As I wandered into the laundromat on this dreary Sunday morning—a humble establishment with flickering neon lights that buzzed like weary cicadas—I couldn't help but feel an odd sense of isolation. Here I was, on the great American road, seeking adventure and enlightenment, yet finding myself tethered to the mundane task of washing clothes. The road has been long, the miles plenty, and my garments bear the dust and stories of dozens small towns whose names I can scarcely recall. 

The room was populated, yet it felt as empty as one of those abandoned homesteads I am inexplicably drawn to. People moved mechanically, eyes fixed on the spinning vortices within the washers, as if hoping to divine some meaning from the soapy chaos. Their gazes were distant—the kind one might see in those who've wandered too long in their own thoughts or perhaps witnessed more of life's hardships than they'd care to remember.

In the corner, a man and a woman had set up a modest display of pamphlets and brochures—the telltale signs of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Yet, contrary to their mission of spreading the good word, they seemed more engrossed in the glow of Candy Crush on their smartphones than in the salvation of our wayward souls. Occasionally, they'd glance up, perhaps contemplating an approach, but then their eyes would drift back to the screens, the digital allure proving too strong to resist.

The air was thick with the steady hum of dryers, a monotonous drone that provided a sort of perverse comfort. It was the soundtrack of waiting—a symphony of patience and necessity. This was punctuated by the backbeat thumping of washers struggling against overloaded and uneven loads. Each thud resonated like a heartbeat, a reminder of the persistent march of time even in this place where moments seemed to blur together.

I took a seat on a rigid plastic chair, its surface worn smooth by countless others who had also paused here in transit. My thoughts drifted to the road ahead and the road behind, to the places I'd been and those yet unseen. The laundromat became a microcosm of the journey—a place of cleansing, of shedding the old layers to make room for the new.

Outside, the sun was making its slow ascent, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers grasping for something just out of reach. Inside, the fluorescent lights held dominion, denying us even the simple pleasure of daybreak. The contrast was stark—a world outside moving towards its new day, while inside, the cycles of wash and dry continued unbothered.

I observed my fellow travelers in this temporary haven. Each one carried a story, a silent narrative etched in the lines of their faces and the weariness of their postures. Yet, wrapped in their solitude, there was an unspoken agreement to maintain the silence, to respect the invisible walls each had constructed.

A man from the corner finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest of moments. There was a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He returned to his device, and I to my notebook and its scrawled note taking.

In that laundromat, surrounded by the rhythmic churn of machines and the quiet company of strangers, I felt both connected and apart. It was a place between places, a pause in the journey that offered not excitement or revelation, but a simple reminder of the shared humanity in our solitary pursuits.

As the dryer buzzer sounded, announcing the completion of my wash/dry cycle, I gathered my belongings. Stepping back into the world, the cool morning air greeted me like an old friend. The open road beckoned once more, and I was eager to oblige, carrying with me the subtle lessons gleaned from an unassuming laundromat on a Sunday morning.

In the rolling prairies of Kansas, where the land stretches out like a vast ocean under an endless sky, lies the small town of Cuba. It's a place easily overlooked by those speeding along the highways, but to the souls who dwell there, it's a world rich with quiet beauty and enduring strength. The winds that sweep over the wheat fields carry whispers of generations, and among these whispers walks a man named Tom Lesovsky.

Tom is a farmer, as his father was, and his father before him—a lineage rooted deep in the soil of this 950-acre farm that’s stood for more than 100 years that yields both sustenance and stories. His hands are worn and strong, etched with the lines of countless seasons spent coaxing life from the reluctant earth. The land knows him, and he knows the land, but it is the town that holds his heart just as firmly.

Cuba is not a place of grand monuments or bustling streets; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of its people, each one adding color and texture. Tom moves among them not as a leader crowned by acclaim but as a neighbor, ever ready to lend his hand where it's needed. His wife, Peg, walks beside him—a steadfast companion of 50 years who holds the keys to the town's treasures on a ring heavy with responsibility.

Cuba is not a place of grand monuments or bustling
streets; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of its
people, each one adding color and texture.

When the Sunday morning sun casts its golden light upon the steeple of the Presbyterian church, the congregation gathers, faces lined with the week's labors and hopes. There are days when the preacher, delayed by fate or distance, does not appear. On those days, a quiet stir runs through the pews until Tom rises, his shoes echoing softly on the wooden floor. He stands before them, not with the polished air of a practiced orator but with the sincerity of a man who believes in the power of togetherness.

"There's no way we're not having church service today," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. The congregation opens their Bibles, and together they find solace in words that have guided them through both plenty and want. Tom doesn't seek to preach; he seeks to unite, to fill the room with the warmth of shared faith and community.

The Rock-a-Thon is another thread in the fabric of Cuba—a tradition that has pulsed with life since 1976. It began as a simple idea, a way to bring folks together and raise funds for the town's needs. Over the years, it grew into a seven-day celebration of music, food, and the ceaseless motion of rocking chairs that symbolize endurance. Tom and Peg are at the heart of it, their efforts unseen by many but felt by all.

But then came the year when the world seemed to hold its breath. The pandemic swept across the land like a silent storm, and the Rock-a-Thon faced cancellation for the first time. In the quiet of their home, Tom's eyes glistened, then spilled over into a tear or two—a rare glimpse into the depths of his feelings. It wasn't just an event being lost; it was a piece of the town's soul.

"It wasn't just an event," he whispered, his voice catching. "It was a part of who we are."

Yet even in the face of such loss, Tom did not falter. He and Peg turned their energies to salvaging what they could, transforming the abundance of food already purchased for fried chicken night or chicken fried steak night into curbside meals. People drove up in cars and trucks, and Tom handed them their $10 dinners; more than a few handed him a fifty and a “keep the change” smile, he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Nothing would be wasted. It was a small victory in a time of so much uncertainty.

"So folks mentioned my name first, eh?
Well, that's only because I'm the loudest of the bunch."

But if you were to ask Tom about his role, he would shift uncomfortably, a modest smile tugging at his lips. Tom, ever modest beneath the brim of his weathered hat, is quick to deflect any notion of singular praise. "I'm just one of many," he'd say, his gaze sweeping over the familiar streets and faces of Cuba. "So folks mentioned my name first, eh? Well, that's only because I'm the loudest of the bunch." A soft chuckle would escape him before he continued. "Truth is, there are countless others here who roll up their sleeves just the same. People like Clegg, Lynette, and so many more—they all have hearts as big as this prairie. This town isn't held together by one person; it's the collective spirit of everyone pitching in that keeps us going." In his eyes shines the reflection of a community bound not by individual deeds but by the shared resolve of its people.

Peg nods in agreement, her own contributions no less vital. She organizes entertainment, manages the crafts and bake sales, and quietly ensures that the town's heritage is preserved. Together, they have helped restore the old blacksmith shop, breathing life back into a piece of history that might have crumbled into dust. They tend to the community hall, a place that hosts weddings and funerals alike—a sanctuary for the milestones of life.

Their days are full, their own farm demanding attention with its fields of wheat, corn, and beans. Yet they find time, or perhaps they make it, understanding that the measure of a life is not in hours hoarded but in moments shared. There are evenings when exhaustion settles like a weight, but it's a burden they carry gladly.

"Do you ever get tired?" I asked Tom.

He smiled, a hint of weariness in his eyes but a spark of determination as well. "Oh, every day," he admitted. "But there's work to be done."

In the quiet moments, when the stars spread like a blanket over the Kansas sky, Tom allows himself a rare pause. He thinks of the town and its people—the laughter of children at the Harvest Festival, the solemn hymns sung in unison, the collective sigh of relief when a project comes to fruition. He feels a swell of pride, not in himself, but in the community that thrives through shared effort.

The winds continue to blow over Cuba, carrying with them the scent of earth and the echoes of voices raised together. Tom and Peg move through their days with a grace born of purpose, their lives a testament to the power of unity and the quiet heroism of ordinary people.

Cuba may not appear on most maps, and its stories may go untold by the wider world, but within its boundaries lies a truth as profound as any great tale. It's a place where hearts beat in rhythm, where hands reach out without being asked, and where the measure of a person is found in what they give.

As dawn breaks over the fields, painting the sky with hues of gold, Tom rises to greet another day. There's always another task, another neighbor to help, another piece of the town's legacy to tend. And as he steps out onto the land that has been his family's for generations, he knows deep in his soul that he is but one thread in the tapestry—strong, yes, but made stronger by the threads that surround him.

In the end, it's not the individual strands that hold the fabric together, but the way they are woven, tight and unyielding, each supporting the others. And so, the story of Tom and Peg Lesovsky is not just theirs alone, but the story of Cuba itself—a story of enduring spirit, shared burdens, and the quiet, relentless pursuit of keeping the heart of a small town beating strong.

In the heart of the Kansas Plains, where the horizon stretches unbroken and the wind whispers through fields of wheat, lies the small town of Cuba. It's a place so modest that travelers might pass through without a second glance, mistaking its quiet streets and weathered buildings for the remnants of a bygone era. Yet, beneath the unassuming façade beats the resilient heart of a community bound by the shared rhythms of land and time.

Cuba is not a town that boasts of grandeur or pretense. Its roots sink deep into the soil, much like the sturdy oaks that dot the landscape. The streets are lined with houses that have stood for generations, bearing witness to the joys and sorrows of the families who have called this place home. It's a town where everyone knows not just your name but the stories that shaped you—stories etched into the very fabric of daily life.

The people of Cuba are forged from the same elements that define the prairie—hard work, quiet dignity, and an unspoken understanding that their lives are intertwined with the land and each other. They rise with the sun, tending to fields of corn and soybeans, their hands toughened by labor yet gentle enough to cradle the fragile hopes of their children. In the evenings, they gather on porches, sharing tales that blend memory and myth, the laughter rolling across the open spaces like a balm against the solitude.

For years, Cuba existed in relative obscurity, content in its own rhythms, until the gaze of an outsider turned inward upon it. Jim Richardson, a photographer with an eye attuned to the subtleties of small town life, found his way to Cuba. He wasn't drawn by spectacle or sensationalism but by the quiet authenticity that the town exuded. With each click of his camera, he captured not just images but the very essence of a place where time seemed to hold its breath.

Richardson's photographs told stories that words could scarcely convey—the weathered hands of a farmer clutching a handful of rich soil, the weary yet determined gaze of a shopkeeper opening his store at dawn, the interplay of light and shadow on the face of a child chasing fireflies at dusk. His lens became a bridge between Cuba and the wider world, revealing the universal truths nestled within this tiny dot on the map.

When National Geographic Magazine published Richardson's photo essay on Cuba, the town's anonymity was momentarily lifted. Readers around the globe glimpsed the soul of rural America, unadorned and unfiltered. The images resonated, striking chords of nostalgia and a longing for simplicity in an increasingly complex world. CBS Weekend News followed, further amplifying Cuba's unexpected moment in the spotlight.

But fame is a fickle visitor, and soon enough, the world's attention shifted elsewhere. Yet, for the people of Cuba, little had changed. They continued their lives as they always had—steadfast and unhurried. The fields still needed tending; the seasons marched on in their eternal cycle. The brief burst of recognition did not inflate their sense of self, for they had always known their worth lay not in the acknowledgment of strangers but in the integrity of their daily lives.

There is a lesson in Cuba's story, one that speaks to the enduring spirit of places overlooked by the glare of modernity. In a world obsessed with the new and the grand, Cuba stands as a testament to the beauty found in constancy and the quiet grace of ordinary people living extraordinary lives. The town's fleeting brush with fame did not define it; rather, it illuminated what had been there all along—a community bound by shared purpose and the unspoken understanding that they are caretakers of something precious.

Jim Richardson's photographs remain as echoes of that time, reminders of a place where the human spirit thrives in harmony with the land. They hang in galleries and sit on coffee tables, prompting conversations and reflections. But in Cuba itself, the people continue as they always have—sowing, reaping, living, and loving in the steady cadence of prairie life.

As the sun sets over the vast Kansas horizon, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers across the fields, one can almost hear the whispered secrets of the wind. They tell of a town that may be small in size but is immense in heart—a place where the simple act of living is elevated to a quiet art. Cuba, Kansas, remains a humble beacon, shining not with the blinding light of notoriety but with the steady glow of authenticity and enduring spirit.

There is a certain alchemy that unfolds when illness takes hold—a transformation that strips away the superfluous and leaves one exposed to the raw elements of existence. I've found myself marooned in a desolate parking lot of a weary travel stop, Josie parked on the fringes as if shying away from the dim glow of neon lights that flicker uncertainly in the downpour. I suspect we'll be here all night, and perhaps that's for the best.

The thunderstorm that chased us off the open road is a lightning bolt short of biblical proportions. The sky unleashes a relentless barrage of raindrops the size of grapes, each one striking the metal roof of Josie with a force that is both unsettling and oddly soothing. The cacophony of the storm drowns out the hum of distant highway traffic, leaving me cocooned in a world reduced to the interplay of water and steel. It's a symphony conducted by nature herself, and I am its solitary audience.

The thunderstorm that chased us off the open
road is a lightning bolt short of biblical proportions.

Sitting here, enveloped by the fury of the elements, I am compelled into reflection. There's a clarity that comes when one is forced to pause, to sit quietly as the world rages outside. My mission, the purpose that propelled me down endless stretches of asphalt, seems distant now—a banner fluttering somewhere on the horizon, obscured by sheets of rain. With my voice reduced to tatters, any attempt to press on feels futile. After mere seconds of speaking, words escape me as a raspy whisper, a shadow of articulation that carries apology in every syllable. I find myself saying sorry not just for the weakness of my voice, but perhaps for deeper inadequacies that illness has brought to the surface.

This forced interlude feels like a reckoning. Time to reassess, to recalibrate the compass that guides me. Soul searching, they call it, and maybe there's truth in that. It's an opportunity to strip away the veneer of purpose and examine the foundations beneath. Downtime can be a gift, though it often comes wrapped in discomfort and restlessness.

Yet, beneath the layers of introspection lies a yearning—a deep-seated hunger for human connection. The road is a fickle companion, offering glimpses of camaraderie that vanish as quickly as they appear. I cherish every embrace I've received on this journey, each hug a momentary bridge back to “normal.” Being alone and unwell casts a stark light on the simple act of human touch, elevating it to something almost sacred. In these moments, a hug is not just a greeting or a farewell; it becomes a lifeline, a silent assurance that one is seen and understood.

The road is a fickle companion, offering glimpses
of camaraderie that vanish as quickly as they appear.

As the storm continues its relentless assault, I pull a blanket tighter around my shoulders. Josie sways in the gusts of wind, a not-so-subtle reminder of the forces beyond my control. I am but a small figure in a vast tableau, a traveler paused on the fringe of movement. Perhaps tomorrow the skies will clear, and with them, my path forward. For now, I surrender to the stillness, allowing the rain to wash over the doubts and uncertainties that have settled like dust upon my spirit.

In this quiet isolation, there's a strange comfort. The world narrows to the immediate—the drumming of rain, the warmth of the blanket, the steady beat of my own heart. Maybe this is where I am meant to be at this moment: parked on the edge of a forgotten lot, finding myself amid the storm.

I’ve been hunkered down in the driveway of the Dave Cook family in Wamego, KS, for the past couple of days. Trying to get both myself and Josie healthy again.

Because I couldn’t exactly be going out and meeting people—my voice alone would scare a small child—I decided to go get some medical attention at the local walk-in-clinic. No definitive diagnosis other than probably bronchitis of some kind, the doc loaded me up with antibiotics and antihistamines.

I then turned to Josie—with Dave’s expert assistance, he owns several VWs, including a bus and a Westfalia (pop top camper) Vanagon. We were trying to nail down why she would intermittently “buck” on me.

I bought a new coil and installed that. Then we went to check the dwell angle (long technical explanation placed here). The dwell angle was out of spec, so we adjusted that. At some point I thought to pull the coil wire out of the distributor and give it a look, when I did, what I saw shocked me.

The firing end of the coil was completely corroded! As was the hole in the distributor that it plugged into. It was a wonder how it was generating any spark at all. I then pulled the spark plug wires and three of the four were also corroded. 

So we went and bought a new distributor cap and install that, after we cleaned all the wires up.

Finally, we retimed the engine because we had messed with the dwell. Whew.

Sad to say, however, the problem remains, she still bucked in me a few during the drive today. The search continues…