Blue Highways: A Journey into America

by William Least Heat-Moon

I knew the road name where my friend lived and nothing more, so I stopped at a farm on route 21 for directions. The farmer got me to the road and the road took me to the house, which was lighted from top to bottom with no one around but the dogs. I went back to my bunk. Later, when trees obscured the moon, there was an uproar of metallic banging against the Ghost. “Hey in there! Dammit! Open up this sardine can!” It was my friend. Scott Chisholm said, “I’m not going to wake you up by asking why you’re sleeping in my woods. I’m only going to ask if you want to sleep inside.” “Too tired to move.” “All right, breakfast it is then. I’ll tell you only this: I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re here.” “I’m quite harmless.” 2 AT breakfast, Linda, Chisholm’s wife, told me he had slept like a fallen log. “I knew he would,” I said, “but I liked thinking he thought he wouldn’t.”