Episode 21: Rapid City: The Lazy U. (2012)

As I've mentioned before, left to my own druthers, I pick a direction and wander... maybe with some fixed point, but not always. I had a vague notion of going to the west coast because I'd never been further west than Minneapolis. My stops were dictated by where the bus stopped and how long it would be when the schedule heading the general direction I wanted to go was pulling out.

So I ended up in Rapid City without much of a plan.

The first thing I did was get a beer and some food that wasn't trail mix or bus station muffins. The beer was cold and cheap. The food was overpriced and not particularly good. But it did give me time to think and ponder my options. I did have a little money to find a bed; but I didn't have a lot of it and I had to make it stretch. The next bus heading towards Billings was in a couple of days. Foremost, though maybe not first, Rapid City is a tourist town. It's a more spit and polished version of Cripple Creek, Colorado: wild, wild west meets plucky people and pesky uncomfortable history that, when looked at too long and examined too deeply, uncovers some truly terrible things that never made it into a Macmillian public school history textbook. But there's a lot of spittoon quality brassy things, saloons, casinos, and statues of presidents and robber barons who visited once upon a time.

There are also tourist priced hotels and motels. All the usual chains. When it comes to chain motels, I look for Super 8 or Motel 6; this isn't an endorsement, by the way. It's just that they used to be pretty good for stretching the coin a little further than it would normally. And I wasn't disappointed in that regard because there WAS a Super 8. It was a two mile walk up Mt. Rushmore Road, through the heart of the downtown passed that polished spittoon brass and statues, leading to the store front casinos that advertised services like cashing social security checks.

Walking up Mt. Rushmore road was as close to a cathartic experience as I think I've ever had. My pack was a little too heavy for the travel I was doing and my feet weren't in great shape. I was enamored of the big sky and the the palette of colors, but the casinos, almost all of them cheap storefronts meant to draw locals off and away from the tourist traps – or to give the people working in a tourist economy some respite from gawkers and grab assers. Walking that incline was the inspiration for the first scrap of lines that became my first travel chapbook, The Crossing of St. Frank. It was the first place where I first peaked the savage beauty of … everything, really, and where I realized that you can't have beauty without the savage, and vice versa.

After about a mile and a half up the road, I spied a small motor inn, straight out of age of Route 66: The Lazy U. The sun was down. It was getting dark. Fast. I'd been on and off buses since Minneapolis and hadn't slept in a bed in three or four days. I could have kept walking to the Super 8, but decided that it wouldn't hurt to check at the Lazy U. I liked the look of the place; not pretentious. Family owned.

The older married couple that owned place were very kind. I told them my story – the short version, anyway – and that I needed a room for a two nights. They didn't have one room for two nights, but they let me stay in one room that night and agreed to let me switch the following day.

This is the beauty of family owned businesses; they can bend their policy if they see fit. The room was wonderfully uncomplicated. The bed was comfortable. The shower – felt like a revelation. That couple was among the most humane I met on that trip and I have never forgotten them.

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 21 of Record of a Well Worn Pair of Traveling Boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 22 in a couple of weeks.

If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots. You get additional access, including special Patron Only Podcast Episodes and other goodies starting at $1 a month! That's right! For the cost of a cup of coffee in 1995, you can support stories and art you enjoy. www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

The Lazy U Motel, Rapid City, SD.

Episode 20, Part 2: Lapped by Larry the Cable Guy

Part 2

After I got to my room, I showered and then slept for a few hours. My plan going out to Williston was to check out the tent city and maybe find some people who'd be willing to talk.  From there, maybe get a ride out to the oil fields and see the drilling and fracking first hand.  

Except that by the time I arrived, Wal-Mart had made everyone leave; apparently the corporate headquarters in Arkansas didn't want Waltonvilles to catch on in the media imagination; exploiting employees to the point of underpaying them so they still need public assistance is one thing, but having totally dependent communities pop up in their parking lots made it a little too obvious that Wal-Marts control and manipulate the economies of every town they build in. 

But there was still the bar. The motel I stayed in, like every other motel in town, had a bar with some “casino style gaming.” I couldn't help but think of the westerns I used to watch with my old man; boom towns full of  lonely men with too much time, too much money. Then there was the flood of younger workers willing to do the job cheaper, like some of the ones who'd gotten off the same train as me ... the corporation's guarantee against organized labor being TOO organized.  Lots of anger bubbling underneath everything – an entire cache just waiting to be mined.

I went down to the bar. They had one bottle of Kentucky branch water, but it was one I favored, so I ordered an overpriced shot and a bottle of Coors Lite. The place was dark, like a closet. The only real light shone in from the motel hallway, the television behind the bar, and the light hanging over the roulette wheel. The woman running the wheel looked  almost too young to be in a bar. She was all trussed up and over painted. No one was playing roulette. She looked bored. The bartender was older and probably welcomed the dim light behind the bar, though she was still dressed pushing forward what she'd been told were her best attributes. I was the only one at the bar, and she figured out quickly that I probably couldn't afford a long night of boom town priced bourbon. 

There was one other person in the bar: a man sitting alone at one of the few tables scattered in the small space.  He was half in shadow, sipping on brown liquor in a rocks glass. He could've been chiseled from the ground, formed from the fracking tar.  I tried engaging him in some conversation, but he wouldn't have it. Then his cell phone rang. 

His voice was as gravely as the rest of him.  Between the noise of the TV, the noise from the hallway, and the music on the jukebox, I couldn't hear much of what he was talking about: yes, he was going to send money home as soon as he got paid; no, there wasn't much of a chance he'd get away any time soon. I wondered how long since he'd been home.

“Not with all these kids coming up here,” I heard him say. “They work cheap. Push good men out, and then can't hack the work, and the rest of us have to work harder to make it up.” 

There were some other choice words he used. “Soft” was one of them. I couldn't help but wonder if he was talking louder for my benefit. I never got around to telling him I wasn't there looking for work, but a story. 

I ordered another round. “Don't listen to him,” the bartender said.  “He's been here a long time. He's cranky.” 

So I told her why I was Williston. After all, bartenders have good stories. They hear everything. And even if she didn't want to tell me a story I could include, she could point me in the right direction.

“You mean like that TV guy? Larry the Cable Guy? Are you with his crew?” She sounded almost interested. Almost.

I blinked. She noticed right away that I wasn't with the crew. Her almost interest evaporated. Then she told me that Larry the Cable Guy had been there for about a week, recording around town, and out at one of the drilling camps. 

And there it was. And I knew the story he was going to tell. I didn't watch him, but I knew the show. It was one of those reality TV shows where he goes around and shows off American spunk and hard work. And I didn't have to watch the episode when it came out to know that he wasn't going to talk about the recently erased Waltonville or the painted girl on the roulette wheel, or the bartender, who seemed to enjoy taking the wind out of my sails, or even the field worker on his phone railing against youth and laziness. 

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 20, Part 2 of Record of a Well Worn Pair of Traveling Boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 21 in a couple of weeks. 

If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.  You get additional access, including special Patron Only Podcast Episodes and other goodies starting at $1 a month! That's right! For the cost of a cup of coffee in 1995, you can support stories and art you enjoy.   www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

Episode 20, Part 1: Lapped by Larry the Cable Guy

The first whisper of a Spring wind gets my itchy foot going. It's April I'm mindful that around March or April, I'm usually out on jaunt.  This wasn't something I planned; but I have noticed that while I can take to the shoe pretty much anytime, I'm more compelled during transitional seasons.  

But I'm not the only one who's normal routines have been suspended, so I just want to thank you, especially now, for making this podcast a part of your outbreak survival strategy. 

And now: Lapped by Larry the Cable Guy, Part 1:

The coverage of the tent city that had grown in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Williston, North Dakota, caught my attention.  Not only because of... well... that it was a tent city, but the reason. Fracking had taken off in that corner of North Dakota, which had been an oil mining area since the first wildcat well on April 4th, 1951. Williston sits on the Williston Basin, which includes the Bakken Formation, an oil rich pocket that is still producing and, by conservative estimates, will for a while.  So it had been a boom town for a long time. But now there was fracking, and people were going up to Williston to get their piece of it... or at least, get paid getting a corporation their piece of it.

Now, much has been said of fracking and this episode isn't enough to cover all that; but let's assume for the telling that I see fracking as both the environmental catastrophe and the new American gold rush... which, if you've studied the Gold Rush or the history of coal mining in depth, you'd know that those two things are not ever really separate.   

But that wasn't the story I wanted to tell. What drew me in... and what I saw lacking in the coverage... was how the people working there were living. The tent city sprouted because the influx of people making a lot of money caused real estate prices to hit the moon... and what little available housing there was in Williston, which was still pretty much a small town with a single Main Street, one major a bank, two bars, and one strip club... as well as the usual number of churches, of course... had run out of affordable, available housing. As a matter of fact, the … again conservative... estimates I'd found in my initial research was that in 2013, the cost of real estate in Williston was roughly higher than the cost of real estate in Mid-town Manhattan.  

I wanted to tell that story. I wanted to know how people were creating life for themselves in the midst of this boomtown that exploded. It felt like one of Those Stories... a story that reflected the point where America was, at that precise moment. There are events that feel more distilled than others. And this story about so much money floating around but no way to live even if you're one of the ones making the money... that's an imbalance which can't last very long. That was an American tale, if ever I heard one.

I rode the Empire Builder out of Chicago, and along the way made a short stop in Rugby, North Dakota. Rugby is the geographic center of the North American continent, and it seemed important to stop there. Rugby is a small farm town. It was summer, and they had a town-wide music and ice cream social every Wednesday in the park. The downtown didn't have many bars, but there were a few store front casinos that reminded me of the ones I'd seen in Rapid City a year before, the ones that advertise that they cash social security checks.

Williston was busy when the westbound train pulled in. A lot of people got off the train with me. A few got one. There were buses and trucks to meet people. There was a definite difference between those returning for work and those coming to look for work. I'd read that a large number of people went there to work and send money home; not a good place to uproot a family and go to.  True, the old wagon trains were replaced by pick ups and tanker trucks; but it seemed like most everyone knew this boomtown north of the Badlands wasn't going to last.

I had managed to secure a place to stay; but that wasn't easy. And it wasn't cheap. And, it was clear on the opposite end of town, out the bypass. And Williston didn't have much in the way of public transport, except for taxis, and I didn't even want to guess at the mark up on that ride. So I took to my boots and walked it. 

A note about North Dakota in July. It's hotter than you might think if you're not experienced with that part of the country. It's all big sky country, wide and flat with nowhere to hide from anything – including the sun. It also took me longer to get there on foot than I planned – long enough, in fact that the motel called to verify that I was actually coming. Because if I wasn't, or if I hadn't answered the phone...and I don't always when I don't know the number … then I would have lost my spot. My spot was the last spot to be had for that night that didn't involve trying to sleep outside. 

So I was really glad I answered the phone... and that the battery still held a charge. 

The first strip club and bar I walked by out of the train station – almost directly across the street from the municipal building – both had signs posted that specifically banned bags, backpacks, and instrument cases. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to check on that one. Bag bans aren't anything new, but I hadn't before... or since... seen a ban on instrument cases. It just seemed... I don't know... uncivilized.  

The traffic was nonstop and the line just to get into the bank lobby created a medium-sized crowd on the sidewalk.  Even after I got out of the downtown strip, the amount of people never diminished. I walked by 5 other motels, and all of them had  “NO VACANCY” signs. But they all advertised bars with casino-style games. I got to my motel... the last motel right next to the Wal-Mart where the Tent City was, and found the proprietor to be relieved. 

“I had a guy on stand-by in case you didn't show,” he said. 

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 20, Part 1 of Record of a Well Worn Pair of Traveling Boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 20, Part 2, in two weeks. 

If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.  You get additional access, including special Patron Only Podcast Episodes, extra access, and goodies starting at $1 a month! That's right! For the cost of a cup of coffee in 1995, you can support stories and art you enjoy.   www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

Episode 18, Part 2: Visiting Mother Jones (2012): Solidarity in strange places

Welcome to Part 2 of Episode 18! Before I dive in I wanted to be sure and share the great news that Record of a Well Worn Pair of Travel Boots is now a part of The Cross Pods Tribe! I'm more excited about this collaboration than I can express. Be sure to check out The Cross Pods network for more of the same kind of podcasting you enjoy here. Thanks! And now...

This trip taught me to not rate my Google Fu as highly as I previously had. But my faith... one I hold now, even though I don't drink anymore... in dive bars was vindicated.

Walking into Mt. Olive Illinois, I got the distinct impression that my plan to sleep there was probably not going to work out. Mt. Olive is a small town holding onto itself; or it was in 2012. There was still some light industry there, and a whole lot of south Illinois farm land covered in soy. In some ways, it reminded me of the place I grew up... a place fighting itself, jumping the broom and back between forging a new identity in post-industrial America and stubbornly waiting for time to simply erase it off the map. This was different than my initial research of the place, which indicated that there were at least three industrial sites there. That made sense to me, given it's history.

I followed Route 66 into town. There was a lot of traffic, which, I took for a good sign. Small towns where no one needs to get around and there's very little traffic on a decent midweek day around noon already have one lane heading into the dust. I've seen towns like that, and it's really, really sad. Sadder even than the odd ghost town that is most of Route 66. The abandoned skeletons along Route 66 still serve a purpose, and are, even in their disrepair, respected. When a small town is in the process of dying... and when it KNOWS it's dying... you can taste the rot on the air.

Getting there had taken me longer than even my overage of Google's estimate, and I was sort of counting on being able to spend the night there to recharge my batteries and plan the next leg... which was to walk to Carlinville and catch the train north.

To orient myself and to maybe have a wee bit of beer, I stopped in at the 2^nd bar I found. I stopped mainly because of the name: Crawdaddies. It looked small, local, and I liked the resonance of a New Orleans reference. The bar was sparsely populated: a handful of old men, probably retired and holding up bar stools they had earned with many afternoons after the time clock, and one woman, probably about the same age as me. The bartender looked like he'd been the bartender for as long as he'd been drinking himself. He was sipping on short glass of beer. The place was wonderfully devoid of cameras used by most owners to spy on their employees.

All conversation stopped when I walked in. I chose a stool close to the door, mainly because it was close but also in case I needed to leave. After a few really long ticks of the clock, the bartender came over and asked what I wanted. I told him I wanted whatever light beer they had on tap. He pointed behind him and said there weren't any taps. I asked for a Miller Lite. He asked to see my ID and was visually pleased when I paid in cash.

When he brought me a deliciously ice cold can of beer, he asked what I was in town for. I told him I was going to visit the Union Miner's Cemetery, where Mother Jones was buried. He nodded as if what I said read to what his initial impression of me was. I told him I'd walked in on Route 66. He told me the cemetery was on the north side of town. I thanked him, then ordered another beer and a hamburger. He nodded. I seemed right enough... if, for no other reason, than my choice in domestic beer over something overpriced he probably kept back for hipsters and trust fund “radicals.”

The beer was refreshing and the burger was filling. As I was getting ready to leave the woman approached me. She was attractive, full-hipped, with dark hair. She told me she was heading back to work and could give me a ride to the cemetery. I graciously accepted her offer, drained the last of my beer, and left a tip on the bar. I'd wanted a third, but I knew where that would end. It was time to go.

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 18, Part 2 of a Record of a Well Worn Pair of Traveling Boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 18, Part 3 in two weeks.

If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots. You get additional access, including special Patron Only Podcast Episodes, extra access, and goodies starting at $1 a month! That's right! For the cost of a cup of coffee in 1995, you can support stories and art you enjoy. www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

Episode 18, Part 1: Visiting Mother Jones

Welcome to Episode 18! Before I dive in I wanted to be sure and share the great news that Record of a Well Worn Pair of Travel Boots is now a part of The Cross Pods Tribe! I'm more excited about this collaboration than I can express. Be sure to check out The Cross Pods network for more of the same kind of podcasting you enjoy here. Thanks! And now...

I really only had a rough idea where I was going. This happens to me more often than not, though my wife would prefer I planned things better. The plan was simple; I was going to walk from Staunton, Illinois to Mt. Olive, and then maybe stay there, maybe not, before walking north along Route 66 to Carlinville to catch the train into Springfield, and then to Chicago.  I planned enough to look at a map and see that it was possible and Google Maps marked it at a tick over two hours, heading north along Route 66. Other than that I was trusting the road, the universe, the will of Heaven, and my own two feet.

And maybe a kind driver or two who might take pity on a traveler and give me a lift.

Let me say that on this last point I was, admittedly, thoroughly naive. Because what I learned was that downstaters are, in general, a cautious bunch. And I can't say I blame them much. We do not live in idyllic times and me, a road dirty monkey that looks the exact opposite of a wide-eyed youth out to see America, doesn't engender much sympathy.

The short version: I'm probably too ugly to hitchhike.

And though I DO walk at a slower clip than Google Map insists I should … I've talked about that before, on “Episode 14: Beyond the Painted Falls” …  I felt like I could certainly make it to Mount Olive in less than a day.

I ambled along, letting my mind wander. Cars rolled by, mostly not slowing down, and none even vaguely LOOKING like they're going to offer me a ride. But that was ok, really. I like to walk, and always have, even though I've had decades where it was incredibly painful to do so. My feet have given me problems since I was a kid, and since I spent most of my adult life without insurance of any kind, in 2012 they still did. They're better NOW, but they do still give me issues from time to time that additional insoles handle, more or less.

In a car, this stretch of road was a tick or two over 12 minutes; and so I wasn't all that worried. Everything was farm land, and every five acres or so, a farm house.  Taking that little stretch of road at slower pace gave me the chance to pay attention to things. Like there's actually 2 stretches of Route 66, right next to each other...because it was laid out twice before the interstates took over and Route 66 was effectively written off the map, except for old ones that marked state routes with a blue line and in the imaginations of car enthusiasts all over the country.  The original Route 66 was being broken up and swallowed by earth, grass and weeds growing through the cracks. It wasn't much wider than the edge of a modern interstate. The newer Route 66 was only in slightly better shape, mostly because it was still graded occasionally so locals could use it.I walked by what used to be a couple of motels. A few rooms, and what looked like a restaurant with a breakfast counter. One had a gas station. I was surprised the old Route 66 signage hadn't been stolen and sold on eBay, but had been allowed to stay posted: to rust and rot in place, continuing on its original purpose, guiding random wanderers along a crumbling path through a faded and nearly forgotten past.

We're still a car culture, but it's not the same.  Things don't stay the same. There's nothing wrong with that; it's natural. Things are, fade, and then pass away.  But not too fast.

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 18 of a Record of a Pair of Well-Worn Traveling boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 18, Part 2 in two weeks.

If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.  You get additional access, including special Patron Only Podcast Episodes, extra access, and goodies starting at $1 a month! That's right! For the cost of a cup of coffee in 1995, you can   www.patreon.com/wellwornboots.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

Episode 17: Zuccotti Park

I turned 40 in New York. It was February 2012 and I was almost a month into a year of living on the road, hopping from bus to bus, station to station, and, when I was fortunate, couch to couch. Luckily, I had friends in New York – dear friends from my teaching days who were kind enough to put me up for a few days. Part of the reason I wanted to go to New York during what's arguably one of the least hospitable seasons was because of a not-too-old argument with my ex about the Occupy Movement and wanting to be involved. We were living in rural Illinois, up in Mount Carroll, where she worked at a well-regarded summer stock theater and I had talked my way into writing for one of the local newspapers and had developed a reputation for both creative word-smithing and for not caring much about people's feelings. All journalists – all the ones worth paying attention to, anyway – have always been muckrakers. In spite of the mythic reputation of the press having been unbiased once upon a time, real journalists, from Ida B. Wells to Woodward and Bernstein, have been muckrakers. And regardless of the also mythic wholesome nothingness of small town life, the fact is that small towns are probably rife with more intrigue than anyone one wants to admit... including small town folks who cling to the idea that theirs is a removed and idyllic life.

But I wanted a change. I felt like if I could just find The Big Story to write, then maybe I could find a larger audience and a larger voice. And as I watched the Occupy movement take shape, I realized two things:

• that I agreed with and wanted to be involved with the Occupy movement; and
• that I could write about it in a way that I wasn't seeing anywhere.

I mentioned this to my then-wife in passing. She responded in a non-committal way, which she normally did when she hoped I would “come to my senses” on my own. I started making plans anyway. But when I brought it up again, her reaction was not nearly so non-committal. It had nothing to do with any philosophical disagreement she might have had with Occupy movement, and not any concerns involving my personal safety. Mostly it boiled down to “because” I think, since she had already moved on by that point and just hadn't decided to let me in on it. So, I didn't go. And when I saw that the cops had cleared Zuccotti Park in a midnight blitzkrieg, I knew I wouldn't get my chance.

My friends in New York, Susan and Steve, HAD spent time at the camp, participating in conversations, meditations, activist writing circles, and in the general life of the camp. They lived in Queens, though, so they were able home to their own bed at night. I mentioned to them that I had wanted to be there but had missed the mark, so Susan offered to take me to Zuccotti Park

For those who don't know, Zuccotti Park – formerly known as Liberty Park – lives in the shadow of the World Trade Center. In 2012, the 9/11 monument wasn't completed, but they had already finished rebuilding Tower 7. The odd dark alley known as Wall Street was behind Zuccotti Park, and it reminded me of a medieval castle. All brick and stone. No windows. I understand that some of the buildings have gardens on top so that the movers and large scale pick-pockets can view something green on the rare occasion they breathe unfiltered air. But to be honest, neither of those things was the first thing I noticed.

The first thing I noticed was the police tower.

Susan told me the excuse for the tower was protection. There were reports of problems in the camp. Theft. Reports of women being attacked. Media painted it all as one more part of a public nuisance. Statements from the Occupy movement claimed the people responsible were outsiders coming in to take advantage of the situation. The calls to clear the camp were growing at about the same pace as support for the movement was.

Then it was gone. And the only thing left behind was the police tower – the evidence and proof of political power, buckled square the shadows of Wall Street and new Tower 7. The the intestinal pit of America's greed and the echo of an American tragedy we will never live down. Scattered around Zuccotti Park, the statues commemorating 9/11 victims were witness everything – a movement that wanted to smash the status quo, but that couldn't escape its own trendiness and the beginnings of hashtag culture, and a financial empire that grows unimpeded under the watchful eye of a police watchtower.

I remember feeling like I lost something. My marriage was over. The story I wanted to live and to tell was gone. And more than that, WE lost something. The Occupy movement still existed, but they were lost in their own rules of internal engagement and infighting over priorities. The distance from force for change to a late night joke footnote is the edge of a police barricade. The good news is that the energy for change never goes away; it just changes direction, form, and sometimes identity.

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 17 of a Record of a Pair of Well-Worn Traveling boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 18 in two weeks.

If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots. It’s only $5 a month and you will get a little extra for your patronage.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.

Episode 16: Y2K D'ok

Now you say you're leavin' home
'Cause you want to be alone.
Ain't it funny how you feel
When you're findin' out it's real?
(Neil Young, “Sugar Mountain)

Even though I'd already abandoned Lexington for the mountains, I needed to say goodbye to certain friends before I moved down to New Orleans at the turn of this century.

I ended up at the party because the one friend I still had in Lexington at that point was going. Now, unless you know me well... or even casually for that matter … you know that I don't do parties very well. I never have. And parties where I only know one person?

Not exactly my wheel house.

And it was Y2K... which, if you weren't of age when all THAT mess was happening, I'll condense and explain: basically, because of a computer glitch based on analog clocks being what computers ran on long before the invention of the personal computer, people became CONVINCED that because computer time was going to turn back to 1900 instead of rolling over to 2000, THAT CIVILIZATION AS WE KNEW IT WAS GOING TO... TO ADAPT  A QUOTE FROM A PULP FICTION, “...GET MEDIEVAL ON OUR ASSES.”

So there I was, at someone's house in Lexington, KY, knowing no one and not really knowing anything except that I was going to get behind the wheel of my 95 Grand Am that had every possession in it I cared about – a small suitcase, an army surplus duffle, and two milk crates of books – and drive to New Orleans.

I'd bounced around southern Ohio and Eastern Kentucky for a few years at that point. After 3 years in Lexington, I'd moved back to Eastern Kentucky to ponder my options because the only thing keeping me in central Kentucky was it's proximity to my daughter, who was 5 at the time. Her mother decided to move to New Orleans – La Combe, actually – to be near her new boyfriend. I could have fought it legally, I suppose... there was something somewhere in the divorce decree about that … but honestly I didn't see the point in going in front of a judge again. It was literally easier for me to move than to muster any faith in the courts.

This was my first cross country ride alone, and the first time I flew out into the world without something resembling a net.

As drives go, it wasn't bad. I woke up on January 1st, 2000, got into my car, and left. Other than stopping for gas, I didn't stop until I reached La Combe. My ex had agreed to let me sleep on the couch for a few days until I got settled, and I didn't want to spend any money I didn't have to until I found my own place. My daughter's mother and I were on good terms – it didn't last long – but I didn't want to bank on it. And I didn't want to confuse Stella, either.

Driving through Alabama felt like a cliché; it was all one long stretch of interstate with bill boards advertising the Alabama – the band – fan club, and when I stepped out to buy gas and stretch my legs, the air felt like I was being slapped with hot rag. I debated stopping for the night somewhere, but I'd driven through my New Year's Eve hangover and left it somewhere in Tennessee. I'd long since stopped  trying to listen to local radio, as the FM dial was populated with bad country, evangelical music, and preachers still screaming about the End Times.

But they hadn't come. The world was still... HERE. I spent most of that party in Lexington staring out the front window at the street. I was watching the street lamps. The weather had been unusually warm and overcast, which mixed with the light pollution to turn the sky the color of India Ink. I knew there wasn't a “grid” to go down, exactly. The problem is that people tend to think things like utility companies and governments – the things we've decided we depend on to survive –  are organized in much more logical … and sometimes diabolical ways … than they actually are. Humans tend to create institutions and companies like they lead their lives: haphazardly, with a partial plan that can't possibly cover every potential issue. Utility systems are just slightly more organized overall than the wiring in my house, done by the previous owner who believed he was an electrician. He also thought he was a plumber and a contractor, but never mind that.

The point is this: the world was spinning on and while we were on a short grace period before what was left of American democracy went into culture shock, the fact is that the lights DIDN'T go out, the apocalypse HADN'T happened. We were still alive, no matter what the bitter revivalists cried.
And while I didn't have a plan … haphazard to the last... I knew that whatever lay ahead of me was going to be ok. I was going to be ok.  And regardless of what's happened over the past 20 years since then, I hold onto that lesson. Always.

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 16 of a Record of a Pair of Well-Worn Traveling boots.  Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever podcatcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 16 in two weeks. If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots. It’s only $5 a month and you will get a little extra for your patronage.

Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.
 

Episode 15: As the Cardinal Flies

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday and is looking forward to a happy new year. I just wanted to take this chance to thank you all for coming along on this journey with me. I look forward to a 2020 full of travels, adventures, experiences, and being able to share it you all.



This is unusual as Christmas episodes go. Or maybe not. We’ll see. Thanks again and enjoy!



­­­---



It’s a rare treat when I have a traveling buddy.



Amanda and I have traveled together before, but generally our schedules don’t align. Also, our travel needs, like our social needs, are different. She likes to compare my social cup to a thimble and hers to an ocean; this metaphor is apt, though I used to call my social cup more of a shot glass… and I’m not exactly sure when the cup shrank. My need to Get Out, though… my need to stretch my legs and feed my peripatetic nature… is very different from her reasons and needs to travel. Like me, she is an experiential person: the journey is as much the point as the destination, which is why we took the train out to Norfolk to visit my daughter and her fiancé. The difference between us is a small but significant one. I Go because it’s in my nature to Go and this results in experience and occasional adventure. She goes because her nature is an adventurous and curious one. Like I said… a slight difference. But a significant difference. And I count my lucky stars every day to have a life partner that understands what I need and loves me anyway.



So we caught the Cardinal from Union Terminal in Cincinnati – which most people seem to forget was ACTUALLY built to be a train station. Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad the city managed to bring the old Hall of Justice back from the brink. And if that reference confuses you, then you also should know that the Cincinnati terminal was actually used as the model in the Superfriends cartoon from the 1980’s. There’s a museum and an IMAX theater there. The city’s archives are also housed there.  And yes, a train stops there. The westbound Cardinal rolls through at 1:27am and the eastbound at 3:27 am, when they’re running on time.



True, the waiting area could use some updates; but the art deco interior of the main hall is breathtakingly beautiful. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been there during regular business hours. At least once I slept there waiting on a train (before Uber was a thing, and I didn’t have the cash for it or a plain ol taxi anyway… and I didn’t want to burden anyone else with getting me to the station when most sensible people are still asleep.) So we walked into this huge, echoing space, with only a few people there. Over the hour or so until the train arrived -- about 40 minutes late, which still counts as “On Time” as far as I’m concerned – more people arrived. My old Losantiville, it seems, is split between those who travel on the train and those who have no clue it’s there… which is a shame not only for the train, but for the city.  Maybe if Amtrak thought there was more interest in the Cardinal, they wouldn’t have taken the dining car … such as it has become… AND the observation car away.



The Cardinal is called such because every state the train goes through calls the little red flyer its state bird. I’m sure that’s easier than choosing, say, a state tree… the dogwood, or the buckeye for example. Or the white oak or tulip tree. But the Cardinal runs from Chicago to New York, with stops along the way, only twice dipping into Kentucky … further upriver in Maysville and Ashland, leaving Louisville passenger train deficient – a shadowy pall on what can be a nice city when it feels like it.  



I almost always end up with a window seat, unless seats are assigned like they are on the Southwest Chief and Empire Builder… and even then, if I can get to the line in time, I can usually score a window because of the length of my trip.  So Amanda got the window seat, since she hasn’t been on a train for a while, especially since (AND DID I MENTION) there was NO OBSERVATION CAR ON THE TRAIN.  And while I have never enjoyed driving through West Virginia – whose state tree is the Sugar Maple – it is a LOVELY chunk of geography to ride the train through. Appalachia in the winter is stark, dark, and … in its own way… seductive.  Get away from Charleston and the mountains cast themselves across your vision, stretching north and south, creating a natural barrier between the Ohio River Valley and the flat lands that slide into the Atlantic. Rolling through on the train, just how OLD those mountains are becomes more evident; not as tall and new as the Rockies, though still not as old as Ozarks; as a matter of fact, what we call the Appalachian Mountains was actually formed by TWO different events – 45 million years ago and 250 million years ago. But none of that is evident barreling down and back on I-64. Train travel is as close to getting out and walking as you can get without actually getting out and walking, unless you have the money and the vehicle to ride the old State Routes. Parts of SR 40 through West Virginia will make you question your notions of a paved road.



The best part of traveling with Amanda, besides the company, is that I get to experience the trip twice: through my own lens as well as through hers. And while the general tension of holiday travel amongst the others on a very full train limited her usual ability to make friends with just about anyone and a few salt shakers too, she did manage, on the return trip, to engage in one of her favorite hobbies: taking pictures for people who are trying to take selfies. And because she has a background in photography, every picture she takes has the rare quality of art that selfies, by their lack of context and composition, generally lack. But then, that’s her gift– an eye that sees and a heart that takes in the whole world.  We were in Charlottesville, waiting for the Cardinal westbound on our return home, when she spied a mother traveling along with a little girl of maybe 5 or 6. Her offer to take the picture was, as usual, happily accepted and I have no doubt that it will help cement the memory of the trip for both mother and daughter.



And that’s really what makes this a Christmas episode, if it is one. The real gifts we give and accept aren’t things. The real gifts are experiences and lens through which we take those experiences and make them our own.  And the things… the pictures, the mementos, the chachkis… are … or should be… mnemonics.



Thanks so much for listening to Episode 15 of a Record of a Pair of Well-Worn Traveling boots.  Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever podcatcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 16 in two weeks. If you really enjoy the podcast, please consider becoming a patron on our Patreon Page: www.patreon.com/wellwornboots. It’s only $5 a month and you will get a little extra for your patronage.



Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.