Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (11 page)

It was mid-afternoon when we pulled into a parking lot across the street from the Visitors Bureau. Behind their big front windows, I saw half a dozen ladies watching us. Regardless the age or configuration of the face, they all had one thing in common–the look of confoundment. Had I been one of them, I too would have wondered, “What are those fools doing out in this storm?”

When I went in, they were the epitome of Kentucky’s state slogan “It’s that friendly.” They brought me hot coffee and a sandwich. And when I apologized for the water flowing off my raincoat onto their floor, a sweet southern drawl said, “Oh honey, don’t you worry a thing about that. A little bit of water won’t hurt nothing.”

We stopped at the Visitors Bureau because they were in charge of an arts program called, “After Dinner Downtown.” Every Saturday night, throughout the summer and early fall, the city of Paducah blocked off part of the historic district so artists, musicians and other entertainers could set
up in the street. It sounded like the perfect place for us to drop the stage and put on a poetry show.

It took nearly an hour to get the coordinator on the phone. After Tom told me we could be part of it, I asked if there was someplace close where we could camp. He said, “I’ve already got that taken care of. You and your wife have a room for two nights at the Executive Inn.”

A hotel room? This was too good to be true. “What about my mule?”

Tom ran horse-drawn carriages in downtown Paducah. He kept them in a warehouse a few blocks from the Visitors Bureau. Next to Tom’s building was a large vacant lot with a high chain-link fence around it. When we met him there he tossed me the keys to the lock on the gate and said, “Park your cart, turn your mule loose and lock it up. Ain’t nobody going to mess with her or your stuff in there.”

Then Tom loaded us, our plastic bag of wet clothes and our bicycles into his truck and drove us to the Executive Inn. After I unlocked the door to our room, Patricia went in ahead of me and dropped her backpack on the carpet. I was lugging our wet clothes in as she slowly turned around and surveyed the room with its two queen-size beds. While I pulled my backpack off, my wife turned toward me with a huge grin. Although we both looked like drowned rats, Patricia was glowing when she put her hands on her hips and said, “Can you believe this? We have a hotel room!”

Her voice squealed, “For two nights! Just think about that, Bud!”

She scurried into the bathroom and turned on the light. “It has a shower and a tub. I can take a bath and soak as long as I want.”

Patricia was like a little kid on Christmas morning. Who could blame her? Prior to her dog grooming business, Patricia had managed a trust company in Dallas. Before that, she’d been a legal secretary, and a police officer. During those years she’d owned homes and condos with real bathrooms, and some with swanky hot tubs. But for the past three sweaty months the only thing akin to a bath that she could count on, was our coffee-can-shower. If no one invited us in for a shower, or there was no stream or pond, then we took a coffee can with nail holes in the bottom,
dipped it in a bucket, and held it over our heads. The two of us could get clean–including Patricia’s shoulder length hair––with five gallons of water.

She stepped over to the hotel toilet, jiggled the handle and giggled. “Just listen.” Then my wife flushed it, patted the tank lid and cooed. “Isn’t that something?”

Patricia scooted past me, out into the hotel room and grabbed the remote off the TV. When she clicked it on, the theme from “The Jeffersons” was playing. My wife sang along. “Moving on up to the east side. To that deluxe apartment in the sky . . . .” She turned to me with a giant grin on her face. “We get to watch TV.”

She tossed the remote onto one of the beds, scooted to the picture window and pulled the drapes back. Then, with outstretched arms, she declared, “Thank you Paducah!”

In the historic district, near the river, there were old warehouses and market places with elaborate cornices and slate roofs. Some of the store fronts looked like they could have been part of the set for “Hello Dolly.”

It was in that part of town where the After Dinner Downtown program took place. We parked the cart and dropped our stage at the corner of First Street and Broadway–next to the twenty-foot high concrete flood wall. That poetry show was different than any I had ever done. Other entertainers and artists were set up along the street like a carnival. So we were just one of the sideshows. On the other side of the flood wall from us, down near the Ohio River, was a stage for bands. So we had to compete for the attention of a roaming audience and struggle to be heard above amplified rock-and-roll. But it worked. We made a few bucks in the hat, sold some books and had a good time.

The next morning, when I pulled back the hotel drapes, not a cloud was in the sky. We had spent part of Saturday drying out our clothes in the hotel laundry. The plan was for me to load them onto my bicycle and
pedal to where Della and the cart where. After I fed her and packed the cart, I would return to the hotel for breakfast. Then we’d hitch up Della and head east.

When I got to the lot, Della was on the opposite side of it lying on the ground. I called to her, but she didn’t get up. She just laid there looking at me. This was not good. I trotted across the lot and knelt beside her. “What’s wrong, Big Sis?”

She leaned her big head against my chest and groaned as her long soft ears twitched about my face. Her breathing was shallow and gurgling. This was not good.

I gripped her halter. “Come on, Sis. You’ve got to get up.”

When I tried to pull her up, she just laid there and groaned. I began to panic.
What if Della ate something that poisoned her
. At one time, farm supplies had been stored on that lot, but that was more than a decade ago. Before we turned her loose, I looked the place over to make sure there was nothing that could harm her.
Maybe I missed something
.

My mind whirled with “What if’s” as I wandered around looking for clues to what was wrong. I found nothing. So I went back and grabbed her halter. “Let’s go, Della.”

She still wouldn’t stand. I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around her neck. When I laid my cheek against her flaxen mane, a monstrous feeling of dread enveloped every fiber of me. It had been just a little over a year since we’d lost Buck–the mule who was originally going to be our partner. That scar was still raw in my heart. I closed my eyes and the tears flowed. “No! This can’t be happening again.”

Back in the hotel room, when I told Patricia about Della, horror ravaged my wife. “I’ve got to go to her!”

We forgot about breakfast, packed the rest of our things, checked out of the hotel and pedaled to Della. To my relief, she was on her feet. When we walked across the lot to her, Della took a couple of steps toward us. She was lame. Her right front ankle was swollen. I didn’t see it before because she had it tucked under her when she was down.

I was elated. Not because she was hurt. But because this was something I knew how to treat. I just needed a medication called “Bute,” ice and time for her to heal.

Patricia and I rolled the cart to the center of the lot so we could set up camp. That’s when we discovered why Della was lame. It was a hole, about three feet deep, that had weeds laying over the top of it. From tracks around the hole, it was evident Della had stepped into it and turned her ankle. We were lucky she didn’t break her leg.

After we set up camp, I biked to a fire station a couple of blocks from the lot. I figured they could direct me to the closest place to buy ice. After I told the captain about our predicament, he said, “We’ve got a whole machine full of ice. Help yourself, and if you need more come back.”

Bute is an anti-inflammatory. It’s like a big aspirin for horses. We had a few tablets with us, but not enough. I needed to find a veterinarian to sell me some more.

When we first came to Paducah and put Della in the lot, we met the man who owned a feed and garden store half a block away. Dan Phelps told us if we needed anything for Della to let him know. So, Monday morning I went to Dan and told him what happened. He put me in touch with a veterinarian. Then he told us we could use his restrooms while we were camped in the lot. “If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

“I need a couple of bales of hay.”

Dan didn’t sell hay. “But I should be able to get you some by tomorrow.”

Shortly after we set up camp in the lot, an eighteen-wheeler backed up to the meat packing plant across the street. It was loaded with hogs. The squeals and grunts of swine overwhelmed the neighborhood as men prodded them through the loading gate. Above the pig sounds were shouts and curses of those who prodded, counted and weighed them. With a constant percussion of pops, snaps and slaps they were herded into the plant.

Trucks came and went all hours of the day and night. Sometimes the swine sounds lasted longer than others. It depended on the size of the truck. The big rigs, with double decker trailers, delivered the longest sessions. But often the small time operators brought more intense chaos. The ones who got their pigs to climb on top of one another for the ride to slaughter. Swine on top of swine in stake-side trucks or make shift trailers.

It was all unnerving. But the worst was when the final pig was ushered into the killing parlor. You could always tell it was the last one because the noise had died down to just an occasional grunt. Then there’d be frantic squeals that crescendoed to a sharp pop. Then silence.

It was either late Monday night, or early Tuesday morning, when the diesel motor of one of the big haulers woke me. It parked adjacent to our camp and the headlights went off. Then I heard the driver’s door slam, followed by footsteps in the direction of the plant.

The hogs were fairly quiet. Only an occasional grunt now and then. While I laid in the tent and waited for the turmoil, I started to think about them. The pigs. Do they have any idea that this is the end of their life? When they’re prodded out of the trailer down that narrow passage, are they frantic for understanding? At the end of the passageway, where the screams are louder, does it suddenly make sense when they see the piggies ahead of them drop in the parlor?

Through the dark, I heard the truck door open, then slam shut. With a soft blast of air, the brake disengaged and I could hear the gears shift. While the truck backed toward the plant, I began to wonder about the driver. The pilot who brought those hogs to their doom. Did he ever have a sense of remorse? Does he ever wish it wasn’t this way? Or did he just see it as his job. It’s just what he does for his pay. In the tent, in the calm before the chaos, this vagabond’s brain couldn’t help but wonder about those things.

Patricia climbed out of the tent Tuesday morning and said, “What a night!” When the pigs weren’t keeping me awake, I had nightmares about them. It was horrible!”

After breakfast, I strapped a water jug onto the back of my bike. Then the two of us went over to Dan’s store to use his bathroom and see if he had found hay for Della. When we got to the parking lot, I spotted Dan and one of his employees inside the warehouse. So I climbed up onto the loading dock while Patricia continued toward the bathroom.