Raymond, Mississippi ** Airport RD Exit And Go Left

At Potter's Kitchen I order the buffet. It'll be eight dollars, yet I figure I'll bury the plate thus calming the bear that is sitting up at my inner table demanding justice for miles served. The plate comes but it is served for me in little portions that are designed more for people that walk to the water cooler from their desk three times a day than a hiker with a hollow behind his belt. The hot catfish tastes like spiced butter swirling over my tongue. Three swirls and it's gone. My hand tells my mouth to chew slowly. The bear demands I shut up and eat. My legs and shoulders have become red earth and vine. I owe a tax on their purchase that has not begun to be paid. I swollow my third glass of unsweetened tea to round the edge that is still in my belly. Holding onto the ice in one cheek as I roll off a sweaty ten dollar bill from a few bills I keep in my chest pocket, I reach for the outside door, stepping back into the heat that waits on the porch like a bad mannered dog.
The center of Raymond is a cozy square, and lovingly groomed. As horrible as it sounds, I walk out of restuarant, past the flowers and fresh paint, and straight across the intersection into the Dogtrot Cafe'. The heavy bean smell of coffee grounds rise into a cape that flutters around the room as I enter. Superpowers activate, form of a hiker. I think that I am shaking, or it is the room. I am so excited to be eating again as I pull my titanium cup from it's place of honor in my pack. As I pay for the full cup of dark roast, a sharply dressed man and his friend call me to their table. What begins with a simple story of the where's and what-have-you's of the walk, it quickly has a large percentage of the room gathered around our table. A photographer is called, and notes are taken. A man I only know as Coach buy's me a piece of almond cake that melts in my mouths except for the sweet nuts that crave to be chewed spitefully between words. A lamb sandwich with cajun chips is set before me in a wicker basket. With just one smell I can hear the bear laughing as she leans back and forward in her inner chair, claws wiggling like fingers above the bounty. She won't chew on my flesh tonight.
As the people shake hands and fall away, returning to their lives outside of the Dogtrot, a warm voice comes to the table, quiet and unassuming. Mayor Isla Tullos is easy talking on a warm day; walking when the air is morning cool so that legs can be forgotten, and the whole world of trees and thoughts just float past unworried. I pull out my old map that I rarely show anyone. Our fingers move over the pen lines as pictures click, recording our conversation on film. The mayor of Raymond is what I believe they call 'Good People'. As Mayor Tullos talked and I listened , and then we traded, I felt an underlining taking place in the walk. There are times in our lives that are there to flag a warning, and then some people and things help sew wings to our feet. I thought I went into the Dogtrot Cafe' because I was still hungry. In more than one way I was right. After nearly four hundred miles of the Natchez Trace Parkway, my soul had a hole worn near through.
There are people that can live on the ocean, or travel empty lands alone until all the stars fall down, and only then look up at the night sky and sigh. I need the little towns, the easy smiles of curious strangers that want more than my appleseeds. I need people.
As I walked out of town with more caffine in my blood than I need, a 1930 convertable pulls up to me containing a proud grandfather and his three of his 20 grandchildren. The two granddaughters are in the rumble seat, and I am jealous of their moment, and happy to let it into my eyes. After the quick lines of my story are given, I am given sentence in trade from the grandfather. "Thank you for doing this, for all of us."