This is the way life happens. This is the way it ought be, the way it is. This is spontaneous combustion, instant and unpredictable revelry, the union of like strangers who meet on the streets of some town progress forgot and jam together for no other reason than they can, they want to. This is what the art cars are on the road for, to reach out, to thrust a friendly arm into the heart of America and pull out a diamond.

Ned looks tired. But I know he's in Heaven. He misses his woman. I miss mine. But mine isn't mine anymore. I gave up everything to come on this trip. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to. I wanted my freedom black, no sugar, no cream. I wanted it pure. I wanted to seize the day and not have to wonder what toes I might be stepping on, what hearts I might be breaking in the pure act of flying free. I wanted freedom not reckless but present. I wanted now. I wanted this. More than anything, I wanted out of Oregon, and she wouldn't join me.

We rolled into town here somewhere around 4 p.m. It had seemed like we would never get out of Minneapolis and on the road. But here we were, in the tiny town where the twine ball lived, population 325.

Something had struck me the moment we'd hit this place. I felt good, just really right on, and I felt like celebrating. In an uncharacteristic move, I ran into the local liquor store and bought a 12-pack of Pig's Eye Lager, the beer named after one of St. Paul's first settlers. I threw it in Duke and zoomed past the pack out of the gas station lot and down the main drag of Darwin in search of the ball. I passed around beers and we drank and pondered Francis Johnson's inexplicable act of creative energy. What the hell would make a man ball up twine on his fingers and suddenly decide to keep going until he's got something the size of a tank on his hands. Good craziness. The kind we understand without question.

I don't know how it all progressed from that to this. It was an explosion, really. A big bang. A decision not to try and roll on down the highway and seek out some campground to pay for and sit around impersonally with other travelers. We wanted to greet the people, to take the handshake and the dialogue beside the twine ball a step further. I asked local Jim Allen where we might stay for the night, and when he suggested the farm of a friend, I took a contingent of us to go check it out.

What we found out there was no one home and a run down farmhouse that looked not just a little bit familiar from the film Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Or was it just our reluctance to relax into it, into the holistic and utterly non-commercial idea of just showing up on someone's doorstep and sharing a little life together? Whatever. I know I was nervous, being the point man and all. But up I walked just the same. And found no one at home. No human, that is. But with Ned and Chiquita behind me, I suddenly found myself staring down one big ass turkey. I mean, this bird had legs the size of my forearms, and he was coming at me. Now, Ramon says that's what turkeys do, says they walk toward fear, whatever that means. Call it what you want, that turkey chased the three of us off that property lickity split. It was a sight to see. Big wrestler Ned, Chiquita the bird woman from the Planet Ice Cream and me, running down the dirt driveway toward Duke. And we were out of there, backing down the long dirt lane between fields of corn and out onto the main road back to Darwin.

Now Jim had also given us his address and said to come on by later and have a swim in the lake. Back in town still without a place to stay, we opted out of responsibility, left behind Ramon and some others at the bar and headed for Jim's.

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Last update April 1, 2004