Howard and Scottie

On June 11, I was making my slow, plodding way to Joshua and Heather's place in Monroe when a station wagon pulled over onto the right shoulder of the road and a long-haired, bearded, mustachioed, baseball-capped gentleman got out. He appeared to be waiting for me, and in fact he was. He offered me a ride and I politely declined, explaining what I was doing. The man, named Howard Davis, shook his head in amazement and said, "You gotta meet my mother and tell her your story. She's the one who said we should stop for you."

So I walked over to the idling station wagon and met Mercedes, nicknamed Scottie. I told her my story; she offered me some food she had in the car with her, but I again declined, this time because I had just eaten bangers and mash at that pub. As I had done with other folks, I explained that I had flown to Vancouver from the DC-Metro area, had crossed the border on foot, and have been walking ever since.

Scottie told me to watch out for all the "corkscrews" out there; I told her that no one had given me any trouble thus far. I asked Scottie how she had gotten her nickname; she said it was the name of her uncle's best friend, who had died in "the war," by which I assume Scottie meant World War 2. Howard again shook his head in amazement, this time at his mother; "That's the first time I ever heard that story," he said.

Howard told me that he appreciates the need for interreligious dialogue because, as a Mormon, he gets a lot of flak (including from his mother). We both had a chuckle at that.

Soon after, it was time for Howard and Scottie to go. We all shook hands; I received more "God bless"es and "be careful"s, and away they went. Quite a pair, those two: Howard looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s, and might have been taking care of his mother. They were a great example of the sort of welcome I've had from many people in the region. It was wonderful to meet and talk with them, however briefly.

Take care, you two!


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