Today should have been mostly about rest and relaxation, but I "pulled an Eminem," if you will, and walked eight miles (i.e., four miles each way) to and from a restaurant called Spiffy's to have lunch. Not a great lunch, either, though it did fill the gut.
So today involved a good bit of walking along Route 12; earlier on, I did laundry and talked with the husband and wife who volunteer as "camp hosts," which seems to be a role somewhat similar to Father Paul's capacity as Guestmaster of St. Martin's Abbey. They leave, along with me, tomorrow morning, and will go to the coast to tend a lighthouse for two months, which sounds like a marvelous way to spend one's time.
The people who manage the Chevron gas station/convenience store at the intersecton of Jackson and 12 are Korean; they're the folks who told me about the restaurant I went to today. Yesterday I met a woman whose name tag simply said "Chang," and today I met a man wearing what appeared to be the very same name tag, for it also said "Chang." Korean women don't change their surnames when they marry, so perhaps the man and woman are siblings, not spouses. While it's conceivable for two Koreans with the same family name to marry, there's usually a great deal of research to be done to make sure the lovers don't also happen to be distantly related members of the same "tribe," hence the continued importance of family ledgers in Korean society.
On my way back from the resto (the heat was again brutal), I stopped at the Chevron station and bought a mess of drinks and a bag of ice (pic of Kevin's bar already uploaded) for purposes of rehydration. These days I'm not so much a hungry guy as an extremely thirsty one: I sweat out almost everything I take in.
Which brings us to yesterday, a topic I had promised to write about. Yesterday started off well with the goodbye from Dave and Ardeth (I incorrectly referred to them as "the Underwoods" previously, but Ardeth actually goes by her own surname). I walked out of Centralia, then got turned around twice-- once just before entering Chehalis (a passerby pointed me in the right direction; there had been a fork in the road) and once when I was on my way out of downtown Chehalis (which is how I met Nicole, who told me how to reach a decent resto, Kit Carson, and also told me how to get to Jackson, the road that leads to Lewis and Clark State Park, where I am now).
While on my way out of town, I passed by a rec center and baseball field; a girls' softball game was in progress, and parked across the street from the game were Bryan et al., the folks I met yesterday (pic shown previously).
"Where you headed?" Bryan called out from his truck.
"Washington, DC!" I called back, at which point I changed course and headed over to where he was parked with his buddies. I told him what I was up to, and he gave me a reply I hadn't heard before:
"That is so badass!"
High praise indeed for a plump guy on a stroll. I didn't feel I deserved such praise-- think about what our soldiers in Iraq are going through, and that'll put my own paltry effort in perspective-- but my ego didn't mind. I've never been a badass at anything.
Turned out that Bryan and Co. were waiting for friends so they could go hit the Egg Day celebration in a nearby town. I asked the group what Egg Day was all about (Dave and Ardeth had talked about it, actually, so I did know a bit of its history), and they said that this would be their very first Egg Day. I hope it went well.
The walk along Jackson was, as I wrote, brutal. Hot. Sunny. Oppressive. Every time there was a small gust of wind, I was thankful. Every time I passed under a tree shadow, I breathed a sigh of relief and dreaded the shadow's end. To think that this is the mild stuff...
So Jackson was a hard road to walk. Luckily, it had wide shoulders, so I didn't have to dodge traffic.
I did make a point of stopping to refill my Camelbak, though, and I often purchased an extra bottle of juice or tea to drink on the spot before moving on. At one gas station/convenience store, I met Cathy Davis Gibson, the store's day manager. Cathy's from Texas and has written a book of Christian spirituality teaching* called This Song, which is in part a product of her healing process after experiencing domestic violence (I didn't ask details). Another manager at her store is Korean; I saw him briefly but didn't have a chance to talk with him, so I wrote him a message in Korean and left it with Cathy.
When I finally reached the place where Jackson intersects Route 12, I stopped again, and that's where I met the female Chang and spoke with her in Korean. I told her a bit about my weight loss (possibly nearing 30 pounds now), and she told me her son was starting to fatten up. Ah, Korean moms. I hope she's not thinking of telling her son to go on a 3000-mile hike.
From that intersection to the campground entrance, it's about two miles. It would have been uneventful had there not been a bizarre accident: no one was hurt, but a flatbed carrying hay bales had rounded a curve, sending dozens of loose bales tumbling all over the road. The pick-up operation appeared to be a family effort; there was one muscular, goateed guy who sure looked and sounded like a father used to commanding his kids; there was a woman who also exuded calm efficiency and authority, but in a gentler tone that seemed a counterpoint to the man's; and then there were the kids, who seemed to range in age from twenty-something to mid-teen to younger teen.
As I walked past the mess, I asked whether the family needed any help, and one of the kids said it was all right, everything was going to be OK.
I briefly thought about taking a picture of the spill, but when one of the teens passed me, his face both grim and red with the effort of re-collecting all those errant bales and dealing with that gigantic mass of loose straw, I realized how insulting such an act would be. This was no laughing matter for a family that was, like I was at that time of day, probably racing against the sun. Farm work, about which I know a tiny bit after my experience of it in France in 1986, is always a race against time. It's not just you and the earth that are in contention: you're also quite literally striving to keep pace with the massive, ceaseless, and merciless rhythm of the entire solar system. Certain things must be done in their proper season, or your livelihood is ruined. I might joke about country music, but I have great respect for the country people who feed me.
After walking past that memorable scene, I entered the campsite, consulted the camp host about registration, set up camp, blogged a bit, watched the stars, then went to sleep still reeking from my long, sweaty day. My sleeping bag's going to need fumigation soon.
Now I have to check on tomorrow's weather, double-check the mileage to tomorrow's stopover (a motel/hotel, I believe), and write a few more emails while the BlackBerry continues to charge. Might go to sleep early tonight. That'd be a first, what with all the writing still to be done.
*As you will see in the comments to this post, Cathy wrote in to express discomfort with the term "spirituality." I have responded to her comment in a way that I hope will open up some dialogue, but have changed the term so as better to express her self-understanding.
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2 comments:
Dear Kevin, I don't like you referring to my book as Christian "Spirituality" because that's not what it is especially since you haven't had a chance to read it yet yourself. It is filled with totally Biblical Teaching. Most Christians steer away from that word "spirituality". I'd appreciate it if you'd change that. Perhaps just call it A Christian Love Letter or Christian Literature. Thanks, Cathy Davis Gibson
Cathy, I'm happy to change the language if the word "spirituality" bugs you, but as a matter of actual fact, most Christians don't steer away from that term. It's quite common-- perhaps not among certain Christians, but certainly among most. Buddhists, Taoists, Hindus, Muslims, and Jews are the ones who would avoid the term; the term pretty much originates with Christians and is used only occasionally by non-Christians.
But before we go any further, I'd like to know what your definition of "spirituality" is, why you capitalize it, and why the word isn't an appropriate description of what you told me your book is about. I'm worried that we may be talking past each other, using very different definitions of the word. I have a fundamentalist friend who also capitalizes the word "spirit" even when not referring to "the Holy Spirit," but her strain of Christianity is not the mainstream (by "mainstream" I mean the older, established Protestant denominations-- Presbyterian, Methodist, Lutheran, Southern Baptist-- as well as Catholicism); her usage of the term is not what I would call typical, even though a large number of American Christians might use the term the way she does. This friend is more in the "charismatic" wing of Christianity (speaking in tongues, literal view of scripture, etc.), which, at least so far, isn't mainstream. I'll have to look up the numbers; I do know the situation is rapidly changing.
Kevin
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