Читать книгу Miles from Nowhere - Barbara Savage - Страница 14

The first ones grabbed us at the end of our first day in Michigan, outside the bike shop in Escanaba on Lake Michigan on the Upper Peninsula. We’d just ridden into town and were standing in front of the shop, which had closed an hour earlier, checking our maps to find the nearest campground with hot showers. We were cold and muddy from cycling in the rain all day.

Before I had time to put away my map, a woman and a man approached us from opposite directions. The woman got to us first. She looked to be in her early thirties, and she was plump, with short dark hair and a wide smile.

“I saw you standing out front here, and I saw the closed sign, so I decided to stop and see if I could help you out,” she said. “I’ve got some spare bicycle parts in the basement if you need something.”

“Thanks a lot, but we were only going to buy a couple spare tires, and there’s no rush. We can make it to Bay City on what we’ve got and buy the spares there. Thanks for stopping though,” Larry answered.

“How far you cycled from on your trip so far?”

“California.”

“California?! I thought maybe you’d come from Wisconsin. How much farther you going?”

“Hopefully, around the world.”

“The world! That cinches it. You’re staying at our place tonight. I’ve got to pick up my son at nursery school right now, but my house is really close. Go up to the corner and turn right. Go three blocks, and it’s the brown house on the corner. Have a look ’round town first, and I’ll see you there in five minutes.”

The woman started to rush off.

“Wait a minute,” I yelled after her. “What’s your name?”

“Cinda,” she shouted as she climbed into her car. “I’ll hurry, so I’ll be home when you get there!”

“I’m Barb and this is Larry,” I called back, but she had already barreled off.

Now the man who had walked up just after her started talking.

“Well, I guess she beat me to it—I can’t have you over to my house tonight. But if you’re looking for tires, the auto supply store down the street about five blocks on the right carries bicycle tires, and they’re open ’til six.”

“Thanks! We’ll check there.”

“No problem. Have a good time in Michigan.”

CINDA ELTZROTH AND HER HUSBAND, Elmore, were eager to find out all about Larry and me, and the four of us sat up half the night talking. Cinda and Elmore made us feel right at home in their roomy two-story house, and by the end of the evening Larry and I felt as if we’d known them for years.

“So what do you think of Michigan so far?” Cinda wanted to know right off.

“Great people,” I answered. “When we came over the border from Wisconsin today, we stopped at a gas station at lunchtime over in Spalding to ask where the nearest grocery store was, and the man that ran the place hauled us in out of the rain and had us sit in front of the heater in his office and tell him all about our trip. He asked us a whole slew of questions, then afterwards he directed us to the supermarket. And just after we got there and started shopping, the local reporter for the Escanaba Daily Press came looking for us with a camera and note pad in hand. Turned out the man at the gas station had called her and told her about our trip.

“And that’s the way it went all day today. Everybody we met took a genuine interest in us and our undertaking. It’s funny, even though it was raining all day I had a warm feeling inside because of the way people were treating us. People are really nice around here.”

“Just your routine Michigan hospitality, I guess,” Cinda smiled.

The next morning, after Elmore, a geologist for the state, went to work, Larry and I talked with Cinda until eleven o’clock. When we left, Cinda told us to be sure to give their address to any bicyclers we met who would like a place to stay for the night in Escanaba.

From Escanaba we pedaled east along Lake Michigan on Route 2. It rained all day, and by four o’clock the wind was blowing so hard that the lake was a patchwork of huge whitecaps. We found a deserted motel-campground beside the lake outside the miniscule town of Thompson, near Manistique, and pitched our tent behind the motel building. The building blocked the wind, and the grass provided a perfect mattress. Once we set up camp, I climbed inside the tent to arrange our mats and sleeping bags. I’d almost finished when I heard Larry speak to someone.

“Oh—H-Hello,” Larry stammered. His voice sounded edgy. “Ah, Barb. Ah—I think maybe you’d better come out here now.”

“But I’m all warm and settled in here. What’s the problem?”

As I spoke, a pair of black shoes appeared at the tent door and a man’s face peered in. I leaned forward and glanced at the stranger. He was holding a gun in his right hand.

“All right, ma’am. Why don’t you come on out now,” he said sternly.

“Why? Why, because I’d much rather be shot to pieces right here in the warmth and comfort of my own tent than out there in the cold,” I muttered to myself as I cautiously climbed through the tent door. “So we’re not even going to make it across America,” I breathed. This is it—the end.

“All right now, may I see some identification please,” I heard the man say as I looked up at him. He was a state police officer. Even so, I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or not. The gun made me nervous.

The officer ran his eyes over our driver’s licenses and jotted down the information on a pad of paper. Then, after he studied Larry and me and our tent and bikes for a moment, and listened to us explain that we were bicycling around the world, he shoved his gun back into its holster. He gave us a slight smile and heaved a long sigh. The man didn’t appear to have any idea what he should do next.

“Some people down the road saw you two looking in the windows here and figured you were burglars—guess they didn’t see your bikes—and they called the police,” he said, finally.

“Now I know you’re both perfectly innocent and you’re not gonna steal anything, but I can’t allow you to stay here,” the officer continued. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and seemed like the jumpy sort. His name was Mike Sweeney.

“This is private property,” he said, “and someone has made a complaint. I can sympathize with the situation you’re in, though,” he went on after a short pause. “You’re not gonna want to take down that tent and pack up and look for another campin’ place in this weather. The nearest campground that’s open is the state park. It’s only three miles away, but the road to it’s out, so that’s no good.

“But don’t worry, I’ve got a solution. You two are gonna stay with me tonight. My house is only a half mile from here. I’ll call Tony—that’s my wife—and let her know you’re comin’. I’ve got some paper work to finish up before I go home, but that shouldn’t take me more than an hour. What do you say?”

“Fine,” said Larry, “except what’s your wife going to say when you call her up and tell her you’ve invited two total strangers that somebody thought were burglars to stay the night, and that they’ll be right over but you personally won’t be home until later? You sure she’ll go for that?”

“Yep. Ya see, there aren’t many people to visit with up here in backwoods Michigan. We just moved up here from down south—Kalamazoo—and Tony’s been pretty lonely and homesick lately. We’d both be excited to have you stay the night with us. It’s not every day we get a chance to talk with someone who’s bicyclin’ ’round the world.”

“Well, we really appreciate the offer. We’ll just pitch our tent in your backyard.”

“Hey, no way you’re doin’ that. We got plenty of room in the house. You’re stayin’ in the spare bedroom. Besides, there’s a special reason why you wouldn’t want to camp in the yard, but we’ll talk about that later. Right now, I’ve got to get back to the station. I’ll see you at the house in an hour or so.”

Our fear that Tony might not approve of Mike’s idea proved totally unfounded. Tony had two cups of steaming hot chocolate and a hot bath ready for us when we arrived. As Mike predicted, she was glad to have some “city types” near her age to talk with. She greeted us at the door wearing a pair of jeans and a bright green blouse.

When Mike strolled in a half hour later, he was famished. Larry assured him that he and I had already eaten dinner, a salad and some spaghetti that we’d cooked up behind the motel. But Mike figured our stomachs could hold more.

“I hate to eat alone, and Tony’s always on a diet, so you’re just gonna have to join me—that’s all there is to it. Besides, I always fix more than I can eat. Now that’s where you two come in. Doin’ all that bikin’, you must have huge appetites, so tonight there aren’t gonna be any leftovers, ’cause you guys are gonna eat ’em all!”

Larry and I were already full, and I had this funny feeling that we were letting ourselves in for more than we could handle, but Mike stood his ground. He started out by baking two frozen pizzas. Of them, he consumed four small pieces; then he allowed as how Larry and I were to eat the rest. While we struggled through the cheese, pepperoni, tomato paste, onions and pasta, Mike began popping popcorn and heaps of it. Even Tony was recruited to help devour it. She and Mike polished off two medium-sized bowls, while Larry and I, making a slow rebound off our first course, were each handed a bowl which measured a foot in diameter and six inches deep. Luckily, we both love popcorn, and we set to work on our portions while Mike and Tony talked about Mike’s job, the difference between “fast city livin’” in Kalamazoo and the slow pace of the sparsely populated Upper Peninsula, and the incredibly harsh winters in Thompson. They finished talking about the time Larry and I entered the bottom quarter of our bowls.

“OK, now you tell us all about your trip so far and about your plans from here on out,” said Mike. “And I’m goin’ to dish up some rice puddin’. Now don’t bother complainin’ that you’re full. I know two hungry bicyclers can eat a lot more than what you’ve eaten so far. Hell, I’m still goin’ strong, aren’t I? And I didn’t pedal any forty some miles this afternoon.”

“But like I said Mike, we already ate dinner before we pitched our tent. And anyway, you’re giving us a lot more food than you’re eating yourself!” Larry protested.

“That’s all right. Food’s good for ya. And you wouldn’t like me to be stuck eating alone after the favor I did you both not tossin’ you into the clink, would you?”

There was a twinkle in Mike’s eyes, and I knew that arguing with him would be futile. He set the pudding next to our bowls of popcorn, and somehow we managed to plug through them both while we talked. No sooner had Larry and I finished our pudding and stories, than Mike jumped up and turned on the television.

“Time for the late evening news! Great timin’! You finished the popcorn and puddin’ just in time for the news! That’s good.” Mike raced into the kitchen.

I leaned back on the couch and patted my stomach and prayed that it wouldn’t explode during the night. Well, I did my duty, I said to myself. I helped keep Mike company while he ate. Think I’ll skip breakfast in the morning. I closed my eyes and took a series of long, deep breaths to help force the food farther down into my stomach. When Mike came back into the room, I nearly bolted off the couch in horror.

“Yep, there’s nothing I like better than a couple of tuna fish sandwiches while I’m listenin’ to the news,” he grinned as he plopped the two plates of food down in front of the couch. “You bet; tuna fish and news. Now there’s a great combination for ya!”

I took one look at the plate in front of me, and everything inside me started to rise to my throat. Larry looked as if he was about to pass out. Fortunately, Tony noticed our agony and came to the rescue. If she hadn’t, I doubt I could have survived the tuna fish.

“Mike, a lot of people can’t stand the taste of tuna fish. Maybe Barb and Larry don’t like it either,” she commented.

“Actually, we’re both allergic to tuna fish. We get really sick when we eat it,” Larry claimed, in an all out effort to keep from being forced to cram more food into his stomach. “And anyway, we’re pretty tired from our ride today, and we want to get an early start in the morning; so I think we’ll pitch our tent out back now and get to sleep,” he added, jumping to his feet.

“No you’re not!” Tony insisted. “You’ll sleep in the extra bedroom. Mike, didn’t you tell them about the backyard?”

“Well, I started to, but I had to get back to the station and I never finished,” Mike answered as he moved the plate of tuna fish closer to himself. “You see,” he said turning to us, “I’ve been baitin’ this bear back there for a week or so now; you know, leavin’ hunks of fresh meat out in the yard every night so the bear’ll make it a habit of comin’ by each night for a free meal. Huntin’ season starts next week, and I plan on gettin’ that bear the first night.

“Anyway, what I’m gettin’ at is, if you two are out back in your tent tonight when the bear comes by, he just might mistake you for the bait. So you’ve got your choice: you can sleep inside in a nice warm bed out of the cold and rain—there’s supposed to be some thunderstorms through here tonight—or you can pitch your tent out back and spend the night worrying about bein’ eaten alive. It’s up to you.”

Mike flashed us a wide grin, and an entire tuna fish sandwich disappeared behind his teeth.

LARRY AND I FOUND IT extremely difficult to spend money in Michigan. The few times we pulled into a campground for a shower, the rangers refused to charge us. At the fruit and vegetable stands along the roads, we were given more than we asked for and never charged for any of it. In a laundry, in the small town of Vassar, southeast of Bay City, Bonnie Wagner, who worked there, insisted on washing and drying our clothes free.

“You two go on up to the store and get yourselves some lunch, and I’ll have your things finished before you know it,” she said.

When we got back to the laundry, Bonnie had an invitation for us. “The weatherman says there’s a hailstorm coming through here pretty soon, so I don’t think you should bicycle anymore today. I’d like you to come home with me and stay the night. I’ll feed you a good hearty dinner, and you can have a hot shower and sleep in a real bed. My husband’s been gone for almost six years now, and my youngest just moved into an apartment of his own; so I’m living by myself now, and I’ve got plenty of room, and I’d really enjoy your company. But mainly it’s just that I’d like to do a little something for you two because I think what you’re doing is wonderful, and I’d like to share in it—contribute a little something to it. We’ll spend the rest of today visiting, and you can start out again tomorrow, when the weather’s cleared.”

Bonnie’s enthusiasm and good-natured laugh, along with her kind, caring way, won us over right away. The three of us talked and joked all afternoon and evening. Bonnie told us about her life, her thoughts, her emotions, and her opinions, and she had us tell her about ours.

Bonnie made people feel good about their fellow human beings. She took the time to care about other people, to take an interest in what they were doing, to help them out. When we said good-bye to her in the morning, I felt as close to Bonnie as I did to my friends back home. She wrote to us regularly throughout the trip, and we wrote to her.

We would meet a lot of people like Bonnie in the next nineteen months, people who opened their homes and their lives to us and helped ease our bouts with homesickness and loneliness. They gave us a home and a family away from home.