There were smiles and tears, photos taken and gifts exchanged. We gave them postcards, an art car book signed by all, anything we could think of. They gave us a relief case of Gatorade which we tried not to accept but finally did lest we not offend them. One resident, a lovely older woman named Barbara, pushed a fifty dollar bill into Seven's hand. He unhesitatingly handed it back and said, "Go buy yourself a toilet." Barbara and her husband lived in the last house left standing on the front line of the destruction. Theirs was a tale not so much of total destruction but of irreparable damage, likely emotional as well as physical.

Corn

Next it's the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. Here I digress into notes written on the scene, notes that I will preface with this: The Corn Palace, like many places we have gone and will go, accepted us with kindness at the outset and before long was "requesting" our departure with hints of police action. No, I shouldn't say this happens everywhere. It doesn't. But there is without a doubt a sense that our window of welcome is always a small one. It is a blade which cuts both ways. Out here on the road, we seem to tire quickly of the same stretch of pavement, and it of us. In Mitchell, we arrived in the late afternoon, just early enough to snap a few shots before darkness set in. We occupied one entire length of the building with our cars, sharing space with the duly impressive corn-surfaced castle for a few hours that evening and all morning the next day. And though I don't know how long we were there, I know that it was long enough to wear me out, both on the place and the people. And when it was time to go, they let us know.

In truth, it was one of the more memorable stops.

Notes from Mitchell:

Troy, manager of the Corn Palace; trying to keep pace with this caravan, I'm finding to be a daunting task. Peter the architect from London, formerly of New Jersey, went to Yale, hailed Duke, says he knows the curator of Museum of Modern Art. In pursuit of the Mitchell Corn Palace Farm Home for the terminally insane, or so it feels, driving around Mitchell at 2 mph searching for? following? some guy offering lodging for the night. Wow, whatta scene. It's a good thing I'm getting down some notes on every day now because every hour of every day is full to the brim with weirdness. A wagon circle in the grocery parking lot. Newspaper reporter girl and copious notes. Now we're at John's place, wherever that is. The word was that we'd been invited to someone's farm. Well, this sure as hell is one small farm. But heh, no complaining. Sure, John calls us "the modern hippies," which is somewhat irksome, but he's cool, crammed all of us into his yard, sparked up a fire in a giant oil barrel-looking thing in his yard. Big John is a nice boy and I tell him so, excellent manners and cadence. Tex ought get a haircut and open his own gospel church. Talking with Ned.. something about face recognition vs. car recognition; forging a band on the road vs. forging one and working a schedule into everyone's schedule. Stars beautiful and clear tonight, seeing the big dipper as if for the first time; the Finmobile in the light of the fire, glorious!

Next day:

rainstorm early morning and Duke a little damp; Seven hurting after a night of Mudslides; Enter Bobina, sandwich buyer and friend to the gang; met a man with a toy-topped VW van; lotta dough in the donation can; Corn Palace miniatures a gift from the Palace, photographed and filmed installation on Duke. I say I feel like a movie star sticking his hands in cement outside the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood.

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Last update April 1, 2004