Today, as I anticipate I will also be in the future, I am swimming in the sciences.
It may be a good thing, but I will keep my fingers crossed anyway.
I have never felt this challenged, which was something I was looking for. I know that in order to succeed, I will have to be top snuff. Otherwise, I simply will not cut it.
In former courses of study, I have felt entitled, someone so gifted in a particular area that everyone, including professors, should bow down before my incredible mental prowess.
As I have grown older I realize that I must have looked preposterous to those who intellectually towered over me. However, at the time, I thought I was truly something of a prodigy.
In the sciences, I do not have the background, god given ability, or terrible approach that has made my education an easy to course up to this point in my life.
I was timid in my classrooms today, not the usual brash student with nothing to say but an exceedingly loud voice. I just sat, and concentrated, and wondered to myself: "Can I really do this?"
The simple answer is yes. I have yet to meet an obstacle I can not over come through diligence and perseverance, but I do know that this will not be an easy task. There will be no faking anything, I do not have the base of knowledge to make a fool of myself.
There will have to be hours of note taking, memorizing, reading and comprehending to over come these challenges.
I hope I have it in me. I suppose I do. I am honestly scared. Maybe. I don't know. I am excited for the challenge, but still wary of the consequences. For the first time in my life I do not know if I am smart enough, mature enough, ready enough to beat something.
I think that is what will make me succeed. It is refreshing to have something new, something unlearned, to dive head first into. I only hope the depth of my limitations is not shallower than the plunge of my ambition.
Maybe I should be working now, or now, or now. Maybe I should set more time aside later today. Tomorrow. The next day. Establishing a routine that I can sync into for success would help. I need to avoid distractions. It is imperative that I stay ahead.
I need some luck.
Bio-Chemistry may be the hardest thing I have ever chosen to do.
I hope I am ready.
31.8.09
30.8.09
nothing going.
Today is Sunday. I plan on writing up the adventure that I took part in over the past couple days with my lovely girlfriend Marissa later today, but for now, I have nothing going.
I woke up early, poised to have a cup of joe with my parents before accompanying them to church at the Cov. However, they have signed up for nursery duty, and have no aspirations or intentions of sitting in a pew with strangers, most of which who probably worship a slightly different god than I, even if we call him the same name.
So, now I am up early, nothing to do. I haven't poured a cup of coffee yet, I don't know why. I didn't drink any yesterday after I woke up in my car at six in the morning either. I assume these two days will be an apparition on the larger scale as days stack and time progresses.
I suppose I could tidy up the basement, that may be a good start. I could pack laundry into the machine and let it howl as it turns through the spin cycle. There is still a mattress in the back of my car that could be removed and returned to the basement.
The car is something else I should knock out today, providing shine and cleanliness to my future self on the first day of school tomorrow.
If I accomplish those tasks, along with pricing and ordering books, getting school supplies, and finding my schedule, I will more than likely be in a much better mood the first day of school as I awake to a clean living space, a full wardrobe of clean clothes, and a sparkling ride that I can blast Tupac in on my way back to my third fall of community college.
Anyway, I suppose I have laid out some things to do, so I am going to get after them now. Follow up to read the epic of the weekend later today.
I woke up early, poised to have a cup of joe with my parents before accompanying them to church at the Cov. However, they have signed up for nursery duty, and have no aspirations or intentions of sitting in a pew with strangers, most of which who probably worship a slightly different god than I, even if we call him the same name.
So, now I am up early, nothing to do. I haven't poured a cup of coffee yet, I don't know why. I didn't drink any yesterday after I woke up in my car at six in the morning either. I assume these two days will be an apparition on the larger scale as days stack and time progresses.
I suppose I could tidy up the basement, that may be a good start. I could pack laundry into the machine and let it howl as it turns through the spin cycle. There is still a mattress in the back of my car that could be removed and returned to the basement.
The car is something else I should knock out today, providing shine and cleanliness to my future self on the first day of school tomorrow.
If I accomplish those tasks, along with pricing and ordering books, getting school supplies, and finding my schedule, I will more than likely be in a much better mood the first day of school as I awake to a clean living space, a full wardrobe of clean clothes, and a sparkling ride that I can blast Tupac in on my way back to my third fall of community college.
Anyway, I suppose I have laid out some things to do, so I am going to get after them now. Follow up to read the epic of the weekend later today.
28.8.09
Today is it.
Today is it.
I have been waiting for Friday all week, and now that it is here, well, I wish it were later. I have so much to do, so much to complete, or just a bunch of time to waste.
Something like that.
I woke up early, although I intended to sleep late. My puppy was sliding about on the floors above my head, making racket as she bumped and banged her way through the kitchen chasing her stuffed rabbit.
I woke up to an e-mail saying that my fortune has increased over night. That is not usually typical, however, my direct deposit was due to be posted, and the news that it had would have been more shocking if it had not. Bank of America turns gears all hours of the day I guess.
I am kind of out of it, staring down a long list of things that will hopefully soon become accomplishments.
I need to dig the mattress out from behind the curtain in my cave and outfit the back of my Explorer with it because my lovely girlfriend's Chinese room mate is not comfortable "with male guests sleeping over." So guess who gets stuck sleeping in some crack alley in the back of their car. I bet you realize that it's me.
I am excited to go down though, don't get me wrong. I think it will just be weird when we kiss and say goodnight, she walks up the stairs of her dorm, and I putter off into the night in search of a decent parking space where I will not be disturbed by police, bandits, or other forms of ruffians.
I am just excited to see her. Five days can seem like forever, and this week has, that much is sure. I have no clue what we will be doing over the next two days, but hopefully it will be fun.
I need to attack the list.
Goodbye.
I have been waiting for Friday all week, and now that it is here, well, I wish it were later. I have so much to do, so much to complete, or just a bunch of time to waste.
Something like that.
I woke up early, although I intended to sleep late. My puppy was sliding about on the floors above my head, making racket as she bumped and banged her way through the kitchen chasing her stuffed rabbit.
I woke up to an e-mail saying that my fortune has increased over night. That is not usually typical, however, my direct deposit was due to be posted, and the news that it had would have been more shocking if it had not. Bank of America turns gears all hours of the day I guess.
I am kind of out of it, staring down a long list of things that will hopefully soon become accomplishments.
I need to dig the mattress out from behind the curtain in my cave and outfit the back of my Explorer with it because my lovely girlfriend's Chinese room mate is not comfortable "with male guests sleeping over." So guess who gets stuck sleeping in some crack alley in the back of their car. I bet you realize that it's me.
I am excited to go down though, don't get me wrong. I think it will just be weird when we kiss and say goodnight, she walks up the stairs of her dorm, and I putter off into the night in search of a decent parking space where I will not be disturbed by police, bandits, or other forms of ruffians.
I am just excited to see her. Five days can seem like forever, and this week has, that much is sure. I have no clue what we will be doing over the next two days, but hopefully it will be fun.
I need to attack the list.
Goodbye.
List:
List:
Unhook Ipod.
Play fetch with dog.
Pick out clothes.
Shave.
Shower.
Coffee.
Crunch Berries.
Mattress in car.
Pack for Cedar Falls.
Make Bed.
Watches and Wallet.
Shoes.
Road Coffee.
Gas station.
Fill up.
Trash clean out for car.
Pay the lady.
Drive through traffic.
Stop at Courthouse in Garner.
Find County Auditor.
Get Supervisors Minutes.
Back to Car.
On to Britt.
City Hall for Pool Story.
Write Pool Story.
Farm Calls.
More Farm Calls.
Even more Farm Calls.
Write Ag Report.
Talk to Angie.
Talk to Linda.
Avoid Megan.
More Phone Calls.
More writing.
Turn in keys.
Meet with Don.
Walk through house.
Get deposit back.
Drive.
Drive.
Drive.
See my baby.
....Seems like a lot of steps when I am only interested in the last four.
Unhook Ipod.
Play fetch with dog.
Pick out clothes.
Shave.
Shower.
Coffee.
Crunch Berries.
Mattress in car.
Pack for Cedar Falls.
Make Bed.
Watches and Wallet.
Shoes.
Road Coffee.
Gas station.
Fill up.
Trash clean out for car.
Pay the lady.
Drive through traffic.
Stop at Courthouse in Garner.
Find County Auditor.
Get Supervisors Minutes.
Back to Car.
On to Britt.
City Hall for Pool Story.
Write Pool Story.
Farm Calls.
More Farm Calls.
Even more Farm Calls.
Write Ag Report.
Talk to Angie.
Talk to Linda.
Avoid Megan.
More Phone Calls.
More writing.
Turn in keys.
Meet with Don.
Walk through house.
Get deposit back.
Drive.
Drive.
Drive.
See my baby.
....Seems like a lot of steps when I am only interested in the last four.
27.8.09
9, 10, 11, 12, 1,000,000 stories to write?
Today is going to be rough. Lots of work to do.
9, 10, 11, 12, 1,000,000 stories to write?
I don't even know. By tomorrow, they have to be done. The world will end if they are not done.
Wait!
I'm done working in that miserable newspaper life tomorrow. Anything I don't get done, they really can't do anything about. What are they going to do? Fire me?
I want to leave on a good foot, I want to get all of this done. I just really don't think that it is feasible. I got piled on because it is my last week, and I feel that is unfair. I am not being paid to write the next three editions of the paper. I am getting paid to write this coming week's edition. That means I should not have to fill the pages of the issues to come and write more in a week than my lazy editor does in a month.
I am not saying that I am not up to the challenge, actually quite the opposite. During full weeks over the past few months during my tenure with these papers I have written upwards of 14 stories in a week. This was done with the knowledge that I would be able to slacken my pace and rest for the following few weeks. I do not think it is fair that I should have to allow someone in a position of authority (above me) the same slackened pace due to my dilligent work. That is unjust.
So, I'm going to attack today, and we will see what happens.
There was a day in July that I was working in Forest City and completed a record 11 stories before three in the afternoon. My publisher visited from Osage that day and was very impressed and expressed as much to me.
On my way home I felt gigantic. Like Weezy F. Baby said: "I feel big, not big in the sense of weight, like gaining weight or nothing like that, like colossal, ha."
I felt I could smash down on every farm I drove by and conquer the world. I let out a scream that would have shaken the foundations of the greatest buildings man has ever built.
I felt as though I had beaten the task, I had made it, and that is when I lost interest. I then knew that there was nothing they could put in front of me there that I couldn't do. That I couldn't destroy. That I couldn't make mine.
Now, they are asking me unrealistic requests in my final two days. However, when I hit 40 hours tomorrow, I will be done. I will be leaving.
....and what is anyone going to do about it?
9, 10, 11, 12, 1,000,000 stories to write?
I don't even know. By tomorrow, they have to be done. The world will end if they are not done.
Wait!
I'm done working in that miserable newspaper life tomorrow. Anything I don't get done, they really can't do anything about. What are they going to do? Fire me?
I want to leave on a good foot, I want to get all of this done. I just really don't think that it is feasible. I got piled on because it is my last week, and I feel that is unfair. I am not being paid to write the next three editions of the paper. I am getting paid to write this coming week's edition. That means I should not have to fill the pages of the issues to come and write more in a week than my lazy editor does in a month.
I am not saying that I am not up to the challenge, actually quite the opposite. During full weeks over the past few months during my tenure with these papers I have written upwards of 14 stories in a week. This was done with the knowledge that I would be able to slacken my pace and rest for the following few weeks. I do not think it is fair that I should have to allow someone in a position of authority (above me) the same slackened pace due to my dilligent work. That is unjust.
So, I'm going to attack today, and we will see what happens.
There was a day in July that I was working in Forest City and completed a record 11 stories before three in the afternoon. My publisher visited from Osage that day and was very impressed and expressed as much to me.
On my way home I felt gigantic. Like Weezy F. Baby said: "I feel big, not big in the sense of weight, like gaining weight or nothing like that, like colossal, ha."
I felt I could smash down on every farm I drove by and conquer the world. I let out a scream that would have shaken the foundations of the greatest buildings man has ever built.
I felt as though I had beaten the task, I had made it, and that is when I lost interest. I then knew that there was nothing they could put in front of me there that I couldn't do. That I couldn't destroy. That I couldn't make mine.
Now, they are asking me unrealistic requests in my final two days. However, when I hit 40 hours tomorrow, I will be done. I will be leaving.
....and what is anyone going to do about it?
turning golden.
the entire state is turning golden,
Midas's tassels blowing in the breeze.
even now as August turns,
the northern draft has that southern ease.
it's as if it tells us:
"hush up now, I have come to do my deed."
so we wait for the world to turn brown and golden,
so we wait for that first real freeze.
the farmer's are growing hesitant,
hoping to harvest their riches soon,
they'll toil and trouble through all of September,
and hope to work until October's full moon.
Outside my window the trees are still green,
and maybe they will stay so for a while,
but with the fields turning golden we know we can't hold in,
the changes and death that will come.
Midas's tassels blowing in the breeze.
even now as August turns,
the northern draft has that southern ease.
it's as if it tells us:
"hush up now, I have come to do my deed."
so we wait for the world to turn brown and golden,
so we wait for that first real freeze.
the farmer's are growing hesitant,
hoping to harvest their riches soon,
they'll toil and trouble through all of September,
and hope to work until October's full moon.
Outside my window the trees are still green,
and maybe they will stay so for a while,
but with the fields turning golden we know we can't hold in,
the changes and death that will come.
26.8.09
Good intentions make Bad Poetry.
You have gone a little ways away,
but I know you took my love.
Through days spent and secrets kept,
I have given you this gift.
I hope it will keep you warm.
I pray it will keep you calm.
I dream it will give you piece of mind,
when the storms of life come on.
Two hundred miles or ten thousand,
It couldn't ever matter at all.
My heart it beats inside your chest,
clicking the rhythm as your heart thumps along.
So now I call several times a day,
and run the miles when I can.
Just to show you I still care,
and that I always, always, will be there.
I know whatever fates may come,
we will survive the winds that blow.
Time and trial and piece of mind,
will one day be all we know.
But I will be there with you,
even when I can't stay,
beating that cadence in your chest,
trying to take your cares away.
but I know you took my love.
Through days spent and secrets kept,
I have given you this gift.
I hope it will keep you warm.
I pray it will keep you calm.
I dream it will give you piece of mind,
when the storms of life come on.
Two hundred miles or ten thousand,
It couldn't ever matter at all.
My heart it beats inside your chest,
clicking the rhythm as your heart thumps along.
So now I call several times a day,
and run the miles when I can.
Just to show you I still care,
and that I always, always, will be there.
I know whatever fates may come,
we will survive the winds that blow.
Time and trial and piece of mind,
will one day be all we know.
But I will be there with you,
even when I can't stay,
beating that cadence in your chest,
trying to take your cares away.
What then?
I often do not answer my cellphone when an old friend calls. It is not because I do not crave the correspondence, it is because the gesture seems too small. I can trace and dial numbers in order to hear that same old voice. Just as easily I can play it in my memory and get the same effect. Closeness doesn't grow by shooting signals through the network, the actual physical transportation is what it really takes.
I have a hard time talking to people that used to be staples of my daily routine. They remind of a different time when I didn't know what to be. How to act. What to do. Where to start.
Now I have learned the customs of this grown up world, I know where the path will end. Someday soon I will be stuck again with my feet underneath a desk.
There is no pay for the vagabond, just a free meal here or there. The steady paycheck, hard working life will never seem quite free. Too many tie-ins. Too many neck ties. Too many tirades.
Hopefully I will grow accustomed some days, but I often suppose that I will not. What then?
I have a hard time talking to people that used to be staples of my daily routine. They remind of a different time when I didn't know what to be. How to act. What to do. Where to start.
Now I have learned the customs of this grown up world, I know where the path will end. Someday soon I will be stuck again with my feet underneath a desk.
There is no pay for the vagabond, just a free meal here or there. The steady paycheck, hard working life will never seem quite free. Too many tie-ins. Too many neck ties. Too many tirades.
Hopefully I will grow accustomed some days, but I often suppose that I will not. What then?
No News will be Good News.
It has become a drought of sorts, no new arrivals, nothing falling into my lap. Maybe it is because this is my last week as a newspaper reporter, or just maybe because it has always been this slow.
I keep synchronizing my e-mail, something that many in my generation have never had to do. On the older computer systems, mainly pre-makeover Mac operators, you must hover over tools, pull down to synchronize, and then jog over to all folders. It is a menial process, especially when it yields no results.
So I click and scroll and wait for the loading bar to reach the end of its inbox, outbox, sent cycle. Nothing ever happens, excepting the occasional mass-correspondence from Chuck Grassely aimed at exposing the potential failures of health reform.
I read and delete them, only responding when I feel extra ornery about the subject at hand. I know he will not read them, we do not truly have representation in the halls of government.
I will be done with this path on Friday,
I can see the top of the ridge now.
I have stumbled down it half-hearted,
hoping to find an easy way out.
Friday will be the day for desk packing, goodbyes, and see you soons. I do not plan on coming back, but who ever does? I am longing for a quiet resting place, but I know that one will not come soon.
The weight in my pockets will be lighter as I purge keys throughout this week. First front doors, back doors and desk keys, then all the ones that I have no use for anymore. 14 of 16 will disappear by the time the weekend comes, leaving locked the past I ran from and the present I can't stand.
The coffee and commute lifestyle has proven not for me. Chained to a desk, with a cellular ball and chain, has been keeping me from sleep. I have no interest in small town news, I could care less what improvements to 'B' level roads are being made. I just want to drive down them and marvel at the orange blossoms that struggle through the tall grass to reach towards the sun.
I do not want to interview anyone, I just want to sit and listen. Quietly conversing as a caring new friend is how I would rather fill that time. I feel like the town gossip, letting out everybody's lies. Before I ever come around everyone polishes their image and makes sure to watch their words.
There is no emotion in the black and white pages, excepting the classified giveaways. Just the drone of a public scanner. We report the news and small town dealings that will not matter in a week. Whenever big news breaks, it is blocked and hidden, only shown after the truth has been taken away.
The sources won't give away too much,
because we all just lie and cheat.
It's human nature I suppose:
that makes the only important thing food on the table to eat.
I will not miss the hour drives
that I spend bemoaning the current day.
I often curse the sun for rising,
and not staying tucked away.
So soon I hope to make amends,
to friends near and afar:
I will show them all how I have grown
while they traveled near and far.
I keep synchronizing my e-mail, something that many in my generation have never had to do. On the older computer systems, mainly pre-makeover Mac operators, you must hover over tools, pull down to synchronize, and then jog over to all folders. It is a menial process, especially when it yields no results.
So I click and scroll and wait for the loading bar to reach the end of its inbox, outbox, sent cycle. Nothing ever happens, excepting the occasional mass-correspondence from Chuck Grassely aimed at exposing the potential failures of health reform.
I read and delete them, only responding when I feel extra ornery about the subject at hand. I know he will not read them, we do not truly have representation in the halls of government.
I will be done with this path on Friday,
I can see the top of the ridge now.
I have stumbled down it half-hearted,
hoping to find an easy way out.
Friday will be the day for desk packing, goodbyes, and see you soons. I do not plan on coming back, but who ever does? I am longing for a quiet resting place, but I know that one will not come soon.
The weight in my pockets will be lighter as I purge keys throughout this week. First front doors, back doors and desk keys, then all the ones that I have no use for anymore. 14 of 16 will disappear by the time the weekend comes, leaving locked the past I ran from and the present I can't stand.
The coffee and commute lifestyle has proven not for me. Chained to a desk, with a cellular ball and chain, has been keeping me from sleep. I have no interest in small town news, I could care less what improvements to 'B' level roads are being made. I just want to drive down them and marvel at the orange blossoms that struggle through the tall grass to reach towards the sun.
I do not want to interview anyone, I just want to sit and listen. Quietly conversing as a caring new friend is how I would rather fill that time. I feel like the town gossip, letting out everybody's lies. Before I ever come around everyone polishes their image and makes sure to watch their words.
There is no emotion in the black and white pages, excepting the classified giveaways. Just the drone of a public scanner. We report the news and small town dealings that will not matter in a week. Whenever big news breaks, it is blocked and hidden, only shown after the truth has been taken away.
The sources won't give away too much,
because we all just lie and cheat.
It's human nature I suppose:
that makes the only important thing food on the table to eat.
I will not miss the hour drives
that I spend bemoaning the current day.
I often curse the sun for rising,
and not staying tucked away.
So soon I hope to make amends,
to friends near and afar:
I will show them all how I have grown
while they traveled near and far.
hunter.
When it rolled away,
I thought to myself:
I may have just lost my head.
(I was wrong)
Instead:
I had given the things I longed to love,
for shelter and a self-warming bed.
That stray dog freedom that I howl for;
That comfort that in absence makes me tear,
I'm caught between now and never,
so for now I'll stay right here.
Better men look down on me,
saying:
"You better do your part!"
I want to bloody and bludgeon them,
but I just smile and make a start.
Constructing, building, improving:
everyday we are making strides.
Maybe...
we will someday be the hunter (nestled in his blind).
We will get up early.
And trudge through the dark, all cold air exhale and coffee starts.
Waiting to find a prey:
that bullet wounds can take their course, and will ultimately make it stay.
Because the dreams are gone, just plans remain.
The difference is subtle:
we get sanded, polished, and stained.
To turn the heads, to make use and progress.
before we catch that westbound train.
I thought to myself:
I may have just lost my head.
(I was wrong)
Instead:
I had given the things I longed to love,
for shelter and a self-warming bed.
That stray dog freedom that I howl for;
That comfort that in absence makes me tear,
I'm caught between now and never,
so for now I'll stay right here.
Better men look down on me,
saying:
"You better do your part!"
I want to bloody and bludgeon them,
but I just smile and make a start.
Constructing, building, improving:
everyday we are making strides.
Maybe...
we will someday be the hunter (nestled in his blind).
We will get up early.
And trudge through the dark, all cold air exhale and coffee starts.
Waiting to find a prey:
that bullet wounds can take their course, and will ultimately make it stay.
Because the dreams are gone, just plans remain.
The difference is subtle:
we get sanded, polished, and stained.
To turn the heads, to make use and progress.
before we catch that westbound train.
18.8.09
"A Day in the Life" (9-Part Story)
Part I. "Groggy-footed Hot Coffee Shuffle"
I woke up early, groggy yet excited to be heading back down south for the day. I knew I had some things to complete off the bat, so I was up and going around six.
I packed in some laundry and updated my on-line correspondences before enjoying a few quite cups of coffee and the newspapers with my parents. I debated on taking a shower, and made the decision to avoid it and just press on towards the rest of my day.
I decided to go into work in Britt, an opportunity that would give me enough time to finish up a couple stories I had been procrastinating on. I switched between listening to the newest Fabulous album on my iPod and Fox Sports Radio during the drive over, but I couldn't focus on anything really.
I spoke on the phone with Marissa, and she was anxious about me leaving and going to Pella, I did my best to calm her nerves and then hung up slightly irritated, but more bummed because I knew she would be down all day with me gone.
Once I got to Britt, I banged out the remaining interview and two stories I needed to finish.
One concerned a program that has recently passed the Britt City Council and will provide every business and residence within city limits a NOAA Weather Radio. The radios work during tornadoes and have the national threat assessment color chart constantly being updated on several channels. The propaganda that has been dispersed to promote the idea says that the radio will protect you no matter what. I would be interested in hearing what the national threat assessment reads after the continuing tensions in Afghanistan spill over and cause one of three nuclear armed neighbors to launch a plethora of radiation clouds into the international wind patterns.
The project is frivolous, especially at a cost of roughly thirty dollars per radio, and should be handled by the private sector. After I finished with the story I had a hard time getting the urge to go purchase a second hand radiation suit out of my mind as I left Britt and headed south towards Kanawha on R35.
Part II. "Southern Swing"
Traffic was light and matched the precipitation that was slowly splattering my windshield as I drove towards Ames and what would hopefully be better weather. I pulled out my telephone and checked the hour by hour for cast along my route, first looking over Story City, Ames, and Collins before moving on to Colfax, Prairie City, and Pella. It appeared that we had the typical Florida forecast that is customary for Iowa during the late summer months: high humidity, chance of showers or thunderstorms, mostly sunny and a chance of vagueness.
Just north of Kanawha I became jammed between an overly excited Dodge Caravan and someone who was apparently holding some sort of hay rack ride for ghosts judging by the layout of the bails and the lack of riders.
As we passed through the speed reduction zones I looked and jumped on my first available right turn. The road lead me down a few blocks before terminating into a left, taking my by a dumpy 1960's community swimming pool, and then back to the main road. I managed to beat the specter hayrack ride to the corner, all though I ran a longer course, so I turned out in front of him and headed on down to Clarion on Highway 3 before jumping over for the trip through Blairsburg, Jewell, and Story City on my way to Ames.
As I got closer and closer to the city which is feared by many rail riders because they run trains through town at incomprehensible degrees of speed, I telephoned an old friend of mine. He had recently moved to Ames in order to pursue a degree in Journalism through the Greenly School located at Iowa State University. His parents had recently acquired a condominium, so I was interested to have a look.
He gave me directions to his residence, and I assumed I would be all right finding my way. I had fairly good background knowledge of Ames from previous visits, and I had Goggle Maps to back me up in case anything were to go a rye. I began pacing through the city, making laps that grew smaller with each trip around. I narrowed down the area within one might find his house for nearly an hour before pulling over, spotting a business address on Somerset Drive and typing in my friend's address. As it turned out, I was less than three blocks away. I pulled back out and found the place with relative ease.
The condo was set inside a large complex, with maybe eight to a building. He came tumbling out of the front door and instructed me to park and meet him out back. I did so, and then we slinked to his garage parking space for a bit of tobacco and some conversation.
We hashed over old friends and their current predicaments, something that would no doubt be a constant topic throughout the rest of the day as I returned to Pella for the first time in several months.
I followed him across the parking lot and up the stairs to his door, and then took in the condo. It was a really classy place with faux granite countertops, a stackable washer and dryer, and immaculate details down to door stoppers to prevent wall damage. I complemented him and suggested that we go downtown and grab a late lunch.
We split hairs over who would drive, and I eventually was the more adamant. It gave me the opportunity to get first hand recognition of Ames that could benefit me the next time I would make it down.
He took shot gun and we rolled out, making the easy transition between Grand and Lincoln Way, him showing me the errors that had plagued my early circling.
We stopped at Jimmy John's and I fed the meter a quarter. He was searching his pockets for dimes and nickels that would pay for a time more equal to our stay, but I told him to not worry about it, the extra thirty or so minutes might keep the meter alive for someone else. In this economy, if I can help someone with 25 cents, I try and take the chance. It may not be much, but at least it is something.
We enjoyed our lunch, going silent as we devoured our sandwiches. The conversation picked up once we had finished and we discussed his move to Ames from Algona and various other topics that tend to flow out of one's mouth during a leisurely afternoon.
I refilled my soda, a root beer, as we headed back out to the curb. I checked the meter as we walked by, and it still read 43 minutes, plenty of time for us to move on and someone to come in and replace us.
I had another friend recently relocate to Ames as well, so I decided the two should meet. I pulled out my telephone, placed a call, and then we were on our way. Thanks to some faulty directions, we ended up circling for a short time before eventually finding the right course to take. We arrived at our destination, went inside, and made the decision to melt into the sofa for a short while before continuing on our way.
The three of us spoke slowly and knowledgeably, discussing even more old friends, current entertainment trends, and various other subjects that would randomly emerge from the depths of self-conscious to overtake our voices. By the time we left, I was feeling contented and filled with communication and fellowship.
I quickly paced back to Somerset Dr. and then made my turn onto Aspen in order to drop of the friend with the condo. We said our good byes and good lucks before he headed back up the stairway to waste the day away playing Gamecube and drinking Kool-Aid.
Part III. "Remembrances"
On my exit, I cut through Ames with precision after resharpening my navigation skills throughout the previous few hours. I have always had a great sense of direction, and if I have the opportunity to acclimate to a place for a few trips around town I can usually work the geography out from there.
I made it over to Duff and headed south, looking for an out-skirt Casey's on the edge of town.
I arrived as the only customer in the parking lot, no traffic on the very southern beginning of the constantly busy street. I filled up my tank and purchased a king-size Reece's along with a Starbuck's Double Shot Espresso. My girlfriend constantly warns me about sugar content and caffeine reliance, but I rarely drink soda, and by that time I needed the energy to make sure I would be able to make it through the rest of the day.
She was on my mind as I made the purchases, and I called her once I was back in my truck heading south once again on Highway 69 this time towards Huxley.
She was still down, but she was managing to be productive while I was gone. She was as happy as I expected, but sadder than I had hoped. I began to really miss her and wonder what would happen when she left for college in Cedar Falls the following Thursday.
We eventually hung up, her frustrated with me being gone for the day, me concerned that she was upset.
As I drove south, making sure to catch Iowa 141 to Maxwell, I contemplated how funny life and love can be. Just six months ago I was reeling from another epic love story failed, and now, at the end of the summer I was contentedly in love for the first time in my life. I felt as confident as I ever had about our relationship that day, even though I knew she was unnecessarily fretting about my absence.
I knew things would be okay, and they were.
I caught a glimpse of Collins to the north as I banked right off 141 onto Highway 65 South, chuckling to myself as I recalled that just hours before I had been on the same road several hundred miles to the north in downtown Mason City.
I crossed 330 and disappeared into the foothills that surround the Des Moines River as I neared Colfax. The geography in the southern part of Iowa is something I have grown to respect and value since leaving there. The hills stack upon one another, covered in dense foliage, protected by a thick and changing growth. The sun had begun to come through the spotty cloud cover, and it warmed my arms as I swerved and curved through the river basin towards the Interstate 80 crossing at Colfax.
I passed on south, having memories flick through my head as I went by the corner ice cream shop in Colfax, the foothills of Prairie City, and then eventually down 163.
I always enjoy the drive down that stretch between southeastern Des Moines and Pella; it has always had an indiscernible visual familiarity each time I return. It always looks like another time. It always reminds me of things that were on my mind when the road was still new to me. I don't often awake those things that lie beneath, but sometimes that road can stir the rivers held captive inside my skin.
Part IV. "An Arrival"
I began the process of notifying the people who had expressed interest in seeing me while I was going to be in town. I have tried to keep a low profile since I moved north again, and this trip was no exception.
A few voicemails, several cohorts deeply immersed in their jobs, and my dinner plan conspirator deciding to go "shoot guns and stuff" left me both devoid of further contacts and plans. I decided to go park at the local watering hole and see if any of the regulars were around that I have gotten to know over the years.
The place is dark, not poorly lit, just filled with darkness. Light streams in from elevated shoebox windows down one wall, but the exposed brick just hungrily devours it especially when paired with the deep color palette of the tables scattered across the polished wood floors.
I worked there briefly several years ago before allegations were made as to me possibly shortening up the cash register. I was never prosecuted or found even remotely guilty, but I resigned my position following the acquisition because I was looking for an easy out in a job that was slowly eroding my soul.
I pulled back the heavy green door and was welcomed by an old friend who was working behind the bar. We talked briefly about how good it was to see one another, our immediate future plans, and any other number of bases that are usually covered throughout the course of such conversations. He was going to be playing the concert I was attending later in the evening and he told me about the voice lessons he had been taking in order to improve his musical act. I wished him good luck and promised to speak with him more later that evening before heading out the front door and back onto the street.
Part V. "Film Production"
The sun was fully out so I flipped on my imitation Ray Ban sunglasses and decided to cut across the town square in order to get to the venue where the show was to be held.
If you have ever been in down town Pella you will not misunderstand that it all looks as though a very clever movie director has had the entire downtown area professionally designed and engineered to appear perfect in every small way.
With the sun shining, the streets relatively vacant and the normal amount of destruction in my mind as usual, I fantasized about being eighty feet tall and crushing the buildings as I pillaged through the perfect movie set small town.
I have thought about this on several occasions, normally during breaks from the stuffy air of the Wolf Hangar in the middle of a whiskey night when the downtown really takes on that old time movie set charm.
The air stands so still, broken only by the hum of the far off coal-burning electrical plant, it seems like everything is cast from wax. There is no movement in those times, just the stillness of well-lit sidewalks and shade drenched trees that sleep on the secrets gossiped between friends beneath the branches during the slow summer afternoons.
The unearthly silence makes it unique, the stillness makes it eerie. There is a loveliness to it though, the kind of loveliness that comes from desperation, cosmetic improvement, and decay beneath the exterior.
Part VI. "The Mem."
I snapped off my train of thought as I gave a hard pull to the metal handled glass door at the Pella Memorial Building. It was locked, but I could hear ambient guitar tones drifting out past the heavy oak doors that led to the main staging room. The glass on the door shook with the subtle vibrations, numbing my hand before I pulled it away.
I made my way down the block, turning at the corner and keeping my head down, hoping no one would notice who I was. I had been gone for about year in all reality, but I was too vain to realize that no one cares to really know you once you have kicked rocks and found pavement. I wore my sunglasses like a mask; I ducked my head like a criminal.
I hooked a Louie into the alley and saw that the backdoor to the Mem. was propped open. The music I had heard out front was streaming out of the open doorway, filling the air and my head as I jumped the two-slat fence and I headed into the building.
The kitchen was dark, and so appeared the main hall, but when I burst through the door into the open air, I was greeted by several old friends.
They were running through a set to be performed later in the evening that was the brainchild of Cameron VanBerkum. I was impressed to say the least, mouth agape as I tapped my foot along with the beat. I was proud of Cameron and excited for the rest of the evening.
As they wrapped up, I grabbed a good friend from another and coaxed him into going on a bit of a walk with me.
Part VII. "Block Walk Mirrors"
My legs were still cramped up from the time spent in the car throughout the day, and I wanted the opportunity to visit with him one on one.
I wish we could have stacked up our former selves and had them walk in front of us. They contrasts would be day and night, as would the ideals, the morals, and the outlook for the future. He told me of a glam rock band he has been playing with as I noted the length of his hair and the manner of his voice. We had grown up since the last time we had spoken; the time had sanded us down.
We ran into his girlfriend while we were out and about and she was friendly. They got together shortly before I moved out of the area, so I have only briefly ever gotten to know her.
It was apparent that the days of early morning whiskey had taken their toll on each of us. I was reminded then of a day several summers and seasons ago.
We had gotten into the habit of holding band practice each morning at roughly eleven o'clock. We practiced in a basement owned by our drummer's dad, owner of the guitar shop next to the house. My longhaired friend lived two houses away and was one the guitarist at the time on the project. I recalled a morning that I had ventured over to his house and down the cellar steps to make sure that he would be functional after a night that had been filled with hard drinking, singing and carrying on until the early hours of the morning.
There were no lights in the basement to speak of, excepting one pull sting job in the extreme corner from the stairs.
As I came down the stairs I was enveloped in darkness and called out to him. He replied by strumming his acoustic loudly from somewhere in the darkness and then breaking into a late 80's dance hit complete with falsetto.
I eventually found the light and showered us each in it's warmth.
To no surprise he was sitting, still tuned up from a continued morning of drinking. We made it to practice that day, and we made it through practice to the point were we collapsed sweaty and shirtless onto patio benches and lit up the cigarettes that we considered cures in those days.
He and I walked back to the show, quietly exchanging job misfortunes, tales of future successes that was just on the horizon, and exchanging complaints and insights into the timely death of Les Paul, the father of multi-tracking.
Part VIII. "The Show"
We arrived back at the venue and headed out back. Hellos were said and menial conversation ensued. I saw many old friends and took in the concert, snapping pictures as I went.
(I would tell you how it went, what stars shined the brightest, and what a deep sense of comfort and contentedness I was granted by being in attendance, but if you are interested in knowing those things you should have been there yourself and formed your own opinions.)
It was an okay time, and many of the photographs turned out excellently.
Part IX. "Memorandum (The Important Part)"
I spent the majority of my time in the back parking lot, fraternizing with the same guys that I started going there with as boys, and now we still were making appearances as men.
There were beards, rent payments, bad luck and worse women that brought us all down there to complain and see how everyone else was holding up; before, it was just the want to be there that brough us in.
When we were young, it seemed to be that the entire world centered around that building on those nights.
We would pull up and pick our way through the crowds gathered on the handicap access ramp outside the front door as hugs were exchanged, glances were avoided and scene politics took center stage. There were always the usual fights and gossip, there were always the girls that were pretty enough to try and make them stare.
There were brothers and sworn enemies, there was true animosity and hints at love.
I used to come alive there, started up by the rhythmic chugs of Jessica Wyoming, turned and moved by Among the Living.
Maybe it was all glorified in my mind, glossed over by years and forgetfulness, but in those days something was golden. I never could grasp on to what it was exactly, but I knew it was there and that it fueled me to live and love.
Now that drive is gone. It has been removed from that place by the inspectors time and trial, scrubbed out and sterilized. They came in heavy and removed whatever it was a while ago, now we reassembled in the ruins to reminisce about the time when that was truly where we wanted to be.
It used to be my life, and the memory of that sense of gratification alone was enough to make me want to stay away. It was the force that fuels my constant absence from that place. New faces have enveloped what was once my great work and passion, new patrons have handed their crumpled bills to the girl at the door.
There were days when I would know every single person who walked through those heavy oak doors, and there were days when there were more of them. I feel like I left that great chapel of my childhood abandoned, and now the school children come play their games in the dusty ruins.
The acoustics do not resound to shake my soul, the underfoot passion of the constiuants does not make me dream.
Every time I arrive I feel as though I have come to view the continued burial of what I always hope to glimpse. That place, that town, that intellect has left me dead on my feet, running to find something that no longer exists for me. The option has passed, my time in the sun has been finished.
That is what drove me out early, as I loaded up and headed back onto 163, the realization that the past was still playing as the present, and I had been removed from the cast.
Torrential rains engulfed me, cutting down my visibility and slowing my pace. I drove back in silence, no radio, no music, no comedy, just the sounds of wind blowing and rain falling, covering me in the realization of renewal and change.
I woke up early, groggy yet excited to be heading back down south for the day. I knew I had some things to complete off the bat, so I was up and going around six.
I packed in some laundry and updated my on-line correspondences before enjoying a few quite cups of coffee and the newspapers with my parents. I debated on taking a shower, and made the decision to avoid it and just press on towards the rest of my day.
I decided to go into work in Britt, an opportunity that would give me enough time to finish up a couple stories I had been procrastinating on. I switched between listening to the newest Fabulous album on my iPod and Fox Sports Radio during the drive over, but I couldn't focus on anything really.
I spoke on the phone with Marissa, and she was anxious about me leaving and going to Pella, I did my best to calm her nerves and then hung up slightly irritated, but more bummed because I knew she would be down all day with me gone.
Once I got to Britt, I banged out the remaining interview and two stories I needed to finish.
One concerned a program that has recently passed the Britt City Council and will provide every business and residence within city limits a NOAA Weather Radio. The radios work during tornadoes and have the national threat assessment color chart constantly being updated on several channels. The propaganda that has been dispersed to promote the idea says that the radio will protect you no matter what. I would be interested in hearing what the national threat assessment reads after the continuing tensions in Afghanistan spill over and cause one of three nuclear armed neighbors to launch a plethora of radiation clouds into the international wind patterns.
The project is frivolous, especially at a cost of roughly thirty dollars per radio, and should be handled by the private sector. After I finished with the story I had a hard time getting the urge to go purchase a second hand radiation suit out of my mind as I left Britt and headed south towards Kanawha on R35.
Part II. "Southern Swing"
Traffic was light and matched the precipitation that was slowly splattering my windshield as I drove towards Ames and what would hopefully be better weather. I pulled out my telephone and checked the hour by hour for cast along my route, first looking over Story City, Ames, and Collins before moving on to Colfax, Prairie City, and Pella. It appeared that we had the typical Florida forecast that is customary for Iowa during the late summer months: high humidity, chance of showers or thunderstorms, mostly sunny and a chance of vagueness.
Just north of Kanawha I became jammed between an overly excited Dodge Caravan and someone who was apparently holding some sort of hay rack ride for ghosts judging by the layout of the bails and the lack of riders.
As we passed through the speed reduction zones I looked and jumped on my first available right turn. The road lead me down a few blocks before terminating into a left, taking my by a dumpy 1960's community swimming pool, and then back to the main road. I managed to beat the specter hayrack ride to the corner, all though I ran a longer course, so I turned out in front of him and headed on down to Clarion on Highway 3 before jumping over for the trip through Blairsburg, Jewell, and Story City on my way to Ames.
As I got closer and closer to the city which is feared by many rail riders because they run trains through town at incomprehensible degrees of speed, I telephoned an old friend of mine. He had recently moved to Ames in order to pursue a degree in Journalism through the Greenly School located at Iowa State University. His parents had recently acquired a condominium, so I was interested to have a look.
He gave me directions to his residence, and I assumed I would be all right finding my way. I had fairly good background knowledge of Ames from previous visits, and I had Goggle Maps to back me up in case anything were to go a rye. I began pacing through the city, making laps that grew smaller with each trip around. I narrowed down the area within one might find his house for nearly an hour before pulling over, spotting a business address on Somerset Drive and typing in my friend's address. As it turned out, I was less than three blocks away. I pulled back out and found the place with relative ease.
The condo was set inside a large complex, with maybe eight to a building. He came tumbling out of the front door and instructed me to park and meet him out back. I did so, and then we slinked to his garage parking space for a bit of tobacco and some conversation.
We hashed over old friends and their current predicaments, something that would no doubt be a constant topic throughout the rest of the day as I returned to Pella for the first time in several months.
I followed him across the parking lot and up the stairs to his door, and then took in the condo. It was a really classy place with faux granite countertops, a stackable washer and dryer, and immaculate details down to door stoppers to prevent wall damage. I complemented him and suggested that we go downtown and grab a late lunch.
We split hairs over who would drive, and I eventually was the more adamant. It gave me the opportunity to get first hand recognition of Ames that could benefit me the next time I would make it down.
He took shot gun and we rolled out, making the easy transition between Grand and Lincoln Way, him showing me the errors that had plagued my early circling.
We stopped at Jimmy John's and I fed the meter a quarter. He was searching his pockets for dimes and nickels that would pay for a time more equal to our stay, but I told him to not worry about it, the extra thirty or so minutes might keep the meter alive for someone else. In this economy, if I can help someone with 25 cents, I try and take the chance. It may not be much, but at least it is something.
We enjoyed our lunch, going silent as we devoured our sandwiches. The conversation picked up once we had finished and we discussed his move to Ames from Algona and various other topics that tend to flow out of one's mouth during a leisurely afternoon.
I refilled my soda, a root beer, as we headed back out to the curb. I checked the meter as we walked by, and it still read 43 minutes, plenty of time for us to move on and someone to come in and replace us.
I had another friend recently relocate to Ames as well, so I decided the two should meet. I pulled out my telephone, placed a call, and then we were on our way. Thanks to some faulty directions, we ended up circling for a short time before eventually finding the right course to take. We arrived at our destination, went inside, and made the decision to melt into the sofa for a short while before continuing on our way.
The three of us spoke slowly and knowledgeably, discussing even more old friends, current entertainment trends, and various other subjects that would randomly emerge from the depths of self-conscious to overtake our voices. By the time we left, I was feeling contented and filled with communication and fellowship.
I quickly paced back to Somerset Dr. and then made my turn onto Aspen in order to drop of the friend with the condo. We said our good byes and good lucks before he headed back up the stairway to waste the day away playing Gamecube and drinking Kool-Aid.
Part III. "Remembrances"
On my exit, I cut through Ames with precision after resharpening my navigation skills throughout the previous few hours. I have always had a great sense of direction, and if I have the opportunity to acclimate to a place for a few trips around town I can usually work the geography out from there.
I made it over to Duff and headed south, looking for an out-skirt Casey's on the edge of town.
I arrived as the only customer in the parking lot, no traffic on the very southern beginning of the constantly busy street. I filled up my tank and purchased a king-size Reece's along with a Starbuck's Double Shot Espresso. My girlfriend constantly warns me about sugar content and caffeine reliance, but I rarely drink soda, and by that time I needed the energy to make sure I would be able to make it through the rest of the day.
She was on my mind as I made the purchases, and I called her once I was back in my truck heading south once again on Highway 69 this time towards Huxley.
She was still down, but she was managing to be productive while I was gone. She was as happy as I expected, but sadder than I had hoped. I began to really miss her and wonder what would happen when she left for college in Cedar Falls the following Thursday.
We eventually hung up, her frustrated with me being gone for the day, me concerned that she was upset.
As I drove south, making sure to catch Iowa 141 to Maxwell, I contemplated how funny life and love can be. Just six months ago I was reeling from another epic love story failed, and now, at the end of the summer I was contentedly in love for the first time in my life. I felt as confident as I ever had about our relationship that day, even though I knew she was unnecessarily fretting about my absence.
I knew things would be okay, and they were.
I caught a glimpse of Collins to the north as I banked right off 141 onto Highway 65 South, chuckling to myself as I recalled that just hours before I had been on the same road several hundred miles to the north in downtown Mason City.
I crossed 330 and disappeared into the foothills that surround the Des Moines River as I neared Colfax. The geography in the southern part of Iowa is something I have grown to respect and value since leaving there. The hills stack upon one another, covered in dense foliage, protected by a thick and changing growth. The sun had begun to come through the spotty cloud cover, and it warmed my arms as I swerved and curved through the river basin towards the Interstate 80 crossing at Colfax.
I passed on south, having memories flick through my head as I went by the corner ice cream shop in Colfax, the foothills of Prairie City, and then eventually down 163.
I always enjoy the drive down that stretch between southeastern Des Moines and Pella; it has always had an indiscernible visual familiarity each time I return. It always looks like another time. It always reminds me of things that were on my mind when the road was still new to me. I don't often awake those things that lie beneath, but sometimes that road can stir the rivers held captive inside my skin.
Part IV. "An Arrival"
I began the process of notifying the people who had expressed interest in seeing me while I was going to be in town. I have tried to keep a low profile since I moved north again, and this trip was no exception.
A few voicemails, several cohorts deeply immersed in their jobs, and my dinner plan conspirator deciding to go "shoot guns and stuff" left me both devoid of further contacts and plans. I decided to go park at the local watering hole and see if any of the regulars were around that I have gotten to know over the years.
The place is dark, not poorly lit, just filled with darkness. Light streams in from elevated shoebox windows down one wall, but the exposed brick just hungrily devours it especially when paired with the deep color palette of the tables scattered across the polished wood floors.
I worked there briefly several years ago before allegations were made as to me possibly shortening up the cash register. I was never prosecuted or found even remotely guilty, but I resigned my position following the acquisition because I was looking for an easy out in a job that was slowly eroding my soul.
I pulled back the heavy green door and was welcomed by an old friend who was working behind the bar. We talked briefly about how good it was to see one another, our immediate future plans, and any other number of bases that are usually covered throughout the course of such conversations. He was going to be playing the concert I was attending later in the evening and he told me about the voice lessons he had been taking in order to improve his musical act. I wished him good luck and promised to speak with him more later that evening before heading out the front door and back onto the street.
Part V. "Film Production"
The sun was fully out so I flipped on my imitation Ray Ban sunglasses and decided to cut across the town square in order to get to the venue where the show was to be held.
If you have ever been in down town Pella you will not misunderstand that it all looks as though a very clever movie director has had the entire downtown area professionally designed and engineered to appear perfect in every small way.
With the sun shining, the streets relatively vacant and the normal amount of destruction in my mind as usual, I fantasized about being eighty feet tall and crushing the buildings as I pillaged through the perfect movie set small town.
I have thought about this on several occasions, normally during breaks from the stuffy air of the Wolf Hangar in the middle of a whiskey night when the downtown really takes on that old time movie set charm.
The air stands so still, broken only by the hum of the far off coal-burning electrical plant, it seems like everything is cast from wax. There is no movement in those times, just the stillness of well-lit sidewalks and shade drenched trees that sleep on the secrets gossiped between friends beneath the branches during the slow summer afternoons.
The unearthly silence makes it unique, the stillness makes it eerie. There is a loveliness to it though, the kind of loveliness that comes from desperation, cosmetic improvement, and decay beneath the exterior.
Part VI. "The Mem."
I snapped off my train of thought as I gave a hard pull to the metal handled glass door at the Pella Memorial Building. It was locked, but I could hear ambient guitar tones drifting out past the heavy oak doors that led to the main staging room. The glass on the door shook with the subtle vibrations, numbing my hand before I pulled it away.
I made my way down the block, turning at the corner and keeping my head down, hoping no one would notice who I was. I had been gone for about year in all reality, but I was too vain to realize that no one cares to really know you once you have kicked rocks and found pavement. I wore my sunglasses like a mask; I ducked my head like a criminal.
I hooked a Louie into the alley and saw that the backdoor to the Mem. was propped open. The music I had heard out front was streaming out of the open doorway, filling the air and my head as I jumped the two-slat fence and I headed into the building.
The kitchen was dark, and so appeared the main hall, but when I burst through the door into the open air, I was greeted by several old friends.
They were running through a set to be performed later in the evening that was the brainchild of Cameron VanBerkum. I was impressed to say the least, mouth agape as I tapped my foot along with the beat. I was proud of Cameron and excited for the rest of the evening.
As they wrapped up, I grabbed a good friend from another and coaxed him into going on a bit of a walk with me.
Part VII. "Block Walk Mirrors"
My legs were still cramped up from the time spent in the car throughout the day, and I wanted the opportunity to visit with him one on one.
I wish we could have stacked up our former selves and had them walk in front of us. They contrasts would be day and night, as would the ideals, the morals, and the outlook for the future. He told me of a glam rock band he has been playing with as I noted the length of his hair and the manner of his voice. We had grown up since the last time we had spoken; the time had sanded us down.
We ran into his girlfriend while we were out and about and she was friendly. They got together shortly before I moved out of the area, so I have only briefly ever gotten to know her.
It was apparent that the days of early morning whiskey had taken their toll on each of us. I was reminded then of a day several summers and seasons ago.
We had gotten into the habit of holding band practice each morning at roughly eleven o'clock. We practiced in a basement owned by our drummer's dad, owner of the guitar shop next to the house. My longhaired friend lived two houses away and was one the guitarist at the time on the project. I recalled a morning that I had ventured over to his house and down the cellar steps to make sure that he would be functional after a night that had been filled with hard drinking, singing and carrying on until the early hours of the morning.
There were no lights in the basement to speak of, excepting one pull sting job in the extreme corner from the stairs.
As I came down the stairs I was enveloped in darkness and called out to him. He replied by strumming his acoustic loudly from somewhere in the darkness and then breaking into a late 80's dance hit complete with falsetto.
I eventually found the light and showered us each in it's warmth.
To no surprise he was sitting, still tuned up from a continued morning of drinking. We made it to practice that day, and we made it through practice to the point were we collapsed sweaty and shirtless onto patio benches and lit up the cigarettes that we considered cures in those days.
He and I walked back to the show, quietly exchanging job misfortunes, tales of future successes that was just on the horizon, and exchanging complaints and insights into the timely death of Les Paul, the father of multi-tracking.
Part VIII. "The Show"
We arrived back at the venue and headed out back. Hellos were said and menial conversation ensued. I saw many old friends and took in the concert, snapping pictures as I went.
(I would tell you how it went, what stars shined the brightest, and what a deep sense of comfort and contentedness I was granted by being in attendance, but if you are interested in knowing those things you should have been there yourself and formed your own opinions.)
It was an okay time, and many of the photographs turned out excellently.
Part IX. "Memorandum (The Important Part)"
I spent the majority of my time in the back parking lot, fraternizing with the same guys that I started going there with as boys, and now we still were making appearances as men.
There were beards, rent payments, bad luck and worse women that brought us all down there to complain and see how everyone else was holding up; before, it was just the want to be there that brough us in.
When we were young, it seemed to be that the entire world centered around that building on those nights.
We would pull up and pick our way through the crowds gathered on the handicap access ramp outside the front door as hugs were exchanged, glances were avoided and scene politics took center stage. There were always the usual fights and gossip, there were always the girls that were pretty enough to try and make them stare.
There were brothers and sworn enemies, there was true animosity and hints at love.
I used to come alive there, started up by the rhythmic chugs of Jessica Wyoming, turned and moved by Among the Living.
Maybe it was all glorified in my mind, glossed over by years and forgetfulness, but in those days something was golden. I never could grasp on to what it was exactly, but I knew it was there and that it fueled me to live and love.
Now that drive is gone. It has been removed from that place by the inspectors time and trial, scrubbed out and sterilized. They came in heavy and removed whatever it was a while ago, now we reassembled in the ruins to reminisce about the time when that was truly where we wanted to be.
It used to be my life, and the memory of that sense of gratification alone was enough to make me want to stay away. It was the force that fuels my constant absence from that place. New faces have enveloped what was once my great work and passion, new patrons have handed their crumpled bills to the girl at the door.
There were days when I would know every single person who walked through those heavy oak doors, and there were days when there were more of them. I feel like I left that great chapel of my childhood abandoned, and now the school children come play their games in the dusty ruins.
The acoustics do not resound to shake my soul, the underfoot passion of the constiuants does not make me dream.
Every time I arrive I feel as though I have come to view the continued burial of what I always hope to glimpse. That place, that town, that intellect has left me dead on my feet, running to find something that no longer exists for me. The option has passed, my time in the sun has been finished.
That is what drove me out early, as I loaded up and headed back onto 163, the realization that the past was still playing as the present, and I had been removed from the cast.
Torrential rains engulfed me, cutting down my visibility and slowing my pace. I drove back in silence, no radio, no music, no comedy, just the sounds of wind blowing and rain falling, covering me in the realization of renewal and change.
cellphone(less).
I'm currently sitting in my cubicle, listening to the man next to me breath fairly heavily between gulps of Diet Coke.
It is Monday, our big production day here at the paper. There is usually a flurry of activity around the office throughout the day, but today everyone is intently working on their own projects. We use the interoffice telephone system to talk to one another, dialing the numbers that will connect us to people whose voices we will hear echoing through the building even before they pick up the receiver.
I forgot my cellphone this morning during my hustle to fill my coffee with sugar and my eyes with back country highways. Now I wish I would have remembered it. My day is entirely too chained to my cellphone. Weather, sports, Facebook, text messaging, incoming calls, planning, a number of on-line papers, and any assortment of other things go out the window completely for me once I have accepted a day without cellular communication.
Maybe I have a dependency, maybe we all do. Every police officer I see sliding through the corner of an intersection seems to have a telephone plastered to his ear, one hand on the wheel. The legislators want to instigate sweeping reform to ban this phenomenon, but they will more than likely find that the criminals in place will hesitate to stop an act they all commit, and that will turn enforcement into a hard road.
Cell phones are my typical avoidance. Any socially awkward, marginally boring or potentially stressful situation is always cause to pull out my Q and check the most up to date Facebook postings, Major League box scores, or even page read Wikipedia. It is my great time waster, but only when the time needs to be wasted.
When things need to get done and I have missions to accomplish or conquer, it is my greatest aid. From SmartPhone directories to calculators, it makes my processes go more smoothly. The key sequences lead me between numbers I usually call in the same order, making my shift between bosses, parents, go to guys, and my girlfriend all easily navigable at 55 mph during my commute.
When on the road, it has become my navigator. I have never been interested in pulling over for directions, usually sighting '90's slasher flicks as the most tangible reason. I rely constantly on a 8 x 10 map of Iowa that is tucked into the back of my driver's seat, but now, if I encounter a situation where county roads prove to insignificant for mapping, I have the piece of mind that Google Maps is likely to help me instead of a cut-throat serial killer from the corn fields.
I have sharp math skills, but they are not sharp enough for some concepts. My phone, with the aid of some software, can now function as a scientific calculator. I rarely use it as such, but it is convenient on occasion. Usually I am just looking to see what the deposit on a case of beers will be, but that knowledge comes in handy as well.
I feel out of the loop already, my watch reads 11:30, but it is still earlier than that, I run ahead on my own time. I know the load is starting to accumulate: messages, texts, notifications, events, and other such litter of humanity is invading my basement to stack icons along the top of my flickering screen. Stuck on loud it will surely disrupt the house all day, there is no unlocking and stopping the madness as long as I am counties away.
We work as a team, and today, there will be no such work. I tried to send out e-mail notification to those who will notice my lack of communication. No one relies on e-mail, so no one has returned my message to assure me that the world will not indeed collapse if I am off the grid throughout the day.
I can only imagine my lady friend trapped in despair because she assumes incorrectly that I am ignoring her through out the day. Once the paper is completed I will reveal that her agony was all in vain.
Most importantly, my cell phone makes time go faster. Like I mentioned previously, I always run my watches ahead of time, 8 to 10 minutes roughly depending on what I use the individual watch for. Cell phones are heavily relied on throughout the American populace, and with a ten minute jump on everyone else, I manage to stay ahead. However, when late for work and panic starts to grip my cardiovascular system, I can always look at my telephone and be assured that I still have enough time to either finish haphazardly or make a quick get away before the situation worsens. Now, I have no such luxury. I am just stuck ahead, wishing the minutes would fall off the clock more quickly.
We are well ahead on the paper, all of the A section I had completed around ten or so, and Chris, the gentleman I mentioned earlier sitting in the cubicle next to mine, seems to be nearly done with the Sports section. Everyone else is still hammering away and proofing, designing, and sending the pages across the air signals so they can be printed miles away and delivered to the citizens of this small town tomorrow.
Everything is very quiet, just the occasional snap of an aspertain shot as a soda can tab pops somewhere in the building. I am clicking away noisily, and they all must know that I have nothing of volume to be typing. Today is Monday. Monday is not for writing.
Monday is built around cups of coffee, Quark Express 4.1, drop shadows, text fills and color correction. It is bursting with spell checks, style sheets, and snappy conversations. Everyone is hard at it, even though they all know we will be done well ahead of schedule. It's nose to the grindstone ethics around here most days, but I have been trying to preserve my facial features for years.
I got in early and finished my pages, a few holes that needed to be patched on A8 and B10. I clicked through the process that only required one computer re-start, a relatively good statistic for my 1995 standard edition Macintosh desktop computer. The internet browser doesn't support audio, and the download rate through the hardline is slower than my cell phone on the 3g. I surf the internet most of the day via my handheld, and have raced them several times.
I hope the day passes quickly, the paper gets sent early, and that I can make it home early enough in the afternoon that the world doesn't notice my absence from connectedness. I struggle inside my head about feeling disconnected most days, and today will be an extreme.
This head longs to soak up contact,
my heart longs to reminisce.
Hopefully someday soon,
I can quench the thirst within.
Battery powered cell-phone tower,
shooting words through night time skies.
Make me feel that transformant power,
make me feel alive.
It is Monday, our big production day here at the paper. There is usually a flurry of activity around the office throughout the day, but today everyone is intently working on their own projects. We use the interoffice telephone system to talk to one another, dialing the numbers that will connect us to people whose voices we will hear echoing through the building even before they pick up the receiver.
I forgot my cellphone this morning during my hustle to fill my coffee with sugar and my eyes with back country highways. Now I wish I would have remembered it. My day is entirely too chained to my cellphone. Weather, sports, Facebook, text messaging, incoming calls, planning, a number of on-line papers, and any assortment of other things go out the window completely for me once I have accepted a day without cellular communication.
Maybe I have a dependency, maybe we all do. Every police officer I see sliding through the corner of an intersection seems to have a telephone plastered to his ear, one hand on the wheel. The legislators want to instigate sweeping reform to ban this phenomenon, but they will more than likely find that the criminals in place will hesitate to stop an act they all commit, and that will turn enforcement into a hard road.
Cell phones are my typical avoidance. Any socially awkward, marginally boring or potentially stressful situation is always cause to pull out my Q and check the most up to date Facebook postings, Major League box scores, or even page read Wikipedia. It is my great time waster, but only when the time needs to be wasted.
When things need to get done and I have missions to accomplish or conquer, it is my greatest aid. From SmartPhone directories to calculators, it makes my processes go more smoothly. The key sequences lead me between numbers I usually call in the same order, making my shift between bosses, parents, go to guys, and my girlfriend all easily navigable at 55 mph during my commute.
When on the road, it has become my navigator. I have never been interested in pulling over for directions, usually sighting '90's slasher flicks as the most tangible reason. I rely constantly on a 8 x 10 map of Iowa that is tucked into the back of my driver's seat, but now, if I encounter a situation where county roads prove to insignificant for mapping, I have the piece of mind that Google Maps is likely to help me instead of a cut-throat serial killer from the corn fields.
I have sharp math skills, but they are not sharp enough for some concepts. My phone, with the aid of some software, can now function as a scientific calculator. I rarely use it as such, but it is convenient on occasion. Usually I am just looking to see what the deposit on a case of beers will be, but that knowledge comes in handy as well.
I feel out of the loop already, my watch reads 11:30, but it is still earlier than that, I run ahead on my own time. I know the load is starting to accumulate: messages, texts, notifications, events, and other such litter of humanity is invading my basement to stack icons along the top of my flickering screen. Stuck on loud it will surely disrupt the house all day, there is no unlocking and stopping the madness as long as I am counties away.
We work as a team, and today, there will be no such work. I tried to send out e-mail notification to those who will notice my lack of communication. No one relies on e-mail, so no one has returned my message to assure me that the world will not indeed collapse if I am off the grid throughout the day.
I can only imagine my lady friend trapped in despair because she assumes incorrectly that I am ignoring her through out the day. Once the paper is completed I will reveal that her agony was all in vain.
Most importantly, my cell phone makes time go faster. Like I mentioned previously, I always run my watches ahead of time, 8 to 10 minutes roughly depending on what I use the individual watch for. Cell phones are heavily relied on throughout the American populace, and with a ten minute jump on everyone else, I manage to stay ahead. However, when late for work and panic starts to grip my cardiovascular system, I can always look at my telephone and be assured that I still have enough time to either finish haphazardly or make a quick get away before the situation worsens. Now, I have no such luxury. I am just stuck ahead, wishing the minutes would fall off the clock more quickly.
We are well ahead on the paper, all of the A section I had completed around ten or so, and Chris, the gentleman I mentioned earlier sitting in the cubicle next to mine, seems to be nearly done with the Sports section. Everyone else is still hammering away and proofing, designing, and sending the pages across the air signals so they can be printed miles away and delivered to the citizens of this small town tomorrow.
Everything is very quiet, just the occasional snap of an aspertain shot as a soda can tab pops somewhere in the building. I am clicking away noisily, and they all must know that I have nothing of volume to be typing. Today is Monday. Monday is not for writing.
Monday is built around cups of coffee, Quark Express 4.1, drop shadows, text fills and color correction. It is bursting with spell checks, style sheets, and snappy conversations. Everyone is hard at it, even though they all know we will be done well ahead of schedule. It's nose to the grindstone ethics around here most days, but I have been trying to preserve my facial features for years.
I got in early and finished my pages, a few holes that needed to be patched on A8 and B10. I clicked through the process that only required one computer re-start, a relatively good statistic for my 1995 standard edition Macintosh desktop computer. The internet browser doesn't support audio, and the download rate through the hardline is slower than my cell phone on the 3g. I surf the internet most of the day via my handheld, and have raced them several times.
I hope the day passes quickly, the paper gets sent early, and that I can make it home early enough in the afternoon that the world doesn't notice my absence from connectedness. I struggle inside my head about feeling disconnected most days, and today will be an extreme.
This head longs to soak up contact,
my heart longs to reminisce.
Hopefully someday soon,
I can quench the thirst within.
Battery powered cell-phone tower,
shooting words through night time skies.
Make me feel that transformant power,
make me feel alive.
"The Hitch-hiking Hobo Hollywood"
(I had a request to quit writing about hobos. This will be my last hobo post. For now.)
Throughout my life I have been intrigued by hobos. I admire the stray dog freedom they embody, moving from place to place, jumping trains and living on what work they can find. These rustic characters have become an endangered species of sorts as the railroads have been uprooted for super highways, and they are often viewed by many as relics of a bygone era.
A hobo is someone who travels by rail to find work, a tramp is a man who travels but doesn't work, and a bum is someone that does neither. This has been clearly defined for me lately throughout my time as I have been working in Britt, home of the annual National Hobo Convention.
For the time being I commute daily from Mason City, another Midwestern railway town, the thirty or so miles to Britt.
One Sunday morning I stumbled out of bed, forgoing a shower and shave for a cup of coffee. I was due in Britt at nine thirty, and that time was fading quickly. I gave myself a once over in the mirror as I headed out the door and I was on my way down Highway 18 headed west.
My mind was clouded as I drove, concerns about moving, packing, and finances overwhelming my thoughts as talk radio droned in the background. I was in a hurry but stuck at the speed limit as I left Mason City and continued through Clear Lake, hoping to make a county fair horse show before any of the results could leave me behind.
The sun was shining in my review mirror and the sky was cloudless. The digital display in my truck was reading a pleasant sixty degrees, and I was dreading spending the day outside for the third time in as many days when I spotted him.
I had just accelerated and clicked on my cruise control at a crisp fifty-five, prepared to breeze through the chain of small towns west of Clear Lake and on to Britt. I almost missed him, the same way the incautious observer would not recognize a road side crucifix, wrapped in my own thoughts of prosperity and concern for personal well being.
I processed the details as I craned my neck to look in the review mirror, carefully observing and weighing my decision. The man was slender, dressed in dusty overalls with a handkerchief tied around his neck. In his hand was a sing that read: "Hobo Convention, Britt." He was standing on the edge of the highway, just off the gravel strip in the parking lot for a store that sold accommodations like fire places and whirlpool spas, and I turned in the back entrance to gain a closer look.
After several memories of horror flicks I had watched as a youth involving picking up hitch-hikers flashed through my head, I decided that the best course of action was to offer the young man a ride. I pulled through an exit to the parking lot ahead of where he was on the road and slowed to a halt as I rolled down my window.
"Where you headed?" he asked as I unlocked the doors and had him load his pack into the back seat.
"All the way straight to Britt," I said, smiling broadly as I realized that silver screen drama rarely mirrors real life.
I pulled back onto the highway, accelerating fast enough to catch the draft off a semi-trailer that I planned on following west. Our conversation picked up with the speed of the landscape sliding by and he informed me that his moniker was Hollywood and that he was a native of the Pacific North West.
"I do some seasonal fire fighting up there in the National Forests," he said. "This time of year all the crews do is road and trail work, and I didn't want any part of that."
We continued to talk and the conversation lightened as he spoke of his current trip. He was hopping his way back from West Virginia, where he had been determined to go over the Deep River Gorge.
"I had heard of it, and was always interested in trying it myself," he said. "Other than Niagara, which I guess counts now that someone survived the fall, it's the largest fall you can go over in the states."
He had completed the spill twice, accompanied by a couple river guides who had seen him jumping off the train. They had shown fascination and envy when they first spoke with him, one remarking: "I wish I could do that."
'Woody', as he is known more commonly, explained that he was heading to the National Hobo Convention, an annual celebration that takes place in Britt every August. He had ridden down to Mason City from Minneapolis, and had spent the previous day before meeting me trying to hitch rides. I came across him about twenty miles from the tracks, and he was tired and in relatively low spirits after the long day and night of walking.
"I figured no one was going to pick me up," he said.
We had begun to establish a level of trust as we continued through the countryside, him asking questions about the towns we went through, police activity, and about the crops growing down both sides of the highway. I was more than happy to display the knowledge I had gained regarding all things Hancock County during my time as reporter in Britt, and acted as a tour guide of sorts.
The conversation turned slightly as we started to discuss finances, something I have always been leery of when talking to people who might possibly ask for money. It's not that I don't enjoy helping people, more that I enjoy charity on my terms, and always hate the minor social awkwardness that follows a denial.
"I have about a dollar," he said. "If I got another one, I might be able to get a beer when I get to town before I start looking for work."
My face lit up at his suggestion, and I reached behind my seat as he craned his neck to look at what I was doing. The previous night I had spent drinking and carrying on into the early hours of morning, and I had unnecessarily picked up an extra forty of Budweiser before returning home. I flexed my fingers as I blindly searched for the paper bag, and when I pulled out the bottle and placed it in his lap, he beamed with gratitude.
We continued on down the road and as we approached Britt you could feel the anticipation in his voice.
"I've always wanted to come to the Convention," he said. "People talk about it all over, and I read about it in some magazines."
He inquired as to if I knew of any other hobos who had arrived in Britt early, and I discussed the few I had met. He knew of several that would be arriving, including former Hobo King Frog, a man who would be clearly identifiable by a wooden leg and top hat. I said I hadn't seen him yet, but I assured him that he was fairly early.
We arrived in Britt under little fanfare during the late Sunday morning. The town was quiet, everyone was already at the fair participating in either the worship service or the horse show. We drove through the streets and I answered all of his questions regarding each detail about the city. I showed him the house I would be moving into before we swung out the western edge to cruise through the gravel roads of the countryside. As we snapped lighters he opened the forty, draining its contents within minutes. As we arrived back in town he finished the contents and placed the bottle on the floor just seconds before we drove past a Britt Police Officer on his usual patrol.
"That was close, ten minutes in town and already I'm close to getting in trouble," he said.
I told him it was the first cop I had seen in a week, and usually they were fairly understanding and kind to hobos. He continued to ask me about work, and I offered to bring him out to the county fair. I hoped he might be able to find some temporary work with one of the farmers who's children were showing their livestock.
We entered the fairgrounds and he turned to me and offered thanks for the kindness I had shown him before taking off across the grounds in the opposite direction of the horse arena. I turned to look and see where he was headed, but then he was gone. I watched for the rest of the day, hoping to maybe run into him again at the free sweetcorn giveaway, but we did not cross paths again that day.
Now, when I'm on the road, I keep my eyes peeled, hoping to find a hobo along the way. I hope that someday when I'm down on my luck a stranger will take mercy on me as I stand beside the road. I think back and contemplate the lessons of charity that have been preached to me throughout my life, and that Sunday, I learned the true meaning of lending a hand.
Throughout my life I have been intrigued by hobos. I admire the stray dog freedom they embody, moving from place to place, jumping trains and living on what work they can find. These rustic characters have become an endangered species of sorts as the railroads have been uprooted for super highways, and they are often viewed by many as relics of a bygone era.
A hobo is someone who travels by rail to find work, a tramp is a man who travels but doesn't work, and a bum is someone that does neither. This has been clearly defined for me lately throughout my time as I have been working in Britt, home of the annual National Hobo Convention.
For the time being I commute daily from Mason City, another Midwestern railway town, the thirty or so miles to Britt.
One Sunday morning I stumbled out of bed, forgoing a shower and shave for a cup of coffee. I was due in Britt at nine thirty, and that time was fading quickly. I gave myself a once over in the mirror as I headed out the door and I was on my way down Highway 18 headed west.
My mind was clouded as I drove, concerns about moving, packing, and finances overwhelming my thoughts as talk radio droned in the background. I was in a hurry but stuck at the speed limit as I left Mason City and continued through Clear Lake, hoping to make a county fair horse show before any of the results could leave me behind.
The sun was shining in my review mirror and the sky was cloudless. The digital display in my truck was reading a pleasant sixty degrees, and I was dreading spending the day outside for the third time in as many days when I spotted him.
I had just accelerated and clicked on my cruise control at a crisp fifty-five, prepared to breeze through the chain of small towns west of Clear Lake and on to Britt. I almost missed him, the same way the incautious observer would not recognize a road side crucifix, wrapped in my own thoughts of prosperity and concern for personal well being.
I processed the details as I craned my neck to look in the review mirror, carefully observing and weighing my decision. The man was slender, dressed in dusty overalls with a handkerchief tied around his neck. In his hand was a sing that read: "Hobo Convention, Britt." He was standing on the edge of the highway, just off the gravel strip in the parking lot for a store that sold accommodations like fire places and whirlpool spas, and I turned in the back entrance to gain a closer look.
After several memories of horror flicks I had watched as a youth involving picking up hitch-hikers flashed through my head, I decided that the best course of action was to offer the young man a ride. I pulled through an exit to the parking lot ahead of where he was on the road and slowed to a halt as I rolled down my window.
"Where you headed?" he asked as I unlocked the doors and had him load his pack into the back seat.
"All the way straight to Britt," I said, smiling broadly as I realized that silver screen drama rarely mirrors real life.
I pulled back onto the highway, accelerating fast enough to catch the draft off a semi-trailer that I planned on following west. Our conversation picked up with the speed of the landscape sliding by and he informed me that his moniker was Hollywood and that he was a native of the Pacific North West.
"I do some seasonal fire fighting up there in the National Forests," he said. "This time of year all the crews do is road and trail work, and I didn't want any part of that."
We continued to talk and the conversation lightened as he spoke of his current trip. He was hopping his way back from West Virginia, where he had been determined to go over the Deep River Gorge.
"I had heard of it, and was always interested in trying it myself," he said. "Other than Niagara, which I guess counts now that someone survived the fall, it's the largest fall you can go over in the states."
He had completed the spill twice, accompanied by a couple river guides who had seen him jumping off the train. They had shown fascination and envy when they first spoke with him, one remarking: "I wish I could do that."
'Woody', as he is known more commonly, explained that he was heading to the National Hobo Convention, an annual celebration that takes place in Britt every August. He had ridden down to Mason City from Minneapolis, and had spent the previous day before meeting me trying to hitch rides. I came across him about twenty miles from the tracks, and he was tired and in relatively low spirits after the long day and night of walking.
"I figured no one was going to pick me up," he said.
We had begun to establish a level of trust as we continued through the countryside, him asking questions about the towns we went through, police activity, and about the crops growing down both sides of the highway. I was more than happy to display the knowledge I had gained regarding all things Hancock County during my time as reporter in Britt, and acted as a tour guide of sorts.
The conversation turned slightly as we started to discuss finances, something I have always been leery of when talking to people who might possibly ask for money. It's not that I don't enjoy helping people, more that I enjoy charity on my terms, and always hate the minor social awkwardness that follows a denial.
"I have about a dollar," he said. "If I got another one, I might be able to get a beer when I get to town before I start looking for work."
My face lit up at his suggestion, and I reached behind my seat as he craned his neck to look at what I was doing. The previous night I had spent drinking and carrying on into the early hours of morning, and I had unnecessarily picked up an extra forty of Budweiser before returning home. I flexed my fingers as I blindly searched for the paper bag, and when I pulled out the bottle and placed it in his lap, he beamed with gratitude.
We continued on down the road and as we approached Britt you could feel the anticipation in his voice.
"I've always wanted to come to the Convention," he said. "People talk about it all over, and I read about it in some magazines."
He inquired as to if I knew of any other hobos who had arrived in Britt early, and I discussed the few I had met. He knew of several that would be arriving, including former Hobo King Frog, a man who would be clearly identifiable by a wooden leg and top hat. I said I hadn't seen him yet, but I assured him that he was fairly early.
We arrived in Britt under little fanfare during the late Sunday morning. The town was quiet, everyone was already at the fair participating in either the worship service or the horse show. We drove through the streets and I answered all of his questions regarding each detail about the city. I showed him the house I would be moving into before we swung out the western edge to cruise through the gravel roads of the countryside. As we snapped lighters he opened the forty, draining its contents within minutes. As we arrived back in town he finished the contents and placed the bottle on the floor just seconds before we drove past a Britt Police Officer on his usual patrol.
"That was close, ten minutes in town and already I'm close to getting in trouble," he said.
I told him it was the first cop I had seen in a week, and usually they were fairly understanding and kind to hobos. He continued to ask me about work, and I offered to bring him out to the county fair. I hoped he might be able to find some temporary work with one of the farmers who's children were showing their livestock.
We entered the fairgrounds and he turned to me and offered thanks for the kindness I had shown him before taking off across the grounds in the opposite direction of the horse arena. I turned to look and see where he was headed, but then he was gone. I watched for the rest of the day, hoping to maybe run into him again at the free sweetcorn giveaway, but we did not cross paths again that day.
Now, when I'm on the road, I keep my eyes peeled, hoping to find a hobo along the way. I hope that someday when I'm down on my luck a stranger will take mercy on me as I stand beside the road. I think back and contemplate the lessons of charity that have been preached to me throughout my life, and that Sunday, I learned the true meaning of lending a hand.
14.8.09
westbound train.
the steamtrain tongue
it speaks to me as I sit and wonder still
just a solemn phrase as we go away
and head for the far off hills.
grow, shift, change:
watch the rail-riders
catch that westbound train.
through the axle turn,
and deep coal burn,
we continue on our climb,
edging ever closer:
to the once so distant sky.
grow, shift, change:
constant motion
speeding on the eastern plain.
soon we'll make it!
someday we will find
a home so grand:
they'll be no plans,
for tramps like you and I.
grow, shift, change:
we found the catch
of seconds kept
as the sun did fade away.
the landscape slide,
as the tracks click by:
bringing us towards
our ends.
grow, shift, change:
we never had it
always lost it
before the days could stay.
it's hard to make amends,
when the living was never free,
just some stray dog luck,
a friend who cooks,
and a guitar rambling saint.
grow, shift, change:
it burnt our throats
and singed our tongues
as the black cloud smoke
engulfed our souls.
rolling up our inadequacies
in paper built to burn
who were we to know back then:
that we all would have our turn.
grow, shift, change:
we can make it through
if we never lose
or if we catch
that westbound train.
so someday soon
i'll join with you,
loco larry, beargrease,
precher steve,
and we'll ride that train together,
until we finally reach the sea.
it speaks to me as I sit and wonder still
just a solemn phrase as we go away
and head for the far off hills.
grow, shift, change:
watch the rail-riders
catch that westbound train.
through the axle turn,
and deep coal burn,
we continue on our climb,
edging ever closer:
to the once so distant sky.
grow, shift, change:
constant motion
speeding on the eastern plain.
soon we'll make it!
someday we will find
a home so grand:
they'll be no plans,
for tramps like you and I.
grow, shift, change:
we found the catch
of seconds kept
as the sun did fade away.
the landscape slide,
as the tracks click by:
bringing us towards
our ends.
grow, shift, change:
we never had it
always lost it
before the days could stay.
it's hard to make amends,
when the living was never free,
just some stray dog luck,
a friend who cooks,
and a guitar rambling saint.
grow, shift, change:
it burnt our throats
and singed our tongues
as the black cloud smoke
engulfed our souls.
rolling up our inadequacies
in paper built to burn
who were we to know back then:
that we all would have our turn.
grow, shift, change:
we can make it through
if we never lose
or if we catch
that westbound train.
so someday soon
i'll join with you,
loco larry, beargrease,
precher steve,
and we'll ride that train together,
until we finally reach the sea.
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