I expected it to be the song Dixie, but it was just a horn. I have had way too many people come as close to me as possible, on open roads with plenty of room to move over 3 feet, but they do it for sport I guess. I have taken to waling against the traffic so I can at least see what is going to hit me. Add the texting/cellphone/drunk/distracted drivers and it has been a very dangerous thing that I am doing. I was almost beaned by a branch that was sticking out of a logging truck, ducking only at the last second. My closest call yet.
Yesterday, on wild back roads two guys pulled up, smiled toothless grins and asked me “Where y’all going, buddy?” I told them I was walking across the country for charity, and asked where the Alabama line was (I knew I was close). They looked at each other and said “You’re a looooooooonnnnng way from there” and drove off. A few minutes later they came back, stopped again, and told me that the Alabama line was about 3 miles ahead. And left. I dont know if they were messing with me (That’s “having sport with me” for my British friend Tessa) but it worked, because after that encounter every car seemed to have a redneck methhead killer in it…even the blonde cheerleader killer types!
So I lucked out with the Laminacks and their kindness (Marty even bought me dinner) and this morning I woke, cold and damp in a place that I can now see in the daylight seemed to be a place for homeless people or crackheads to hand out). Fortunately, none of either was there last night, although, as exhausted as I was I was unable to easily fall asleep due to shadows and light.
I woke, in fact, to the familiar voices of dear friends from my past, and future. I swear this is true: Here in Piedmont, Alabama, a lone traveller, cold, exhausted, was snapped from his sleep by the honking of Canadian geese as they flew right over my tent, delivering a message from the geese I knew in Ulster County, telling me to hurry up and get a move on so I can go home. And after I get as far west as anyone can walk, I will hear their geese cousins honking once again.
Next stop, Gadsden, Alabama. See you soon.

Day 12. Waiting out the tornado warning.

So I am back out on the road. Three days in. This is actually day number 12 of the entire adventure, so Ill call it that.
Sitting in a McDonalds in Bremen, Georgia, not too far from the Alabama line. There are severe thunderstorms on call for tonight. I tried to get them to order something else but they insist….and they threw in a tornado watch/warning to spice it up as well. I’ve decided to hang around near civilization tonight, just in case. While I don’t shy away from the weather, a tiny tent vs. tornado scenario isn’t likely to end well, so Ill suffter by walking around Walmart if need be. Ive only logged in about 11 miles today, way off the 23 or 24 Ive been doing each day.
Last night, April 14, was the first night that I had to ask someone if I could set up my tent in their yard. I was in Carrollton, GA, and it is a very very nice looking small city, home to West Georgia Technical College. My route took me through the town square, which was very bohemian and gentrified at the same time. Classy looking couples were dining al fresco while skateboard punk rockers were rolling around yelling to each other, and I plopped down on a bench for a few minutes as the smell of steaks filled the air. It was as idyllic as I’ve had it since starting this journey.
Leaving the square, I immediately noticed that the area turned more…urban..and more eyes began eyeing me suspiciously, and for the second time on my trip I felt some real fear as a few comments from passing cars sounded by their tone to be not with my best interests in mind. I decided to speed up my pace and head away from Carrollton as fast as I could. Darkness fell and the road, GA 27, a very busy road, became too full of 18 wheelers for my safety, and I really felt like I might have dawdled in the comfort of the aquare for too long. Several people told me that a small park behind the Presbyterian church near the square would be a safe spot but when I went by there were locked gates and fences and no access. So I headed up 27.
Not too far along, after a near miss with a truck, I noticed a place that had a big yard and seemed to be well cared for. A light was on, a pickup truck in the driveway. I approached the front door and rang the bell. An older gentleman, looking like an actor whose name I cant recall, came to the door, and without opening it heard my plea for the use of his yard for my tent. He directed me to the spot across his driveway, under a tree. It was a great spot, and I thought that his lawn had been newly mown---the smell of the grass was lovely.
It was a beautiful night. I slept long and well, not cold, not wet, and as good an end to a long day, about 24 miles walked, as I have had.
In the morning, the man came out as I was starting to take my tent down, and we talked a bit. I had made the assumption that he was a farmer, for some reason. I was half right---he, his name is Herbert Hatton, is a retired Pharm-acist, and while he lives there on the very busy and noisy highway, he owns another place with 35 acres north of town, but can’t seem to get there. We talked a bit more and he took my card for WhyHunger. I noticed in his back yard was an RV, with covers on the tires, and looking a bit unused. If Mr Hatton is reading this, I want to say “Thank you for allowing a stranger to rest on your property. I am eternally grateful” I also want to say to him that I hope you take that camper and take a special trip somewhere you love, even if its just to your place with 35 acres a few miles north of town. I wish I had though to ask for your picture for this blog…
Now I sit here in Bremen. Im heading to Tallapoosa, near the Alabama border, but the impending storms are making this a necessary stopover. Two nice ladies, Vicky and Tina, at a gas station in Bowdon Junction, 3 miles from here, warned me off of the route I was taking, which would have led me down some dirt roads and into a mess. While I have been diligent about sticking to my route as much as is possible, occasionally there are more desirable options and this is one of them. I am currently at the intersection of I 20 and GA 27. Say what you will about McDonalds, they all now have free wifi for customers and don’t seem to care how long you sit and type away. For this I am grateful. For the indigestion…not so much.
More Stuff: My new shoes and socks seem to be doing the trick quite nicely. I still have blisters, and the pain from the pounding is quite a bit more than Id like but when you weigh around 260 lbs each step is a chore anyway. My two years of training definitely have made the difference, though, and endurance is not even an issue. Just the limitations of my skin and bones have kept me from doing more. This isn’t necessarily an activity for a 51 year old to do all the time but I highly recommend you try it.
I had one of those “moments” yesterday. One of the things that walking along and being alone and with your thoughts can bring on. Keeping it real….I sat down in a field yesterday afternoon, tired and sore. I looked at the valley before me, looking like a perfect place for the Woodstock Festival to have taken place. And burst into tears. Sobbed like a baby for about 10 seconds and then it was over. I don’t know what that was but I did feel better afterward. This has turned into quite an adventure already. I look forward to tomorrow. I can’t turn back now.