Jenny Goes to Crawford

Susan's been talking to everyone along the way. Telling them what we're doing, and engaging in conversation. I'm so glad she has the balls - sorry, the uterus - to do this. Once she's started them, I'll chime in if the other person doesn't bite her.

And actually, there haven't been any biters so far. One woman who was helping Susan at the AAA office in Phoenix kept smiling, but spoke less after Susan mentioned Crawford. A woman at an AM/PM in Tucson told Susan a long story about a man who had tried to pay for twenty dollars worth of gas with a hundred dollar bill. "I'm not a bank," she said to him.

Most people are interested, though, and surprisingly (to me) supportive. They have Iraq stories of their own. A trucker showed us the scar he'd gotten when his body armor failed and a bullet punctured his lung.




So here I am again, at a Motel 6 on Susan's computer. This time we're in Las Cruces, New Mexico. The right rear tire blew today - that's how we met the trucker - and I must have wiped all of the sunscreen off of my face, because I'm shiny pink except around the eyes. I'm worn out and I wish I had some mashed potatoes.

But I had to post because I'm beginning to notice this thing, this other thing coming over me.I'm hardly even talking to these people. These people, they scare me. And yet, the more times Susan just jumps right in, the more I'm beginning to carry these people with me. And as I carry more people, I'm starting to be stunned rather than scared. Well, no - stunned and scared. But something else, too. Something that's the opposite of anonymity. Not fame, some other thing. Some . . . thing.