Not Another Fall Day

His name was Don Wood.
A kind man, a good man.
He lived in Lower Waterford, Vermont not far from the highway I ran down as I headed for Maine last fall.
His home sat tucked off the road amongst trees that are turning gold and crimson ever more each morning.
A short distance away you can see the Connecticut river flowing slowly…sparkling as it winds away.
It is a beautiful place to be.
We talked the other day on the phone and I knew his health was failing.
Our conversation was fairly brief but I wanted Don to know I wished him well in his last few days and my thoughts were with him.

The leaves are turning here in Idaho outside my window.
A sign of the seasons ending.
It is also ironically a sign of a life passing.
Sometimes we are given the opportunity to be touched by people and to touch them if only for the briefest amount of time in our life.
Don was one of those opportunities.
He was a great family man, a loving husband and I knew this because I could see it in his eyes and those around him during the short time I stayed with he and his family.
Don lost his grandson, Lt. Joseph Fortin, in Iraq.
Joseph lost his grandfather today.
William Wallace once said:
“Men will always die but not all men really live.”
Don Wood lived…..
A great, great life.
He was loved and loved those around him even greater.
There are many things we never learn about those we meet but I do not assume the goodness Don Wood brought to the world, I am quite certain he gave more goodness than I could ever imagine.
Thank You Don…………

Three, Two, One…….Done

Time does not forgive, nor is it lenient as we progress through each day. Time moves forward relentless in its unique way. Time has pushed me forward 4 days from that finish in Rockland, Maine, on a stormy Friday morning when the winds blew and the rain pummeled a small group of us as we ran slowly towards the shore. It has taken me 4 days to come up with the words and to remember………………..

My son is a great  man. He works hard and raises 2 children on his own at the young age of 26. I admire and respect his devotion and dedication to his son and daughter. His path in this world could have taken him in many different directions and the one he is on today with me, will lead him to the placing of  the 3rd flag.  He reads the name of Marine 2nd Lieutenant Therrell Childers who was 30 years old. I watch my son. His face his hidden under his hat. The rain runs down his nose. Around us, all are quiet as he  places it in the ground next to a small aspen tree. He places his hand over his heart and I salute. That could have been his name there on that flag. I am fortunate that it wasn’t. We are linked in this moment together and I see that it means so much to him to do this for a Marine who is gone, to have a connection.

Now there are only 2 miles left and time seems to be moving even faster. The wind picks up, the rain falls harder as we make our way through the neighborhood to a spot on the corner where the one ways begin in downtown. The wheels on this stroller have seen the entire country. They have rolled from the Pacific to the Atlantic through the Columbia River Gorge, the mountains of Montana, Idaho, Wyoming and Colorado. They have carried these last 2 flags across the stifling heat and never ending expanse of the Midwest. How many revolutions? That is one statistic I have not determined. Through the rolling, colorful hills of New York, Vermont and Maine. Through snow, wind and rain. Through dirt, gravel and pavement and now just a short mile to their final destination, a small boat ramp in a small harbor.

My daughter is a great woman. She is only 20 and yet, is wise beyond her years with wit and intelligence and beauty to match. Like her brother, her path in life brought her to Maine to run 6 miles with her dad and plant her connection, Marine Captain Ryan Beaupre who was 30 years old. The roads divide here and we stop. Under a large Maple tree she place his flag. She is alone. Her black rain jacket whips in the wind, its hood is pulled tightly around her auburn hair and blue eyes. His name is read and she places her hand over her heart and I salute from a few yards away. She pauses then and I look at her and it is a moment frozen in my mind. Her hands are clenched up under her chin and tears are streaming down her cheeks. Her body is shaking and she sobs. She cries for this Marine, for a soul in heaven,  for eyes that can only watch from above. For the freedoms in life he has afforded her. She stands alone and her connection is buried in her thoughts now. Thoughts and emotion that are only hers but are reflected in those tears.

I move on and in this last mile to the last few yards, to the last few feet, to the moment I touch the water I am still not alone. The presence I have felt from the start of this run is now almost gone however , it lingers over me and I know Major Jay Aubin is watching and smiling.  As eyes watched from above, as names were remembered, they took their spot along the roads of America to watch over and protect their mile until there was only one. I salute the heavens. I am done.

In time, as I reflect on what has transpired,  the value and meaning of these last 6 months will become even more apparent to me. I discovered that impossible is only a word and that the heart can surpass so many boundaries. I discovered that we are a strong country when being strong is the only option we have. That despite what we hear and read and see we are the greatest country in the world with the greatest people. I saw it in the faces of America. From store clerks to Veterans to schoolchildren and farmers and highway workers. The people I came in contact with added so much to my life and to the memory of the flags that were carried. The wall is complete now. It spans our great land and even though the permanence of a small flag may be blown away by winds and weather in time, the permanence of the moment it was placed, the honor bestowed upon that spot will remain forever……….

One Fall Day……..

Fall in Maine, like many of the New England states, is an extremely colorful affair. The maples burst in brilliant reds and orange and yellow. Leaves tumble and swirl and find a final resting place on the ground turning it into an animated assortment of beautiful piles.  St. Johns Street is a quiet street in a quiet town called Skowhegan. A town famous for its shoe mills and a few years ago, the filming of the movie, Empire Falls. It is also a town that bears the ghost of a little boy. On this street I stand alone and stare at the 2 story cream colored house sitting across the lot from where I am staying. I close my eyes and hear the laughter of boys back in the mid-70s. They are playing football. In the huddle they draw a play in the dirt that was once green grass now worn down by endless games throughout the summer. They range in age from 8 to 16. It is a time when the neighborhoods were tight in this town. A time when everyones doors were open and most of the time their refrigerators too. Grandma T., lives in the house I am staying in. On Saturdays she would bake cookies and pies and cream puffs. The boys would partake in these delicacies. The little boy who was 8 at the time would follow his siblings and devour many a baked good from Grandma T., but only under one condition and it involved drinking a glass of milk with their cookie or cream puff or pie or cake. Back to the game of football they go. The little boy, with his baggy Levis and red and white Dukes of Hazard t-shirt lines up next to the ball. The play begins and a mad scramble begins….

The cream colored house sits alone. It is bordered by trees whose shade is welcome in the summer.  Second story windows have white blinds pulled closed to keep the afternoon sun out. The tin roof glistens.  It has a steep pitch so that the winter snows will slide off. It is snow that would be shoveled off the porch steps by the little boy even though he would struggle at times with the weight of the wet snow and an over-sized shovel.  He worked hard doing that and in the summer mowing the grass. In time he would grow bigger and stronger and more athletic.

Back to the game……..a pass is thrown, caught and then the ball pops loose and squirts along the ground right to the little boy who scoops it up and runs……he runs as fast as he can…this is his chance, his glory……he darts left then right then back. He stops and starts and fools the older boys with his quickness.  He only needs to get past the maple tree. With a final 8 year old burst of speed and a brilliant move he breaks the imaginary line in an imaginary stadium and scores in front of a hundred thousand imaginary people. Yes, yes, yes.

I open my eyes and look at this yard. The wind blows softly and whispers to me. The home I am looking at and the yard where this game was played is the home of a little boy named Jay Thomas Aubin.

I will be placing the very last flag at the waters edge in Rockland, Maine. It is the flag of Major Jay Thomas Aubin.  He died in the pre-dawn hours of March 21st 2003 on the border of Iraq, piloting a helicopter. He would be one of 6 to die that first day of the war but there is no glory in being number one when it is only for numbers sake. I chose to place him last because finishing in Maine I felt it appropriate.

As I look at his home, his street, his yard, I see him as a young boy. I feel the exuberance of his life, I feel the tremendous potential in his future, I feel his presence. Grandma T., remembers him fondly as she does most boys from the neighborhood. Jay Aubin would become a great man.  A great father with 2 children and the rare breed of Marine who rose up through the enlisted ranks and then became an officer. Grandma T., remembers his smile.  As I stand here alone, the sun pours through these remarkable colored trees and I feel the warmth of that smile from the blue sky above.

Yes Jay Aubin you are not forgotten,  I traveled across this country, running the miles with you and so many others and we will play a football game in the heavens one day……..

Winding Roads and Winding Down….

As I run these last few miles through the northeast, history has unfolded before me. In many places there are plaques and signs depicting old meeting halls or courthouses or homes of prominent citizens. Vermont has been warm and welcoming and its people so gracious. Near St. Johnsbury the Academy cross country team joins me as we approach town and head for the city park. It is there that I see a small crowd of people gathered. They are there to honor those from Vermont that have died in Iraq or Afghanistan and I am told, to see this guy pushing a stroller and planting flags. I am often put on the spot for speaking so what I say is often what immediately passes through my mind in no random order. In the background a lonely bagpipe plays as the names are read. It is a sobering sound. That night I would spend the evening with the family of 2nd Lieutenant Joseph Fortin. His parents and grandparents and sister gush with the love and memory they have of their Joseph. His widow and I talk alone and she tells me what she remembers most and misses is his smile. Maybe we should all smile more because if we do then we will leave those we touch with a warm memory and a picture frozen in time. At the Waterford School I am greeted by 150 children (kindergarten through 6th grade) they have formed a corridor of flags and tiny bodies for me to walk through. Such a pleasure to see those excited little faces waving their flags. After a short talk from the top of a picnic table, I follow the colors of the leaves and head for New Hampshire and am greeted at the border at the Connecticut River, by a small group of well wishers. On into Bethlehem and at a small ice cream store named Rennells, I meet Maryanne whose son was the 4000 fatality. I placed his flag in Dayton, WA back in May and ironically, my stroller bears the names of two Iwo Jima Veterans who had signed it way back when I passed through their town. We chat briefly and Maryanne makes me the best banana split I have ever had….fact. I have but 2 nights in New Hampshire and my last is in the town of Gorham. Mount Washington looms nearby shrouded in fog and a light rain is my companion for most of the afternoon. Roy is a kind, gracious man and a gentle New Englander. His health is fragile but perhaps this visit has given him a lift to carry him a few more years. We go to dinner at the Legion Hall, a small, quiet affair with his family. Chicken pot pie, steaming and piled high, blurs my vision. It is no wonder I have only lost 3 pounds in these past 5 months. I leave knowing well that in a few short miles I will cross the Maine border, my final state, knowing that Rockland and my last flag is very, very close. The attention has grown. Legion riders, Sheriff escorts and numerous vehicles lead me to Bethel, Maine. People are standing along the road. Bethel lost one of their own, Army Private Tyler Smith who was only 22 years old. A grandfather stands off to the side and he motions me over. He had lost his grandson and had driven a good 5 hours to see me and give me a picture and a copy of his grandsons dog tags. This is what this week has been like. Much like the past few months but more intense and more frequent are these random visits. The miles and roads are winding down. There are but a hundred and fifty left and then the Atlantic will lie before me and the winds from heaven will carry the voices of those who are there, watching and smiling and the sun will warm us all with their love from above because they truly know, a country has not forgotten……

A Step At A Time….

It is 6:00 a.m. and my internal clock says it is time. Like every day for the past 143 days I rise up with no hesitation. There are no thoughts or consideration of that matter. One cannot open the door of doubt because if you do it will never be shut again. The clock is running. My day has begun. It is normally a short breakfast of either oatmeal and toast or french toast with maple syrup, after all it is New York. I am driven out to my start point which is my end point from the day before. A few words are exchanged with my host, a handshake a hug and then goodbye. What I will miss the most is the visiting with my friends who have so graciously taken me in. We have a few hours at night to share stories and such about our lives over dinner and then the next morning I am gone, most likely to never see them again and yet their part in this run is of such importance that I am humbled by their hospitality. The first flag of the day and the first mile come slowly as my body is a bit slow to warm up. As the sun rises and my attention is drawn to my surroundings the miles pass quickly. Normally by mile 5 I have found my first coins of the day which I will send home to add to the jelly jar that is filled with $16.73 of money from America. It has actually taken me 3775 miles to find my first dollar bill. At gas stations I will stop for a Starbucks Mocha Frappaccino of which I have now consumed over 133 bottles. Yes, that along with the 35 gallons of chocolate milk has me thinking I may have an excess addiction. Another mile, another flag, a farm, glass on the road, cows, a hill, another one, another one, trains, a river. I have noticed that the locusts are now gone and that the crickets are silent too. I think of Cooperstown, NY. They race giant pumpkins on a lake. Actually paddle them in the water and I thought Nebraska had the blue ribbon for floating in horse tanks till I saw that. I think of my friend Dick who gave me 4 sheets of paper last night over dinner. It was photos and signatures of 14 German Officers put on trial after WWII in Nurenberg for War Crimes. Dick was a Sergeant of Guard for the prisoners and had acquired all the signatures. A piece of history, however cloudy it was. I think of an older gentleman who hugged me this morning and said goodbye with tears in his eyes. He said he had lay awake most of the night thinking about what I was doing and wished he could do the same thing. He told me I had squeezed a lifetime into one summer. I think of my friend Bob who ran with me a few days ago. He is 64 and never had run more than 13 miles and yet he did 30 that day. Kudos Bob, your company and conversation were great. I pass through the Mohawk River Valley and realize that there is more to New York than just the city, come and see. Another step, another telephone pole, another mile. Shoes are done. Cut the laces and tie one on my handlebars….17 pairs so far. There is my host. A smiling face welcomes me. The day is done…….

Dwindling Days

There is a definate feel of fall in the air, as I travel these roads in New York. May 1st seems so long ago and the thought then, of being where I am now, was inconceivable. I could not comprehend the miles or the flags and if I had tried it would have overwhelmed me, so I have only focused on today and never ever opened the door of doubt. Time is not forgiving and it has marched on and carried me with it. The leaves are beginning to change and the hills of upstate New York are rolling and often steep. I have watched the seasons change. From the late spring and the green colors of the Northwest to the blooming flowers of summer in the Rockies to tall, rich cornfields in Nebraska. In a subtle way it started to change in Indiana. The corn turned brown and whispered in the wind. Once I hit eastern Ohio you could see the slightest colors coming out on the trees. It is almost as if I am seeing a portrait being painted before me, a portrait that swept in brilliant colors, across the country. Days are numbered now and I can almost begin to sense the coastline of Maine awaiting me. The journey has been magical. I am not a religious man by any means but time alone across this country has awakened a spirituality and opened my senses and given me intuition and energy so highly receptive that I am at a loss for words when I think of how fortunate I have been. When I started this run I wanted to believe that despite what we hear and read and see on television, despite how bad the media portrays everything, that our country is still great and filled with the greatest people. I have not been disappointed. That faith has been restored. When parents stop me on the road to thank me, when young soldiers take the time to run with me when home on leave, when a store clerk hugs me, I feel the goodness, the appreciation and the sincerity. It is a huge, huge country and there are a few more miles to go until Maine. Angels are around me now, my guardians, my brothers in arms and they have carried me this far and protected me. It is something hard to explain and even harder to understand but the certainty of their presence is real. As real as the sun setting on these dwindling days…………………..

An Autumn Night…….

Willard, Ohio sits just west of the southern Cleveland suburbs. It is an area that reminds me of much of the country I have seen for the past 2 months except for the presence of more trees. The roads are quiet and traffic is sparse. The sound of cicadas that has accompanied me for so long, is fading as fall and the cooling temperatures quiet their melodious songs. We drive in silence to a 15 acre farm on the outskirts of town. Silence is good sometimes, even with a host. Her name is Kathe and there are things she wants to tell me and in time she will. At the farm are her horses and an array of goats and cats, rabbits and turkeys, roaming chickens and cows and best of all, two Shrek-like donkeys. She feeds the horses and walks them a bit and I soak in this quiet country night. Unable to reach Joe-the-hay-guy for some much need bales, we walk to the field and rake what little hay there is and feed the rest of the animals. Kathe is a native of Willard. Born and raised here, she would in turn, raise her three children here.  As a single mom I can imagine it was difficult at times and yet a blessing and rewarding in many other ways for her. After dinner we head for her home and in her living room make small talk and she asks if I would like to meet her son Keifer. Rising from her chair she leads me to a hutch and Keifer is there, his ashes, in a beautiful mahogany box. Pictures come out. He was a beautiful little baby with blue eyes and blonde hair. There are photos of him from almost every age through school. Soccer photos and wrestling photos and always a smile. She is a very proud mother and yet I see the sadness and there is more for her to tell. “Do you know how he died?”  I am puzzled. “No, I don’t.”

Keifer Wilhelm enlisted in the Army in December of 2008. He graduated from Basic Training in Fort Benning and in May 2009 received news he would be deployed to Iraq. Kathe speaks fondly of her son. She tells me how he was saving his money to buy a new car when he returned. She tells me of his battle with weight in high school and how he had shed the pounds needed on his own so he could enlist. In Basic he toned up and carried himself taller and with more confidence when he came home on leave. She had the month of July with her son and then within 4 days of arriving in Iraq, he was gone. In a bathroom stall he would end his life with a gunshot. In those few short days he was driven to despair and depression, the result of extreme hazing by 4 higher ranking soldiers. Tragic and sad. I sit there and listen to her story, I see the tears in her eyes. A soldier should never die that way, not having their dignity reduced to a level that would lead to suicide. Most importantly, not by those who would lead you and watch your back in the heat of battle. I read the reports. Stacks of court papers and statements by fellow soldiers reveal extreme physical punishment and mental abuse. “Why should it get any easier for you?” His bunk mate would say to him. The four would be brought up on charges of maltreatment and from what I am told, only a sentence of six months is given out to one. They will go home and carry on with their lives and be treated as heroes but there is darkness on the badges of honor that they carry. Kathe sits there and is quiet now. She wrings her hands over and over, rocks gently back and forth. She will not see her son marry or giver her grandchildren or see him on fall evenings at the farm like the night we shared. There are only blank pages now and she only has her memories to soothe her anguish. Maybe Keifer will return, maybe he already has. I believe that this wonderful, thoughtful, young man is around his mother each day and although he was never given the chance to protect his country, he will protect her. It is as it should be and it is an awareness of these things that I experience on the road………..

The Visit

Oakwood, Ohio is a small town that sits not far from the Indiana border in Paulding County. It is an agricultural town, like so many on this western edge of the state. Ponds dot the fields along the roads I run. They are a bluish green, free of algae and plants. Many have docks and diving boards. They are by all appearances, natural swimming pools in the summer and skating rinks in the winter. It is in this town that I will stay tonight and I will share a story now of when my gracious hosts took me on a little ride to a home in the country……..

We head up Road 201 and as we pull into a driveway and stop, I see the barn. On the side of it is a mural. It shows a young soldier in uniform, an American Flag, clouds. It is a beautiful tribute. In front of the mural is a statue of a soldier and a bronze plaque that bears the name “Army PFC Josh Ramsey” His Mom and Dad walk out and she tells me the story of the mural and of her son. Josh was 19 and was an MP and wanted be a U.S. Marshall when he got out. He died at 19. Protecting his country inevitably prevented him from protecting his country back here, how ironic. It is on a Sunday that I learn much about him. His competiveness, his quick wit, his zest for life. Qualities that so many that are gone, have had. It was on a Sunday that his mother found out she had lost her son. “You must be mistaken, I just spoke with him this morning” she would tell the officers who knocked on her door. “We don’ t make these kind of mistakes Ma’m, we are sorry”. So in mourning his mother started planting flowers around a flag pole. They were red, white and blue. There were 500 of them. It is said in some folk lore, that when we lose a warrior and eagle will appear. Across the road lived the photographer for the local paper and watching her neighbor plant those flowers one day she looked up and saw 2 eagles circling overhead and snapped a photo. That picture is now in the Ramsey home. Leigh Anne Ramsey speaks lovingly of her son, she tells me of how he would jump up on the counter in the kitchen and ask what they were going to do that day. She tells me of the day she planted flowers and then was in the kitchen mopping. Crying, thinking of her son and then he was there….on the counter and said “You can stop crying Mom, I’m home now”.

Josh Ramsey was the type to jump into the water and then say “How do I swim”. I admire that. For what we don’t know we can learn. What we don’t believe can be changed. That is the most important thing, to believe. Believe, Believe, Believe and then jump. A visit in the country, a visit to a small town in Ohio shows me the character of rural America. That even in the presence of loss and grief, love holds everything together even if it is a mural and flowers in the countryside……………

Crossroads

Indiana is known as the Crossroads of America and it would seem fitting that these last 2 towns that I have passed through fit that bill. Incorporated in 1836, Logansport sits between 2 rivers, the Eel and Wabash and in the last century the Erie Canal would weave its way through but with the burgeoning onslaught of the railroad, river transportation would die. As I approach from the west the corn and soy bean fields that have dominated my periphial vision for the last 4 states has given way to woods, glorious woods and the smell of oak and maple trees. I sense fall just around the corner and I see just a hint of leaves starting to turn. Coming into Logansport I see Happy Burger and a giant cow out front. They advertise 49 cent hamburgers, a throwback to prices of the late 50s and early 60s and they actually serve Indiana raised beef. In a time of big business and franchises it is refreshing to see a place so original and family owned still standing. In a time of strip malls and mega centers and Super Walmarts I find it more appealling to see small town America fighting and surviving with businesses that carry a Norman Rockwell quality. Logansport once had several railroads and vaudeville performers who would stop on their way to Chicago. In time 5 highways would lay their cement web through and on the outskirts of town. Progress, as sure as the sun rises and sets would transform this town.

 In the one thousand nine hundred seventy three steps it takes me to run a mile, I see alot. The world and its pace are slowed dramatically by my slow and steady forward motion. Today I found a total of 42 cents which now brings my grand total to $14.12…..give or take a few indestinguishable coins. A long, rolling hillside and 4 lanes of road with a huge shoulder to travel on, lead me to Wabash.  It is an old Union city, as the memorial at the courthouse proclaims. Wabash also lays claim to being the first lighted city in the world. Fact. It was 1880 and carbon lights were attached to the courthouse, which at the time was the highest point on a hill which overlooked the city. Certainly other cities may have had electricity and would follow Wabash shortly thereafter with lights. Wabash was also the site of Modoc the Elephant short stint of freedom through town and the neighboring countryside back in 1942. He escaped when, while tied to a post outside the gymnasium, dogs startled him and he pulled loose and made his way down main street. When the smell of roasted paunuts filled his trunk he pushed his way through a 42 inch door (taking the frame with him) ate some peanuts and moved on. Five days later he was eventually lured on to a truck with 10 loaves of bread and promptly ate 20 more and drank 30 gallons of water. Modoc is now etched in local lore and the downtown coffee shop and sandwich store bears his name.

The word crossroads carries a special meaning today. As I climb to a top of a long hill I sense a truck pull up behind me. It is maroon and small, something economical. The woman who steps out is tall. I guess she is in her 50s. She is quiet and I don’t know what to expect till she says, “You have my nephew”…..His name was Chad Lake, he was from Ocala, FL and was 26. I didn’t have his flag. It had been placed Aug. 19th on Blackjack Road, outside of Galena, IL. My aunt was with me and she had placed it. I remember it clearly. Whats the chances that I would meet the aunt of this soldier on an obscure road out of 4417 names? That my aunt would place his flag? That I would even remember that? I noticed that she couldn’t speak. She had tears. Her lip was quivering. Then she walked away and I ran on………Crossroads of America….towns and people….entwined……

Encounters

At 5 mph, time and the asphalt move very slowly. It gives me tremendous flexibility for many things. Thoughts about everything from childhood to my next flag, to food choices from my tray on the buggy, to drink choices (mainly gatorade and gatorade) and the views to the left and the views to the right. It is like being in a very slow car but with the heater on and blowing in your face some days. So today I focused on my encounters with people over the last few weeks and my encounters, however short-lived they may be, with the character of the towns I pass through.

Take Mendota, IL for example, it is the Sweet Corn Capital of the World. Ottawa, IL was the site of the first Lincoln/Douglas Debates. Streator, IL at one time was the countries largest producer of glass and birthplace of the scientist who discovered Pluto. Pontiac, IL is home to the Livingston County War Museum, an absolute must see display of mannequins and memorabilia. Pontiac is also famous for Route 66 which passes through town and 20 painted murals that adorn the walls of the older buildings. In Saunemin a cabin is being restored that was home to Albert D.J. Cashier a local civil war veteran who was born Jenny Hodger in Ireland. You see Jenny lived as a man and enlisted as a man and fought as a man. Her identity was not known for many years for the military never conducted physicals back in those days. Jenny marched thousands of miles and fought at Vicksburg and it was because of her service and the friends she made who rallied behind her, that she was able to keep her veteran pension the military tried to take because of identity fraud. Well then…..sleepy communities with secrets.

My encounters with people continue to climb. One day a few weeks ago I had just left Mechanicsville, IA when a car pulls up behind me. A couple walks up. The had lost their son, Army Staff Sergeant Donald Griffith Jr. in 2005. They had seen something on the news, followed flags, found me and just wanted to say thank you.

A couple stands along the road..I don’t recognize them at first then I see the smiles and hear the voices. They are old Army friends from Germany that I had not seen in 29 years. They had seen something on TV and followed the beacon and found me.

He stands at the corner of a gravel road, I think the sun is reflecting of a mailbox but is actually his head, now bald. I recognize the voice and when he runs the familiar gait I chased and passed many times 35 years ago. He was my old cross country nemesis from High School. With all due respects he did dust me a few times. Again, a chance newspaper article and he found me on the road.

This morning a truck pulls over. Approaching, I notice the Vet Plate. He is a small man and all smiles with a firm handshake. His shirt reads “Home of the Brave, Land of the Free”. He is from Ransom, IL. We chat a bit and then before he leaves he literally gives me the shirt off his back and drives away into the cool morning without it.

Thats what the days have become. Meetings with people continue to climb.

I never know who is reading. I never know who is watching. I never know who is around the corner. Thats what life is like on the road. The element of surprise. It is something that can’t be choreographed or planned. It happens. So between the towns I pass through and these encounters that lift me, my days are pretty exciting…..