The path to finding Ernie, part I

Reader alert: this blog is a bit rambling, but if you choose to read it all you may find some interesting, educational, emotional and perhaps even amusing information.

One of the touchstones of my journey was to revisit the Ernie Pyle home and museum in Dana, Indiana. A year before, my husband, Don, and I visited it as an extension of a trip to spend a couple of days with my brother, Don, and his wife, Vicki in Henderson, Kentucky. My interest in Ernie was piqued when I read a book written by long-time friend, Sharon Hatfield. Her book, Never Seen the Moon, The Trials of Edith Maxwell is the true tale of a free-spirited young woman accused of murdering her alcoholic father in 1935 in the tiny town of Pound, in Wise County, Virginia. Pound is within spittin’ distance of the Kentucky border, in that narrow southwestern part of Virginia where the state just sort of peters out as it is squeezed between Kentucky and Tennessee. In the 1970s Sharon spent time as a young journalist covering stories in the same Wise County Circuit Courtroom in which Edith was tried.

In her book Sharon mentions that Ernie also spent time in Pound, talking with residents and principals involved in the infamous trial. This was during the five-year period when Ernie scratched about the United States unearthing stories about everyday women and men. After working at a desk job for Scripps-Howard for three years, Ernie couldn’t sit still any longer. He convinced his newspaper, The Washington Daily News, to let him “cross the road and see what was on the other side.” His promise of six columns a week was amply fulfilled, published regularly in The Washington Daily News and made available to 23 other Scripps-Howard newspapers.

Numerous national media venues had produced stories about the trial and the subsequent imprisonment of Edith Maxwell. It seems that quite often Pound and Wise County inhabitants were portrayed as quaint, backwoods hillbillies, who embraced a “mountain code” that allowed the beating of grown children (and presumably wives) and who were just plain mean, cantankerous folk.

Ernie was one of the most beloved and respected traveling journalists during the 1930s and well known for his downhome ways. According to Sharon, Ernie arrived in Pound “admittedly skittish,” since his newspaper had already reported that Pound was a “hard, suspicious place.” Still, he waded into a group of men, some of whom were erecting a building and the lot of which were loafing and watching.  He said to an elderly carpenter named Lee Greear, “I’ve heard that Pound isn’t a very friendly place for reporters. But here I am, so go ahead and shoot if you must.”

Instead of getting shot, Ernie got interviews and a real insider’s view of the people of Pound, common folk like Ernie, common folk such as you meet if you travel anywhere.

Just as famously, Ernie was a World War II correspondent beyond comparison. I had always admired his work and I was curious about his early life.

Knowing that Pyle had grown up only one state border away from my Ohio hometown and that there was a museum, childhood home and farm to explore, I had to see it for myself. Having visited the museum in 2014, I decided Dana would be the perfect launchsite for my exploration of the twenty-first century United States and citizens. But more than visiting the museum and house again, I wanted to walk on the soil where young Ernie lived the mostly solitary life of a farming family. I wanted to soak in the very atoms he had breathed.

So it was that the second day of our trip Lyla and I made our way to the far western side of Indiana. We had stayed in a multi-story motel in Terre Haute the night before and Lyla had her first elevator ride (four stories) up to our room. She handled the disturbance of sudden gravity shifts exceedingly well and even had the presence of mind to cordially (though politely) greet other elevator riders.

The next morning, as we took the road toward Dana, we experienced an exercise in contrast to the peaceful fields we were headed for in that farming area. A half-hour or so before we reached the outskirts of Dana, a tiny town of about 600 souls, we were “treated” to a very noisy burst of go-kart racing in Clinton. With a population just shy of 5,000, Clinton was founded in 1829 and named after former New York governor DeWitt Clinton. Italian immigrants made up almost a third of the early settlers, who mostly came to work as coal miners.

According to a Wikipedia entry Clinton hosts an annual Little Italy Festival, a four-day Labor Day Weekend celebration of the area’s Italian and coal mining heritage. If you’ve ever wanted to stain your feet purple by stomping grapes (ala, Lucille Ball Ricardo, but maybe without a fistful of grapes in your face), apparently you can do so at this festival, which also features Italian and carnival-style food, and a grapevine-roofed wine garden. And what annual town festival is complete without free stage entertainment? This festival also boasts the largest Italian-theme parade in the Midwest. Want to experience the Indiana Bocce Ball championship, or see one of the few coal mining museums in the nation as well as one of fewer than 400 genuine gondolas in the United States? Clinton is your destination!

Notable people who were born, lived or died in Clinton include:

•       Charles Edward Jones, an astronautical engineer who was killed aboard American Airlines Flight 11 in the September 11, 2001 terrorists attacks (in December 1986 Jones had been scheduled to go into space on mission STS-71-B , but the mission was cancelled after the Challenger Disaster in January 1986).
•       Ken Kercheval, an actor best known for his role as Cliff Barnes on the television series Dallas.
•       Serial killer Orville Lynn Majors, a licensed practical nurse at the Vermillion County Hospital, now known as Union Hospital, who was convicted in October 1999 of six counts of first-degree murder. Although convicted of killing six hospital patients, the exact number is unknown and may be as high as 130. He was sentenced to 360 years in prison.
•       Henry D. Washburn, who practiced law in Newport, Indiana, then became a Civil War general, U.S. Congressman and explorer. As surveyor-general of the Montana Territory in 1870 he led the first government survey – the Washburn—Langford—Doane Expedition – of what would become Yellowstone National Park. Mount Washburn in the park is named after Henry D.

And, as I discovered, yet one more attraction brings folk in from the countryside to Clinton — although go-kart racing is not exactly mentioned in the Wikipedia entry.

Racers and helpers can easily push go-karts.

I was getting used to following directions dictated to me by the female voice of my new GPS system and trying my best to follow her advice to navigate through this medium-size town next to the Wabash River.

I don’t usually name inanimate objects in my life and I didn’t name “her” then, but now it occurs to me that the perfect name is “Female,” which I think I will address her as throughout these pages. This would be pronounced “fee-mal-ee” and it comes from an old story from my mother-in-law, Winny, who was an elementary school teacher among many other careers. She once had a student with the name Female. When she had a chance to gently ask the origin of the name (pronounced as above), she was told that when her mother, who had not chosen a name for the infant, received the birth certificate, she sighed relief that a name had already been chosen, for there on the certificate was the official “Female.”

And so my nav system is now referred to as Female, with the above pronunciation, please. Now I am at heart a map person. I LOVE maps! There is something ancient and viceral about spreading out a three-foot piece of paper with varying colors of lines for different kinds of roadways and blocks of colors to designate our notions of geographical divisions such as states or provinces. If you think about it mammals, birds, insects, fish, all have mental maps – how to find the nearest waterhole or food, where a sheltered spot may be. Native Americans are said to have had signal trees – trees they bent as saplings to point to places of interest. Petroglyphs may have also provided directions. Deer and other forest animals wear out the earth underfoot to produce easily-followed trails (even our dogs have trails they have made through our yard which they run on over and over as they chase toward a disappearing deer tail beyond the fence). Birds follow their own internal mapping system to fly thousands of miles to wintering or breeding grounds. Fish follow ancient urges to return to spawning grounds. Even insects, such as ants, use sun and shadows to “map” their way to food and home again.

In a recent newspaper article I was again reminded that any number of people have over-trusted their in-car nav systems onto deserted desert roads, into oceans and off cliffs. The article suggested that folks today may have eroded their “cognitive maps” because they are not processing information used to move through our landscape. In fact, I have noticed that most younger people do not know how to read a map and may have never even seen one.

While I embrace learning new technology, my relationship with Female was one of uneasy trust – the front seat next to me was loaded with maps of all states I would visit, an atlas and a couple of versions of United States maps as well as some regional maps I picked up along the way. And yes, I usually refold them accurately again for storage.

The Wabash River flooding at Clinton, Indiana

The Wabash River, which we got to see multiple times because of the routing situation in Clinton, was running brown and more than bank-full, thanks to plentiful rain during July in this area. In a small park along the river, trees that should have been handy for males dogs to spray on, were instead awash with flood waters. We got to see it over and over not because Female was malfunctioning, but because the route we needed to proceed on was blocked by multiple emergency vehicles. Firetrucks, medic vans, police cars. I was sure we had stumbled into a major fire or crime scene and was watching carefully to make sure I made all the detours required. Unfortunately, the detours circled a downtown area repeatedly, and with Female shrilling in my ears and several versions of police vehicles blocking the way I was a bit unnerved.

One thing I have learned about driving in an unfamiliar area is that after several passes you start to have a feel for the topography, whether that be streets, back roads or interstate highways. As a passenger in a car, that doesn’t happen so easily. At any rate, after seeing the same police cruisers, ambulances and fire trucks a half-dozen times (and knowing they had observed me) I widened my circle and discovered an obscure roadway that actually led out of town. It also led to the staging area of the go-kart racers.

Ok, I told myself, I have said I will be spontaneous on this trip. So, although go-kart racing is not a passion of mine, I parked in a small field near railroad tracks to have a short explore. As I stepped from the van a group of women approached holding out a small plastic bag with two homemade cinnamon cookies, which they pressed into my hand. With a friendly smile they suggested I have a blessed day. The cookie package label explained why they didn’t keep their hands out for a donation: “God Loves You! Clinton United Methodist Church.”

When I first saw the tiny racing cars I imagined they were toys for kids. The wheels were the size of a midget car hubcab. With about one inch of ground clearance, the miniscule three-foot-long vehicles didn’t even look big enough to house an engine. As it turned out, an engine, steering wheel and seat is about all there is to a go-kart. According to a couple of fellows changing tires on a go-kart (since it looked like rain was imminent the tires had to be quickly switched) one could pay just about anything for the privilege of sitting a couple of inches in front of an engine that sounds like a locomotive approaching a crossing. $3K, 5K, 10K. These fellows, by the way, looked as if their legs would fit better in a full-size 1950s Cadillac.

Drivers change tires on a go-kart as rain approaches.

Almost immediately, Lyla and I faced the challenge of passing a car with a hound hidden beneath staring balefully at us. We managed to circumvent the sourpuss dog and headed toward the “track,” which it turned out was several downtown blocks of roadway and which also explained why streets were blocked. Given the presence of so many emergency vehicles I expected to begin seeing pileups immediately. Rectangular foam blocks about 18-inches high lined the race course, flanked by orange snow fence to keep spectators back. To my left, young children braved the edge of the snow fence to get a better view of the racers skidding around the city street corners and to my right a family of mom-with-baby-strapped-to-her-chest, dad and three young ones leaned against a substantial brick building – downtown Clinton is designated a Historic District on the National Register of Historic Places.

Lyla endures go-kart racing

I tucked Lyla into a doorway alcove, vowing to stay for only one or two races in order to spare her ears. She didn’t complain, but with each passing blast of sound I felt more guilty about her having to endure the discomfort. Within a few minutes a child driver (it turned out there were races for both children and adults) spun out of a corner turn and upset his go-kart against a barrier a few feet from us. Emergency personnel swarmed the scene, helped the unhurt driver to his feet and lifted his vehicle out of the raceway.

The race is on!

Spectators of all sizes watch the races.

Having seen enough of how a portion of my fellow citizens choose to spend a Sunday afternoon by consuming gas, making a lot of noise and closing city streets I decided to get underway to my real destination – Dana. But Lyla and I still had to traverse the course of the hidden hound, who was tied to the axle of the vehicle parked by our van. We practiced our “look-at-me” game from about 50 feet away and were finally successful in getting back into the van without incident.

The “look-at-me” game was one of many strategies taught to us by Shana, the Ohio State University Veterinary College animal behaviorist Lyla and I worked with for several months before our trip. Using “high-value” treats the dog’s person asks the dog to look at them, whereupon the dog then receives the treat. (I’ve been told the treat is not “high value” if it doesn’t make your hands slimy and almost gags you. One of Lyla’s favorite is cooked beef or chicken, but because we were on the road with limited cooling containers, I opted for the tastiest packaged dog treats I could find.) The object is to teach the dog to refocus on something other than what is worrying him or her. It takes a lot of practice and patience, but we had done it numerous times and it helped in situations like this.

Next: we finally reach our destination – the Ernie Pyle farm and homestead in Dana.

Getting to know you

When I travel I usually buy a newspaper in towns where I stop for meals or to stay overnight. To me, a sense of the community can be found in every part of a newspaper, from the news stories to the photos to the advertisements (disclaimer – I worked for newspapers as a writer and photographer for ten years). I have also been a news junkie ever since I picked up my first comic book at about age 5. I still cannot understand people who read only certain sections of the newspaper, and especially those who skip the comics (ok, another disclaimer – I am not particularly hooked on reading the sports sections, but sometimes I do just to get a feel for what interests other people).

Usually, I read newspapers from front to back (same with magazines and books). Even when stories “jump” to another page, I make myself wait until I get to page 3 or 5 before I am allowed to continue the story. That’s not to say I read each and every article, but given time on my hands, I will read the most mundane stories. “Legion installs officers” or “Harlan Hall planning a talent show” are just two from The Prairie Press, a free newspaper I picked up in Paris, Illinois. Having worked for two family-owned newspapers (and then seen them morphed into giant company-owned rags), I am always interested in just who publishes a newspaper. The Prairie Press is one of those rarest of newspaper breeds to be found today – a locally-owned newspaper! Here is the “about us” statement on the newspaper’s website:

“The Prairie Press is delivered, free of charge, to every mailbox in Edgar County, Ill., each Thursday. The Prairie Press was created in 2014 as the only locally owned media outlet — newspaper, radio or TV — in Edgar County. The newspaper’s name is a tribute to the county’s history, as Edgar is on the edge of the region known as the Grand Prairie.

As a modern newsroom, we are part of a never-ending conversation with this community. Our reporters and editors are ready to listen to our audience — and encourage readers to share their thoughts and dreams.”

I can only applaud the owners, for operating a small weekly in today’s competitive newspaper world is brave and not usually well-compensated. On the opinion page the editorial board is listed as Taylor M. Smith III, publisher and president, Nancy Roberts Zeman, editor and vice-president and Gary Henry, staff writer. In future blogs and in the book I am writing about my travels I’ll tell about the Weston County Gazette, established in Newcastle, Wyoming in 1912 and still publishing today in Upton, Wyoming. I may also touch on The Free Paper, which my husband and I established in Logan, Ohio in 1987. Still remembered today by many locals, The Free Paper published for nine whole months, then was trampled to earth by advertisers when an opinion column didn’t suit the fancy of some folks.

In the edition of The Prairie Press printed for the week of Thursday, July 16, 2015, the lead article is titled “Farm values changing.” In the article one can learn about widespread concern among local farmers because of a change to the Farmland Assessment Act of 1977. The story addressed a very complicated issue about valuing farmland based on a formula factoring in commodity prices, input costs, interest rates, productivity, land use and – of all things – soil types! In Illinois there are more than 900 soil types, according to the story.

Other local news covered a school district’s financial shortfall, the beginning of the county fair, the merger of the local hospital with a larger hospital organization, the retirement of Dr. Reid Sutton from 38 years of practice, a traffic accident, and the search for an arsonist who wandered through a home (according to security system photos) and allegedly started a fire in a pile of clothing on a child’s bed.

One of my favorite sections is always the police and fire reports –  in this newspaper, it is titled the “Siren Report.” Not surprisingly, this included reports of traffic arrests for speeding and failure to stop at an intersection; disorderly conduct; domestic battery; and drug possession. The county sheriff’s department reported the demise of deer in three separate encounters with cars. The fire department responded to several medical assistance calls; a car fire in which some poor soul lost a 1993 Volvo, which was totally incinerated; and a traffic accident where firefighters simply needed to check vehicles for hazards and stand by until wreckers cleared the scene.

The court news covered the details of those in custody, those who faced charges, and those who had entered guilty or not-guilty pleas, as well as 15 people who were being sought on arrest warrants.

The always-popular (to read, that is) Opinion Page offered an editorial about why the local hospital will benefit from joining a rural alliance; an editorial by publisher Taylor Smith about checking the facts in politics – he recommends politifact.com, where political claims are ranked as “True,” Mostly True,” “Half True,” “Mostly False,” “False,” and “Pants on Fire.” A project of the Tampa Bay Times, politifact.com was particularly interesting to me in this election year.

The biggest sports news was that the Paris, Illinois U15 Babe Ruth League Baseball team won its second straight Babe Ruth League Southern Illinois State Championship.

Of course there were ads galore (my husband and I discovered too late that’s the only way to keep a free paper going). Ads for hearing aids, mattresses, karate lessons, restaurants, auto sales, food markets, insurance agencies and so forth. These are the lifeblood of a newspaper and kudos to both those who buy and sell advertisements!

Disappointingly, The Prairie Press carried no classified ads or comics, but at least there were plenty of entries in my second favorite section, the OBITUARIES. And that is actually why I began this particular blog. By reading the newspaper, the portrait of a community can be painted as easily as applying colored oils to those long-ago, paint-by-number pictures. But the most important color to apply is the one about people who lived their lives in the community and now will be buried there. In The Prairie Press of July 16, 2015, there were five obituaries (and, I have to point out, two funeral home advertisements at the bottom of that page). Each obituary offered information about former community members.

One stood out for me: Doris Lorenzen Westfall, who died June 28, 2015 at age 96. Westfall was born in 1918 in Foosland, Illinois, a tiny village with a population today of about 100. Settled by William Foos in the 1840s, the town wasn’t incorporated until 1959. Today it has a post office, bank and fire station.

The oldest of six children, according to the obituary, Westfall had been heard commenting that she was her father’s first son because she often drove a team of horses to help with the daily farm work. At the age of 24 she graduated from what was in 1942 the St. Elizabeth School of Nursing in Danville, Illinois.

Westfall’s obituary said, “In addition to her caregiving skills as a nurse, she was profoundly committed to preserving the native environment she knew as a young child and lifelong resident of central Illinois. Mrs. Westfall committed hundreds of hours of her time and enlisted many friends – including the nuns at St. Elizabeth in their habits – to save special places.”

One project protected an area from development and restored native prairies, in particular the prairie at Forest Glen County Preserve, which was named the Doris L. Westfall Nature Preserve. According to the Vermilion County Conservation District website, (vccd.org) Forest Glen Preserve is an 1,800-acre nature preserve in McKendree Township in Vermilion County, Illinois.

Forest Glen Preserve has an extensive botanical listing and is rated third in the state for the number of different botanical species. The Doris L. Westfall Nature Preserve has 100 native prairie plants with Vermilion County seed origin. The 40-acre prairie is dominated by the tall grasses of Indian grass and Big bluestem, as well as Indian paintbrush, puccoon, purple gentian and Illinois bundleflower. A prairie garden plot is available to help visitors identify the many prairie plants.

Westfall received other recognitions, such as the 1990 Conservationist of the Year by the Illinois Wildlife Federation, and she was invited to Washington D.C. to accept the National Chevron Conservation Award.

Now having never met Doris, can’t you just picture her from this brief description of her life? Here’s my image:

As a child, the pigtailed Doris, standing (probably barefooted) on an upturned bucket to reach heavy harness onto the backs of draft horses, then following them down row after row of heavily-scented, plowed dirt. Noticing the spring flowers lining the fields and the birds overhead noisily competing for nesting rights. Bringing the sweaty horses back to the barn after a hard day of work and unharnessing and feeding them hay and grain. Then, because she was the oldest (I know of this from experience!) returning to the house to help with evening chores of cooking, mending and tending to the younger children.

As a teenager, loving school and studying hard to qualify for nursing school, making it through the Great Depression with her family on the farm. Then, studying for her nursing degree as the world turned upside down with a second world war and people all around her were being sent off to fight a war for which no one had asked. Beginning her nursing career when soldiers were returning home, some with injuries or scarred emotions that would last their lifetimes.

As a grown woman, marrying the love of her life (her husband, Robert E. “Bob” Westfall died in 2001), and birthing and raising two children. Since her funeral service was at the Trinity Lutheran Church, I can also visualize Doris and her family attending services there. Eventually Doris would be a grandmother too, to eight grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. The obituary said “she treasured” her three sisters, two brothers and many nieces, nephews and their families. This speaks to me of holiday gatherings, as well as extended visits with grandma or Aunt Doris, probably visits such as my large family constantly had while I was growing up. (How I loved visiting Aunt Phoebe’s farm – I still remember walking barefoot to the pond to see the bullfrogs and then picking ticks from our hair when we returned to the sweet-smelling kitchen.)

Since about one-third of her obituary was taken by her work as a conservationist, I can see Doris as a woman consumed by her love of the outdoors and dedicated to teaching her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews and many others about the importance of preserving large swaths of the lands we have so abundantly used and too often abused. She even conscripted the nursing school nuns (working in their long, dark habits) to labor in the prairie restoration efforts. Can’t you just see them all out there – Doris, the children, the nuns – walking through the prairie of long grasses and bright flowers, bending to touch the earth and encourage yet more growth?

“A prairie is an investment in eternity,” is a quote from the spokesperson for the Vermilion County Audubon Society at the dedication of the Doris L. Westfall Nature Preserve. What a fitting epitaph for a woman who contributed so greatly during her 96 years of life in central Illinois.

And I know about Doris because someone took the time to tell us a little about her in her obituary.

Lyla and her nose remember

Emma and I have returned from a “walk” in the woods – for us it was a more of a race, up and down our steep hills, splashing through streams, crunching in the fallen leaves – and as usual when we returned to the warmth of our house we fell dead asleep. Fif (Friend I Follow) was stretched out on the couch drinking a potent-smelling tea and reading a book. I heard her mention to Ef (Emma's Friend) later that evening that my feet were still running as I dreamed in front of the cozy fire.

Here's Emma (on the left) and me taking a short break.

But it wasn’t rabbits or squirrels I was chasing in my dreams. It was memories from last summer. My feet probably were twitching because much of the trip I was pretty agitated. But I’ve already described how there were strange dogs and new dog smells everywhere we went and how much they disturbed my sense of well-being. What I may not have mentioned yet was some of the other amazing and sometimes disturbing smells, sounds and sensations.

The very first night we stayed in a motel where we had to get in a very small room before we arrived at our room with the bed. Fif pushed a button on a wall and suddenly my tummy shifted violently as the floor of the tiny room pushed at my feet. Later, when we went back outside, we had to enter the tiny room again and this time my tummy went up to my backbone and for just an instant I thought my feet had left the floor. I actually handled all this very well, particularly as there were strange people pressed all around and I surely didn’t want to upchuck on anyone’s shoes, especially since they kept telling me and Fif how beautiful I was. So I put on my best grin and after two or three times got quite used to the funny sensation.

Fif and me and my incredible nose.

It appears that humans cannot smell, see or hear much of what we dogs do. For example, I could smell where all the people who were in that tiny room that lurched my tummy had been that day. But, I could also smell where they had been for the past several days. The  odors coming from their shoes was quite overwhelming, but their clothing also reeked of everything from food smells to gasoline to other people and things they had come close to in the past few days. I could pick out big random odors of dogs, suitcases, car tires (which smell of much more than rubber) and so forth. But since I can smell thousands of times better than a human I could also smell, for example, if a certain human’s suitcase contained clean clothes and/or dirty clothes. If the clothes were clean I could tell if they had been washed in detergent with or without fragrance. If they were dirty (much more interesting) I could tell if they had food stains, had been worn on the beach, fishing or horseback riding. I could tell if the person had had sexual relations recently or been smoking. And on and on.

I don’t mess around with computers, but here is something Fif said to have my readers refer to if you want to learn more about how my world while traveling was so overpoweringly full of smell.

(This article is by Peter Tyson, former editor in chief of Nova Online: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/nature/dogs-sense-of-smell.html. Alexandra Horowitz’s book, Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know is cited in the article. That book went with us on our journey last summer and was referred to many times.)

Here are just a few of the big and little smells I encountered during our six-and-a-half week’s journey:

Water– lakes (some so big I couldn’t see across them); streams, rivers (both dry and flooded); ponds; lakes; puddles; the salty ocean (which I wasn’t too thrilled about); rain; snow; and water with lots of different chemical stuff in it in motels, houses and restrooms.

This was Shell Lake in Wisconsin and in the direction I'm looking we were told that
black bears had been romping on the beach a couple of nights previously.
Do you think I could smell them?

Food – this of course is a huge category, but some highlights include the delicious smells of food Fif was eating and I usually got to sample (I even got my own personal hamburger on a number of occasions); items I consider food but Fif steered me away from, such as cow and horse poop at a fairgrounds where we walked; odors of food wafting down motel hallways or seeping through walls from the units around us; and smells of my dry dog kibble, which wasn’t all that appealing until about the third day on the road.

Air – I would venture to say that humans don’t pay much attention to the smell of air, unless it is really bad air. But to a dog air is the avenue to every other odor. There is the smell of indoor air and outdoor air, the smell of air that has traveled over water and air that has come from mountains and from forests and across deserts. Sometimes air smells of impending storms. The air in our van had vast and enormous smells and I even heard Fif say she was getting sick of the smell of moldy bread and dirty clothes. Several times I got to smell museum air. In one museum there was a “man” dressed in a military uniform. After he didn’t move even when I put my nose on his leg I realized he wasn’t a real human. But the clothes he wore had been somewhere very scary. I could smell human fear on the clothes, which I could also tell were very old.

People – every single human I’ve ever seen or met has a unique smell. That is why if I get separated from Fif on a woods walk at the farm I can easily pick out her trail and find her in a flash. She says she has watched me track her and even when I’m in sight of her I don’t look up, just keep my nose to the ground and fly along. I at least attempt to catalog people smells and that really took some doing as we traveled. No sooner would I store away a smell than we would be on the road and never see that person again. Sometimes, though, we would stay somewhere a couple of days and I was much happier because my smell memory could be useful.

Dogs – as mentioned before, they are without number. And, as with people, each has a distinct odor. The only two dogs I got to continue an association with after first smell was when we visited a family in Bakersfield. At first when I was let loose in a small back yard with very tall walls I criss-crossed the yard at top speed, frantically sucking up thousands of smells. I even ran across (only once) a very spongy thing that later turned out to be a tarp across a swimming pool. Since we were there for three days I eventually just got very curious about the other two dogs who obviously lived there. I wanted to meet them (and then decide whether to eat them or just be friends), but I wasn’t scared of them like I was of so many others. Unfortunately, Fif and her friends decided not to risk an encounter (something about one dog being old – I knew that – and the other being small – I knew that too.

These children are searching for prairie dogs in a "town" the critters built in a park in
North Dakota. Their homes are in holes -- I could have shown them exactly where to look!

Other animals – again, without number. Some were very familiar – raccoons, skunks, opossums, snakes, and so forth. When we camped at a big lake the ranger warned Fif not to let me loose because there were porcupines. She showed us a photo of a dog with hundreds of quills in his poor nose – I bet that nose had some smelling issues for awhile. At one motel there were wild bunnies everywhere. I could not only smell them constantly, but I could smell where their dens were and tell you how many babies were hunched inside. At another motel many elk grazed all night on the lawn in front. I was particularly interested in their droppings, but again wasn’t allowed to taste. Once while we were walking alone in a forest I stopped in my tracks and stared into the top of some trees. I didn’t bark, but was VERY quiet. Of course Fif looked up too and she quickly realized what I already knew. Something very big and black had been there pretty recently. We made a quick trip back to the van.

Motel rooms – loaded with odors! Humans and dogs and all the foods they eat, all the things they carry or wear, all the things they do. Because we always stayed in rooms other dogs had inhabited, some odors were so strong even Fif commented on them. The first two or three nights I had a great urge to pee on the carpet where others had committed the same sin. This, despite the fact that I have NEVER used our house for a bathroom. Fif reprimanded me sternly about that urge. Eventually, she got the idea to spray each room with some smelly stuff, saying it covered up the odors. Well, for her maybe it did. For me it just added another layer.

This is when we visited the cemetery at Shell Lake
Wisconsin, looking for Fif's great-grandmother's grave.
We did not find it but you can tell I enjoyed this outing!

Random things – graveyards – we visited many, as Fif realized they are usually vacant and great for walks. You would be amazed at what odors I smelled there! At one I was tempted to do some digging next to a headstone, but Fif blocked that impulse. Long roads in the countryside where we walked were very rich in odors, from fertilizers for the fields to birds flying around, to corn and wheat and hay growing, to myriad small creatures burrowing and climbing and crawling. I even took time to stop and smell the flowers.

A restaurant in Kansas

Although my plan was to go back over our summer’s journey chronologically, I find that some stories float to the top and compel setting “to paper” more immediately.

I soon realized as I traveled that there are small stories that are just as necessary to tell as some that more in-depth interviewing/research can produce. In fact, as a journalist observer I believe that at times simply observing without inserting a third party (me) can produce a fairly accurate portrayal. (And, as it works out, this can be suitable for a person such as me who is actually shy under some circumstances.)

Toward the end of our trip, Lyla and I were travelling on back roads through the eastern part of Colorado and into west Kansas. Finally, the weather had cooled enough that I could occasionally stop at a restaurant and safely leave Lyla in the car. Although this particular off-the-beaten-track restaurant advertised home-cooked food, all I really remember about the meal is that I can’t recall at all what I ordered and that it was not very tasty. In fact, it was one of the rare times that I didn’t take a bit of leftovers (which I always have) out to Lyla because I didn’t think it would be good for her.

But I truly wasn’t all that interested in the food. I was far more interested in hanging out near the “real” people of the west, which can be done best in local restaurants. I seated myself in a booth with a good view of the entryway. In front of me was a couple dining with an older man and they seemed to be discussing local topics. Unfortunately, it was a busy time in the restaurant and a bit difficult to hear more than a few snatches of conversation about water supplies and the price of gas.

Near my booth was a young soldier dressed in military garb accompanied only by his cell phone, which made for a lively texting companion.

Then, to my delight, in strode an authentic-looking cowboy with leather chaps, a whiskery face obviously impacted by weather and maybe a few headfirst tumbles from a horse, and of course, the cowboy hat. He joined a few others in a booth around a corner, so I never got more than a couple of glimpses. I did see him leave in a beat-up-looking pickup truck that fitted his obvious western lifesyle, however.

Distracted by these colorful characters I didn’t at first pay much attention to another scene unfolding. I saw the front door open and a neatly-dressed young black man struggled to push in a baby stroller with a tiny infant swaddled inside. With him was another black man with a child who was perhaps five years old. Neither of the men were older than mid-20s and it was a bit unusual to see such young fellows shepherding two youngsters, especially the infant. In my imagination I saw them as young husbands giving their young wives an afternoon off by taking the kids out for a meal.

I feel I need at this point to say that this thin slice of several people’s lives may or may not actually portray reality. But my gut feeling is that this fleeting glimpse of interaction (perhaps 15 or 20 minutes) revealed an all-too-common interplay that perpetrates an abiding feeling of unfairness and contributes in small and great ways to far-reaching and long-lingering racial tensions.

The young man with the infant parked the baby’s stroller next to their table just as a restaurant employee approached with a rolling cart on which dirty dishes were stacked. She gave the young men a glare and muttered that the stroller was in her way. While the aisleway was not wide enough for both vehicles, the tone in the employee’s voice was neither polite nor welcoming. The man with the infant glanced up with a perfectly expressionless face to see that no quarter was to be given, no assistance offered, no “I’m sorry, but it might be better to park the stroller elsewhere.”

No words were exchanged between the customer and the employee, but the black man looked away, seemed to be contemplating how to fix the situation and then arose and awkwardly removed a carrier that was part of the stroller. He carefully placed the carrier with the sleeping infant on the booth bench and began to maneuver the stroller back down the aisle and through the double doors. No one offered an assisting hand and after he bumped the stroller back down steps he folded it into a car and quietly re-entered the restaurant.

A server appeared, gave a perfunctory greeting, tapped a foot while waiting for the five-year-old to decide between French toast and a sandwich and disappeared with their order. Even the child seemed subdued, as though without being told, knew he was in a place where acceptance was really just barely tolerance. The infant slept on in a blissful ignorance that might last a few more months.

Now I’ve been in restaurants and other public places where the sight of a wee one catches glances and frequently comments such as “what a cute baby,” or some such. That did not happen here. After being served the four were not looked at or spoken to, although I suspect they were noticed. I am ashamed to say that even I, sitting directly across from this young family, did not say some encouraging, civil word to them. One struggles with the thought that, as equal human beings and citizens, all people deserve the respect from others to not feel an obligatory comment should be made. On the other hand, civilized people often speak civilly to complete strangers. I know that I do. But I didn’t this day. And it may have made no difference at all if I had. But then again, maybe it would.

Throughout my trip I wrestled with the notion of going to Ferguson, Missouri, where the unarmed black man Michael Brown was fatally shot by a white Ferguson police officer after being stopped for questioning about a nearby robbery. Racial tensions throughout the country rose during the next year, with spotlights on other fatal shootings of blacks by white police officers, including that of a 12-year-old black boy in Cleveland, Ohio who was “armed” with a toy pistol. I wanted to see for myself what the streets of Ferguson looked like a year after the shooting. In the end I drove by on the interstate, a scant 10 miles north of Ferguson, snatching glimpses of the dark skyline. It was one of the few times I did not live up to a challenge I set for myself and I told myself I backed out partly because there was no safe place to leave Lyla – I could not take her on the streets because of her aversion to and likelihood of attacking another dog.

I truly am at a loss as to what one white woman can accomplish. I can say that I am (as are many, many others of all skin hues) appalled that in the year 2015 – 150 years after the American Civil War ended – the origins of one’s biological background can cause hate, divisiveness and a lack of common civility.

Thursday, October 1

As I sit at my computer with a blank screen (in the olden days it would have been a piece of paper in my Royal typewriter) I ponder where to start with the new beginning of this blog.

As Lyla and I traveled this summer we had more experiences than it was possible to blog about – instead I have notebooks, digital recordings, scraps of paper and LOTS of photographs that I now have to sort through and put in some order.

Perhaps some mention of the thought process for a solo journey should be touched upon.

This was not by any means the first time I have traveled alone (sans human-company, that is). When I graduated from Ohio University in 1973 the first thing I did was to give myself the gift of a one-month solo horseback trip. With two horses, a dog and my guitar for company I covered about 350 or so miles of Ohio countryside (for the first week, though, I did convince my 12-year-old son to join me). On the 10^th anniversary of that trip I repeated the horseback journey, this time for 10 days, with the same two horses (unfortunately, by then the dog was long dead). In 1998 and 1999 I traipsed the countryside with two horses and a friend and her horse for a week each summer as we practiced for a planned longer horseback journey that was to take place in 2000 (the partnership for the trip dissolved so I ended up riding and hiking for three days in 2000 with my daughter and grandson).

In 1981 I traveled alone for a month (by car) from Ohio through the Midwest as far as the Four Corners, swinging back by a southern route through Texas and Oklahoma.

During the early 1970s (my college, therefore poorest years) I hitchhiked so much one of my college professors dubbed me “superthumb” after observing me catch a ride in under a minute. Some of those trips included hitchhiking to and through New York City (once to Westport, Connecticut to interview Paul Newman); from Florida to Ohio when I was ditched by a friend; and to Arkansas to stay with an Amish family for a few days (I was planning on accompanying them on a journey across the U.S.—they were to drive a horse and wagon and I would ride sidesaddle on a horse since I would be required to wear a dress).

In 1974 I convinced a Mississippi riverboat company to allow me to ride a towboat for a month to produce a story. I certainly wasn’t alone, but I was the only woman besides the cook aboard. I managed to convince the crew I was a serious journalist and not riding with them to meet guys (eventually I was allowed to work alongside them, painting and cleaning and even—once—allowed to steer the towboat with many chemical barges strung out in front of us).

How did this adventurous side of me originate? Probably because my parents (who I secretly called gypsies) traveled about and moved many times during my early years. By the time I was five we had lived in multiple locations including Columbus and Cleveland Ohio, Tampa, Florida and Yermo, California. I remember long cross-country drives through mountains where Dad would have to stop our 1940s-era car and add water to the radiator. When we moved from Columbus to Yermo in 1946 our vehicle must have looked much like those of the migrants—everything we owned was packed in or on it, with Mom, Dad and two young kids squeezed inside. That was way before seatbelts. My brother Glen and I fought over who got to lie on the shelf of the back window! Mom stuffed the floor on either side of the “hump” (where the transmission passed through the backseat) with bedding or other soft items and that was our bed. When we made our way back to Columbus to live in 1949 we stopped for several months in Phoenix, Arizona. Dad bought a school bus, ripped out the seats and built bins for vegetables. Early each morning he would go to a fresh foods vendor and pick up fruits and vegetables, then run a neighborhood route with them, much as milkmen and breadmen did in that era. The bus was very handy to use for the return trip to Columbus. Mom and Dad simply packed all their stuff, including, by now, four kids, into the vegetable bins. In his usual mode of exaggeration, my husband Don still says I grew up in a vegetable bin.

At age 68 I made my first venture overseas and traveled alone, although I met family on the other side of the ocean. Without knowing more than a smattering of words of Japanese I changed planes in Tokyo to arrive in Nagoya without incident. After several days exploring the country with my grandson and his wife I went to Kyoto by bullet train, spent a night in a ryokan alone and the next day negotiated my way by foot and train to see the Kyoto Imperial Palace, and then eventually to find the right spot in which to meet my grandson.

So with some background in various kinds of travel, I began planning my trip west and felt confident that I would have no trouble traveling alone. But my husband had another idea. He thought it would be best to travel with my six-year-old mixed-breed German Shepherd dog. I loved the idea, but had misgivings on several fronts. Although I had successfully worked with Lyla on basic commands I knew she had issues with being near other dogs (except her packmate, Emma, who came to the farm as an eight-week-old pup). I also knew we would be traveling through some very hot weather and that there would be many places she would not be allowed to enter (restaurants, museums, some park areas). It took months to work through the thought process, the training and the preparation for traveling with a dog. I believe it added at least 50 percent more preparation time and money than if I had not traveled with her. But the dimension she brought to the trip could not be bought with any amount of money. As I continue with the blog I will go into some of the details traveling with a dog requires.

Home again

September 12, 2015

7,702 miles divided by 45 days. That's 171.15 miles a day, although we did not drive every one of those 45 days.

Lyla and I arrived home about 6 p.m. Monday, August 31, and that day we drove right at 400 miles, scoring those miles in Illinois, Indiana and Ohio. As John Steinbeck so aptly put it, you know when the journey is over. Our journey was pretty much over in the middle of Colorado, although I tried to make Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and Indiana (not to mention Ohio) count. Counting Ohio we visited 20 states.

It was a journey I had dreamed about for four years and with the help of many others was able to make come true. Some -- but not all -- of those others included my husband, Don, who maintained and more our 75-acre farm, the four horses and one mule, eight cats and one sad, left-behind dog, all while driving more than 70 miles round-trip to his day job five days a week; my two helpers, Lorrene and Katelyn, who fed equines five evenings a week (Don arose VERY early every morning to feed them), cleaned the house and our rental cabins and kept other household clocks ticking; the members of our Athens SeniorBEAT program who took photos and kept track of attendance and other program details during my absence; my two incredible hosts/relatives, sister-in-law Irene and her husband John, and brother Don and his wife Vicki, who provided creature comforts to two road-weary creatures along the way; and the dozens of people who I met as I traveled who offered everything from stories, shelter, food and information to an incredible horseback ride in Wyoming. I have to also mention my daughter, Keri, who showed up a day before I left with six wrapped packages, each with a label such as "In case you and Lyla are feeling playful," (a frisbee and unstuffed toy) or, "For when you're feeling HOT!" (a miracle towel that holds cold water for hours). Keri reminded me that when she and her brother, Chris, were children I would have wrapped presents for them to discover as we traveled. I've heard that roles reverse as we age and our children become our caregivers.

As I mentioned this list is not complete. Nor is the story of our journey. I did not anticipate how difficult it would be to drive all those miles; talk with people; stop the car multiple times a day for walking Lyla and taking photos; find new lodging almost every day (sometimes that could take up to an hour); keep track of what I needed to do to help my Ohio family cope; make phone calls, write emails and create two newsletters for the SeniorBEAT program; handle all the bookings (phone calls, emails, etc.) for our cabin rental business, WaterSong Woods; and oh, yes, have fun and see sights and enjoy scenery. And blog.

So the plan is to continue this blog, starting back at day 1 of our travels, as much was left out. I hope to be able to do that about every two weeks. In addition, I plan to begin writing a book. At this time I hope to incorporate this recent journey into a story about other journeys -- both mine and others.

Meanwhile, here are a few photos of our last days on the road.

See the windmills on the horizon stirring in the eastern Colorado breeze?

As we left our motel one morning I caught a glimpse of what looked like several dolphins swimming in a far-off field.

Then we got closer to a rail line that ran parallel to the road and saw the entire train of several dozen flatbed cars hauling these windmill propeller blades.

It was harvest time during our travels and grain silos like these in Kansas were loading up.

Corn was maturing in the fields.

To keep Lyla (and other dogs safe) our long walks were on roads like this one in Colorado.

Where we got to see indications of a very rural life. The mail delivery does NOT come to each and every door, but is delivered to the end of the dirt road where several families live. Notice the parched and cracked dry earth in front of these mailboxes. In the distance a storm was brewing.

Poor, weary Lyla. She was really a wonderful traveling companion!

One lonely white horse in a sea of sage.

Homecoming! We stopped to say hello to our neighbor and helper, Katelynn. Her sister, Courtney, took this photo. Doesn't Lyla look happy?

Making sure little sister, Emma, understands who is still boss.

No more need be said here!

August 28, 2015

Fif is calling me a heroine. If a dog could blush, I might be, but on the other hand, my understanding is that we are to be taking care of each other on this journey. So here is what happened.

After a couple of expensive motel nights on the Oregon coast we drove a bit inland to stay at a cheaper motel. Did I mention that it was cheap? The air conditioner was on a shelf so high that Fif had to get out a stool she brought along and stand on it to reach the controls.

It also had inadequate locks--this photo is from a different motel, but you get the picture...

It was a warm night and as we drove to the exterior door and parked we saw that the occupants of the next room had their door open and were drinking and watching TV. It was three construction-type guys, and they looked pretty rough. They watched Fif carry stuff into our room. Last she unloaded me and as we walked past them one guy said, "look at that big dog!" I kind of puffed up a bit and for once Fif didn't say how much I love people.

About 2 a.m. I could tell Fif was awake and suddenly I sprang to my feet and ran to the door. We both had heard something right outside. Softly Fif called me to her. At first I was reluctant to come away from the door. I sniffed at the bottom and knew someone was right out there, but I turned back and the two of us sat on the floor behind the bed for awhile.

Finally it got quiet and then we heard someone running water in the unit next to us. Fif gave me lots of hugs and said how much I helped her be brave. In the morning we didn't go outside until the workers (who made lots of noise coughing and spitting and swearing for an hour) left.

After we got into California we went to a very special place -- the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas.

At first the folks there said I wouldn't be allowed to come inside. But since one of John Steinbeck's stories is about a dog named Charley who took a long trip with his friend and we had come more than 5,000 miles to see his truck Fif really wanted me to be with her. She suggested that sometimes rules are made to be broken (I suspect Steinbeck might have agreed) and a very nice lady said that she loves dogs so that it would be ok.
Here we are posing beside the truck, which was named Rocinate. A boy named Hugo Semel, who was visiting from Paris, France took this photo.

We also visited the Mohave Desert, where the temperature was about 106 degrees. Fif made sure I was only outside early in the morning or in the air conditioned motel room or van. It was morning when we visited the Calico Cemetery where people are buried under piles of stones. Fif lived near here when she was a little girl and remembers playing around the ghost town and the cemetery. She even named her first horse 'Calico.'

I did lots of panting and drank lots of water.

A nice park ranger took this photo.

We also discovered the "siesta." It really is the only way to spend the afternoons in the desert!

We visited Fif's brother, Don and his wife, Vicki, in Mesquite, Nevada. Everyone disappeared for awhile one day while I got to stay in the cool house. When they came home they smelled like creatures I had never smelled before. This armadillo who lives at the Roos-N-More Zoo was one of the critters Fif told me I was smelling.

One of my hosts was CeCee, a 16-year-old cat who actually showed up at our farm in Ohio about 15 years ago and Fif convinced her brother he needed a cat. You can see here that I am being the perfect guest .
CeCee has traveled thousands of miles with Don and Vicki both on airplanes and in cars as they have a home in Kentucky too. Can you believe she actually LIKES traveling? Speaking of traveling, I've noticed the past couple of days that the sun is in our eyes when we start out in the morning. Hmmmm, I sense another change is coming.