Among other things, this trip is distinguishing itself as “the trip of unexpected hospitality.” For the second time in the past month a motorist pulled over along the road ahead of me in the waning light as I was on the verge of disappearing into the forest and invited me to his home for the night. This is a rare, rare occurrence that has happened to me just a handful of times in tens of thousands of miles and decades of touring.
As the previous instance in Oklahoma, an older, somewhat disheveled, guy said he lived nearby and that I was welcome for the night. The guy in Oklahoma validated himself by saying he was a cyclist. This guy identified himself as a retired cop. Unlike the guy in Oklahoma he did not have a wife to call to warn of a guest and to set an extra place for dinner. He said, “We’ll have my place all to ourselves as my wife of thirty-eight years just divorced me. I’ve got a bunch of canned goods for dinner and we can watch tv.”
Though I’d been looking forward to another night in the forest, I couldn’t say no to this opportunity and what it might lead to. He said it was too complicated to explain how to get to his house, so we hoisted my bike into the back of his pickup. He had a load of clutter, preventing us from pushing it far enough forward to close the gate, so I sat beside it with a firm hold on the frame to keep it from going anywhere. It was a little further to his place than he had indicated. When we went down a dirt road I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into. His trailer was at the end of the road with neighbors nearby
He offered me my own room with a king bed, but I’m never one to relinquish my tent. As I was setting it up, he came out with a huge bulky blanket. I hardly needed it, but I accepted it as some extra padding to sleep on if nothing else. He said he had a washer and dryer and to bring in all my dirty clothes. He had spare clothes if I wanted to wash everything. His hospitality was overwhelming. He was truly treating me like an honored guest.
When I came in with an armload of clothes for their first authentic wash of the trip after only being washed by hand previously, he was sprawled on his couch staring up at the TV. “I’ve only got eight channels,” he said, “but they’re all free.”
When he showed me the shower he said, “Oops. I took a dump before I left and forgot to flush the toilet.” Other than a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, all was tidy and clean. Before I took a shower he told me to pick out a can of something from his cabinet for dinner. “Have whatever you’d like. I get $360 in food stamps in a couple of days, so I’m in good shape. And you can take whatever you’d like when you go. Take this chocolate. It will be good energy for you.” I selected a can of lasagne and when I came out of the shower he had opened it and put it on a plate ready for the microwave.
We sat on separate couches with the TV on in the background as he lamented the loss of his wife and a lot more. “She earns $200,000 a year as an administrator at the local hospital,” he said. “She was upset that I hadn’t worked in two years, but I hardly needed to with all the money she was making. Plus she didn’t like my drinking. But I treated her well. I never beat her. I paid for her college education. We got married when we were sixteen. We had to leave the state to do it.
“I dropped out of high school when I was fifteen and moved out of my parents house because my father treated me like shit. He didn’t just whip me, he beat me. All the time. Not once did he ever say he loved me. And now he wants to evict me from here. I own the trailer, but he owns the land. You're the first guest I’ve had in over a year. I apologize if I’m talking too much, but it’s rare for me to have someone to talk to. My daughter hasn’t spoken to me in two years. She married a millionaire and lives in Scherveport.”
On and on he went. It was hard to imagine he had been a cop for twenty years. He wasn’t drinking but he must have been. He was smoking by inhaling on a soda can with tobacco, explaining he couldn’t afford cigarettes. He had no opinion on the new coach of the LSU football team, hired away from Notre Dame, as he didn’t follow sports other NASCAR. Nor did he have much to saying about his life as a cop other than he ranged fifty miles in every direction and had to deal with a lot of domestic disputes and had never had to use his gun, though he’d come close.
He didn’t ask anything about me, just observing that we both could get by on little as I ate my lasagne with a couple of pieces of toast and a glass of milk. He had no WiFi and didn’t use the internet. He kept saying he wished I’d sleep inside, but could understand that I liked to sleep in a tent as he did too.
Several times he reiterated, “Just don’t leave in the morning without saying goodbye. You can come in and have some breakfast. I have a bunch of biscuits and sausage.” After an hour around eight he rolled over on the couch and went to sleep. I was exhausted myself.
I warily came back in at seven in the morning fearing he might not remember me. I hugged the thick blanket close to my chest in case I took a shot. He was propped up on the couch watching TV saying he’d been up since three. He wanted me to eat some breakfast and keep him company, but I knew I’d just have to listen to him repeat laments I’d already heard several times. I told him I wanted an early start before the predicted wind from the south picked up and blew in my face.
“At least take the package of biscuits and sausage in the ice box,” he said. “I’m just going to throw them out. And take the can of spaghetti and meatballs in the cupboard and whatever else you’d like.” I would have liked to have left him a twenty dollar bill, but feared he might take it as an insult. And if I just left it on the counter he might come after me with it. He thanked me for my time with him and I thanked him for his great generosity. He was as welcoming as any Warm Showers host, as if he were a fellow comrade of the bike, though he’d long ago sold his.
It was seventy miles south to Jennings and it’s Carnegie on the flattest terrain by far of the trip through the Mississippi Delta and into a strong wind blowing in off the Gulf of Mexico. There were vast expanses of rice fields providing no windbreak.
I’d swung by the Carnegie in the sprawling city of Alexandria, twenty miles north, the day before. It was now a museum with the new library across the street. The plaque in front of the library took a swipe at the Union army, as many of the southern historical plaques do. It said this library replaced an earlier library burned down by Gen. Nathaniel Banks’ federal troops on May 13, 1864, though the Carnegie wasn’t built until 1907.
The Carnegie in Jennings also had a Civil War related plaque, this one attached to the building beside its entrance. It was the proclamation of General John A. Logan on May 5, 1868 establishing the first Memorial Day, initially known as Decoration Day, for citizens to “garland the graves” of those killed in the Civil War with “the choicest flowers of springtime.” Twice it referred to the war as “the late rebellion.”
It was a fine final Carnegie of these travels, the twenty-ninth. It was the second with the always pleasing corner, diagonal entrance and also a modest dome. The circulation desk faced the entrance, allowing a librarian to welcome all those entering. The two wings were well-illuminated by natural light. It’s WiFi password was a polite “letmeonplease.” It was one of those libraries that one didn’t want to leave and with the even stronger than usual feeling of “this is one I have to come back to.”
As the previous instance in Oklahoma, an older, somewhat disheveled, guy said he lived nearby and that I was welcome for the night. The guy in Oklahoma validated himself by saying he was a cyclist. This guy identified himself as a retired cop. Unlike the guy in Oklahoma he did not have a wife to call to warn of a guest and to set an extra place for dinner. He said, “We’ll have my place all to ourselves as my wife of thirty-eight years just divorced me. I’ve got a bunch of canned goods for dinner and we can watch tv.”
Though I’d been looking forward to another night in the forest, I couldn’t say no to this opportunity and what it might lead to. He said it was too complicated to explain how to get to his house, so we hoisted my bike into the back of his pickup. He had a load of clutter, preventing us from pushing it far enough forward to close the gate, so I sat beside it with a firm hold on the frame to keep it from going anywhere. It was a little further to his place than he had indicated. When we went down a dirt road I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into. His trailer was at the end of the road with neighbors nearby
He offered me my own room with a king bed, but I’m never one to relinquish my tent. As I was setting it up, he came out with a huge bulky blanket. I hardly needed it, but I accepted it as some extra padding to sleep on if nothing else. He said he had a washer and dryer and to bring in all my dirty clothes. He had spare clothes if I wanted to wash everything. His hospitality was overwhelming. He was truly treating me like an honored guest.
When I came in with an armload of clothes for their first authentic wash of the trip after only being washed by hand previously, he was sprawled on his couch staring up at the TV. “I’ve only got eight channels,” he said, “but they’re all free.”
When he showed me the shower he said, “Oops. I took a dump before I left and forgot to flush the toilet.” Other than a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, all was tidy and clean. Before I took a shower he told me to pick out a can of something from his cabinet for dinner. “Have whatever you’d like. I get $360 in food stamps in a couple of days, so I’m in good shape. And you can take whatever you’d like when you go. Take this chocolate. It will be good energy for you.” I selected a can of lasagne and when I came out of the shower he had opened it and put it on a plate ready for the microwave.
We sat on separate couches with the TV on in the background as he lamented the loss of his wife and a lot more. “She earns $200,000 a year as an administrator at the local hospital,” he said. “She was upset that I hadn’t worked in two years, but I hardly needed to with all the money she was making. Plus she didn’t like my drinking. But I treated her well. I never beat her. I paid for her college education. We got married when we were sixteen. We had to leave the state to do it.
“I dropped out of high school when I was fifteen and moved out of my parents house because my father treated me like shit. He didn’t just whip me, he beat me. All the time. Not once did he ever say he loved me. And now he wants to evict me from here. I own the trailer, but he owns the land. You're the first guest I’ve had in over a year. I apologize if I’m talking too much, but it’s rare for me to have someone to talk to. My daughter hasn’t spoken to me in two years. She married a millionaire and lives in Scherveport.”
On and on he went. It was hard to imagine he had been a cop for twenty years. He wasn’t drinking but he must have been. He was smoking by inhaling on a soda can with tobacco, explaining he couldn’t afford cigarettes. He had no opinion on the new coach of the LSU football team, hired away from Notre Dame, as he didn’t follow sports other NASCAR. Nor did he have much to saying about his life as a cop other than he ranged fifty miles in every direction and had to deal with a lot of domestic disputes and had never had to use his gun, though he’d come close.
He didn’t ask anything about me, just observing that we both could get by on little as I ate my lasagne with a couple of pieces of toast and a glass of milk. He had no WiFi and didn’t use the internet. He kept saying he wished I’d sleep inside, but could understand that I liked to sleep in a tent as he did too.
Several times he reiterated, “Just don’t leave in the morning without saying goodbye. You can come in and have some breakfast. I have a bunch of biscuits and sausage.” After an hour around eight he rolled over on the couch and went to sleep. I was exhausted myself.
I warily came back in at seven in the morning fearing he might not remember me. I hugged the thick blanket close to my chest in case I took a shot. He was propped up on the couch watching TV saying he’d been up since three. He wanted me to eat some breakfast and keep him company, but I knew I’d just have to listen to him repeat laments I’d already heard several times. I told him I wanted an early start before the predicted wind from the south picked up and blew in my face.
“At least take the package of biscuits and sausage in the ice box,” he said. “I’m just going to throw them out. And take the can of spaghetti and meatballs in the cupboard and whatever else you’d like.” I would have liked to have left him a twenty dollar bill, but feared he might take it as an insult. And if I just left it on the counter he might come after me with it. He thanked me for my time with him and I thanked him for his great generosity. He was as welcoming as any Warm Showers host, as if he were a fellow comrade of the bike, though he’d long ago sold his.
It was seventy miles south to Jennings and it’s Carnegie on the flattest terrain by far of the trip through the Mississippi Delta and into a strong wind blowing in off the Gulf of Mexico. There were vast expanses of rice fields providing no windbreak.
Now it’s on to Baton Rouge and Bob and Catherine, then New Orleans for Amtrak home.
1 comment:
Enjoying them all, george
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