Wednesday had been appointed as the departure date from Lexington: Catherine would be starting Easter break, and she could then drive me down to the Gulf and leave me there with my bike. But Catherine got off work and the truck was not yet ready. I had come up with an alternative plan: we would drive her car to Port Royal, Kentucky – home of the author Wendell Berry – poke around there for the afternoon, and then double back to Lexington. We would leave for the Gulf tomorrow, as soon as the truck was ready.
I had spent the rest of the morning and afternoon reading John Muir. I read of the various disasters he had encountered on his trip – pretty much the ones you might expect to find if you decided to walk a thousand miles in America with no money – and mine own seemed pleasantly civilized. Yes, it was true that I was in physical pain, and yes, it was true that the longer my truck was in the shop the likelier it was that it would never run again, and I would not be returning to Catskill life for many months – but still it wasn’t quite like Muir’s situation:
After five days of this graveyard life [sleeping at St. Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah] I saw that even with living on three or four cents a day my last twenty-five cents would soon be spent, and after trying again and again unsuccessfully to find some employment began to think that I must strike farther out into the country, but still within reach of town, until I came to some grain or rice field that had not yet been harvested, trusting that I could live indefinitely on toasted or raw corn, or rice.
By this time I was becoming faint, and in making the journey to the town was alarmed to find myself growing staggery and giddy. The ground ahead seemed to be rising up in front of me, and the little streams in the ditches on both sides of the road seemed to be flowing up hill. Then I realized I was becoming dangerously hungry and became more than ever anxious to receive that money package.
To my delight this fifth or sixth morning, when I inquired if the money package had come, the clerk replied that it had, but that he could not deliver it without my being identified….
And so on. Sleeping in the graveyard he says he “rested fairly well, though somewhat disturbed by large prickly-footed beetles creeping across my hands and face, and by a lot of hungry stinging mosquitoes.” I was staying with a friend, eating pancakes with maple syrup and fruit in the morning, and seeing new things every day. Still by the time Catherine got out of work, I was feeling antsy and ready to go. Sitting around reading had done nothing good for my back; and neither had the chiropractor. If anything, it felt worse, though I couldn’t tell if it felt worse only because nothing amplifies physical pain more than having leisure enough to think about it, which I had. So I had all the more reason to get out and go.
We knew nothing about Port Royal and had done no planning, trusting that the Lord of Wayfarers loves a conformable spontaneity. The only map we had was in my truck in the shop, and so, somewhat predictably, we got a bit lost. The roads near Frankfort – where we got off the highway – are confusing due to the difficult nature of the terrain. Frankfort is down among some limestone gorges, and some roads labeled “north” are going west or south, and some labeled “south” are going east or north, and so forth. We took a road and determined it was not the one we had hoped to take, but it was going in the proper general direction – north – and that was good enough.
Between Lexington and Frankfort it had been unusually beautiful country, ablossom with spring. Redbuds seemed to be everywhere along the roads, their purple colors adding something to the spring landscape which we do not have in the green and white of northern springs. North of Frankfort we hit some small working farms, mostly cattle grazing on rolling hills, and the trees not so old or pretty. We didn’t really know where we were going, so we stopped off at a little general store with a gas pump. By the time I left that store I had my first real regret of the trip – I wished I had had the guts to take a photo of the folks I had seen inside, because I could hardly believe how perfect the scene was. Our image of a tiny one-room grocery store in farmland Kentucky – the stereotypical image – that was this place. It was not bigger than a small New York bodega, and a lot less lit: just a small, dark room, with some Cheetos and chips on racks, and some bad bread and batteries and a roll or two of toilet paper and refrigerators of drinks and beer and a rack of candy under the counter and so forth – same stuff in all these little stores. There was a television on – also de rigeur – but what was so amazing were the people: three ancient codgers in overalls and plaid shirts and baseball caps sitting all facing the t.v. An old woman was behind the counter. When they spoke with each other they kept their eyes up on the t.v. in the corner. One had his cane in hand just the way you envisioned.
I asked if they had a map.
The woman said, “No, sorry. Where ya goin?”
“I’m looking for Port Royal. I’m a huge Wendell Berry fan.”
All three of the old men broke eye contact with the t.v. to point out the door. They all spoke at once: “Thattaway!” “Just down the road.” “The road you on.” One made it through the clatter: “Just keep down the road. There’s a right turn, you’ll see it. New Castle!”
Another declared: “Must be a good twenty mile.” The others agreed. I wanted to stay, but we had already gotten lost and evening was starting to fall. I wanted at least the chance to meet Wendell Berry himself. I thanked them and left them to their t.v.
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