Missouri – Where all the chickens are named “Bob”.

Quincy and I feel as though we have stepped into a new culture – a part of our country that we have only read about. It’s a culture molded by explorers, who paddled up the Mississippi and dug their hands and plows into the rich soil and made it their own. The muddy river continuously spills over its banks and floods the farmland. Folks here don’t move away. They dig their hands and plows back into the dirt. It is both the source and destination of lives. The soil is what connects people in Missouri. Think Lewis and Clark. Think Mark Twain. Think Harry Truman. Think the Wehde family.

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Missouri has always been know for it’s friendly folks. Along with the deep roots of the farming culture comes a solid sense of family and community that I have never experienced.Yesterday we were pedaling through soaking rain, alone, not knowing anyone in the entire state. Tonight we are the honored guests of the Wehde family. The warmth and kindness here are so evident that we feel as though we would be welcome to move in for a month.

Around an outdoor dinner table, the kids watch us, listening to our bicycle stories as we cut into a dinner of the best ribs we’ve ever tasted. Tom’s wife, Sarah touches my shoulder, “Can I get you some more ribs?” An orange sun rakes over endless fields of green corn, then slowly sinks. Fireflies begin to twinkle over a perfect lawn. A neighbor turns off his riding lawn mower and walks over for a beer. Grandpa tells stories of playing baseball in the 1950’s. “Pitching back then was simple. All my catcher had to do was point his one finger down the middle.”

 

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Natalie. ” I call all of my chickens Bob.”

Grandma, famous for her Cherry pie, is proud of her 30 grandkids and 30 great grandkids. Her Christmas dinners often have 100 family members around the table. A lot of the extended family live close-by. Some live next door.

The dinner conversation bounces around to the need for more rain – to the price of various corps – to hunting and fishing. “If I could order up the rain, I’d ask for an inch every Sunday. Then I wouldn’t have to work the fields Monday. I farm because I love it.” Tom says. “When the planting season starts, I can do it all day long. When hunting season starts, I’ll hunt every day.”

The neighbor, Jesse, sipping on his beer, mixes in his thoughts about what farming means to him. “When I was 14, my father taught me how to plant. He was proud of his straight rows. So after a couple of hours he came to check on my progress only to find that my rows were crooked. Instead of getting mad, he just told me to make every row in the field straighter than the round before. Little did I know that was a life lessen I was always going to try to live by. Try to make every day better than the day before, keep your rows straight.”

The conversation often circles back to Great Great Grandpa, Captain Wehde who sailed from Germany then came up the Mississippi in 1840. This family has been farming here ever since.

If someone brings out their cell phone, they will likely show you photos of a huge catfish they hooked. The living room walls proudly show mounted trophies of past hunts: ducks, turkeys, deer. Family photos and paintings chronicle generations of family.


I ask about the gun culture here. Until now I didn’t understand why there were so many gun clubs, gun shops and shooting ranges. Fourteen year-old, Charlie turns to me and says, “When you talk about guns in Missouri, people’s first reaction is ‘hunting.'” Charlie’s younger sisters learned to hunt and shoot by the time they turned 8. It’s a skill that’s been handed down over the generations. The girls love being members of the local 4-H club. Every year they raise chickens and hogs to sell at auction. $1500 is a good price for a hog. The profit goes straight into their college fund. They are also skilled S’mores roasters. Natalie, the 4th Grader, stokes the small bonfire, and says, “Golden brown, golden brown, that’s how I like my marshmallows. Can I get you another one?”

 

 

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Bourbon, Missouri.

It seems that whenever I go into a coffee shop, almost anywhere in America, there’s a small group of old guys (as in my age) sitting around a table for their morning chitchat. In La Jolla California, I have heard the old guys talk about their financial investments. In Ashland, Oregon, I’ve heard some discussing who they were in their past lives. In New Mexico, I’ve listened to a long conversation about the price of dirt. In Oklahoma, the old guys I sat near were talking about the weather and the price of cattle. Here in Bourbon, Missouri, this morning’s group was made up of friends who’d lived in this small town for nearly 70 years. One worked In lead mine. Another salvaged scrap metal. A couple of the guys were mechanics. All were talking about their buddy Daryl, who’s claim to fame was that he drove his lawn mower 4 hours to a neighboring town – and back. 

Daryl

A Roadside Attraction On Route 66

Erick, Oklahoma seems to be another Route 66 town fallen on hard times. It’s been a dot on the map since 1906. King Of The Road singer Roger Miller, grew up in Erick. Roger Miller is gone but there’s another musician there. He is not as record-sales-famous, but he’s well know around the planet in the Route 66 guide books. If anyone can bring folks back to Erick, Oklahoma – it’s Harley Russell.

We slowly ride our bicycles, zig-zagging the empty main street. It’s already getting hot and we need some shade and some breakfast. A boy on a bike coasts down the sidewalk, eyeballing the new strangers in town. I steer over to him and ask, “Where’s a good place to get some breakfast?”

He shrugs and replies, “In this town? I don’t think there is any.”

I look across the street and notice a cafe. “How about that place?” I ask.

He looks over at it and remembers, “Oh yeah.”

Inside, a waitress repairs a broken chair with a tube of Superglue laid out on top of a cafe table. Quincy and I choose a spot nearby and order a couple of stacks of pancakes with eggs. The only other folks in the restaurant – a rancher and his wife – sit at a table over 2 cups of coffee. I walk over and ask him about a guy in town named Harley. He looks me over from under the brim of his tan cowboy hat. He’s already spotted our bicycles outside and asks where we’re coming from. When I tell him our story, he puts down his coffee and slides his chair back, as if needing more space to comprehend it all. Then he turns to point out the window to where Harley lives. “Right there on that corner – the old red brick building with all dem signs all over it. He’s different,” he tells me. “I’ve known him my entire life. When we was kids, he was just a regular guy. Then he got a little wild. Now that his wife has passed, he’s gotten a little – well I’ll just say – he’s not do’n so well.”

When the pancakes are gone and our plates are toast-mopped clean, Quincy and I wheel our bikes across the street to the porch of the Sand Hills Curiosity Shop. At first, I’m not sure if it is a grocery store or an antique store or maybe even a museum. I notice an old sign, “We open when we wake up, and close when we pass out!” The old door squeaks as we walk inside. It takes me a moment to take it all in. Road signs, antique furniture, guitars, books, and photographs of some of the thousands of roadies who’ve stopped in over the years, nearly fill the room before spilling out onto the front porch. Also filling the room is the sound of guitar music. I feel as though we are crashing a party. Harley is standing tall, strum’n loud. He’s grizzly looking with long gray hair and a shaggy beard, shirtless, wearing red and white striped overalls. A few teeth are missing. He is surrounded by a circle of black leather motorcycle bikers from Sweden, who sit spellbound on folding chairs – foreigners in a very foreign land.

“I want to welcome you here to Erick, Oklahoma, the redneck capital of the world, where you can see rednecks work and play in their own environment. You’re in the world-famous Sand Hills Curiosity Shop. My name’s Harley.” Then Harley pauses, widens his eyes and asks, “Who the hell are you?!”

Harley launches into his version of the song, Route 66  A few of the bikers try to keep a beat with the tambourines Harley has handed out. I watch his left hand slide through the frets, up and down the worn neck of his guitar. The bikers clap and smile, lost in Harley’s world.

His next song is so different, it nearly lowers the temperature of the room. Smiles fade. Harley sings a sad, deliberate version of the Beatles song, Yesterday. It takes just a moment to realize that he’s singing about his wife, Annabelle. Although no one else in the crowded room knew her, it doesn’t matter. Harley’s sorrow comes through with every lyric.

Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

In 1987 Annabelle came to town to visit here grandparents. She was a slender woman with long, silky hair. Annabelle walked into Harley’s shop, hoping he would tune her guitar. She never left. Through the years she sang every song, standing next to him, greeting every tourist who walked through the doors, with a smile and a free cold drink.

A couple of years ago Harley posted this on his Face Book page:
“Dear friends, my Precious Annabelle just passed away 1:10p.m. this afternoon Sept.30, 2014. Thank all of you for everything you have done.”

Harley
Harley

Soon the group from Sweden is outside on their motorcycles, revving up to leave. Harley rushes outside and stands in the street, waving a huge Swedish flag, as I if he’s starting the Indy 500. The bikers roar past, waving, and head out of town toward Route 66. When the last one is gone, Harley stands alone in the middle of the hot street in his near-empty town.

Harley, still carrying his flag, slowly walks back to the front porch of the Sand Hills Curiosity Shop. He needs to get ready for the next group of tourists that may roll in.

Now I need a place to hide away.

Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Texas Wind

Recently, the roads that Quincy and I pedal are long, flat and straight. There’s very little traffic – one or two pickups pass us every hour. As the Texas sun heats up the land, the steam rises from the fields around us. The humidity builds. Stop for a moment, and we are dripping wet. Wheat is a favorite crop here. Huge wind turbines tower over the wheat fields and turn with the wind, slowly, deliberately, churning the thick air. Their blades are about 200 feet long, gracefully angled resembling giant propellers on an airplane, mounted on a pole 400 feet high. Texas produces the most wind power of any U.S. state. Wind power accounted for about 12% of the electricity generated in Texas during 2015. I wish they would turn toward us and spin faster like giant house fans, to cool us

The Santa Fe Cowboy

My favorite thing about bicycling across America is meeting folks like Archie West. My son, Quincy, pointed him out as we pedaled toward Santa Fe. Mr. West was repairing a part of a fence along the edge of his ranch. Carrying a coil of barbed-wire, he moved down the line, looking for breaks. Watching him, I sensed he was more than just an old cowboy. The way he moved, the way he took off his tan hat and wiped his brow, the way he worked with his hands – told me he’d been with this land his entire life.

I rolled up on my loaded bicycle, almost as if I was on my own horse and introduced myself. Soon, Archie was leaning on a fence post that was as old and weathered as he was – with the grace and pose of a Hollywood cowboy – his elbow at an angle on the post, his hip in the opposite direction, his thumb in his jean pocket – telling me the history of his family, his land, and how his dad had settled here from Oklahoma just before the Dust Bowl era. “This land is too dry to plant any crops. The only thing you can raise here is cattle.”

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A black-and-blue thunderstorm circled behind us, unsettling the high desert with strong gusts. Mr. West dug into the dry earth with the side of his cowboy boot and pushed it aside, telling us about the big rain that had hit last night. “It’s never enough,” he said. “I hope we get more.”

I told Archie about our bicycle trip up Route 66. His brow lifted. He adjusted his pose and asked many of the usual questions people ask about our trip. I told him about starting in Santa Monica and about how many miles we tried to do in a day. Then I told him, “The best part about doing this bike trip is doing it with my son,”

Archie understood the deeper meaning of what I was saying, smiled and shot back, “My son moved back on the ranch. I love working with my boy.”

Soon it would be getting dark. Quincy and I waved good-bye and rolled down the windy road, pedaling side-by-side. The dark clouds moved along the distant mountains. I turned to my boy and reminded him, “son, you could take all of the University classes you can find and you’ll never have the conversation we just experienced.”

 

 

 

 

 

“You Had Adventure Written All Over You”

imageMany say that Aretha Franklin’s song, Respect is the best R&B song ever. Isn’t that what most of us want, just a little respect? Isn’t that why many of us are on Face Book?
Bicycling up Route 66, has many highlights. One is when someone pulls alongside and rolls down their window to shout, “Right-on! Where you go’n?” ….. “Chicago?! On those bikes? Wow! I wish I could do that!”
Yesterday at a IHop breakfast, a large group touring on Harleys heard our story and jumped up, all wanting to take our photos. Later there was a guy at a donut shop who walked up to tell us, “I spotted you guys across the street on your bicycles. You had ADVENTURE written all over you.”

“What you need, baby I got it. R-E-S-P-E-C-T…”
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Blacksmith, Welder, Philosopher

On a hot August day in 1990, Dennis deBey was kind enough to accept my invitation to photograph him in my studio. I had asked him to bring along a few props – tools of his trade. He parked his truck out back and began dragging in welding torches, acetylene tanks, hoses, hammers and an anvil that was so heavy I feared it might fall through my floor.

Here’s what he had to say 25 years ago …