A trip down Memory Lane
5 May - Gallipolis-Portsmouth OH: up to mid-70s, partly cloudy; 9:50-5:50, 64.5 miles
Today the memories flowed freely, bringing that critical week of the walk back to life. I re-read the Gallipolis-to-Portsmouth chapter of my book to remind myself of those years-ago events, but the view of those places unearthed even more recollections. It was, at times, very powerful.
I began the day as I had so many on the walk, giving an interview to the local paper. From Gallipolis we cycled a beautiful road to Rio Grande, the same highway a mother and daughter from Chillicothe had joined us in picking litter for half-a-day. Today as I crossed a bridge, the view of Bob Evans Farms stopped me cold - the store, the restaurant, the campground were exactly as I remembered. A mile further I recognized another turn.
The memories - and emotions - grew more intense upon leaving Oak Hill. It was here that, thirteen years ago, we gave Tim the keys to Sue's car so he could store it for us in Detroit. Once again with a pack on her back, her broken leg fully healed, Sue set off with me to South Webster, twelve miles distant.
I recognized the highway rest stop where we pumped our own water, where Sue complained of a burning pain in her knee. The crumbling mansion we took a break at -- where Charlie Horner had treated us to cold sodas -- no longer stood, but the house Charlie had been painting still shone with another new coat of paint. I recalled the power substation we took our final break, with Sue near tears from the pain.
Of course I remembered South Webster, the town I soon dubbed 'the friendliest town in the country' - the town where the outpouring of generosity warmed our hearts as we struggled with Sue's injury. However, while the natural landscape stayed much the same, the human landscape had evolved with time. The parsonage where we camped for two nights (and the pastor's wife cooked us dinner) still stood, though the pastor had long since been reassigned elsewhere. Their neighbors who had treated us to another dinner had moved on to Cincinatti; the parishioner who had paid for our hotel room the next night had passed away. A new library had replaced the cramped facility I remembered; the grocers and the cafe had both gone under.
The town still oozed friendliness. As we ate outside the new deli, three times people stopped to ask about our journey. As I prepared to donate two books to the library, a man struck up a conversation, telling me about his time spent on the AT. He ended with a farewell I grown quite fond of in these parts: "Is there anything I can get for you? Is there anything I can do to help?"
At the library I got phone numbers for Charlie Horner (moved to Portsmouth) and Trudy Bostick (who eventually drove us to Detroit - a six-hour trip - so we could reclaim Sue's car). Trudy was out-of-town, but tonight in Portsmouth I dropped in on Charlie. We chatted over tea for ninety minutes, talking about what was and what may be coming. It was a perfect ending to a day when the past loomed large.
Today the memories flowed freely, bringing that critical week of the walk back to life. I re-read the Gallipolis-to-Portsmouth chapter of my book to remind myself of those years-ago events, but the view of those places unearthed even more recollections. It was, at times, very powerful.
I began the day as I had so many on the walk, giving an interview to the local paper. From Gallipolis we cycled a beautiful road to Rio Grande, the same highway a mother and daughter from Chillicothe had joined us in picking litter for half-a-day. Today as I crossed a bridge, the view of Bob Evans Farms stopped me cold - the store, the restaurant, the campground were exactly as I remembered. A mile further I recognized another turn.
The memories - and emotions - grew more intense upon leaving Oak Hill. It was here that, thirteen years ago, we gave Tim the keys to Sue's car so he could store it for us in Detroit. Once again with a pack on her back, her broken leg fully healed, Sue set off with me to South Webster, twelve miles distant.
I recognized the highway rest stop where we pumped our own water, where Sue complained of a burning pain in her knee. The crumbling mansion we took a break at -- where Charlie Horner had treated us to cold sodas -- no longer stood, but the house Charlie had been painting still shone with another new coat of paint. I recalled the power substation we took our final break, with Sue near tears from the pain.
Of course I remembered South Webster, the town I soon dubbed 'the friendliest town in the country' - the town where the outpouring of generosity warmed our hearts as we struggled with Sue's injury. However, while the natural landscape stayed much the same, the human landscape had evolved with time. The parsonage where we camped for two nights (and the pastor's wife cooked us dinner) still stood, though the pastor had long since been reassigned elsewhere. Their neighbors who had treated us to another dinner had moved on to Cincinatti; the parishioner who had paid for our hotel room the next night had passed away. A new library had replaced the cramped facility I remembered; the grocers and the cafe had both gone under.
The town still oozed friendliness. As we ate outside the new deli, three times people stopped to ask about our journey. As I prepared to donate two books to the library, a man struck up a conversation, telling me about his time spent on the AT. He ended with a farewell I grown quite fond of in these parts: "Is there anything I can get for you? Is there anything I can do to help?"
At the library I got phone numbers for Charlie Horner (moved to Portsmouth) and Trudy Bostick (who eventually drove us to Detroit - a six-hour trip - so we could reclaim Sue's car). Trudy was out-of-town, but tonight in Portsmouth I dropped in on Charlie. We chatted over tea for ninety minutes, talking about what was and what may be coming. It was a perfect ending to a day when the past loomed large.
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