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.

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.

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.

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. 

It's 0-dark-thirty. In these wee hours of the morning as I type this, my right knee is bouncing up and down at 120 beats per minute. Pure anticipation, fueled by an injection of anxiety. I'm set to leave at 7am this morning, just as the sun stretches over the horizon, Josie and I are ready to set out on a journey that will carry us through the back...

There's a certain romance to traveling the back roads in a 42-year-old VW Vanagon camper named Josie. She's no sleek modern marvel, but she has something better: character. Josie is a boxy, unhurried beast, painted a faded shade of Assuan Brown and Cream that once gleamed in the sun, now softened by the years. Her engine purrs with the steady rhyth...