Kyle and I knew our destination for July 7th was Clyde, Ohio, a small town made famous by Sherwood Anderson’s novel Winesburg, Ohio. this was my first visit to the prototypical American town where big dreams die fast when the idea of being different makes you an outcast. The town where, if Sherwood Anderson had stayed, American literature would never have given birth to Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, or William Faulkner. Most of the people we met in town were a little stand-offish, and everything on Main Street was closed, but at least most of the businesses were actually all still going. Clyde can’t say the same today, 13 years later.
This has been a messy summer, and due to certain events, my 2012 road trip had to be put on hold. I will not only be delaying the trip, but I’ll be chopping it up into smaller routes that will be more manageable in terms of time. All of these mini-trips are a lead up to the finishing of my creative nonfiction novel, Dispatches to America. SO, I’ll be brave and layout the times for the future trips now and cross every appendage on my body that none of these plans change.
Downtown Clyde, Ohio, a few years before the publication of Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson.