How Terry Traveller Became a “Writer”

I am often asked by my editor, “how did you ever become a writer?”

His question is understandable – talent like mine is not a product of education, but of deep soul searching and impossible charm.

So I will tell you, dear readers, what I have often given as a response to this inquiry of how I became a travel writer.

It was a late spring evening, a humid night in May, one of those twilights of impending thunderstorms and green clouds. I was working at a local market to make ends meet as one does when one is lost to the ways of their destiny. Or perhaps blind to the destiny that working as a cashier can hold.

In true Iowa fashion we had the weather radio on, and the customers who streamed in and out of the store each mentioned a tornado advisory was in effect. Those in charge dismissed the warnings as this happened every spring and the boy who cried wolf had surely worn out his welcome.

In true fictional fashion, the sirens began to ring out cutting off the manager’s words. The weather radio let out a horrific howl and the store stood completely motionless for a moment before a hoard of customers appeared at the checkout counter armed with groceries and demands for shelter.

I consulted with the manager as to the safest locations to hide only to discover his options to be the firehouse 8 blocks away, or the meat cooler-though he felt the firehouse was still our best option given the last building inspector’s report and subsequent bribery.

An old timer stood watch at the doorway and announced he could see the twister a comin’. The 12 customers and 3 employees dragged the man from his spot into the meat department only to realize the weekly truck had delivered three pallets of Oscar Meyer wieners that completely filled the cooler. (Our manager was what we used to call “crazy” but now refer to as a “hoarder” in politically correct society.)

Instead, we huddled under metal sinks, nooks, and crannies throughout the small butcher’s area just in time for the lights to go out. My manager began to complain that the hot dogs would surely rot without the compressor running, to which my fellow cohorts began pelting him with whatever materials were in our pockets. We assured him that, if we survived this dastardly event, they would too.

The minutes felt like hours, and indeed were, as we waited for signs of safety or distress. I swore I could hear a train passing by, though a nearby customer assured me that it was her husband George’s nervous flatulence acting up.

The old timer who thought himself a storm chaser stood up in the darkness and proclaimed if he was to die, he was going to do it looking mother nature straight in the eye and took off for the door. I felt the strange urge to follow him- not for his safety or mine, but for the adventure. We reached the doorway in silence and looked out at the most beautifully clear Iowa evening. Birds chirped, bugs buzzed, and aside from a displaced shopping cart some three feet away, there was no evidence that a tornado had passed by at all.

But then, a news van pulled into the parking lot. The smiling local anchor stepped out and adjusted his toupee before walking towards us. The old timer muttered something about tax evasion and took off running. The newscaster informed me, along with the viewers at home, that the funnel cloud had dissipated as rapidly as it had formed.

I was asked to recall the events of the evening: where had I been when the sirens rang out, was anyone injured during the frenzy, where could the crew buy a dozen packages of hotdogs for the Memorial Day picnic?

I told my tale as I have now shared it with you, my friends, and I knew I had found my calling. I was later fired from the grocery store for usurping the responsibility of management to speak with the press. I took this as a sign to travel, to seek out new civilizations, and to boldly go where so few have gone before.

– Terry

Terry Traveller
Email: terry@discoveradel.com
Facebook: facebook.com/DiscoverAdel.TerryTraveller?fref=ts