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28 The Wreath ' HIS MAYBE THE STRANGEST MOMENT of the entire trip. I am nearing St. Louis, searching through the radio when suddenly the voice of a radio preacher starts reciting questions: "Are you on a consistent search for knowledge? ... Are you asking questions? ... Are you listening for answers? ... Will you commit yourself to doing what is right, regardless of the price?" I cannot help but smile. Maybe this is when you know you've been on the road too longthat moment when radio preachers start to speak directly to you. The Mississippi River looms, wind gusts whipping up white~ caps, sand bars exposed to the November sun. The river through here is the color of mud, wide and meandering as it cuts the country in half. I feel a swelling of accomplishment, crossing this American landmark. This is my sixty~eighth day on the road and I have now put almost 10,000 miles behind me. Just ahead is this trip's third reunion with my father, no longer viewed with the old apprehen~ sion, not after EI Paso and what we shared there. I drive through the St. Louis suburbs and find my father's apart~ ment, my first visit here. We hug at the door and he wants to hear all that has happened since Charlotte. We head to the golf course after an hour. It is 76 degrees in St. Louis, an all~time high for this date, so we want to do something outside in the warm weather, even if it is blustery. Tonight is supposed to be much colder. Tomorrow, the reports say, there may be snow. "This is where I play," my father says, as he parks the car. It is a municipal course, hilly, well kept, heavily used, with a 269 270 RECONCILlATION ROAD portion of the course reserved for those who like to practice their chip shots, as my father does. My father always seems to talk on the phone about having just played some golf and I had always assumed that meant he had played an actual game, probably nine holes. But now I see he does not really play golf, he practices golf, a discovery that leaves me feeling sad somehow. We get golf balls out of the trunk, we grab a couple of nine irons and take turns chipping toward a small tree. My father has a fine swing and lofts the ball smoothly; many of his shots land close to the tree. I have not picked up a golf club in ten years, and with no regret; I would rather sweep the garage than play golf. But my layoff from golf has worked wonders, I am not thinking about what I am doing and several balls I hit land in the general vicinity of the tree. "Nice shot," my father says, his voice registering my surprise. We go pick up the balls, then repeat the process. Several of my father's friends from the golf course stop by after a while. Introduc~ tions are made, hands shaken. "This is my son, the writer," my father says. "You know the one I told you about." "Oh, right," the old men say. I have never seen my father like this before. These past few years, we have had our whirlwind visits, usually in Seattle, but al~ ways my father by himself, looking a little grayer, a little heavier, but not that different from our last visit. But our time together has al~ ways been just us, not with his friends, or at least golfing acquaintances, old men whiling away time, trading chitchat about how well they are stroking the ball today, sharing tales of what they have heard lately from their children, and maybe a picture of the grandchildren. My father has never seemed quite as old to me as he does talk~ ing to these men on the golf course. I feel like I am in one of those movies starring Art Carney or Burt Lancaster where they play old guys in that bittersweet way. I have known that my father is getting old, of course. He is sixty~eight, after all. I have known that in my head for some time, but I have never felt it in my heart until right now. The next morning, we are up early and it is cold as promised, probably 30, although not snowing yet. I tell my father that I want to visit my mother's grave on the...

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