again sometime. And next time, bring your wife.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
As I walked toward the door, Cathy said, “Oh, don’t forget to sign the quilt.” She pointed to a stitched quilt mounted to the wall. “We have all our guests sign it.” She handed me a marker.
I signed my name, then walked out of the house. McKale definitely would have loved this place.
Following Cathy’s directions, I left Ste. Genevieve on a different road from the one I came in on. Before I left the city, I passed a shop with a sign in its window advertising “ KEY WEST .” I walked up to read what it had to say. Key West turned out to be the name of a local “island” band.
The route Cathy gave me bypassed the residential areas, taking me directly back to 61 South. The longer I walked, the more I wished I had stayed another day in Ste. Genevieve. In addition to feeling crummy, I had to deal with the weather. The sky was dark and gray, and a little before noon it began raining hard enough that water ran off the brim of my hat. I was walking on a narrow shoulder of highway, and the fast traffic on slick roads not only put my life in peril, but guaranteed that I was frequently splashed by passing vehicles. The air was muggy, thick with humidity and the loud sound of bugs and birds distressed by the rain.
Thankfully, the rain and my headache lightened some by late afternoon as I entered the town of Brewer. It was another small, rural town, and what struck me as mostpeculiar about the place was that it had the biggest front lawns I’d ever seen. These folks don’t need tractor mowers , I thought, they need combines .
Two miles later I reached Perryville, the largest town of the day with a population of more than 8,000. I walked into town wet, tired and shivering. I took a room at the first hotel I found, a Budget Inn. I took off my wet clothes, showered, then ate dinner at a nearby Hardee’s.
The sky cleared during the night. The road still wasn’t much for walking, narrow and grated with a severe rumble strip, and I stumbled more than once. Still, it wasn’t raining and I was grateful for that. And the scenery was bucolic. I passed beautiful red barns, and long, expertly cultivated rows of crops, marked and numbered with agricultural signs from the seed vendors for commercial demonstration.
A little over six miles into the day I reached my first town, Longtown, with a population of just 102. For such a small town it had an impressive church—Zion Lutheran—a large structure with pointed-arch windows and a tall white steeple. In addition to the church, Longtown also boasted an abnormally large number of plastic deer in its residents’ front yards, which are only slightly weirder than plastic pink flamingos.
That afternoon I saw one other peculiar thing—a herd of cows gathered around a small bonfire. There were no humans in sight and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I was fairly certain that the cows hadn’t started the fire, so I just kept on walking.
That evening I set up my tent in a grove of trees near a picturesque farm with three silos.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
I have so often compared my life to a whirlwind that I should not be surprised to find myself facing a real one.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I woke to the sound of howling wind and rain pelting my tent. Another day in paradise , I thought. My map showed that I was still about eight miles from the nearest town, so I ate breakfast in my tent, then lay back, waiting for the rain to weaken. After an hour the weather still hadn’t relented, so I gave up and started off for the day.
My pace was slowed by the storm, and by the time I reached the town of Fruitland, I was cold and drenched. I stopped at a gas mart called Casey’s for supplies, then walked to the nearby Jer’s Restaurant for lunch.
A broad, surly-looking woman glanced up from the counter. “You’re all wet,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if she was annoyed that I was
“That would be nice,” I said.
As I walked toward the door, Cathy said, “Oh, don’t forget to sign the quilt.” She pointed to a stitched quilt mounted to the wall. “We have all our guests sign it.” She handed me a marker.
I signed my name, then walked out of the house. McKale definitely would have loved this place.
Following Cathy’s directions, I left Ste. Genevieve on a different road from the one I came in on. Before I left the city, I passed a shop with a sign in its window advertising “ KEY WEST .” I walked up to read what it had to say. Key West turned out to be the name of a local “island” band.
The route Cathy gave me bypassed the residential areas, taking me directly back to 61 South. The longer I walked, the more I wished I had stayed another day in Ste. Genevieve. In addition to feeling crummy, I had to deal with the weather. The sky was dark and gray, and a little before noon it began raining hard enough that water ran off the brim of my hat. I was walking on a narrow shoulder of highway, and the fast traffic on slick roads not only put my life in peril, but guaranteed that I was frequently splashed by passing vehicles. The air was muggy, thick with humidity and the loud sound of bugs and birds distressed by the rain.
Thankfully, the rain and my headache lightened some by late afternoon as I entered the town of Brewer. It was another small, rural town, and what struck me as mostpeculiar about the place was that it had the biggest front lawns I’d ever seen. These folks don’t need tractor mowers , I thought, they need combines .
Two miles later I reached Perryville, the largest town of the day with a population of more than 8,000. I walked into town wet, tired and shivering. I took a room at the first hotel I found, a Budget Inn. I took off my wet clothes, showered, then ate dinner at a nearby Hardee’s.
The sky cleared during the night. The road still wasn’t much for walking, narrow and grated with a severe rumble strip, and I stumbled more than once. Still, it wasn’t raining and I was grateful for that. And the scenery was bucolic. I passed beautiful red barns, and long, expertly cultivated rows of crops, marked and numbered with agricultural signs from the seed vendors for commercial demonstration.
A little over six miles into the day I reached my first town, Longtown, with a population of just 102. For such a small town it had an impressive church—Zion Lutheran—a large structure with pointed-arch windows and a tall white steeple. In addition to the church, Longtown also boasted an abnormally large number of plastic deer in its residents’ front yards, which are only slightly weirder than plastic pink flamingos.
That afternoon I saw one other peculiar thing—a herd of cows gathered around a small bonfire. There were no humans in sight and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I was fairly certain that the cows hadn’t started the fire, so I just kept on walking.
That evening I set up my tent in a grove of trees near a picturesque farm with three silos.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
I have so often compared my life to a whirlwind that I should not be surprised to find myself facing a real one.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I woke to the sound of howling wind and rain pelting my tent. Another day in paradise , I thought. My map showed that I was still about eight miles from the nearest town, so I ate breakfast in my tent, then lay back, waiting for the rain to weaken. After an hour the weather still hadn’t relented, so I gave up and started off for the day.
My pace was slowed by the storm, and by the time I reached the town of Fruitland, I was cold and drenched. I stopped at a gas mart called Casey’s for supplies, then walked to the nearby Jer’s Restaurant for lunch.
A broad, surly-looking woman glanced up from the counter. “You’re all wet,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if she was annoyed that I was
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