We walked out the front door to his car. I threw my pack into the car’s backseat, then climbed in as Leszek started the car. As we drove out of his neighborhood, Leszek pointed out the Corn Palace again, its façade adorned with murals made of corncobs. As we crossed under the freeway, I pointed to a small turnoff near the freeway on-ramp.

“How about right over there?” I said.

Leszek pulled his car off the side of the road and shut off the engine.

I felt surprisingly emotional.

“Well, my good friend,” Leszek said. “This is goodbye.” He reached out his thick hand. I grasped it.

“Saying thank you seems so inadequate. I am so grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said. “Is your father still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must be proud of such a son. I hope we meet again.”

“Me too,” I said. “I didn’t get your phone number.”

“Then I will give it to you.”

I took out my journal and a pen. He told me his number and I scribbled it down. “I’ll call you when I reach Key West.”

“Yes. You call me. I will celebrate for you with toast.”

“Toast?” I said. “Is that a Jewish custom?”

“Yes. I will drink toast.”

I laughed. Then I shook his hand again and climbed out of the car. “Take care, my friend,” I said. “Be safe.”

“What so bad thing could happen to me in Mitchell, South Dakota?” he replied.

I laughed again. He waved, then started his car, signaled, and slowly pulled back out onto the road. I watched as his car disappeared in the merging traffic. All gold does not glitter, I thought.

Chapter Sixteen

C H A P T E R

Sixteen

I have discovered the ladies of the

Red Hat Society. Or, more accurately,

they have discovered me.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

Over the next three days I walked from Mitchell to Sioux Falls. My travel was without incident and full of corn. There was corn everywhere. At one point I passed what looked like a petroleum refinery, which vexed me, as it seemed totally out of place amid the acres of cornfields. As I examined the plant it occurred to me that they were making ethanol from corn.

On the first day out of Mitchell, I saw a sign for the Laura Ingalls Wilder home. When McKale was little, she was a huge fan of the Little House books, so I got off the freeway to see the house. Then, shortly past the turnoff, I saw a sign that said her home was more than fifty miles off my course. I turned around and walked back to 90.

I kept on walking. Again, there was a lot of roadkill. On one stretch I counted six “sleeping” raccoons in the course of just one mile.