By these directions finding my way past the little towns surrounding, I came into Cedar Rapids, from the east, and got in contact with some people living here who I'd found through a travel network. All afternoon I rode through the big town's stretch of summer heat and construction, with shoulders all torn up and the street signs gone, trying by might to get to the outdoor shop on the west side where I'd get a new can of stove fuel, as mine was long ago empty. After finding this I retrod my long hectic path to arrive at these peoples' place in the late day. I had got good directions from them over the phone to the middle of town where they resided, but managed to make myself thoroughly lost anyway. Like I've said before, highway navigation is one thing, but cities are a different beast, especially Cedar Rapids in the disorienting swelter of summer. They charitably decided to come pick me up instead, finding and stopping lost, confused me as I was ignorantly pedaling into the north-of-town countryside.
Teresa was the mother of the house. She showed me into the room, where she said I could stay as long as I needed, and asked me if I'd want a shower or to eat first. Also met Joel, a kid in the upper years of high school. He was taking time off from everything in his preparation for upcoming travel to Israel with his brother, a medic in Afghanistan. Joel was reserved, but kind and easy to be around, and made a deliberate effort to host while I was around. Josiah, the little brother was around shortly, with his good mannered young charm. The father, Jerry, who had picked me up in their truck, wanted to hear all about the travels, and to tell how proud he was of the kids and their own adventures.
I got a quick shower and ate a late dinner at their table (mashed potatoes ribs, and veggies) being further introduced to the company. With a belly full and a plate finally emptied, one of Joel's friends came over and they wanted to smoke pipes. I was happy to join for a post-meal smoke. We went out all barefoot on asphalt with our pipes, tobacco, matches, and lighters to walk the streets in the yellow lamp lit dusk. We went into the neighborhood night, sharing all fashion of our traveling pasts, Joel telling of his times from beginning in Jordan, to the ancient mystic Petra, Israel and his brief stint in Paris in the end, with impromptu explorations and the chance fortunate acquaintances that travel necessarily introduces.
Next day was without much event, morning writing, then got out in the late afternoon, Joel treating me to a burrito, and then off to a bookstore for more writing and back for dinner. I'd gotten sunburned a couple of days before from riding with my shirt off too long in the unimpeded peak heat of summer solstice, so my back now looked like the swollen ripe inside of a watermelon, and all this rest time was greatly appreciated by me. That night it was back to the soft, quiet bed to sleep a long, dreamless, pristine sleep, meaning for morning departure being entirely rested and recomposed.
Awoke and had a breakfast, saying goodbye to everybody as they left off to their chores, except Teresa who was staying in for the day. I busied around the room gathering my things and tidying the bed. After getting my bags together, and pulling my bike to the living room to go, Teresa sat me down in the wooden chair for a final goodbye talk. She reclined beside me in a padded armchair with the yellow light from the lamp between us falling golden on her face. Noon light blazed behind from the patio's glass door, circling around her figure in a bright, radial, glowing blaze like Our Lady of Guadalupe as she squashes the serpent underfoot. She told me her story of a sullen, godless childhood and the revelations revealed to her in the time of need, imparting to me the root, the source, of all her eternal immortal joys, being all concerned about my afterlife, and reaching over to touch softly my arm as she discoursed. I took it all in quiet confidence, sitting enthralled, and listening about the myriad miracles, and angels, and tongues. When she'd finished the memoir she said to me, “Now I've fire-hosed you before you go on continuing your adventure.” I recognized the reverence in the story and was glad to hear, but in my mind I thought, “Am I the only one not so worried bout my soul?”
I thanked her for everything as she'd really given to me more deeply than I could ever have asked, and she said she was glad and hoped I had gained from it.
After a midsummer's ride north I was in Independence Iowa while a storm blew in, pattering rain falling down through the air, each bead refracting a late white sun against dark blue balloon clouds rolling from the east. A pickup truck pulled up by me while I was riding through a park looking to get out of the rains. A thin old guy smiling in its window, from a big wild beard, called out and motioned me over. He asked where I was from with a bike so packed and I told him my story in brief form. The building right by us was his repair shop, he said. He invited me in, pulled his truck around, lifted up the garage door from the entrance, and then he introduced himself to me as Hoskie. In this little town, home of all his life, he did tree trimming and stump removal, and all other various handyman tasks for all the folk. The side of his truck declared, “We get high legally!” in reference to the tree climbing.
“Like that? I thought it was a good one.” he laughed. I asked about the town and if he had any place to recommend for camping free since it was getting late. “If you're out on a ride and like to see interesting things, you know there's a whole clan of Amish people just north a-here, if you want to go out that way and make a quick stop for some sights.” I was interested and he said he could give a brief tour of the route to me via truck drive and then I'd know the way. He was incredibly amiable so I hopped in the passenger seat.
We pulled out along outside town dirt roads as the sun was lowering dangerously in the west meaning I'd have no time before full dark to ride here after the return drive. Throughout the drive Hoskie introduced me to the nuances of small town Independence life, talking about the locales we passed and inserting his dirty jokes and anecdotes from a bottomless supply. In courteous Midwestern manner, he'd lift up two fingers from the wheel to wave to every car going in the other lane.
He pulled out a menthol, lit it, and cranked his window down a crack. “Hafta watch for cops round here. They really got a stick in their ass, but I've gotten away with some crazy stuff. Oh, now here's a story for ya: I got drunk once and saw the chief's car was unlocked, so, naturally, I decided to take a little joyride in it before anybody'd caught up with me,” He took a drag off the cigarette, ashed out the window and chuckled with a grin, “I told 'em, 'I was just checkin to make sure it ran alright, guys.' They know me well, and somehow I got away with it without any trouble, too. Can you believe that?” I did believe him. Then seeing the town cemetery on the left, he pointed it out with habitual sarcasm, “Oh, everybody's just dying to get in there.”
We came to the Amish country road and then began retracing our path. On the right Hoskie saw a couple guys out front of a house who he knew, slowed, and pulled down their dirt drive. Sitting in the truck we each had a couple beers with the company of the two farmers, who were both already evening drunk. With flowing upward inflections punctuating every sentence in their native Iowan dialect, they exchanged their own dirty jokes and weekday current events among us. A little dog and kid pranced around each other in the front yard under the dimming dusk light, and the farmer's wife yelled out from the yellow-filled front window, “Supper's ready!” so we started out the driveway and back toward town again.
No light remained in the sky. Stepping out from the truck into the shop, Hoskie apparently recognized the predicament I was in and in a moment had invited me to follow down the street to his house for a grilled dinner with the family, which I did. I felt somewhat stuck and was anxious, still being bedless in a dark town unknown, but was grateful all the same for his hospitality. We sat in the living room after dinner watching TV, me tentatively resting my bones. His son Josh, who earlier I'd been introduced to cashiering at a gas station, stepped into the flickering light through the square door frame of the living room and asked if I wanted to stay the night at his place. Outside my own intention, the night's events flowed seamlessly from one to the next and I now had a couch for the night, all my restless worries instantly dissolving like tiny salt grains in a vast uncontrived, recalcitrant sea.
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