Life’s never grand always, but its better on the road, most days. Living along highways, and new towns every other day, requires the acceptance of transition. Circumstances never remain the same. Today it’s cloudy, yesterday it was sunny. Yesterday my head ached terribly, today it seems to be recovering. Tomorrow will most definitely be different. I have only one hang up with completely letting go while time and the road pass me by as I stand peacefully still amidst the currents of transition. It’s all the damn rules of man, aggressively dictating the decisions being made in my mind. Almost the very reason behind decisions themselves, the rules man’s made. Without them we may no longer have to decide. I’d sit right here all day… shit, eat, sleep. But it’s not my property, the tea I purchased bought me momentary space. In time, my time here will be up. I’ll be forced to cut my stay, no matter how long I really wanted to stay. Would it be possible for humans to pass in peace? Feeling no need to think of the other, just a smell and a sight, no thought, no reason, just being. I write to achieve nothingness. Which is a mistake of mine I guess. I always seem to get here. Which is where I’m not sure I’m relaying anything, or even doing something, besides putting letters and then words one after the other. I’m driving across the country for My sakes, and have nothing better to type. Let me think of a story. Ah… yesterday I met Bob Ketchum. He makes maple syrup, milk, and red meat. Also likes to say something like “eeeeaar” intermittently as he shares. He was much older than me, yet seemed younger in spirit. Grew up on his dads farm in Vermont. It’s now his. I first met him in his maple stand mid morning. Mid morning for me, I’m sure it was late morning for him. Bobs really skinny, not tall. Has wild eyes behind thick plates of glass. Wears a farmers cap of course. You know the ones that the obnoxious guy who married Demi Moore constantly wears. Bobs voice is high, he talks like a guy dealing in maple syrup. His best friend is a ferocious, cow heel biting, dog. I bought some syrup, filled up my water bottles, then drove across the river to relax for the day. Later that day I had the inclination that somebody would be stopping by to visit. I had been sitting alone next to the White River all day. Guy in a wheelchair sitting alone by a river all day is bound to gain company. To my surprise it was not some depressing george aimed to relate his miserable life to my assumed also miserable life, it was Bob! He’d been working the farm for the past nine hours and was getting ready to go another nine. Since I told Bob that the bottle of maple syrup I purchased was for my uncle he decided to bring over one for me, “on the farm”. He really made my day. We sat and he shared his story, all having happened in the river valley that surrounded us. He caught giant brown trout after school as a boy, saw a small dirt road turn into a highway listed as Most Scenic Drive by a book, went to war, and came back to take over his fathers farm. I wish I had a more romantic story to tell you from Bob, but he was just a farmer and that’s why I liked him most. Sure he saw I was in a wheelchair, asked what had happened, and then shared his own near death experience. Seems to be common human nature, when stumbling across someone in a wheelchair, to share a personal health hazardous occasion. It may not have been nearly as bad a hazard, but atleast their minds will be a little more at ease while dealing with the sight of other human in wheelchair. So no romantic farm boy stories, and Bob hit a sore spot with me by sharing his own sad story. You may say, there’s no great substance here Jordan. But there was, it was Bob, he was a farmer. The man cared for nothing more than working his farm. He had done this for 80 hours a week since returning from the war. I don’t know which one. Bob had found what he loved in life, and thought of nothing more. Human relations where nothing but stories to him. He brought me the syrup to hear a bit of mine, I don’t think he felt one of his own. His story existed in the land sitting across the river from us, and no words could converse it. I liked Bob cause he existed in what he did, and loved what he did, and needed nothing more. Reasons meant little, the farm meant everything. His only concern in life was what would happen to the farm when he was gone, and he would work it until the day came. This is what I can tell you about the day Bob and I sat beside the river. The water moved swift and clear. A farmer told me about the grand job the environmentalist had done cleaning up the river, and how the brown trout were all gone now. Bob’s a lactose intolerant dairy farmer who makes maple syrup on the side. I’m thankful I met him.

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