Murrs Across America

I woke up early to seek wi-fi on Brownville Main Street to write and send some work. Generally, I’ve not been able to get much work done on this trip, but have been participating in hours of conference calls and attempting to get things set up for when I get back. I haven’t decided whether it’s better to struggle to get things done whilst traveling, or set things aside till later. Some days I feel overwhelmed by the amount of work I’m not getting done, and I’m thinking of starting a Facebook support group for traveling employees. I’ll call it, “My briefcase is a dry bag.”

After goodbyes to our Brownville friends, we biked to Peru, NE via the high road to avoid flooding. The old timers were predicting a 39 ft. rise, and sections of the Trace between Brownville and Peru were certainly underwater.

What we found on the trace after Peru wasn’t surprising then: water. Eight miles from Nebraska City the trail was flooded, not from the river, but as a result of the increasing water table. We diverted around the section via dirt road, where Stuart asked some locals which way we needed to go to reach Nebraska City. It rained on us a little, and then, as we were pedaling up hills on loose gravel, we saw our third rainbow. Because of all the rain, everything looked incredibly vibrant. There were almost no browns in the landscape so all the colors–the butterflies, birds, insects, flowers, crops, sky, grass, water, all of it—popped.

At a crossroad Brad found us. He invited us to stay for the evening in his hunting cabin four miles up the road (and on our route). He leases the cabin to a gentleman in Kansas City and is able to use it for his purposes anytime Mr. Wilson isn’t there. He rescued a couple of young guys from an ice storm last year and put them up there.

We biked to the cabin, intermittingly pushing our loads up hills. By the time we reached the cabin we were bushed, but the view at the top was beautiful (save the unsightly coal fired power plant that rose from the river, dumber than a wart on a supermodel) and the cabin was very posh and comfortable. We were greeted by taxidermy of all varieties, including some mechanical breasts, barely covered by a red bikini top, that jiggled and with a Texas drawl sang a son (the title of which probably isn’t appropriate for a family blog) that I feared Brady would be repeating for the next 1000 miles. Once I pried the children away from the breasts, Brad and his family showed up with food and cheer and we visited on the front porch overlooking the river valley below. Brad talked about his uncle, who in the late eighties or early nineties, had traveled up the full length of the Missouri on a jet ski.

I took comfort in that story and fell asleep there on the porch wrapped in fireflies and stars before moving indoors to lay beneath thirty or so sets of antlers and one very large rack.

Brownville, a small Nebraska village on the Missouri has at least four book shops and characters as rich as its river-town history. The quiet main street jingles with the sound of gallery door bells and conversation. We arrived on a searing afternoon in cling wrap humidity, hungry. Our first pass at Main Street we missed the winery, but we did see the Lyceum, a restaurant/book store boasting the Greek title for the gathering place of Aristotelian forums. Stuart screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant, but I coasted down to the eastern-most end of Main Street. The river was close to the street there and rising, and I wanted to see if the local merchants knew about flooding conditions on our next path, the Steamboat Trace.

Harry, of the Gallary 119 porch, didn’t know about the trail, but walked me across the street to ask long-time-local, Harold, at his health shop/mill. Harry’s eyes glinted with stories, his eyebrows animated his every syllable so that I read, while listening to his words, “I’m intrigued, concerned, delighted, learning.” Harold didn’t know about the trail, but the two said they would ask around.  I agreed that we would all come down and visit their shops after calories.

The calories were lovely, and a generous woman traveling through town from New York with a girl friend bought our meal. The restaurant was winding down from the Sunday lunch crowd and gearing up for the afternoon lecture: something about organizing personal records or simplifying one’s stuff. I thought about staying for the talk, who couldn’t learn something from a professional organizer, but Harry had called during lunch (how surreal to receive a phone call on the house phone of a restaurant in a new town!) and said the trail was mostly clear so we decided to quickly visit the open shops on Main Street and head north.

We visited one of the five buildings maintained by the town’s thriving Historic Society, a beautiful nineteenth century home chock-full of original artifacts. The Carson House docent recommended that we visit the Antiquarium/ Bill Farmer Gallery at the old schoolhouse, so we did. Thomas (he might endearingly qualify as a “curious” rather than a “curator”) has spent a lifetime amassing the collection of books, used and rare, and ephemera that line the walls in the open, funky space. I’ll admit I only explored the margins of the place because I wanted to take in as much as possible without becoming attached, engrossed, lost to my family for the afternoon or week. Thomas helped a twelve-year-old boy find a book on classical Greek language whilst some great make-it-down-the-road force pulled me away from the place. I think I’ll be back.

We also visited a paper store that specializes in beautiful, quirky handmade and hand-printed items. A book binding shop is going in next door to the paper shop and just down from that is the Handmade Modern store. Harry’s gallery nextdoor specializes in polymer clay pendants arranged artfully by seasonality among sundry sculptures and paintings. The space is cool and inviting, and Harry, in his jeans and tee-shirt, is highly approachable and accommodating. He spent a great deal of time showing Jane how he crafts his art, demonstrating the rolling and the cutting and the folding of the clay, carefully feeding the piece through a pasta roller, the same as we have at home. Jane enjoyed the lesson, and greedily asked for the piece. Harry was more than generous in his gifts of time and wares for the kids.

We visited Harold next, picked up some vitamins for the kids (Ashleigh, no need to send the kid’s vitamins to us now, they just go bad in the heat, we’ve figured out a new gig), and watched a milling demonstration. Harold had tons of luscious organic grains I would have bought in a second at home. We settled on some organic oats and grits because I thought they would cook quickly on our camp stove.

We checked out the wheel museum, which has a one horse open sleigh, a covered wagon, the minivan of antique carriages, and a bicycle. I’m not sure, but I think the saddle on the vintage bike may be a Brooks. Anyone care to weigh in on this? I was most impressed with the printing press table and pieces. Since everything in the museum is hands-on, I was able to actually pull out the drawer for 14 font Garamond and set the type on the table. Felt good.

On our way out of town, Harry stopped us to give us some cheese and deli ham he had in his fridge. Also, he gave us some lightweight plastic, which I’m sure will come in handy later. While he was presenting his thoughtful gifts, a woman I didn’t recognize pulled over to ask us if we would be staying in town for the night. I told her we were headed down the road a ways yet, and she said, “what if I buy you a bed and breakfast here?”. Harry’s eyebrows probably took flight at that, and my own drama queen, flashing his toes of many colors, made an arm twisting motion. We accepted Linda’s generous offer.

Linda had given the organization lecture at the Lyceum. She was curious about our story and was interested in making sure we had an excellent experience in Brownville. We did. After an impromptu juice and painting party outside Gallery 119 we invited Harry and Harold over to our place, the two-story renovated blacksmith’s shop, for wine and hor d’vours.

We sent the locals across the river with cash for the wine and I crafted tapas: leftover lentil stew on crackers, tuna salad, polenta with aged cheddar and bratwurst (donated to us at the campground the previous night), carrot sticks.  The men returned with all kinds of groceries, too, and we had a veritable feast and conversation late into the night.

The only thing more fun than teaching the kids about Amelia Earhart is watching seven little girls paint Stuart’s toenails.

After visiting Atchison and riding on flat roads with a tailwind, we stopped in a bean field near White Cloud to read a Lewis and Clark Interpretative sign. The farmer, John, stopped his four-wheeler to learn our story and ended up inviting us to stay in his hunting lodge or at his house or in his RV or with his parents if we needed a place for the night. Generally, we Murrs have problems making decisions, and with so many fantastic options on the table, I must admit it took a while before we formulated a plan. Back and forth is exhausting! But when we learned John and Dana (who arrived in the field to touch base with John before heading to a softball game) had five little girls under 12, we decided to at least stay at their house dinner. Jane was ecstatic.

Dana took us across the street to her home, clearly the domain of creative young ladies. She instructed me to take a bath in her gargantuan tub, and for us to hang tight until she brought back her daughters and pizza. We followed instructions, and while Dana was at the game, she was asked repeatedly why she let strange people on bicycles stay in her home. One of her friends postulated that we might have a van following us and we might make off with tons of loot. I’m glad Dana thought those ideas were silly, because I was able to enjoy a really, really nice bath.

The toenail incident happened after dinner: Stuart reports that resistance was futile. In all, roughly 100 toes were painted in blues, oranges, and pinks. We were all so pretty.

John introduced us to his mother and Big John and we spent the night in their basement Ritz Carlton, which was comfortable, spacious, and welcoming.

We made a huge breakfast (40 eggs!) with various cousins and nephews and played together in the yard in the rain the next morning. Everyone worried about the newly planted bean crop because the river was supposed to crest at 29 feet in two days. This would mean the loss of a the second planting of the summer in the lower fields of the extensive family farm.

Later, Big John drove us down the road to check on flooding and deliver us to our next campsite, beyond a missing bridge and swollen riverbank. We thanked big John for his hospitality and he responded with a story about a time he hadn’t been so hospitable to strangers. With regret he matter-of-factly reminisced about three boys he had encountered on the road when his own children were small. He took them to town and bought them icecream to learn that they had been kicked out of their home and told not to return. The youngest boy was just 14 and Big John didn’t believe the story. So he found out the name of the parents, gave them a call, and was forcefully told to neither meddle nor return the boys. He wanted to put them up for the night, make sure they had a good meal, but his dad told him he shouldn’t with his own young children around so he called the police. Big John found out the authorities had dropped the boys across the county line and he didn’t hear what happened to them after that. He has always wondered. He was proud of his son for taking us in, and happy to see us safely on our way.

At Indian Cave campground we explored and biked without our gear around the park like normal families. We felt fast and free, and made a veggie stew for dinner. It stormed that night, and snug in our tent between dreams I caught glimpses of centipedes backlit by lightening.

Mike picked us up about a half mile before the road turned to gravel. His eyes were kind, his hair kinetic, his truck smoky. He asked if we were really going to ride our bikes that way and said he was about to fix hamburgers and French fries with his boys. We were welcome to come to his house, just down the road, and he would take us to the end of the dirt road in the morning. Though we hadn’t made it very far, we thought that sounded like a good idea.

We were on a detour because the bridge at Bear Lake was closed. Gone, actually. A man had stopped us on the road to warn us (thankfully) a couple of miles before we came to the gaping hole in the road. We hadn’t seen any detour signs because they rerouted most of the traffic on the interstate on the other side of Platt City. We called the highway department from a yard where the kids played tag, and we learned we would probably have to backtrack quite a ways to cross. Instead of backtracking, we decided to hang out beside a busy gravel road to ask a local which way to go. That is how we ended up at Mike’s.

Samuel and Garrett

Samuel and Garrett, ages 15 and 10, greeted us upon our arrival to their home, which seemed in all respects to be the habitat of boys, and they politely put on their shirts and took the kids and Stuart on a tour of the farm. There were baby peacocks and parrots. The house sat in the middle of a vast cornfield atop the rolling hills above the Missouri river valley. Mike, Samuel, and I made dinner, although Mike forbade me to unload the dishwasher. My latent kitchen-cleaning reflexes suddenly flared, and though the urge was difficult to suppress, I also didn’t clean up after dinner. Mike’s disapproval commanded significant respect.

At dinner we talked about music: with all the instruments reclining about the house, it made sense that mike Mike gives guitar lessons, and the boys determined Stuart looks like a young Eric Clapton. Jane piped up about how she wants to play violin; or maybe she asked him if he had a violin. Mike trotted right down to his basement and brought up a half sized instrument.  He told Jane to write him at the end of her journey, and, if she was interested, request the violin and he would send it to her.

Mike's Gift

I was shocked and excited about the gift, but Jane donned that face she has when something gets to be too much; it’s a claymation-style smirk and vacant sparkle eyes that make me wonder if she’s taken an internal retreat. When Mike showed her how to exercise her fingers to make them strong for practicing she came back. She nimbly exercised her left fingers and danced in her chair.

After putting the kids to bed in Garrett’s generously donated bunk bed, I chatted on the phone with a friend on Mike’s porch, surrounded by stars and fireflies. Full of night, I joined Stuart and Mike who were just finishing Stuart’s third guitar tutorial of the trip. Samuel and Mike picked up one of the several guitars at random and would play a riff, a song, experiment with tuning. Their guitars were habits, appendages, friends, and when I asked Mike to play his favorite song, he played one by a western troubadour about love and afternoon.

Then Mike shared the story of his name, which translated from Pawnee means roughly, “He brings plenty”. When his dad died, he dreamed a rotating silhouette. He dreamed it over and over. He thought it over and over. When he talked to his mom about his dream and waking vision, she recommended that he speak to a tribal elder that had been his father’s friend. The elder told Mike to record his dream, to meticulously write down all the details of his visions. Eventually, Mike was able to recognize that the silhouette was a vision of himself wearing the shirt of a medicine man. He made the shirt. From heavy hides, feathers, beads, and the legs of wolfs he constructed, over 18 months, an exact replica of it. He made a medicine wheel. The elders came to ceremoniously name Mike. He was introduced to his grandfathers who had given him his visions. Now the grandfathers guide and protect Mike, and they give him visions that he must see manifested or they’ll cut him off. He teaches his children about the one God, and he has also named them in the tradition of his grandfathers. He wonders if the nine lines he painted on his shirt are representative of the grandsons he’ll someday watch over.

Mikes Medicine Shirt

As Mike translated a lullaby with his guitar, he mused about his life’s path. While he would have formerly dismissed us as crazy people on a gravel road, he was happy now that he had stopped to extend his hospitality. He is clear that he did it for himself, that the peace he feels from helping others is unmatchable. He practices this regularly, as it turns out: he and the boys volunteer at a Kansas City homeless shelter on Saturdays.

We said goodbye to Mike outside a diner near Atchison after we all took shots of the elderberry juice provided by Robert, the Katy Trail Shaman. In Atchison an Amelia Earhart sculpture boasts the following quotation, which added befitting punctuation to our time spent with Mike: “ Let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me.”

I apologize, dear reader, for the recent lack of story line. We’ve had company.

Riding so close to home, we have had visits from Stuart’s mom, my mom and dad, and our dear friends the Millsaps and the McNertzes (aka, Karen and the Poke Man). We’ve had the good fortune to stay with new friends in Vienna, IL, and friends like wearing your favorite t-shirt on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon, the Rhodes, in St. Louis. We’ve also enjoyed the hospitality of Jefferson City friends Dan and Karen.

I shall attempt to summarize with high points of each day and get back to you shortly with the details, for now the Almirall-Rathsams have captured us here in Kansas City and are facilitating (encouraging even) MAA blog development, copious coffee consumption, and general hygiene for all Murrs.

• May 23: Hotness and frequent stops, Pizza Buffetagedon, the World’s Largest Coon Hunt, and a night on the cruising strip.
• May 24: Rendezvous with Nana follows Parsons meltdowns
• May 25: Nana’s car, a mechanical horse, and a camel
• May 26: A trip to the 1850s and the bicycle capital of Illinois
• May 27: Bikes like limos, tunnels and new friends, Nana leaves, David cooks, and other conspiracies
• May 28: St. Louis and the comfort of Rhodes’ Island
• May 29: Stuart’s birthday, bottleworks, and monkeys that cuddle
• May 30: Resting, arrival of Grammy and Papa, dinner beneath a bike built for seven
• May 31: Spam won WWII and now comes in singles: a ride with my dad.
• June 1: Coyote philosophy, celebrations, reunion with Millsaps, a princess party, and shadow puppets
• June 2: Storms, wineries, dressing for dinner in the RV with Dan and Karen
• June 3: Kate cries when friends leave, kids rally; shaman wisdom and elderberry tonic; Thai food Missouri River sunset.
• June 4: A fawn, the news, a clown.
• June 5: Sometimes Mommy just needs a long, long shower; back to the road; a kind stranger buys us ice cream; Fine theatre
• June 6: Prairie sun; three flats in two days; a minor rescue in two movements.
• June 7: Kids watch sesame street, Stu networks with architects, Kate catches up on blog.