Laura’s Donation November 16

Laura’s Donation November 16

“Dear Papa, Happy birthday. This is a donation for your bike ride and for MS and HateBusters. Love, Laura.” A hand-made card showing hearts and balloons and lettered in bold blue script. A little pocket labeled “Money” taped to one side, with her whole week’s allowance inside.

Another card comes from Holly Springs. From Leanne, Jennifer, John and Anne. It shows an amazed bear on its cover. “You’re HOW old?!” It says inside.

We gather at noon. Dave, Brian, Ed and I huddle around the TV see the Chiefs notch their tenth victory against no losses. Debbie and Bobbie are busy upstairs. Laura is playing games on my computer. The ball game is tied 3-3 at half-time when we go up for lunch.

Bobbie had told me earlier in the week that Debbie was making dinner. “Something ethnic,” she said. “You’ll love it.”

“Sauerbraten! It looks marvelous and smells divine.” I say. Wow! And the taste is heavenly. Red cabbage with apples. Meat so tender you can cut it with a fork. Gravy with the aroma and the tongue-pleasing tang of ginger. German potatoes. Green beans. I eat way past need. It’s too good to quit.

But the second half lures us back downstairs. The Bengals have lost five and the Chiefs none before today. We take the opening kickoff and drive for a touchdown. We lead by seven. Looking good. But three big plays by the Bengals have us behind 24-19 with two minutes to play. If we hold them on third down and get the ball back, we can rally. Doesn’t happen. They get a first down. We’re out of timeouts. Game over. Our first loss! Not a welcome birthday present.

Upstairs Dorothy’s carrot cake waits. She called on Friday. “I made you a birthday cake. I’ll bring it right over.” Dorothy Edwards is one of the best cooks in Greater Liberty. I’ve eaten her pies and cakes many times and never been disappointed. Two pieces with Bryer’s Vanilla Ice Cream help ease my Chief’s pain. Then back downstairs for marathon games of 42, the domino game played by everyone in Texas when Bobbie and I lived there.

“Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be,” so says Rabbi Ben Ezra in Robert Browning’s poem by that name. A day such as this he could have had in mind.

My Back Tire Comes off Miles 9685-9715 November 17

Storm today! That’s what I see predicted in the paper as I’m sitting at my kitchen table for breakfast. I’m planning on a fast 40 miles this morning, with no time to drop into one of my small town cafes. Need to get back and get on the phone to find items for our silent auction. So even though the sky looks ominous, I leave at first light, bound for Orrick.

Out Old 210 everything around me is wrapped in a gray gauze, rendering all objects indistinct and making lines soft. A dome has settled around me, shutting out the sun, turning down the lights and muffling sound. A strangely pleasant sensation comes over me, as if I‘ve entered the twilight zone and Rod Serling may appear somewhere out of the mist.

I’ve come through Missouri City and out to where N intersects 210, five more miles to Orrick. Now the rain comes. Hard. And lightning. I turn back toward home. I’m soon soaked. And pedaling as fast as I can. I climb the hill past Missouri City. Now I can coast down the homeward side. With rain in my face and a wet road, I don’t let it all out, as I usually do. I feather the brakes to slow my descent. I’m almost down when I misjudge and run off the road. I manage to stop. I dismount and walk the bike back to the road.

Now I hear a grinding sound when I apply the rear brakes. Then I feel a bumping in the back. And I know. The rear tire is going flat. I keep pedaling. The bump gets worse. And worse. Then I hear a new sound. I stop. The rim strip has come loose and is wrapped around the spokes and the gears. I pull it loose. Now the rim rubs the road. I must walk the bike. Still raining.

I pull out my cell phone, trying to keep it dry. I call Bobbie. The line is busy. I walk further. And call again. Still busy. I make it to the Liberty Animal Shelter and call again. Bobbie answers. “Come get me,” I say. “I’ve been trying to call you,” she says “You didn’t answer. It’s raining hard here. I thought you might need a ride” “I could manage the rain,” I say. “But now I have a flat.”

A few minutes later she pulls up in my little red Toyota with its H8BSTR license plates. I unlock the trunk and pull out the bike rack. Attaching it in the rain is not high on my list of favorite things to do, but it’s way better than walking in the rain and pushing a bicycle with a flat tire.

Called a Tow Truck Lately? Miles 9715-9725 November 18

“Ed, are you busy tomorrow at 10:45? I know this is short notice, but I would like you to come in and talk with my Gen. 102 class about the situation with hate and prejudice among the races today and your organization HateBusters. Many of these young people think that segregation and prejudice is a thing of the past. I am in room # 327 Jewell Hall.

Cecelia”

One of my rules is that I never say no when asked to help bust hate. I had been planning a ride to Richmond. New plan. No problem. Directly from my house to campus is two and a half miles. But I have other routes. Up the Ruth Ewing hills over to LaFrenz Road to Richfield Road and onto campus. Adds about three miles. I’ll go that way and come back out H to the country club and over EE to 210 and home. New plan!

Down the backside of the first hill I spot a white pickup that has just pulled onto a side street and stopped. A man gets out and walks toward me. “Called any tow trucks lately?” He asks.

Roy Jones! Nobody else would ask me that question. It was several years ago on another bike ride over on N near Excelsior Springs. Roy and his wife, Pat, and several other riders. Pat worked at the college. I had known her for years. She and Roy had just gotten married. I was meeting him for the first time.

“Did I tell you about the ambulance that passed me the other day when I was out for a ride?” Roy asked. “As it passed, the back door flew open and a small box came out and skidded into the ditch. I raced to get it. When I opened it, there was a human toe on dry ice. The ambulance was gone. I took that box and raced to the nearest exit. I found a service station and asked to use their phone. But I couldn’t figure out who to call. Then it hit me. I called a toe truck.”

I’ve told that story many times since. I look hard for openings I can use. “Roy, I told that story just the other day.”

“I’ve got something for you,” he says. He reaches in his pocket and takes out folded money. He peels off one and hands it to me. “Wow! Do you carry hundred dollar bills with you all the time?” I ask. “Only for emergencies. This is for Pat and me and 98 other people.”

Roy has obviously heard about my dream of getting one dollar from 110,000 people. He has just paid for 100 of them. “I’m glad I came this way this morning. I started to go another.” I say. “If I tell Pat you gave me a hundred dollars will she kill you?” “No. I will tell her myself,” Roy says.

I walk into Cecelia’s class just on time. “I would have been here a little earlier, but someone stopped me on the road to give me a hundred dollars. Such things happen often to me. They aren’t giving to me. But to my two causes—MS and bustin’ hate. I ride a bicycle all the time. Everywhere. Anytime. If I ride I can run. If I don’t, I can’t walk.

“We started HateBusters right here on campus. I read in the Kansas City Star one morning that a member of the Ku Klux Klan had been elected to the Louisiana Legislature. I got mad. I had always told my student it’s never enough just to know. You must be willing to act on what you know. We need to help these people.

“Why do we need to help them? Because it’s the right thing to do. And because we know they need help. Because we know, we are now their neighbor. And our faith commands that we love our neighbor.”

For an hour we talk. They are attentive and responsive. I give them their HateBusters Membership card. “We have no dues and no meetings,” I say. “Only a mission. “Hate is real. It’s out there. Sometime in your life you will come up against it. And you will have to respond instantly to it. By drawing on all you have learned from all the people you have known, all the places you have been and all the situations you have been in. Then you will know who you are.”

Another new plan! I’m too excited from my encounter with Roy and Cecelia’s students to ride out to the country club. The most direct route home will get me to my word processor faster, while I’m still on high.
As I always do, I emailed this story to the more than 800 people in my address book. I got this return message immediately from Eleanor Cuthbertson, a good friend and a member with me of Second Baptist Church.

“Great message.  I talk to Cecilia's class in the spring about what it was like to live in the country back when I was a kid, with no electricity, outhouses, etc.

“Did I ever tell you I was kicked off a public bus in Daytona, FL when I was 21 and gave young black mother carrying a sleeping baby my seat--alllllmooosssttt in the middle of the bus?  The girlfriends I was vacationing with thought I had been in the sun too long, and they stayed on the bus while I walked 5 miles back to the motel.  Rosa Parks had a cold rainy night to walk home, with a sympathetic family.  I had a warm spring FL afternoon,, with friends who thought I was nuts, so my only satisfaction was telling off the bus driver in front of a full load of passengers what I thought about them and their Jim Crow laws  I'm proud to be your friend.”