Yes, I Admit I've Got a Lincoln Problem.....

(A violence gang typical of the streets of Lincoln.)

Lincoln was not at all what I expected what with all of the violence gangs roving around the city challenging decent and hard working citizens to bicylce jousts to the death. I came across one such bicycle joust, a rite of passage for fledgling members, as I was entering the city. Sadly the loser was shunned by his entire family and cast out into the surrounding wilderness which I will discuss later. But at least he was allowed to live. I should have known what was to come as it is a well established fact that it is bad luck just seeing a thing like that. I made a quick change to another street but my dreams will be haunted by the experience until the end of my days.

The city of Lincoln was built in the mid 1800's by a large gypsy clan attempting to create a modern day utopia. It is well known today as both the capital of Nebraska as well as the birthplace of Jazz. Jazz being a popular bland mush eaten with poached eggs and turnip juice as a restorative during the harsh Nebraska winters. Today Lincoln is surrounded on all sides by a quarter mile strip of barren land known as the Wastelands. Many have led excursions in search of fresh water supplies yet none have returned. Some say they were eaten by some kind of mutant humanoid while others theorize that have made new lives for themselves in any one of a number of nomadic tribes, feeding on grubs and tubers while worshipping a large undetonated nuclear missile.

I quickly made my way through the city stopping only once at Antelope Park to visit the infamous Lincoln Children's Zoo where over 300 children of a variety of ages and temperment are on display in their native habitats. My particular favorite was the spoiled suburbanite enclosure. Antelope Park is also home to the Sunken Garden, a beautiful building which houses a collection of colorful tropical plants and is slowly sinking into the earth below it. Ancient prophecy reveals that the garden will be ultimately swallowed by a huge sinkhole only to be replaced by a similar structure with a larger gift shop.

(A large gift shop not unlike what has been foretold in Lincoln Foklore.)

As I approached the large wood and stone gate, covered with the decaying bodies of many years of bicycle joust victims, that serves as the perimeter of Lincoln proper I felt a sudden jerk and had some difficulty maintaining control until I could ease to a slower speed. My back tire was completely flat, likely a result of riding over a large area of broken turnip juice bottles. I can still smell the rancid odor of turnip juice and pulp baking in the hot Nebraska sun for days. Had there been an accident? Why were there so many broken bottles? I came to a stop on the side of the road.

"Need a lift?" A voice from behind me said. It was a voice I knew that I had heard before and it brought bile into my mouth. I turned to see Deaf Jim and for a brief time could only marvel at how a man who has been deaf his entire life could move so steathily. Perhaps he has had some kind of formal dance and/or martial arts training, most likely in the deadly art of ballerinate a long forgotten mix of ballet and karate. One expert believes that the wild west was won not with a heavy iron six-shooter but with the light yet lethal toes of the ballerinate masters that had come to this land from the mysterious orient. I knew then that I would not survive a skirmish with this audiologically handicapped brute.

"What do you want? Come to rub it in my face that you stole my woman?" I croaked.

"Nope, just passing through on my way to Omaha to pick some steaks up for Agnes. You know how she likes her steak!"

"Bloody as hell and still mooing!" We said together and I resented the feeling of comraderie I briefly felt for this statuesque if not imperfect rascal.

Deaf Jim threw my chopper into the back of his truck and took me the nearest auto mechanic outside of the city limits. We said nothing. When he wasn't looking I slipped a few bucks into his glove compartment and winced at the side of a nude photo of Agnes. With my cycle soon road ready I headed out once more along Highway 80. I couldn't help but wonder if I had seen the last of Deaf Jim or of Agnes. Only time will tell but for now the road awaits.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins

If You Get Caught Between the Moon and Beaver Crossing.....

(One of several beavers that have been sighted around the Beaver Crossing area. Why have they returned after all these years?)

On a whim I decided to double back on Highway 81, passing back through Benedict just in time to catch their well known daily walking of the World War Two Veterans. It is quite an honor for young scouts of both the Cub and Boy variety, and even the occasional Webelos, to have the opportunity to lead these fine citizens on their daily walk from Coot's Western Omelet Shack to the entrance to the Benedict Arms Apartments where the majority of them live out their final days. This quarter mile trek is often viewed by the majority of the town who salute with a healthy dose of both vim and vigor as the old soldier's pass. I never served in the military due to my wandering spleen and have always regretted it.

I then headed east on Interstate 80 with Lincoln in my sights. But first I decided to make an unplanned stop in Beaver Crossing. I did this for two reasons. My hog was thirsty and so was I. I filled up the motorcycle at Lucky's Shell, home of the cleanest bathroom in Seward County or so the sign claimed, and walked a few blocks down the main drag to an old fashioned soda shoppe. I rested my aching buttocks on a red plastic covered revolving stool and ordered up a nectar soda from the jerk. He said it would be a minute so I opened up a greasy and well read book that was chained to the counter. "The History of Nebraska" was missing a number of pages but not the section on Beaver Crossing.

Beaver Crossing is a town rich with history. It's early days in the first decades of the 19th century were filled with hardships. The land that would become Beaver Crossing was positioned between two rival beaver colonies who had battled for superiority for centuries. Fuzzybottom, the eldest beaver and the leader of the upstart colony, at least they were young upstarts when the fight for supremacy first began around the time of Charlemagne, finally devised a plan to gain the advantage over the greybellies, or so they were called by the Fuzzybottom and his followers. Neither colony had any knowledge of exactly who Charlemange was other than what they had heard from visiting French-Canadian beavers on holiday to the area which was known for its fine selection of gourmet woods.

Fuzzybottom and his soldiers won the day and took control of the entire region but were soon slaughtered into extinction by the influx of humans into the area. A bustling town soon was established and the rest is history. Of late there has been talk amongst the few surviving beavers of the return of the beaver king who will rid their former homeland of the scourge of humanity. But beavers are well known for being prone to exaggeration so until more evidence surfaces the humans of Beaver Crossing will live their lives in the usual fashion. But a few are beginning to stockpile weapons and supplies in preperation for the future conflict.

My nectar soda came and was exactly what this grizzled old traveler needed. I was soon back on my hog and heading east towards Lincoln.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins

The Prodigal Brother Returns to Benedict.....

(Maynard Jenkins making an important phone call to his people.)


With Strang and McCool Junction behind me, I continued up Highway 81, crossing Interstate 80 and passing through York, Nebraska on the way to a small town by the name of Benedict. I exited onto Logan street and took a right onto Ragan just over the railroad tracks where I became a man. A little ways down on the corner of Ragan and Shiloh is the office of the Mayor of Benedict, my brother Maynard Jenkins. I parked my hog and faced my past.

My older brother is a perfectionist of sorts, a personality trait unlike any of my own, and has ran this bustling town of 278 citizens for more than 50 years doing a damn fine job along the way. Not an irregular sheep or Turkey Death Brigade in sight. We hadn't spoken in a long time and I grew very nervous as I made my way slowly to the front door of his office. His secretary, a familar fixture named Ernestina, looked at me with mild suprise and a touch of what I could only describe at utter sadness.

"Spooner?", She whispered throatily, "That you? Oh, I didn't recognize you with that beard. I heard about Agnes from one of the Rose children. They make it up this way to visit an aunt I think. Spooner I'm sorry."

We spoke just long enough for me to let her know that I was doing alright and to wish her well. I had a lot of miles ahead of me and my only goal for this stop was to make amends for the misdeeds of my youth. I walked into Maynard's office and prepared to take my lumps.

"I was wondering when you would show up here. It's been a long time.", my older brother by 5 minutes exclaimed. "I'm suprised you had the gumption little brother. Sorry about Agnes."

Agnes, my wife of over 40 years until just a few weeks ago, was the wedge that came between my brother and I . She was his girl until I swept her off her feet and took her away to sit by my side as the First Lady of Belvidere.

"I figured you would have heard by now. I'm an old man Maynard and I'm not long for this world. You either. We need to settle this."

"It's in the past. I'm not saying what you did didn't hurt like hell though. It took a long time for me to forgive you. I kept waiting for you to call or stop by."

"Damn my pride Maynard."

"Like I said, it's in the past. Where ya headin?"

"Don't quite know. Away from Belvidere I guess. North just felt right. You heard from her?"

"Yep. She's settled in Strang with a deaf man. Tim or Jim. He's a hobo but he's got an important position of some sort. Runs a fountain I think."

The irony of the situation hit me and my knees buckled. Luckily Maynard's whittlin chair was just behind me. We both love a good whittlin to calm our nerves but it would take a mighty heap of sturdy whittlin timber and as many years to get over this I fear. The kindly fellow I befriended on the first stop of my cross country roadtrip is the very man who stole away my Agnes. The absurdity of life boggles the mind sometimes.

"Deaf Jim. I met him on the way up here. I promised I'd come back to visit now I'm not so sure. No, that's just wrong. I'm a man of my word. But I won't enjoy it. Not one bit. Bronson Pinchot or no Bronson Pinchot, Strang is dead to me now."

"So that's where Bronson Pinchot ate that egg salad sandwhich? It really haunted?"

"Can't say for certain. It's good to see you Maynard."

We embraced and fourty years of seperation melted away. The Jenkins brothers were united once more and for one last time. Maynard died that night smiling as if content for the first time in a very long while. We both were I reckon. I made the necessary calls and arrangements but left before the sun rose. The solace of the open road beckoned and with my headlight pointed north, I answered its call. Never looking back, the harsh southerly wind dried an old man's tears.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins

I've Never Been To McCool Junction.....

(Stephanie Thomas Clark, McCool Junction born and raised.)

Continuing north on 81, and passing the infamous Fairmont State Airfield where 80's pop sensation Charlene of "I've Never Been To Me" fame died in a fiery plane crash, I have made my way to McCool Junction. You may not realize that the classic song "The Day The Music Suffered a Mild Health Related Setback" was written about Charlene's untimely demise. Even today a small memorial stands just 20 feet into the brush near hangar B. The crowds may have thinned but the memories of her loss remain for all of us.

McCool Junction was established near the turn of the century by settlers searching for fertile land on which to grow hemp and turnips, one of Nebraska's staples. In fact, nothing beats a tall glass of turning juice on a cold(or hot) Nebraska morning. Personally I like mine with extra grit so no rinsing for me please.

McCool Junction's only blip on the radar of social conciousness is it's proud distinction of being the birthplace of the mullet, which is to my understanding a popular style of wearing one's hair amongst the younger generations which I find so troubling due to their lack of respect for senior citizens and overall sassmouth. Hairstyle Anthropologists have theorized that the hairstyle might actually date back to the early mesolithic period however carbohydrate dating of present day samples puts the original mullet in McCool, or The Junction as it is known in the popular press. The first person, at least in recorded history, to fashion herself a "Mulleteer", not to be confused with the popular Disney Channel variety show of the same name which starred a young Annette Avalon Funichello, was Stephanie Thomas Clark who is pictured above.

I don't plan on staying long in The Junction as it is entirely inhospitable to outsiders. There is a park here with a bench and there are some squirrels. I might take a moment to feed them. There is a frame shop here which carries various sundry items. I sure do miss Grandma's back in Belvidere. Maybe I'll stumble upon a town where I feel as at ease as I did back there while on this odyssey of mine. Somehow I doubt it. Sure is nice not having to worry myself with the day to day paper work and stress involved in running a bustling town though. And I haven't seen an irregular sheep once since leaving Belvidere so I guess it's not all that bad. Well, time to keep on keepin on.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins

What a Long Strang Trip It's Been.....

(Deaf Jim, an unexpected new friend and chief fountaineer in Strang, shown here holding a lantern while standing on a railroad track.)

Heading north on Highway 81, the first stop on my exploration of America is nearby Strang, Nebraska, a town as famous for its ugly children as it is for its lack of running water. At the center of the town is a large fountain which serves as the primary source of water for the town of 38 farmers, and at last count nearly 300 Hobos who actually live in a moderately sized Hobo encampment just east of the city which Stangians refer to as Dirtville. The farmers have for years ruled over the hobos with an iron fist, using them for cheap labor such as the manual pumping recquired to force water out of the decorative attachment placed in the middle of the town fountain. The large cast iron figure of two naked children flying a kite can be seen from all corners of the town and the water pouring out of their mouths enjoyed by all except for Deaf Jim.




















(A young man typical of Strang. Note the malformed ear and asymetric face.)

A source for the frequent birth defects has not been discovered although theories abound. Most folks around Strang don't seem to mind though. The average life expectancy in Strang is roughly 30 years and many of the woman are infertile. A robust internet marketing campaign keeps a steady supply of settlers coming and on occasion Hobo younglings are taken from Dirtville. Though there are a few skirmishes between the Hobos, who have the advantage of greater numbers, and the Strangians, who have the technological edge, in general peace reigns between the two groups.

My reason for making Strang the first stop on this adventure was a chance to grab lunch at Julio's, the town's only restaurant. Julio's is well known in southern Nebraska for its malts and phospo sodas but their claim to faim is that in the early 1980's a young Bronson Pinchot stopped by on his way to South Dakota for an audition. This was pre-Perfect Strangers so he was not well known, but he left a lasting impression on the townsfolk. Those of you lucky enough to get a chance to visit Strang can see the large billboard erected just outside of town with a picture of Mr. Pinchot eating at Julio's on it. Legend has it that he ordered an egg salad sandwhich, half of which has been preserved and placed on display on the counter. The same half egg salad sandwhich is rumored to be haunted but not by Mr. Pinchot who is still alive.

After lunch, I stopped at the old fountain to taste of its delicious history. Though slightly discolored from the lead which was used to fashion the base of the fountain, there was also a hint of sweetness and dare I say, mint. I took pause to think of how many generations of Strangians had used the rusted scoop hanging from the edge of the reservoir. How many young lovers had walked hand in hand around the town circle enjoying the relaxing sound it emitted? And then my thoughts turned to my wife. The sadness of my recent divorce was beginning to settle in when I heard a rough voice and shuffling footsteps approaching.

"Hey there Mister! You enjoying that water?", the burly and bearded man said with the kind of slurred speech I had only heard once before while growing up in Belvidere. This was Deaf Jim, the head fountaineer of Strang, and a proud resident of Dirtville for some 25 years. We talked for hours about life in Strang, Strangian-Hobo relations, and the unrelenting preponderance of deformed children. Mostly I listened though as Deaf Jim is deaf. Thoughts of my wife fell by the wayside and I laughed as I hadn't laughed in over a month. I promised Deaf Jim that I would return again to visit and that I would get word to the CDC about the children.

Map of Strang, Nebraska

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins

To New Beginnings.....

(Mayor Jenkins, may he rest in peace.)

You see that guy. He's dead. Or at least who he was is dead. Death is the best way he knows to describe the shedding of his former self and it's trappings. He had a good life that he spent in a wonderful town in southern Nebraska. But then he got a wake up call when his wife left him one morning for a man in Strang. He had a few weeks to reflect on all that he has accomplished but somehow came up feeling as if there was something missing.

Then he heard it. Soft at first, but steadily increasing in intensity, he heard the siren song of the open road. He had brought Belvidere as far as it was going to go and it was time to spread his wings and take to the highway. So he dusted off his 1960 Ducati Elite and left it all behind. So Mayor Jenkins is no longer with us, and in his place is just a man named Spooner. This is his story. Hop on.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins