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June 26
Today was mildly disturbing, the timing just seemed off from the very start. I got down to the lobby by 7:45 for my appointment with a reporter who snapped just one picture and was done. He left me wondering if I should go back to bed or hang out in the lobby and see what happened next.
Jim showed up, and joined me for breakfast at the Bayou Grill, where he knew 98% of the patrons. Breakfast wasn't very good; the blueberries in my pancakes were obviously post-frozen. I felt grouchy and guilty at the same time, thinking that I should be grateful to be eating pancakes instead of trail mix. Jim was pretty good company though, he told me the latest news flash: Local hotshot and known cocaine user shot and killed himself last night while begging his estranged wife to come home after she caught him in bed with another woman last week. Not bad for middle American scandal.
I decided to take a pseudo day off -- spend the day in New Harmony and leave around four to do the eight miles over the state line into Illinois. I wanted to check e-mail at the library and mail my stove back to Dad -- the last thing I need in this heat is hot food and even two less pounds makes a difference when you’re carrying it all day.
Jim took me to his wife's gift shop and between ten and one o’clock I wrote and read on her computer. Then I began to feel as if I was whirring in place having been sedentary for so long, so I called the Episcopal priest who'd stopped by to visit earlier. I found out that the toll bridge across the Wabash River that separates Indiana and Illinois is under construction and therefore closed to walkers. Friar Booher offered to give me a lift and the very grand tour of New Harmony. I saw the Russian church, the house made of recycled cardboard and milk cartons, the golden rain trees, the Atheneum (designed by the same architect who designed the Guggenheim - Stanford White?), the roofless church, the Chartres labyrinth with its elaborate Phoebus' lyre fountain, the Tillich garden of sparsely set pine trees and stones carved with quotes, the children's garden, and the four-star Red Geranium restaurant.
Everything we saw is owned by Mrs. Jane Owen. The part of town that Mrs. Owen does not own is a typical subdivision. Relations between the two parts of town are “strained,” as David put it. That explain why, when I walked into town yesterday, a lady from the convenience store on the edge of town who’d offered me a drink of water suddenly forgot the offer when I told her that I was staying at the Inn and just gave me directions there instead. We ended the tour at Leslie Booher's garden shop. The friar's wife is in the process of completing the Appalachian Trail and had many questions for me about my gear.
When four o'clock rolled around, I still hadn’t met the much-praised, much-criticized Jane Owen. Ever since I arrived last night I'd been prepped to meet this woman. Tammy raved about how she would love to meet me; Jim considered getting a picture of me with her. Every golf cart that passed could have been hers. The eccentric benefactor in the big straw hat and runaway golf cart was etched into my imagination but nowhere in sight.
Then, as we were preparing to go, Leslie spotted Mrs. Owen's golf cart at the recycled house across the street.
“No time,” said the friar, but I quickly said that I wouldn't mind postponing my departure if it meant meeting the famous lady.
“Well, okay,” he said, and led me up and into the house where his booming “Mrs. Owen, there's someone I'd like you to meet” made me and the house tremble.
I was afraid that I'd like her for her money (I’d been told that she’s the second richest woman in the U.S., after Oprah). We tend to treat rich people differently for having money that, much of the time, they did nothing to earn. I wanted earnestly to get a blank-slate first impression of this person that everyone met with preconceived notions. When I shook her hand and she asked me to have a seat in her beautiful, deep voice, I knew that I liked her because she's a kindred spirit.
But the meeting was marred. The friar cut her questions short and Leslie interrupted my answers. Our whole conversation was hurried and clipped and I felt altogether deprived of a wonderful connection. She said she that wished I could stay another night. I could not. She gave me a big periwinkle-colored straw hat to remember our meeting. Leslie complained that it wasn't very appropriate for hiking and actually started to take it out of my hands before I realized what she was doing and.
Before they took me away, the friar had everyone - himself, Leslie, their daughter Sara who’d come along for the ride, and, in the most random decision, a couple of Inn guests who just happened to be walking by - lay their hands on me. I was too bewildered to protest as he anointed my forehead with oil - the same thing he's done with the rest of Mrs. Owen's possessions. I felt like a kid who’s spent all day waiting in line to see Santa Claus and then been whisked up onto the great man’s lap, blinded by the photographer’s flash, and deposited unceremoniously on the other side of the “Santa’s feeding his reindeer. He’ll be back in 10 minutes” sign.
Ten minutes later I was deposited with much less ceremony on the western side of the bridge. I walked past the state welcome sign feeling wrung out and confused. The fields that stretched for over a mile on either side of the highway. Then, suddenly, a family of deer bounded out across the wide green plains. I stood, transfixed by their wild grace, until they had disappeared into the woods, and finally could go on.
Tonight I am at The Fountains Bed & Breakfast in Carmi, Illinois. Barry Cleveland of The Carmi Times picked me up in Crossville and brought me up here. He said that the little roads I’d planned on taking are too “boon-docks.” Honestly, I’m not sure why I agreed to the route change. It means saving three miles all around, but I’ll have to do twenty miles instead of sixteen tomorrow to get to the next town.
As seems to be the case with most B&B’s, the woman who runs The Fountains is infinitely caring. A long soak in the humungous claw-footed bathtub has steamed my aches away.
June 27
There are a few other things besides the time change here in the Midwest that I haven’t fully caught up with yet - for instance, mealtime lingo. I finally got it straight today: “dinner” is lunch, “supper” is dinner.
Another odd bit of linguistics is the southern Indiana and Illinois definition of “beach.” I’m missing my family’s yearly trip to Ocean City, Maryland, this year and on the two very separate occasions that I’ve mentioned it to people, they’ve said, “Really? What part of Florida do they go to?” “Beach” in this part of the country apparently means Florida; for some reason, a lot of people who live here take their summer vacations down there. It makes sense. If I were living in the Midwest, I probably wouldn’t equate Maryland with the beach either.
Tonight I am staying with Carla Brownie in McLeansboro. During the course of the day, the whole town came out to meet me with various excuses. Twice, police officers came out to check on me and make sure I wasn’t over-heating. One officer came out to take my picture for the local paper. The Methodist minister who had arranged for me to stay with Carla came bearing popsicles and ice water -- better than loaves and fishes any day. A reporter from the local paper came out and started asking questions. I quickly asked if we could go somewhere with air conditioning for the interview.
My arrival was quite an event. When I got to the Reverend White’s, I met Mayor Dick Dietz, who presented me with a McLeansboro T-shirt and baseball cap. Carla gave me a tour of the town square, which included a drive by the local celebrity’s house, Utah Jazz coach Jerry Sloan. I did 20 miles today.
June 28
I would like to make today the template for the rest of my summer days.
Carla spent much of last night calling around on a mission to find me a noon stopping place. She finally reached the Bowling family, who live 11 miles down the road. They said that they’d be out in the afternoon but would leave ice water on the back porch for me. Fair enough.
I had walked about six miles when I passed a farmhouse family resting in shade of their front yard. They asked where I was headed and I stopped to chat for a few minutes. Later, the elder son of that family passed me on his tractor. He lived just down the road, and when I reached his house he offered me a glass of ice water, which I gladly accepted.
I continued walking, but got only two miles before I met a woman standing in her yard who also offered me ice water. She was the Bowling’s sister-in-law and had been watching for me. When she mentioned that she had a lasagna dinner in the over that was ten minutes from done, I decided it was break time. I stayed for two hours with the Hart family.
It was still hot when I left, but knowing that the Bowling home was only two miles away kept me cool. I arrived there to find not only ice water, but a cooler full of soda, and a plate of rice krispie treats waiting for me. Not only that, but they’d set out a bucket of cool water, a bar of soap, and a neatly folded washcloth and towel for me to freshen up with. After that, I did the only thing I could do to make such a pleasant afternoon complete -- I lied down on the patio swing and took a nap. It was the easiest 15 miles I’ve done yet.
June 29
Last night, I stayed with the Morgan family -- Andrea, Chris, Andrew, Christopher and Lacey -- honest to goodness farmers in the tiny town of Belle Rive (pronounced like “hive”). I spent most of the evening answering questions from Lacey, who will soon be 10 years old. This morning, Lacey took me out to see the family’s ostriches on the Gator, which is like a four-wheeler, only more rugged. Ostriches are very silly looking. As we approached, the male did this crazy mating dance in which he swung his long neck from side to side for about five minutes. The females were pushing their softball-sized eggs around the yard with their beaks and reminded me of the red and white queens’ croquet game in Alice in Wonderland.
We ate breakfast at Winkey’s diner and I set off, despite the fat, though well-spaced raindrops and Mr. Morgan’s dire warnings that thunderstorms were on their way.
The clouds were a welcome change after so many days of haze. The rain only got me once between there and Mt. Vernon, where I stopped for lunch with my prearranged Methodist lunch dates -- Bus & Joan Winkler. A widow and widower of 10+ years, they just remarried each other in February. I teased them about their newlywed status over our lunch of chicken salad, beets, peas, banana nut bread, and orange gelatin fluff.
Bus confessed, “Well, we do do a lot of smooching.”
Tonight I’m staying with Carla’s Aunt Eubank in Woodlawn. Woodlawn, as far as I can tell, consists mostly of a tavern on Route 15. I walked in and the ten men sitting at the bar immediately offered me a beer and a “ride.”
Aunt Eubank was thrilled to have me. We ate a light supper and she showed me around her yard. She’s got a 50 foot row of blackberry bushes 15 feet high and some brilliantly blue hydrangeas. A great big thunderstorm rolled in as dark fell. The electricity went out and we spent the rest of the evening surrounded by candles, watching the storm in coffee-scented candlelight.
June 30
Today was gorgeous walking weather -- 85 degrees and breezy. My scenery – an ocean of corn and seas of cumulus clouds. Everyone says that Illinois is a boring state to travel through, but I think it’s beautiful. Stick to the back roads and you can’t go wrong. Tonight, after 18 miles, I’m in Nashville with the Tomaszewski’s, both editors of the Nashville News.
July 1
My thoughts today turned toward computation. I figured out that I’ve been averaging 110 miles per week instead of the 100 I initially expected to be doing. If I keep this average up, I could make it to ‘Frisco in six and a half months - right around Christmas.
I walked 21 miles today to New Memphis. I passed Okawville, where I am staying tonight. I chose the nearest house in New Memphis to call Debbie Stricker -- my hostess for the evening. The woman who let me used her phone heard my short conversation and asked me to repeat my last name and to spell it. It turns out that she’s a Krause, too, only she spells it k-r-a-u-s-z! This part of Illinois is very German. Every time I tell someone my name they ask if I’m related to a local.
After dinner, the Strickers took me on a driving tour of Okawville, including the golf course extension where we found Senator L-----. The senator is Gary Stricker’s golfing buddy, so he introduced me. I was first impressed by how tall the man is - 6’8” at least - and second when the Strickers told me that he still coaches the local high school basketball team even while in office (and is the fourth best coach in Illinois). It takes heart to be a good coach; that’s something I don’t usually associate with politicians. The Senator’s parting words to me were, “Call your father, you know he’s worried sick about you. I would be if you were my daughter ... Call your father!”
[Note: My mother typed this journal out for me - THANK YOU MOM! Every so often, she put in comments that I immediately recognized as not being in my voice. After that last paragraph, she added: “Of course, he didn’t know that my father happens to be in Disneyland, Fla. with his new family as we spoke.” I LOVE YOU MOM!]
July 2
I walked only six miles into Mascoutah today. I spent the rest of the day with Chuck Carnahan, the photographer for the Mascoutah Herald. He took me to Scott Air Force Base to see the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile that was visiting the commissary. I met Colonel Tom Kane, Wingman (translation: big boss) of the base. Everyone, appropriately, treats him with the utmost respect, but he’s one of the most laid back, enthusiastic people I’ve met my whole trip. He gave me a Bud Andrews coin and we got our picture taken for the Command Post paper. Then I got to take a tour of a C-9.
Scott AFB specializes in medical rescue. Their motto is “Help from Above” - local nickname, “Band-Aid Air.” The C-9 I toured was the Fairview Heights. It’s an emergency room on wings, with IV stands, beds that fold down from the walls, and crash carts. The most interesting thing about it, though, is that the seats all face the back of the place. The U.S. air force has determined that backwards is the safest way to fly -- I resisted the obvious suggestion that that might be because the air force does everything that way.
This evening, the Hoskins family took me to dinner at Dee Dee and Poncho Funk’s pool. It was wonderful. I floated a bit and ate a lot of BBQ and sat talking with the adults. It felt a little odd since I’m still at the kids’ table when I go to Grandma’s.
After dinner, Deedee brought out a thing called a “grolle” (pronounced like “troll”) that she and Poncho bought on their trip to the French Alps a few years ago. It’s a wooden coffee pot with a rounded bottom and two or more spouts -- the Funk’s has eight. According to tradition, once you have filled it up with coffee and the liquor of your choice, you must pass it from guest to guest until it’s empty. The ritual reminded me of the “sharing water” ritual in Heinlen’s Man from Mars. We all slurped the black coffee, brandy, and orange liquor loudly to cool it, and spun the empty pot like a top on the dining room table when we’d finished.
I am truly discovering a nation of friends.

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