B'Gosh

For three years I suffered with the knowledge that Maine and Vermont were just sitting there waiting for me to fill in the last of the contiguous United States. Then, in 1982, another nefarious plot began to hatch. The World's Fair was in Knoxville, Tennessee; I was setting part of a story in Oshkosh, Wisconsin; there was a ferry across Lake Michigan I wanted to take; there were Provinces east of Manitoba to be discovered; and Barbara Buinickas was getting married in Maryland. Another bus trip was forming itself in my head.

May, 1982, after my work was finished for the Dodgers and the Theatre Guild, I prepared to set out on my next adventure. The bad news: the house next door to my parents was still occupied by Virginia, a recently widowed snowbird who was going back to Murfreesboro, Tennessee for the summer. She caught wind of the fact that I was heading for Knoxville, and she came up with her own nefarious plot. She wanted help with that long drive, and she enlisted my mother's help to guilt me into going with her.


We set out on a Tuesday morning. She drove as far as Tallahassee, and I drove the rest, arriving in Murfreesboro around 9:30 that night. She set up the guest room for me, and informed me that tomorrow we would be visiting all of her friends so they could meet me. My protests went unheard, and Wednesday morning she began hauling my ass all around town, to the insurance company where she used to work, to the houses of several of her friends, and back to her house to receive more visitors. I think they were all as puzzled as I about why Virginia was making such a big deal out of the twenty nine year old son of her next door neighbors in Florida.

Thursday morning I was packing up to go on with my plan, but she had other ideas. She drove me around the city, showing me the sights- all of which I've forgoten- introduced me to some more people, then cooked me a big supper. I was really getting scared now that she was planning to keep me there indefinitely. I announced at bed time that I was leaving in the morning. I would walk to the Greyhound station if I had to. She seemed hurt about this plan, but Friday morning I was ready to walk out the door- run if necessary- and she drove me to the station. I bolted from the car, said good bye on the run, and within minutes had my Ameripass booklet in my hand! Whew!


I arrived in Knoxville in the late afternoon. I asked the ticket agent which way the Fair was, and very soon I was there, on the back side of the University of Tennessee stadium, along the banks of the Tennessee River. The big attraction was a huge Ferris wheel. The line was miles long. I wandered through the exhibits for a while, reading about ecological projects and ideas, then went back to the wheel. The line was even longer. I saw signs about river cruises, so I bought a ticket for one of them. It was pleasant, much quieter out there, breezy, cool, seated in comfort. Then we watched the fireworks from the river boat. Ooooh! Aaaah! When we came back to the dock, I checked the line one more time and headed straight back to the bus station. Before midnight I was on the road again, validated to Oshkosh.


Saturday morning I awoke in Indianapolis, to crowded streets and banners touting the Indy 500. Oh yeah. Memorial Day weekend. Back to sleep. At lunch time I had to change buses in Chicago. I had time to follow my nose to that barbecue place Jerrell had taken me to back in '78, eat and catch the next bus north. In Milwaukee I changed buses to a local through West Bend and Fond du Lac.

As the dusk was falling, I arrived in the charming little city of Oshkosh. This was the home town of the main characters in the novel, Kentucky Crude, dreamed up by Michael Buinickas and me back in 1978. If you never heard of it, it's because it never made it past a hand written first draft, many years before I found the joy of word processing. The next in the series, Orange Peel Express, was to include a trip home to Oshkosh for our heroes. I checked into the hotel across the street from the bus station, showered and changed clothes before wandering the town in the evening. It was a beer town, with a tavern on every corner- perfect for our heroes. I was hit on by a local young woman looking for the father of her first baby to be conceived later, but I was completely clueless about how to play that game, so she moved on. Whew!

Sunday I wandered some more, collecting local color and history, marvelling at how Michael and I had randomly picked Oshkosh because we liked the name, and it had turned out to have just the right ambience for the origin of our characters. Lake Winnebago was awesome, the old abandoned brewery was a great piece of local history, and the people were very friendly and happy to tell me about their fair city. That evening I drank quite a few beers, went back to my room and scribbled a lot of notes. Since then I've moved ten times. All of my scribbles, including Kentucky Crude, are in landfills scattered around Florida.

Monday I went to the bus station and asked to be validated to Kewaunee, Wisconsin, where the ferry to Ludington, Michigan docked. The ticket agent didn't have Kewaunee on his list of destinations, so he validated me to Green Bay and was done. I had some time to look for some Wisconsin cheese for the road, but it seemed every cheese shop was closed. I found an open grocery store and bought cheese- from Minnesota!

The ticket agent in Green Bay didn't know anything about ferries in Kewaunee. The closest he could get me was Two Rivers, about twenty miles away. I decided to try it. You only go around once. But by the time I got to Two Rivers, it was pouring rain. I bagged the plan and high-tailed it back to Green Bay. BTW, I looked up the history of the Lake Michigan ferry system just now. All ferries across the lake were discontinued in April of 1982. Good thing I bagged it when I did.

It was the same ticket agent in Green Bay. I told him I wanted to go to Ontario, and he started to route me through Detroit- back around the south end of the lake. I told him no, I'd already been down there, I wanted to go through Upper Peninsula Michigan. His eyes got real big, and he pulled out the other book. Getting to Sault St. Marie from Green Bay meant changing buses in Menominee, Escanaba and St. Ignace. It took me all night, from dusk to dawn, to slog my way through the Upper Peninsula, dealing with the grouchiest people I've ever dealt with in all of my bus travels. That's going some!

Customer service didn't improve on the other side of the bridge. The Voyageur Bus Company agent was barely willing to validate my Ameripass to Montreal, definitely not to Quebec City. He was absolutely unwilling to issue me another book of tickets. He told me to get it in Montreal. Thank you, too! Onward I went through Espanola, Sudbury, North Bay, Pembroke, Ottowa and finally Montreal.

It was early evening, and I had time, after cajoling a new book of tickets and validating the last page of the old one, to wander the surrounding blocks of the city before boarding the bus to Quebec, Quebec, la cite si belle on deux fois l'appelle (the city so nice they name it twice.) I had a conversation with the person in the seat next to me. He knew a little English, I knew a little French, and we discovered that we were in the same business. He did layout, paste-up and illustration of textbooks in Quebec. He invited me to come by tomorrow to check it out. He also advised me not to stay in the city, but to end my ride in Sainte Foy. I did. After a much-too-long tirade about the US-Canadian dollar exchange rate, the hotel manager in Sainte Foy took my traveler's checks and gave me a key. It was 1:00am on Wednesday.

Wednesday late morning I cleaned up, paid for another night in the hotel, and set out for the city. I rode a city bus part of the way, bought a map and walked into the heart of the city. It was a charming old French city, and it took all of my High School French to barely make myself understood. I found the textbook company, found my fellow passenger and his girlfriend (who had much more English than he) and was given the deluxe tour of the place. I said my au revoirs and mercis, and was on my way again.

I was hungry, so when a sidewalk cafe all but blocked the sidewalk, I sat down. I ordered the Salade Gargantuesque- a really really big salad- and a cup of coffee. My favorite part was when a leaf from the tree overhead fell into my salad, and I couldn't find it. I guess it was delicieux, because I ate it. I walked over to the Parc Des Champs Du Bataille- Battlefield Park, and gazed out over the St. Lawrence for a spell before heading back in the direction of Sainte Foy.

On the way I passed a park with a baseball diamond, where a bunch of Quebecois were engaged in a lively game of baseball. I sat down by a tree and watched and listened to this game I knew so well being shouted in French. It would have been fun to play, but I didn't want to intrude, so I chased down the occasional foul ball for them, and continued to watch. After a while I saw a father with his son arriving at the park. The son was around eleven or twelve, and obviously Down's Syndrome. The dad had a baseball and a glove. The son had a glove, but when he saw the swingset, he threw down the glove and took off running. The dad stared wistfully after him. I picked up the boy's glove and put it on, signalling my readiness to catch. Dad and I never said a word to each other, but played catch for nearly a half hour until the boy was bored with the swings and came back. I handed over the glove and faded away, noting the gratitude on Dad's face as I did so.

I bought some snacks and drinks on the way back to Ste. Foy, and retired to my room, ready to move on. Thursday morning early I was checked out, packed and at the bus station, trying to convince the ticket guy to validate me to New Brunswick. All he was willing to do was to send me back to Montreal. Batard! Pardon my French. Four hours back to Montreal, a four hour wait for the next bus east. Batard! While in the Montreal bus station I happened upon a scruffy young Quebecois playing his guitar and singing songs I'd never heard before in French. I sat down near him and listened, enchanted. He saw me, and when he finished the next song, he handed the guitar to me. I played and sang "Catch The Wind" by Donovan, and it was his turn to be enchanted. Then his bus was called, and he was gone. A magical brief moment in time.

The bus to Fredericton, New Brunswick took all that night and part of the next day. Dawn was breaking when we crossed the Quebec-New Brunswick line. This was when I heard my favorite quote I've ever heard in my whole life. The guy across the aisle saw the border go by and said, in a thick French Canadian accent, "Haw haw, I yam so happeee to get out of Quebec backause in Quebec all zey speak ees zee French, and I do not speak zee French!" My head twitched involuntarily for several minutes afterward.

Looking at the schedules in Fredericton, I realized that if I were going to get to Prince Edward Island and back, I would probably need to extend my Ameripass in order to make it all the way to Baltimore. The ticket agent looked at me doubtfully when I asked him about it. I made a quick decision: bag the PEI leg and get to Maine and Vermont, the whole reason for the trip. I validated to Saint John and got right back on the bus I came in on.

Lunch in Saint John was memorable. I found a little restaurant that claimed "Fresh Fried Clams" on the sign out front. I liked fried clams. I went in. There were two long tables inside. Working class people were seated around both tables, talking, laughing, drinking beer with their lunch. I turned to leave, but Mama, the hostess, cook and waitress, grabbed my arm and steered me to an empty seat at one of the tables. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. "What would you like?" she asked me. "Fried clams?" I answered. She bustled away, and within a few minutes I had a big heap of plump, juicy fried clams, the best I've ever had, on a plate in front of me. Somebody asked me where I was from, which sparked a rowdy discussion of the pros and cons of Florida. I didn't say much. I had clams to eat.

The bus ride from Saint John to Saint Stephen was narrated by my seatmate, a ten-year-old boy who knew everything about this region of the world, the climate, the tidal flows, the history, the economy. I wish I could remember half of what he told me. I remember that I was mightily impressed. That kid is probably governor of New Brunswick now.

Re-entering the United States from Canada was way harder than entering Canada. I felt like saying "You know, if you really don't want me back, I'll just stay here." One person I talked to in Canada told me he'd been all over the States- Florida, Carolinas, Midwest, California, New York, and he always went back to Canada "because it's a free country." That hurt.

BUT! The good news- I was in Calais, Maine, validated to Burlington, Vermont. By this time tomorrow, the contiguous US would all be mine! Mine, I tell you! HA HA! The bad news- Greyhound had to route me through Boston. No matter. Such is life with the hound.

Bangor was in the dead of night, Boston early in the morning- let's see, that would be Saturday. My ninth day on the road. In Burlington I wandered the streets for a few hours. I was looking for a University of Vermont T-shirt for my friend Fay back in Vero Beach. She was born in Burlington, and her parents had been teachers at UV. I'm guessing today one could easily buy one anywhere, but back then the only place was on campus, and the store was closed. I bought her a Burlington shirt, and was on the next bus to New York. I had to stop in New York City to pick up a City Edition Sunday New York Times for Michael Buinickas. It was the only way he could get the full Classified Ads section. So on early Sunday morning a fresh New York bagel went in me, and a big fat Sunday New York Times went into my bag.

So that about wraps it up. I arrived in Baltimore that afternoon, spent a couple of days with the Shetrone family, and went to a wedding with the Buinickases. Michael was excited to hear all about Oshkosh, but sadly, our heroes never arrived there. I doubt they ever will.