Author Archive: Mike Ehredt

GRANDPA……

He sits in a chair in his living room, near the big picture window that looks out to a towering, shady oak tree in the corner of his front yard. The last I saw of him he liked to play his tiny remote, video slot machine game. He would play for hours and when the opportunity arose he would make the forty five minute drive to Dubuque Iowa, where the Riverboat Casino was docked and hit the real machines.

Across the road and down the lane from him, are fields of corn and beans all bordered and often surrounded by these sweet smelling woods of Northern Illinois. The smell of fresh cut hay is carried by the winds that have blown upwards for over 150 years across his property. Up and over the bluffs of the Mississippi River which flows lazily below. It is a good place to be, a simple place, a place where your life and the years can pass as quickly as the sun rises and sets.

He was born just across the pasture in a small farmhouse 86 years ago and would never leave this small one mile square area. It was a time when the prosperity of this country was on the verge of collapsing and we were beginning to sink into the Great Depression.

His family would struggle during that time but they never lost their resolve and they never left. When all you give is all you got then it just has to work. Farming has been in his blood his whole life .  From my earliest memories I recall a smiling man, a laughing man, a man who would grab me and tickle me and who was always kind. He worked hard. He squeezed harder. Whenever my brothers and I would visit we would run as fast as we could down to the barn where the cows are. We Look? No Grandpa. On past the tractors and past the hay loft. We look? No Grandpa. More often than not he would be found in his garage working on the chainsaws that locals had dropped off. It was a cheery place to be. A pot-bellied stove would be glowing orange and giving off the most wonderful, smoky scent.  His dog, Mitsy, all 30 pounds of long matted hair would waddle by and squeeze out the door. He would let us help with chores. “Cmon’ lets go feed the pigs” he’d say and I would shovel ground up corn into a bucket and spread it into their feed trough. We would go inside then to a warm kitchen and he would sit at the end of the table with a cup of coffee and a plate of my Grandma’s chocolate chip cookies. “Tell me whats new little man?” he would ask and poke me in the arm and smile big and bright. At that moment he made you feel like you were the most important person in the whole world, even if you were only 10 years old.

I always admired his work ethic. Some people are born with it and others develop it over their life and others never do seem to acquire that quality. I believe he carried that sense of resolve and fortitude into the Army where he did a stint during WWII in Japan and again in Korea as a young MP.  It carried over into the rest of his life as a farmer and bulldozer operator. Locals said that when operating a dozer he could pick up a nickel and move it 100 yards down a road and never disturb the dirt. To this day I do not doubt the skills he exhibited to me as I grew up.

For almost 3000 miles I have crossed this country on foot. Day after day, slowly making my way towards his home. It will be our last visit. Time is not forgiving and has taken its toll on his body. Parkinson’s disease has made these last years difficult although in a positive way he would say it has contributed to his success with the slot machines. I do know that once I place a flag near that oak tree in his front yard , a flag we will both salute to, I will move on and not be back. For he will be gone I am sure.

Today I ran up the bike path from Albany to Savanna and it brought back a flood of memories from childhood. I shared those thoughts and memories with the names on each flag. They listen intently, though I do not see them. They smile and I can feel them. It is their presence that has brought on things I cannot explain. Random meetings like the one in Iowa with friends I had not seen in 30 years who saw me on TV and tracked me down on the road. It is with parents that have met me on the road who I reassure that their loved ones will not be forgotten. This road has become a Memorial Highway of sorts and its taken me back to a familiar place. Back to a country lane that weaves its way north.

Quietly my breathing rises and falls often whispering, often lost in unspoken words. Legs that were once young and spry and dazzled on his lawn now old and bent carry me slowly towards a hill that is long and steep. At the top is his home. At the top he waits. I know Grandpa will be there, standing in his front yard, leaning on his cane. His hat will be tilted to shield the western sun as he looks down that road for me.  I know the leaves in his oak tree will be fluttering and singing in the August winds. I know our time together will be short and I have come so very far, so I will be there Grandpa, I will be there and I know you will smile, and laugh and you will poke and squeeze me and for the briefest time we will both be young again……watch for me……….

I approach Glidden, IA from the west. The sun has torched my neck and I can also feel its intensity through my shirt. I refused to put my hat with the neck cover on partly because I didn’t want to stop and start again and partly because I just wanted to get done, so I was now paying the price. Not exactly a smart decision after 7 hours on the road weaving through gravel because of the road having no shoulder to run on. Outside Glidden is the Merle Hay Monument. Beneath it lies the remains of Merle Hay who was one of the first 3 Americans killed in WWI in 1917 and the first Iowan to lose his life during that war. In town I would visit Butch the Woodworker who lives in the McNaught Home. The McNaughts owned the only grocery store in town for many, many years. The house is designed after the rural homes and villas of southern Italy where the McNaughts had visited. It was in this home that the remains of Merle Hay would lie in state under armed guard while the town waited for dignitaries of the Army to arrive for his burial. A procession would take him to the little cemetary just west of town. It was in this same cemetary that just last week a deer ran across the road, leaped the wrought iron fence and  caught the highest spike on his underside which in turn sliced him open. The unfortunate animal made it to the Owens grave marker 100 yards away before collapsing and dying. This story was told to me by Mike, a retired Army Veteran, who along with another Mike (ex-Navy) picked me up at the end of the day. A day in which I ran with Kathleen whose partner Mike owns a car lot. After running a few miles she headed back to town and I was met by Mike the State Trooper who inquired about what I was doing. To top the day off, I would meet Fat Mike that night at a gathering of folks in the town bar. Go figure. It was like a Mikes of America gathering that day.

Near Dixon, MT back in May,  I had placed Sergeant JJ Bonnells Flag. He was from Fort Dodge, IA. and was 22 years old. The flag was picked up by a curious passer-by who sent it to his parents in Iowa along with an article about me. The father and daughter in turn tracked me down on Route 30 via the link on the website and my beacon. They found me at my host home. On a mission to say thank you they had found me and it was exactly 3 years to the day of JJ’s death.

Lt. Colonel Daniel Holland was 43 when he died. His flag is placed on CO. 285 near Conifer. His brother, John, is a retired Major who found me on the same Route 30, east of Glidden. He rode 12 miles with me on a recumbent bike then would turn north for Minnesota and home. John had just wanted to say thank you and spend a little time with me on the road. For many of the miles I would give him a flag and let him place it and then we would salute in unison.

As I headed back to Glidden that day, these fresh encounters on my mind, I spy a giant pig of the artificial sort,  in the front yard of a farmhouse. This pig is huge as in the size of a Ford F-150. What an oddity. Certainly would not be hard to find their home…no directions needed, just look for BIG swine.

Ahhhh yes….Glidden….land of Mikes, giant pigs, chance encounters and home to Merle Hay and Butch the Woodworker, who did I mention, gave me a wooden top with a string that when pulled can spin for 7 and a half minutes? Gotta love Iowa!

Shelton, NE, pop.1140 is an unassuming small town just past the center part of the state not far from a town called Wood River. Both lie along this stretch of Route 30 that runs parallel to Interstat 80 to the south and to the Union Pacific Tracks that are 100 meters to the north. On the edge of town is a John Deere Farm Implement dealer, across from a large grain elevator. A small ice cream store sits deserted along the road, its menu still in the window. Hamburgers for $1.50, slushies for $1.00 and assorted floats and sundaes. I can imagine this must have been the gathering place for many kids back in the day. Boys eyeing girls and girls eyeing boys. In a small town like this everyone is close. You feel that your neighbors children are almost your own. To lose one feels almost the same. In the front of the store under a huge shade tree is a bench and it is here that I would sit with the father who had lost a son.  Wain Codner had heard about me through the grapevine that exists along this highway. He found me taking a break and sat with me and told me Kyles story. They were farmers south of town.  Kyle was a good son. He wanted more though than to continue farmng and joined the Marines soon after turning 18. He graduated from Boot Camp on Fathers Day 2005. To this day his parents don’t really know why he chose to serve his country. In a  journal they discovered long after he was gone there is an excerpt dated 9/11/01. It read, ” I can’t pull myself away from the t.v., I wish I had the courage of those Port Authority Police and the Firemen.” Kyle Codner was patriotic and he loved his country. Like many before him and since he felt an obligation to serve. I close my eyes and try to imagine his life. I look down the long gravel road that leads to his house, a road he probably learned to ride a bike on, to drive on and drove tractors on. The road now bears the name, Kyle Codner Memorial Road. I run past trains that sit vacant, trains he probably threw rocks at and like any boy probably put pennies on the track to be flattened beyond recognition. I hear locusts singing in the trees and imagine they must have serenaded him to sleep many a summer night. I imagine that days in the fields in this Nebraska humdity built strong character and work ethic.  He was engaged to be married upon returning to the states from his tour of duty and in his last phone call said he wasn’t afraid of dying just of not being able to spend the rest of his life with his wife to be. The next day he was gone. In one short year a light that had shone so brightly over Shelton, NE for 19 years  was now out.

I spoke that night in a small VFW in Wood River, NE. Wain and Dixie Codner were there. Before he left Wain told me that the biggest fear a family has is that those they have lost will not be remembered. I have been told that people look at these mile markers differently now. That they remember those who are gone. That is a good thing. We owe that to the Kyle Codners of this world. We owe it to the generations that have passed before us so that no one is forgotten.

The little town of Paxton, Nebraska, pop. 614, is not far off Interstate 80, about a mile to be exact. It is a farming community and one that is still intact in this area when so many small towns seem to be struggling to stay alive. To the north are the sand hills of western Nebraska in a long winding line set beyond the shores of the North Platte River. To the south, wheat fields recently harvested and an abundance of corn higher than my head for as far as I can see. It is here in this tiny hamlet that I would be shown first hand, the hospitality of these wonderful Midwest people.

On Saturday morning, Dale my host, introduces me to Fred the Pilot. Fred is retired from farming and a veteran. He will take me in his small Piper Lance on a tour by air through the county. We fly over the sand hills and irrigation ditches that flow from Lake Maconoughy. He gives me a history on the homesteaders back at the turn of the 20th century. A rugged, hard life and when given a parcel of land you merely had to have a building and plant a tree as a requirement from the government. In North Platte we fly over the largest classified switching rail station in the world. I am amazed by the Ogalalla aquafir that has provided much needed water to this area resulting in fantastic crop growth. After landing I get the word we are going on a prairie dog shoot. Now this should be interesting. Prairie dogs are a huge problem and can decimate a field easily, hence their removal is welcomed by many farmers. It reminds me of a military operation. Me, with a rifle equipped with a silencer, scope and tripod and my “spotter” with his binoculars. In short order three go down and I have passed that test. On to the combine. Now for a guy who pushes a stroller all day this is a big deal. After climbing up, Dale explains the working parts and allows me to take over. Now this is the real thing…..air-conditioning, music, bathroom (coke bottle) oh ya, show me the fields, I’ll drive all day….3 things down for the day and still one more to go…….”Tanking” Now I had thought I had seen a lot of strange things till I saw this. When he first mentioned it I figured it was some weird drinking game….I was wrong……we loaded up an 11 foot horse tank, the kind they drink out of, on to a flat bed trailer. Haul it down to the river. It then gets rolled down the bank to the water. We load lawn chairs and coolers into it and because we forgot our push pole, use 2 garden shovels as paddles. I am speechless. This is better than the teacup ride at the carnival. I kid you not. Life on the road does not get any better than flying in the morning, shooting a couple of prairie dogs, driving a combine and then floating down the river in a horse tank…………and then we head for Ole’s……..established on the day prohibition ended, August 9, 1933, Ole’s is known nationwide as a great bar and restaurant but mostly for the collection of over 200 stuffed animals from around the world acquired by Ole Hermstead throughout a hunting career that spanned the 30s, 40s, 50s and 60s. Next to Ole’s was once the Cheetah Lounge….this was run by one of Paxtons finest. A rather large, boisterous, make-up laden woman never seen without her leopard skin tops and skirts and whose presence was preceded by the best perfumes Avon had to offer.

I could not imagine a more colorful, event filled day along this stretch of Route 30 nor more accomadating and gracious hosts….Paxton….you gotta see it and experience it…..

I entered  Nebraska this morning at 6:45 a.m. the sun was hidden behind gray clouds yet the air was thick with humidity. It is familiar to me. Growing up in rural, northern Illinois, one never really escapes the summer heat and it has stayed with me over the years, buried deep in the memories that run through my body.

The smells of corn, tall and green fill my nose. There are random feed trucks that go by and wisps of hay flutter across the road. I know I am far away from where I grew up but if I close my eyes I could very well be there. I have spent much time this last week pondering 3 subjects: Life, Love and Luck…..so I have looked at them and how they pertain to this trip.

I have been blessed each day with eyes that see everything as I move at a snails pace down the road. From ocean swells on the Pacific the day I left to the rainbow that appeared after the first flag was placed. Lakes and rivers and open fields of wheat lay stretched out before me. I see far away mountain ranges with snow topped peaks and aspen trees that shudder in the wind. I hear crickets and birds and silence is truly golden even when broken by the sounds of cattle as the gaze intently at me. This life on the road is a pandoras box of emotion. I see wet eyes and feel the sadness as a former Marine in his 70s places a flag and salutes with me.

I have had tremendous love out here. I feel it grow stronger for the country and this project as the miles grow. I feel it for the woman in my life whose kind heart and compassion and thoughtfulness radiates from her even though she is miles away. I awake each morning and absolutely love starting the day and running these miles and sharing it with each name I read.

My luck has been eerily consistent. There are times when I have just missed bad weather. Times when traffic disappears when I need it to vanish the most. Times when the sun slips behind the clouds and the temperature recedes.When my legs feel like they did 30 years ago and when, more often than not, a porta potty will magically appear. I have had the luck if you call it, of meeting the most amazing people in this rural America and hearing their stories and the history of their small towns.

Why do I talk of these things? Why ponder over 3 little words?

Simple.

Last week as I left Golden I pulled off the side of the road to a small spot of gravel to add some water to my bottles. When I finished I happened to look down on the ground and caught the glint of silver in the sun. Near my stroller were 3 tiny pendants. The chain they were on was long gone and they looked like they had been on the ground a while. Each one had one word on it.

Life, Love, Luck………………

Of all the miles, all the random 30 second stops, all the places I could have pulled over that morning, it was that place that I chose to stop and it had a message for me in the form of those pendants……………