Preparing for an extended road trip through America’s small towns feels like an invitation to step away from the rush of daily life and into a slower, more deliberate rhythm. It’s not just about packing a bag or tuning up Josie—it’s about getting into the right mindset to fully embrace the journey ahead. I’ve always been drawn to the idea of exploring the roads less traveled, those winding highways that lead to places where life is lived at a different pace, where stories are told over diner counters, and where the past lingers just beneath the surface.

As I started planning this trip, I realized that it’s as much a mental journey as it is a physical one. Josie, an old companion, needed a thorough check-up—new engine, fresh transmission oil, a full tank of gas—but I found myself thinking more about the intangible preparations. I knew this wasn’t going to be a journey defined by destinations or schedules. Instead, I wanted to let the road guide me, to allow for detours and unexpected stops. I wanted to get lost, to take those turns just because the road looked inviting or because a hand-painted sign pointed toward something intriguing.

Packing for this trip is an exercise in simplicity. I left behind the clutter of my everyday life, choosing instead to bring only what I truly needed. A map, not the kind that glows on a screen, but one made of paper, creased from use and full of possibilities. Comfortable clothes, ready for both long hours behind the wheel and spontaneous explorations on foot. A camera, not just for the postcard-worthy moments, but for the small, quiet scenes that might otherwise be forgotten. And a notebook—because I knew that the real treasures of this journey would be the stories I’d collect along the way, the conversations with strangers who might become friends, if only for an afternoon.

I knew that the real treasures of this journey would be the stories
I’d collect along the way, the conversations with strangers who
might become friends, if only for an afternoon.

As I set out, I find myself thinking about the people I would meet. I’ve always believed that small towns are defined by their communities, by the people who choose to make their lives in these places where everyone knows your name, and where the local diner is a gathering place as much as it is a place to eat. I want to hear their stories, to learn about their lives, and to understand the quiet determination that seems to define these towns.

Leaving behind the comfort of everyday life won’t be easy, but as I drive further from the city, I felt a sense of calm settle over me. The road stretched out before me, open and inviting, and I know that the slower I go, the more I will see. There’s a beauty in the details of small-town America—the way the light falls on a dusty road at sunset, the sound of a church bell on a quiet morning, the sense of history that you can almost feel in the air. This trip wasn’t just about seeing new places; it’s about being present, about truly experiencing the world around me. And as I drive, I realize that this wasn’t just a road trip—it’s a journey to the heart of America, to the places where the extraordinary is found in the most ordinary of things.

I find myself here in what some might call a “wide-spot-in-the-road, Ohio”—a place more known for its connection to a man whose name has graced homestyle restaurants across the country: Bob Evans. Yes, that Bob Evans. I’ve come to attend the Bob Evans Farm Festival, a three-day event held on the original homestead where this Ohio farm boy turned his sausage-making prowess into a national chain of restaurants that evokes comfort and Americana. But as I stand here, looking out over the festival tents and various corrals, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s missing.

This isn’t quite the event I imagined it would be. I expected a true country fair atmosphere—something akin to those gatherings where neighbors come together, not just to celebrate, but to show off the fruits of their labor. I had thought I’d see 4-H kids showing off their prized pigs and cows, local families swapping stories of harvests and hardships, and the Shriner’s club standing proud beside their charitable works. But instead, what I’ve found feels more like a marketplace, not of ideas, but of goods—vendors hawking their crafts and food stands dishing out funnel cakes and sausage sandwiches.

What I’ve found feels more like a marketplace, not of ideas,
but of goods—vendors hawking their crafts and food stands
dishing out funnel cakes and sausage sandwiches.

Sure, there’s the obligatory egg toss contest, and over there, kids are cheering at a pig race. There’s a certain charm in watching the little pink animals dash around the track, and I’ll admit, a smile crept across my face at their enthusiasm. But for the most part, this festival feels manufactured—designed not to celebrate the hard work of a farming community, but to turn a profit. The rides in the carnival are third-rate, the kind of mechanical contraptions that make you question their safety as you hear their rusty creaks in the distance. They’re not the kind of rides that spark childhood nostalgia but rather feel like a forced nod to the idea of fun.

In my mind, I contrast this with the true county fairs I’ve been to before. A real country fair is about more than just food and crafts. It’s about tradition. It’s about the boy who’s spent months grooming his show steer, hoping to earn that blue ribbon. It’s about the woman who bakes pies for the competition, not for profit, but because her recipe has been passed down through generations, and she wants to honor her mother’s memory by taking home a prize. It’s about the gathering of a community to witness the culmination of a year’s worth of labor—be it raising an animal, growing the largest pumpkin, or crafting the perfect quilt.

At a true country fair, you can feel the
pulse of a town’s history in every corner.

At a true country fair, you can feel the pulse of a town’s history in every corner. The local high school band might play on a makeshift stage while families sit on the grass, watching with the same pride they feel every Friday night during football season. The 4-H tent is a place where kids and their families come not just to compete but to connect with a way of life that is becoming increasingly rare in a world that’s moving faster every day.

Here at the Bob Evans Farm Festival, I feel more like a spectator than a participant. I walk from vendor to vendor, each one offering something handmade or deep-fried, but it lacks the heart of a community coming together. There’s no sense of shared purpose, no undercurrent of pride in the land or in the work of hands that have been calloused by years of labor. Instead, there’s a commercial sheen over it all, a sense that we’re here to consume, not to connect.

It’s not that the festival is without merit. I see families enjoying themselves, children running from one booth to the next, their faces sticky with sugar from cotton candy. I hear laughter from a group of teenagers trying their luck at the carnival games, and there’s a certain joy in that. But beneath the surface, I can’t help but feel that this place, this event, is more spectacle than substance.

Perhaps it’s unfair to compare. After all, times have changed, and perhaps the festival is simply a reflection of what people want today—a fun, easy day out where they can eat some good food and buy a trinket or two to take home. But I can’t help but long for something deeper, something that speaks to the roots of this land and the people who’ve worked it for generations.

In the end, I suppose it’s like Bob Evans himself—once a farm boy, now a name on a chain of restaurants. The essence is still there, somewhere beneath the layers of commercialization, but you have to look a little harder to find it.

In 2006, I criscrossed the U.S., putting 15,000 miles on my little Ford Escape Hybrid. I visited hundreds of small towns and met an equal number of people. From this experience, I learned what a hard scrabble life most of the folks live. In most of these small towns, the economy has ravaged local businesses and placed undo hardship on small family farmers. Since that trip, I’ve returned to other small towns during my several one-to-two-week road trips. Little has changed for these folks. In my experience, $1,000 could be the impetus to turn the economic tide for someone. Consider this very plausible hypothetical:

In the heart of the rural Midwest, where the land stretches endlessly under a vast, blue sky, life ebbs and flows with the seasons. Here, the soil is rich, the air is clean, and the people are as sturdy and steadfast as the old oak trees that dot the landscape. In this setting, the value of a dollar stretches far and wide, and even a modest sum of $1,000 holds the power to transform a life in ways that might seem unimaginable to those bound by the bustle of the city.

"The value of a dollar stretches far and wide, and even a modest sum of $1,000 holds the power to transform a life in ways that might seem unimaginable." 

Consider Ben Davidson. Ben is a farmer, like his father before him and his father’s father before that. His days are long and laborious, filled with the rhythmic toil of the fields. He works from dawn till dusk, coaxing life from the soil, praying for rain, and dreading the thought of drought. It is a life of simple pleasures and harsh realities, where every penny is hard-earned and every dollar counts.

One morning, a letter arrives, crisp and official. It contains a check for $1,000, an unexpected windfall that catches Ben off guard. At first, he is hesitant, unsure of how best to use this newfound bounty. But as he sits on his porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon, ideas begin to take root, much like the seeds he plants each spring.

Ben thinks of his farm, the heart of his existence. His tractor, a clunky old beast, has been on its last legs for years. Repairs have become a constant drain on his meager savings. The $1,000 will put Ben over the top of his goal to squirrel away enough money for the day he might be able to finally afford to buy a new rebuilt engine, ensuring that his work continues unimpeded. This investment breathes new life into his fields, promising better yields and, in turn, greater financial stability.

"The ripple effect of this single act of renewal is profound."

The ripple effect of this single act of renewal is profound. In the US, only 46.1% of farmers have a net positive income from farming. Most of the remaining 53.9% of US farmers make less than the poverty level from farms and instead must rely on off-farm “second jobs” to make ends meet. With a more reliable tractor, Ben can ditch his “off-farm” job because he can now plow more efficiently, plant more precisely, and harvest more bountifully. His yields increase, and so does his income. He can afford to fix the leaky roof on his barn, purchase better feed for his livestock, and even set a little aside for the future. The once-precarious balance of his existence steadies, and with it, his peace of mind.

But Ben’s transformation does not stop at his farm. With the burden of constant repair lifted, he finds himself with more time and energy to engage with his community. He volunteers at the local school, sharing his knowledge of farming with eager young minds. He joins the town council, lending his voice to discussions on how to improve their shared home. The confidence gained from his personal success spills over into these endeavors, and he becomes a beacon of hope and inspiration to others.

Moreover, Ben’s increased prosperity means he can afford to hire a helping hand, providing much-needed employment to a neighbor struggling to make ends meet. This act of kindness creates a chain reaction, spreading the benefits of his $1,000 windfall throughout the community. The neighbor, now gainfully employed, can support his own family better, contributing to the local economy and reinforcing the bonds of mutual support that hold their small town together.

In this way, a simple $1,000 does more than just ease Ben’s immediate burdens; it acts as a catalyst for broader change. It fortifies his spirit, strengthens his farm, and enriches his community. In the quiet resilience of the Midwest, where every gesture of goodwill echoes through the land, this modest sum becomes a testament to the impact of hope and perseverance. It is a reminder that even in the most humble of settings, a little can go a long way, turning the tide of fortune and breathing new life into the heart of rural America.

Join us in driving 'The Hope and Generosity Tour' across the nation. Your support fuels our journey, empowers community heroes, and weaves a story of hope and generosity that spans across America's small towns. 

 Please donate today. Also, share our campaign with your friends and family, and follow Josie's journey as we embark on this unforgettable adventure!

 You can donate now by following this link: https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-the-hope-generosity-tour-across-america

Here, in the heart of Missouri, where the soil is rich and the lives of the people are steeped in simplicity and tradition, lives a woman whose calling was not to the fields, but to the souls that till them. Pam Sebastiaßn, or “Pastor Pam,” as she is known, serves two churches in two towns that dot the map like seeds scattered by the hand of God. One a simple, modest house of worship, the other a glorious testament to time and history built by hands that knew the ache of labor. They are places where faith was not a matter of show, but of survival…

Well, that was true then–back in 2006 when I met Pam during my first cross-country trip. Today she is more a “circuit rider,” type pastor. She rotates among three different churches. She no longer has a formal office and works out of her home.

What hasn’t changed is that her life of service and dedication to others is really where the idea for the Hope & Generosity Tour started. I figured there must be hundreds, thousands, or more people just like her whose stories go unsung and whose lives are simply a quiet testament to the resilience and power of hope and generosity. 

Pam is a formidable woman with character to match. Her voice can be as gentle as a lullaby or as firm as a plow breaking the earth. She is tireless in her devotion, moving between the two towns with the rhythm of the seasons, never lingering too long in one place, lest one flock feel abandoned. Her days often began before dawn, when the world is still bathed in the cool darkness, and end long after the stars have taken their place in the heavens.

I figured there must be hundreds, thousands, or more people just like
her whose stories go unsung and whose lives are simply a quiet testament
to the resilience and power of hope and generosity. 

She is always “on,” as the saying goes. There is never a moment when she is not ready to listen, to comfort, to guide. In a world where people often felt the weight of their burdens too heavy to bear, she is the rock they lean on. She is there at every birth, every death, and every moment in between that make up the fabric of life in these small towns. The people love her for it, though they seldom see the toll it takes on her.

For Pam, this calling is not just a duty but a consuming fire. It burns within her, pushing her beyond the limits of her strength. She can go days without adequate rest, her mind a constant whirl of sermons yet unwritten, prayers yet spoken. The people see her as unshakable, but they do not see the nights when she sits alone in the dark, her hands trembling from exhaustion, her heart heavy with the weight of others’ sorrows.

Yet, she doesn’t complain. She believes that to serve is to sacrifice, and she does so willingly, though it means burning the candle at both ends. Her life is a testament to the quiet heroism that often goes unnoticed in small towns across America. She is the embodiment of grace under pressure, a lighthouse in the storm of life that the people clung to.

In the end, it was not the large gestures, but the small, steady acts of love and faith that define her. She is a woman who gives all of herself, leaving little behind for her own needs. And in the silent hours of the night, when the world sleeps, she prays not for herself, but for the strength to keep going, to be the rock her people need, one day at a time.