Highway 670, better known by the locals as Saylor’s Pond Road, was busy at ten in the morning. Cars and trucks, many going to-and-from the Air Force base, passed by me as I stood on the south side of the two-lane road. Gazing west, I saw a mile of blacktop, fading into the fields of New Jersey. If I could have gazed farther down the road, past the farms and small towns and rivers, I might have seen my eventual destination, three thousand miles away.

An hour before, sometime just past nine, I signed my name on a legal document, saluted one more officer, and became a free man – a civilian once again. When I scribbled my name on the discharge papers, I became, for the first time in my life, a man on my own. No longer did I have parents to raise me, nor the military to feed me. From here on, at least until I figured out what I would do with my life, I had no one to answer to except myself.

It was a surreal moment in my life, although it didn’t feel like one. As I stood on the side of the road, thumb stretched into the air, all I thought about was when the first ride might come, how far it would take me, and where I would sleep that night. My sleeping arrangements, a faded yellow sleeping bag and an old, worn foam pad, were strapped to the top of my vintage canvas backpack. I purchased the pack in haste in Germany, a month before leaving my last duty station. The sleeping bag was one of the few things I had from my youth, used often as I hiked and hitchhiked around California as a kid. The pad was given to my from a German friend who thought I might want a little cushion between the hard ground and me. Clothes, a small cook stove, a coffee pot, a mess kit, and a new Swiss Army knife rounded out my gear. My entire life fit on my back, hauled between cars as I made my way across the country.

Three thousand miles to go. Then what? I didn’t realize it then, but life changed drastically. I was a person without a life. I had no home, although I wasn’t homeless. I was alone, but I wasn’t lonely. I had no job, but I wasn’t unemployed. I had an entire county to pass through, and as long as the five-hundred dollars in my wallet lasted, I could go anywhere, as long as it was in a southwesterly direction.

Three thousand miles to go. Why was I going home? I had no home. My parents were gone, making me an orphan before my sixteenth birthday. My sisters were gone, both moved away and in bad marriages. A few old friends were still back home, but after four years of traveling the world, serving my country, and growing up without them, would we have anything in common?

Three thousand miles to go. How long would I stay there? Maybe I could go to college. I had the G.I Bill at my disposal. Maybe I could get my job back at the small diner where I learned how to cook. Maybe I’d meet a girl, get married, settle down, and raise a family. Or maybe I’d get bored with the thought of responsibility and move on somewhere else, anywhere but there.

It took less than twenty minutes for me to flag down my first ride. A red sedan with out-of-state plates pulled off the road, a hundred feet in front of me. I grabbed my pack and ran to the open passenger side window. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing dusty coveralls, a Penn State hat, and cracked, brown boots looked up and asked “Where you headed, son?”

I smiled and said “California. About three thousand miles down the road.”

“I’m going as far as Pennsylvania.” he replied.

“That’ll do just fine.”

I threw my pack into the backseat and climbed into the front. A mile down the road, I quietly said to myself, “Two-thousand, nine-hundred, and ninety-nine miles to go.”

The great fifth-century Chinese philosopher, Sun Tzu, once said Life is full of goals, so make a bucket list. Or maybe it was Sonny Bono. I can’t remember which, but I read it on the Internet, so it must be true. At any rate, when I read the quote, late one afternoon, I instantly thought it was the most profound thing I had ever read. Or maybe I was reading a recipe for marinated salmon with basil and mint.

Later that evening, after dinner – the salmon was delicious – I pondered the idea of bucket lists. What are they? Do they define your life’s goals? Do they organize your every waking moments? Can you get one at the Home Depot? I pondered the idea because I had never put much thought into what I wanted to accomplish before I die. That’s because I was busy having too much fun living. I didn’t want to spoil it all by dying. Thus, I never created a list of things to do before meeting the Grim Reaper.

Here’s another thing to consider. What happens if you get the end of a bucket list? No more things to do before dying? Is it time to call it quits? Can you add more things to the list and, hopefully, prolong your time here on Earth? Is that cheating death? Will you be living on borrowed time?

Many people I know have created bucket lists for themselves. They list places to go, people to see, things to try, and so forth. I never did. For some reason, a bucket list sounded too much like work. “Let’s see, Paris is on my list. I’m here. Bonjour. Now what? I guess I’ll head to Fiji.” I wouldn’t want to put more emphasis on finishing the list than I would on enjoying the things on the list.

I am getting older now (actually, I have been getting older since May of 1957). Is it time to create a bucket list? Maybe I will. It will be late but at least I’ll have something in which to look forward. As far as what to add to my list: I think I’ll only write down one item . . .

Keep living.

“Damn rain.”

Wilbur gazed out of the windshield of his old Ford F100 pickup. Homer sat in the passenger seat, finishing his third box of Cracker Jack. He replied to Wilbur’s forlorn comment.

“What we gonna do, Wilbur? Sure is pretty wet and muddy.”

They both stared down the road toward the corncrib that sat along the old highway into Havana, Illinois. The rains hadn’t let up for two weeks, with no end in sight.

Homer opened the side window and spit a wad of chew onto the shoulder. “Ain’t seen rain like this since that awful April we spent in Korea. Harvest ain’t looking too good.”

The fields were a quagmire of mud and weeds and drowned rats. Rivulets of dank brown water flowed around the crib and the grey sky appeared opaque from the ongoing deluge. The harvest was indeed in trouble.

“What are we gonna do?” Homer asked while looking at the surrounding acres of close-to-mature corn stalks.

“Ain’t much we can do? Can’t get our combines in the fields. They’d stick to the mud like gnats on flypaper. And even if we could harvest the corn, it would surely turn rotten in that old corncrib. That thing has more holes in it than a politician’s alibi.”

Homer again looked out at the fields. “If we can get it picked and if we do, we can’t store it, we’re kind of fu . . . “.

“Watch your language, Homer. It’s Sunday, you know.” Wilber interjected.

“So now what?” Homer asked one more time.

Wilber had a look of sorrow on his face. “Think I’ll go to Arizona for a spell. Don’t never rain down there. In a few weeks, the rain will stop and we can plow the fields over and hope for a better crop next year.”

Wilber took one more look at the fields, spit one more long draw of tobacco out the window, started the old truck, and pulled onto the highway. He shook his head and mumbled quietly.

“Damn rain.”

• Wilbur and Homer are characters from The Rats of Plainville, a story from my first book, also titled The Rats of Plainville: Tales from the Heartland.

“Those leaves are on your side.”

“They ain’t my leaves”

“If they’re on your side, then they’re yours.”

“Hogwash!”

Barney Hemsworth stood on the edge of his property, staring down his obnoxious neighbor, Riley Ridder. Barney was holding a leaf rake, wishing it were perhaps a baseball bat, or worse, a twenty-two. Hovering a few feet away, on the edge of his property, with his hands in the pockets of his Levi coveralls, Riley gawked at Barney. Riley was ready for a fight and Barney would be his opponent.

Barney had ire in his voice as he directed his voice toward Riley. “We go through this every damned year. If the leaves are on your property, you got to rake them up.”

Riley responded. “Those leaves fell off of your tree. Those are oak leaves and I ain’t got no oak trees. You got lots of oak trees, which makes those leaves yours. Now, get to raking before I call the authorities.”

“They’re only my leaves while they’re on the trees. Once they take flight, they belong to whose ever property they fall in. And that would be yours. You’d be wise to pull your lazy hands out of your pockets, fetch a rake, and start raking.”

Riley was getting hot under the collar. “It’s your lazy ass that sits around and waits for the wind to whoop up and blow the leaves my way. If you’d get busy when the leaves drop instead of watching Wheel of Fortune reruns all day, them leaves would be bagged up and ready for the landfill.”

Barney and Riley had lived next to each other for over thirty years. For twenty-nine of those years, they argued about whose responsibility it was to rake. The only year they didn’t argue was back in eighty-seven when the Hemsworths spent three months in Portugal and Riley had both knees replaced. That fall, leaves remained on the ground. Surprisingly, none of the other neighbors complained.

Arguments always sounded the same. Either Barney or Riley would accuse the other of not taking responsibility for his leaves, while the other would blame the first for waiting for favorable winds to blow the leaves onto his property. Eventually, either Blanche Hemsworth or Randi Ridder would give their respective husband an earful, and either Barney of Riley would reluctantly rake the leaves. Throughout the following winter, whomever raked the leaves never heard the end of the ridiculing from the one who didn’t rake.

Barney replied to Riley’s last comment. “You ever read that book Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein?”

“No, but I heard of it.” Riley answered.

“Well this is where my sidewalk ends, and all them leaves are over there.” Barney yelled, pointing toward Riley’s property. “Start raking, you lazy sack of sycamore stipule.”

Riley stood there for a moment. In twenty-nine years, he’d never been called a sack of sycamore stipule. He didn’t even know what stipule was. What he did know is that he wasn’t going to stand around taking abuse from Barney. “Don’t go nowhere you big ugly bag of birch bark.” Riley demanded, thinking he’d bested Barney’s blasphemous retort.

Riley ran to his garage and quickly returned with a leaf blower and several extension cords. “Just give me a minute and I’ll send all these leaves back onto your land where they belong.”

“Don’t make me get out my gas-powered blower. It’ll blow all the leaves back and blow you over at the same time.”

Barney and Riley stood there, holding their instruments of battle, waiting for the next person to comment. Just then, a strong gale came from the north. It was strong enough to blow the rake out of Barney’s hands, the blower and extension cords out of Riley’s hands, and both of their John Deere hats down the block. Within minutes, the leaves were half way down the street.

Riley looked up and smiled. “Well, how do you like that? The leaves are gone.”

Barney replied. “That was one Hell of a gust. Them leaves are all the way down in Gus Meyer’s yard.”

“Ain’t our problem anymore. See you later, Barney.”

“Think I’ll watch Jeopardy for a spell. Good talking with you Riley. Say hello to the Randi.

Barney went into his house and turned on the TV. Riley went into his house to see if he had a copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends. Thirty minutes later, they both looked out of their windows and saw Gus Meyer walking their way, holding two John Deere hats and a baseball bat.