We dropped ballast and set off on I-94 toward the Atlantic Ocean. The route took us through Wisconsin down into Illinois. Kentucky was particularly beautiful off the interstates, and Mary spent much time shooting photos out the window.

The camper was comfortable as a cabin for our overnight rests, but I see we need to get the right wiring to do electrical hookups. I was surprised to see that most of the camping grounds now offer cable TV. There were very few campers like ours, a throwback to the hippie era. Most of the new models were hotel rooms on wheels, and many sported same-height US flags. I'd swear there were a few permanent residents in these vehicles at some of these places.
And so down into South Carolina.

Just below Columbia, the morning of our gig, the camper died. Would not start. Oil leaking. Called AAA, got us towed to Mt Pleasant and made the show with 30 minutes to spare. Bigger turnout than we'd expected, and we'd be hard pressed to find a more appreciative audience. Mary particularly like seeing kids in Indy hats cracking little whips along with us.

Since we were not allowed to sleep in the camper because of local ordinances, we took a hotel room within walking distance. The next morning, after researching the options on the Internet, we had ourselves towed to RPM Motors, owned by Rhett Mathisen in N Charleston (you can reach him at 843-469-6288). Rett is a young guy, a bright straight shooter, beaming with good health and good humor, and his little shop was inherited from his father, who'd worked only on VW's. It took less than two minutes for us to realize the gods had been generous and sent us to precisely the person we needed.

Rhett pulled the engine, replaced seals, repaired a plug, changed the oil and tuned our baby.  The price was amazingly good (enough that we broke even except for the hotel bills). The main regret is that we did not get the chance to dip our toes into the Atlantic.

The road to Ohio was a joy, the VW purring like a sewing machine, or a biplane. Folks did not seem particularly upset that I kept our speed between 55 and 60mph. Some of the kids passing us smiled and waved their joints at us. In rest stops, youngsters several times came up to us as if we were an ice cream truck and asked if we had some marijuana we could sell them. We were quick to let them know they'd come to the wrong people. Even the beer I drink these days is O'Doul's, a nice non-alcoholic brew in bottles.

Before long, we were sailing through seas of corn across Ohio. The target was the Annie Oakley Days Festival in Darke County, Ohio, where I'd meet up with Gerry Deer and Kirk and Melodee Bass, and Elk. Rich Hoffman also was there, with Richard and Donna Best and The Brothers.



Sitting around the campfire with them would have been reason enough to go, but I wanted Mary see these friends for herself. She'd see there is a family/tribe of people out there, and we greet each other even after long absences warmly as if the conversation was paused only a few minutes ago. The smell of campfire smoke once again permeated my clothing with the scent of dreams for weeks afterward.

  Dear Kirk and Melodee agreed to let Mary face one of her rare fears by having her stand at the knife board while Kirk threw a pattern of knives around her. She is a trouper! The whip activities took place in the Coliseum, misspelled for decades. Here I met Luke Taylor, 16 years old, and who learned everything he knew from watching You Tube videos and using self-made whips. I was impressed.

The five shows we did were short (as Gery had requested) and we made sure there was some variety between them. Audiences were small (local politics with three local groups trying to lay claim to being the official Annie Oakley Days host).

A great weekend, then back to our home base of Minneapolis. Total of 2700 miles traveled, averaging 22 miles per gallon. Met great people on the way -- it seems that simply driving an orange Westie gives folks permission to share reminiscences.

More than that, the thing was actually fun to drive. We'd paid $2500, and put in a grand more to make her sea-worthy (so to speak), but on the road we met a fellow who offered us $6,000 for her. His business card showed his offer was genuine - he had a business that restored collectible automobiles, and he said he had 60 vehicles on his lot. He wanted our Westie to be number 61.

Ah, but does freedom have a price?

Well, we politely and sympathetically turned his offer down, and he said he understood. I think he did.