Four Ears of Corn Miles 7030-7115 August 28

Four Ears of Corn Miles 7030-7115 August 28

Four ears of corn lay on Ray Gill’s desk. All different sizes. None large. The kernels are rock hard. “Just right,” Ray says.

Ray is a long-time and big-time farmer. He has planted lots of corn and soybeans. Some of his corn is irrigated, so the drought hasn’t wiped out everything. “If we get rain in the next four or five days,” he says, “the beans will be okay. If not. . . “ His voice trails off.

For some reason I can’t explain that notion that a stalk of corn has only one ear keeps running through my mind. Ever since Otis Miller told me, I’ve been wondering why. Or if it’s true. I’m from Missouri after all. You have to show me. So I ask Ray.

“That’s right,” he says. “They breed field corn to have only one ear. And not the biggest ear.” He holds up his hand with finger and thumb stretched about as far as possible. “About this size,” he says. He tells me how many ounces of corn they prefer to an ear. It’s not a big number he says, though I didn’t write it down and don’t remember exactly. I’ll ask him next time I come to Richmond.

I’m early getting to Jerry McCarter’s office. I told him yesterday that I would be back today about 11. It’s 10 when I arrive. I’ve brought books for all the Richmond people who helped with our Century ride back on May 31^st. I will leave them with Jerry. He will get them to everyone.

I wonder if it’s a test. To see if anyone will notice. If so, is there a prize? Where do you go to claim it? Coming into Rayville on C Highway from either direction, signs say the town’s population is 204. But U Highway announces that 197 people make this place their home. Reminds me of the signs in Stewartsville and Prathersville. Coming into town from one direction, the town name is missing a “s”: Stewartville and Pratherville. The little things you notice on a bike. Brings to mind a song that was popular when I was a kid: “Little Things Mean a Lot.”

The North Kansas City Rotary Club Miles 7115-7145 August 29

Being small and quiet and slow seems perfect on country roads with cows and crops all around. But with 18-wheelers and delivery trucks and cars of all descriptions hurtling by on major highways, I’m suddenly intimidated and feeling inferior. The wide paved shoulder I’m riding keeps me from impeding traffic or being run over. The noise is deafening; the smell is of exhaust fumes. Along Highway 291 from its intersection with Ruth Ewing Road, I pedal two miles to Highway 210 and turn right. Some years back this was a rural road used mostly by farmers and those who live in little places. Now a casino, a rail terminal, a distribution plant and office buildings have brought high volume traffic.

To small town cafes on my bike I can find back roads routes redolent with farm and nature aromas. Today, however, I bike with a more urgent mission. I have been invited to speak at the North Kansas City Rotary Club. Having promised to be there by noon, I take the most direct route. No other bikers enroute do I see. When I make it to North Kansas City by 11, I make a stop at First Baptist Church. Kevin Gibson is Music Director and a bike rider. He rode in our May 31^st Century. And Pastor Brad Dixon is a good friend. Brad recently filmed an interview with me talking about my MS and HateBusters. He used part of the video in a sermon. Brad e-mailed me about a woman in his church who came to him after his sermon to tell him about her daughter who has MS.

Kevin and I have a quick and lively conversation and plan soon to ride together. Brad has gone to the dentist. As I turn to leave, the woman sitting at a desk in the hallway say, “I’m Hansina Piburn. Did Brad tell you about me?”

“Yes,” he did. “Your daughter has MS.” I say.

“How can I get your book about your MS? I want to send it to my daughter.” We talk for a few minutes and I promise to mail a book to her. Then I must leave to ride the few blocks to my rotary Club appointment.

I liked to take part in plays in high school. When I graduated, our school paper, The Huntsville Hornet, printed a prediction for me, as it did for the other 93 graduates. “In the race between the hare and the tortoise, Edgar Chasteen would play the part of the tortoise.” My nickname was “Speedy.” Being fast has never been my strength.

You would think then that speaking to Rotary Club luncheon meetings would not be an environment where I would flourish. Promptly at noon the club is called to order. A prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. When members have eaten and club business has been conducted and the visiting speaker has been introduced, it’s closer to one o’clock than to noon. And the speaker has been told in direct and subtle ways that members expect to be on their way by one.

This is what I said. “I had always said I believe there is a spark of goodness and genius inside every person. Now I had to find out if I could find it. So I got on a bicycle in Orlando, Florida, intending to pedal to Seattle and then down to Los Angeles. By myself and without money, asking for a sandwich, a glass of water, a bed for the night. If people were good, they would help me and I would make it. I carried no map. I would ask people in one town how to get to the next. If they could tell me, I would have found their genius, and I would make it.

“I made it. But that’s not the story I came to tell you. I’ve done another dumb thing. I promised to ride my bicycle 10,000 miles this year and to raise $100,000 for Multiple Sclerosis and $10,000 for HateBusters. So far I’ve ridden almost 7200 miles. I’ve raised not quite $15,000. I think I’ll make the miles. I’m wondering if I will raise the money.

“Oh, I didn’t mention another reason I rode alone and without money across America. I have MS. The doctor told me to sit and not get hot and not be active. Living that way was killing me. I told myself that if I could make it across the country on my bike that MS would have to live on my terms. I thought that doctor made the right diagnosis but the wrong prescription. If I made it, I would prove it.

“If I ride my bike, I can run. If I don’t, I can’t walk. But even though bike riding is good for my health, I know I couldn’t motivate myself day after day to get on my bike if it were only good for my physical well being. I have to have some purpose for being healthy, some mission I cannot do if I am sick. My mission is HateBusters. Helping people who have been hurt because someone hates them. Teaching children and students how to like each other and not get in fights. We have a book called How To Like People Who Are not Like You. We teach it where we are invited.

“We charge no fee for anything. We never say no when asked to help. I have discovered that money is never the problem. Ideas and ideals always attract the money they need to give them life. HateBusters started in 1988 when a Klansman won election to the Louisiana Legislature and the governor invited my students and me to come help the state redeem itself. We went. We have since been invited by other governors and ministers and rabbis and imams and mayors and citizens.

“I’ve come today to ask your help. We need your money.”

I’m too excited ever to speak from notes. This is not verbatim what I said. But it’s mighty close. And takes me maybe five minutes. Three or four good questions come. “I’m through.” I say. And sit down. Little over 10 minutes in all.

The Club President makes closing remarks and strikes the bell to end our meeting. Still a few minutes short of one o’clock. Several members rush up to say kind and encouraging things to me. Bob DeGeorge is sitting next to me. He’s the program chairman and had introduced me, though we had never met until today. “The Club has given me money to distribute to worthwhile organizations who need help in raising money,” Bob says. ”Our Rotary club will make a $500.00 contribution to your work.”

Wow! Slow as I am, we hit it off. “Life’s a game of ping pong,” I had said to them. “I’ve just served to you. Now I wait to see what comes back across the net.” And even before I leave the chair where I’ve been sitting, back comes a major contribution. Another member presses money into my hand. Another member asks for a book and writes a check for a contribution.

I can’t wait to see where this all will lead and what Olympian-like game of ping-pong we might play.