On my second day out of Poughkeepsie I passed through Red Hook into beautiful farmlands and orchards. The hustle and bustle of New York faded to the patient routine of rural agriculture.
At a small crossroad store I spoke to a local mother who was enthused and appreciative of the cause and message. She asked if she could help me in any way, gave me her phone number, described where she lived about two miles further up the road and offered to help with a ride at the end of the day. Later I passed her home, it was just as she had described. Her husband, the goat farmer, just as she had described, watched me balance the World like a plow along the furrow between the white line at the roads' edge and the ditch until I was well beyond the nearby crossroad.
Many days later, as I was driving back from completing the trek to Schenectady, along the same road, I saw the goat farm and recalled the woman and her husband.
Then I noticed the woman walking along the road, just beyond their property. She was walking with one of her teenage sons and carrying a bag of groceries from the store two miles down the country road. She looked red faced and winded, but also had a smile on her face, beaming with satisfaction.
I would like to think seeds strewn along the highway sometimes take root.