Blog

Willard, Ohio sits just west of the southern Cleveland suburbs. It is an area that reminds me of much of the country I have seen for the past 2 months except for the presence of more trees. The roads are quiet and traffic is sparse. The sound of cicadas that has accompanied me for so long, is fading as fall and the cooling temperatures quiet their melodious songs. We drive in silence to a 15 acre farm on the outskirts of town. Silence is good sometimes, even with a host. Her name is Kathe and there are things she wants to tell me and in time she will. At the farm are her horses and an array of goats and cats, rabbits and turkeys, roaming chickens and cows and best of all, two Shrek-like donkeys. She feeds the horses and walks them a bit and I soak in this quiet country night. Unable to reach Joe-the-hay-guy for some much need bales, we walk to the field and rake what little hay there is and feed the rest of the animals. Kathe is a native of Willard. Born and raised here, she would in turn, raise her three children here.  As a single mom I can imagine it was difficult at times and yet a blessing and rewarding in many other ways for her. After dinner we head for her home and in her living room make small talk and she asks if I would like to meet her son Keifer. Rising from her chair she leads me to a hutch and Keifer is there, his ashes, in a beautiful mahogany box. Pictures come out. He was a beautiful little baby with blue eyes and blonde hair. There are photos of him from almost every age through school. Soccer photos and wrestling photos and always a smile. She is a very proud mother and yet I see the sadness and there is more for her to tell. “Do you know how he died?”  I am puzzled. “No, I don’t.”

Keifer Wilhelm enlisted in the Army in December of 2008. He graduated from Basic Training in Fort Benning and in May 2009 received news he would be deployed to Iraq. Kathe speaks fondly of her son. She tells me how he was saving his money to buy a new car when he returned. She tells me of his battle with weight in high school and how he had shed the pounds needed on his own so he could enlist. In Basic he toned up and carried himself taller and with more confidence when he came home on leave. She had the month of July with her son and then within 4 days of arriving in Iraq, he was gone. In a bathroom stall he would end his life with a gunshot. In those few short days he was driven to despair and depression, the result of extreme hazing by 4 higher ranking soldiers. Tragic and sad. I sit there and listen to her story, I see the tears in her eyes. A soldier should never die that way, not having their dignity reduced to a level that would lead to suicide. Most importantly, not by those who would lead you and watch your back in the heat of battle. I read the reports. Stacks of court papers and statements by fellow soldiers reveal extreme physical punishment and mental abuse. “Why should it get any easier for you?” His bunk mate would say to him. The four would be brought up on charges of maltreatment and from what I am told, only a sentence of six months is given out to one. They will go home and carry on with their lives and be treated as heroes but there is darkness on the badges of honor that they carry. Kathe sits there and is quiet now. She wrings her hands over and over, rocks gently back and forth. She will not see her son marry or giver her grandchildren or see him on fall evenings at the farm like the night we shared. There are only blank pages now and she only has her memories to soothe her anguish. Maybe Keifer will return, maybe he already has. I believe that this wonderful, thoughtful, young man is around his mother each day and although he was never given the chance to protect his country, he will protect her. It is as it should be and it is an awareness of these things that I experience on the road………..

Oakwood, Ohio is a small town that sits not far from the Indiana border in Paulding County. It is an agricultural town, like so many on this western edge of the state. Ponds dot the fields along the roads I run. They are a bluish green, free of algae and plants. Many have docks and diving boards. They are by all appearances, natural swimming pools in the summer and skating rinks in the winter. It is in this town that I will stay tonight and I will share a story now of when my gracious hosts took me on a little ride to a home in the country……..

We head up Road 201 and as we pull into a driveway and stop, I see the barn. On the side of it is a mural. It shows a young soldier in uniform, an American Flag, clouds. It is a beautiful tribute. In front of the mural is a statue of a soldier and a bronze plaque that bears the name “Army PFC Josh Ramsey” His Mom and Dad walk out and she tells me the story of the mural and of her son. Josh was 19 and was an MP and wanted be a U.S. Marshall when he got out. He died at 19. Protecting his country inevitably prevented him from protecting his country back here, how ironic. It is on a Sunday that I learn much about him. His competiveness, his quick wit, his zest for life. Qualities that so many that are gone, have had. It was on a Sunday that his mother found out she had lost her son. “You must be mistaken, I just spoke with him this morning” she would tell the officers who knocked on her door. “We don’ t make these kind of mistakes Ma’m, we are sorry”. So in mourning his mother started planting flowers around a flag pole. They were red, white and blue. There were 500 of them. It is said in some folk lore, that when we lose a warrior and eagle will appear. Across the road lived the photographer for the local paper and watching her neighbor plant those flowers one day she looked up and saw 2 eagles circling overhead and snapped a photo. That picture is now in the Ramsey home. Leigh Anne Ramsey speaks lovingly of her son, she tells me of how he would jump up on the counter in the kitchen and ask what they were going to do that day. She tells me of the day she planted flowers and then was in the kitchen mopping. Crying, thinking of her son and then he was there….on the counter and said “You can stop crying Mom, I’m home now”.

Josh Ramsey was the type to jump into the water and then say “How do I swim”. I admire that. For what we don’t know we can learn. What we don’t believe can be changed. That is the most important thing, to believe. Believe, Believe, Believe and then jump. A visit in the country, a visit to a small town in Ohio shows me the character of rural America. That even in the presence of loss and grief, love holds everything together even if it is a mural and flowers in the countryside……………

Indiana is known as the Crossroads of America and it would seem fitting that these last 2 towns that I have passed through fit that bill. Incorporated in 1836, Logansport sits between 2 rivers, the Eel and Wabash and in the last century the Erie Canal would weave its way through but with the burgeoning onslaught of the railroad, river transportation would die. As I approach from the west the corn and soy bean fields that have dominated my periphial vision for the last 4 states has given way to woods, glorious woods and the smell of oak and maple trees. I sense fall just around the corner and I see just a hint of leaves starting to turn. Coming into Logansport I see Happy Burger and a giant cow out front. They advertise 49 cent hamburgers, a throwback to prices of the late 50s and early 60s and they actually serve Indiana raised beef. In a time of big business and franchises it is refreshing to see a place so original and family owned still standing. In a time of strip malls and mega centers and Super Walmarts I find it more appealling to see small town America fighting and surviving with businesses that carry a Norman Rockwell quality. Logansport once had several railroads and vaudeville performers who would stop on their way to Chicago. In time 5 highways would lay their cement web through and on the outskirts of town. Progress, as sure as the sun rises and sets would transform this town.

 In the one thousand nine hundred seventy three steps it takes me to run a mile, I see alot. The world and its pace are slowed dramatically by my slow and steady forward motion. Today I found a total of 42 cents which now brings my grand total to $14.12…..give or take a few indestinguishable coins. A long, rolling hillside and 4 lanes of road with a huge shoulder to travel on, lead me to Wabash.  It is an old Union city, as the memorial at the courthouse proclaims. Wabash also lays claim to being the first lighted city in the world. Fact. It was 1880 and carbon lights were attached to the courthouse, which at the time was the highest point on a hill which overlooked the city. Certainly other cities may have had electricity and would follow Wabash shortly thereafter with lights. Wabash was also the site of Modoc the Elephant short stint of freedom through town and the neighboring countryside back in 1942. He escaped when, while tied to a post outside the gymnasium, dogs startled him and he pulled loose and made his way down main street. When the smell of roasted paunuts filled his trunk he pushed his way through a 42 inch door (taking the frame with him) ate some peanuts and moved on. Five days later he was eventually lured on to a truck with 10 loaves of bread and promptly ate 20 more and drank 30 gallons of water. Modoc is now etched in local lore and the downtown coffee shop and sandwich store bears his name.

The word crossroads carries a special meaning today. As I climb to a top of a long hill I sense a truck pull up behind me. It is maroon and small, something economical. The woman who steps out is tall. I guess she is in her 50s. She is quiet and I don’t know what to expect till she says, “You have my nephew”…..His name was Chad Lake, he was from Ocala, FL and was 26. I didn’t have his flag. It had been placed Aug. 19th on Blackjack Road, outside of Galena, IL. My aunt was with me and she had placed it. I remember it clearly. Whats the chances that I would meet the aunt of this soldier on an obscure road out of 4417 names? That my aunt would place his flag? That I would even remember that? I noticed that she couldn’t speak. She had tears. Her lip was quivering. Then she walked away and I ran on………Crossroads of America….towns and people….entwined……

At 5 mph, time and the asphalt move very slowly. It gives me tremendous flexibility for many things. Thoughts about everything from childhood to my next flag, to food choices from my tray on the buggy, to drink choices (mainly gatorade and gatorade) and the views to the left and the views to the right. It is like being in a very slow car but with the heater on and blowing in your face some days. So today I focused on my encounters with people over the last few weeks and my encounters, however short-lived they may be, with the character of the towns I pass through.

Take Mendota, IL for example, it is the Sweet Corn Capital of the World. Ottawa, IL was the site of the first Lincoln/Douglas Debates. Streator, IL at one time was the countries largest producer of glass and birthplace of the scientist who discovered Pluto. Pontiac, IL is home to the Livingston County War Museum, an absolute must see display of mannequins and memorabilia. Pontiac is also famous for Route 66 which passes through town and 20 painted murals that adorn the walls of the older buildings. In Saunemin a cabin is being restored that was home to Albert D.J. Cashier a local civil war veteran who was born Jenny Hodger in Ireland. You see Jenny lived as a man and enlisted as a man and fought as a man. Her identity was not known for many years for the military never conducted physicals back in those days. Jenny marched thousands of miles and fought at Vicksburg and it was because of her service and the friends she made who rallied behind her, that she was able to keep her veteran pension the military tried to take because of identity fraud. Well then…..sleepy communities with secrets.

My encounters with people continue to climb. One day a few weeks ago I had just left Mechanicsville, IA when a car pulls up behind me. A couple walks up. The had lost their son, Army Staff Sergeant Donald Griffith Jr. in 2005. They had seen something on the news, followed flags, found me and just wanted to say thank you.

A couple stands along the road..I don’t recognize them at first then I see the smiles and hear the voices. They are old Army friends from Germany that I had not seen in 29 years. They had seen something on TV and followed the beacon and found me.

He stands at the corner of a gravel road, I think the sun is reflecting of a mailbox but is actually his head, now bald. I recognize the voice and when he runs the familiar gait I chased and passed many times 35 years ago. He was my old cross country nemesis from High School. With all due respects he did dust me a few times. Again, a chance newspaper article and he found me on the road.

This morning a truck pulls over. Approaching, I notice the Vet Plate. He is a small man and all smiles with a firm handshake. His shirt reads “Home of the Brave, Land of the Free”. He is from Ransom, IL. We chat a bit and then before he leaves he literally gives me the shirt off his back and drives away into the cool morning without it.

Thats what the days have become. Meetings with people continue to climb.

I never know who is reading. I never know who is watching. I never know who is around the corner. Thats what life is like on the road. The element of surprise. It is something that can’t be choreographed or planned. It happens. So between the towns I pass through and these encounters that lift me, my days are pretty exciting…..

As I travelled across Iowa my company on the road grew substantially. Outside Mount Vernon, IA the local high school team of almost 40 strong, would run into town with me. Iowa with its non-shoulder roads and sloping gravel had made pushing my 50 lb. stroller a challenge and that along with heat and humidity pushed the heat index to 112 or higher. Despite these small speed bumps it was a great return to the midwest. Unless one has lived here there is no way to really describe the sun climbing high in the morning over corn that has been soaked by the dew overnight. The smell of fresh cut hay is glorious, the smell of cattle trucks and fertilizer, downright nauseating. Outside Davenport friends join me again along with 3 members of the National Guard and a Sunday becomes a social hour on the road. Miles fade away and the Mississippi comes into view. Now I can smell home. I cross the grand river and head up the bike path from Rock Island, IL to Savanna. This is a 60 mile stretch of sweetness. No cars, paved pathway and towns close enough to my route to remind me of life along the river. It is also a nostalgic period of time for me here on this stretch. As I enter Thomson, IL, I run past my grandmothers house. She has been gone from us for 8 years now. I stand out front on the sidewalk and close my eyes and smell sugar cookies and hear a parakeet, one she kept on the porch. I smell my grandfathers rolled cigarettes….We were young then. My brothers and I, way back in the early 70’s. It was a time of camping every weekend just down a dirt road from this house. A time when the only thing that mattered in our young life was fishing……and more fishing and grandmas treats when we could get away. I shuffle on and enter the shrouded tunnels of trees near Savanna, IL. These open up to a stretch of highway that leads to the hills of northern Illinois. Galena is a pre-civil war town that sits along the aptly named, Galena River. It is the only town I have ever seen that had a flood gate that can be closed, barricading the main street from the rising flood waters of the river. It is a historical town with much character. President Ulysses Grant had a home here and it stands now as a museum. I climb a long road for 7 miles to my grandpas home. The 85 year old retired farmer/bulldozer operator/slot machine gambler is waiting. The love of a grandparent becomes more evident the older they, and we get. I shuffle on and on, up one hill and down the next. The flies are a nuisance and I feel like a cow or a horse or some farm animal. I never tire of coming home, though my visits have been so sparse the last few years. This past Sunday I am greeted by a small group of friends and we run in to Rock Falls, IL. Our group swells to 20 then 40 then 60 and then 80. The road is ours and it is pleasant to see the reception this run has been given. It is by far the largest group to greet me and keep me company on the road. This is also the end of my 3rd Section of the run and the beginning of the last. These corn fields will give way to the eastern part of the country that I have not seen yet. This line of flags continues to grow as my brothers join me for a short section of the day and place flags also. They are now connected to the journey as are so many others. As one friend said in Iowa, the flags, in their unending weave,  have become a memorial highway. So be it then.