Chapter 8: Call me Ishmael
Sometimes a minor character can have a profound impact on the main character—and even on the writer. Augie Freytag is one of those characters. It’s been several years since I wrote this scene, but I still smile when I think of him. In many ways, for me he embodies faith lived in a real way—something I believe all of us can respect, even envy.
Setting: Daniel has been devastated by what he experienced at Kent State. He has left college just before graduation and is now hitch-hiking across the country with no real destination in mind. He just wants to clear his head of Kent State—and Elizabeth. Getting through Chicago was a frightening experience, that is, until someone in an old pickup truck offered him a ride.
“Name’s Freytag. Augie Freytag, from Mishawaka, Indiana, near South Bend. That’s where Notre Dame is. Both my boys went there. But not me. I’m just a farmer. Been milking cows for nearly seventy years now. You a farm boy? Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
It was obvious I wouldn’t be getting any sleep riding with Augie Freytag. But I didn’t care. It was better than being dead on some nameless Chicago street.
“Daniel Robinson. And no, I’m not a farm boy. But I do know my way around a John Deere mower. Worked on the grounds crew for three summers at college.”
“What college?”
“Kentucky Methodist. Near Lexington. I’m hoping to see San Francisco.”
“I can take you as far as Denver, Daniel,” he said, shaking my hand. “That is, if you have a driver’s license. I’ll need you to take the wheel from time to time.”
“Yes, sir. Be glad to drive. Truth is, I was a little nervous back there.”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
From what I could tell, Augie must have been seventy-five or more, but he didn’t look it. Short, but solid and broad across the shoulders—and with a grip that nearly broke my hand. But it was his voice I noticed most. Kind. Like I imagined a grandfather would sound—if I ever had a grandfather. Right then, I knew I’d be safe with him, and I relaxed for the first time since leaving Doc’s office.
Over the next one hundred and fifty miles across Illinois, Augie told me all about Mishawaka. He lived in the same house all of his life. The hardest time was the Great Depression when they had no cash income for nearly three years. “We had to live totally off the farm, just like my grandparents did when they moved here from Germany in 1857.”
In great detail, he told me about every one of his four kids and how proud he was his boys graduated from Notre Dame, and his girls married college men too. He also talked forever about every imaginable detail of the dairy business, more than I ever knew or cared to know. But mostly he talked about his wife Marie. They were married forty-eight years. Then just six months ago, she was diagnosed with cancer and died soon after that.
“I’m sorry,” he said somewhere near East Moline when he caught me dozing off. “I’ve had no one to talk with since she passed.”
“No problem.” I was more embarrassed that I might have offended my new friend. “Just been a long day. And I’m really sorry about your wife.”
“Don’t worry about it, son. Since Marie died, my kids say I do ramble on a bit when I get with people. So tell me about yourself. Family in Kentucky?”
Not a mean bone in this guy. I thought I could talk to Augie, at least about some things. Driving through Iowa and into Nebraska, between whatever sleep I could get, I told him how I put myself through college and how hard I had to study because I didn’t learn much in high school. I told him about Elizabeth, and how it hurt me to lose her. I didn’t tell him about Kent State. I wasn’t sure how he’d react if he thought I was one of those hippies. “That’s why I’m out here now. Just trying to clear my head of that girl.”
The afternoon sun glared into the truck. Augie lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. This was the first time I noticed the severe tan line that ran across his face. His cheeks and neck were dark and leathered from a lifetime in the fields, but under that old, worn hat, his bald head was as smooth and white as a baby’s bottom.
“I guess I’m doing the same thing as you, son. I’m traveling.” He pulled his hat down, and without missing a beat, proceeded to tell me even more about his life in Mishawaka.
We drove on for another fifty miles or so until I got up the nerve to ask him something I’d been thinking about. “I don’t mean to get too personal, Augie, but how are you able to handle Marie’s death?”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind. It actually helps to talk about her.” He smiled serenely.
“When Marie died, I realized there was more to life than just the farm. I sold the place last month and I’m heading to Denver so I can go down to Uruguay with the Peace Corps.”
“Peace Corps?” I wasn’t sure I heard him right.
“I know what you’re thinking. The Peace Corps is for college kids like you. Not old farmers like me. That’s what I thought. But then I heard they actually need old farmers to teach people how to make better use of their land. Turns out my seventy years milking cows was better than a degree from Notre Dame. So now I’m going to Uruguay. I guess that makes both of us wanderers, doesn’t it, Daniel?”
I only had a couple hours sleep since leaving Chicago, but I was wide awake now. I never met anyone like Augie.
“Why Uruguay? I mean, why not travel to some place closer, like the Grand Canyon, or even San Francisco with me? I hear it’s a great city.”
“That’s what my kids have been asking. I told them it’s not just the traveling I need. It’s what I do when I get there. I worked hard all my life. I made a good living at it too. Marie was always helping people, you know, poor people. I used to get mad at her every time she gave money to some stranger who would come to the door. I told her God helps those who help themselves. But she always said, ‘Sometimes God needs our help.’”
He smiled again. “I didn’t listen to her, so I guess the Peace Corps is my way of telling Marie she was right. That answer your question?”
“You remind me of someone I knew at college. A professor.”
He laughed. “I’m no professor. I never even finished high school.”
“Doesn’t matter, Augie. You’re a whole lot smarter than most people I’ve met. Trust me.”
“We can thank Marie for that.”
“Wish I’d met her. She sounds like a great woman.” I rolled down my window to let more air into the cab. The wind felt good on my face. “Maybe I’ll meet someone like her one day.”
He gave me a meaningful look. “I hope so.” Then he got real quiet for a long time, probably thinking of Marie again. I spent the time now staring out the window at the vast rolling miles of cornfields in every direction. The land seemed to ebb and flow with the wind, like an endless green ocean, broken only by an infrequent silo that served as a beacon guiding weary travelers home. Then as the sun began to drop low in the sky, far into the distance where it touched the land, a long thin line of deep purples and reds traced the horizon. It caught me unprepared, the beauty of this magnificent land that I never knew existed until today.
Just outside North Platte, Nebraska, at the only roadside diner we’d seen in hours, Augie broke the silence to announce he needed some coffee to make it to Denver by midnight. Someone in the diner said Glacier National Park was a great hiking spot. “Real peaceful,” he called it, and that got me thinking I might like to go there.
“Where’s your tent?” Augie asked when we climbed back into the truck. “And your sleeping bag?”
I just shrugged. “I guess I didn’t think about it when I left school. But I’ll figure out something when I get to Glacier Park.”
Augie shook his head. “You’d never make it on the farm, son, but I’ve got an idea. See that ‘Camping Equipment’ sign down the road? Let’s go see what they have.”
I tried to argue, but it did no good. Before we left North Platte, I was the proud owner of a tent, back pack, sleeping bag, hiking boots and socks, and more trail mix than I could eat all month.
We said good-bye one-hundred and twenty miles later when the road turned south to Denver.
“I have something else for you.” Augie handed me a little Kodak camera and several rolls of film. “To remember your trip. Not all memories are bad. Make some good memories on your journey, Daniel.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just shook his hand several times. “I will, and don’t be surprised if I come down to Uruguay and see you someday.”
“I’d like that. And I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Me too, Augie. Me too.”
***
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