I've come to look for America ~ Paul Simon August 1972 and another house was breaking up. Peter and Melanie found a place of their own. Larry decided to go back to school in Madison, Wisconsin. With no place to stay and no job I decided to join Larry on his cross-country trip. We set out from San Francisco along Highway 80, passed Sacramento and Reno. Crossing the Nevada desert in the pitch-black night we made Salt Lake City before stopping to get some sleep. The Ramada Inn was full except for an empty suite. It was 2 a.m. and we looked so pathetic that the manager took pity on us and gave us the suite for the price of a single. He even let Larry's dogs stay with us. Pegasus was a beautiful pure white Spitz and, of course, there was Jenny, the Maltese. By 8 a.m. we were on the road again. Somewhere east of Salt Lake City I was awakened by the bouncing of the old Chevy station wagon as it rolled across the Utah desert. Larry had fallen asleep at the wheel and we had gone off the road. Back on the highway we pressed on through Nebraska and into Iowa. Five hundred miles of cornfields and flat as an ironing board. Just outside of Grinnell the old Chevy quit, the engine just stopped. We coasted to a stop behind an old panel truck, the kind they used to use for delivering milk. The young couple in it had also broken down. What to do? We looked east over the cornfields and saw a farmhouse in the distance. Everyone agreed that I looked the most respectable and so I was elected to go and look for help. As I trudged down the dirt road all sorts of thoughts ran through my mind. This was the heartland, unsophisticated, uneducated, dangerous. An old pickup truck appeared from behind the farmhouse, heading towards me. The middle-aged husband and wife stopped and asked if I needed help. They didn't have a telephone but were going into town and would be happy to drop me off at the local Skelly station. As I climbed in the missus was waving her hand to chase away a fly that was buzzing around the cab. "Whew! The flies are terrible this year. Must be the late crop of sweet corn." After a few minutes of silence she asked, "So, where are you from?" "California", I replied. Silence. "Where you headed?" she tried again. "New York", I answered. And that was the end of our conversation. They were obviously a nice couple but we might as well have been from different planets. They dropped me off at the Skelly service station of Maynard Durr. This being Sunday Maynard had taken the day off. There was, however, a kid on duty with hair the color of corn silk. He took me in the tow truck back to the car. The young couple had managed to start their truck and were gone. When we reached the station the kid told us that Maynard would be back in the morning so Larry, the dogs and I spent the night across the street at the Grinnell Best Western Motel. The next morning we were back to hear the verdict on the Chevy. Maynard was about five feet three inches tall with a beer gut that hung over his belt. His crew cut was so short you could see his scalp under the hair. And I swear the man had a red neck. "So you boys have'n a little trouble? Haw, haw, haw." he laughed. "Let's take a look, haw, haw." After about five minutes under the hood he got into the drivers seat and started the car. "Here's your problem boys" he motioned us over. "See this little wire? Well it got too close to the radiator and melted right through, haw, haw, haw." He charged us two dollars for the wire connectors and we were in Madison by the end of the day. We stayed at the home of a friend and Larry introduced me to everyone including the three resident cats, O-Tie La Bowtie, Flid La Lid and Tuna La Luna. It snowed heavily that winter, burying the old Chevy. It would not run again until the spring. In less than a year Larry was back in California. In spite of everything, to this day, corn is still my favorite vegetable.