Well... we did the road trip on Saturday. And it was, well... less than inspiring. I'm not sure what I thought would spark my creativity. We ate breakfast at a diner in LeSueur that looked just as it must have twenty years ago (which was quite interesting - very smalltown Hoosieresque). Ottawa is quite interesting - a tiny 19th century village with the original stone Methodist church and streets that are actually still narrow horsepaths. And St. Peter is filled with beautiful Victorian-style homes.
But Henderson... I got scared in Henderson.
Understand, I mean no disrespect to Henderson. It looks like a nice, quaint, welcoming little river town. In fact, I fely so warm and welcome that I parked on the Minnesota River bridge and hopped out to take some photos.
It was as I walked back to the van that it happened. I had the creepy feeling that I was being followed. I look behind me, and I see some guy, driving real slow in his old pickup truck - putt putt putt putt across the river bridge.
And he was looking at me. Staring is more the word. As if I were the first human he had seen in a long time. (Or at least like the first non-local human.)
Putt-putt-putt-putt...
Birds stopped chirping. The breeze calmed to stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a banjo picked away. Dang-duh-dang-dang-dang-duh-dang-dang-dang. I looked around nervously to see if Ned Beatty was anywhere around.
The truck drifted past me, down by our van, where he pulled off the road and down along the river - a wooded area one would expect to see on the local news, as the reporter begins to explain that the body was found about 20 yards beyond the police tape barrier...
My wife was still in the van. My stroll back became a trot, then a speedwalk.
"Why are you running?" she asked as I jumped in the van.
"Just getting some exercise", I replied. She didn't buy it.
I wouldn't have, either.
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