Man of LaMancha
Jesse James and Sugar Plum Miles 9725-9810 November 19
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- The Round Table Miles 9810-9940 November 20-21
Jesse James and Sugar Plum Miles 9725-9810 November 19Oh what a wonderful morning, Oh, what a wonderful day. I have a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way. These lines from Oklahoma pop out of my head as I pedal into Orrick. I haven’t thought of them in years. Didn’t even realize they were salted away in my memory bank. But I do know why they pop out just now. Soft blue skies. Bright early morning sun. Temperature in the low 40s, predicted by last night’s TV weather to reach the mid-60s by afternoon. Crystal clear air. Amanda Cauthen brings my biscuits and gravy and a cup of hot chocolate and a Fubbler’s gift certificate for our silent auction on Sunday. I’m back at my bike and preparing to leave when another satisfied customer steps out the door onto the sidewalk. “Are you Dr. Chasteen?” He asks. “Yes,” I say. “My name is George Gowing. My daughter Melissa had you at Jewell. She loved that class.” George has lived in Orrick all his life. His three grown daughters live nearby; his son, in Los Angeles. In the film business. George and his wife started Fubbler’s. Business was good. But tiring and confining. Tim Heady came to work for them. He had worked in restaurants since he was 13. Wanted to buy one. Offered to buy Fubbler’s. “I didn’t want to lose him. If I didn’t sell to him, he would have left to find another.” I turn back toward Liberty on 210 but leave it when I come to N. I head toward Excelsior Springs. And pass about a half-mile down on my left the big two story farm house where Melissa, George’s daughter, now lives with her husband. I could have taken O directly out of Orrick to Excelsior Springs, but O is like a road in Bavaria, with some of the most challenging hills around. N is more like the coastal plains near Corpus Christi, where my mother lives. And today I want to make some miles while the sun shines. The guys back at Fubbler’s were talking about snow. Maybe by Sunday when the Chief’s play. And for sure by Monday. As I draw near Excelsior Springs, the road does begin to rise and fall as I leave the plowed lands all around to either side and enter rolling pasture lands. The trees have lost their leaves. Among their bare branched brethren, the pin oaks stand somber and proud in their rust colored suits, boasting the beauty of tenacity. They will hold their leaves through the winter, surrendering them near that time in spring when new buds begin. Weather is on everybody’s mind at Sarah’s Table when I stop to see owner Carl Moore about donating to our silent auction. “Glad to,” he says. “And we hope to come. We read about it in the paper today.” “Suppose to get up to 75 tomorrow. Can you believe this weather.” This I hear at a nearby table. I see red and orange and red-orange Maple trees in people’s yards and at the Mosby Tree Nursery, but I can’t make out any among the forest of trees that crown the hills and ring the fields along the roads I ride. Are they too fragile? Can they not compete when left alone? By being bred for beauty, have they lost that edge that allowed their ancestors to thrive? Is there a lesson in here somewhere? Maybe a parallel with us, the people. I hope not. Even as I think so. The images conjured I my head by the intersection of Jesse James and Sugar Plum roads dance in my head for miles after I have passed that point. Was it a sense of opposites that prompted it? A search for a sure-fire conversation starter? An effort to prompt a quick smile? Whoever named it was not your stereotypical transportation department bureaucrat. The Round Table Miles 9810-9940 November 20-21I take a seat at the Mill Inn counter. All four chairs are momentarily vacant. I pull out my notebook, ask for a half-order of biscuits and gravy and a glass of milk. And begin to write. All my first drafts of these stories I send to you have been first set to paper at one of my satellite offices disguised as small town cafes. The words always form in my head as I ride. I’m always conscious of the terrain I’m passing through and aware of road conditions, but my mind is always composing what I will write when I come to breakfast. Or lunch. I was thinking about our chili dinner on Sunday as I rode here. This is what I wrote. Every single cost involved in having our chili dinner has been covered by a friend. There is absolutely no overhead cost. So every penny you spend for food and silent auction items goes to my two causes: 90% to MS and 10% to HateBusters. Not often can you give all your money directly to a cause while getting food, fun and fellowship as a bonus. Another guy comes in and takes a counter seat. “Is that you, David? You shaved. You look better,” say Dorothy, from behind the cash register. “I found my razor,” says David. “We started to buy you one,” my waitress says. Then she goes in search of the peach jelly David wants on his toast. A round table sits in the middle of the room, occupied this morning, as it almost always is, by guys. Seven of them this morning: Jimmie Offield, Charles O’Dell, Bill Norris, Gill Head, Bob Wilson and Carl Wilson. Gil is everywhere. I saw him at church last night with his wife, Dorothy, for our Thanksgiving dinner. I saw him at Sarah’s Table yesterday afternoon. I see him here at Mill Inn this morning. Gil invites me to their table. “Tell these guys how many miles you’re riding.” He says. When I have done that, he asks me to tell them about HateBusters. Gil hands me a twenty-dollar bill as a donation. One of the guys chides him. “He said he wanted $100,000.” A guy at the next table hands me a dollar. I invite them all to our chili dinner. As I go to pay my bill, Dorothy says, “Don’t leave. Evelyn is here. She needs to talk to you. Evelyn comes momentarily. “Now what did you and Kay talk about yesterday?” She asks. “About donating two Sunday buffet dinners for our silent auction.” I say. “We will do that,” Evelyn says. “And Mill Inn has a check for you. But I forgot my purse. Don’t take your canister till I put it in there.” Then Evelyn says, “I was planning to go to California for Thanksgiving. Then I remembered the riders are coming here on the 29th. I want to be here to meet them. So I didn’t go.” The Lawson and Kearney high school football teams both made the state playoffs. The towns are similar in size and may at some point play each other. I hope not. I would like them both to be state champs, as Catrick’s and Sarah’s Table already are. A question comes to mind today as I ride. What happens to community for those who live in a castle in a corn field? Not long ago they were not here. They have sprung up like dandelions after a spring rain. Seas of newly planted grass have replaced the cash crop that grew here and helped feed the world. The grass needs constant care and returns no economic benefit. Milton Taylor was an American soldier in the Korean War. He was wounded. It took 50 years and the intervention of congressional leaders to secure the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart and the veteran’s disability to which his service and sacrifice entitled him. “The government fought like hell to deny me,” Milton said. “I attribute it to racism.” Milton is black. Milton is a Mill Inn regular, often sitting with the guys at the round table. This morning he takes one of the four seats at the counter beside me. He has just completed his morning school bus duties. He’s a bus monitor, making sure that the challenged children on the bus are buckled up on their way to school. Some of the guys from yesterday are seated at the round table. I didn’t have my Mickey Cards yesterday. The ones I always carry got soaked in that driving rain the other day, and I hadn’t replaced them. I got new ones before I left this morning. I stop by the table and give them all one. They pass me $10s and $20s. “Hey guys, a week from this coming Saturday, all my riders are coming to Mill Inn for breakfast. We’ll be here at this same time that day. Please come meet everybody.” Download 0.51 Mb. Share with your friends:
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