An Independence Day memory, 'On the Road'

Discovering a clip on YouTube this morning sent me surfing over the tides of time, back to Independence Day, 1997.

I was in Jackson Hole, Wyo., on vacation with my family. Fireworks and fun. Patriotic rhythm and rhyme and even a rodeo. Hot dogs and happy day.

But my heart was broken. That night I learned Charles Kuralt was dead.

We throw around the word "hero" like yesterday's garbage, but if I have one in this word herding business, it is Kuralt. (And Ernie Pyle.)

Kuralt said two things I've used as my personal credo these last 12 years while working at the community weekly.

"It does no harm," he said, "just once in awhile, to acknowledge that the whole world isn't in flames, that there are people in this country besides politicians, entertainers and criminals."

Here's the second one, even more super:

"The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the greed in the headlines."

I watched him as a boy, "On the Road" and on "CBS Sunday Morning," the latter just before going off to church. I can still see him sitting on a stool just before the colors faded to black.

The day after he died, I walked up to a bookstore that has since shut its doors in Jackson. I skimmed the shelves. There it was. "A Life on the Road" by Charles Kuralt.

While my family met friends, I stayed behind, propped my feet up on a picnic table, the great Grand Tetons as my backdrop, and read Kuralt's memories from a life on the road.

Don't bring up that business about his personal life. Take it elsewhere. He did what he did. I am not his judge.

Charles Kuralt taught me how to love my country and its people, how to really love it, in the right way. He also taught me that there is most definitely a place in the paper for people other than politicians, entertainers and criminals.

Oh, how he is missed.

Here is the YouTube video that sparked the memory, his last appearance as the host of my favorite TV series.

Out there somewhere

As I've tossed and turned tonight, losing my ubiquitous battle with insomnia, I heard the whistling of a train.

Oh, not really. I think it came to me during a brief moment when I crossed over into slumber. But it reminded me of the wanderlust that often lies beneath the surface of my life.

I have long been attracted to the open road. I've told you before that the only other dream job I would want besides my own is the ability to travel the back roads of America in search of adventure and a good story. It's one reason I love Charles Kuralt's "On the Road," Kerouac's "On the Road" and the old TV series "Route 66."

Responsibilities and being poor add up to the reality that I often have to get there vicariously. Last summer in Asheville I bought a copy of Kerouac. I think I will read it when I finish Conroy.

Maybe before the weather turns cold I can scrape up a few pennies and gas up the guzzler. Maybe head down 411 or 27.

As it is, I think I will put on a DVD of Tod and Buzz's adventures, dream about seeking what's out there, and drift off to sleep while the black-and-white flicker from the TV casts an ethereal glow across the room.

Somewhere down the road...

If I have a hero in this journalism bid'ness, it's Charles Kuralt.

Brief synopsis for those who don't know: Kuralt was a lovable CBS reporter whose "On the Road" segments, highlighting some quirky or inspiring tidbit from the American heartland, were a staple of the "CBS Evening News" for years. He also hosted my favorite weekly news show, "CBS News Sunday Morning," which is now in the capable hands of the velvet-voiced Charles Osgood.

The day Kuralt died (July 4, 1997), I found myself in the shadow of the Grand Tetons, in Jackson Hole, Wyo. My parents and siblings were going to spend the day with friends who lived in the area. But, I wanted to be by myself. I had bought Kuralt's autobiography and spent the day reading it.

I have tried to pattern my writing style and subject matter after Kuralt's. Others at my newspaper are experts at politics, government and gossip. Other than school board, I don't touch it.

My heart lies with the guy down the street who fiddles one day and fishes the next. Or with the woman who makes jams and jellies for the county fair. Or with two twin sisters who graduated valedictorian and salutatorian from their college class.

Such stories aren't hard news, but they say something more universal. They remind us that we are human beings, that life exists outside the Washington beltway and Manhattan cocktail parties. Such people built this country. We owe them much.

It's one reason why I hate losing Bill Landry and his "Heartland Series." Landry has been to Appalachia what Kuralt was to Backroads America -- its poet.

My dream is to get paid to travel around the great United States and tell these stories. Alas, modern realities and budget constraints most likely won't allow that.

So, my plan is to get out at least once a month beginning in September, pick destinations that are less than a day's drive, write about what I see, and stay in a cheap hotel if I can't make it back home before the sun sets. I don't think it will break the bank. Plus, I feel like it's some important work that will mesh well with my talent and mind-set. I've already got a couple of stories in mind.

Charles Kuralt is way out of my league. Always will be. But they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I don't know.

Regardless, here's hoping you'll read this signoff before too many more moons slip away --

This is Jake Mabe, Shopper-News, somewhere down the road...