West, Texas – The Senate in Austin passed a bill to legalize noodling, an old southern tradition where Texans catch catfish with their bare hands. Noodling actually involves catching a catfish by finding its underwater den, sticking your hand inside the hole, and when the fish latches on to your arm with its mouth then you haul it out.
One comment among lawmakers during debate on the bill – would noodling with your feet be legal?
On Saturday, I had a nice surprise while sitting outside a grocery in the small town of West, Texas.
A pair of teens, Taylor and Bailey, asked me about the tour and then asked me to go fishing.
We kept it old school, and used poles.
Taylor was a high school junior who wore skinny jeans, a tame Mohawk and liked punk rock.
Bailey was a high school senior, had green spear earrings and a bit of a wanna-be-rebel attitude.
Both were naturally good-hearted. We got to the fishing hole in Taylor’s old Plymouth. We had to rearrange a bit so we could push my bike in the trunk, so I had to hold a chair in my lap in the front seat.
Topics of discussion that afternoon ran the gamut from music, to college, and dreams of moving to Colorado.
We pulled in about a dozen healthy bluegill and then Taylor said, “You can spend the night at my house.”
The whole setup felt so comfortable, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
We drove about seven miles to the small town of Aquilla where there was a welcome wagon of seven puppies.
My first red flag popped up when I entered the home and there was the “sweet smell” that uncles Cheech and Chong just left.
And there was Taylor’s mom; I think this was the first she was hearing of her house guest.
It was about 7:30 p.m. and there was still some light left; I grabbed my gloves and headed for my bike.
The drama started as Taylor’s mom came out onto the porch and yelled, “It’s okay Hun, you can stay.”
Then she doppled over to my bike and explained how she wasn’t sure if “that-damn-Matt’s going to shine around” and she just didn’t want any trouble.
Turns out “that-damn-Matt” was a kid who grew up in the house, but later got into some personal trouble and now was on the run from the law.
Taylor and Bailey were extremely reassuring – everything would be fine – and there was fish to eat, so I reluctantly stayed.
With everybody hungry, the homemade fish dinner quickly changed to pizza and ice cream.
I felt like I was at a party for a five-year-old.
With the edginess on the evening subsiding, we relaxed with a bit of King-of-the-Hill therapy, and I was ready to turn in for the night.
“Just kidding,” said Taylor. “We pulled it off the curb.” (That was one unique factor of Taylor’s personality, he liked to kid.)
When we were having pizza, he didn’t take any. After a couple minutes, I asked him if he was eating. “Yeah, I’m just waiting. I put poison on the pizza and forgot which half……. just kidding,” he said and loped into the kitchen to grab a plate.
It was prickly humor and it made my eye twitch.
Within a half hour of going to bed my fingers started cramping, I guess I was clutching my pepper spray and flashlight too tight. I flipped the covers on the bed to get more comfortable and heard something like a battery fall to the floor. Managed to find it right away; my bad… I was wrong – it was a bullet.
I stewed; it was one more stake in my flagging morale. I finally brought it to Taylor who was still watching TV. “You found that here? Swear to God we don’t even have a ……” and he stopped mid-sentence.
“That-damn-Matt,” said Taylor.
After a lot of consoling, Taylor and Bailey said everything would be fine. I needed a beer, or 12. I went back to bed and looked to lock the door, but there was no lock. Matter of fact, there wasn’t even a doorknob. An orange sock hung through the hole. I shook my head, put my faith in prayer and pepper spray, and lay down for the night in front of the door.
This was now crazy with a side of crazy.
My friends asked if I thought about leaving, and I did, every hour – 1 o’clock, 2 o’clock….
At 2:30 a.m. I heard the front door slam and shot up in bed.
I listened and before I knew it my bedroom door opened and I was face to face with “That-Damn-Matt”.
I stood up and in that moment Matt went wide-eyed and found religion. “A lady in my bedroom – Thank you Jesus,” he said with a heavy drawl that sounded like Spicoli swallowed a Texan.
Then he let go a low Beavis-and-Butthead laugh.
That-damn-Matt looked like he was 12 years old. He had a round face, shaggy bowl haircut, and said he was ready to party. I was taller, Matt was quick to point out I was older, and I was in no mood. I quickly set my boundaries using my no-nonsense voice, which included dibs on the bedroom. I turned, closed the door and flipped my sock-lock in disgust.
I spent the rest of the night with one eye open and making frequent surveillance trips with my water bottle to the kitchen. During one trip I grabbed a fillet knife off the counter and slept with it under my pillow.
At 5:30 a.m. I left with the thought, it’s all part of the adventure.
Irving, Texas – Landed about 10:30 a.m. Wednesday at Dulles Fort Worth Airport. Weather is sunny, breezy and a comfortable 72 degrees.
Limo driver, Stan, hovered and chatted with me while I put my bicycle together.
He was in his early 60s; worked himself to death by choice. He regularly put in 14-hour days but seemed to thrive on it.
“I don’t want to name drop, but I’ve driven Steven Spielberg,” he said about the movie director. And the I’m-not-bragging list continued.
“Jennifer Aniston, Adam Sandler, Michael Douglas, Angelina Jolie, Tom Cruise, …..”
He did his best to offer me some direction on Texas roads, but bicycling out of the airport was something new and he was understandably flummoxed.
Pedaling out of the airport was rather simple. Within eight miles I was in Irving – a small town, south of the airport.
I had a backpacker’s hostel lined up for my first night.
I swung over to the Dallas Irving Backpackers Guesthouse – it was a little sketchy.
A simple white house on 6th Avenue, on the edge of a business district.
There were a pair of hand-written signs on the door and a beat up van under the car park.
Instructions to visitors were spelled out in black felt marker. “Pick up phone on the left and call number listed.”
If that option didn’t work, visitors were instructed to ‘walk around the side of the building’ and see if anybody was inside to ‘let you in.’
It seemed inviting and homey, in a Jeffrey Dahmer sort of way.
The phone ‘on the left’ was a desk phone resting on the porch with a hard-line cord pinched between the closed front door. The white phone, now a tinge gray, lay under a clear plastic sheet – similar to something you’d use to tow a pile of leaves to the curb.
I peered around the side of the building and thought twice.
I managed to secure a couch in the youth room at Irving First United Methodist Church. Pastor Sean said he’d trade out the space if I’d give a brief speech to his 7th and 8th graders about my tour.
MEET TIM..
Irving, Texas has a lot of small-town charm.
Historic homes with gabled entrances and a wing-architectural style, popular in the early twentieth century.
The home of Eugene and Mary Ann Beaufford is on Main St. and part of the Irving Texas Centennial tour. It was one of the oldest houses in the community, constructed in May 1904 the property was used as an irrigated truck farm.
Another notable home belonged to Fred Joffre. An early contractor and carpenter, Joffre designed and built a California-style airplane bungalow in 1919.
A rusty, black wrought-iron fence was set along the sidewalk. A half-circle gravel driveway led to the entrance of the home which featured two simple armless rockers and a porch swing.
Pioneer Dr. Franklin Monroe Gilbert and wife Dorothy purchased the home in 1939 and for nearly 30 years patients came night and day as they knew help was available for examination, medication and emergency treatment.
Up the street was the Irving Park Veterans Memorial.
“Can you take my picture,” said a man standing alongside one of the bronze military statues.
“I need a picture to update my profile on match.com.”
His name was Tim. He was tall, a simple man with a figure of a mashed potato and I say that in a warm non-judgmental way.
Dressed in baggy blue jeans, a black Michael Jackson t-shirt tucked in his pants and cinched tight with a black belt whose front end hung out about a foot.
A green cloth bag from the Irving Texas Public Library sat on a cement bench next to Tim. It was packed full of dog-eared spiral notebooks, a half-empty plastic bottle of water and a box of Kool Aid Twist juices.
I took his disposable Kodak camera and snapped a couple photos.
“I need a full-body shot,” said Tim. (head nod to Jon Heder and Napoleon Dynamite.)
“I need my feet in the picture because the head and shoulders I’ve posted so far haven’t worked.”
Tim was a sharer and looking for love.
Some may say Tim’s picture request was a clumsy attempt at flirting. I say he was seriously set on posting an updated photo and I was the closest help available.
After the photo shoot, we talked. And when I say ‘we’ I mean Tim. He laid out the combo platter that was his life.
Tim talked about working 23 years at K-mart in Michigan, getting sacked, wandering a bit, living in homeless shelters, and his job driving a box truck.
Tim blamed the demise in that endeavor on a no-good partner.
“He was in a lot of trouble because his wife caught him cheating with her sister,” said Tim.
“I won’t tell you his name, because you might figure out who he is.”
Blank stare.
All the while chatting, Tim kept his arm wrapped around the shoulder of the bronze statue. It was the same pose he held in his soon-to-be-published photo.
EAT AT JOES…
Took off first thing Thursday morning to Joe’s restaurant on Irving Boulevard.
The menu featured Texas Chili omelets, ‘delicious homemade biscuits, and Big Bird pancakes with two eggs, hash browns and bacon or sausage.
After putting in a watching-my-figure order of bottomless cup of coffee, two eggs, and salsa on the side – I had regrets.
The couple at the booth next to me ordered the hot cakes; they came with a pail of blueberries dumped over the top.
Texas – does it big. Everything is big.
TIDBITS…
– A man I met at Joe’s restaurant in Irving sent me an e-mail. Ramey Faries wrote: “Met you at Joe’s this morning. I meet Uncle Dick every morning for breakfast at Joe’s. Just wanted to say you were a breath of fresh air, always great to meet interesting people. It was funny to walk in and see someone sitting with him at the table. I hope this finds you having made it to Waco safely. I noticed on your blog many pictures from your adventures. If you have a favorite you should send it to me; I do oil-on-canvas paintings and would love to do one of something important to you.
– Stopped at a small church outside Arlington to fill my water bottles and met Bill Dunn. He was the only man amongst a group of women playing dominos.
Bill had black, round, super sized Harry-Potter glasses, a small tuft of white hair on his head and another on his chin, and he reminded me of the Colonel from KFC.
Bill was also an Army veteran. “I was in the Cold War and over in Germany in 1961,” he said.
Stationed in the artillery division Bill talked about how the Germans would break into communications. “They’d play the German National Anthem; it sounded like a funeral dirge,” he said.
And although it was more than five decades ago, Bill still lamented missing Elvis during a USO show.
“We had only 30 minutes to try and see him,” said Bill.
“I had to pull a shift and couldn’t get there on time and went back to duty.”
Bill and the church group invited me to stay for lunch. They dumped the dominoes and spent the next hour talking about whether their Governor Rick Perry would run for president, how few of them voted for the referendum for the new Dallas stadium, and there was a lot of disagreement on the concealed carry law.
Midlothian, Texas – If a person at a library offers directions with the caveat, “I’m really bad at directions,” that’s often an honest, spot-on admission.
I stopped at the public library in the very small town of Venus, about 35 miles south of Dallas.
It was late, 4:30 p.m. and I had about 50 miles on the day.
I say late because normally I find a place to stay by that time and with darkness around the corner and miles from my destination city, I was starting to feel a little nervous.
I confided in the librarian I was looking for help and a church or safe haven for the night. She suggested I try the Cowboy Church off Highway 67.
Wow – Cowboy Church, this must be Texas.
I had been biking much of the day on Highway 67 so when the librarian said ‘you go over a bridge and it’s on your left,’ I didn’t equate bridge with a highway overpass.
About seven miles out of town the sheriff’s deputies made it clear. I was rerouted again – with an escort.
I’m such an embarrassment for bicyclists and the state of Wisconsin. (Mind you, during these situations I tell officers I’m from Illinois.)
Off the highway and through a mile of forest, I’m completely lost. The road empties onto a main street in the small community of Midlothian.
I stop at a park and seek advice from a series of football moms sitting in folding chairs along the sideline.
All of them point to the parking lot and a man sitting in a Ford Explorer.
It’s Pastor Bruce Smilie from Crosspointe Church and he allows me to spend the night in the youth room at his church.
HIGHLIGHTS…
– Spent the day visiting Dallas Stadium and Texas Rangers ballpark in Arlington. Small world – on my way into the stadium I saw a number of Brewers shirts and questioned the group, which ended up being from Wisconsin Lutheran College. Once inside, Heidi behind the front desk said she was from Campbellsport.
– Spent the night at a tiny First Baptist Church in small town of Italy. Found the pastor’s daughter, Ronda Cockerham, working at City Hall. She let me into the church and handed me a basket of soaps and a towel. I took the gift more so as one of hospitality than a subtle message that I had much of my day’s journey stuck to me.
– Italy’s claim to fame is it’s the hometown of Dale Evans.
– Passing through Waxahachie I took a tour of the Catfish Plantation. The restaurant, set in a home built in 1895, is said to be haunted, and has been featured on several national shows, including the Travel Channel and the Discovery Channel’s Ghost Lab.
Sitting on the front porch, I paged through hundreds of letters in a three-ring binder – testimonials of guests who witnessed ghosts. Sightings included things like “While I was at Catfish Plantation the doors attacked me, my food was floating, the lights were flickering,” and Carolyn Horsak wrote that she was “eating my shrimp dinner when I picked up a shrimp to dip in the sauce and noticed there was already a bite taken.”
“That book’s a bunch of hogwash,” said a woman who walked through the porch like a bull in a china shop with an opinion.
Shane Sparks was the manager and executive chef at Catfish Plantation. “So many of those people don’t know the difference between a breeze blowing through the building and a ghost.”
Shane was a large, saucy woman with feathers dangling from hoop earrings. She was also on a mission to set the record straight.
“We do have ghosts, but so many people come here thinking they’ll see one – they freak themselves out,” she said.
Matter of fact, many customers got carried away, especially in the bathroom.
“We had to put up a sign “No playin” because people would be screamin’ in the bathroom if we had a short circuit and one of the light bulbs would flicker.”
Shane rolled her eyes – she had little patience for amateurs.
“I’ve actually seen the ghost,” said Shane, running through a list of examples about how a ghost would really push open a door or appear in a picture. “One of the ghosts actually slapped my 13-year-old daughter on the arm.
“I wasn’t mad, because we all felt like giving her a crack that day – it’s just that the ghost beat us to it,” she said.
Mirebalais, HAITI – West Bend octogenarian Heidi Thomas is in the midst of her 72nd tour of Haiti.
Thomas, and a contingent of eight, will be teaching 4-H skills to groups in several cities with a focus on sanitation and hygiene. Haiti is currently dealing with a devastating cholera epidemic that’s killed thousands.
The overall Hatian experience is overwhelming as is the country itself. “You can’t understand the culture if you don’t experience it,” said Thomas.
Stories below are a collection of observations and highlights.
– It took a full day of travel, 20 hours, to get to our destination of Haiti, located south of Florida. Departing from Chicago and landing in Port Au Prince we find the terminal closed, still heavily damaged from an earthquake that occurred a year ago to the day. We clear customs in a makeshift pole building and later learn only five-percent of the quake damage has been repaired across the country in the last year.
– “Complete devastation and rubble” accurately describe this third world country. Karen Neumann of Kewaskum is on her third tour; she said Haiti is “friendship.”
“You see the rubble the first time – the junky cars and the poor roads – now I see so much improvement and look forward to the people I’ve met before,” she said.
– We’re staying at the rectory of the Episcopal church in Mirebalais located about 35-miles northeast of Port Au Prince. Five of the eight in the group are sleeping on mattresses out on the upstairs porch. A pair of white sheets and a pillow are all the covering needed since temperatures hover in the 70s overnight.
The first evening’s sleep is marked by a memorable dog-barking contest that started when the rooster crowed at midnight. It feels like a night spent in the small animal barn at the Washington County Fair. We’re all hoping Kewaskum veterinarian Greg Ogi, a member of the tour group, can work his dog-whispering powers the rest of the week.
– The youngest member of the tour is 22-year-old Jocelyn Ritger, a 2007 graduate of West Bend West High School. Ritger, her hair pulled back in a French braid, took pictures out of the airplane window; she highly anticipated this trip. Within an hour after landing, Ritger is overwhelmed. “It definitely blows you away,’ she said. “Nobody could have ever thought it would be like this.”
On the second day, the group of nine crammed into a Toyota Land Cruiser; it’s a tight squeeze and we get creative to make work.
Ritger is 5’11 – the tallest and skinniest; she sits backward in the middle of the front seat with the driver on her right and Thomas on her left. At one point Ritger is reprimanded by the Haitian driver for multi-tasking – unbeknownst to her she shifted gears while trying to adjust to a more comfortable position.
– It’s hard not to take photos at every turn:
– We can only assume there’re no driver’s ed class in Haiti – think Mario Kart channeling Evel Knievel. A gravel road for one-way traffic is a green light for three vehicles wide in Haiti, with small motorcycles passing on either side, in both directions.
– Men don’t like their pictures taken – they believe it steals their souls.
– Children like to have their photo taken and some have surprisingly good English. “Give me a dollar,” said Patricia after I snapped her picture outside church.
– There’s optimism in Haiti; we visit a man named Eddie Charles who graduated high school in Boston and then returned to Haiti where he developed a sizable drug problem in Port Au Prince. Now, cleaning up his act, Charles invites us into a 10′ x 10′ square foot shack with the words American Dream written in white chalk above the door. Inside there is a collection of deflated soccer balls, a series of Hot Wheel cars, a plastic toy tiger, a stuffed purple elephant, a keychain with a zebra fob, a small American flag and a framed picture of President Obama. Charles said he hopes to turn his collection into a sports museum.
– Ray Lipman would be proud – We visit about 80 children at a local 4-H meeting. Two of the kids are wearing Homer’s Club West Bend Savings shirts.
– The roads in Haiti are terrible – envision goat path… and I’m being nice. Rubble and garbage line both sides of primary and secondary roads, there are few street signs and our driver often stops and asks people along the road if we’re headed in the right direction. There are no sidewalks, so motorists are quick on the horn as pedestrians walk two or three abreast – sometime with cows in tow, sometimes riding atop a donkey.
– Rotary International, including West Bend’s Rotary, has helped fund 44 operating wells within a 150-mile radius of Port Au Prince.
– Electricity is turned off at our Episcopalian church/motel during the day as a way to conserve. Returning home from a nine-hour day the power is completly out in the entire neighborhood; there’s a road project going on and there’s no clue when power will be restored.
– A library at a hospital in the city of Cange is seldom open due to concerns about possible theft.
– We visit an orphanage about 25 minutes away; Shae Hellmann of Atlanta, Georgia permanently moved to the facility seven months ago. “I’ve been all around the world and I know this is where I want to be,” said the 20-something. Hellmann is dressed in an orange bandana, she has stylish rectangular glasses and is carrying a very small baby. There are 33 children at the orphanage; 14 were sick with cholera and three went to the hospital. The children cannot sleep in the building on site, it’s still deemed unsafe after last year’s earthquake.
– We had our first flat tire and I helped our driver Peter with the change. It’s sunny and there’s a dense, furnace heat. Once finished, Peter said we should open a repair garage together.
– A photographer traveling with the Thomas tour often waves at Haitian children in an effort to spark some action. The stone-faced children seem to have a look of “that crazy white woman.” Later that evening I learn the gesture is an insult and I’m told to stop. “What about miming the make-a-muscle-gesture?” Thomas said that’s a swearing motion and I should cut that out, too.
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Me and my bags. Missing for 23 days and I get them two days before I leave for home. Timely!
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Tuakau, New Zealand – Dec 31, 2010 – I’ve had a streak of good luck lately as New Zealander’s have stepped up and adopted me for the night.
In Hamilton, Sue was bringing me coffee at the Garden Cafe in the Town Centre and we started chatting about the tour. Moments later her husband brought me a beautiful breakfast of scrambled eggs with chives, a side of buttered wheat toast and a couple wedges of tomato and avocado sprinkled with alfalfa sprouts. “You can stay at our home tonight,” he said, setting the plate down in front of me.
In Huntly, while searching for a church I stopped a woman on the street; Shirley wracked her brain for the name of a local pastor and then invited me to her home so we could look up the number.
“If you’re from Wisconsin, do you know of a city called Racine? I have a pen friend there, her name is Carol,” she said. Shirley found her “pen friend” in a magazine and they had been corresponding for 40 years. Shirley turned me on to minister Dorreen and her husband John, and they took me in for the evening. John was a largely unrecognized authority on everything… too bad I had such a difficult time understanding him. Think Mush-mouth from Fat Albert and the Cosby kids and then throw in a New Zealand accent – and I’m being nice. I really concentrated hard when John spoke. I only caught myself daydreaming twice – once was about when Sizzler restaurants were popular and the other was when the Banana Splits were on TV.
John talked about his trip to Montana and his upcoming bicycle tour. He had a powerful memory, although highly inaccurate, according to his wife. John was so hospitable he even went so far as to grab his purple mountain bike and helmet and guide me out of town.
In Turakau I met Ruth outside the public library. We both complained a lot about the library being closed the next four days, then Ruth said I could stay the night at her place. Ruth’s home was like an aviary; birds were in cages the size of a shed. Inside the garage there were several cages of Bourkes, canaries and an Indian Ringneck named Sweetie Pie. “I have geriatric chickens,” said Ruth about the motley crew of aging birds. “I get a random egg here and there, but mostly they’re living the Sabbath of their life in my backyard and loving it.” Aside from the chickens there was an off-white budgie, a yellow Cockatiel and an Eastern Rosella, which looked like a bright red parrot.
There were fantail pigeons which opened the day with a morning-dove coo; and a pen full of white doves. “I let four of them go during my husband’s funeral,” said Ruth. “Three of them returned home the next day and the fourth didn’t come back until my husband’s ashes were turned over to me; that was four days after the service. “It was weird,” said Ruth lowering her voice like she didn’t want the gods to hear.
TIDBITS…
– Went to donate blood in New Zealand just to see how their system works. I never passed the iron test. It’s nice to see both the US and Kiwi set-ups are broken. Also interesting, the New Zealand nurses didn’t wear any gloves.
– Some trendy lingo in New Zealand includes: brilliant and lovely instead of nice, keen, heaps, cool (pronounced kuhl), the letter ‘Z’ is pronounced ‘zed’ , lollies are chocolates and a bicycle is referred to as a push bike.
– The other night while staying in at St. Andrew’s Quality Inn and Suites I ate pineapple out of a can – mostly due to non-accompanied travel and impatience.
– Stopped at Candy Land on my way north out of Hamilton. The store was rather Hasbro but the staff was very Willy Wonka; they were all dressed in pink bib overalls. It was like putting a big farm girl in an Oompa Loompa. Queen Candyland: a bit scary with a full-on crown, pink painted cheeks and a decorative purple cape for picture taking. She was like something you’d see when you were high on mushrooms; at least that’s what my friends said.
– Kiwis are quick to offer tea or coffee. Rare is “pressed coffee” offered; more often than not it’s instant. The water is normally inferno hot.
– When you take a bus in New Zealand there’s often a “comfort stop” because there’s no bathroom on the bus. After three hours when everybody piles out I notice the attire is nothing but crop tops and low rise jeans. It is the holiday here in New Zealand but visually it’s like a landscape of Joe the Plumber.
– Bicycled to the Waitakaruru Arboretum; it’s New Zealand’s largest outdoor sculpture gallery located on 42 acres in an old quarry. In 1991 John and Dorothy Wakeling started planting about 400 trees each year in an attempt to enhance the existing landscape. Dorothy, by the way, went to Beloit College in the 1970s.
– It’s day 21 for Baby Jessica, the nickname I’ve given my lost luggage, and at the last public library/Internet stop I received word from Virgin Blue Airline that my luggage has arrived in Auckland. Although joyous, I’m highly skeptical. I will be in Auckland shortly and depart quickly after that. I told the airline to have a competent person sit on my luggage until I arrived to claim it in person. A friend of mine said my approach was as gentle as a punch in the face.
– Downtown Pukekohe and Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” is playing on the public speakers followed by R.E.M.’s “Night Swimming.” There’s a kiosk at the end of King Street with a bit of history detailed in black-and-white photos. Pukekohe’s first motor car arrived in 1911 and belonged to Mr. Berridge. The vehicle used to scare all the horses in the county, as well as children. The Council was called upon to do something, so they passed a resolution that the car be restricted to speeds of 10 m.p.h. A member of the Council sprung to his feet and said the restriction was ridiculous as a donkey could travel faster. The mileage was fixed at 15 m.p.h. The car could be heard from a mile away, which gave pedestrians a chance to take cover and those already mounted on horseback to get into the side streets. “I can tell you the ride through town created quite a hubbub,” said Mr. James Pollock, 86, whose memoirs were tape recorded in 1962.
TheBiKeWriTer is a travel-by-the-seat-of-your-pants website. Few plans, lots of spontaneous adventure, great people with a little bit of history and humor thrown in the mix. Follow along.
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