Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (44 page)

After Patricia told the animal rights lady that story, the woman said, “That’s horrible! Where is this place?”

While we described where it was, the woman’s eyes began to glaze over. Then she said, “You’ve got to be kidding? I know that place. He’s my brother in-law!”

That woman had just started her car when another one pulled up. In it was Marcellus Mayor Fred Eisenberg with Dena Beratta, who wrote for the
Marcellus Observer
. When the mayor shook Patricia’s hand he said, “I heard you grew up here.”

“My family lived on Bradley Street for a couple of years when I was a little kid.”

“Well, on behalf of the village of Marcellus let me say, ‘Welcome home Patty!’”

He gave us a few town mementos and told us a bit of Marcellus history. In 1794 the first settlers set up a grist mill on the creek. The town was named after the Roman General Marcus Claudius Marcellus who lived two hundred years before Christ.

The mayor also told us that during the Civil War, the old mill where Patty’s father took her fishing, made material for Union Army Uniforms. He didn’t know when it closed down. “It’s been that way as long as I can remember.”

After Dena completed her interview, they wished us well and got in the Mayor’s car to leave. They were turning around, when another car pulled into the lane and came our direction. Patricia leaned over to me and whispered, “Do you suppose this is another visitor?”

It was Kathy from Bradley Street. When she got out of her car she said, “I just stopped for a moment. I wanted to give you this.”

She handed Patricia a white envelope. “Everybody in the neighborhood contributed.”

Inside the envelope was $62.10 in cash. On the outside was written, “For Patty and Bud. From your neighbors on Bradley Street.”

Where Patty’s daddy taught her how to fish
.

CHAPTER 18

A L
IFE
W
ORTH
L
IVING

F
ROM MARCELLUS, WE WOUND UP
through Syracuse toward Oneida Lake where we came to R&L Farm Market on Highway 31 between Lake Port and South Bay. It was a large metal building, and adjacent to it was a paddock with llamas. The moment Della spotted them her ears went rigid, she snorted and began to prance.

“Della, whoa!”

Suddenly it was like I didn’t exist. Her collar rammed into my shoulder as she turned to go toward the llamas. When I pushed back, her left hoof slammed down on my right foot, and it hurt. “Dammit, Della!”

I jerked hard on her lead rope, but it made no difference. Della was determined to cross the road, and would have trampled me if I hadn’t elbowed her in the neck. She winced, grunted and took a step back. I jumped in front of her, grabbed both sides of her bit, yanked and yelled. “Della, whoa!”

She reared her head back and snorted mule snot in my face. It was gross, but I couldn’t wipe it off. I didn’t dare let go of her.

“It’s okay, girly pie,” Patricia said. “Mommy’s here.”

She was stroking Della’s neck and she seemed to be calming down. The llamas still had her attention, but she wasn’t as intent on going to them. We were both rubbing her as my wife said, “Do you suppose she’s thinking about Superman?”

Since her encounter with Superman back in Arkansas, I don’t think the Big Sis had seen another llama. When we got moving again, I had control
of Della but I didn’t have her complete attention. She was still focused on them and was prancing like a show horse as we passed the market. Several people were in the parking lot applauding as we walked by.

Less than a mile past the market, we pulled into a rest area and set up camp. Patricia was in the tent about to pump up our bed, when a pickup truck with a huge man driving stopped next to our camp. I recognized him as one of those applauders back at the market. He said, “Some of my customers said they saw you on TV last night.”

Lavern Grant opened the truck door and got out with a big paper bag full of produce in his arms. Celery, carrot tops and romaine lettuce were poking out the top of it and giant grin was across his face as he said, “I didn’t see the news last night, so I missed the story.”

He handed me the bag. “Here. I figure no matter where you’re going you’ve got to eat. So tell me about it. Where you going?”

After I told him what we were up to, he asked “How do you make money?”

“I’m a poet, and we sell my poetry books.”

“Can I see one?”

During our winter at the Watt Farm, I put together a new collection of poems titled,
From This Side of The Road
. While Lavern flipped through it he asked, “How much are they?”

“Ten bucks.”

He pulled a twenty out of his wallet. “Give me two. I’m going to my granddaughter’s confirmation tomorrow. She likes poetry. I’ll take her one”

After I autographed the book for his granddaughter, Lavern said, “I want you to do another one for my friend, Nancy.”

He handed me another twenty. “Don’t worry about the change. Will you deliver it to her? You’ll walk right by her place tomorrow. She’s got cancer and isn’t going to be around long.”

“We’d be happy to.”

“She doesn’t see very good. So she can’t read it.”

I said, “I’ll read a few poems to her.”

An hour after Lavern drove off, another pick up pulled in and stopped. The driver leaned out the window and said, “Could I buy one of your poetry books?”

“Sure.”

“Lavern came in Pier 31 with one a little while ago. He had the bartender read a couple of poems. They’re good.”

I recognized Pier 31 as the name of the restaurant where we were to deliver the book to Nancy. It was a family business, and she lived above it. Before we went to bed that night we sold two more books to people who had heard the reading in the bar.

When we got up in the morning, it looked like we could get rain soon. In the past week and a half it rained on us at least once every day. And it looked like it could happen again soon. The rest area was already a soggy place. More rain would make it worse.

So we broke camp and packed everything away before it could get soaked. Just before we got on the road, Lavern stopped with more produce. “My friend Nancy won’t be at Pier 31 when you get there. She went to stay with her sister.”

“What do you want me to do with the book?”

“Just leave it at the bar. They’ll get it to her.”

It was mid-afternoon when we arrived at Pier 31. The building was big and blue with a large parking lot out front. On the back side of the restaurant were huge windows that overlooked the marina, RV sites and Oneida Lake. About half a dozen cars were in the parking lot when we tied Della to the telephone pole. Inside, as soon as we sat down, the barmaid walked over and smiled. “Are you folks directing traffic somewhere?”

We had our orange safety vests on. I said, “No we’re traveling with a mule–”

“Oh, you must be the walkers.” She slapped the bar. “I heard about you guys. So what can I do for you?”

I laid the book on the bar. “Lavern bought this poetry book for Nancy yesterday and asked me to deliver it to her.”

The barmaid’s smile drained away and an awkward hush came over the place. The only other customers at the bar were the two men she was talking to when we came in. She glanced over at them, and they just looked down. Then she turned toward us, cleared her throat and said, “Nancy passed away at three this morning.”

We never met Nancy, didn’t have a clue what she looked like, but in the past eighteen hours she had become a part of our lives. Besides Lavern, the other three people who bought books from us last evening said wonderful things about her. That afternoon in the parking lot at Flo’s Diner, we met an older couple who adored her. And now she was gone. I sat on the bar stool and fought tears. Patricia did too.

“I’ve already signed it for her.” I handed it to the barmaid. “You might as well take it.”

We ordered ourselves a beer and heard more stories about Nancy. The barmaid Jacque said, “Everybody loved her.”

A man down the bar said, “I don’t care who you were, she treated you like family.”

When we walked into the restaurant, a handmade sign was on the door that said the place would be closed Saturday August 2
^nd
.

“Her granddaughter is getting married then.” Jacque said. “Nancy was bound and determined to make it to that wedding. But–.”

When Patricia and I walked out into the parking lot to leave, we found a small group of people standing around Della. A couple of them asked if they could take our picture. We were posing for them when a very somber looking man walked up and stood at the back of the crowd. He had passed us going into the restaurant as we were walking out

After the photographers were through, the man walked up, extended his hand to me and introduced himself as John Hadyk. He owned Pier 31 and Nancy had been his step-mother. John shook my hand and thanked me for bringing the book. “Where do you plan to spend the night?”

“Somewhere down the road.”

“How about here? Let me show you where.”

I got in his car and he drove me down to the lake front where the marina and RV spots were. “Any open spot is yours. The mule can graze where-ever she wants.”

After we climbed back into the car, I said, “With Nancy’s funeral Tuesday, and your daughter’s wedding Saturday, you’ve got a heck of a week ahead of you.”

John started the car, then turned to me. “I would really appreciate it if you’d spend the night here. My family could use the distraction.”

That evening we met many of Nancy’s family and friends, and we heard lots of stories about her. And each story, be it funny or otherwise, illustrated a woman of unconditional compassion and generosity.

The next day, in the resort town of Sylvan Beach, we stopped at the Beachy Clean Laundromat so Patricia could wash some clothes. Della and I were outside when a middle aged man stopped on the sidewalk and asked about our trip. “So where do you stay at night? Where were you last night?”

“We camped behind Pier 31 Restaurant.”

A big smile sprang to his face. “Oh yeah? A friend of mine lives there. Nancy. She’s one of the finest people I know.”

It began to sprinkle as I carefully said, “You know she died yesterday.”