Footloose in America: Dixie to New England

by Bud Kenny

  While I explained what we were doing, she jotted notes on her pad. At one point she looked up at me and asked, “What’d you do before starting this trip?”

  “The past four years I ran a coffee house in Hot Springs called ‘The Poet’s Loft.’ Before that I owned the Mule Line Trolley and gave tours of the city and national park. I’ve been a disc jockey, a time share salesman and I wrote for a weekly newspaper.”

  The reporter turned a page on her note pad as she asked, “What about your wife?”

  “Patricia owned a dog-grooming business in Hot Springs for nine years. Before that she managed a trust company in Dallas, and before that she was a cop and legal secretary in northern Illinois.”

  She nodded and grinned as she scribbled in silence for a few moments. Then she looked up and said, “You guys have had an interesting life. So what do your children think about you doing this trip?”

  “I haven’t any. Neither does my wife.”

  “Huh?” Confusion riddled the woman’s face.

  “We’re newlyweds.”

  Although Patricia and I had been together for a couple of years, we didn’t get married until New Year’s Eve 2000 on the stage at the Poet’s Loft. Both of us were fifty-one, and when we took those vows we promised to make this journey the grandest of all honeymoons. We hit the road six months later.

  When I told the reporter that, I left out a few facts: Patricia was my seventh bride, and the second one to strike out on this adventure with me.

  Like Patricia, the previous half dozen all wanted to do it, but either they changed their minds or tried to change mine–except wife number six. Sue and I got married and hit the road in May 1996 with a pair of mules and a gypsy wagon that I had built. We returned home three days later–initially because the wagon broke down. We stayed there because our relationship was broken too.

  Sue was beautiful. An artist with black hair that draped halfway down her slender back. She was fifteen years younger than me, and when she smiled her whole being glowed. Sue really radiated when she talked about the journey. “A vagabond artist. I like the sound of it.”

  On the surface, Sue was perfect. But there were a couple of problems that I just couldn’t get past. One of them was her smile. After we got back home I never saw it again, privately. When we were around other people the smile came easily–she was always positive and upbeat. But at home, Sue’s glass was always half empty, destined to be dry. Then when we discovered the problem with the wagon was in my design, it triggered geysers of criticism. And not just of me. It got so that to her, no one seemed do anything right. She would talk kindly to people in person, but verbally slash them to ribbons behind their backs. It felt like I was drowning in a sea of negativity.

  And then there was our love life, which was non-existent. When we first got together the sex was okay. Not great, but I figured it would get better with time. Instead, it got to where she seemed to just be indulging me. Then she quit doing that.

  I know the marriage vows are, “For better or worse,” but if worse is all I’m going to get, then it’s time for me to get going. Sue and I were married less than six months.

  I vowed then, “Never again! It’s going to be just me and the mule.”

  Then along came Patricia. She was a little older than me. (I was fifty-one at the time.) She had a hardy laugh, a sharp tongue and an opinion on everything. Her know-it-all attitude really grated on me. She was not at all the kind of woman I had dreamed of making this journey with. But doing things with Patricia was more fun than anybody I had ever known. Hiking, dining, swimming, camping it was all better with her. And as a lover, Patricia was what this man had always dreamed of.

  This was scary. A person can’t have so many failed relationships without thinking, Something is wrong with me. I finally concluded that my obsession to see the world on foot was my problem. That question, “Do you want to go with me?” had broken a lot of hearts. Mine the most–because I was both the repeat offender and victim. The past two decades of emotional scars now were calluses. And I had learned that it was best not to shed them, because the flesh underneath is going to be real tender. But now I was having the time of my life with someone I really loved being with. That question–“Do you want to go?”– could ruin it.

  But eventually I did ask, and Patricia said, “Yes, but you don’t have to marry me. We’ve got a great thing going here–let’s keep it that way.”

  When she said that I felt like I’d been let off the hook. No commitment meant no responsibility. If everything worked out, great! If not, she could go her way and I’ll just get on the down the road with the mule. But as I watched Patricia throw herself into making it happen, that bulwark began to crumble.

  She shut down her business, auctioned her home and sold most of her worldly possessions. Her car, golf clubs, big screen TV, antiques, jewelry and stuff she’d been saving for decades–it all went for pennies on the dollar so she could live with me in a tent on the road with a mule.

  Someone who was willing to do all that to make my dream come true deserved a commitment from me. The question was, “Can I keep it?

  When we walked into Perryville, the sky was overcast. Although it was just as hot and humid as the days before, it was a treat to walk under a gray sky. While we packed our clean clothes, a steady westerly started wafting the scent of rain our way.

  Patricia sighed, “Does that smell heavenly, or what?”

  Just as we turned east on Highway 60 toward Toad Suck, suddenly the breeze began to pelt us with fat drops. My wife sang out, “Bring it on, baby. Let it rain!”

  It lasted a couple of minutes. The two of us had just gotten our rain coats on, when it quit. Patricia was unzipping hers when she said, “Come on, is that it?”

  Six miles later, when we walked into the hamlet of Houston, Arkansas, both of us were sopping wet. Not from rain–from sweat. The clouds went away, the sun came out and turned that little bit of rain into steam. Patricia was wringing out the bottom of her T-shirt when she said, “It’s like a damn sauna out here.”

  We were pitching our tent near the Houston water tank, and the sun was slowly sliding toward the horizon when my wife said, “I can’t wait till it gets dark.”

  But dusk brought an onslaught of mosquitoes, the likes of which I’d never seen before. When I waved my hand to shoo them away, it felt like I was stirring them instead. Patricia and I looked like we were doing a strange dance as we stomped our feet, slapped our legs, smacked our arms and swatted the air about our heads.

  I don’t remember what we had for dinner that night, but I do know we didn’t eat outside. Even in the tent, dinner was not without an occasional swat at a rogue who found her way inside.

  Nightfall brought no relief from the heat. The air inside the tent was so stifling that sweat flowed out our pores like water from a spigot. Pillows and sheets were soon drenched, and there was that occasional whine of a mosquito in the tent.

  Around five in the morning, a flash of white light and a boom of thunder bolted us all awake. The first huge rain drops hit the tent so hard they sounded like rocks. Suddenly, the wind kicked up and bellowed the nylon walls in toward us. Then the sky let loose with a deluge. It was like someone was dumping a barrel of water on the tent. The overhead poles bowed down toward us, turning the top into a bowl full of rain, which became a sieve with us underneath it.

  We scurried to pull our rain coats over the bedding, but it was too late. Everything was already soaked. Soon, so much water was gushing through the seams in the bottom of the tent, that our air-bed began to float with us and Spot on it.

  The storm raged on for five hours. Shortly after it stopped I crawled out of the tent and found us camped in the middle of a huge puddle. Every step we made sloshed. The grass we camped on was growing in red clay, so the water was red too. When we pulled our soggy bedding out of the tent, we were careful not to drop anything. The stain of Arkansas red clay can be permanent.

  I strung a clothes line from the cart
to a tree, and as we hung sheets on it, Patricia said, “At least Della got a good shower out of the deal.”

  My wife and I are convinced this mule understands everything we say. Those words were barely out of her mouth, when Della laid down and rolled in the muddiest spot she could find. When she stood up, all of her was caked in red clay.

  In the south, nearly every hometown café has a “good-ole-boys’ table.” Usually a large one toward the back of the dining room, close to the coffee pot. A gathering place where locals congregate to discuss the goings on of the world. Conversations are punctuated by stirring spoons that clink against the insides of coffee cups. At these tables, local gossip always has priority.

  In Heber Springs, Arkansas, we sat a couple of tables away from the good-ole-boys at the Smoke House Restaurant. It was Thursday around two in the afternoon. A few days earlier a man took our picture and gave us a twenty dollar bill. “Buy yourselves a nice dinner.” So we staked out Della behind Miss Magnolia’s Wedding Cottage, then hiked to the restaurant to spend the man’s money.

  After we ordered, Patricia went to the ladies room while I sipped iced tea and tried to eavesdrop on the good-ole-boys. At first, I thought they were talking about someone’s hay harvest. The old guy at the head of the table said, “Looked like pretty nice hay to me.”

  A man half way down the table asked, “How much were they hauling?”

  “Two bales.”

  I had to agree with the one who said, “That ain’t much of a load.”

  “I don’t see how they could’ve got anymore on that thing.”

  A younger man at the other end said, “That’s for sure. I seen them yesterday down on Highway 5 between here and Rosebud. Got themselves a damn good-looking mule!”

  They were talking about us! It had been nearly four weeks since we left Hot Springs. So far, we had walked a hundred and fifty-five miles and our story had been in five newspapers–including the Dallas Morning News. And now we were the main topic at the good-ole-boys’ table, in Heber Springs, Arkansas. How I wished I were closer. If my ears could rotate like Della’s, they would have been aimed at that table. This was exciting!

  “I seen them down that way too. Then I seen them coming into town a couple of hours ago. Where do you suppose they spent the night?”

  “I hear they camped in Deputy Moss’s yard.”

  We met Joyce Moss under a shade tree, in the parking lot, at a flea market. She was a short, feisty little blond who looked to be in her mid thirties. Three kids were in the back seat of the mini-van, and her mother-in-law was in the front. When Joyce pulled up, she leaned out the window and asked, “What’re you doing?”

  The car hadn’t quite come to a complete stop when she asked that question. And the motor was still idling when I answered, “Traveling.”

  Joyce turned the key and the engine stopped, as she said, “With the mule?”

  A pretty teenaged face, with too much makeup, popped out the window behind Joyce and asked, “Where you going?”

  After we answered their questions, Joyce invited us to camp in her yard. “I’ve got horses and llamas, and plenty of grazing for your mule.”

  The girl behind Joyce pulled her long dish-water-blond hair back from her face as she said, “And you can go for a swim in our pool.”

  It was another hot afternoon and their invitation was music to our ears. When we got to the house around five, Deputy Sheriff Marty Moss was in the driveway, leaning against his cruiser, obviously waiting for us. He struck an imposing figure in his brown and tan uniform with a cream-colored western hat. As we approached the driveway I figured he’d come home to nix his wife’s invitation. But when we got closer I could see there was a smile on his handsome face. I greeted him with, “Never know what the wife is going to drag in, eh?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “It’s never a dull moment with Joyce.”

  The Moss’s had only been married a few months, and each of them brought three children into their new family. Joyce got the house in a divorce. It was a sprawling, red stucco, Spanish-style villa. The kind of home you would expect to find in Southern California. She also had the llamas and horses when Marty married her.

  Joyce used to keep chickens in a small fenced yard, but she got rid of them a couple of years ago. The grass in the chicken yard was waist high–a feast for a mule. I had just turned her loose and latched the gate, when Della met Super Man.

  The llamas all came out of the barn and spotted Della at the same time. They skidded to a stop and stared. The llama in the lead was Super Man, and his eyes looked like they were about to blast out of their sockets.

  Super Man was a big, handsome, sorrel llama–about the same color as Della. The front of his long neck had white fur that went from his chin down to his puffed-up chest. In the middle of his black head was a white blaze. He stared at Della while his small pointed ears twitched back and forth. Who is this stranger in my yard?

  Della made the first move. A length of grass hung out the side of her mouth as she slowly walked toward the fence between them. The other three llamas cowered back a few steps, but Super Man stood fast and hissed at the Big Sis.

  Joyce gasped, “Lord, please don’t let him spit on her.”

  Her teenaged daughter squealed, “Oh man, it is so gross!”

  Joyce pointed to several dark stains on the side of the barn, as she explained that spitting is a llama’s first line of defense. What they spit comes directly from their gut. “It really stinks–and it hurts.”

  Della stood and watched Superman slowly strut up to the fence. Each step appeared calculated, as if he was stalking her. When he got to the fence, Super Man stopped and sniffed the air, while Della commenced to chomp on the grass in her mouth. Again he hissed at her.

  Joyce shrieked, “Oh no, he’s going to do it!”

  But he didn’t. Instead, Della nonchalantly stepped up to the fence while Super Man stood his ground. Then they both started sniffing the air around each other. Suddenly, Super Man whirled around and ran down the hill followed by the other llamas.

  So far, Della had paid no attention to any of the livestock we had encountered. But when Super Man ran away, she whinnied to him. Immediately, he whirled around and trotted back up the hill where he strutted back and forth in front of her. Della followed him on her side of the fence and when he stopped to flirt, she flirted back. They sniffed the air around each others head–she would squeal when he got a bit too close. But when he looked as if he was going to leave, she would whinny, “Where you going big boy?”

  To which he would turn around and start sniffing toward her–her always squealing when he got too close–her always whinnying when it looked like he might turn away. After a few minutes of this, Super Man had enough, and off he ran to join the other llamas at the bottom of the hill. Again, Della called to him, and he ran back up the hill.

  That flirtation must have gone on all night. Because in the morning, when I hooked Della to the cart, she was tired. Normally as I harness her and we hitch her up, she’s constantly fidgeting around, anxious to get going. But that morning she stood still with her head drooping. Della was worn out from her one night stand with Super Man.

  “Boy did that feel good!”

  My wife had just returned from the ladies room in the Smoke House Restaurant and was about to sit down when I held a finger to my lips. “Shush!”

  “What do you mean, shush?”

  I motioned for her to sit and pointed to the good ole’ boys table as I whispered, “Be quiet and listen.”

  The waitress had just freshened everybody’s coffee. So the cups were really clinking from stirring spoons when one of the older men said, “Me and the wife saw them this morning on the mountain. They was pulled off to the side of the road. Looked like they was broke down.”

  Nearly 6,000 people live in Heber Springs, which is situated among the Ozark foothills. Downtown is in the Little Red River Valley. The main road into it is a steep winding descent. So Patricia rode in t
he cart and operated the brake. When we started down the hill, the cart began to push Della. So I yelled, “Brake!” (My signal for Patricia to apply more brake.) The cart continued to push Della, and she was almost at a trot.

  “Brake! Brake!”

  Patricia yelled something, but I couldn’t understand her because of the traffic. I was jogging when I shouted over my shoulder, “Patricia, give me more brake!”

  This time I understood when she screamed, “It’s not working!”

  We were gaining speed. Della was no longer holding the cart back. She was just trying to stay ahead of it, and I could barely keep up with her. The highway was cut into the side of the mountain, so there was no place to pull off.

  “Pump the brake!”

  “I am pumping, dammit! It’s not working!”

  Then my wife yelled, “On the right! Look!”

  We were approaching a driveway that led to a wide level spot with a pile of gravel at the back of it. It was dotted with deep pot holes, so it would be a rough exit. But it would put an end to this dangerous descent. I turned Della to the right and yelled, “Hold on baby!”

  Della hopped over the holes, but the cart tires bounced in and out of them. Then the right front wheel dropped into a small gully in front of the gravel pile. The cart clanged and banged to a halt.

  I took a deep breath and looked up at Della’s face. Her nostrils flared while her ears turned back and forth. When I looked back at the cart, my wife was shaking her head. I called back to her, “Some adventure! Eh baby?”

  “Some adventure? I just had the be--Jesus scared out of me, and all you can say is, ‘Some adventure baby?’” She was climbing out of the cab as she said, “I’ll show you some adventure!” Stumbling around the pot holes toward me Patricia said, “I damn near wet my pants back there. I’m not leaving this spot until you fix those brakes.”

  Halfway down the good-ole’-boys’ table was a short round man in farmer’s overalls and a black cap with a confederate flag and “Forget, Hell!” on the front of it. He took a sip from his cup, then said, “I hear-tell they’re walking to the East Coast. I think New York.”