Travels with Charley in Search of America Read Online Free PDF Page A

fresh-pressed cider. I believe that everyone along the highways sells moccasins and deerskin gloves. And those who don’t sell goat-milk candy. Until then, I had not seen the factory-outlet stores in the open country selling shoes and clothes. The villages are the prettiest, I guess, in the whole nation, neat and white-painted, and—not counting the motels and tourist courts—unchanged for a hundred years except for traffic and paved streets.
    The climate changed quickly to cold and the trees burst into color, the reds and yellows you can’t believe. It isn’t only color but a glowing, as though the leaves gobbled the light of the autumn sun and then released it slowly. There’s a quality of fire in these colors. I got high in the mountains before dusk. A sign beside a stream offered fresh eggs for sale, and I drove up a farm road and bought some eggs and asked permission to camp beside the stream and offered to pay.
    The farmer was a spare man, with what we think of as a Yankee face and the flat vowels we consider Yankee pronunciation.
    “No need to pay,” he said. “The land’s not working. But I would like to look at that rig you’ve got there.”
    I said, “Let me find a level place and put it in order, then come down for a cup of coffee—or something.”
    I backed and filled until I found a level place where I could hear the eager stream rattling; it was almost dark. Charley had said “Ftt” several times, meaning this time that he was hungry. I opened Rocinante’s door, turned on the light, and found utter chaos inside. I have stowed a boat very often against roll and pitch, but the quick stops and starts of a truck are a different hazard. The floor was littered with books and papers. My typewriter roosted uncomfortably on a pile of plastic dishes, a rifle had fallen down and nudged itself against the stove, and one entire ream of paper, five hundred sheets, had drifted like snow to cover the whole place. I lighted the gas mantle lamp, stuffed the debris in a little closet, and put on water for coffee. In the morning I would have to reorganize my cargo. No one can tell how to do it. The technique must be learned the way I learned it, by failures. The moment it was dark it became bitterly cold, but the lamp and the gas burners of the stove warmed my little house cozily. Charley ate his supper, did his tour of duty, and retired into a carpeted corner under the table which was to be his for the next three months.
    There are so many modern designs for easy living. On my boat I had discovered the aluminum, disposable cooking utensils, frying pans and deep dishes. You fry a fish and throw the pan overboard. I was well equipped with these things. I opened a can of corned-beef hash and patted it into a disposable dish and set it on an asbestos pad over a low flame, to heat very slowly. The coffee was barely ready when Charley let out his lion roar. I can’t say how comforting it is to be told that someone is approaching in the dark. And if the approacher happened to have evil in his heart, that great voice would give him pause if he did not know Charley’s basically pacific and diplomatic nature.
    The farm owner knocked on my door and I invited him in.
    “You’ve got it nice in here,” he said. “Yes, sir, you’ve got it nice.”
    He slipped in the seat beside the table. This table can be lowered at night and the cushions can be converted to make a double bed. “Nice,” he said again.
    I poured him a cup of coffee. It seems to me that coffee smells even better when the frost is in. “A little something on the side?” I asked. “Something to give it authority?”
    “No—this is fine. This is nice.”
    “Not a touch of applejack? I’m tired from driving, I’d like a spot myself.”
    He looked at me with the contained amusement that is considered taciturnity by non-Yankees. “Would you have one if I didn’t?”
    “No, I guess not.”
    “I wouldn’t rob you then—just a spoonful.”
    So I