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"IN MEMORY OF MARY LOGSDON" - IN NOTE SECTION OF CHECK

AUGUST 17, 2006 -  "I have my ship and all her flags are a flyin'
She is all that I have left and music is her name.."

Houghton Michigan is an interesting "College" town. It has all the requisite trendy stores, some of which have absolutely NO business staying in business. I guess it seems "too cool" when you and your friends go into the ESPRESSOMUNDO to buy a ultra rich sugar laden steamed mil Macchiato something or other then sit at the table with those friends and talk about absolutely mindless crap ………..

"Like, I was in my loose pajamas, being all sexy and cute and stuff, and like the door opened and like he just came in and I like went crazy and jumped all over him and like he liked that like I did and like it was just so, well, I don't have to tell YOU what I am talking about, like …."

Well, like I was going to puke, so like, I walked like down the like, the like the like the (shit, I'm stuck) street.  I was able to log on last night and put up the blog and the photos. Tonight, I am in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. I was able to cruise up the Keweenaw right to the beginning of route 41. This road winds all the way to Miami, Florida, some 1992 miles south.  From there, I went back south through Hancock and Houghton and headed for L'anse, Baraga and Marquette. The trip across the top of the Upper Peninsula was made at a pretty good clip. I had made arrangements with Bob Perry to meet me at 8:00 PM, but I actually got there about a ½ hour sooner than expected. It would have been sooner, but cruising along with traffic at about 80 MPH, eastbound, I was hit by a bumble bee that was able to bypass the windshield the helmet and hit the ¼ inch of bare skin just above the sunglasses and just below the helmet. It felt like I was hit with a snotty baseball bat. I was unable to see through my left eye. The bee carcass was occupying the space between my glasses and the sun goggles that I wear while driving. The bee innards were E V E R Y W H E R E but inside the bee! I was able to see out of my right eye and got the bike over to the side of the road. Putting the kickstand down and getting the bike down on the stand helped a bit as well. I was able to get the helmet off, then the glasses off. The side compartment of the Trunk bag had some McDonald's napkins available so I began the clean up process.

Bee guts don't stink, either. They ARE STICKY, though. It took me longer to clean my face, eye, sun goggles and glasses than I thought it would. Then just as I was putting everything away, they guy who lives in the house (INDOOR RUMMAGE SALE IN PROGRESS) let his dog out. What does THAT thing do? It comes heading for ME… I think I was about to become HIS bee.
I got my ample butt out of there. While headed eastbound, I noticed a Steakhouse that was just west of Greenwood. It was called DEROCHA'S STEAKHOUSE. I believe it is owned by someone that is part of my friend Tom Derocha's family.

Basically, the trip was uneventful following the funeral of the bumble bee.  But the one thing that struck me today during my run across Michigan was something that I had noticed earlier in the trip. I came from a rural farm oriented family. Some of my earliest memories are those that are centered on that early farm life. I can remember getting up in the morning and hearing the sound of a John Deere "putting" and "popping" out in the field. It didn't matter what time of year it was, but the best time of year, for me, was when it was time for the fields to be mowed. There is absolutely nothing like the smell in the air that is created by the mere cutting of the hay in those fields. I have been moving through mountains, across plains and in areas that were sort of "in-between" flat and mountainous. New mowed fields smell the same regardless of where they are in the country. They smell of yesterday and exploring. They smell of Barns and Bales. I am a child again walking through arm pit high grass to the far end of the field, just because the house and the barn look so small from waaaaaaay over there.

Later, as a teen, I helped bale that hay. Unlike the baled hay today, the bales back then had to be hand "bucked" or stacked on the wagon trailing behind the baler. The trick was to get the most bales on the wagon without blowing the tires (from the weight) or without stacking them so high that they wouldn't go through the barn door.  It is hard work. It is sweaty work. I believe my love of watermelon stems from those times. That was the reward at the end of the day. Watermelons would be iced down the entire day, just so that they could be consumed as desert at the end of dinner. Lightening bugs or fireflies could be seen in the evenings across acres and acres of recently cut fields, and out over the corn fields of my home.  It had a soothing and comforting affect.

Bob Perry was already at the Comfort Inn tonight when I got here. Like Kevin Matts, who started the trip with me, Bob is going to finish it with me. We head back west, now to hit the bottom of the Upper Peninsula and down into Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana and finally back into Michigan to finish the Lower Peninsula.

The trip, the quest, the journey is coming to a close. I quoted Steven Tyler in yesterday's chapter. "Life's a journey, not a destination…" and that is the truth. I will write later about what this trip has meant to me, what it has done for me and what it hasn't done.  I have a story to tell you. It is a short one.

It goes like this:
I have had some wonderful opportunities in my life and this is certainly one of them. But, this is just part of the journey, not the destination.