It happens infrequently while you travel slowly, the intersection between luck and serendipity, that yields the endearing moment you least expect. On remote highway WI-13,
Once a gravedigger, he stopped shaving and began woodcarving when Nixon waved goodbye from that stairway on the helicopter. Not content to dance to our drummer, his path of least resistance leads to a modest workshop/studio/shed and bed, breathing sawdust and sculpting life.
Path to the inner sanctum
No stranger to camping, he fashioned his own classB motorhome on the rusted chassis of a Chevy truck. “Don’t use it much once I passed 75…I’m too old and that’s too fast”
Where’s the circus ?
We tried to buy a beautiful fish, shaped and polished from burled walnut, but it was NFS, one of his favorites he could not part with. “Most of what I have in the studio (it was crammed with wooden art, every piece he had done himself) is only for display.
“However, if we express interest in a raven topped totem pole seen below in its infancy, he might be able to talk.
A stranger to personal hygiene, he is in remarkably good health and spirit, and recommended we stop down the road to look at his favorite truck, a 1927 Ford.
We don’t want your arms, we don’t want your legs, just give us your tows
Bill doesn’t have a cell phone, a TV, or a computer, only a Motorola portable radio that ‘needs new batteries’ and he’s never heard of a social networking site. I asked him if he remembered Elian Gonzalez and Janet Reno and the tug-o-war with Cuba in 2000.
How about the oil spill ?
“Oh, yes, but I didn’t know where it was in Mexico or when it started. Is it fixed?”
There aren’t enough Bills in the world.