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Missouri: Cross-Training
“Hi, Niki, this is Joe and Kenny of the 'Joe & Kenny Show' in Baltimore. We read about your walk in the Baltimore Sun. Would you mind talking to us for a few minutes?”
“Sure. Um, are we on the air?”
“Yup.”
I haven't had the time to get sweaty palms -- this is a good thing.
“So where are you now, Niki?”
“Well, I'm standing on a two-lane road somewhere in the eastern half of Missouri. There's a farm here, but not much else. Oh, here comes a dog. Hi, dog.”
I move away from the road so that the whoosh of the occasional pick-up truck won't interrupt us. A skinny german shepherd comes out from behind the fence and growls softly as he approaches; it’s more of a hum than a threat. There's a second when I wonder what Joe and Kenny would do if this dog attacked me; I can picture Mom listening to this, thinking “A dog? It's probably rabid.”
I reach down and scratch the shepherd behind its nappy ears as it licks my leg.
The DJs have already talked to Mom. Her attitude has changed since the media started calling; she's gone from “Don't go!” to “Keep going, Baby!” I stand by the side of the road “somewhere in Missouri” and relate a few of my most recent adventures.

July 3
Thanks to two and a half weeks without rest, I reached the edge of East St. Louis just in time for Independence Day.
For the past two weeks, Bonnie’s been worrying out loud about the dangers of East St. Louis. She didn’t say anything specific, just repeatedly murmured, “Not a safe place.”
She's not the first person to warn me about the area; my friend Adam Olenn recently reminded me of the scene in Lampoon Family Vacation where they stop to ask directions there and get their car stripped.
“If you're going to walk through there,” he said, “you're definitely going to need a gun.”
At first, locals expressed surprise when I told them the unpleasant things I'd heard. They were impressed that people from as far away as Washington, D.C., are talking about them. They’d protest for a minute, then consider it further and nod, “Yeah, I guess I wouldn't recommend that anyone walk through there alone.”
The Hoskins family took me from the edge of East St. Louis, Illinois, into St. Louis, Missouri. I was so involved in a conversation about wheelchair basketball with their daughter that by the time I leaned forward to ask when we'd be crossing the state line, we'd already crossed it. I missed my first glimpse of the Mississippi River. Such are the dangers of riding in cars.
I tagged along with the family to the St. Louis Art Museum to see the Vatican Angels exhibit. I felt like a neon “Weirdo” sign sitting in the pink marble main hall of the gallery with my Teva sandals, knee-high sock tan, purple running shorts, and Crayola-blue Mascoutah Herald polo shirt. Then I looked around. I saw punk-rock kids with fuchsia hair and nine piercings, Japanese ultra-tourists with bright tropical-print shirts and three cameras slung around their necks, and big women in bigger moo-moos. I laughed with the realization that I am definitely least obtrusive in the city.
I'm usually a big fan of museums, but I quickly realized that this is one time when I could do without them. What is a museum after all but a lot of walk-stand-walk-stand? On my day off -- no thank you. I trudged from bench to bench and looked at whatever was in front of me, which worked well enough. Among the many relics, including a piece of some saint’s liver under glass, I saw the Mandylion – a handkerchief that Christ supposedly wiped his face with, imprinting his image there forever.
When you entered the exhibit, they gave you a CD player with headphones. To hear information about a piece, you typed in the number on its tag. Because everyone was wearing headphones, there was no discussion, no whispered critique or awe-filled comments. It felt altogether lacking in what my opinion is art’s most necessary requirement -- interaction. It was very beautiful, but unattainable. Maybe that was the point.
Afterward, the Hoskins family deposited me with their friends, the Stiefels, where I will spend my July Fourth holiday. The Steifel family lives in a huge house in the Town & Country municipality. Barb and Carl are very laid back, but not to the point of disinterest; they seem to have taken the attitude of “let chaos do its thing, we can handle it.” She's tall, pale, and thin, with a palest-blond bob, milky blue eyes, and an air of efficiency. He's a little taller, with an old man's belly, gray hair, and a kind, extremely slow way about him that makes his family members cringe with impatience sometimes.
Barb and Carl have raised four and a half kids—Cheryl Brenner moved in while she was in high school because her parents were military and she didn’t want to move when their three years were up. Three of the kids have moved. John, the youngest, is still in high school. Cheryl moved out long ago; she's visiting because she just bought a house but won't be able to move in for a few days. The second youngest, Amy, left a few weeks ago. I get the impression that there was a family fight about this, but no one complete their sentences about it: “That fight in the driveway . . . her clothes . . .”
Determined that I should get a true taste of St. Louis, the family took me out for toasted ravioli at [an Italian restaurant] downtown. For dessert, we went for ice cream at a place called Ted Drew's.
Ted Drew's is famous for their “concretes.” They've got a stand that is the just like those stands that you see at state fairs and boardwalks with the big plywood sign plywood icicles and order windows all along the front. The difference is that the lines for ice cream here are so long that the police have to set up sawhorse barricades at the edge of the sidewalk to keep everybody out of traffic.
Barb, Cheryl, and I stood in line for half an hour while Carl and John cruised around the block. I bounced a little in anticipation and smiled at all the other smiling people. We were all so happy to be there on a warm summer night in the city, waiting for ice cream. I chose the San Francisco concrete -- Mixed fruit. It tasted so good that I don't want to brush my teeth before bed.
July 4
Waking up late was a welcome change of pace. It was even nicer to pad downstairs and find Barb there amid the breakfast foods. She was making the grocery list for our Fourth of July feast. She asked, “Is there anything you want from the store? I think we'll have ribs, corn on the cob, and fruit salad.”
It's hard to think of anything I could possibly have wanted today. Sitting down to dinner with Barb and her family, I remembered how worried everyone was about this trip. I had steeled myself for many lonely suppers by the side of the road; I imagined myself peering longingly into homes and restaurants like a Dickens character. Who would have guessed that I'd be spending July Fourth like this?
Supper was fantastic. The ribs had been marinating in Maull's sauce, another St. Louis specialty, all day. I tucked a napkin under my chin bib-style, but I got sauce all over my cup, utensils, and the edges of my mouth before I’d licked my fingers clean. I’ve always said that the best meals are often the messiest.
When we finished eating, Barb drove me downtown to the Fair St. Louis. As soon as she left, I found myself alone in the midst of all these happy families and couples. I missed my people back home enormously. I tried to call home on the cell phone but no one answered. They were probably on their way to the park to watch the fireworks already. I sat and looked around for a few minutes. It didn’t take long for the wide-eyed wanderer in me to take control.
First I got closer to the Great Arch. You can take an elevator to the top, 630 feet up, but the line was of course preposterous and standing was the last thing I wanted to do. It reminded me of living near DC, how we used to drive by the Washington monument (known locally as “the pencil”) and marvel at the line and why anyone would want to be there. I've never been to the top of the Washington monument. You can live in a city your whole life and not know as much about it as the tourists.
I dipped my sandals in the water at the banks of the Mississippi — Just the soles, I've got open blisters and they don't call 'em “muddy waters” for nothing. I found out that the casino ships and steamboats weigh anchor at Lakled's Landing so I headed over there next. I boarded the President's Casino first, and found lots of lights and lots of noise. I was drawn to the big windows in the back. From there, I could see the casinos across the river in all their neon glory. That part of the Mississippi isn’t postcard-worthy, but it does have its charms.
. I’d never seen a steamboat before. The three stories of red velvet and brass decor on the Mississippi Queen and the Delta Queen steamboats looked like something straight out of a Mark Twain novel.
The crew was busy bringing on supplies and moving things around. I asked the crewman checking boarding passes if I could have a tour. His name was R. Baggs Boudreaux, and he was a salty seaman if ever I saw one.
Standing there, spitting chaw off the deck, he took one look at me from under his beaten navy blue cap and sneered, “Sorry, but no Cavalier is getting on my boat.”
Apparently, he’d seen my interview on CBS. He didn’t seem to approve of my school. Smiling, I reminded him that the reason I'm out here is because that Cavalier education proved inadequate for my tastes. Then I turned on the questions about New Orleans.
There is no mistaking, or suppressing, the unquenchable desire I have to see New Orleans some day. February 16, 1999, is the next Mardi Gras, and it’s my birthday. That’s how I know I'm going to survive this walk.
Sure enough, Baggs loosened up a lot when we started talking about his home town. He couldn’t help getting excited himself as he described the festivities: “The local high school bands are by far the best. They've got the most heart. The only real reason to go to the Mardi Gras is to see the bands -- and go to the balls if you’re lucky.”
“There's this one ball, the MOMS, that only the cream of the crop get to attend. From what I’ve been told, it's an orgy—no other word for it. They blow crystal meth around like fairy dust and dance forever. I heard that Bill Gates went last year. I keep trying to get an invitation but they haven't given me one yet, probably because they know I want to go so badly.”
I listened, wide-eyed and more determined to get to the Big Easy every second. Baggs was smiling himself by then; he even tried to get one of the hands to give me a tour but everyone really was busy loading. He gave me his address on Canal Street and invited me to his next Mardi Gras party, “You and the other two thousand people who'll show up, invited or not.”
I assured him that I will be there, and pranced off the boat.
I felt great after that, who wouldn’t with such karmic incentive floated his or her way? As I made my way through the crowd, I noticed a near-full moon shining clearly right above the arch. I blew it a kiss. The air show was starting soon, so I found a good vantage point on a nearby hill.
As I stood in the shade watching the little planes do somersaults, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned to see what it was; on a leaf of the shade tree behind me was a generic blue Fair St. Louis ribbon from some carnival game. It felt like another magic event, as if the ribbon were meant for me. I considered it my prize for getting this far—over 900 miles and going strong. I’m so happy to be here.
Bernadette Peters had just started belting out show tunes on the stage under the arch when seven o’clock rolled around – time to head up to Cheryl's office building. Her office is on the sixteenth floor, so had a great view of the people sitting by the arch and of the barge where they shoot off the fireworks. However, I quickly realized that I did not want to be behind plate glass sixteen stories up.
Up there were snacks and sodas and air conditioning. Slightly drunk guys in polo shirts and khakis made what they thought were witty remarks. Someone had tuned a little radio on the desk to the simulcast of the live orchestra that I had just seen tune up a few minutes before.
I contemplated sprinting back down to the waterfront but feel trapped by everyone's polite questions about my walk. Down there I was just another fair-goer. Up here I wasn’t even with family -- I was incorporated.
When the fireworks started, I put my hand on the nearest window. I could feel it vibrate with the explosions, but the whole experience was muted. The only good part came afterwards, when I watched tens of thousands of people stream into the streets. I guess I went too high; I should have stopped under the tree.
It is 1 AM. I have to get up and walk tomorrow morning.
July 5
While Barb, Cheryl and I were driving to the head of the Katy Trail this morning, Barb started telling me the story of her daughter Amy's first days. From her first word, I knew that Barb was saying something difficult. It was the first time I’d heard her say anything without giving it a positive spin. She stared straight ahead, her face a mask of composure and she spoke as if reciting a monologue.
“Amy was two months early, they didn't think she'd live. They put her in an incubator and we couldn’t touch her. We could only look at her every day with all those tubes and things hooked up to her little body. Her skin was so thin that you could see every purple artery and vein underneath it.
“She was always cold. They put this little aluminum potpie plate on her head to keep her warm—a potpie plate, that's how small her head was. I remember on Valentine's Day, the nurses put a bow on the potpie plate.
“The nurses were very sweet. They knew what hell it was to go in there every day with all the other parents, watching the other babies get better or worse. Some women got to hold their babies and rock them and feed them as they grew. If a baby died, we all wondered if ours would be next.
“It was a long time until I could hold her. Then, when they finally let me hold her, she almost died in my arms. I was sitting there rocking her and suddenly all these machines started screaming and the nurses took her away from me and no one would tell me what was going on. She stopped breathing for four minutes, but she lived. I worried about her every day then, and every day since—All those years, and now she's run away. . .”
I didn’t know how to respond to this, but she didn’t expect a response. Barb finished her story just as we pull up to the Weldon Spring trailhead and unloaded my gear as cheerfully as ever. After we asked a person passing by to snap our picture, she pushed a wad of twenties into my hand and hugged me. I tried not to cry because she wasn’t.
It was only three miles on the Katy Trail to Defiance, where a Ted Drew's sign at the Seasons & Memories store beckoned to me in bright yellow. The air around the Missouri River was already sticky-hot and it quickly sucked the energy from me. I walked seven more miles to Augusta, where I tried to call my contact for this area.
The nearest phone, in a bike rental shop, was out of order. Slumped down on one of the picnic tables outside, I contemplated the seven more miles to the next town and the smothering humidity. Then I studied the wide gravel path, the first car-free path I've come across on this trip, and considered the possibility of renting a bike.
Sure, I'd only walked 10 miles so far, and a 17-mile day is no longer much of a feat in my trek-hardened condition. I guess those two weeks without a break wiped me out more than I thought. Of course, walking around all over downtown St. Louis on my day off didn't help.
The school teacher couple who watched me haggle with the rental manager (and scold myself for considering this temptation) offered assurances.
“It's not really cheating, Dear, you're still using your legs!”
They wanted to give me a ride to the next town. I kept telling myself that this way I'll cut five days down to two and be three days closer to Colorado before autumn starts. It's cheating, but I did it anyway. I thought, “This is my trip, darn it, I can change the rules if I want to.”
Marthasville was another 11 miles down the road. It took less than 15 minutes to pedal up and down every street in the no-stoplight town. No one was on the street and the few shops in town were closed.
I knocked on some doors — no answer. Then I noticed a kids' softball game in the field down the road. After parking the bike and buggy under a tree nearby, I walked slowly to the bleachers and took a seat. I began writing in my journal.
I was hoping that someone would notice my odd setup and ask me about it. As always, I'd rather peak someone's interest enough to approach me before I approach them. People are more likely to help you if they initiate the interaction.
The scoreboard read 15 to 2 — the game not worth watching if your daughter wasn't in it. The next game scheduled the two best girls' softball teams in the county. Judging from the amiable rumblings in the bleachers, it was sure to be a good game. Unfortunately, rumblings from the fast-approaching thunderheads delayed the standoff.
“Are you writing for a newspaper?”
Sally Rohe, whose daughter's team is the current reigning champ, was the first to approach me. She introduced me to her sister, Sandy Rohe. Then she insisted on buying me dinner at the snack bar -- chicken strips and french fries served in grease-soaked red and white paper baskets. Our conversation lasted less than 15 minutes, but in that time I glimpsed a model of mid-American family-hood.
Sally and Sandy grew up in a small town in middle America. They are sisters—not twins, but from their history you might think they're Siamese. They married the Rohe brothers and live just a few houses away from each other. Sally has two girls; Sandy has two boys. They both seem definitively content. To me, they seemed definitively “Leave it to Beaver.” Wow.
There was no time to hear more about this odd arrangement’ fat raindrops began to fall and the softball families started disbanding. Without another word, Sally put my bike in the back of her husband's truck and hauled it up the steep hill to the church for me. She apologized for not staying to visit longer; she had to hurry back to collect the rest of the family. I felt a little like a swindler for catching such a deal, but reminded myself that I am a good-hearted swindler.
The pastor was friendly and half-asleep. He gave me clean sheets and tried to air one of the rooms for me that was stuffy with unopened-window heat. Watching the flashes of lightning outside the hazy windows, I can feel electricity in the air outside soaking up the humidity. I’ll be asleep as soon as I put down this pen.
July 6
The faster you travel, the more bugs you kill. When I'm walking, I always take great care to avoid crushing insects. It really distresses me to look down just as a caterpillar or beetle gets squished under my wheel. This morning, I'd been pedaling for two hours when I collided with this enormous spider web. The web was easily three feet square—I saw it for a second before I crash through it.
I slid to a halt and tore my hat, glasses, and shirt off and shook the dead gnat patina off them. I wondered where the spider that made such a humongous web could be hiding. What was I expecting, the Squished-Bug Avenger? Maybe.
At Herman, I had to leave the trail and cross the Missouri River to pick up a package from Mom. Although it meant adding four miles to my day, I hoped that being on pavement would keep the cart from dragging so much. Not so. Marylin claimed I'd “never even notice” the cart, but you just can't beat the laws of physics.
By the time I got into town I was drenched with sweat from the two-mile, shadeless climb. The first building I came to was a bed & breakfast. I stopped to rest and use the phone. The lady at the front desk informed me that the post office was two miles farther down the road.
Suddenly, I felt that even two feet more would be too far, that the heat was too torturous, and that I was being punished for renting a bike. I made a second phone call to the editor of the Herman Chronicle. This morning when I called to ask him for help finding a place to stay, he briskly directed me to the Chamber of Commerce and the city park. Now I'm calling again in hopes that he'll want to do a quick interview in return for driving me those four miles to and from the post office. No thanks, he says, this week's issue is full and he is busy -- no interviews wanted or needed.
He tossed me an offer, “Maybe if you let me know where you'll be later, I'll take a picture.” As if I were begging for attention and not help.
“Sure, I'll call you back later, maybe.”
I hung up the phone. The receptionist at the B&B had been kind enough to let me use the phone, but she seemed to be getting edgy as I sat there percolating desperation.
Back outside, I spotted the housekeeping office. I spent my change on a cold generic cola to wash the sour taste of supplication away. Then I biked the rest of the way over the hill through town and spend three hours sitting on the post office floor hoping that the heat would abate. The heat index reached 110 degrees and stayed there.
Finally, I rode back over to the trail. It was ten more miles to the nearest campground.
A troop of kids who are also biking the trail have stopped for the night; their murmurs are pleasant white noise. I’m too tired to do anything but clean up, eat, and sleep. Tonight, after a shower so cold that I’m still shivering, I am using my tent for the first time in more than three weeks.
June 7
Despite my sweat-drenched exhaustion, I didn't get to sleep until well past midnight. Then, to quadruple the misery, it started raining intermittently just as I was drifting into sleep. I stumbled out and put the rain cover on the tent.
Rain covers turn a sweaty sleep into a sweat bath. “Unhappy camper” does not cover it. I felt like a disgruntled postal worker on a sweltering, pitbull-filled Monday afternoon.
Today was better; I was up at six and back on the path at seven. The thirty-three miles to Jefferson City went by with reasonable, not extreme, effort. I saw a lot of rabbits on the trail and only one copperhead—dead. There were no Avenger-webs.
Jeff City is crazy with steep hills. From the hill that the Salvation Army is on you can see across town to the hill the where the capitol sits. At dusk, I sat out on the porch with a couple of Army regulars, watching the sun set over the capital's burnished dome. It reminded me a lot of Charleston's capitol. I've come so far ...
June 8
Boy, oh boy, do my quads hurt. That biking wasn't cheating, it was cross training!
Although I to had to hike 23 miles today, I was surprisingly glad to be hiking it.
I'm on Route 50 now. Fifty runs coast-to-coast from Ocean City, Maryland, to San Francisco. From here on, I'll be following or paralleling it all the way. I’ve shivered happily more than once today with this thought. Twenty-three miles took me all the way to California (Missouri, that is) -- home of a turkey and a ham smokehouse, but not much else.
On my way into town, I met my first hitchhiker. We met on the same side of the road -- me facing traffic, him walking with it. He bragged that he was in Las Vegas last week, now headed for St. Louis. I told him where I was headed and how.
He said, “You're nuts! Walking is dangerous.”
I said, “You're nuts! Hitchhiking is dangerous.”
We both laughed. I guess we're both a little nuts.
Roy and Janet Morales and their eight year-old daughter, Elizabeth, are my hosts for the evening. Janet works for the California Democrat. Roy teaches high school Speech class. Elizabeth is the quintessential only child—very talkative, very lonely (she says so herself, often), and very creative. She presented me with this letter when I arrived:
Dear Visitor,
Welcome to the Morales Inn. I hope you like it here and also I want you to relax yourself and the morning buffet is cereal [list of cereals] and we also have toast also.
Love,
Elizabeth Morales.
On my pillow on the bunk beneath hers I found a mint wrapped in aluminum foil. It took a bit of squinting and tilting to see that she's done my portrait on the foil in crayola.
After dinner we went to see Roy's parents; his brother's family is visiting from Panama. Roy tried to tell them what I am doing in Portuguese. His sister-in-law, Lupe, had a difficult time grasping the idea of a 2,800-mile walk. Roy explained that the education system in Panama is very poor—they do not study geography, they have no concept of the size of North America.
The elder Mr. Morales told me that he once walked from end to end of Panama twice when he was my age. He said that first trip took fifteen hours; the second took twelve. I could have paced Panama over twenty times by now.
June 9
“You've got to be REALLY hungry.”
Susan Martin's husband is a member of the Tipton Ministerial Association in Syracuse, Missouri. Ten minutes after I arrived she’d found me a place to stay at the Twin Pines Hotel. Then she asked if I was hungry.
I said, “I always am.” She then took me to dinner at an incredible Amish restaurant.
The waitresses, in traditional Amish aprons and caps, served everything “home style.” First you choose your meat—I got baked chicken, “baked until its so tender it falls off the bone” says the menu. With your choice, they bring a cart full of side dishes to choose from: Green beans, mashed potatoes, creamed peas so sweet they taste like candy, house and cucumber salad, and thick slices of homemade bread. For dessert Susan and I split a piece of fresh strawberry pie; then we split another piece.
To complete this evening of hedonism, I took a long, hot shower, flipped on an Audrey Hepburn movie, and lied around naked for an hour. I can't keep my eyes open anymore.
June 10
Last year I told a friend that my life would be complete if I could find something every day that made me say “Wow.” Today, I saw my first ever full rainbow -- an arch of sharp color at least a mile long that ran up and over the road like a giant trellis.
Then it rained on me for two and a half hours.
After the rain, the smell of a wet cardboard box suddenly triggered the memory of being eight years old, playing in a refrigerator-box fort in the backyard. Then I could almost smell the apple fritters that Mom would make on rainy days. I haven't thought of that in at least a decade. I wanted badly then to turn to my sister or brother and say, “Hey, remember when ... ?”
Rainy days'll do that to you.
I'm staying with Oliver Weist, news room editor for the Sedalia Democrat, and his wife Christy Ann, who is six and a half months pregnant. At dinner, it occurred to me that it takes five months to walk across the country, but nine to have a child. I couldn’t keep myself from glancing at Christy Ann in awe at this thought. For the second time today I have to say, “Wow.”
The media surge continues. NBC Channel 8 from Columbia drove out and interviewed me for the 6 o’clock news this afternoon. The cameraman walked two miles with me – sprinting ahead or walking along side of me to get all possible angles. His stamina impressed me.
June 11
“Then two men in a van pulled over” is not the kind of statement that brings joy to a mother's heart. A mile outside Knob Noster's Whiteman Air Force Base, however, two men in a van did pull over. The driver had a medium build with short dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a thin beard. The passenger had broader shoulders, a wide face, and looked somewhat scruffy thick, longish blond hair. Both had a beer in one hand.
When you've been on the road a while, your sixth sense about people gets sharp—it has to be. Despite my first impression, I still felt strongly that these guys were on the level. I approached cautiously and stood more than arm's length from the passenger-side door, grateful that the men hadn't gotten out of the car.
“Hi there,” said the driver. “You look like you might need a lift. I’m on my way to Kansas City. I know I don't look like the most upstanding citizen right now, but it’s been a long day. I just got back from picking up my dad's stuff. He died ten days ago.”
The guy in the passenger seat backed him up, “Yeah, man, I can vouch for him, he is totally cool. I came along to help.”
“Thanks, guys. I believe you, but I can't accept the offer. I'm walking from Virginia to California. I have to walk the whole way.”
They kept trying, apparently thinking that I was just using an excuse to refuse their well-meant offer.
After several minutes of back-and-forth, the driver said, “Well, I live in a little suburb of Kansas City. If you need a place to crash for a few days -- shower, laundry, whatever -- just give me a call.”
He wrote his phone number and name, Chris Hales, on a slip of paper. Then he tried again to offer me a ride.
“Thanks, really, but I can't.”
“Well, how about you let us buy you a BBQ dinner then. It's just down the road.”
“Can't do it guys” I smiled.
Finally, they moved on ... and came back ten minutes later with a carryout BBQ ham sandwich and two Pepsis.
I laughed. I grinned. I took the proffered Styrofoam carton and promised that I would call in three days.
Although I was only fifty feet from the Knob Noster AFB exit, I sat by the side of the road to eat my BBQ dinner. It wasn’t the best-tasting pork I've ever had, but it certainly was the sloppiest. I completely ruined my appetite for the church picnic that I didn't know was waiting for me at the Catholic church on base.
The whole congregation was waiting to meet me after their Saturday night mass. When I told some of them about my recent encounter, they were understandably concerned. How could I explain that those strangers in the van were every bit as safe in my eyes as they are? Am I being naive? As I said before, when you've been on the road awhile, you get a feel for people fast.
June 12
A short day today -- only ten miles to Warrensburg -- so I agreed to attend morning services with last night’s hostess, the organ player at the church.
It was my first Catholic mass. I tried to follow along with protocol as best I could. Gwen, the lieutenant in charge of maintaining the chapel, introduced herself. She reminded me of Colonel Kane with her eminently easy-going manner. I talked about graduation and she talked about retirement. She said she plans to teach business classes at the local college, but she's going to take clowning classes on the side. She’s always sort of wanted to be a clown, she says. I wonder if more people would “allow” themselves such creative actions if they had more transition time in their lives to do so. Maybe it’s our job to make that space in our daily lives.
Part of Gwen’s job is setting up the alcove at the front of the church. Groups have a choice of Catholic (with a crucifix hanging on the back wall), Protestant (a plain cross), or nondenominational (closed curtain). When the service began, she said goodbye. I was alone in the back pew.
Father Ray Leurk has the rare ability to look serene and sprightly at the same time. His sermon this morning was about the Good Samaritan. He asked me stand while he told the story of how he heard about me. He'd been writing today's sermon and having a tough time of it when someone called to ask if he had a place for me to stay. He said he had been “given the opportunity” to help me, which seemed pretty ironic from this side of things. I'm the one who's getting all the luck.
Next, Father Leurk asked for prayer requests. Several people made them -- one in particular drew my attention. A pretty girl with straight dirty-blond hair stood up and said, “I would like to ask for a prayer of thanksgiving for the people who adopted my son. He will be four years old soon”
When she sat down again, I couldn't stop staring at the back of the her head. My head filled up with questions: Why did she give it up? How did she end up pregnant? Is the guy sitting with her the father?
I wondered what the other parishioners were thinking. This is a Catholic church, and premarital sex is a big no-no. The twists that life has taken for other people my age always interest me — “there but for the grace ...” Also, it also took my mind off the question of what to do for Communion.
When Communion time came, everyone dutifully filed out of their pews to receive the host and drink from the cup. I received the host in my hand and walked past the chalice without drinking from it when I saw other people walk by too.
On the way back to my seat, one of the parishioners stopped me and took the host from my hand. She said, kindly enough, “You're not allowed.”
It didn't bother me all that much. I figured, “Well, I tried.”
Gwen, however, was very upset. She slid in next to me again and whispered, “When I was fifteen, I went to mass for the first time with a friend who told me, 'You're not allowed.' I saw what that woman just did. I think that's terrible.”
Gwen introduced me to the Protestant minister who shook my hand and said that not all religions are as “cliquish” as Catholicism. I thanked them both for their concern and assured them that I was not offended.
I could never adopt a religion that excludes those who wish to take part in it, but I understand the mentality that you have to earn the right to participate in certain rituals. My version of God is accepting; that's important to know since I'm still working on what my version of God is.
This Sunday was Donut Sunday, so the parishioners gathered in the back room to talk and eat. The girl that I couldn’t keep my eyes off of earlier was part of the group with the usual questions and encouragement for me. I learned her name and that she is two years younger than I am. She was more enthusiastic than anyone to help me. She also just happened to live in Warrensburg, my next stop, and insisted that I visit her there this evening. I couldn't help marveling at how easily she and I came together. I guess she was as curious about me as I was about her.
Actually, the Warrensburg Star-Journal is putting me up at the Days Inn tonight. Their reporter bought me dinner at the Country Kitchen next door. After the chicken salad and the interview I asked him to drop me off at the college library.
Synchronicity prevailed. When I called Anne’s number from the library, her roommate said that Anne was on her way to the library herself to get some class notes. For a couple of hours, I got to hang out with Anne and some of her friends. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d spent time with people my age. We ate super-greasy fries, debated the finer points of satire in “The Simpsons” TV show, and laughed a lot. It was just like an evening in Tucker Lounge back at school.
When you are in college, everyone tells you to hang on to the time before graduation because those are the best of your life. This thinking is so limiting! What are the next 50 years for then? Waiting for death? I truly believe that if you look forward to every day as another chance for greatness, all your days will be memorable. Still, I do miss the gang. Where else can you find such a large population of people the same age with similar interests who are living together but at college? Communes are scarce and I'm not quite ready for a retirement home.
On the way back to the hotel, Anne told me about the adoption. She said that she’s not actually a member of the Catholic church. She was just visiting with her friend who is a member and, yes, is also the father of the child she gave up for adoption.
“I'm just a very open person,” she said. “I love my son and I feel open enough about my decision that I can stand up the way I did. Many times women, some in tears, have approached me after a service. They all thank me for my honesty when they've given children up for adoption themselves.”
I still didn’t completely understand, but Anne impressed me with her self-assurance. She showed no signs of the guilt or regret I've always thought women who give up a child must feel. After all, it's called “giving up” -- not “lending” or “temporarily forfeiting.” Anne has no doubt that her relationship with her son will endure through the pictures and phone calls that she shares with his adoptive family.
I wonder how the adoptive family feels about this arrangement. Do they lie awake fearing that Anne will want her baby back some day, or are they too busy loving the child they've wanted for so long? I have never been a pregnant 16-year-old, and I've always thought that if I'm ever going to have a baby I would want it to be my own flesh and blood. What if I couldn't have a baby that was my flesh and blood?
It's obvious I have some thinking to do on this subject. Fortunately, I have several hundred miles in which to do it.
June 13
Today I learned the lesson that you cannot blindly depend on churches to be safe havens. I learned this in a town called Pittsville.
There isn't much in Pittsville, its only redeeming quality is that it's halfway between Warrensburg and Lee's Summit, a suburb of Kansas City where the Lee's Summit Journal awaits my arrival.
Neither Bonnie nor the paper could find a place for me to stay in Pittsville. The paper sent one of its interns out to suggest that I go with him to Lee's Summit and have someone drive me back to Pittsville tomorrow. That was out of the question -- I’d learned that lesson in West Virginia.
“Look,” I said, “if there's a church, there's a place for me to stay.” This I knew, or think I knew until now.
The girl at the convenience store said that there was only one church in town, a Baptist church. She called the minister for me and he said that he'd come right away. By this time, the store was beginning to fill up with local residents eager to see what all the fuss was. I was big news.
When the pastor and his wife arrived, they introduced themselves and I started explaining my situation. I hadn't explained much when the pastor’s wife interrupted me.
“What are you, stupid? I've never heard of such a stupid idea. You mean you have NO money? Of course, this is just my opinion, but you sound kind of crazy to me.”
I was stunned by what seemed like a deliberate attempt to humiliate me in front of everyone in the store.
What could I say?
I said, “Actually, I spent four months planning this.”
I tried to explain all the research I did and how wonderful it’s been having churches help me along the way. It was no good. The pastor stood by silently through our exchange, and then suggested that we get my pack off and get in the van.
I followed the pastor outside. His wife stayed inside, presumably to continue expressing her amazement at my stupidity. It was obvious who was wearing the pants in the family, and it wasn't the pastor. I tried to see strength in his acquiescence. He seemed very kind himself; he asked if I'd eaten dinner yet and when I admitted that I hadn't he said he'd do something about that.
“My wife may seem a little overboard at times. We just moved from Illinois, you see. We've had some run-ins with people who make a living out of going to the church for help—drunks and wandering free-loaders, you know.”
“Well sir, I don't drink and I'll be gone tomorrow. I'm not asking for any money, just a place to sleep for the night.”
On the ride home, the pastor’s wife continued to jab at me with questions. Questions like “So what exactly do you think you're going to do when you get to San Francisco?”
The moment I opened my mouth to reply, she turned away and began talking to her husband, ignoring me. When I saw that she wasn't listening and stopped answering, she turned and demanded another answer, ignoring me again when I answered.
When we got to the house, the pastor pointed out a spot in the yard where I could pitch my tent and followed his wife inside.
“Um, I wouldn't suggest setting it up near the dog house, it's not too clean there.”
As I pulled my tent out of its sack and begin setting it up, four children appeared just outside the door. They stared at me for a moment and then retreated inside, despite my attempts at friendly conversation.
“I like your boots,” to the little red-headed boy in cowboy boots brought a whispered “thank you” as he turned away.
A blond, spikey-haired neighbor boy, William, was the only one who stood by and talked to me. He introduced his scruffy orange dog, Jake, and asked the usual ten-year-old questions: “Where are you going? Aren't you scared? Have you seen any bears?”
I will never tire of children's questions, they are always the most sincere.
When I had set my tent up, I looked around. The pastor's yard was deserted. I wasn’t not sure if I should knock or consider myself dismissed for the evening.
“Gee, William,” I said, “it looks like I've been abandoned.”
Just then, the pastor's wife appeared again. She stuck her head out the door and said “Excuse me, but would you mind sleeping over by the church? It's only three blocks down the street. My children are afraid to play in the yard.”
That's when I broke down. Ashamed for no fault of my own, I began disassembling my tent. A little red-headed girl came out and stared at me again.
I mumbled, “I'm going. I didn't mean to scare you.”
At that, all the kids filed out and started shooting hoops on the driveway, totally heedless of my presence. I was trying to get my stuff together without letting the heat in my face turn to tears when William reappeared with his younger sister, Christine. I hadn't seen her yet. She must have been watching from the window.
The girl ran toward me, thin blond hair streaming out behind her. She shouted, “Stray lady! Stray lady! You can stay with us!”
The mother of these two ragged angels, Evie Stephens, shooed the two dogs away from the door and invited me in for a cold glass of ice tea.
She apologized for her neighbors by explaining, “They're from Illinois.”
So it is that I ended up spending the night with the Stephens family. I watched Disney movies William and Christine, and listened to Evie talk nonchalantly about her life. She spoke unflinchingly about her ex-husband's abuse, how he once threw William across a room and how he beat her almost to death several times.
We were sitting in the same room with the kids and I can't help glancing at their faces. I could tell they were half-listening while we watched the movies.
Evie said, “I know people say you shouldn't talk about this in front of your kids, but we'll never forget what he did to us. We don't want to, do we William?”
The boy nodded. I wondered how much he really agreed. Evie also told me about how the pastor's wife once condemned her in front of the entire congregation for being a “sinner” because she lived with her husband before she married him. I thought about how Evie took me in sight unseen. She fed me and found a place for me to sleep in this tiny trailer home while the pastor’s wife glared suspiciously at us from their two-story house.
I was reminded of Father Ray's sermon on the Good Samaritan. In the story, a beggar is lying beside the road hurt. He calls to a Christian and then a Nazarite for help – both very pious men, but both refuse to help. The Samaritan is the heretic of the three, and he’s the one that helps. The moral of the story is that sometimes “Christian charity” is more about how you act than what you call yourself. I want to nail that passage to the church’s front door, but I know that pastor’s wife would see the nail hole and not the note.
The most important thing for me to take from this experience is the knowledge and thankfulness that there are more people are like Evie than her neighbors.
June 14
It was a long, hard walk into Lee's Summit. Most of Route 50 in Missouri is wide-shouldered and gently rolling, as if someone put a four-lane road through a golf course. However, it is inevitable that the closer you get to a city, the more traffic there is. I was relieved beyond words to finally reach town and fall into the hands of the Journal and the Ministerial Association.
Pastor Nath set me up at the Best Western and handed me ten dollars for dinner. He asking me to call if there was anything else I needed. He had no idea how striking his kindness was after last night.
I asked the people at the hotel’s front desk how to get to the grocery store. They gave me driving directions. I stood at the corner feeling ironic. Sure, I can find my way across a country, but getting across the neighborhood was an insurmountable task.
When a lady pulled up to the stoplight next to me singing along with her radio, I asked if she knew how to get to the nearest grocery store. She said that she was headed that way on her way to visit her aunt in the hospital, and offered to give me a ride.
This is as close as I’ve gotten to hitchhiking. When I told the woman that I was going to get dinner, she offered to pick me up after her visit and give me a lift back to the hotel. She suggested the nearby diner as an alternative to eating in the parking lot.
I tried the diner, but since it was after seven, I ate my double-decker BLT in an empty room with a waitress who was attentive but obviously ready to close promptly at eight.
I didn't ask for dessert. Instead, I get myself some Ben & Jerry's NY Super Fudge Chunk at the grocery store. I read somewhere once that chocolate has the same chemicals in it that being in love triggers and I could sure use some love right about now. The more good people I meet, the harder it is to be alone.
June 15
The first conversation I had with Joan Dempsey began normally enough. I told her when I thought I would arrive; she asked questions about my route and told me the best times that my visit would fit into her busy schedule.
“All right, Joan,” I said. “Thanks for your help. I'll see you in a couple weeks.”
“Yes,” she replied. “And I have a daughter ... her name is Kathy ... and she's a nurse ... Her birthday is August 29 ...”
After hanging up the phone, I stared uncomprehendingly at the receiver for several seconds. I couldn't figure out what I'd missed.
Joan is most comfortable behind the wheel of her luxury van. She is a big woman, a fact that she's not above pointing out herself. When we stopped for gas, she pulled into the full service lane and announced, “I've got no objections to paying the extra pennies so I don't have to stand out there.”
She seemed used to stating her faults before others get the chance. I couldn't decide if she was being defensive, honest, or both.
As it turned out, Joan was busy the day that I arrived and the house was already full. Still, she took it upon herself to show me the sites of Independence: Valle mansion, Truman library, and the giant steel spiral of the Church of Latter-Day Saints' temple. When we toured the LDS auditorium, Joan displayed a part of her character that I was not prepared to see.
She tempered her suggestion that we tour the temple with a subsequent lack of interest in all that we saw there. She claimed that this was because she came here once before several years ago. She wanted to see a film that she saw when she was here before, but none of the guides have any idea what she's talking about – it has been a few years. I began to wonder then if Joan isn't one of those people that do things so that they can complain that they are doing them.
Obviously, part of the purpose of the temple tour is to start the listener on the road to conversion. Joan cut our cheerful guide's offers to elaborate on early Mormon life short. When the girl asked our religious affiliation, I replied, “Searching,” readily enough. Joan stonewalled, which is her right. The guide didn't understand why she wouldn't tell and kept asking until Joan stopped answering all together. Then the girl stared dumbly at her for a moment before continuing.
I could just imagine her thinking, “Oh, this woman must be sent from the devil. That explains it.”
Halfway through the tour, Joan told our guide about what I'm doing. The girl immediately wanted to hug me, and did -- several times. She began comparing her mission with mine -- all Mormons are required to take a year-long journey to spread the Word and affirm their faith.
Then Joan mentioned that I might need some assistance. I told her about my bike ride and that I wouldn't be averse to biking again if circumstances allowed it. Apparently, Joan took that as her cue to get me a bike. She first asked our guide if the church has some sort of fund to help travelers. She then argued that the church should give me a bike.
While I appreciated Joan's gesture, this was not what I intended at all. The girl stammered excuses and finally called the bike rental shop on grounds. They offered to sell us a bike for two hundred dollars. I smiled earnestly, honestly, and somewhat shamefully, and felt like an unwilling accomplice in a heist.
Joan took me out for Chinese before she dropped me off at the library for Chris Hales to retrieve me. She only ate half of her meal, instructing me on the virtues of saving the rest for later as she panted her way back to the van.
“I was expecting you yesterday. I figured you had passed through already.”
Chris seems as relieved to hear from me as I was that he was home to get my call. He picked me up in the same van that he’d been driving when I met him.
He joked, “Are you sure you don’t have to walk to my house?”
Chris has the undeniably button-down job of medical researcher for a chiropractic surgeon. I figured him for a building contractor or an artist—someone who works with his hands. Instead, he lives a relatively normal life in a house in the suburbs with his girlfriend and her two sons. It’s his attitude that makes him unusual—Chris has the eyes of a man who’s not done partying yet.
He’s almost twenty years older than I am, but Chris and I speak with the same passion about music and life. We both nodded our heads to the slow beat of Morphine and jumped around when he put Jane’s Addiction on the CD player. I blissed out -- not having heard either of these bands since I put them in my stereo back home. Musical taste is such an identifier. If you like the same music, you speak the same language.
Part of Chris’s job is to entertain visiting surgeons. Tonight, to entertain a highly renowned Japanese surgeon and his wife and young daughter, we all went out to a Japanese steak house for dinner. It was one of those places where the chef cooks everything on a big grill in front of you, juggles his spatulas, and tosses shrimp into everybody's mouths.
Neither the doctor nor his family spoke much English. Chris had a great time instructing his guest in such aspects of popular American culture as baseball, mini skirts, and the phrase “T & A." Towards the end of the meal, the two men snuck off to do shots of saki. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh with the men or roll my eyes with the women. Still, it was nice to be part of yet another family.
Tomorrow, Kansas.

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