Surprise! I’m writing this from my cousin Sue’s place in Wheaton, Illinois. Thick is here with me. The ponies are in the care of Cindy and Ken in Desoto, Indiana. Chad is bringing them water with his tractor. The Mustard Seed is likewise back in Desoto: Jeff is working on several interesting and necessary renovations trying to solve three long-standing problems. A new cast of characters in a new state. Meanwhile, I’m in the next time zone already, trying to figure out a way for the whole dog and pony show to reconvene up in Wisconsin – away from the crop dusting that was literally killing me as I attempted to cross the corn and soy belt. It’s been a heck of a week. It’s been a heck of a month. It’s been a heck of a journey! (I try not to swear in the blog, but I might mean something stronger than heck.) I’ve been trying to tell this adventure story in chronological order but at the moment it makes sense to jump forward a month and catch you up on where I am now (with a little “why!?”) thrown in for good measure.

504 East Forest. My dad helped build this house when he was a teenager, it’s where he grew up. Cousin Sue is the third generation calling it home. My Uncle Dick lives in the (very nice, walk-out) basement in his own apartment. (He and Marge were the second generation.) Uncle David lives next door, cousin Wendy lives on an adjacent property. Lots of family around – 4 generations. I’ve been marveling at that trend on farms in Ohio and Indiana – while forgetting that my extended family is doing the suburban version right here. This is one of the houses in the world that feels like home to me. Sue is keeping up with the best of Aunt Marge’s hospitality and culinary traditions and as much as Wheaton itself feels a bit alien and “not my world” – this familiar (in both senses of the word) house is a haven that I really appreciate right now.

So – where to begin? The last day of May was the last day I drove the ponies. That feels like a really long time ago. In all honesty I should not have been driving the ponies that day but I was feeling driven out of my mind by the talk tax and circumstances and I was not making good decisions. In fact, I wasn’t consciously deciding – I was just running away. Fight or flight and there was no fight left in me. I was three miles down the road before I could admit to myself that I was making a mistake. That I actually had better options. That I needed to swallow my pride and turn around. As a member of the Long Riders’ Guild (and as a human being) it’s my responsibility to Always put the well being of my herd above my own welfare and preferences and I was failing. Miserably. I’d completely lost focus on the long term and the possible options and the consequences of driving a pony who was developing a sore on his girth area. In the past few days I’d had a very helpful man talk at me for 7 hours straight, Thick had gotten his ear chomped by that man’s much larger dog and his ear wasn’t standing up straight any more, then another host, after telling me their life story in triplicate and giving me more unsolicited advice than I could handle had literally come out to the wagon at 9:30pm after I’d already gone to bed and continued telling me more things through the canvas. I try really, really hard to stay polite and gracious and grateful and remember that nobody owes me anything, that I’m the one who owes because without all the people who take me in and help me along the way, I could not do what I do. That’s a fact. But that morning I was going to drive away or I was going to snap. And I didn’t want to snap. This was a “me problem” and in that moment of overload the only way I could figure out how to solve it was to get away from people. I had permission to camp at the Gaston Lion’s Club park. I had a helpful person coming to join me for a Neighbor interview and to hold the ponies while I hitched up in the morning. I had a night to myself and I was going to take it!

Never mind Franklin’s developing girth sore, Theodore’s missing hoof boot, the gravel roads heading west from the Lion’s Club that were going to require a boot on every hoof, the lack of a next stop after that, never mind any of it, I was out of my mind and away. With all the talking and helpful advice (and actual help) it was noon before I turned out of the driveway. Fuming. It was three miles of ranting to myself like a crazy person, finally able to think my own thoughts, to hear my own voice, to come around to the realization that I was being unutterably stupid and short sighted. To remember the woman who had offered me the use of her cabin if I needed a rest. Cindy was one of a bunch of neighbors who had been invited to come over and meet me (nobody asked me if I wanted to meet a bunch more people – that’s obviously what I am here for) and she and I had chatted for awhile the day before. I remembered her as calm and sane and reasonable and easy to be around. I remembered that I did have some choices here and that my ponies deserved much better. Still struggling with the turning radius on the wagon, I found a big flat well mowed front yard and turned my rig around. Bracing for re-entry, I did the right thing. But in my heart I was pretty much ready to quit the whole adventure right then and there. I was out of gas and out of reserves and deeply ashamed of myself for not being able to do better.

The chaos was real, the transition took the rest of the day, but by the time the sun went down I was sitting on the screen porch of a lovely little cabin that used to be a chicken house, looking out across a meadow bordered on two sides by a creek. Thick was stretched out at my feet, the ponies and wagon were safe for the time being and everything was quiet except for the occasional sound of a passing train and a big dog barking in the distance. And then I saw a tiny flash of light, just off the porch. And another. It took me a moment to understand – for the first time in a decade I was seeing fireflies! Such a delicate and improbable beauty! A flood of memory, of wonder, of gratitude and joy. I sat on the porch of a generous and invisible stranger and felt hope take hold of me again.

It’s hard to admit, even to myself, how close I was to quitting. Not that I had any idea what quitting would look like or how I would go about it. Not that I’ve ever allowed myself any sort of Plan B. I feel like God has to pick me up by the scruff of the neck and kick me out the door of my comfort zone before I’ll head out on a big adventure like this, but the whole project feels like a calling and I never lost faith in the “Who Is My Neighbor?” part of things, but living in public (being homeless) is really, really, deeply exhausting. And this is the version where I get to play the romantic lead. I’m the hero in the Hero’s Journey narrative, inviting people to be part of an amazing, inspiring story as I pass through their neighborhood – but I have to keep moving, again, again – figuring out the next step, the next stop, having the next conversation, giving my full attention to person after person as they download their life story into me. I’m just not big enough to hold all that for hundreds and hundreds of people.

I went to bed early, but Thick woke me up at 10:30, restless, swallowing a lot, his ear really bothering him. I’d been keeping it clean, spraying it with Vetricyn, it had seemed to be doing ok apart from the persistent droop but when I turned on the light I saw pus and inflammation. Of course all the medicine was back in the Mustard Seed, so I made a hot compress of salt and garlic and olive oil – he whimpered but didn’t object. In the morning I googled reviews of local vets and made an appointment for Tuesday morning with the vet at Riverview. Monday I drove 6 miles to where the ponies were staying and doctored Franklin, gave them half a bale of hay, a cup and a half each of rolled oats and some vitamins, refilled the water tub. This is one of the times when I’m so glad I have the Nun tagging along – having my own transportation during this stretch was priceless. Tuesday, the vet and her assistant were brilliant. Thick hadn’t even realized he was being examined as they fussed over him and praised him and loved on him. His lymph nodes were swollen on the left side (the chomped ear) and he needed a course of antibiotics, but no reason to believe that his ear was permanently damaged. The vet also wrote a prescription for more of the SSD cream I was using on Franklin which I picked up at the local pharmacy along with the antibiotics. The whole thing was $200 which was a very pleasant surprise after vet prices in the islands!

Wednesday was more chaos (and 9 phone calls) that I won’t even get into, but by the end of the day the ponies were in a new pasture with shelter and plenty of grass and a John Deere feed trough. The wagon was in the yard at Cindy and Ken’s place, right by the cabin. I’d had a stop planned in Sheridan, Indiana, 60 miles away and I’d planned to do a major gear sort and overhaul there, but why wait? Plenty of room on the porch of the cabin, three long tables, I hauled everything in where I could see how preposterously much stuff I was lugging around. A week of peace and quiet worked wonders. I started cooking some healthy meals for myself and wrote a blog post, caught up on editing some YouTube videos, tended to the ponies every day (a 10 mile drive each way, but very pretty) and started to feel like myself again. I was busy all day, every day, getting lots accomplished, but from a place of calm – which felt like a revelation.

The next Wednesday, I got a message with an attached photograph from my planned rest stop in Sheridan. I’d had quite a few packages sent there, including 50 copies of my memoir that I planned to autograph and sell along the way. (If you’re still waiting for your copy – that’s happening this week, I promise!) One of her dogs had savaged a box of my brand new, pristine books. Also her wicker chair. She didn’t seem overly concerned about the books? I was quietly and intensely freaking out and said I’d be over that afternoon to pick up all the packages waiting for me there, No, I didn’t want to wait until Friday. I had an interview scheduled for noon, so I took care of the ponies early, did the interview as scheduled, and then drove an hour and a half to Sheridan and was polite for an hour and a half of conversation before I loaded everything into the Nun and was able to escape. Four of the books were destroyed, about fifteen more were smudged with a few bent pages. The other box was unscathed. This is a significant part of how I’m supporting myself out here and now I have a bargain bin. I took this as a warning that I might want to look into other options for a place to stop. I did a lot of deep breathing as I drove “home” to the cabin – where I managed to regain my state of peaceful productivity. At least that part felt like a win!

Saturday I had 4 interviews and a picnic lunch scheduled. Eight straight hours of peopling and I was absolutely flatlined. By the time I got home I couldn’t even handle sitting out on the porch, could barely talk, corn chips and guacamole was the best I could manage for dinner and straight to bed. Sunday I was not ok, but Chad (one of the Neighbor interviews from the day before) had gotten permission from his across-the-street neighbor to move the ponies into a lovely little pasture less than a mile from Cindy and Ken’s – and had arranged with another Neighbor to borrow a trailer so that was the morning. Monday I drove to Muncie to pick up a load of metal for Jeff, who is going to move the front axle on the Mustard Seed forward a foot to improve the turning radius, put springs under the seat to replace the non-functioning air donut, and most importantly, lighten up the team pole – because that has not been right since it was repaired. It’s much heavier than it was, it’s bouncing too much (and it’s loud now) and I think that’s a lot of what’s been causing Franklin’s troubles. Tuesday I scrambled up two dozen eggs with cheese, fried up a bunch of potatoes with ham and Cindy and I brought them over to Kent’s place because he has a freeze drier to transform them into “just add water” breakfasts for the upcoming months.

Meanwhile, my digestion hasn’t been right since Saturday, I’m feeling slow and exhausted no matter how much sleep I’m getting – all the progress of the two weeks of rest has been erased and Wednesday morning I wake up with a metallic taste in my mouth. Oh no. I suddenly recognize what’s happening. Environmental toxins beyond what my compromised kidneys can handle. This is no joke. I talk to Cindy and Ken and they mention seeing crop dusting happening upwind of their place, yes, probably Saturday, very close to where I was enjoying a picnic and doing two interviews, an entire afternoon. The cabin is likewise downwind of the spray zone. Technically they aren’t allowed to spray if the wind is higher than 3mph but nobody obeys that rule. Thursday everything is getting worse and I have got to get out of here. I call my cousin and start to pack the Nun. I make arrangements for the ponies, empty the wagon because it’s going to be transported, worked on, welded, people climbing in and out – so now everything is with me except for the harnesses, horse food, halters, tethers and boots. Friday I’m moving slow, joints and muscles aching, brain fog and it takes until noon to get the Nun fully packed and ready to go. Thick finds two of the pink tennis balls Cindy gave him and those go in the van last thing. I choose a route that avoids tolls and big highways, I stop for gas, for lunch, for groceries at Trader Joe’s – and get to Wheaton at 8pm, whew! Thick found cousin dogs to play with the next day!

In the back of my brain I knew going into this that crop dusting might become a problem. I imagined a plane flying over the wagon, seeing the spray coming towards me on the air. The feeling of deep dread and resignation. This has happened before and I knew it could get bad. I somehow put it in the category of “don’t borrow trouble” as I focused on flat roads for the ponies, good visibility for safety, a sensible route starting from Twilight Farms in Ohio and heading west. And now it’s bad enough that I’m needing to come up with a different plan on the fly.

The new plan involves getting the ponies and wagon transported from Desoto, Indiana to somewhere around Necedah, Wisconsin and resuming the journey from there. Necedah is above the crop dusting zone. It’s a brand new demographic for the interviews and I’ll head North towards Honey Rock Camp (where I learned to hitch and drive a team of Belgians for sleigh rides when I was 19) up in Three Lakes, spend some time in the National Forest and then curve around towards Minnesota, perhaps visiting Pepin where Laura Ingalls Wilder was born (Little House in the Big Woods) and from there, I honestly have no idea. Sufficient unto the day…

This is feeling like one of those “it takes a village” moments. When I drove the ponies across the state line into Indiana, I had two phone numbers and I didn’t know a soul. Within a week I had made friends and connections and all sorts of things were falling into place. I’m heading up to Wisconsin not knowing a soul. No connections, just a need to get away from the crop dusters and a strong belief that the journey isn’t over yet, but I absolutely need to relocate so I can carry on. If you’re of a mind and heart to get involved and help network or chip in for gas, this is what I’m trying to accomplish: I need to find a truck and trailer that can transport the ponies and the wagon from Desoto up to Necedah, Wisconsin. (I’m not attached to Necedah specifically, know nothing about it – it just seems to hit the sweet spot of flat enough for the ponies, no crop dusting for me, less than 4 hours drive from Wheaton. I’m absolutely open to other ideas.) The trailer needs to be at least 16′ long and 6’6″ tall with no fixed center divider. If I can find a place in the general vicinity of Wheaton, Illinois to put the ponies for a night or two, it might be easier to find one trailer ride to bring them here and then another one to take them up to Wisconsin, that way each driver is only bringing them half a day’s drive so they can make it home the same day. This could also mean that it would be possible to reload the wagon from the Nun here, leave the Nun in Wheaton for a week or two, and then have somebody bring it to me on their way North up to Honey Rock to pick up their kids from summer camp. It would also be lovely to have some Wisconsin connections in terms of places to stop for the night.

I’d like to leave you with a Neighbor interview with Cindy, my lovely introvert hostess who welcomed me to the Cabin of Fireflies and over the time I stayed there became a friend. Thick thinks she’s absolutely wonderful and would like to adopt her!