The book.
Here it is, Walker chapter one. Like it? Read the rest — buy WALKER now!
A tall, wiry man nattily dressed in a three-piece suit, leather shoes, and a top hat proudly strode down the countryside. A handlebar mustache framed his wide grin, and the rest of him was framed by desolate, dewy New England farmland. The sheer confidence and resolve on his face belonged to a man who knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing, with nothing that could stop him.
This was Preston Dilettante. On this journey in 1864, he set forth on the longest recorded walk in the history of the United States. At its conclusion, he met the President of the United States, The Great Emancipator —
“Abraham Lincoln himself!”
Walker Dilettante, wide-eyed and thrilled, stood under a door frame as he deftly weaved through the story of Preston, over a century and a half later. He had Preston’s tall and wiry physique, but he used it in a bouncier way than Preston did. Everything in Walker’s movements, mannerisms, and voice exuded the kind of sunniness you’d find on a children’s television show. Not that Walker would know much of children’s television shows, as he and Grandpappy never had a television or computer in the home.
As he told the tale of his great-great-grandfather, Walker felt at home. He had practiced telling this story countless times before, just as a teen would stare into the mirror practicing proper delivery of quotes from a favorite movie before going to school the next day.
“Shaking hands with my grandpappy’s grandpappy. Ain’t that somethin’? A trek from New Hampshire to the capital of our great nation made Preston Dilettante a hero! The best darn walking specimen in the history of our country!”
Walker collected himself. Telling this story to a new audience was a rarity, and one that made his heart race.
“Okay, now you go! Tell me about this Jehovah fella. How’s his walking gait?”
Three Jehovah’s Witnesses stood at the door. They slowly began to back away from the manically grinning Walker.
“You know what?” one of them piped up. “Never mind.”
They quickly turned around to find the fastest route to escape Walker’s story. Fortunately for them, Walker’s home sat atop a small hill that was quite easy to sprint down when you’re hoping to avoid a story about the patron saint of 19th-century competitive walking, also known as pedestrianism, for those looking to save one word yet zero syllables.
As the three stepped away from the doorframe, Walker realized he was losing them. He tried to get their attention the only way he knew how.
“Well, hey, you don’t have to go! I could tell you more about Preston’s journey. The worst was the dogs that would chase him. He would shout, ‘Damn these dogs! Their graves await them!’”
The author.
Walker watched them reach a full sprint, then tumble down the hill, a more acceptable fate for them than hearing him continue to tell this story.
Walker sighed and retreated inside the two-bedroom log cabin that his Grandpappy had built many years prior. Preston Dilettante memorabilia lined the walls, the floors, and every end table. All these etchings, letters, and newspaper clippings would look like clutter to some and an archive to others. To Walker, each of these pieces of history represented hours of entertainment and the opportunity to learn about the country, with the added bonus of seeing it through Preston’s eyes.
In the middle of the room, inside a small rectangular glass case atop a wooden stand, sat one old and deeply mud-stained leather shoe. Had Preston known his descendants would frame the one and only surviving shoe from his famed journey, he would have cleaned it more thoroughly.
Behind the displayed shoe, Grandpappy Dilettante sat in a comfortable yet tattered armchair. Despite possessing the kind of beard that, in a cartoon, would demonstrate that tremendous swaths of time had passed, Grandpappy still had the energy and enthusiasm that he’d passed along to his grandson. Walker always felt comfortable with the idea of aging, because he knew that in 55 years, he’d be just like Grandpappy.
Grandpappy lit up when he saw Walker re-enter the cabin. It was the same look Walker always had when telling Preston’s story.
“Welcome back, youngin’! How were your three and a half hours at the front door?”
Walker sat in a small wooden chair next to Grandpappy, his perennial favorite seat. The chair wasn’t particularly worn in or scuffed, as Walker spent most of his life upright, standing and moving around.
“Grandpappy, I’ve had a pretty crummy day. Those nice fellas left before I could finish telling them about your grandpappy’s travels.”
Grandpappy’s face scrunched up, a look Walker knew as Grandpappy preparing to funnel some negativity into a positive slant.
“Well… at least you had an honest day’s work on your egg route this morning!”
Every weekday morning, Walker would take a six-mile walk to a large silo, where eight cartons of fresh eggs and a stack of ten-dollar bills would be waiting for him. Walker’s job was to carry those eggs to seven different silos in the general area and leave them in front of each silo. He was instructed to keep the last of the egg cartons for himself and Grandpappy.
Grandpappy had gotten him the job years prior, and Walker had never interacted with anyone else involved in this business endeavor.
“That’s the other problem! I don’t know why it is, but I just don’t feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing by being on that egg route. Heck, I even saw a hiker who told me I should be using one of those two-wheeled cycling contraptions to deliver the eggs!”
Grandpappy sighed.
“They don’t understand us, Walker. We come from the greatest pedestrian the world has ever known. And you know the only thing a good pedestrian needs to get from A to B?”
“His own two feet.”
“Darn tootin’ his own two feet!”
“Yeah! Things are gonna get better, Grandpappy!”
“You bet!”
Walker sprung out of his chair. He’d sat long enough.
“That makes me feel so much better! Thank you!”
“Walker?”
“Yes, Grandpappy?”
“I’m dying.”
“What?!”
“Yep. I’ve only got a few months left.”
Walker staggered backward from the sheer weight of this news. After taking a second to compose himself, he started pacing. Walking always helped in times like these.
“Grandpappy, how do you know? We haven’t had a checkup since that doc breezed through 15 years ago!”
“Well, that boy way, way, way down the road, he came to deliver the milk yesterday. He noticed I was coughing. He went home and used a WebMD and found out I was dying.”
“A WebMD? You told me we didn’t find any of those in Iraq.”
Grandpappy used to read the newspaper daily and relay select information to Walker. He canceled his subscription a few years earlier without providing an explanation. Walker assumed that Grandpappy just got tired of getting ink on his hands.
“No, that’s a WMD,” Grandpappy explained. “This is a WebMD.”
“What’s a WebMD?”
“I don’t really know, but whatever it is, it’s got its MD, and that’s enough for me.”
Grandpappy folded his arms, seemingly at peace with this whole situation.
“But Grandpappy, you can’t die!”
“Sure I can! Everybody does it.”
“What I mean is I don’t want you to!”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do to change it. But Walker, you’ve always been a good grandson, and it’s about time I showed you my prized possession.”
Grandpappy opened a slot on the end table beside him and flipped the small wooden switch inside, revealing a secret drawer that popped out.
“There’s a drawer in that table, Grandpappy! What a prized possession!”
“No, Walker, it’s what’s inside the drawer.”
“Okay!”
Grandpappy pulled out a rolled piece of paper that spanned the height of the table. He unfurled it and displayed it to Walker. On the front was a large old map of the United States, with black dots peppering over a dozen places across the country.
“Walker, this is a map of these here United States. Each of those black dots represents a direct descendant of your grandpappy’s grandpappy.”
Walker gasped.
“That’s right, Walker. Preston Dilettante, The Great Pedestrian himself. We made this map at the last family reunion. Thirty years ago.”
Walker, doing the math in his head, realized that he’d missed being alive for this family reunion by merely a year. He sat back in his chair.
“I thought we were alone, but there are so many of us! Why don’t any of them live here in the glorious hills of unincorporated Schnoors, Idaho? Why don’t I know any of them?”
“Because everybody walks their own path, grandson. And even those who walk together have a different gait. But we need to remember why we’re walking in the first place. And for that, we all have the same answer.”
“What’s that, Grandpappy?”
“To go somewhere, Walker. We all walk to go somewhere.”
He slapped his grandson’s knee, to dismiss him. Walker sat still.
“Grandpappy, I’m starting to feel like I haven’t walked anywhere.”
“Sure you have, you walk all over the hillside on your egg route. You’re an even better walker than I was when I was your age. Heck, your calves look like the baby cows from whence they’re named!”
“I mean out there,” he said as he took the map and unfurled it. “I haven’t been to any of the places where the other Dilettantes live. I’ve only ever been… here.”
A reticence that Grandpappy rarely showed to Walker crept into his voice.
“I haven’t seen anyone from the family in years. Walker, I don’t know if our relatives have the same appreciation for your grandpappy’s grandpappy that we have.”
“Then I better go teach them what’s what!”
Walker hopped off his chair and knelt by Grandpappy’s side.
“Grandpappy, if you’re dying, well gosh, I want you to know how important it is that you’ve kept up your grandpappy’s legacy.”
“Walker…”
“I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna meet my family. All of the people on these dots.”
“Walker, I don’t think you should do this. The world is different outside of this hillside. Heck, you’ve never left home before!”
“I have to. For your legacy, and for your grandpappy’s. I’ve gotta walk.”
Grandpappy thought for a moment. He looked around the room at all the memorabilia, then back at his grandson. His eyes brimmed with tears of pride.
“Well shucks, I guess it’s time. If you want to walk, you should walk! Walk on, grandson!”
“I’m gonna meet every single one of our relatives, Grandpappy. I’m gonna tell them all about our great ancestor, and – ”
Walker stopped and thought. He carefully removed the glass case and grabbed the old shoe off the center of the mantle. This shocked Grandpappy.
“Walker! What’re you doing with Grandpappy’s shoe?”
“I’m gonna get a picture of each ancestor of Preston Dilettante holding his famous shoe. And I’m gonna make you a collage. And you’re gonna see it, and then you can die.”
Walker popped behind Grandpappy’s chair and pulled out a bindle, slinging it over his shoulder. Grandpappy was impressed.
“Boy, you had that bindle ready to go.”
“I’m off, Grandpappy! Tell your friends to find someone else for the egg route. I’m off to find our family!”
Walker walked out of the house. He called back to Grandpappy as he strutted down the hillside.
“Don’t die until I get back!”
Grandpappy opened the wooden window next to his chair and called out to him while he waved.
“Okey dokey!”
***
Buy WALKER now!
Here’s the first chapter of Humorist Books’ latest release, 
Meet Gary M. Almeter. He’s an attorney, an author of multiple novels (including the exquisite