I feel most at home in the America of Midwestern small-town diners. Their owners and their children work there and bake the pies too. The people who eat here know them and each other by name and are easy with each other. I am the stranger passing through, passing through and hardly impacting the comity of the setting.

“Herb, can we use your truck this weekend to haul that wood?  I gotta replace a wheel bearing in mine.”

“Cora, your daughter made you a granma yet? She’s past due ain’t she?”

I listen and wish this were my own hometown and I would gather firewood with Herb and soon be going to a baptism. Couldn’t I just stop here and not keep going to wherever I’m going?

“Thank you ma’am, and that was one great slice of cream pie; I’ll tell my friends about it for when they’re passing through too.” Get some gas and get going …

Pilgrims sing Woody Guthrie’s hobo song; “I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.”