First faucet? Padlocked shut. Second faucet? Ditto. Third? Same story. Bathrooms are locked tight, too. I’m in the municipal park in Windom, a surprisingly lovely place in this village, nestled among freshly plowed fields, and I’m fresh out of water. A preservative-rich bagel with peanut butter blends together like mortar in my parched mouth, but I get it all down eventually. With that dispatched, I go hunting through town and enjoy quick success at a senior center, where a woman breezily invites me in and rummages through the fridge for ice cold bottles. Once again, I am rewarded by the kindness of strangers.
Asking for help does not come easily, so this has been good practice for me. That pursuit, though, is complicated by issues of personal preference and non-negotiable lifestyle choices. Beggars, it turns out, can be choosers.
Way back in Shawneetown, you might recall me getting bailed out of a thunderstorm by Steve, a Shawneetown lifer who happened to be driving past. What I didn’t share at the time is what happened later that night, when Steve showed up at my hotel. His wife had sent him back to deliver two heavy tupperware containers of food, as she felt like I could use a home-cooked meal. Steve dutifully dropped it off, wished me well, and headed home–presumably to eat his share of the repast. Dinner was chicken teriyaki casserole; I’m sure it was delicious. Unfortunately, it’s hardly a vegetarian-friendly meal. When Steve made the handoff, I froze in the moment, trying to quickly determine how best to honor his generosity. Sending him home with the food felt cold, so I accepted it enthusiastically and then shared it with the hotel’s receptionist once he was gone. Was that right? Was it a misuse of their kindness? I don’t know. It’s that awkwardness that has conditioned me to deflect any question people ask me about food. Better to be well-satiated than accept an offer only to turn it down afterward.
Water, fortunately, is easier to manage, but it brings its own complications. Far more often than not, when I ask for water–hoping to fill my two bottles from a tap–people reflexively give me a couple of small, disposable plastic bottles of cold water. And look, it’s really satisfying! But, I don’t love leaving a trail of plastic bottles behind, and this actually sends me forward with less water than I hoped for–and most likely needed for the stretch ahead. When people offer me ice water, they’re going out of their way to offer the best hospitality they can in that moment; is it appropriate to make a counter-offer?
While I ask for water every couple of days, the most consistent offer I receive is that of a ride. Everybody wants to pick me up. And I turn them all down. Yesterday, a young guy pulled up alongside me–unusual, as the offers tend to come from people in their 50s and 60s. The look on his face when he made the invitation hinted at pride, like he felt good about reaching out to someone who appeared to be in need. I expressed enthusiasm for the offer and quickly told my story, explaining why I wouldn’t take him up on it, and he got a bit of a story. But I didn’t give him the chance to help me.
One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that my personal drive for self-sufficiency creates a barrier of sorts. While it’s easy to be dismissive or critical of needy, unprepared people, we forge connections by serving one another’s mutual benefit. If someone sees me walking down the street and they’re curious, they may feel like there’s no way to break the ice. If I come to them in need, though, or if they reach out to offer support, the door is cracked open–there is the possibility of connection. And that connection is likely to be enriching–not profound, not life-changing, but a pleasant mark on the day–for all involved. What is unclear to me at times is whether my concerns about appearing ungrateful or picky are just easy ways out. I should probably communicate better.
Thank goodness for that woman in Windom’s senior center, though. Today was rough–probably the toughest grind I’ve had in Kansas. It wasn’t as long as some of the others, but the dearth of facilities along the way and the near-complete lack of shade made for a slog. I was struggling as I approached Lyons. I’d like to think it was all mental, but some of the people seemed to take note. As I turned a corner, transitioning from the outskirts into the town proper, a gray sedan pulled in front of me. A woman rolled down her window and reached out with a Wendy’s cup. “I just got dinner,” she said, “and I’ve had a couple drinks out of this, but you look like you need it more than I do.”
I’ve never been happier to have a pre-owned, slightly-used, Wendy’s iced tea.
