November 10, 2008
worm fiddlin’, angel, "...but I've eaten there," neel
Day Fifty
"Oh, if you're a bird, be an early bird
And catch the worm for your breakfast plate.
If you're a bird, be an early bird --
But if you're a worm, sleep late."
- Shel Silverstein (Where the Sidewalk Ends) -
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Frequently, when it's cold, my toes go numb, sometimes even to the point where they hurt a little. While riding in Texas, I found a Trick-or-Treat bag on the side of the road and used it to cover up my right foot. It worked so well that I found a Target bag for my left foot. At the end of the day I stuck them into my handlebar bag to use later, because surely I would never be so lucky as to find a plastic bag on the side of the road again. I donned them again today. Not only do they keep my feet warm, they add a certain je ne sais quoi to what is already a stylish ensemble.
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?Worm fiddlin'? Being in the Deep South, I envisioned a toothless man in overalls. He's so poor that he can't afford strings for his fiddle, so instead, he plucks a worm out of a bucket and expertly stretches it along the fingerboard of his burnished instrument then, after spitting a chaw into the dirt, places the fiddle gently between his neck and shoulder before powering through a song that would bring any concert violinist to tears of joy and envy.
Or, perhaps it's a fiddling competition in which, for some antebellum historical reason, all of the contestants have to dress up as worms.
So goes my imagination.
Worm fiddlin' (be careful that you don't accidentally add a "g" to the end of the word - you'll be ejected from the state), I later learned, is a way of catching worms. Apparently, you hammer something into the moist ground (e.g. a wooden stake) and rub something else (e.g. a flat piece of metal) across the top of it, thus creating a vibration which causes the earthworms to come to the surface. Theoretically, the sound mimics an underground mole, and the worms rise up to ground level to avoid being eaten.
As you gaze at the sign in awe, be aware that Careyville isn't just the worm fiddlin' capital of Florida, or even the United States.... it's the worm fiddlin' capital of THE WORLD.
After 35 miles I stopped in Chipley (pop 3,330) for lunch. I veered off the route and onto Main Street looking for a place to eat. When I didn't see anything for several blocks I saw a guy coming out of an appliance store and asked him about a good place to eat.
After thinking for a second he mumbled something barely audible about one place being closed, then he pointed to a side street and said more clearly,
"There's a place down that street called Angel's. It's owned by some black people, but I've eaten there." His expression changed to one that said, "That didn't come out like I wanted it to," and he opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it again. I thanked him and headed over to check it out.
Across the street and around the corner I arrived at Angel's, an all-you-can-eat buffet for $8.00. After eating significantly more than $8.00 worth, I migrated over to a window seat where I closed my eyes and soaked up some of the sunlight coming in, hoping to warm up a little.
There was only one other adult in the place, a woman. From fifty feet away she yelled,
"Where'd you start?"
“San Diego!”
We yelled back and forth for a minute until I finally got up and sat closer.
The woman's name is Tina, but everyone knows her as Angel. She had a lot of questions about my bike trip, and I asked her a few questions as well. I asked her what the farthest she's ever been from Chipley. She went on a cruise to the Bahamas once, but other than that she's never been further than a hundred miles from Chipley. She and her husband used to take a vacation every year (to see the myriad of vacation hot spots within a hundred miles of Chipley, I assume), but they haven't been able to since they started being foster parents.
Angel has ten foster kids, ranging in age from sixteen months to sixteen years. No, that's not a typo. TEN kids.
She doesn't get paid for them, other than Medicaid, and each one has their own difficulties. The three-year-old, for example, showed what she learned from her mom: how to cut cocaine with a credit card and roll a dollar bill up for her mom so she can snort it. No, that's not a typo, either... three years old.
She's been married nineteen years, but she and her husband have been together since elementary school. He works at the local prison and moonlights as a personal trainer on the side.
We talked a while about her medical problems. A doctor has recommended she have surgery, but she's not altogether sure she wants to have it done at this time.
As I was pedaling away, she yelled for me to stop and said the newspaper would probably want to interview me. Chipley is a small town with not much going on and they're always looking for a story. We walked next door to the newspaper office and she went inside while I waited outside. When she returned she told me that one of the reporters is out on a story and the other one is trying to finish writing a story before his deadline, which is in fifteen minutes. She said he'd come over to the cafe when he was done.
I waited for more than half an hour while Angel did some things in the back of the cafe. On one other occasion, in 1982, I waited on a reporter, and the wait was so long that it ended up being my shortest day ever (8 miles).
When I began feeling antsy to start riding again I looked in the back for Angel, then left her a note and took off.
It was almost 2:30 when I left. Although I had spent more than two hours at the cafe, I didn't mind. It's always enjoyable meeting people like Angel - she comes by her nickname honestly.
For the last twenty miles to Marianna (pop 7,006) I turned on some music and the time and the miles passed quickly.
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After checking into the hotel I talked to Heather, as I do almost every evening, then blogged for two hours until 8:10. Since I didn't see anything to eat within sight of the hotel I asked the hotel manager. He said all of the cafes close at 8:00, and I was a little surprised to find that in a town of >7,000 people the only places to eat that are still open are the fast food chains.
Ten minutes later I was sitting in McDonald's. After dinner I walked across the street to the Shell convenience store to get some snacks for later.
Wandering around the store trying to decide what I wanted, I was approached by the guy behind the counter who asked me if I needed some help. He was in his mid-twenties and appeared to be from India or Pakistan judging from his accent. I said, "No, thanks. I'm just browsing." He wasn't familiar with the word “browsing” and asked me to repeat it, then spell it. He wrote it down in a small notebook, then thanked me for helping him learn a new word.
I thought it was interesting that he's learning new words and improving his English skills when he already speaks better English than most of the customers coming in to buy beer and cigarettes.
We started chatting, and I learned his name is Neel, from India. He was pretty excited to find out I'm riding my bike across the country, and even more excited to learn that I'm blogging it. I gave him the URL for my journal and asked him if I could take his picture... he readily agreed. He also insisted on paying for an ice cream bar that I had placed on the counter.
On my way out, he offered anything in the store... "Take anything you like!" I considered walking out with the cash register, but thought better of it and ended up not taking anything. He had, after all, already paid for my ice cream bar. Although I'd have loved to hang out and talk some more - Neel seems like a nice guy with some good stories - it was already late, so I headed back to the hotel and fell asleep as soon as I climbed into bed.
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distance: 57.01 miles
average speed: 13.4 average
maximum speed: 26.9 mph
time on bike: 4:15:04
cumulative: 2480.8 miles
Today's ride: 57 miles (92 km)
Total: 2,476 miles (3,985 km)
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