Return to the Road

I first tasted daylight yesterday around 5:10. I had to run out to Hastings and pick up some seed, and then take it to Ames in the afternoon. I debated about getting up and trying to leave by 6, getting to Starr’s at first light. Instead, I rolled over, slept some more, and got up at 6:15. Still left a bit at 7:10.

This is the time of year were I start wearing thin of driving. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing fields, and I love hitting up certain restaurants. But after this much time in the road, I need to spend a month at home to recoop mentally and put the ideas I’ve come up with to the page. I love the photograph, but I need time away  from it Labor Day weekend at the lake can’t get here soon enough.

I make the jaunt to Hastings at least four times a year, the last time being when the ears have filled out and I take measurements and pictures for our buyers. I can usually make it in an hour and twenty minutes, but Saturday I took my time. I stopped for a flash rain and got Starbucks in York. The barista was way to friendly for 8AM Saturday morning, but I got a receipt for a $2 drink after 2 PM.

I get to Hastings at 9, right when our grower was supposed to have a meeting. We load seed and talk about the drought. They had to shut off one of their pivots for a week during detasseling, but their starting to come back around. There’s a reason my dad tries not to call the growers between August 1 and August 18. It is the fear range when they’re worried about the size of the ear, and understandably so.

The Platte is dead dry, and I don’t just mean shallow as usual. I mean there’s no water in it and farmers have been disking it. I have to drive 65 back because of my load, making the road more tedious than ever. Funny thing is, driving five miles below the speed limit on the interstate is so relaxing. You rarely have to pass anyone and can just relax in one lane. I get home and take another nap before eating a carefully planned last meal, packing, and leaving.

The packing for this trip was easier: since I will just be going to fields, I only need grubby shirts and shorts. I take fewer books than on previous trips. I do the dishes, hang up the last load of laundry, and bolt.

On the way to redeeming my receipt for a $2 drink, I find out it was easier to get to a Starbucks in Omaha off the interstate than I’d originally conceived: just take the I-680 and get off at Pacific, there’s one right by Westside High at 87th. It’s one of the best Starbucks I’ve ever been to, sitting at the corner of a strip mall so half of the walls have huge windows on them. I get my drink, write a little, and head out.

I listen to Issues, Etc. as I drive, programs on the Old Testament prophets mostly. This the time of year where I have seemingly unlimited time to catch up on all the stuff I like to listen to, especially Issues. That’s a lot of what makes this worthwhile.

Issues are black and white

Road Notes: Back to Wisconsin and Dodging Biting Dogs

It was a bit exasperating to my psyche to go back to Wisconsin (even more so when a dog tried literally to bite me-keep reading), driving most of the same route to the same fields that I went to a month ago. But, I have some new experiences, so another edition of Road Notes. (First Edition and Sequel)

Plot in Spring Green is Shedding

Tuesday morning, I wake up in Dubuque, say goodbye to Tom and grab another punch for a free coffee. The morning clouds are laced by blue sun; it’s hazy and humid, but thankfully not a scorcher. When I get to the plot at Fennimore, I have to call our grower to double-check the location and find out the field I assumed was our test is not our test plot. The actual test plot is located in a place that is much more difficult to get to, along roughly graveled access road up-and-down an uneven plane. The plot itself is planted in a strip on a hill, and it’s going to be a long carry when I harvest the plants here.

Post-field, I head into Fennimore, intending find a library to e-mail some field notes to my father to make sure we are on the same page. I park the library parking lot, but see a bakery across the street, so I decide to support the local business. I don’t go in at first, but instead stand right outside the door to make sure they have WiFi. They do. The bakery is run by some conservative protestant women wearing homemade dresses and prayer-head coverings. I buy a pecan roll (incidently, “pecanroll” is the WiFi password). I e-mail my father, facebook a photo of the bakery to a friend of mine who’d love it (he does), and waste another twenty-minutes downloading podcasts, as if I haven’t already purchased two books on CD. Overall, the trip is a disaster.

The Cottage Bakery in Fennimore

This time, I decide to go straight north out of Fennimore instead of taking US Highway 18. Choosing a county road over US 61, which goes only a handful of miles to the west, it is finally cemented in my head that using county roads to navigate the Wisconsin hills just isn’t worth the hassle, especially when you’re slowing down for the Amish, which I do thrice.

Advancing to the town of Blue River on the Wisconsin River, I wonder what most of America would think if they knew that their milk came from dairies in the rotten wooden barns I’m passing. Blue River reminds me of Stapelhurst. Like every American town of 400 or less, it has too many buildings meant for businesses. From Highway 60 east, I get a spectacular view of the Wisconsin, which is dotted with sandbars, but nowhere near as shallow as the Platte.

Post-plot inspection (this one will be much easier to harvest than Fennimore), I drive into Spring Green and eat lunch at The Kitchen at Arcadia Books, the high-class bookshop/coffee shop I passed by last trip. The shop is built for light (light blue walls, varnished wood) and brandishes several old covers of The New Yorker on its walls. Ironic for southwest Wisconsin; must get Chicagoans out her for the Shakespeare festival.

 

Burn up through the valley to Mauston, where I stop at an Evangelical Christian coffee shop on the square. I’m drawn to the art in their windows, but I order a latte with a shot as well. They’re closing, so I head off and make a wrong turn as I try to get on the interstate and have to go back around the construction in town. Even though I-94 goes at an angle, only Wisconsin Highway 82 has an exit. 58 does not.

Most interesting vehicle I encounter on the way to Colfax is a F-350 with a trailer, North Carolina plates, and N.C. State plate on the front. Colfax is on the end of a dry spell, and our stuff there doesn’t look great, although it’s still July. On the way back down, I stop for dinner at Moe’s Almost Famous Diner, a 1950’a style place that I should have known values environment over food. The waitress is unengaged, tells me where to sit, is late taking my order and in bringing me the check, resulting in her tip getting dock. The food is really bad too, and I drive down to Tomah disappointed. Checking into the Super 8, the guy in front of me speaks with a Canadian accent, so I assume he’s driving the vehicle with Winnipeg Jets plates in the parking lot.

Tuesday morning, I wake up and, forgetting my lesson from the Cottage Bakery, waste a lot of time trying unsuccesfully to sync my iPod to my laptop. Our plot in Tomah has some insect damage but looks okay otherwise. As I get back to my truck, I met one of our plot’s farmers, introduce myself, and give him my card. We chat for a minute about the lack of rain, and I head out.

A couple miles east of Tomah, there’s a roadblock due to a bridge that’s out. I’m out in the middle of cranberry country and national forests, which means a long detour if I decide to take country roads. I consult my GPS and figure it’s worth the risk to go country roads. It pays off: I only have to drive eight or ten miles around, and I’m back on Wisconsin Highway 21.

Pond on the way

After viewing our field by Coloma, I stop for lunch at the Culver’s in Portage and trying to prove I’m classy, I find a lake and eat lunch in front of a bunch of swimming kids. Swing through downtown, cross the river, and I’m back on I-39.

I arrive at our plot in Arlington circa 12:30. It’s right next to a house, so I figure I should knock there first to let the people know I’m there. When I pull in the driveway, a dog comes up barking. I decide to ignore him, as I do all barking dogs, but he comes up beside me and bits a hole in my pant leg. (Praise the Lord I choose to put on long pants today.) Rattled, I head back to the cab of my truck without knocking on the door and without getting bit again. I debate what to do for a second, but then someone comes driving up the lane from the behind one of the barns. We speak to each other through our respective truck cabs; I don’t tell him about the dog bite, and he instructs me to drive to the field at the end of the lane I’m on. I do, and sit sheepishly in the cab for a few minutes while the dog continues to bark. Eventually, I cautiously get out and head into the field. The dog doesn’t follow me. I’m a bit relieved when I see that most of the crop here has been lost to drought, meaning I won’t have to go here again.

The dying plot

I take a county road (this one actually is straight) down to Sun Prairie, an upscale Madison suburb where I search for a place to buy scissors to cut off the dog rip in my pants. I don’t mess around and tell myself to stop at the first store I see, which turns out to be a Dollar General. No one stares at me when I go to buy the $2 scissors and a Gatorade, or when I come out and stand at the open door of my truck cutting my cargo pants into shorts. Thankfully, these pants were about shot anyway. On my way out of the shopping center where I bought the scissors, I make a failed attempt to jump on McDonald’s WiFi from there parking lot.

While I stop in Marshall to use their sterile peach library’s WiFi and call my Dad, I tweet about the irony of their being towns named Waterloo and Watertown within twenty miles of each other.

After examining the plot (excellent stand in spite of the heat), I drive into Watertown and take a leisurely break at Tribeca, a book/coffee shop with an upstairs that has a view of downtown Watertown. After working on an HL column on Rex Burkhead, I stroll down town to the river which must give Watertown its name. A bunch of teenagers roam the streets, and I wonder if their bored here during the summer.

Watertown

As I drive north out of Watertown, my dad texts me that the plot in Fox Lake has been abandoned and I won’t have to go there. I drive relieved through the wretched roundabout to get to Wisconsin Highway 26, relieved a stop has been eliminated.

I spend the night at what used to be the AmerInn in Waupun. The hotel is now called Borders for some reason, and a bunch of road crews are staying there. I’m exhausted, so I got to the one restaurant that’s close that I like: Culver’s, for the second time today. Later, I go back for ice cream.

I wake up at four and can’t get back to sleep. I work on my Husker Locker column, getting to the body of the work. I still manage to leave late and get to the first Omro plot at 8:40. The second plot takes me a while to find, but it’s by an abandoned school. The two plots (four miles apart) are works in contrast: the first is completely healthy, the second will be abandoned because of drought and weeds. Relieved, I drive back to Omro and waste some time browsing a thrift store.

The People I See at Culver’s

I walk into Culver’s in Waterloo, Iowa to get lunch last Monday, and there’s this older couple there standing with their backs to the condiment rack. The older couple in front of me tell this one guy to go ahead of them. I wince and hope they don’t invite me to move up in line, because I have no idea what I want. My indecision forces me to stand in front of the trash bin, creating an awkward situation when people have to throw their trash away. An older woman accidentally throws her plastic tray into the trash can, then reaches into get it. (I would have just left it.)
The older couple doesn’t invite to precede them, and I wait a while longer than I otherwise could have. The older couple orders coffee, which the girl behind the counter gives them in a diner-esque, glass cup. I settle on the prime rib sandwich and potato bacon soup, figuring it’s impossible to screw up either prime rib or bacon. The woman who takes my order is named Janet, looks 40-ish and stuck in life.
This Culver’s is in the middle of lunch rush of old people and odd families. I sit at a table for two. There’s a girl with a chocolate shake sitting at the table to my right, probably high school age, with a man who looks halfway between being her father and grandfather wearing a blue shirt and a St. Louis Cardinals cap. They eat fast and leave quickly. In their place sits a 50-something, power woman (first generation by the look of her short, gelled blond hair) in a pink suit jacket with a pink phone to match. She uses the phone all through lunch.
Across from me, a girl sits in 4-person booth by herself. Both she and the first girl are wearing gray shirts. She plays with her phone a while after she finishes eating, then leaves and is replaced by a group of three: a young professional man and woman who are suited up, and one hipster guy with an earring, backwards white ball cap, and shorts black and white plaid shorts. I can’t tell who the hipster is more associated with, the man or the woman.
Two tables to my left, two old guys are sitting together like they are at the coffee shop; one wears a shrine bowl t-shirt, the other wears a polo and discusses how long the Yankees game takes and other baseball topics
Directly in front of me, a pudgy woman is sitting with her kid who strews fries all over a burger wrapper. The woman leaves her garish purse in the booth when she takes her daughter to the restroom. Girl wears a shirt two sizes too big that seems to advertise a pumpkin patch. After they leave, a couple who looks like their our for their athletic weekend walk in a make-shift suburban forest sit at the table with their daughter. The daughter is to engrossed in her phone.
Two tables to my right, two women with lots of eyeliner wearing scrubs (nurses, probably) eat slowly and seem to be having a conversation about the men in their lives.
In the booth to the left of the one with the woman and her daughter, are two women who look like sisters with a daughter with a white and black spotted skirt way too short. They are not as classy as the nurses. Girl has brown hair that could look sly red at the right angle. When they leave, the woman and her daughter get into a car with TCU decals and Texas plates. Figures.
A couple sits next to me, my age and as Iowan as American Gothic. The redhead girl sits first, then asks her man to watch her purse when she goes to the restroom. He leaves his red fox racing hat on while he eats and wears the black t-shirt of a guy who goes out to the bar every Friday and Saturday night cause he doesn’t put his energy into anything else. She seems classy-nice jeans, nicer purse, decent sandals, toe nails done. Probably a bit out of his league, but she seems to have affection for him.

These are my lunch breaks when I’m on the road.

The Starbucks List, Part 1

About two years ago, I had a double-Starbucks day, the first that I could remember. It began in Ames, Iowa where I left that day to go to Hastings, Nebraska with an emergency load of seed for our grower. I got up at six, and I first hit the Starbucks in Des Moines for my morning coffee. Off Exit 129, this particular Starbucks, is crammed into the end of a strip mall and really need about another 10-20 square feet. The second Starbucks of the day came after 320 miles, stops at the farmer’s market in Omaha and a rest and recharge at home in Seward, and after dropping the seed off in Hastings. Like the one in Des Moines, this Starbucks is at the end of a strip mall, but there’s enough room in it. As I sipped my green tea latte and pondered my double Starbucks day, I decided that I should make a list of every Starbucks I had ever been to. Embarrassingly, it took up most of an entire page in my journal.

It’s an odd thing for me. While I do try to patronize the local coffeehouses when I see them, I have thing for Starbucks. There are many Starbucks locations that have been logged into my mind, and I always search for Starbucks on my GPS and even check for them online before I go to certain cities. It’s an indulgence, I know, but Starbucks keeps me going mile marker to mile marker. Each one is it’s own little home, and I’m grateful for it.

So, from that journal, here is the first installment in the list of Starbucks I’ve patronized over the years:

Rosecrans Street, San Diego, California.

My Dad and I were staying at a local hotel near Point Loma for the Holiday Bowl in 2009. This Starbucks was right down the street from us, and, even though the neighborhood was obviously safe in retrospect, I was still worried about leaving my room. But the morning of the game, just after it became light, I ventured down the street to this Starbucks to have my morning coffee and devotions. There was an older black man reading the paper there, and while there, I made some calls to sell our extra tickets to the game, as the sun began to enliven San Diego’s obvious yellows and dull greens.

Shelbyville, Indiana

It was an off-and-on rainy Sunday afternoon in September of 2009, and I was driving from my sister’s house in northwest Indiana to some  fields of ours east of Cincinnati. Having just passed Indianapolis, I saw this Starbucks off the interstate, next to an eatery named Half Pints Bistro (which looked more like a family restaurant. It was also the reason I remembered where this Starbucks was to begin with.) and figured, hey, last chance for a latte for ninety minutes. I pulled off and hit the line inside. This Starbucks got the low-lighting perfect and had some nice local photographs. I ordered my fall seasonal latte, and got back on the road.

Peru, Illinois

I’ve made multiple stops at this Starbucks, including the return from the aforementioned trip (pounded another pumpkin latte that day). It’s conveniently located in a strip mall, and is almost identical to the one in Grand Island. although the rest of the exit metropolis is falling apart, including an abandoned hotel and restaurant. Wish Starbucks could have taken an abandoned building but no luck.

Illinois, Issues Etc., and Missouri Road Notes: Part 2

Thursday

Morning coffee at Starbucks in Edwardsville, Illinois. At separate tables are sitting two identical girls: nerd glasses like mine, brown hair pulled back, studying. One wears running gear, the other wears average dull college class clothes. Then a third girl walks in who looks exactly the same except her hair is done and she’s wear black pants & a sleeveless vest with a white shirt underneath. Then I look around and realize… all the girls around here look like that.

Wish I would have gone to the place on the Missouri side where the Missouri River flows into the Mississippi. I could have gotten a good view of it. Instead, I go up a tower where you can view the convergence, and view it from across the way, at Lewis and Clark’s winter camp before their expedition up the river. Love all things Lewis and Clark.

View from the top

Meet Pastor Wilken, Jeff, and Craig, the team behind Issues, Etc. They do the show in a small section of a strip mall in Collinsville because they want to be good stewards of the funds they receive. Such a blessing to come and encourage those who labor in the gospel. Great to see the operations of an actual radio station. Most intriguing thing I observed: Pastor Wilken looks at a poster of President Obama while he’s doing the show (I’m dead serious).

Lunch at Stake and Shake, one place I always try to eat at if I go far enough east. They overcharge me for my order (or get it wrong entirely), but it’s a good sandwich, even though thin. The fries are flimsy too.

Visit the Gateway Arch, which looks impressive, but when I get close to it, I realize it’s not the Golden Gate Bridge. The Bridge is massive, and looks the part of something huge. Maybe it’s because the Arch doesn’t serve a purpose of transportation or has no foreign tourists swarming it. I go into the Jefferson Western Expansion Museum, stamp my passport, and buy some novelty snack. I don’t ride to the top because I don’t like heights.

View from the ground.

Visit the U.S. Grant Home, where I complete the stamps for the Midwest part of passport. The roads down their make no sense to me; I have to stop at walking trails.

St. Louis is the lousiest piece of junk I’ve ever seen. Rotten railroads cross the river, whose banks team with unkept brush, and cracked buildings dot the streets. Even the high-end hotels aren’t kept up.The bad neighborhoods I observe from the interstate are what I imagine Detroit looks like, but this city has to be worse in places. The suburbs have so many empty sections in their strip malls, plus empty spots in the big malls, it’s embarrassing. St. Louis is a spralling city, but it doesn’t look that much more special than Omaha.

Get off the interstate just east of Jonesburg, Missouri and do my rural photographing thing. Going through Jonesburg, I pass over a dead turtle in the middle of the road. I hate driving around on the country roads, which are paved with golf-ball sized Missouri limestone.

Exit at Columbia, deciding  to eat at Steak and Shake again, then notice that Steak and Shake is next to Bob Evans. Remembering the time I had eating at Bob Evans in Lima, Ohio two and a half year when I was this tired, I head across the street. Chicken pot pie, with a roll and broccoli. I tip a solid twenty percent, good service. I mull which hotel to choose and call the Howard Johnson on my phone to see how much they are. Then I see a new Motel 6 as I cross the interstate, and decide to take my chances. It pays off: the room is clean and very respectable, and even has a couch.

I go to bed at 9:30 but I can’t sleep. I get up and drive to campustown, where I went once with Elizabeth when she went graduate school here in Columbia. The bars and clubs are abuzz, but the only coffee place open past eleven is Starbucks. I sit and type on my IPod while I watch the festivities of the students, girls trying to walk in high heels and dresses. I gradually make my way back to my car, hoping no one notices my red Husker shorts.

Friday

When I get back to Motel 6, it’s past midnight. I send an e-mail, take two pills, and hit the hay.

Have morning coffee at Kaldi’s: spiced maple coffee which surprises me. I expected it to be typical flavored coffee, basically food coloring with no body. Instead, it’s body with an apple-cinnamon accent, and I remember why I love food. I study a devotion over an egg and bacon bagel, enjoying the hip vibe of Kaldi’s. Take a pic of the sign for my sister.

I photograph a few barns, but not many. I want to get home.

Eating lunch at one of America’s northern-most Waffle Houses (Platte City, MO). I don’t know why this chain appeals to me. The last Waffle House I went to was in Florida and was a mess. This one is clean, but the vibe from the staff is lax, and don’t know how much I want to watch of my chicken being fried and my waffle being made. I know it’s part of the charming experience, but somethings are better left unknown. The meal is adequate and way too filling, and I don’t skimp on the tip.

I take one more photo detour in furthest northwest corner of Missouri, a state that’s unbelievably diverse. I bolt when I get onto Highway Two, and am equally relieved when I hear Unsportsmanlike Conduct on the radio. I arrive home at four, and head to bed.

If You’re Counting Pennies, it Means You’re Petty: Thoughts on Tipping

A couple weeks ago, I was having lunch at the FarmHousE Cafe (my favorite eatery in Omaha-another subject for another blog post) and getting money to tip the waitress. The check was $8.22, and given that service was good not outstanding, I decided that I would tip just above the standard twenty percent. That was how I ended up standing up at my table, feeling like a complete fool as I counted out my pennies and nickles to make $1.71. I remembered how, while it was better than no tip whatsoever, I always hated counting out the pennies and quarters at the end of my shift.

As a former waiter and delivery person, I take tipping seriously because I know  how hard it is when a waiter cleaning up for a table who hasn’t tipped or driving to a house that you know won’t tip you (longest ten minutes ever), and how exhilarating it is when you get a great tip that carries you through the entire night. So I had have a habit of tipping generously, even to a fault. When I was at that lunch, I decided that perhaps I shouldn’t just tip with wide open wallet, but then I thought I should write down my tipping rules

First off, twenty percent is standard for a restaurant tip; your grandfather may have tipped ten percent in their day, but even if you don’t think it’s fair, everyone around you is tipping twenty percent are looking cheap and will get bad service.

If you are dining alone (life of a traveling man), tipping really is an art. When I spend three or four days on the road, sometimes the people I have the most personal interactions with are the people who wait on me, and I always try to be generous with them if I take up a whole table that could hold four people.

But now to the tip itself. When you look at the check, ball park twenty percent in your mind, and (crucial point) if you have  go either over or under in your approximation. What you consider: how soon the server greets you, attentive and pleasant the server was, especially considering the pace of the restaurant. Always let your mind wander this path when you consider the tip: I’ll at least give this person their twenty percent, but have they earned more?

So, here is a fundamental question on tipping: if the food is bad and the service is good, how should you tip? In this situation, I would tip a little over the twenty percent. Read the situation: unless the server submitted the wrong order or brought you the wrong thing, consider that a consider that a good server might have to overcome bad help. Remember, you are tipping the server, not the kitchen help.

Another situation: should you tip for exceptional food, no matter what? As long as the service isn’t bad, I would tip a little extra for food I really do like. Yes, you are tipping the server, not the kitchen or management. But, if you are getting a good meal that pleases you, be generous. You don’t have to tip forty percent.

Time is a huge factor. If I go to a restaurant and linger at a table, I tip more than if I eat and leave quickly. Lingering means they can’t sit someone in your spot sooner, so you take money away from your server. Plus in some cases, you may keep the server on shift longer. Be generous in these instances. Similar rules apply in the middle of the day, if they have to break from prep work to wait on you, be generous.

The golden rule for going under the twenty percent: don’t do it unless the server does something obviously wrong. If the server is attentive and concerned, even if there is a mistake with your order, don’t hold it against him or her. And if the food is good, and the server was a little out of it, don’t gyp him or her. Just give the standard twenty percent.

General rule: in restaurants you go to regularly, never tip below twenty percent, unless the service is really bad. If you go to certain place at least six to eight times a year (or more) or they know your name, make it a point to tip them generously, and on some occasions, leave a really generous tip. If you frequent a place, you will have a reputation there, and if you don’t tip well, the wait staff will be cooking up a fake smile all the way to your table. Granted, if the place is an IHOP or WaffleHouse, it is probably fine if you tip twenty percent every time.

Finally, a word about tipping at coffee shops. I briefly worked at a coffee shop, and we didn’t collect tips their, but many coffee shops do. Personally, I have never put anything more than spare change into a tip jar at a coffee shop. I don’t make it a point to tip every time at a coffee shop or Starbucks, but I have consulted with a former Starbucks employee who says that most baristas don’t consider tipping to be optional. I do try to tip every time at coffee houses I go to on the road (places I may never go to again), although I will admit I forget to do so. I have never put a full dollar bill into the tip jar, and I don’t know why a single person would A coffee shop, while there is some element of performance involved, doesn’t require as much service as a sit-down restaurant. One factor possibly in play-if there is one person working at the shop and if that person brings your drink out to you, give a little more.