Anna Howard leaned out from the kitchen window overlooking the driveway and spoke softly to her daughter Iris, Leave Tuesday. Its not going to rain Tuesday. Iris turned and looked up, for an instant a little girl basking in her mothers voice.
Suburban commuter trains are disparate from city subways; this is true in most cities. Unlike the city subways, the commuter trains have cushioned seats and there is a code of quiet.
Its high noon in central Kansas with cars and trucks flying down Highway 50 as Iris and Alex pedal westward into Hutchinson (population 40,889). Unconcerned by the proximity of the big boys, Alex speaks and Iris grins; its part of an ongoing conversation, together they have biked half of the 4,500 miles across the country.
On the side of Gray Mountain in northeast Arizona, Lorraine Curley lives alone in a two-room concrete home. Her roof is tarpaper and tin, and her bathroom is a wooden outhouse 50 feet from her door.