Under the grey of incoming clouds from the nearby sea I awoke in my ditch to the last few steps I’d be taking to complete what a hotel clerk in Statesboro, GA had referred to last March as “a painful exercise”. The feet were definitely in agreement with him as they crammed one last time into my shrinking boots. It was the day to breach Seattle and dip my paddies in the Pacific salt water and for this I decided a sugar cooked dough breakfast was in order.
Foolish, indubitably, but what the hell, even if it doubled me over in cramps and nausea I’d have the sweet sugary goodness I’d been craving and was close enough I could crawl the last bit in. I threw on my rain pants in a grey cloud salute, rolled up the goods, and set off munching my dowel of unhealth. Sweet goodness, it tasted like heaven packaged in mush for the first half of it.
The first of Seattle’s outlying sprawl towns was Renton. As I cracked its borders the raw dough was starting on its magic around the interior of my bowels. I was continually putting the stuff away then moments later breaking it back out again for a few more bites until I was squeezing it out like the last bit of toothpaste. My legs were getting wobbly with the false energy of sweets and apparently I was pregnant with an alien being whose birth was near. Passing my first trash can I disposed of the last of my foil.
One can only guess what would have happened had Seattle not decided to treat me with a welcome gift along the road. As this great dietary malady spread in me and ripened my roads became fully flourished with large, plump blackberries to which I dove into. Another complimentary continental breakfast for my entrance and just in time to counter act the bleached sugar, raw egg, vanilla extract mixture stirring below. Natural fructose stepped in and organized the troops. Within twenty minutes I was hobbling along feeling refreshed and ready for the last sixteen miles.
Following County Road 169, its four lane delight was getting to be some what of a nuisance to me. Garbage trucks sailed by with their leaves and twigs whipping off the back, commuter cars were pulling in and out speeding off to their morning routine, and construction haulers dusted the roads with their trailers of rocks and dirt. As I came to an intersection I noticed a foot path sprout up and parallel the road for a bit so I hopped up on that.
I began to follow the little side path and was soon accompanied by a man out for his morning walk. Sonny, his name was, and we got to talking about where the path lead and if I could follow it to the heart of Renton. This segued into what I was up to and a fine little chat about the day’s holdings for me. We walked a mile or so together then he stopped to meet a friend and I found a bathroom to freshen up and make some calls.
Soon what became my woodland path away from the hurry and fury of the highway roads lead me under I-405 and into downtown Renton. It was 10:30 by then and time to call the ole sis to see about her joining up with me later in the day. I was to find my shore at Myrtle Edwards Park where she was planning a welcome BBQ for me and that was now thirteen miles away so I had plenty of time to poke about. When I reached her she was fussing about with “something” and I realized I needed to slow down so she could walk in some with me; so I ducked into a Denny’s around the corner for breakfast.
A half an hour after noon I reemerged a little taken aback at how long I’d lingered over my feast and writings. Once more I tried my sister to discover she was still working on “something”, or she called it “nothing”, but was hustling so I didn’t want to mosey my way to the finish line before we got our quality time together. Our family has a long history of springing surprises on each other, particularly for big events, as well as running notoriously late so none of this really came unexpected. I simply re-slung ole Checks up on my back and trucked on down the road with a view of Lake Washington to my right and blackberries to help settle the syrup of my pancakes.
About an hour later I received a call that ole Wend had finished her chores and was ready to meet. The problem now was finding me. I’d wandered a good way up the lakeside road and well into the inset of my Seattle map. The map had become of little use, though, with so many main roads about and having stopped and started so often for berries I’d no idea how many miles up I’d gone since Denny’s. There were no major intersections about for her to reference so our meeting was postponed another hour before we figured out what busses went where, where I was, and where I’d be when a bus near her would get near me. All in all it was 2:30 when at Othello and Rainier Ave. she hopped off the bus to welcome her little brother into the city she loved and dwelled in.
The grey clouds had parted to blue skies as we arranged our meeting and connected so I shed my rain pants and off we went to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz. Pretty much immediately we became embroiled in conversation about the plans we have for ourselves as both our nomadic lives sought to come to a close. Passing through various neighborhoods, Wendie would point out where her Zen Singh was, or a friend lived over there, here’s a nice back way path, and over there’s a nifty coffee shop or book store. I was taken through the pretty paths meant for walkers and crested hills with skyline views of my destination decorated with fountains and Asian style gazebos. All the while catching up on the life, goings on, and future plans of the older sister that taught me everything she learned from the age of 3 as she learned it until we became estranged from each other in our early teens and dissipating family life. At long last, at the end of our wanderings, we were to have three weeks of relaxation to fully reconnect and find out what the fifteen years between had done to us both and if our lives could click back together again for a re-establishment of true family.
As we waltzed into the Capitol Hill neighborhood, two miles from our park, the both of us were a bit on the famished side. Here the memory nostalgia I’d had entering Denver last September was starting in again from my only other Seattle visit I’d had a few years ago. We stopped in for a pre-party burrito and nachos at a locally famous Mexican place I’d eaten at on my other visit. Here we lingered ourselves into a traditional Dyson lateness.
The barbeque planned for my arrival was originally set for 6pm by the water front. As my sister received confirmations and listened to arrival plans the usual notion of being fashionably late was seeming to sound like the game plan for many. In response to this the late word of invite was converted to 6:15 to 6:30 and we granted ourselves an extra twenty minutes of relax and eat time. As we left the Mexican place Wendie called her friend Stephanie, who was acting greeter for the ordeal, and was given the frenzied word of hurry, hurry, folks had shown early. We set our trot to a canter.
It was down Pike St. from there and into the heart of downtown Seattle. Clustered with tourist eyed wanderers, the flurried big bag rush of shoppers, and the hustle of cell strapped business folk we were forced to navigate traffic swinging petrified young Checks to and fro dodging the plentiful numbers of the unaware. Wendie felt going through Pikes Place Market was key to the finale though, so we shuttled through in our quickened step down the cobble stone tourist way.
Another call came via cell causing sister to send me ahead as she negotiated a snag in the reception. By now I’d decided, it’s my walk, my reception, and I was going to meander my way in as I’d meandered my way across the States. Wendie caught back up to me as I entered into the parks parking lot and a car pulled up with my New York friends Margo and Walt inside calling a hello. I stopped for a brief hello before they set off to park then heading back into my final steps I noticed something my sister was having trouble calming herself about. In the lot was a Channel 13 news van.
A small crowd had assembled by the water, on the hill was a picnic table laden with food and a banner of some sort hanging in the trees, and tracking my way in was a camera man with a mic. Completely unsure of what to do now with such an audience I broke out into a small jig of joy for my feat. The gathering cheered and gave a laugh and the camera stayed steady on me. In all honesty I was a bit unnerved with this watching eye, but suddenly I remembered my duties.
“Can’t forget to dip the paddies!” I announced and I bounced out of the lime light circle and down the beachhead of rocks. Checks jostling about on my back I plopped down into the water submerging my feet in the western sea.
At 7pm March 16, 2003 I stood on the dark sidewalk amongst a drunk and partying southern town I didn’t know with Ingrid and my aging cat the Great Space. Twelve thousand fifty one hours and twenty minutes later (yes I factored in the leap year, daylight savings, and the time zones) I stood ankle deep in Puget Sound with 3,250 miles between there and I. I stepped out, climbed back up the rocks, and some folks held out a little ribbon as a finish line which I trotted through Rocky style singing his theme song. I turned around face to face with Mr. Camera Man and he asked me “Why?”
What I told him was because I wanted to, came up with something else off the top of my head, then gave up and stuck with the original answer. Why indeed is a perfectly good question to ask and one I’ve been asked by each local paper that’s interviewed me, and by many of the curious folks I’ve met through out the trip. Its also definitely been asked by many of my friends and family. In the end, I couldn’t tell you specifically. I’ve always wanted to, I wasn’t doing anything else, it was something I said I’d do at 18 graduating high school and my ten year reunion is this year. I wanted to see America up close, I wanted to be the stranger that drifted into a town met some people and drifted back out having chatted enough to leave mystery in my wake. I wanted to know who voted for Bush, who supported him, and if anyone wanted us in this war or if they simply supported the troops caring for them as friends, family, and just people in harms way for their country. I wanted to have stories to tell and to have an interesting life, to have done something by the time I’m old and dying. These are many of the whys, I couldn’t pick one that was more right than the others, but I liked sticking with the fact that I simply wanted to do it.
Seemingly disinterested he asked me something else then left and we all trotted ourselves up to the table for some good eatin. The banner in the trees was a large congratulations message with an outline of the US; Savannah, Denver, and Seattle marked on it. Around the edges were all sorts of signings like a yearbook that I figured the people at the party had signed before I got in. Then I noticed one of the names.
Lee Williams? Wait, he’s not here, he’s in Denver. Mom, Dad, Nana, Gus? Musty, my step father. Auntie Sheeba, Holly, Amy and Corrin, Troy, aunts and cousins I’d spoken little to over the years. Christine, Suzy, Melanie, Hilary, friends from New York and Denver. Bonnie Bruce the lady I met for five minutes in Loganville, GA. Russ Patton who I met shopping for Clif bars in Fredericktown, MO. Kelly in Atlanta from the firewalk in Alabama and Tom Slobig in Baker City, OR. John Keil who worked with my mother in New Jersey, and I’d worked with for a spell years earlier. David Wright, Shawn Black’s neighbor in Dickson, TN who I met ever so briefly in his doorway. And of course Chompy in Denver, young Angie’s alias when writing in. Mostly though I was struck by one well wisher up in the right hand corner of the banner. Lois Johnson, Ingrid’s mother. She’d written in after all these months and I was particularly touched by it. The whole banner blew me away that everyone wrote in, that my sister had managed to find everyone, and that many of you were still following my crazy trek. Despite all my gabbing of feasts and food, desserts, treats, sweets, and the love of chatting it up with company. A full party was going on behind me in my honor and I stood still in my shrinking boots reading all the messages from people who were following me all along.
Soon, though, I was bombarded with questions and congratulations and the need to tell stories. I found myself addressing a curious crowd over hamburgers and cake talking about walking on fire in Alabama, dropping my pack on a rattle snake in Idaho, and the night Garold Lee cooked me one up and gave me its rattle. I quickly shed my boots to bare feet and then Wendie presented me with a gift of fuzzy cow slippers with bells and strap on antlers. People came and went and the sun slowly set into the sea, by night fall the crowd had dwindled down to my sister and I, her friend Stephanie, and Cat and Rod, two people none of us knew but had caught hold of a floating email about the party and were steadily become friends through conversation.
By the end of the event a homeless guy wandered over to our picnic table asking if we minded if he sat and ate there. He spoke little English, but he’d wandered to the right table as we opened our buffet to him. A fitting conclusion to such a donation filled trip. Thus was my journey across the States, and thus was its finale. For three more weeks I’ll stay in Seattle with my sister, for another week I’ll vacation in the San Juan Islands with my family, and for three days after that I’ll return by rail to my new chosen home that I found on my trip, as promised, in Denver, CO.
Thank you all for taking an interest in my adventures, for giving me all the moral and physical support that everyone gave, and do keep in touch if you like. The idea was to get to know you in the first place.