Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (23 page)

It was around noon when we stopped for a traffic light at Sixth Street and Vine downtown. A pack of pedestrians flowed from the sidewalk into the crosswalk in front of us. Among them was a tall woman, dressed in a tight fitting business suit, with amber hair draped about her shoulders. She had a cover-girl kind of face with a wide glossy red smile. With long graceful strides, she quickly got to the front of the pack, and it seemed like she was determined to get to us before the rest of the pedestrians–and she did. Then, stopping directly in front of me, she said, “Thank you for coming to Cincinnati.”

She said that with such sincerity that I was dumfounded at first. I stumbled through, “Oh, uh, well. You’re welcome.”

While the rest of the pedestrians scurried past her, the woman stepped closer to me, reached over, took my left hand and held it with both of hers. “I really mean it. I read about you in the paper the other day. It was such an
uplifting story. We talked about it at church Sunday. It’s a wonderful thing that you’re doing. You’re living your dream.”

She stepped closer and caressed my arm to her chest. Tears were in her eyes when she said, “Thank you for showing us that people can still do this in America!”

Then she dropped my arm and disappeared into the downtown crowd. When the light changed and we started through the intersection, I recalled what Jeff Swinger said when he talked us into going downtown. “They’ll love you in Cincinnati!”

That afternoon as we hiked out of the valley, up through the suburbs, I often found myself thinking about what that woman said. I kept asking myself, “What did we do that was so special? All we did was walk through town. I don’t get it.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Father Terry said, as he poured me another glass of beer from the pitcher. “If you don’t, you should. It’s really very simple.”

The hike up to Silverton had been a long, hot, urban affair. So we appreciated it when they told us we could camp in the shade on the grounds of St. Vincent Ferrer Catholic Church. We especially appreciated their offer to open the church beer-tap after their meeting that night. The priest, a couple of nuns and a few parishioners, brought cold glasses and frosted pitchers full of beer to our camp just after dark.

I asked the priest, “What do you mean, it’s very simple?”

“You’re living your dream. Just seeing you walk down the street, it’s obvious that’s what you’re doing. So
that’s
what you did. You brought your dream to Cincinnati–a place where it’s easy for dreams to get lost. People in a place like this need to see that.”

I looked up at the illuminated bell tower with the silver half-moon shimmering above it and tried to think of a response. All I could come up with was, “Oh.”

Father Terry put his hand on my shoulder. “You say you’re walking just because it’s something you’ve always wanted to do. But it’s more than that. You’re a sign of hope that there is more to life than just the everyday grind. It’s your way of doing God’s work.”

How do you respond to something like that? I was speechless. It just seemed natural to look back up at the bell tower. After a few moments of silence the priest said, “And I would like to thank you for something, too. Thank you for camping here.” He motioned toward the moon. “I have never seen the prayer tower look as beautiful as it does right now. I don’t take the time to come back here at night to just sit and enjoy it.”

He held up his beer glass in a salute. “Thank you. I will certainly do this again.”

I yelled to eager faces across the highway. “Do you want to come meet Della?”

They were the urban black faces of two young mothers with six small children huddled around them. The oldest child was about ten. When I told them to come over, the street corner sprang to life with squealing little kids jumping up and down clapping their hands. One of the smallest hopped off the curb like she was going to dash across the four lanes. But each mother grabbed a shoulder and yanked her back onto the sidewalk. One of them bent over and swatted the little girl’s bottom as she scolded her. The ten-year-old grabbed his little sister’s hand and held it as she stood on the sidewalk bawling. But, by the time traffic was such that they could get across, she was bright faced and skipping her way toward us–with big brother still holding onto her.

Like most little kids that first met Della, they were all in a hurry until they got close. About six feet from her they had slowed down to a nervous shuffle. Little sister, who was only as tall as Della’s knees, was still bubbling with excitement, but she too was afraid to get closer. And the mothers stayed with their kids.

“It’s okay, you can pet Della,” Patricia said as she stroked our mule-girl’s neck. “Just come up to her slow so you don’t scare her.”

While they were scooting closer, the ten-year old, with little sis in hand, suddenly veered away from the others toward Della’s rear end. I yelled, “No! Don’t go back there!”

My wife whirled around, lunged in front of those kids and guided them toward the others at Della’s head. “You can get hurt back there. Stay up here with everybody else.”

The children giggled and squealed as they ran their little hands up and down Della’s front legs. Both mothers were petting her neck, when one said, “I never touched a real horse before.”

“Really? Me neither. She sure is soft!”

Right then, a small school bus turned off the highway and stopped on a side street near us. I had seen the bus earlier back down the highway. What drew my attention to it then, was the beaming round face and enthusiastic waving of the woman driving it. When the bus door opened, she was the one who got out. A short, plump, white woman who walked up to us in hasty steps and said, “I just had to stop!”

The words bounced out of her. “We have a few disabled children on the bus who’d love to meet your mule. Could we bring them over?”

A few minutes later, two other women got out of the bus and began to lead five girls toward us. They were about ten years old, and each had some sort of impairment in their movement. A couple used metal crutches that wrapped around their arms just below their elbows. Another girl–without a crutch–dragged her right leg with each step, and there was one who limped like both her left leg and left arm were frozen stiff. Then there was the girl who had no physical problem, but she just couldn’t seem to keep her mind on where she was going. She’d take a few steps with the rest of the group, then suddenly turn and go another way. The women guiding the girls toward us spent most of their time keeping track of that little wanderer.

When they got close to us, it was obvious the black mothers were getting nervous about that group. They thanked us, hastily collected their children and left before the girls from the bus reached us.

While the girls stroked Della, one of the women said, “We have one more girl, but it takes longer to get her off the bus.”

A few minutes later, the driver stepped out the bus door with a folded wheel chair. One of the other women said “I’d better go help with Lilly.”

It took both women to carry her off the bus and situate her in the chair. Lilly was much bigger and older than the other girls. I figured she was probably in her early teens. It was hard to tell from the way Cerebral Palsy contorted her body and face. Her head constantly bobbed about in the headrest on the chair, and her curled hands twitched every few moments. They told me Lilly was blind and couldn’t speak.

“But she can hear and understand just fine,” the driver said as she pushed Lilly’s wheel chair closer to Della.

At first, the Big Sis didn’t know what to make of it--the wheel chair with this bobbing and twitching girl in it. She had been patient with all of the children so far, but this was a lot different. Della wasn’t sure she wanted anything to do with it and side stepped away from the chair. So I motioned to the bus driver to stop. “I don’t think Della has ever been around a wheel chair. Let her figure it out before you come any closer to her.”

The bus driver leaned over and said, “Lilly, the mule hasn’t ever seen a wheel chair before. So we’re going to sit still so she can get used to it. We don’t want to scare her.”

A series of excited grunts came out of Lilly, as she tried to nod. That piqued Della’s curiosity. Slowly she moved her regal head toward the girl and sniffed the air around her. Then, Della took a step toward the chair while she continued to sniff. After another step, she stretched her neck out until her muzzle was next to Lilly’s cheek. The air from her nostrils blew strands of the girl’s blond hair about her face. Lilly squealed with excitement. Della drew back a bit as the bus driver said, “Lilly, be careful not to scare Della.”

Our big mule girl was more surprised than scared. She slowly moved her face toward the girl again. But this time she didn’t sniff. I could tell Della desperately wanted to make contact with Lilly. When her whiskers touched the girl’s cheeks, Lilly squealed again. But this time Della didn’t pull back.

“I think Della has figured it out,” I said. “Push Lilly closer to her.”

When she did, Della stood still and let the chair come up beside her. Then the driver guided Lilly’s hands to those big mule shoulders. While she helped the girl pet the soft fur the driver said, “This is Della the mule. She likes you, Lilly.”

Right then Lilly leaned forward and laid the side of her face on Della’s coat. For those few moments the bobbing and twitching stopped. Tears began to roll down her cheeks, as she cooed like a baby. A sweet peaceful expression lit Lilly’s face.

My vision began to blur. When I took off the sunglasses to wipe my eyes, I found the other adults wiping their eyes too.

When people asked us why we were walking, our standard reply was “Because we want to.” But when pressed with, “Why do you want to?” I found myself stymied–unable to answer. The truth was, I really didn’t know why. Over the past two and a half decades, I asked myself countless times, “Why are you so consumed with this journey?” The answer was always the same. “It’s just something I’ve got to do.” Standing on that urban sidewalk in America’s heartland, with Della and Lilly, I saw a new depth in that answer.

“Child, what are you doing out in this weather?”

When Arlene Justice opened her back door and found Patricia on her stoop, a churn of clouds was overhead and a few fat drops were splattering on my wife. When the front tolled in from the north, we were about five miles southwest of Springfield, Ohio, on Highway 68. It looked like this was going to be a rough storm. So, when we spotted the big barns behind Arlene’s house, we pulled in to ask if we could hunker down in one.

“Honey, I don’t own those barns. But you and your husband come on in here before you get soaking wet! They say we’re in for a lot of rain.”

Arlene was short, in her mid-seventies and a bit bent at the shoulders, with silver hair curled close to her head. She wore a sack-shaped dress made out of a light, flowery material.

In her back yard was a sprawling elm tree. It would be good shelter for Della, so I tethered her under it with hay, feed and water. Then, just as I stepped up onto Arlene’s stoop, the sky let loose. The clouds couldn’t hold back anymore.

“The Lord was looking out for you,” Arlene said, as I scrambled through her kitchen door. She handed me a big fluffy bath towel. “You come on in here and make yourself at home. It ain’t much, but at least it’s dry.”