The Green Is Gone Miles 6520-6600 August 13

The Green Is Gone Miles 6520-6600 August 13

I know I shouldn’t. but when my waitress says the cinnamon rolls are homemade, I do. I have already eaten a half-order of biscuits and gravy. And I know that monster hill is waiting. “Bring it on,” I say to the waitress

“J.D. got his brakes fixed. He wants to ride with you. But school starts next week.” My waitress is J.D’s mother. J.D. Garton is 13 and in the eighth grade at Kearney Jr. High. As I’m leaving, he appears from the kitchen and we agree to ride six miles together a week from Saturday.

“Are you Ed? I’m Carl Moore. Sarah’s husband. Thanks for all the good things you’ve been saying about our restaurant.” “My pleasure,” I say. “It’s true.” Carl comes to see my bike, propped by the porch, right behind the new bench. “I thought you had a motorcycle,” Carl says.

Mid-August has come and the green is gone. Ponds are dry. A lifeless brown has overtaken the corn. Stalks still stand but will soon surrender their ears and be cut off at the knees, their stubble staying as erosion protection until next planting season.

I leave Old BB Road and turn right onto MM. I top the first hill. And I see it! The monster looms ahead. A series of undulating hills rises ever higher in front of me, ascending as a gray ribbon of asphalt through a forest of trees, appearing on the far horizon as a vertical wall that looks impossible to climb. I’m wishing now for that motor Carl thought I had.

I drop to granny and grab the low bars. I keep my eyes on the road right in front of my wheel. I know better than to look up the hill. Looking down I can’t see the rising road. Everything looks flat if I don’t look up. Looking up will not help my confidence.

Lungs heaving and legs burning I make the summit and come to an unsteady stop. I bend low over the bars and gasp for air. Minutes pass. I made it! I dismount and gulp the ice water I carry in the insulated bag behind my seat.

A cinnamon roll too much! That hill would be easier on a stomach less full. I knew that when I did it. I’ll know next time. But I doubt I can resist.

Could a day be better? Biscuits and gravy (and that cinnamon roll) at Sarah’s Table in Kearney. A grilled cheese sandwich and chips at Catrick’s in Lawson. Coconut meringue pie at Mill Inn in Excelsior Springs. And tonight? Tonight, by son Dave’s invitation, we go to watch the Royals play the Yankees at the K. And for dinner? Polish sausage and sauerkraut. By back roads to small town cafes all day I have come for the rural ambrosia I can’t resist. Now to see our small-market team pound on the Goliath from the mega-city while downing a hotdog or two.

And pound they do. More than 12 hits the Royals get, winning the game and entitling every ticket holder to a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts.

Is Your Society Content? Miles 6605-6665 August 16

He might have told me his name. He answered all my other questions. But I was afraid to ask. Afraid that if I asked, he would tell me. And then when I wrote this story and gave his name people would know who he is. He would have drawn attention to himself. He doesn’t want to do that.

It might seem otherwise. He rides in a horse-drawn buggy. He wears a wide-brim hat. His wife and daughter cover their heads and wear ankle-length skirts. He and his son wear black trousers, held up with suspenders.

He is Amish. I have stopped at the little canvas and metal stand in front of his farm. I am in Iowa for the annual Villages of Van Buren Bicycle Tour. I’ve ridden about 50 miles on this hot August Saturday when I meet him.

I had seen a sign back a mile or so when I turned left onto this road--BAKE SALE. I had not long before in the Village of Milton eaten a “Walking Taco.” The good citizens of this tiny town had set up shop for the day in the town’s long abandoned railroad station. I see Walking Taco on the chalk lettered menu board. The young girl who takes my order describes it for me: “Chips and hamburger meat covered with lettuce and tomatoes and cheese and sour cream and served in a bag.”

So when I spot the BAKE SALE sign, I’m not famished, as when I came to Milton. Just subliminally hungry, as I always am on my bike.

“Is your society content?” This he asks in response to my question, “How do you keep your young people?”

“There’s little contentment in my society,” I say. “Most everybody wants a bigger house and more money.”

“We teach our young to be content,” he says. “We have no phones or TV to distract them. They read a lot and play games with each other. They have chores here on the farm and not a lot of free time.”

His daughter of about 12 and his son about eight stand near as we talk. But they don’t seem to be listening. They make no sound and do not look at us. This man came here with his parents when he was seven. He lives on this 60-acre farm with his wife and children. He raises corn and soybeans. He milks his cows, nine at present, two currently dry.

“We stay on standard time,” he says.” We milk every morning at 6:30, your time, and in the evening at the same time. Cows have to be milked every 12 hours. We milk by hand.”

“You talk about “your society”. “Are we two different societies?” I ask.

“We are our faith,” he says. “We don’t vote. We don’t take part in war. We don’t believe in resisting. Our faith comes from the Anabaptists.”

“I’m a Baptist,” I say. “There is a Baptist Church in my town that surrounds itself every Fourth of July with hundreds of American Flags. I know other Baptists who call themselves Peacemakers and pacifists. Is there that wide a difference among Amish?”

“No,” he says.

He tells me they have two Amish schools nearby. But one is closed now because they have no scholar (teacher). They have just hired one from Michigan. “We don’t like to go outside the community for a scholar. “But this one has a sister living here.”

“We like for a scholar to have 15 to 18 children to teach. They learn better.”

He tells me that he does not go into town to sell his goods. The road in front of his house brings a good number of people past his stand. “What we don’t sell, we eat,” he says. “You are the only bike rider who has stopped today.”

Our conversation is open and easy. I’m not wanting to leave. When a blue pickup pulls into the gravel driveway and a customer steps out, I know I should go. “Bless you, my friend,” I say as I pedal away. My mind and my heart stay much longer with them.