Adios Lounge...if you want to know where the rainbow ends....

It’s just a song, I have to admit, but it keeps popping up on my mp3 player as I walk, and I cant get it, or its message, out of my head. Shakespeare wrote sonnets, poems meant to be sung, basically, as did Robert Burns and many others, and our generations have Bob Dylan, Beatles, Townshend, and this gem from two unknown guys named Kuhn, but sung by the great Tom Waits on their album Thelonious Monster. The verses are done by the group but the chorus, the great chorus, is a lesson to everyone, and should be added to the list of commandments that a lot of people live by. It goes like this:
Don't let nobody go there for you
Don't be satisfied with a second-hand life
Don't let nobody stifle or bore you
Handle your troubles or take on your strife
Don't let nobody live your life for you
Not your friends, not your kids, no not even your wife
If you want to know where the rainbow ends
It's you who've got to go there and find it my friend

It’s compelling stuff, and to hear the great force of nature that is Waits sing it with his tortured voice is an experience not to be missed.
The song is basically a story about an old timer who holds court at the Adios Lounge, and when someone buys him drinks or a smoke, he dispenses his lessons on the meaning of life.
The song is readily available on youtube, so check it out. Words to live by.

Consider the Turtle.....

So…consider the lowly turtle, subject of many jokes and stories. In Kansas, the turtle is the subject of truck tires and redneck consumers.
I was in a little café next door to the motel where I have been sequestered for two days, resting. I was eavesdropping on some locals who were talking about making turtle soup, and what is required to kill the really big snapping turtles. One guy preferred a .45 caliber, the other said a .22 was enough. They both agreed that the soup was excellent though. I would say that they both need to go vegetarian, but that is their business.
As I walk westward, the number of armadillos I see, deceased or otherwise, has dropped to almost zero, but turtles have replaced them in the dead animal hierarchy with ease. Empty shells, mostly broken in some way, litter the highways and shoulders all over the place. Unlike armadillos, though, I see plenty of turtles who are very much alive and well, working their little bodies across the hot asphalt. They really can book when they need to but often seem to be wandering like a nomad looking for an oasis. I help each and every one that I encounter, whether they want that help or not. Usually, with the current flooding situation all through the Midwest there are is plenty of water and plenty of ditches full of runoff. I often toss ‘em in the water, figuring that they will figure it out. At least they wont be back on the road too soon.
The saddest thing I see, turtle-wise, are the little guys. They remind me of the little pet turtles I had as a kid, purchased at Woolworth’s in Ellenville, New York, for 50 cents and which never lived longer than a few weeks due to little kids forgetting about them, until the dead turtle smell hit and down the toilet they went. Then, back to Woolworths for another victim. A sad cycle.
But turtles are a tough lot. They have been around since the dinosaurs, (See “Godzilla versus Gamera” for proof) and will long outlast the human race, especially if we develop cars that fly. Can’t hit them on Kansas roads that way.
On the other hand, the guys next to me in the cafe might have more soup than they need....

the Baton Twirler

Today is Memorial Day, and I thought a lot about some of the soldiers I have known in my life who gave their all for this country, and I am grateful for their sacrifices.
But for me, Memorial Day has another , more personal meaning. Seven years ago, I lost my sister Carmen to cancer, on Memorial Day, May 31, 2004.
The images in my head when I think of her are from our childhood. Our parents, for the brief time we had a family unit, used to take us to wholesome family activities like the Ice Capades, and especially exciting was a competition of drum and bugle groups at Dietz Stadium, where we saw a group of young people who played the instruments and twirled batons like magical whirligigs. I was impressed with the beat of the drums and the rhythms, but Carmen loved the twirlers and wanted to learn how to do that. In Kerhonkson, New York, where we lived, there is a drum and bugle corps, and they could always be heard practicing in the evenings all the way up on the mountain where we lived. Carmen joined the corps and got her very own baton. I remember her twirling all day long, and in the rare times she would put it down, I’d try it, but I didn’t know the secret password or something because I’d end up flipping it in the air or dropping it. Anyway, it was an image that burned in my brain, and is always the first one I have when her name is mentioned.
So she grew up, got married, had kids, grandkids, and cancer. She only got to live 42 years of a life that should have lasted twice that or more. That, as they say, sucks.
But Im not writing this just to elicit sympathy from anyone. I write it just to tell the story of my sister the baton twirler of my memory. We all have lost people we love. We can not dwell on that loss, though. Life, our life, goes on, and we do owe it to them, and to ourselves, to live every day to its fullest, and to enjoy every moment. Wallowing in mourning is not a healthy thing, and I aint gonna do it.
I miss my sister. Her kids miss her, her grandkids miss her, her/our mother can not let go of her own grief still, seven years on, and that is a sadder fact than Carmen’s actual death, because in effect being unable to let it go turns onto another type of death, and when I visit my mom and her shrine to Carmen, it’s like she is just waiting around for her own end. I hope not, but that is how it seems.
So this is my Memorial Day, in a way, as I am out on the road, walking west through Kansas. It was a ghost town here in Independence this evening as I walked into town for dinner.
I honor the soldiers, and their memories. I honor the memory of my sister, Carmen, dead seven years now, but who will always be a nine year old girl twirling a baton through my memories.
Happy Memorial Day. Now get out there and enjoy life, people.
Tomorrow, I’m going to write about turtles.

Independence, Kansas, one fine evening

I saw my quarry. They were walking, in pairs, westward, along the sidewalks and grassy paths of Independence, Kansas. Two older, two younger. The older pair, adults, were in front while their offspring followed behind, a few paces back. On occasion one of the young ones would stray from the path, which caused the other young one to utter a sharp growl, which in turn caused the adults to turn back to see just what their brood was up to. The smallest one fell back into step, only to be distracted anew by yet another shiny object or plaything. Another growl, another disapproving glance from up front. I followed a safe distance behind, silently tracking their steps and hoping to get a shot with my camera. This was, after all, a rare sight in front of me, and I wanted to capture it for posterity.
I clicked off several shots, but doing good camera work while walking in low light is tricky and I did not get the pictures I wanted. And then, just as I thought I was going to get a good close up, one of the small ones turned a head and spied me behind them. I froze, camera in hand. A passing car stopped for directions, and after telling them that I didn’t live here, I turned back to discover that my quarry had vanished.
Sad, I continued on towards the restaurant in the center of town, where I had a horrible meal. Heading back to my lodging for the night I saw them again. They were all standing in a group in front of a dollar store. I approached, and they immediately recognized me. A lovely family, the owners of the motel where I am staying for a night or two. I asked them if I might get a shot of all four of them, and they readily consented. Its not often I see whole families out for a nice walk together. Two adorable children, a boy and a little girl with a fondness for rubber balls and toys who just wanted to grab every one she saw on her walk into town. Two loving parents who let their kids have a little independence but who are right there with a glance or a stern word if there are rules broken, and a big brother learning a little bit about being responsible for his little sister. It was warming to my heart. They had too many groceries to carry back so were waiting on a cab (they have no car). They offered me a ride but I declined. Somehow they were perfect just as the nice foursome that I watched walk into town together, and I didn’t want to mess that up.

Keith and Mandy

Keith and Mandy are good people.
I departed Joplin and the mess there and headed towards a small burg called Carl Junction. I don’t know who Carl was or why he had a junction but it had a store and not a lot of traffic. As I passed through, a woman was checking out her plants in her yard. As I wheeled by she acknowledged me, and at the same time her husband pulled up on a mower and got off. We talked a bit about my trip and they offered me water and food, which I happily accepted, and then I was surprised at the offer of a shower, which I also gladly accepted.
After a nice hot shower in their absolutely gorgeous home, with three children (or was it two?) running around, and a cat as well, we got to talking about the area, and Keith told me that it was considered the meth capitol of the country, with numerous busts for manufacturing that nastiness happening all the time. I asked him if he was a cop, for he spoke as if he knew what he was talking about. That was when he told me that he had been a meth user for over ten years, and Mandy added that she had done it for a few years herself with him. They had stopped several years ago and had turned to the church and their faith to help get them through that trying time. Now they both have good jobs—Mandy is a hair stylist and Keith is in the construction field. As I said, they have a beautiful home, a lovely family and were as generous to a stranger as they could be. It is good to know that when someone does go down that road, the downward spiral can be stopped and reversed, and Keith and Mandy , nice people, are living proof of that.
Good for them!

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty...a reunion in Joplin

It occurred to me as I was walking into Joplin that the tornado didn’t just impact people. I saw a very large tree in a field that had blown down, and out from under the foliage came a horse. It got me to thinking about what animals feel when a tornado or even a thunderstorm hit. Is it fear? Or is there some primal instinct that tells them to just seek shelter?
We humans are blessed (?) with the knowledge that we are mortal and are going to die someday. Animals, as far as we know, do have a fear of injury ( a dog not jumping off a roof, for example) but when it comes to bigger concept events iike tornadoes, it is unlikely that they can know what to do. Animals of the forest may hunker down to wait it out but our domesticated pals follow our leads when they can. But sometimes they cannot.
The tornado tore apart homes. It tore apart lives and left thousands homeless, and it left a lot of pets missing their families, and vice versa. It was a beautiful sight to see how the city of Joplin went to great pains to make sure that pets were included in the search and rescue process. I saw many signs and messages painted on walls and debris that said “we are okay and pets are okay too.”
Today, as I left Joplin and its wreckage, passed an auto body shop, where a pet “lost and found” had been set up by the Joplin humane society and the ASPCA. A table was there, manned by several young ladies, and had clipboards and lists labeled lost and found. Trucks were coming in and out with loads of feed and other supplies, and there were volunteers walking dogs, which were housed in the auto body shop. It was all very efficient and well run. I asked one of the women if there had been many success stories, and she smiled as she told me that there had actually been a very surprising number of them.
As I was preparing to leave, a young lady came out from the crowd somewhere carrying a cat in a pet carrier. I asked her if it was a happy ending story and she happily said it was, as she handed the cat to her boyfriend, a tattooed tough looking guy who just melted in front of my eyes when he saw his cat again. He told me that while his house had not been destroyed, the windows had all been blown out and the cat had been left behind when the family took off for safety. Rescue workers had discovered the kitty while clearing the houses, looking for survivors. The cat looked to be in excellent shape, physically and mentally. The young man was obviously very happy to see his friend again, thanks to the dedication of someone who took the time to rescue the cat. From what I gathered there were many more happy endings, and in a tragedy like what hit Joplin, any good news is welcome indeed.

A Glimmer of Hope in Joplin.....

As related to me this morning, by an elderly gentleman wearing overalls, who just lost his house and everything that ever came to him in his life, in the tornado:
A woman and her small daughter were in their home when the tornado struck. As the house began to fly apart, the woman lost her grip on the little girl, and in the chaos that followed was unable to find her again. Once the storm was over she began to search in the rubble for the child. No luck at all. Disheartened and homeless, she finally gave up and departed for Springfield, Missouri to stay with family. Fliers and stories with the little girl’s name were posted on the news, local radio and TV. No luck.
Until today. On a local radio show, a caller asked the host for the mother’s contact info, because she had found a small child with the little girl’s name written across the front of her little shirt. The radio host said he could not give out that information but that he would put the two women in touch with each other. He did, and as related to me by the elderly man in the overalls who just lost his house and everything that had any meaning to him in his life, the caller did indeed have the little girl, in good health and who told the mother to stay right where she was, Her baby was on her way to her in 90 minutes or less. Probably by the time this is finished being written the two will be reunited. The old man, who also just suffered a stroke two days before the tornado took away everything except his health, made this weary traveller cry like a baby.
There have already been some funerals for the dead, and many more in the days to come. Some people are still missing, about one hundred and fifty, many children have not been reunited with their parents,who may or may not be alive.
Yesterday, at the site of the OP High School, destroyed while the students were at their commencement exercises, held at the local college (luckily), a pair of ministers were surveying the destruction of their church, located next to the school. All that remained of that building of worship and hope was the entrance, made of stone, and the doors, which were open, inviting people in to….nothing. I made a joking comment to them that the church was still open, and they laughed and said that indeed, they were holding services this Sunday morning right there in the parking lot. Then they showed me something that still boggles my mind—a baseball bat sized piece of wood, pointed, driven through solid concrete, with the sharp end still sticking out from one side. I can only hope that someone finds a way to leave it there, as testimony to the power of nature, and to never forget what happened here, as if any one can, or will.
Joplin is going about its business. I saw joggers running, people washing their cars, stuffing their faces at McDonald’s. All of the mundane things that we do every single day, except that most of us have not lost, or know someone who has, their homes and lives to a whim of nature, so when we jog or wash our cars, its not with those thoughts in the back of our minds.
Im leaving Joplin today, and will head into Kansas and points west on this journey of mine, but what I saw here in the past two days will stay with me forever. I know there is a lot more to Joplin---street cars, and a lot of history, and I am sorry I didn’t get to see any of that this time around. Maybe next time around.

Polly McCrillis is a writer....

Polly McCrillis is a writer. And being that she loves to write books, she also just loves to be around books. So she opened a bookstore.
“A real nice space” is how she describes the large and roomy spot where she has her bookstore set up, in the quaint, almost non-existent town of Pierce City, Missouri. I say “non-existent” because several years ago a tornado almost destroyed the entire town , leaving nothing but a small block of what used to be the city square standing, one building now housing Bookmarks, her new and used bookstore. Walking in, I immediately got a faint whiff of old books, a scent that I find particularly enticing. There were also new books and a lot of very interesting art adorning the walls.
A children’s section was also very charming, and I even convinced Polly to sit in the tiny rocking chair there for a picture.
We met a few miles away, earlier in the day. I was walking on the narrow and twisting roads from Monett to Pierce City and she happened by me, offering assistance. I declined but offered her a card for WhyHunger, writing my blog info on it hurriedly. Later, when I arrived in Pierce City, I saw her store, just as I was entering town. She ran out to meet me and brought ne a nice notebook and pen for easier info sharing in the future. I went into the shop and we visited a bit. She is a writer of not only a blog, focusing on parents with children in prison (a situation she sadly finds herself in currently) but also is a published author of historical and contemporary romance novels. Her books are available at all booksellers and online bookstores. She has a nom de plume, Isabel Mere, but I think I’ll call her Polly, a lovely and lively woman whose path I was fortunate enough to cross one fine morning in May of 2011.
Her website is www.pmccrillis.com

Joplin, Missouri.....

If I think about Joplin too much Ill over think, and that’s not good. So Ill just spew,
Imagine what Hiroshima must have looked like after the dust had settled and the first living humans ventured into the area. I cant imagine that their reactions would have been any different than my reaction to what I saw when the reality of Joplin, Missouri, post tornado, hit me.
It looked like a bomb, literally, had hit the place. The news stories from area TV described a scene so horrific and so full of devastation that I figured that they were being overly dramatic. They weren’t.
Ive always been impressed with the power of nature, but this was something to behold. Imagine steel beams twisted like licorice. Whole box stores, like WalMart and the Home Depot, reduced completely to a pile of rubble and debris. Other businesses, smaller in scale, reaching a dubious equality with their bigger brethren by virtue of having not a single brick left standing.
Regular people had it worse. WalMart’s losses were products, merchandise and a building. Entire neighborhoods leveled, people’s lives and homes, gone in an instant.
A couple named Pat and Tony rummaged through the rubble of their home, looking for photos and keepsakes. A cheap guitar lay on the ground. I took a photo of it. Pat noticed me and told me, “Oh, you can have that guitar if you want it.” I briefly contemplated her offer but a worker nearby told me it night get me in trouble if someone questioned me about it, and I decided to leave it behind.
Walking into Joplin early this morning, I noticed a lot of lightweight objects strewn about along the road and in the fields---plastic bags, papers, photos, and a plethora of plastic lids to various Tupperware type containers, large and small. It occurred to me that the wind from the tornado acted as a natural sifter, carrying the smaller and lighter objects along in the wind for miles but depositing heavier materials closer to the center of the storm. As I walked I began to notice piles of heavier material, like aluminum siding, shingles, and building debris, and by the time I got almost all the way into the city there were huge pieces of flat metal and wood strewn across the landscape. Then I noticed the trees. Metal twisted and bent by high winds is impressive, but if a sign or flat surface is involved it makes sense, in a physics sort of way. Bark, completely stripped off the surface of healthy trees, by winds, no less, makes no sense to me at all, and boggles my mind.
I encountered a man named Jim. He asked me if I needed water. I thanked him, but told him that it was I who should be offering him some help. Jim was removing tree limbs and debris from his property. It was a rental, but still his home. Located at the outer edge of a section of Joplin called Dufresne, the house had been surrounded by tall and thick trees. No trees stood intact, and by some sheer stroke of luck, none had hit Jim’s house, which sustained wind damage that took off a small section of shingles and roofing. He had already covered that area with a blue tarp and was now busy cutting tree limbs and stacking the wood. Free firewood for someone.
He told me that he was leaving Missouri soon. Several years ago he lived in Pierce City, where I was pasing through just yesterday, and a tornado had trashed the town and his home there. Now he had lived through his second one. “Im moving to Alaska, “ he said, half joking, and wishing me well as I departed.
Following advice from Jim, with an eye on getting as many pictures of the destruction as I could, I made a right turn north on a street called Range Line Road. It was only after a few tenths of a mile that I noticed a the beginnings of the destruction.
And then, it was everywhere. Huge piles of rubble, as far as the eye could see. I had seen the news and knew that a Home Depot and a WalMart had been destroyed. I was standing in front of a pile of rubble, not realizing that it was indeed the Home Depot. Telltale traces of orange signs were all that remained to identify the place from the front. The same held for many other businesses familiar and unfamiliar. Nothing remains but the memories.
Leaving the commercial area, such as it was, I found myself looking at long rows of piles of wood and bricks and cars, bent into weird and ugly hunks of metal. At the beginning of each row was a small plastic sign, with a state’s name on it. It took me a moment to realize that I was in a neighborhood. The regular street signs were gone, and these had been put there to help peope identify what was left of their homes, which, in most cases, was nothing but rubble. A few homes still half stood, often revealing intact rooms, closets open and clothing still hanging neatly inside. It’s not a stretch to think that in some cases their owners would never wear them again.
Someone, I assume the police, had devised a system for search and rescue. Any car, building, anything that might hold a person was searched and once declared empty, was painted with a red X. I saw many many of these X’s on cars and houses. In some cases the owners of the houses themselves had left painted messages on doors or walls that remained, telling people where they were relocated to. Others had made notations that their pets were missing, or more happily, were okay, safe and sound.
They say that it takes a really bad thing to bring out the good in some people. I don’t know if that is why there were so many people out helping, digging, rummaging, feeding, driving others around, giving advoce to strangers on how to find shelter, etc, but the Good were out in full force. I almost literally had food thrown at me today, and ate enough to last me a few days. I still have some apples that were given to me.
I thought I had seen it all, but remembered the area of the St John’s Hospital, a mile away. I headed there, prepared to get a few shots of a partially destroyed building, and was amazed and dismayed to discover that it was almost as bad as the commercial district, and with yet another neighborhood destroyed as well. The media were all set up, a press conference was going on, the army reserves were all over, police from all over were directing traffic, and irt was a very somber atmosphere, just as it was down the street.
What is amazing to me is this: Just 5 days after this massive disaster, life is going on here in Joplin. People are milling about, services are restored by and large. Even the internet is back, and I am only a few blocks from the destruction as I write this. The police hav this place moving along, and not once did I, a stranger pushing a cart through a disaster area, was not asked to leave or move on once, as I walked right up to areas that in another state would have been off limits to civilians. I was told that at forst they did try to keep people out but it was too much to do so they just let the curious come in and take their pictures and leave. Which I did.
Words do not do justice to what I saw today. I wanted to get my thoughts down quickly before they leave me, but I somehow doubt I will ever forget what I experienced today. There are still a hundred and fifty or so people missing, and I am sure I passed by a few of them, their bodies buried in rubble, or thrown by ridiculous winds into fields to be discovered later, or not at all.
This is a tragedy of epic proportions. It is also a recovery effort of equal size, and the rebuilding of this city will go on. In fact, it’s already begun.

Shelter from the storm....

The tornadoes, and the threat of more, have subsided.
I walked through wind and rain, at times a lot of each, today. Wind so strong, under sunny skies, that my cart was being steered by that unseen but forceful hand. I had to seek shelter for a few minutes in a town called Purdy, which was purdy boring (sorry), but the rain ceased and the sun came out, just like it had never rained. Such is the weather here in the edge of the plains, only miles and a couple of days from Kansas. In fact, it was so flat here that it seemed like I was getting a sneak peak at what awaits me for the next two or more weeks…flat, sunny big skies, and windy as hell.
And I loved it. Even the rain, for which I was prepared with my new rain suit from Walmart. It blew sideways, cold and stinging, and it felt cleansing and good. Every step I take towards Joplin, and the devastation there, is just that, a step. I only have Joplin on my mind because I know that it is going to affect me, as it should. People need to see things like that to remind them that we are not in charge here—mother nature is. Its not something that Ive heard religious people even blame on God, because what kind of benevolent being would rain down terror from the skies so randomly, destroying innocent lives, tearing the babies from their mothers’ grasps and leaving whole towns and neighborhoods full of good people empty and ravaged? Mother Nature is a bitch when she is angry….
There is not a lot to say about it. Ill keep walking and taking pictures of pretty horses and flowers and sunsets or sunrises. At least I am lucky enough to be able to enjoy those things and to share them with you. So, please, if you can bear it, when the time comes and I show you pictures of devastation, look at them, absorb what you see, and then put it in the back of your minds. Then call, or turn to, or wrote to the person who means the most to you, and tell them how happy you are that they are alive and well and that the tornadoes didnt take them away.
And stay tuned. More horses and flowers and blue skies are ahead.

900 Miles.....

This week I got in my 900th mile, somewhere around Cape Fair, Missouri. That number means that my walk is roughly one third complete. And this may have been the easiest third. I wish that was not the case, but it seems that the road ahead is going to be more difficult, for various reasons.
Thus far, the weather has been my biggest nemesis, after my own feet, which have caused me a great deal of pain and down time to let them heal and callus over. Tornadoes, floods and very cold nights have really taxed this old body and have caused me to have a lot of doubts about my ability to complete the journey. Ive been ready to quit several times and actually have mentally checked out once or twice.
And then a funny thing happened. My friends and loved ones, Facebook friends, strangers and familiars, and others that I have met along the road have all been following my trip, all began responding and liking the things I have been writing and the photos I have been taking, and their constant concern, support and encouragement have been like an adrenalin shot to the heart, and I now know that there is no way that Im quitting this thing. When I dip my toe in the Pacific Ocean, its over. Not until then, no matter what.
Here is what makes this tough---the down time. The weather has necessitated a lot of hours and days just sitting around being unproductive. For instance, I write this in Cassville, Missouri. The motel here has no wifi—in fact almost nowhere has internet due to the tornado in Joplin the other day, which took out the comm tower that provided service to the entire area. I lucked into a signal from St John’s Mercy Hospital here in town, a DSL connection, I assume. If I had not found wifi, I’d be pulling my hair out with boredom. Small towns in the Midwest do not have a lot of things to do, and being on foot makes it a task to find even good restaurants for real food.
What lies ahead: Joplin, Missouri….what I will see there will be awful, I have no doubt. Then into Kansas, where I face 300 miles or so of flat, windy, hot straight roads. I should be able to make good time as long as the weather is good, but its tornado season…..so who knows? It’s a small dream of mine to see a tornado, but only from a distance and only one that only hits empty land, but if I don’t it is okay.
Colorado will be maybe the hardest physically, with the mountain roads being a challenge for these 51 year old legs. By that time I will have jettisoned some of the stuff I have with me. My cart is an albatross at times. Too much stuff, but I am not ready to dump it just yet. I know that if I had to carry a backpack my knees wouldn’t be able to take it. The sheer climbing in Colorado will be a test. The uphill aspect I can handle, but as yesterday proved to me here in Missouri, the downhill is harder on the knees, and mine are not stellar, having cartilage surgery in one many years ago.
Once I get through Colorado, I face desert heat and more in Utah and Nevada, and the lack of phone service for a long stretch. I do spend a fair amount of time on the phone especially in the evenings, and I do like to know that I am connected in that minor way to my life, so to speak. I used to worry about wifi, but have discovered that it isn’t as important in my priorities list at this point. I can always stockpile photos and blog stuff on my little computer for when I do hit a wifi area.
So either today or tomorrow Ill set out for Joplin, and westward. Its been an incredible experience thus far and will only continue to get better and more challenging and rewarding. I want to thank all of you who have been behind me, emotionally, financially and in spirit. Without your good thoughts and wishes….I’d be sitting back in my life with a boatload of regrets.
And I hate having regrets.

The State of Misery....

This is a state that I think I want to get out of. While my time in Branson was a blast, and the two people I met there, Cricket Heaton and Terri Pribeck, are beautiful people who I will remain in touch with, the rest of the state has left this experience a bit, shall we say, lacking. It’s not the fault of the state, which is lovely by any standards. Really lovely. I walked through the Mark Twain National Forest today and it was beautiful, although the serpentine roads have left my knees in tatters. I came in to Missouri in a truck due to tornadoes and had to accept a short ride out of the forest today when the lack of shoulders on the sides of the road and the heavy traffic almost got me clobbered. By a cop, no less. A family of 4 in a pickup came along shortly after and basically talked me into living a longer life. In between the ride in to Missouri and today, there have been tornadoes, flooding and more is expected tonight. I am going to head to Joplin tomorrow or Thursday, to see the damage for myself, but also because by some coincidence my route is taking me through there anyway. I am not—I repeat, NOT—setting these disasters up in advance. Really, I swear.
Tonight the forecast is for more heavy storms and yes, even a tornado is possible, and maybe Joplin won’t exist after this. I hope they are okay there.
As for me, Im stealing wifi from a hospital and its about to rain so I am outta here. And in a few days out of this sad and beautiful state of Misery…I mean Missouri.
PS--The photo is where I slept last night, after a full day of walking along mountaintops with heavy and continuous lighting and rain.

Tornado terror in Joplin

As I write this there are 89 souls who are no longer alive because of tornadoes last night in the Joplin, Missouri area. That number is going to rise. I was safely (?) ensconced in a motel in Branson, some 60 or 70 miles east, but as the storms moved in the direction of Branson, I got to see a little bit of real fear in the eyes of some people. Being a tourist town, a lot of the folks here in Branson are just passing through, and don’t have a clue about what to do, or even as to just how dangerous this weather is. I was in Alabama a month and a half ago when the tornadoes hit there, and I saw some awful things, and was afraid for my own safety then, as I was again last night here in Missouri. The motel owners told everyone here that if we heard the sirens, we were to immediately head downstairs to a special basement room that was ready if we needed it, so that brought a little bit of comfort. I stayed mostly outside with my phone and camera at the ready, but I was prepared to dive downstairs at a split second’s notice. In the end, we got a lot of high winds and rain, and flooding is possible today, May 23, and more bad storms are predicted for the next few days. My walk will continue though, and while I am sure Im going to get wet and will be very miserable at times, I have confidence in my own common sense and I will be as careful and as smart as possible.
I named my blog after a quote from Mark Twain, who called golf “A good walk wasted” and who is one of my favorite writers. Now here I am in his home state, and since I am only a few miles from a wilderness area known as the Mark Twain National Forest, I am going to walk through part of it on my way towards Joplin. I am not heading to Joplin for sensational reasons. It is on my route west and I almost have to pass right through the center of town. I will take pictures and make some notes and post what I see, but it will be a sad task as the death tolls mount. If I can help people there I will, but most likely Ill just try to get through there without interfering with anyone or anything. I’m still several days away, though, so hopefully things will have started to normalize a bit by the time I roll through.
So, I will finally head out of Branson, Missouri. Three days of watching tourists enjoy themselves is enough. Time to go see some Twain trees……

Branson, Day Two. Dam, and Hard Work U

Another day on Branson, Missouri. A nice day spent with nice people.
Miss Terri Pribeck, another friend of a friend, John Dodge Miles, came to my rescue today. She picked me up this morning and we went to lunch at a Chinese buffet called The Great Wall. It was a good lunch and despite no chicken and broccoli, the selection was decent. Love that chicken and broccoli, though…
We went to the dam, which, when opened years ago on the White River (The same White River that roared past me in Cotter, Arkansas) and it was an amazing structure. Flat Rock Lake was created, and it is, for me, very reminiscent of the beautiful Ashokan Reservoir in upstate New York. From the top of the dam there are scenic panoramas of the entire area, including basically all of Branson. It was pretty awe inspiring, a word that has come to mind a lot while I have been in the Ozarks.
We also took trip to a place called the College of the Ozarks. I had not heard of the school, but Terri told me it is called “Hard Work U” because the students work their way through school. I investigated a bit online later and discovered that indeed, it has no tuition requirements for full time students, who must work 15 hours weekly in addition to their classroom schedules. While there are many different degree programs, it is essentially an agriculture school (hey, this IS the mid-west!) including a tractor museum. There were also many greenhouses overflowing with flowers and plants of all sorts. The place was incredibly clean and well cared for. I suspect it was built up around older buildings that were there long before it was a school. There is a lovely old grist mill and many other structures that are camera ready.
Later, after returning to my room, I got bored, so I went in search of Chinese food. I decided to keep walking and ended up at the Presley Theater again, where Cricket and I hung out and where he introduced me to many people involved with the show, including multi-instrumentalist Mark Walker, who let me play his guitar right there on the stage of the theater. I am a good player but my skills have so eroded that I know when I get back to my own instruments Im gonna need some private time with them to reacquaint my fingers with the strings. We talked about music, and musicians, and I really enjoyed the brief look into he backstage and pre-show preparations. For almost the entire time we were talking Mark Walker was tuning his many instruments, including several guitars, woodwinds, sax, banjo and mandolin.
Leaving the theater, I continued my search for more Chinese food. I ended up back at the same place that Terri Pribeck and I had lunched. Unfortunately, for whatever reasons I was not in the mood for meat, and was expecting to have a lot of veggies, but there were almost none to be found. Fried meats of all sorts prevailed, and the only vegetables were a few pieces of broccoli buried in some beef and broccoli. A terribly unsatisfying last meal in Branson. Ah well. Back to Vienna Sausages.

A night in Branson

In 1907, a man named Harold Bell Wright published a book about the Ozarks (which I just found out is derived from the French “aux Arkansas”, or Of Arkansas), called The Shepherd of the Hills. That novel, combined with a natural beauty, and later a man-made lake, were instrumental in making Branson, Missouri, the phenomenon that it is today.
Im not here to give you a history of the place, (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Branson,_Missouri for that) but for most people it is a destination for those folks who love their country music and their wholesome family entertainment. And that it has in spades.
Courtesy of two different individuals, yesterday turned from bad dream to good dream within the space of a few hours.
I departed Harrison, Arkansas, at noon, literally just as rain started to fall. Lightly at first, and by the time I had reached the three mile point, heading for Branson, it was torrential downpours and severe and, to be frank, scary lightning. I was exposed to every single bit of all of it, and I was kind of enjoying it, keeping in mind that if I just kept walking forward, and didn’t get hit by a bolt from the blue, Id eventually get to Branson. I even sought refuge for 20 minutes in the Arkansas Welcome Center near the Missouri border for a little while but the rain didn’t let up , and so I carried on.
Somewhere around the halfway point a truck pulled up behind me. An off duty Carroll County Sheriff and his mother were on their way to Missouri to pick up his kids and saw me walking. They had just left the Huntville area in Arkansas and he told me that a pair of tornadoes had touched down there and that I was not safe out on the big highway. He strongly advised me to take a ride from him to get to safety, and I was inno position to argue, with another ten miles to go til there was an exit, or any kind of shelter. We loaded my cart on his truck and drove to Branson, losing my jacket and beloved John Lennon sweatshirt to the winds somwhere along route 65. Dammit.
Deputy Drew dropped me off near a strip of cheap motels on West Main Street in Branson, where almost all of the attractions are contained in 6 mile stretch. I got a room and tried to dry off.
A few weeks ago, an old schoolmate named John Dodge Miles, from Chateaugay Lake, New York, contacted me on Facebook. I literally have not seen or heard from him for about 44 years, and it was nice to make that contact. He had been following my story somehow and for many years had worked in the Branson area and knew a lot of people. He referred me to a man here known to all as “Cricket.”
Cricket is really Richard Heaton, and he has done the lighting for the Presley Country Jamboree for many years. The Jamboree is one of the very first of the shows that put Branson on the musical map, and Cricket was kind enough to treat me not only to dinner but to two full hours of great singing and playing, but cornball humor and inexpensive snacks, all following the ten cent tour of Branson.
The Presley Family has been around for years, and four generations of them perform nightly at the theater, along with special guests and friends. At times the show seemed to be a little slick and polished for my taste, but there were moments during some the comedy routines where it was obvious that a bit of spontaneity was taking place. Either way, it was never dull, and even though Cricket apologized to me for the heavy gospel content (he read that I am an atheist) I assured him that I love music…all kinds…and that I really loved the show, which I did. I also really liked Cricket, and feel like I have made a good and new friend.
There is something about country music in general that is appealing to masses of people. While in recent years the jingoism of ot all has gotten to be a bit too much, the simplicity of the message and the “just folks” attitudes that inform it appeal to the every day American and that is a good thing. Although I was raised on the altar of Dylan and Lennon, music doesnt always have to be challenging and edgy. There is a place for just nice tunes and plain lyrics.
The late Harry Chapin, who is my inspiration for this walk, wrote in one of his last songs…”Remember when the music came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire…” Harry’s song went on to talk about how the music brought us all together for things we believe in, but that first line really sums it all up for me….wooden boxes strung with silver wire.
I got a good dose of that last night, in Branson, Missouri. A tourist trap to be sure, but an affordable and pleasant place that doesn’t seem to be trying to pry your last dollar out of your poor hands.
Thank you, Deputy Drew, from Carroll County, Arkansas, for saving my ass. And thank you to Cricket for renewing my love in the plain and simple. That was fun.

We learned to be so graceful, watching wild horses running.....

It was a special moment.
I was walking toward Harrison, Arkansas, after leaving Cotter, Arkansas. As I walk I take pictures of things that are interesting. Ive taken a zillion horse pics, and after a while that gets tiring so I don’t stop as frequently, especially of the horses are in the distance. As I worked my way towards Harrison, I passed a rolling hill with a group of horses on the top of the rise, grazing. I just kept walking, listening to my music on the mp3 player.
I heard a loud sound---the sound of a horses whinny, over the din in my ears. I spun around, and saw 5 or six horses, the same ones who were grazing, running full tilt down the hill, just as if they were racing. They eve looked at each other to see where the others were in their little contest. I grabbed my camera and turned it on but by the time I did, it was too late, and they had reached the top of the hill on the other side of the pasture that they were in.
They stood there, looking down at me. I yelled, half joking, to them to do that again so I could get a photo. Five seconds later they broke into the second leg of their race, back in the same direction that they had just come from. Full tilt again. I snapped a shot and began yelling like a racing fan, “Go boys, go!!!”
I heard laughing. I turned around. Three guys working at a Truss company were staring at me like I was a nut.
A nut who had just gotten, by request, his own private horse race from some of the most magnificent creatures I had ever seen.
A fun time was had by all.

Dinner with the Quattlebaums

I wheeled and walked into Harrison, Arkansas.
Looking for a motel for the night, with storms threatening, I located one. Then I decided I was hungry, and went in search of Chinese food. I stopped a young couple in a van, with a single tooth between them, to ask about it, and they referred me to a restaurant right next to me. Master Chef was the name, but it featured a sombrero on the sign and I don’t like Mexican food. “Oh, they have other stuff too, not just Mexican.” I figured I’d give it a go. The motel was across the street, up a very steep incline, and Id check in after dinner.
Parking my cart outside, I walked in , sweaty and tired. There was a line of people, and a very well groomed and handsome man was in front of me with his family. I felt a bit uncomfortable looking so raggedy compared to him and meekly apologized for my appearance. He asked me a few questions about my walk, and then asked me if I would allow him to buy me dinner. I told him that I would, but that it wasn’t necessary. He said that he wanted to do it, and that was that. His name is Rick Quattlebaum, and he is a banker. He invited me to join his family, a group of about seven or eight people, for dinner. They were celebrating his daughter’s high school graduation ( I am remiss here---I didn’t get her name) and were having dinner before the ceremony, which was scheduled for 7 pm.
The restaurant turned out to be very good, and ambience nice, but the best part of the experi ence wasn’t the free meal, or that ambience. It was being asked to join a family, strangers to me all, for a nice dinner, with real and genuine people and conversation, and laughs galore. It really was special and if the Quattlebaums are reading this somehow, I want to say “Thank you” again for a really special meal, and memory.

Jody and Linda are quite a pair....

Jody Cochran and Linda Seemon are quite a pair.
A pair of what? Well…..characters. They both work at a small, mountaintop liquor/beer/smokes store in Summit, Arkansas. I climbed and climbed the roads around Summit after leaving Cotter, Arkansas recently, and almost went past the place, as non-descript as a building can be.
I walked in, where Jody Cochran was behind the counter. The inventory was sparse, but was mostly alcohol or tobacco related, and I didnt see a soda in sight. I was directed to a small, homestyle refrigerator, where a selection of “soda pop” was to be had. I grabbed a Mountain Dew and went to pay for it. Jody would not allow me to, telling me that she would take care of it.
I was about to leave after a bit of chit chat, when it suddenly began to rain. I was not prepared for that and asked if I could wheel my cart inside, which she said to certainly do so. As it rained, we talked more, and I found out that she is a 56 year old native of Waterloo, Iowa who moved to the Ozarks fifteen years ago when her husband decided that it was time for them to go live on a mountaintop. He drives a truck and she at first worked at a veterinarian’s clinic, where a big heart can cause one to end up with a full house. Jody now has 30 dogs. I asked her if she knows all their names. Silly question. “They’re my babies”, she said.
Now she works at the store, owned by a friend of the family. She does the morning shift, and at three in the afternoon Linda Seemon comes in to finish the day. Jody predicted that when Linda arrived and heard my story that she would probably take me home for the night, not for any purpose other than to give me a warm and dry place to stay, as kind hearted people will.
Well, Linda Seemon, a retired firefighter from Gary Indiana, did indeed offer me a place to stay, and I was about to accept, but the urge for moving on was too strong and I politely but graciously declined. She told me that if I just sat there long enough I would see some real characters, so I sat and talked a bit. She filled me in on the locals. Both women described the people as poor but happy and also said that they were as honest as the day is long and that there was a sense of community there that one would be hard pressed to find elsewhere. I soon saw what she meant.
A pair of men walked in. One, apparently older and with a cane, was the driver of the truck. The other, a young, blank looking man whom I will I will call “John’s son” had come in to pay a tab that he had incurred earlier. Jody had handed him two packs of smokes when he didn’t have the money. Here is what transpired after he paid his tab. At that time, the man with the cane purchased a lighter for “John’s son”.
Jody had gone to a bank to make change for Linda’s register. The two men had gone by the time she returned. The conversation between the two women went something like this:
Linda: “John’s son and Carl came in to pay John’s son’s tab”
Jody: Yes, he got two packs of cigarettes earlier, and left me that thing on the floor (there was a small gadget on the floor near the counter). I asked him what it was and he said it was a compressor. I asked him if it worked and he said “Hell no, that’s why I took it out.”
Linda: And can you believe this: Carl actually BOUGHT a lighter for John’s son???
Jody: Noooooooo. Really???
And so it went on. “John’s son “, as it turns out, is a simple minded young man with long hair, and he lives with a girl, expecting a baby, in a tent in his mother’s back yard. He receives a check monthly for mental health issues and his mother takes the entire thing, telling him that if he doesn’t like it he can take his girl and tent and move elsewhere. He works odd jobs and sells scrap metal when he can, with Carl driving him.
I named him John’s son because Linda and Jody referred to him as that when they were talking about a man named John who was always trying to ask Linda to dance when there is “Music on the Square” in nearby Yellville.
Such is life in the Ozarks.

Welcome to Cotter, Arkansas

The anticipation was building. My destination: Mountain Home, Arkansas. What a name. What a promise of even more beauty in the already stunningly beautiful Ozarks. What a….letdown.
I spent one of the nicest days of this journey on top of a stretch of Ozark hills, with incredible vistas and trees and streams and excellent roads and the cleanest and freshest air that my lungs have had the pleasure of knowing. I stopped on top of the mountain, where a large house and property complete with a nice wooden fence sat, for sale. I made myself a couple of sandwiches and just leaned on the fence and enjoyed every single minute of it. Warren Zevon told David Letterman that when you are dying, as he was, you learn to enjoy every sandwich. Well, Warren, I aint waiting to die. Bologna never tasted so good.
Winding my way down the slowly sloping roads from the top of the ridge, I saw a large bridge in the distance. I had been told by a passerby that there was a bridge that I was not going to be able to cross with my cart, but having made the trek across the Mississippi River, I was not terribly worried.
As I descended and saw the bridge, which crossed a large lake, I could see that there was going to be plenty of room for me to go over and my fears were allayed somewhat.
Nearing the entrance to the bridge, which crossed Norfork Lake, but still out of sight of it due to trees, a black, older model pickup truck pulled to a stop on the shoulder ahead of me. A Neanderthal leaned out of the passenger side window and beckoned me over. I approached slowly. He said to me that I should put my gear in the back of the truck and they would get me over the bridge. As I reached his side, I saw a driver, looking for all the world like a drunken Alfred E Newman (Mad magazine) waving a tall beer can and smiling a semi-toothless grin. Between Alfred and the Neanderthal was a woman, a distinct cross between a Neanderthal and Alfred E Newman, with a little Porky Pig thrown in. When I declined their offer, the driver told me in no uncertain terms to “put my f---ing stuff in the truck and get in. I told him that I was not going to do it and he sped off, with caveman yelling that I was going to get killed going over the bridge. He also flipped me the bird.
Needless to say the trip over the bridge, while a beautiful half mile or so, was a bit nerve wracking since I had no idea if they were coming back. They didn’t, and I made it across safely and without incident.
It was still several miles to Mountain Home. About two miles further the road suddenly lost its curbs, and that left me with no options but to walk in the traffic lanes. After a short while a Baxter County Deputy pulled up and told me that he had had several calls about me walking in the traffic lanes and he ordered me to walk on the grass, which was unmowed and almost impossible to push the cart through. I told him I would do my best and he said that I was impeding traffic flow by walking on the side of the road and that I really needed to stay on the grass. He also explained that Mountain Home was voted one of the top ten retirement communities in the US and that the old folks were not good driver s (I had noticed that myself, thank you) and that it was for my own benefit to stay off the road.
I stayed on the grass. It took me an extra hour and I was really hurting. A beautiful day had turned a bit ugly, and necessitated me getting a room for the night at a Super 8 Motel.
Despite its name, Mountain Home, Arkansas is nothing more than a few retirement communities surrounded by a laundry list of the usual nonsense---McDonalds, Chili’s, a zillion chain hotels and motels, all set up for the tourists who come for the lake a few miles away. I saw nothing unique and it almost seemed to me like a bait and switch deal.
Mountain Home? Not for me.
Now, let me tell you about what a gardener named Linda, who I met at a gas station in Mountain Home, told me. With a couple of sentences, she completely changed my life. She told me about Cotter.
In the litany of place names that I have visited---Savannah, Memphis, Jonesboro, and others, Cotter is an unknown quantity. When Linda, a fiftyish hippie chick, told me that I needed to go check out “this old river town” called Cotter, I thought, “yeah, maybe” to myself, because when you are walking, detours are two way deals, doubling the miles, but when she said that the road would take me back out to the main road, I figured that just maybe I would check it out.
Down ,down ,down the road went. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake, because if the road went down this steeply, it seemed like it had to go up just as sharply. But I was too far to turn back, so I let it ride, finally realizing why my cart has a handbrake.
The payoff came as I cleared the last of the incline and saw a small railroad tressel, and heard the sounds of water, lots of water. Then I saw the river. It was so beautiful it almost literally took my breath away. Wide and wild, it ran strong but not too fast. Approaching the banks I saw that there appeared to be trees and grass under the nearest edges of the shore, signs of flooding. I watched as long legged cranes and herons took flight when I approached, and even managed to capture one on camera.
Venturing further along the river I noticed smoke rising from below my field of vision. I parked my cart and crept up on a grassy knoll to see what was burning and saw a couple of people in a campsite type place with a fire going, and a large tent set up. I backed off the knoll and headed quickly down the road, to see where the access was to the place where they were camping. I found the dirt road and walked down to a heavenly sight. It was the river, but a section that had somehow been cut off by islands and was peaceful and calm. A Canada Goose pair with their five goslings floated and paddled in single file past me, another heron flew by and the smell of a campfire wafted through the air. I approached the couple, a middle aged husband and wife, who were not very talkative. I did ascertain that they had come all the way from Kentucky to fish here, in the river known as Big Spring, known famously for the huge trout that were pulled out each year. A sign on the side of the area did say “Catch and Release Only” but from the smell of what was cooking on the fire….
I finally left this little Eden and headed up the road a bit. Linda had told me about a bridge that people camped under and I wanted to see where it was and if it was truly “campable” before it got too dark. I finally found the bridge, a magnificent structure composed of many concrete arches and extending for quite a distance into the darkness of Marion County. I had not beaten the nightfall, and was unsure of what was beneath the bridge or how I would get my stuff down there at any rate. Adjacent to the end of the bridge was a motel that seemed to be closed for the night. I hid my cart behind a shed, brought my bedroll and backpack with me and settled down for a cold night next to a room at the motel. The outlets along the outer wall of the hotel worked and I charged my electric things, camera battery and phone.
I froze my (ahem) off that night. And I don’t care. It turned out that the hotel, the White Sands, has been closed for years and is for sale as I write this. How a hotel on the edge pf paradise cant make a go of things is beyond my scope of comprehension, but I do know that Cotter, Arkansas, is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, and I will return someday, and hopefully camp for a night next to that magnificent river, and grab a different kind of sleep in the motel, if it should re-open.
Cotter, Arkansas. A modern Eden. Who’da thunk it??

Just a story from America

Her name is Brenda. She and a young man named Matt were the late crew at a Flash Food gas station that I stopped into in Viola, Arkansas. She was cleaning up as the place was preparing to shut down for the night about an hour later. She was interested in my story, asking intelligent questions and giving intelligent answers to my own queries. Then I asked her how old she was.
She told me she was nineteen. I jokingly asked if she was married and had a family, expecting that she was still at home with mom and dad, working her way through college. She sighed and told me this story:
She is going through a divorce. Her husband just doesn t want to work, preferring to sit at home and drink beer and watch TV. When I asked her if she had any kids she affirmed that she did. Three of them, ages 3, 2 and 1, but that she was through having kids for a while. I asked her what her dreams were, jobwise, and she told me she wanted to get into CNA work. I asked her about college and she told me she had dropped out of school, so college wasnt an option. She had moved with her folks from Missouri to Arkansas, and she avowed that it was a little better in Arkansas but not much. I told her that she really ought to get her GED and give school another try , in my opinion, but she seemed to be resigned to the life she already is stuck in.
It’s a story that Ive heard before, not just here in the south but everywhere Ive been…young people with good brains and bad situations who see a hole so deep that they think they are stuck in it forever. I know that some get it together and make something of themselves, but too often people like Brenda just accept a second hand life and drift towards their old age unsatisfied and with unfulfilled dreams. Please don’t be one of them.

What I've Learned (so far) Apologies to Esquire...

WHAT I’VE LEARNED (so far)
The south is very very flat.
And hot. Except after a storm, and then a cold front seems to come through and lasts for two days. Like clockwork. Al Roker, take note.
There are way more good people than bad. But I knew that. The experiences Ive had and the folks Ive met just reinforce it every single day.
Education is the single most valuable tool that we are given access to as Americans. That some of us do not choose to use that tool wisely is a tragedy. Also, there are many whose situations growing up kept them from getting that education, and that is also a tragedy. I see people every day, here in the south, who are bright, friendly and hardworking, wiping tables at McDonalds, or in gas stations, because they just didn’t get the proper schooling.
The cops here in the south have gotten a bad rap. From me to them, I say, “Sorry guys, I believed the crap I was told.” I know there are some bad ones and lets be truthful, if I was black, I might be singing a different song, but from my standpoint, the police I have met have all been courteous and genuinely concerned for my well being and safety, as well as just doing their jobs in a professional manner. When I ran into a faux cop in Walnut Grove, Alabama, I was so relieved to find out that he was not a real cop. That would have changed what I am writing now, maybe.
I’ve now gotten to see two things I had always wanted to see, and on foot, the best way!! I walked across the Mississippi River, and Ive walked through the Ozark Mountains. I can honestly say that when I think of the Hudson River back home in New York, the word “majestic” comes to mind. When I think of the Mississippi, the words, “wild and untamed” are what I think of. I am glad I saw the Mississippi, but the Hudson River is just so much more beautiful as it winds its way down through the valley, past storm Kinh and Bear Mountain. And the sun setting on the Hudson River, and the Sloop Clearwater, as I sailed on it a few times…..ahhhh the nostalgia.
The Catskill Mountains, on the other hand….cant hold a candle to the Ozarks in some ways, and yet they are so similar. Sizewise, they are the same to my eyes, but there is too much development in the Catskills. Sometimes being so close to New York City is a negative, not a positive, when there is money to be made out of them thar hills…..
I saw a house for sale yesterday in the Ozarks. Stone house, 91 acres, barns, four ponds, taxes---after homestead exemption--$240 bucks a year. Asking price for this lovely place? 210K. Unbelievable.
As you get away from “civilization” the air is cleaner, smells better and blows freer. I stood on top of an Ozark Mountain road, near an opening where I could see all around me nothing but fields and lakes and grass, and I was eating a bologna sandwich. It was one of those special moments where the world felt like it was made just for me. And the smell of my sandwich was annoying.
Whatever your faith, or religious beliefs, it isn’t a higher power that is going to feed you, or allow you to sleep in their manger, or allow you to set up your tent on their property.. It is people. We are all in this together. It doesn’t matter if there is a god/God or not, because as long as we take care of each other, and be good to each other, and try our best to love each other, the world will be a bearable place. John Lennon, anathema to some religious folk, said “Imagine there’s no heaven” which immediately sent some people out decrying his message. They forget that a few lines later, he said, “Imagine all the people living life in peace.” Now, THAT is biblical in my world.
Sometimes, a tiny bible found on the side of the road in the bible belt is just a tiny bible that someone tossed away on the side of the road I the bible belt.
Cookie Monster is an ideal road companion. Never complains about anything and never, ever has to stop to use the restroom. And never asks “Are we there yet????”
This has been the experience of a lifetime, and its only a fourth of the way over. Damn.

Horton's Music!!! Guitars in the Ozarks!!!

I am in the Ozarks! It might mean little to those of you who have no real concept of the area but to me it is as big a deal as when I walked across the Mississippi River. When I was a boy I read both Huckleberry Finn, about the river, and a book called Folk Tales and Legends from the Ozarks. Now, I remember almost nothing of the latter book, but it was mostly old wive’s tales and legends and all kinds of off kilter stuff about the people and the area, but it left an impression in my little kid brain that the Ozarks were a place I needed to see someday.
That time is now.
So as I entered the area, I immediately was impressed with the quaintness of it all. I was in Hardy, Arkansas, and there was a dulcimer shop right on the main drag. I have owned dulcimers in my life and play a little bit, but guitars were always my favorite instrument. The dulcimers in the shop were of very high quality and were lovely. The woman who worked there, though, was just an employee, and didnt really know much dulcimer lore, so we had little to talk about. I praised the shop, and the instruments and the town , and left. I headed up a mountain almost immediately. A four lane with no curb at all for me to push my cart, and I was in trouble, and when the local cop stopped me and told me I should keep on the grass, I did my best to oblige, but the steepness of the road and the lousy condition of the grassy area adjacent to the road made for a terribly hard workout. An hour later, I emerged at the top, sweating profusely and with heart pounding like I had just run a marathon. And voila! There, in a little strip plaza, was a music shop. There IS a heaven! Parking my cart, I walked into Horton’s Music.
Guitars, violins, and other instruments immediately jumped out at me. Another man was there and the owner of the store, Dennis Horton was explaining something about a guitar that I think the man had brought in for repairs. He asked me if he could help me and I just asked if I could try a few guitars, figuring that my sweaty self would be a reason for him to say “no”, but he said I could play anything I wanted to, and that he was in the middle of a lesson, and that if I needed any help to let him know.
I picked up a Taylor, a Martin and an old Gibson and gave them all a spin. The Taylor sounded best , the Gibson was old and awful. The Martin was a Martin. Nice. After not playing for a couple of months it was like caressing an old flame!
As I heard Mr. Horton leading the young man, named Jacob, through the introduction to Smoke on the Water, I left, saying a goodbye as I went out. As I got outside, I remembered that I had some John Lennon Imagine No Hunger pins and I grabbed a few and went back in. I interrupted the lesson to present them to Mr Horton, and he showed me the only poster he had in the entire shop---John Lennon in his NYC sleeveless shirt, proudly posing in New York. I retrieved my camera and snapped a photo of Mr. Horton and Jacob in front of the poster.
What a great little shop! Dennis Horton sure came across as real as real can get. He knows his stuff, and from what I heard him playing with young Jacob, he can really play as well. It was a delight to meet him, and the John Lennon connection was kind of special. I hope to visit there again.
Music is my life. Finding others as passionate about that music that I treasure is a special treat, and a rare one. The way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach sometimes, but through my ears works best for me. So to Dennis Horton, of Horton’s Music, on a mountaintop outside of Hardy Arkansas, I say,” Play, brother, play.”

Jerry, part two.....

I had not expected to see Jerry again, to be honest. He told me he was a rather private person, and was fine on his own. The offer of a shower still stood, though, and when the knock came at 7 AM I assumed it was for that reason, but he had already been up, been to McDonalds and had a cup of coffee in hand. He just wanted to talk. So we talked.
We talked about his life some more. He told me that his mom and dad had passed away and had left him, and his siblings, about 80 acres and a house in West Plains, Missouri, and that his family wanted him to come home to live on it. He doesn’t much like being around people at times and hits the road to get away from them. I asked him what his goals were, or what did he dream of, or what did he enjoy doing. He thought for a moment---(Jerry is a very softspoken and thoughtful man, and not once did I ever sense that he was just reciting lines or telling me what he thought I wanted to hear, save for the very first minute I met him. He was walking on the road and I asked him where he was heading, and he told me that he had somewhere to be and that he was okay, lines that sounded like the rote answers to repeated police questioning.)
Anyway, after he realized that I was not the police, he was much more at ease and spontaneous. And after a long time thinking his simple answer was, “I love the smell of grass. I think I’d be happiest cutting grass.”
I asked him about the police, and if they had bothered him much, but he said that they actually were generally very nice to him, and had on occasion given him rides and even paid for a cheap motel room for him. This is something that I have also discovered as I walk…the police, despite vicious reputations at times, have been more than kind to me, and in fact, in Mississippi, where I expected a lot of questioning, I was not stopped even once, even on e awful morning after sleeping on a loading dock of a closed for the weekend business, and emerging from the parking lot right in front od a Corinth, Mississippi cop, who basically ignored me.
I tried to offer Jerry some food, but he said he was good. He was going to hit the intersection with his sign to try to get a few bucks, and he thanked me for my company, which he really seemed to enjoy, as did I, and he left.
A few hours later I myself departed and as I rolled across the street to the sidewalk, who should I see but Jerry, backpack on and heading North. I asked him where he was off to next, and he told me that he thought about what I had said to him about having someone at home that cares for him (he has a girlfriend worried to death about him, although she accepts his lifestyle) and he had decided to go home for a while. I told him that I thought it would be a good thing for him and to just try it for a week, to see if it took. He agreed. We shook hands, and parted for the last time.
I hope to see Jerry again. What a decent human being…

Jerry Wilson walks and walks.....

Jerry Wilson is at work. His particular and peculiar workplace this day is an intersection in Hardy, Arkansas. Hardy is just the latest place that Jerry has worked.
Fifty two years old, the diminutive Jerry is from Missouri, although he spent a lot of time in his younger adult life in California and Oregon. His family, a brother and two sisters, live in Arkansas, though, and he is ostensibly on his way to see his brother. He is close with him. His sisters, not so much.
But mostly, Jerry is just walking. For about five years he has just walked. Unlike a lot of “travellers” Jerry seems to be in good health. His teeth are mostly good and his physical appearance is generally good, although his skin has a perma-tan from too much sun exposure and his thin hair is completely white, as is his neatly trimmed beard and whiskers. He takes care of himself, a good sign that he is at least good mentally in that regard.
He used to have a house, and “what could be called a decent job”, he says. He lived a stable life for the most part until about five years ago when he and the woman he was living with split up, and he just decided to hit the road. His brother pleaded with him not to go, but he felt an oncoming bout with depression and decided that it was better for him to get away, and he did.
He has been a lot of places. When I mentioned my walk, he seemed impressed, but if he has really been walking for five years, my little jaunt is a pittance compared to his mileage.
We talked a bit, there at his intersection, where he was holding a sign that said “Homeless—every little bit helps” and while I was standing there with him, a car stopped and the driver almost apologetically gave him a buck.
Talk about guilt: I had actually met Jerry while on my way from my motel room to a country cooking restaurant down the road a piece. He was walking along with his big backpack and I thought maybe I could commiserate a bit, but misery didn’t see, to be a part of his outlook. After introducing myself we chatted about things for a minute and he continued on his way to McDonalds for a burger and coffee whiel I headed to the fancier restaurant. After I ate, I realized that I could have afforded to feed him as well, and failed to even make the offer. And timing being everything, as I was walking back to my room, there was Jerry leaving McDonalds. We met in the intersection where he produced his sign and went to work.
Talking to him, I get the feeling he is a lost soul. He doesnt seem to have any drug problems, is clean and well groomed, has family that loves him, and he told me his brother and he have grown especially close in recent years and he want Jerry to come off the road, and Jerry says he is willing to think about it. He adds that he is getting a bit tired of the life, but has not figured out what he wants to do. He hasn’t really kept up with the world, catching bits of news from passerby or the front pages of newspapers the boxes outside of gas stations. Like most travellers, the weather is his biggest concern, and he keeps a close eye on the clouds and the forecasts when he can see them. He has a good and sturdy tent to keep him dry on wet nights.
Tonight, Jerry Wilson, homeless by choice, is sleeping under a bridge. I’m cozy in a motel room, not homeless by choice. I did invite him to drop by in the morning to grab a shower, but I have a feeling he won’t show. But then again, maybe he will.