Category: Life and Living

Across America by Bicycle, Part 21: John Bodie, A Painful Reminder

Posted on by Pete Schloss

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts…”
– from Act II Scene VII of “As You Like It”, by William Shakespeare.

So it was on August 6, 2010 that I was briefly cast as a player in a moment of tragedy that was a part of the life of John Bodie:

August 6, 2010
At about 9:45 a.m. today, 25 miles north of Vicksburg, Mississippi, John Bodie drove his small pickup truck south on Mississippi Highway 61. At 76 years old John is an older gentleman who bears a passing resemblance to the actor Ed Asner. John is a lifelong sportsman and one of his joys is fishing. On this day he is pulling a trailer and his small green flat-bottomed fishing boat. The highway closely follows the course of the Mississippi River.

It is a warm day, hot and humid by “Northerner” standards, but only warm as measured by the locals. Highway 61 is a typical Mississippi secondary highway, two undivided lanes of concrete and asphalt with only a narrow unpaved shoulder of gravel and debris. The speed limit is 65 miles per hour. It is common for passenger cars, trucks and farm semis to push the limit.
John navigates a long bend in the road, and his attention is drawn to a line of identically clad bicyclists. His pulse quickens as he maneuvers his truck and trailer into the oncoming lane to provide a margin of safety for the cyclists. He looks into his rear view mirror and is haunted by the face of the lead cyclist… it has been over 20 years. In the panic of a flashback John silently mouths, “Don’t let it happen to them”, repeating the words over and over. He begins to look for a place to safely pull off the road. He is compelled to act by a ghost from his past… a painful reminder.

As I lead our line of cyclists south on Mississippi Highway 61 an older pickup truck, fishing boat in tow, passes us on our left. This courteous driver has given us more room than most drivers, which was especially noteworthy on this well-traveled but narrow stretch of road. Here highway 61 denies us the refuge of even a small shoulder at the side of the road.

A few minutes later I see that the truck and trailer have come to a stop on a flat area of grass far to the right of the roadway. The driver, a heavily built older man, wears loose fitting faded jeans and a well-worn western style shirt. Upon his head sits a wide brimmed sweat stained hat. He stands on the driver’s side of the truck and flags us down. I am the first to come to rest next to him. Is he in trouble? Is his scowl a sign that he is angry with us? His face gives no further clues. His wide hand-tooled leather belt has multiple images of the Confederate “Stars and Bars”. I am apprehensive.

John addresses us: “I saw you all, and I just had to stop. You see around 1987 I was driving a semi loaded with grain. I had a new canvas tarpaulin covering my load. I saw a bicyclist who was dressed just like you all and as I passed him…”

Here John hesitates. He draws a deep breath and looks directly into my eyes. “Well, as I passed him the cover and frame over my load tore off and struck that boy in the head… unlike you all he wasn’t wearing a helmet, but I doubt that it would have done him any good. He was struck in the head and he died.” Another deep breath and John’s eyes intensify their focus on me. “Please, please, please be careful.”

The driver handed me a simple white business card, “John H. Bodie Trucking, Cary, Mississippi”. He took my hand and held it longer than is common for most handshakes. I said that I would be careful. My words were repeated by the other cyclists. There was relief in the way that John’s brow relaxed, and his hard eyes grew kinder. He got back into his truck and repeated to all of us, “Please be careful”… Another embrace of my hand through the open window of his truck, and we parted. John’s painful memory returned to his past and became a part of ours.

PS. Near the end of the encounter Christine pulled up in the C4C van. She lingered and visited further with John after we left. Chris assured him that we would ride safely, and she promised to write to him once we reached Key West. This seemed to give him some peace. Christine and the riders kept their promises to John who passed away on May 28, 2012.

Next: The Death Chambers at Angola.
Peace Everyone. Pete

Across America by Bicycle, Part 20: Encounters.

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

In the course of our bicycle journey across America it was inevitable that we would encounter others who knowingly or unknowingly were traveling their own life pilgrimage. It was our mission to bring awareness to others of the problem of poverty in America. Yet one does not learn by speaking. It is in listening that we find enlightenment. It is in being connected to the moment that we are opened to appreciate what that moment had to offer.

Sometimes a “message” hangs in the air waiting to be heard… just as every miracle has two parts; that it occurred and that it was noticed. A lesson unheard, a miracle unnoticed, are each in their own way a little tragedy.

It is with this in mind that I pause to share two encounters. I recall them today as if they were yesterday and I believe that each of them nudged the course of my life in a small but meaningful way. This post is the reflection of my meeting with “Steve”. My next post will be of my meeting with John Bodie.

July 31, 2010

On the night of July 30th, in Dyersburg, Tennessee, I walked past one of our two support vans. These vans prominently display our “Cycling for Change” logo, and sponsorship by Catholic Charities. Next to the van was a man who sat astride a tired looking adult tricycle. His baskets held an assortment of “odds and ends” which appeared to be a mixture of personal items, random finds from a tour of roadside parks, and maybe almost every possession that he could lay claim to. The man, perhaps 40 years old and of African-American descent, wore a turban-like head covering and robes made from rough-spun cotton or burlap. Our eyes met, and without hesitation “Steve” (his real name is unknown to me) asked me if I knew who owned the van. I acknowledged my connection and we spoke briefly of the mission of Cycling for Change. As I left, he asked if he could leave some information on the windshield. I saw no harm and told him that it would be “ok”. I thought nothing more of the encounter that night.

The next morning as Christine was unlocking the van she called my attention to a sheave of folded papers under the windshield wiper. I then remarked that it must be from the man that I came upon the prior evening. Together we leafed through the papers… “Steve” had left us a tract on poverty in America, a handwritten note, and two dollars. He thanked us for our work, and for caring. Steve asked for nothing from us.

At breakfast I shared my encounter with “Steve” to our group. One of the riders remarked in humor that maybe he was a “guardian angel”. Throughout the ride that day the irony of “Steve’s” kind wishes and his donation occupied my thoughts. He lifted my spirits and the spirits of our group. He gave us perspective for the day and a greater sense of the meaning of our mission. In this way he truly was a “guardian angel”. The impact that he had on us was disproportionate to his humble contribution. A $10,000.00 donation from a wealthy benefactor would not have eclipsed the value of “Steve’s” gift.

My brief encounter with “Steve” has also given me pause to consider the other “Guardian Angels” who have eased our burden with kind words, encouragement, prayers… my Mother, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, our segment riders. You keep an eye on us and you care. I would list your names, but the peril of an innocent omission is too great. I trust that you know who you are and that I am thankful to you from the bottom of my heart.

Peter Schloss

Next: John Bodie, A Painful Reminder.
Peace Everyone. Pete

Across America by Bicycle, Part 19: Rolling Down the Mighty Mississippi

Posted on by Pete Schloss

The Great River, Old Man River, The Mighty Mississippi… At 2,202 miles from its source at Lake Itasca, Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico, it is the second longest river in North America. The Missouri, deemed a “tributary” that discharges into the Mississippi at St. Louis, is the longest at 2,341 miles. The Missouri/Mississippi system ranks as the 4th longest river in the world after the Nile, Amazon, and Yangtze. While deemed “mighty” in its length and breadth, its average discharge is only one-twelfth that of the Amazon River in South America.

Cycling for Change had reached the Mississippi at St. Louis on July 25th. After a “rest day” we turned south and loosely followed the course of the middle and lower Mississippi to New Orleans.

With the St. Louis Arch looming over our shoulders we navigated our exit of the urban sprawl into the river lowlands and rich bottom lands of Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. I and segment rider Ben Harring made a brief afternoon foray into Arkansas on August 2nd which was otherwise a “rest day” in Memphis.

Six riding days to Memphis, 400 miles, an average of nearly 70 miles a day. The cool dry air of the western mountain states was a distant memory. The order of the days had become pre-dawn starts to beat the heat. Unfortunately, the morning air was dense with humidity that condensed like rain on our bikes, clothes, and goggles in those early hours. Humidity was the lesser of the two evils which by late morning gave way fully to the heat.

St. Louis to St. Genevieve, Missouri…

St. Genevieve to Cape Girardeau, Missouri where a bike mechanic at Cape Bicycle rescued me from the near disaster of a frayed cable that had tangled and wound within the precision mechanism of my shifter. He worked hours after closing time, refusing to give up on the bicycle disabling and potentially ride-ending mechanical failure. Eventually successful, he then declined payment for the hours of his labor.

Cape Girardeau, Missouri, through Illinois, a crossing of the Ohio River near Cairo, Illinois and on to Hickman, Kentucky…

Hickman, Kentucky to Dyersburg, Tennessee…

Dyersburg to Covington, Tennessee…

…and finally

Covington into Memphis, Tennessee where the early Sunday morning streets, including the iconic Beale Street of Blues music fame, were barely waking to the day.

Along the way we enjoyed brief moments of notoriety as a local radio station in Cape Girardeau began interrupting its broadcasts to report on our mile-by-mile progress through its listening area. One dedicated listener left her home and waited in a convenience store parking lot hoping to see us. She waved us down and was thrilled to join with us for a photo-op and autographs.

Breakfast diners in Hickman Kentucky similarly found fascination in our exploits.

Matt gave a television interview upon our arrival at Christian Brother’s University in Memphis…

…and even Memphis’ Mayor, the Honorable A.C. Wharton, Jr., headlined a “meet and greet” event in our honor.

The “rest day” in Memphis provided us with the opportunity to do a bit of individual sightseeing. For my part that included the National Civil Rights Museum, a complex of buildings that include the Lorraine Motel, site of the April 4, 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Young and Morrow Building where James Earl Ray had lain in wait to gun down the civil rights icon.

As sobering as it was to view the balcony where Dr. King was slain, it was all the more so to eye it from the room and window where Ray aimed and fired the fateful shot.

Outside of the Lorrain Motel I was drawn to the curious sight of a middle aged Black woman standing at a table. It was apparent that it was some kind of one woman protest.

Jacqueline Smith was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel. She had lived there since 1973 while working there as a housekeeper. When the motel closed in 1988 she and all of her belongings were evicted. From that day forward she mounted a single voice protest against the gentrification that had “stolen” her beloved neighborhood from those who Dr. King most loved. As of my visit in 2010 she had been a continuous presence at that corner for 22 years. Her protest continues to this day, more than 32 years after it began. Below is my 2010 reflection of meeting Ms. Smith.

Next: To New Orleans, “The Big Easy.”
Peace Everyone. Pete
August, 2, 2010.   Sometimes It Is Not So Simple

Today is the scheduled departure of Ben from our group. Ben joined us as a segment rider in Atchison, Kansas, and has ridden nearly 800 miles with us across Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and into Memphis, Tennessee. Ben is the youngest (23 years old) rider, and the thinness of his profile suggests that a strong wind would take him and his bicycle skyward. His steady temperament and strong legs quickly made him “one of us”.

Last night Ben asked if I would be willing to ride this morning across the Mississippi River to Arkansas. Even though this is a non-riding day, with a series of Cycling for Change events scheduled in the afternoon, it seemed a fitting way to enjoy one last ride with Ben. He and I were off at 6:30 am. The temperature was already in the mid 80’s, as was the humidity. We navigated a decidedly bicycle “unfriendly” route through industrial Memphis, crossing the Mississippi River on the abandoned (apparently) sidewalk of the I-55 bridge, which seemed paved with broken beer bottles. We ignored a few “keep out” signs on the west river levees, and after hazarding a gravel farm road arrived at a truckstop in West Memphis, Arkansas.

We enjoyed breakfast and the good humor of two waitresses, who knew how to make a couple of spandex clad cyclists blush: “You boys are REAL bikers… we know where your motors are!!”. With breakfast concluded we reversed course, returning to Tennessee. Ben asked if we could detour to see the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. A quick check of the map confirmed that it would only take us a few miles off our route.

The National Civil Rights Museum is the restored Lorraine Motel, sight of the slaying of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., by James Earl Ray, on April 4, 1968. I have memories of the black and white television and newspaper images of black men standing over Dr. King on the motel balcony, pointing in the direction of the shot that had struck him down. As Ben and I turned onto Mulberry Street we saw the Lorraine. There was the balcony with a large white wreath marking the place of tragedy. What surprised me were the bright colors of the motel and marquis; aquamarine, red, yellow… cheerfully “retro” like a 1960’s hamburger stand. However, the Lorraine was merely being true to the day that Dr. King was assassinated.

We rode forward intending to take a few pictures, but on the opposite side of the street was an old table, a folded and faded beach umbrella, and amateur painted signs which proclaimed in large letters, “Boycott the $10 million dollar James Earl Ray Memorial”, and “22 years, 199 days”.

We adjusted our course to get closer to the site of the apparent protest. Jacqueline Smith, a slight built but attractive middle aged black woman was at the table unpacking some pictures and papers. Frankly, I had expected some kind of white supremacist to be the engine of protest, not this woman of color. She greeted us, cheerfully asking where we had bicycled from. We enjoyed a brief social exchange about riding and the weather while she organized pictures of Martin Luther King and an assortment of memorabilia. I pointed to her signs and asked the simple question, “Why”?…

Ms. Smith, in a manner that betrayed years of practiced delivery, explained that she was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel. Pointing across the street she said that it had been her home. She gestured around us and added that this had been her neighborhood. This was where her family and friends once lived. When the Lorraine was converted into a Memorial, she lost her home. When the surrounding streets became “gentrified” as the focal point of the Memorial she lost her friends and she lost her neighborhood. Jacqueline Smith lamented that the neighborhood was now populated by centers of entertainment, dining, and million dollar residences. It was no longer a place for her people or the people that Dr. King loved and worked to benefit. “Dr. King preached that he tried to be right, he tried to feed the hungry, he tried to cloth the naked, he tried to love and serve humanity”. “There is nothing in what they have done to the Lorraine and my neighborhood that is a tribute to what Dr. King stood for.” Jacqueline Smith has stood on that corner every day to deliver her message. She is the lone counterpoint of the National Civil Rights Museum and has been so for 22 years and 199 days.

Ms. Smith and I talked for about 20 minutes. I admitted that I planned on returning to tour the Museum later that day. I thanked her for giving me another perspective. I also promised her that I would share the experience of meeting her.

It seems so simple that the site of the slaying of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. should be dedicated to his memory and his work… until the simplicity is complicated by the reflection that the work of Dr. King was not the erection of monuments and memorials… his work was feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, housing the homeless, serving humanity. Sometimes it is just not as simple as it seems.

 If you would like to visit Ms. Smith’s website, it is www.fulfillthedream.net

Peter Schloss

Across America by Bicycle, Part 18: Kansas City to St. Louis

Posted on by Pete Schloss

We had arrived at Rockhurst University in Kansas City, Missouri at 1 p.m. on July 17th. There were paralleled lines of well-wishers, a canopy of balloons, photographers, a band… friends, family, and our grandchildren.

It was a homecoming such as sailors returning from a long voyage at sea might have enjoyed in the days of the wooden tall-rigger ships.

We paused in Kansas City for 3 days. It wasn’t long enough to feel at home, but long enough to regenerate pangs of separation when we left on July 20th. Our grind continued as the next major destination was St. Louis, Missouri. We rode 70 miles to Clinton, Missouri where we spent the night and picked up the west terminus of the “KATY Trail”.

My nephew, Philip, continued with us until Jefferson City, Missouri.

The “KATY” is a rails to trails conservancy project that was initiated by the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railway’s 1986 abandonment of a large segment of its right-of-way. Segments of the line were susceptible to periodic flooding that rendered portions along the Missouri River unusable.

The Missouri Department of Natural Resources purchased the KATY right-of-way in 1990. By the time of our 2010 crossing 240 miles of the completed Trail continuously connected Clinton to St. Charles, Missouri, mostly following the Missouri River.

The KATY is officially a Missouri State Park. It is the longest developed rail-trail in the United States, featuring 4 restored train depots and 26 trailheads. The hard packed limestone “chat” is suitable for all types of bicycles.

The virtues of the KATY are that it is relatively flat, there are regularly spaced rest stops with toilet facilities, and it is devoid of motorized traffic. However, those virtues come at a price: the limestone “chat” is a coarse sand-like mixture that is like concrete when dry, but spongy when damp.

When wet, it sticks to the wheels of one’s bicycle only to be thrown back upon the rider’s legs and bicycle components. When dry, the dust generated by the bicycle’s passage seems to mimic the exhaust of a steam locomotive.

As luck would have it we had rain the first day and steam room like heat and humidity the rest of the passage. We were treated to the entire spectrum of the KATY Trail experience, swarms of insects included.

At a park in St. Charles, Missouri we were joined by scores of cyclists who rode with us into St. Louis.

We were housed at the Manresa Urban Retreat Center for two nights, enjoying a “rest day” that included cycling to some of the sights of St. Louis.

Special was Father Matt’s celebration of Mass at St. Matthew’s Church, an inner-city parish where he was once pastor.

The grind, now turning south, would continue along another storied river.

Next: Rolling Down the (Mississippi) River.
Peace Everyone. Pete

Across America by Bicycle, Part 17: Kansas is not Flat

Posted on by Pete Schloss

…at least Kansas is not flat from the seat of a bicycle.

On July 11, 2010, we entered Kansas embarking on a transit of nearly 500 miles that in 7 days would see us arriving in Kansas City, Missouri. Our route was almost exclusively on old US Highway 36. US-36 opened in 1921 was one of the original pre-Interstate thoroughfares that opening large swaths of the United States to automotive travel. It is not a true cross-continent highway as it begins it’s journey in Ohio and reaches its western terminus 1,400 miles later in Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park.

I-80 to the north and I-70 to the south have rendered US-36 a lightly travelled two lane country road that connects a string of small communities. In the west where we entered Kansas from Colorado the elevation was just under 4,000 feet above sea-level. By the time that we reached Kansas City, Missouri we had descended 3,000 feet. In the meantime the topography undulated across the plains and prairie land.

We frequently rated the difficulty of a day’s ride by the amount of vertical climb accomplished. In Colorado, Wyoming and the other western states climbs came in one long and very large effort. We found that in Kansas the total of vertical climb made good was equivalent to our experience in the mountain states, just in hundreds of small segments… “kind of a death by many cuts.”

Before the ride began, I had “predicted” to the team that at some point this would become labor. That transition occurred over the course of the 7 days that we crossed Kansas. Joes, Colorado gave us torrential rains.

Norton and Atwood in Kansas repelled us with relentless head winds. Smith Center, Kansas “treated” us to a heat index of 114 degrees. However, we would not be deterred as Kansas City drew us like a magnet. For most of us it represented home and a few days pause with family and friends. For all of us it was the completion of 2,500 miles of our 5,000 mile journey, the halfway point.

The final day ride, 60 miles from Atchison Kansas to the campus of Rockhurst in Kansas City was also special. In Atchison and Leavenworth we were joined by over 100 cyclists. Among those riders was my nephew, Phil Schloss, and members of the “Gravy Train”, cyclists with whom I regularly rode then and still ride to this day.

Smith Center, Kansas had a Dollar Store that I visited for some now forgotten need. As I approached the cashier my eyes were drawn to the impulse purchase rack. For only a dollar I became the proud owner of a bag of 100 huge, life-like, rubber roaches. Think Florida Palmetto Bugs, as seen here in comparison to the last of the plastic imitations that I still possess.

The rubber roaches each came to be known as “Henry”. For the 2,500 mile remainder of the C4C ride they bemused, befuddled, and generally terrorized the riders and occasional non-rider victims. Henry would show up in water bottles, clothing, bags of potato chips… and any other place that I could creatively (and anonymously) deploy him.

Early on I was considered a suspect, but one of the Henrys was overlooked only to be found on a day that I could not have been the perpetrator. My role in these pranks thus remained unknown until I confessed my guilt in Key West, Florida.

One morning in Clewiston, Florida I found a real Palmetto resting on the seat of my bicycle. I took the opportunity to carefully photograph the Palmetto alongside a “Henry”. Removing the fake bug I left the real one in place. Soon one of the riders saw “Henry”. In disgust the rider grabbed him with a mind to show everyone that yet another “bug” had been found. Unfortunately, it was not “Henry” that was held closed in the palm of the rider’s hand, but the real Palmetto Bug. I wish that I could have recorded the yell that pierced the air as the huge insect struggled to escape the rider’s grasp.

At the end of this post is a reflection on a memorable personal experience that also occurred in Smith Center, Kansas.

Next: Missouri’s KATY Trail
Peace Everyone. Pete

 

July 13, 2010. The Nine Dollar Haircut

Today was hot. Not just hot, but HOT!

“How hot was it, Pete?”

So hot that the roll of my bicycle wheels gave the continuous sound of separating Velcro as the sun-beaten asphalt reluctantly released its grip, revolution after revolution.

So hot that colors appeared bleached into the dull grey of sepia photos by the arc-welder brightness of the midday sun.

So hot that…

Prudently, we awoke early and had the vans packed with our luggage by 6 a.m.. Arrangements had been made with a local diner in Norton, Kansas to accommodate the 17 of us for an early breakfast. The goal was to eat and then be on the road via US 36 to the town of Smith Center by 7 a.m.. 61 miles separated these towns and the prediction was for the temperature to break the century mark. Mercifully, the headwinds of the prior day had moderated into tolerable side winds that had the intermittent character of gusts from the mouth of a blast furnace.

We arrived in Smith Center shortly after noon. Our motel, The Buckshot Inn, was cast in the mold of countless motels that sprang up in the heyday of the old US Highway system. As with its more famous sibling, “Route 66”, US 36 was once a primary link for commerce and travel across the United States. These roads, wonders of the first half of the 20th Century, have long been eclipsed by President Eisenhower’s visionary network of Interstate Highways. US 36 is now mostly frequented by local travelers, huge lumbering farm combines, and today by our bicycles. Most of the motels are gone, but the ramshackle remains of some are still visible as ghostly reminders of an earlier era. The Buckshot Inn survives and thrives thanks to the attention, care, and maintenance of its owners. To our delight, the line of rooms faced a small yard and a blue turquoise concrete swimming pool. The crystal clear water invited us to make its depths our first non-cycling activity of the day.

Refreshed, our focus shifted to finding a late lunch. The urgency of the mornings ride had caused us to skip our usual meal break. Christine and I went into the old downtown area to seek a diner.

Downtown Smith Center is not dead, but like many historic central business districts it is not well. The two and three story brick and stone structures harken to a time when a building’s name and year of “birth” were prominently displayed at the top and on the cornerstone. One such building in Smith Center is the Shite Building, 1888. Another, The First National Bank building, displayed “Founded 1886, Erected 1930”. That was a tough year to build a bank, but clearly The First National Bank had successfully weathered the adversity of the Depression. Faded paint indicated the character of some of the long gone businesses. Much of the former commerce has been replaced by antique and secondhand stores. A modern addition to the bank facade informed us of the time, 2 p.m., and the temperature, 101.

We ate at the Second Cup Café, where $6 can still buy you a large tenderloin sandwich with all the trimmings, and a piece of homemade pie (Apple, with Maple flavored crust, fantastic!). A patron asked if we were with “the cycling group”. After a pleasant discussion with her and the café owner, she smiled and gave us a $5 donation and a “God Bless You”. We left the café and were again assaulted by the wall of heat. Across the street I saw a small, faded barber’s pole mounted next to the door of an old and timeworn storefront. “Paul’s Barbershop”. It had been over 6 weeks since my last haircut, and curiosity got the best of me. I crossed the street to peer into the window. Over the years the glass had lost its clarity, etched by countless dust storms. I shaded my eyes against the glass in order to better see within. I beheld not just a barbershop, but a living “barbershop museum” with one of our riders, Jeremy, in the barber’s chair.

We entered the shop. It was a “three chair” store, each of which was a creature of cast iron, nickel, porcelain and leather nearly 100 years old. Jeremy was in the center chair, but what immediately drew my eye was that the chair to the left was a fully functional chair in miniature… the perfect size for a 5 year old and elevated to the perfect height for Paul the Barber. This tonsorial “throne”, fit for any young prince, differed from its larger brothers only in the absence of the long leather razor strops which hung from the full size chairs.

“Atmosphere” was provided by a mahogany encased, single dial radio which still used vacuum tubes to amplify the broadcast signal. An older console version stood near the back of the store. The service counter displayed bottles of men’s grooming products such as Vitalis Hair Tonic, Krew-Kut, Hask Hair Tonic, and a few other brands that I had thought long extinct. Behind the counter was a very old ornate white and chrome cash register… the kind that shoots little metal “tombstones” up at the sound of a bell to announce the amount of the transaction. I would soon learn that the register remained in use. Then there was Paul, the shops sole proprietor.

I suspect that in Paul’s younger days he had been at least 6 feet tall, but 7 decades and bending over countless heads of hair had taken their toll. As he focused his attention on cutting Jeremy’s hair I noticed a tremor in Paul’s hand that seemed to stop just at the moment the clippers reached their destination. Barbers are observant of people and human nature, and Paul was no exception. He seemed to read my mind and commented in a matter of fact manner that he had suffered a stroke but was able to pursue his calling after only 6 months of recuperation. Paul was confident of his skills to the point that he made jokes, “If I make a mistake, the hair will just grow back”… “If you want something fixed, you can always ride your bikes back here”… Paul and I were amused. Jeremy’s half-smile gave just a hint of reserved nervousness. I sensed that my wife, Christine, preferred that I leave my hair to other hands.

Paul put the finishing touches on Jeremy’s hair-cut, and with practiced mastery removed the barber’s cape, shaking the clinging hair to the floor. “That will be nine dollars”, Paul announced. Jeremy and I both must have displayed a micro reaction, as Paul then followed up with, “I could do it cheaper, but only if you fellows pay my bills.” Now, it has probably been over 30 years since I had a $9.00 haircut, and here Paul had assumed we were suffering sticker shock.

I took my turn in the chair. Paul went to work as a craftsman should, with calm practiced confidence. We talked as he cut.

“So you fellows are Catholic. Well, I’m Lutheran, which is kind of watered down Catholic.” He stopped and chuckled.

“Was a time there weren’t many Catholics in this area, but there are sure a lot of them now”. He was making a matter of fact observation. There was no animus in the statement.

I asked Paul for a recommendation for a dinner restaurant. “Well, I prefer to eat with Mom (his wife) at home, but I suppose if I had to eat somewhere else it would be Putches or Duffy’s downtown here.” We ate at Duffy’s, and Paul’s recommendation was spot on.

I learned that Paul and his wife had celebrated 50 years of marriage in June. They had two daughters, a son, and one grandson. This was Paul’s second barber shop and he had been cutting hair in his “new” shop since 1962. He confirmed that the chairs, register, and fixtures predated his arrival. It was at this point that Paul became serious. “There have been many people over the years who have offered to buy my chairs, cash register, and other items.” He and “Mom” had talked about it, but it just didn’t seem right. The shop was his business and his life. He just couldn’t see parting with it piecemeal. With sadness he remarked that in front of the shop there once stood a tall barber’s pole that was as old as the shop itself. About 8 years ago some fellows passing through town wanted to buy it. Paul politely declined to sell. “I was in the shop Saturday, and by Monday the pole was gone. Someone stole my barber pole”. Paul declined to blame “those fellows”, or anyone else. He just remarked, with a hint of sadness that maybe someone needed it more than he did.

“What do you think?” asked Paul. “About the barber pole?” I replied. “No, the haircut! Is it ok?” I smiled and looked in the cracked and time worn wall mirror at the white skinned border that now separated my bicycle tan from my shortened hairline. “Paul, it looks great!” Paul beamed and said, “That will be nine dollars.” I gave him a ten… “Please keep the change”. His smile broadened, broken only by the word, “Thanks!”

As I left the shop I considered that my ten dollars had purchased a haircut and a moment in the life of a good and extraordinary man. Smith Center had the fortune of Paul’s good will for over 50 years. “Mom” had enjoyed his love and company for over 50 years. How rich the community and how rich his family. My 15 minutes in his chair were priceless. I wish I could take my grandchildren there just once. You know that tonsorial “throne”, fit for any young prince (or princess). I wonder if children’s haircuts are also nine dollars. Let’s see, that would be $90.00 plus the tip… What a bargain.

-Pete Schloss

A sad update to my reflections on Paul…