I could live a normal life, but keep tabs on bad things that happen. I could read more books, magazines and newspapers. I could put together a list of horrible things that happen over the next several decades. Maybe I can change them. If someone had done that for us, maybe Mom would still be alive.
For the first time since he had been wounded, Scott felt excitement, anticipation—a purpose.
It’s just a question of where I want to spend this life. Here? It would be nice to be close to Cheryl. Maybe be here when she has kids and be Uncle Scott to them.
He tried to picture that, but failed.
Of course, I could always come back for visits. That’s probably better. Cheryl’s got Mike and her own life now. It would be good to get out and see the country a little, without trying to kill myself.
As soon as the six-month lease on his apartment was up, Scott donated all the furniture he had bought back to the same thrift store.
He stored a few belongings in Earl’s old workshop and once again limited himself to what he could carry in his backpack.
Hitting the road this time was different from the twenty or so times he had done it before. Then, he was trying to lose himself. Now, he was looking for a home. He rode his thumb south, but soon found that the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida were too humid for his tastes. Still, he didn’t give up easily and made it as far south as he could. He caught a ride in Miami that took him across the Florida Keys all the way to Key West, home to Hemingway and the occasional tropical storm. He loved the sunsets, being on the water, and the laid back attitude everyone had. But in the end, he had to admit he wasn’t cut out for waking up to temperatures pushing ninety every day.
Hitchhiking north again, Scott caught a ride on an empty freight car heading west. He hopped off in Texas and spent a few months wandering around cowboy country.
He was in no hurry and was happy watching the calendar pages flip as he explored the country.
Texas was a big state with friendly people. Eventually, he realized he wasn’t going to find a place in Texas that felt like home and he moved on again.
Southern California had perfect weather, but he didn’t recognize the people there as his own tribe. After a year of doing oil changes and minor tune ups for a small garage, the steady drumbeat of cloudless, warm weather wore on him. He discovered he liked a little variety to his seasons.
He trekked north and wandered the Pacific Northwest. He chose to bypass Middle Falls—which wasn’t hard to do—because he wasn’t ready to face the accompanying memories. Eventually, he crossed into Washington State and settled for a season in a nice town on a plateau that called itself The Gateway to Mt. Rainier. That season turned out to be the rainy one, which the locals joked started in early September and ended in late August. Those few days in between were glorious, but they weren’t enough for Scott. He moved on again.
Eastern Washington was as desolate as the western side of the state was green. Living among rolling, endlessly brown hills held no appeal.
He set his sights on the Dakotas. North Dakota, in particular, is a state that is easy to miss. It’s not an easy state to pass through on your way to somewhere else, unless you’re heading for the Canadian border. Aside from that, you’ve got to plan to go there. There were things he loved about North Dakota. It was an easy state to get lost in. Again, the people were wonderful and everyone respected your privacy. One of the books he had read from Earl’s stash told the story of the Norwegian settlers who had homesteaded the area. Having seen the area first hand, he developed a new respect for anyone who could scratch a living from that inhospitable land without modern equipment.
He kept moving.
Scott arrived in the upper peninsula of Michigan during the bicentennial celebration of 1976. He thought he might have found his place to settle down. It had the green beauty he had seen in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, but didn’t rain nearly as much.
The Upper Peninsula took up almost a third of the land area of Michigan, but had only three percent of the population. That suited Scott fine. The Great Lakes were a bonus. There was never a shortage of things to do—hunting, fishing, hiking, and snowmobiling. He loved his time there in August, September, and October.
One long winter’s stay in the hamlet of Iron River convinced him it was not where he wanted to put down roots. Three hundred inches of snowfall that year encouraged him to move on again.
At that point, he had been on the road for three years, so he took a side trip back to Evansville. Where Scott’s roots were shallow, Cheryl was putting her own roots deep in Indiana soil. She was pregnant with her first baby.
Scott spent the summer in Evansville. He worked on projects in Earl’s basement woodshop. He was able to be at the hospital when Cheryl and Mike welcomed Andrea Nicole into the world. By fall, he had grown antsy again.
He got his grandfather’s old atlas out and laid it on the kitchen table. He traced his finger along the route he had followed the previous three years. It formed a large oval around the USA, but had skipped one part—the northeast.
Scott hated goodbyes, so he woke up one morning before the sun was up, left a note on the dining room table, and started walking. He walked to the bus depot, which felt like it completed a cycle in his life. He rode the Greyhound east and then north. The Finger Lakes region of upstate New York were tempting, but he was enjoying being on the move once more.
Continuing east, Scott finally stepped off the bus in the little town of Waitsfield, Vermont.
It feels like I’ve walked onto the set of a Hollywood movie.
It was a picturesque New England town, with a covered bridge, a quaint downtown area, and charm by the truckload.
I can’t put my finger on it, but this feels like home.
Chapter Thirteen
Before long, Scott discovered that Waitsfield had lots of snow, cold temperatures and limited daylight during the winter months. These were things that had bothered him elsewhere, but as his sister had once told him, “when you know, you know.” He never regretted the decision.
He rented a furnished room in a boarding house on his second day in town and stayed there temporarily. Eventually, his newfound love of reading led him to something more permanent. He had been haunting a used bookstore called Twice Told Tales most every day, when the lady behind the counter said, “You must love to read.”
“I do now. Never did much of it until the last few years. My grandfather got me started again.”
“I haven’t seen you around until the last few weeks. New in town?”
This was a standard small-town question. Are you from away?
“I’ve been traveling around since I got out of the service. Looking for a place to settle. I think this is it.”
“Found a place already?”
Scott looked at the woman. She appeared to be somewhere in her forties. Short, a little round, with hair gone mostly to gray. Her expression wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t cheerful, either.
“Just staying at Mrs. Carvill’s boarding house until I can find something more permanent. Places to rent seem to be hard to find.”
“You’ve just got to know people. Here, put your books on the counter and follow me.” She locked the front door and flipped the paper sign over to read, “Closed,” then led Scott through a curtained area at the back of the shop. “There’s two ways up, including a door from the outside.”