by Mike Farrell
Spotting an exit, I get off, but quickly see it’s another highway with nowhere to stop. Shit! I’m starting to panic. How the hell … ? Finally, I find an exit and pull off so I can stop. This is Highway 39. Where the hell is Highway 39 on the map? Can’t find it. But sure as hell, Iowa City, where I’m supposed to be going, is quite near the eastern border of Iowa. I must have driven right by it while my brain was somewhere else. I’ll have to double back. But something keeps telling me this makes no sense.
I head back toward the highway, then stop again. Something’s wrong. There are a few buildings not too far off the highway, I’ll check there and see if they can help me. I turn around, drive down, pull into what looks like a big tractor garage and get out. A woman is leaving the place and I ask her how to get to Iowa City. She turns to a man in the garage, who says, “Go back down to Highway 80.”
Right, I get that, that’s the road I was on.
He says, “It’s west of here, probably three to four hours.”
It’s west of here? How the hell can it be west of here? According to the map it’s only a little way into the state. But I nod, like an idiot, and say, “80 and west?”
He says, “Right.”
“Okay,” I say, “thanks.”
Pulling away, my head is spinning. This makes no sense at all. The exit numbers are going down, not up. How can exit 244 be west of here? How can it be three or four hours west of here if it’s not far from the eastern … ? Oh shit! I stop again, pull out the almanac, look at the map of Iowa. Then I burst out laughing.
“You’re not in Iowa, you fucking idiot! You’re in Illinois.”
Oh man, oh man, oh man! I sit there and laugh and laugh and laugh. The miles and the driving and the wind and the rain and the map and the exit numbers and the calculations and the time change … I have completely lost it. I need to go to sleep.
Heading back down to Highway 80 and then on west through the rest of ILLINOIS, I’m grinning like a fool. What a relief! Every once in a while I burst out laughing again.
Sure enough, once actually in Iowa it’s not far to Iowa City and the hotel. The bad weather seems to have blown north. There are reports of tornadoes and damage in the Chicago area, but there’s been no sign of bad weather since I figured out what state I was in. There’s even a natural food restaurant near the hotel and I have time to eat before I report to the Prairie Lights Bookstore, which is within walking distance from the hotel. Ain’t it grand how some things work out?
After dinner and a change, I head over. Just outside the hotel there’s a big plaza area with a band playing. Hundreds of people of all ages are sitting around enjoying the show. Shades of the Pens, I have competition tonight.
Prairie Lights is a nice store, not small but not awfully large, and there’s only one fellow behind the counter in front and two in back waiting on one customer. Uh oh … The fellow in front sends me to the rear, saying, “You’d better go up the back way, there’s not too much room up there.”
Upstairs, I turn a corner and am startled to find a huge crowd that erupts into applause when I appear. Man, this is not what I expected at all! The room is full to bursting, with all the seats occupied, people on the floor, in the aisles and many more standing. I’m simply knocked out.
Julie Englander, the owner of the store, has set this up as part of a regular broadcast she does on a local NPR station, Live from Prairie Lights. Unlike most of the events I’ve been doing, this is relatively formal, circumscribed as it is by time because of the broadcast, so Julie acts as the moderator to keep things moving along. But even though it’s not the free-flowing format I’m used to, the evening seems to go very well. The people, once we get to the Q&A session (which is what I like best), are so incredibly sweet it’s embarrassing. They keep thanking me for coming and expressing support and appreciation for what I’ve been doing. The embrace that M*A*S*H continues to enjoy is stunning—and deeply moving.
Once the “show” is over things loosen up a bit, with people lining up to have me sign books and take pictures. Julie sets down some sheets for me to sign that can be pasted into books later, explaining that they’ve already sold out of the ones on hand.
This is really amazing! I like Iowa—once I found it, that is.
Questions and lovely comments keep coming until everything is signed and all the pictures are done. Just near the end of the line, a sweet young woman comes up and identifies herself as the daughter of a very old friend of mine, one I actually mentioned in the book. He has, I learned only last year, passed away, and because we’d lost touch, I’ve not met his family. She asks me to sign a book for her and another for her brother, and then, after we talk for a bit, she waits around until everyone else is gone and approaches me again. Very shyly, she asks if I would be willing to talk to her at another time. She doesn’t really know much about her father, she says, and would very much like to learn about him.
“How old were you when he died?”
“Six.”
Oh Jesus. The heart breaks. I held her for a moment and gave her my numbers. Then I hugged her again, saying, “I look forward to talking to you. Your father was a good man.”
Later, I head for the hotel pondering the amazing things that have happened on this trip. Thinking about Bud and his daughter … well, even if for no other reason, the entire adventure has now been worthwhile …
DAY TWENTY-TWO
Saturday, May 31, 2008
CITY OF ORIGIN: IOWA CITY, IA
CITY OF DESTINATION: MINNEAPOLIS, MN
MILES TRAVELED: 304
VENUE: MAGERS & QUINN BOOKSELLERS
EVENT COSPONSORS
Center for Victims of Torture, Minnesota Democratic-Farmer-Labor Veterans Caucus
Turns out I was wrong. When I stop into Prairie Lights this morning to pick up a copy of the New York Times, I find that Julie Englander, who hosted the show last night, is not the owner of the store, but rather a producer for the local PBS station who regularly does her show here.
Got a late start this morning, so missed the chance to meet with Jean Hessburg, an old friend who lives a couple of hours away and couldn’t make it last night. We had hoped for time to connect this morning, but I have to be in Minneapolis for a late-afternoon event, so it won’t work.
A terrific woman, Jean was involved in Democratic politics here in Iowa and then transplanted to California some years ago. She had worked with a number of Iowa politicos and was put in touch with us by Senator Tom Harkin or former Congressman Dave Nagle—maybe both. She landed on her feet in California, becoming an organizer and spokesperson for Norman Lear’s group, People for the American Way. I remember watching in awe as she deftly debated a group of Christian fundamentalists who were trying to insinuate their religious views into the school curriculum in an outlying Southern California community.
Having returned to Iowa, she was back working for the Democratic Party for a while—one of her jobs being to organize the Nevada caucuses. I’m sorry to miss the chance to catch up.
Filling the tank before heading north to Minnesota, I calculate that Mule is getting over fifty miles per gallon. Damn, that’s impressive.
The radio tells me that a study finds that 75 million out of 100 million American workers say they’re burned out on their jobs. Think we have some problems in this country?
Beautiful, clear day here in Iowa. Blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. None of that tornado talk, I’m happy to say.
This is a gorgeous state. It’s quite flat, full of farms and neatly tended land. The homes we pass, the barns, the fields, all have a clean, well-cared-for appearance. Very Norman Rockwell, this American heartland.
Racing along the highway I see lots and lots of motorcycles, mostly traveling in large groups. Yesterday there were guys sporting insignia identifying them as military veterans, today it just looks like clubs, but none of them appear to be the “outlaw” types. Just people out for a ride on a beautiful day. I can certainly understand that, though ridi
ng in a pack is not my style.
For me it’s a solitary, meditative pleasure. And, I must say, I’m not a fan of the big Harley-types I see on the road so often. To each his own, of course, but I like a bike that’s lighter and easier to handle, made to go off on a dirt road or up a mountain trail if one looks tempting. If you try something like that on one of those big Hogs and happen to go down, you’ll need three men and a crane to pick it up again.
I don’t know why I’m surprised to find them here in northeast Iowa, but we’re passing through an open field full of electricity-generating windmills, those graceful spires with triangular propellers reminiscent of the prop on the old World War II fighter planes. What is it about this place? Even these things look particularly elegant here.
Passing into southern Minnesota I begin to see signs announcing familiar-sounding towns. My mother was born in a small town that’s probably not far from here: Millville, Minnesota. One of ten kids raised primarily by their mother—my grandfather having been killed when Mom was seven—she never spoke of being “poor,” but her stories suggested a pretty hardscrabble life for all of them. She never complained, but it was always clear to us that she didn’t want to see anything wasted, part of the legacy of that experience. And she was never comfortable with the sort of lifestyle so many of us take for granted, full of what I’m sure she saw as excess.
DAMN!! Everything can change in a split second. A car in the right lane about five lengths ahead of us slams on its brakes, the rear end lifts, fishtails to the right, to the left, back again, almost flips and then shoots left, straight across both lanes and into the grassy median, down, up the other side, spins around and rolls backward before finally coming to a stop. Meanwhile, cars are swerving all over the place to avoid hitting him and each other. It’s a miracle there isn’t a tremendous pile-up.
I’m able to put on the flashers and pull Mule over onto the grass so that people can get by, then check to see if he’s okay. He is, though clearly shaken up. I can’t see anyone else in the car and he says he’s alone. He gets out swearing, walks around a bit saying the guy in front of him slammed on his brakes. I didn’t see that, but if he did, this guy must have been following too closely or just not paying attention. He has a phone; he doesn’t want help. It’s clear he’s embarrassed, so once I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it, Mule and I take off.
Damn. So close. Split seconds …
As we come into Minneapolis, the sky is beginning to cloud over again while we find the hotel and get situated. A very chi-chi place, the Graves 601 Hotel, apparently where the “in-crowd” gathers. Not my cup of tea, exactly, but it’s hard to complain about the extra comforts, especially when I’ve been pretty much living out of a car for the past three weeks. The way some live stays on my mind, though, as Mule and I quickly head out under a threatening sky to Magers & Quinn Booksellers for today’s event, this one cosponsored by the Center for Victims of Torture.
I spoke there last year and have known people associated with it for some years. Impressive place. The first of its kind in the U.S., the Center was founded here in Minneapolis in 1985 and has offices in St. Paul and Washington, DC, plus “healing centers” in Sierra Leone, Liberia and the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Despite the clever attempts at wordplay by Bush/Cheney apologists and the cowardly tap dancing of our new attorney general, “water boarding” is torture.
It’s infuriating beyond my capacity to fully express it—even when giving myself leave to use the most vile words I can think of—to know that our own country has stooped to the level of torturing human beings under this vicious gang of thugs propping up George W. Bush.
Nearing the block where the Magers & Quinn bookstore is located, I find the street closed for a fair of some kind. Traffic is snarled and parking is impossible. I finally find a spot a couple of blocks away and walk to the store to find a Beer Festival covering the whole block, complete with loud music and a huge crowd of beered-up kids dancing in the street. Not, I suspect, an atmosphere conducive to a book event, even assuming people wanting to come can fight their way through the traffic and find a place to park. Oh well …
Inside, it appears I’m right. Ten or fifteen people are sitting in the space they’ve set aside for the event, and the manager, a bit embarrassed, apologizes. They evidently had no advance notice—or perhaps not enough—to do anything about it, but he remains hopeful and asks if I’d mind waiting awhile to allow time for others who might have been delayed by the mess outside.
After a bit, with the group now maybe twice the size it was when I came in, we go ahead. Despite the relatively small crowd, they’re kind, thoughtful and interested, and they ask good questions, so we have fun. One of the group, it turns out, is a distant cousin, Kevin Geraghty, who has been assiduously compiling a family history. He’s brought his wife and son, and I believe they’ve driven in from quite a distance away. Kevin and my brother Jim, who has been doing a lot of investigating along the same line, have had an ongoing exchange of information. As it turns out, Jim is due here in town in a couple of weeks and they’re going to get together and pick each other’s brains. Nice man, Kevin. Nice of him to show up.
CENTER FOR VICTIMS OF TORTURE
The Center for Victims of Torture (CVT) is an international leader in providing care and rehabilitative services to survivors of torture by extending hope and healing to survivors. In 1985, CVT was established as the first organization of its kind in the U.S., and only the third in the world, after careful study by a special task force convened by Minnesota Governor Rudy Perpich. Today, CVT works locally, nationally, and internationally to build healing communities where torture survivors feel welcomed, protected, and healed. Our programs are divided into four areas: client services, training, research, and public policy and education.
Our client services focus is on helping survivors in Minnesota and in Africa. In two Twin Cities locations, CVT provides rehabilitative services to more than 250 survivors each year, as well as information/referral services to an additional 100 survivors. In centers in Liberia, Sierra Leone, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, CVT clinicians offer mental health counseling to nearly 2,500 victims of torture, and train members of the affected population to be psychosocial peer counselors (PSCs).
As a leader in torture-survivor rehabilitation, CVT trains health, education, and human services professionals who work with torture survivors and refugees in the U.S. and around the globe. In doing so, we are also able to conduct research on the most effective torture-survivor treatment methods. While we work to heal the wounds of torture, we hope for a day when our efforts are no longer necessary. So CVT collaborates with local, national, and international organizations on public education, policy, and advocacy initiatives aimed at the prevention and ultimate elimination of torture.
CVT relies on donations to promote healing of torture survivors. Individuals can also influence torture-related policy by communicating with their elected officials and participating in our e-mail advocacy campaigns.
After books are signed and pictures taken, I’m greeted by Nancy Gertner, Associate Chair of the Democratic-Farm-Labor Veterans Caucus, a group of vets from Vietnam and Iraq who are angry about this war, the way veterans are being treated, and intent on doing what they can to bring about change. Nancy had contacted me through Johanna when they heard I was coming to town and asked if I’d meet with them.
As we wrap up at Magers &Quinn and head out to meet the vets, the sky opens up. It is a spectacular display, so we stand there under the shop’s awning and watch a downpour of hail that looks like God has emptied out a huge barrel of marbles. It’s amazing, the kind of thing that if you saw it in a movie you’d think it overdone. Pummeling those crazy or drunk enough to be out there running around or dancing in it, bouncing off everything and gathering on every level surface, these good-sized ice marbles make a fabulous show. I am glad we are protected by the awning and keep checking to see that it’s holding.
Finall
y, it stops and the crowd gives a huge cheer just as a beautiful rainbow spreads across the sky. Nancy says she thinks they’re cheering the rainbow. I kind of figure they’re happy about being able to go back to the drinking and dancing.
Meeting the vets, an angry and spirited group, I hear about two Iraq veterans they have already elected to Congress and about two more—Ashwin Madia and Steve Sarvi—whom they’re intending to put there by knocking off two sitting Republicans. Madia, a lawyer, worked on establishing a system of law in Iraq. Sarvi, who comes in as we’re talking, is a very bright, articulate guy who was frustrated at every step in Iraq. His superiors wanted him to build some useless facilities to play up to the local authorities. He wanted to build schools, so did. He also tells me that he had tried to dissuade the Iraqi police and military from torturing those they captured. He said they had a special room, lined with tile like a shower—but no showerhead—where they took prisoners and worked them over. He said that when he tried to explain to the Iraqis that this stuff was not only illegal but counterproductive, they’d say, “Really? Tell me about water boarding.” As he says, you can’t win that argument. You can’t tell them not to do something when they know that you’re doing it all the time.
We all swap stories for quite awhile. I don’t know how much good I am able to do them, but I am sure impressed with their energy. Hope for the future!
Later, walking out into the cold Minnesota night, I find a quiet restaurant and have a nice dinner. Heading back by a different route, I am hailed on a lonely stretch of a dark street by a homeless man. I’m always frustrated by these approaches because I don’t want to be insensitive to the need, but, concerned that any money I hand over will only be spent on booze or drugs, I also don’t want to be a chump. However, something about this guy touches me, so I listen to his story. He is in from out of town, he says, needs a place to sleep and, having found the shelters full, is trying to raise enough money for a cheap motel room to get out of the cold. He is truly embarrassed to be asking, he says, but simply has no choice.