This is the third installment of the (seemingly) never ending story of the “2018 Purge and Connection Tour” (T-shirts and CDs available in the lobby after the show). Rules: No Destination. No Agenda. No time limit. No interstate highways. No navigating by Google, Google Maps, or anything Star Trek Tricorder related — just a 2002 Rand-McNally Road Atlas (and a magnifying glass). All major decisions were made by a coin toss. Why? We all need an oil change every once in a while — mine was about 50,000 miles overdue.

I flipped my trusty 1990 quarter and it came up “Tails,” which meant I would head east out of Dunreith, Indiana, travelling along Highway US-40. This route, designated as the “Old National Road,” is the nation’s first federally funded, improved, multi-state highway – travelling from the Potomac River in Cumberland, Maryland to its terminus in Vandalia, Illinois. In a sense, it was the first Interstate Highway. Why did road construction stop in Vandalia, Illinois, and not continue on the St. Louis, as originally planned? Because that is exactly where the project ran out of money. No cost over runs, no budget enhancements, no going back to Congress for more funding, no pork barrel spending — when you run out of money, you run out of road.

I drove through hamlets, villages, towns, cities, and a lot of flat farm fields as I made my way into the wilds of Buckeye territory. Once US-40 hit Dayton, Ohio, it quit being a quaint, scenic byway and turned into a typical shopping plaza infested, multi-lane roadway, punctuated with traffic lights positioned and timed by a sinister, evil super-villain.

So much for a leisurely cruise along the back roads of life – I was crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic and reconsidering this voyage’s number one rule of the road (no Interstate Highways). I could see I-70 running along next to and, occasionally, right over me. I could see cars zipping along at 80 mph. I could see people getting to where they needed to go – and not stuck in traffic created by diabolically timed traffic signals. Then I remembered something kinda’ important – I didn’t have to be anywhere. I was travelling the Old National Road — stopping at every intersection was what I was supposed to be doing.

It made me appreciate it even more, once I escaped the urban jungle (as “urban” and “jungle” as Dayton can be) and headed back out into the traffic-free, agricultural openness, of west-central Ohio (except for the humongous farm tractor taking up one and a half lanes of a two-lane road — going exactly 22 mph).

Then, I saw a sign. I didn’t need to flip my quarter to make this decision — I had a sign! “Yellow Springs” — with an arrow pointing to the south. Did you ever wonder why places got their names (like, why is Berrien County named after a guy from Georgia?)? I have a curiosity, a warped sense of humor, and I wanted to know how Yellow Springs got its name — so I went there to ask.

Yellow Springs, Ohio is a colorful, friendly, and very eclectic little village, founded in 1852 by followers of Robert Owen. It was a social experiment in utopian, communitarian living that failed. However, Yellow Springs lived on. The inhabitants have a long history of social openness, inclusiveness, and a flourishing of counter culture attitudes.

Their current civic leaders were once the hippies of the ‘60s and ‘70s (who have all now turned 60 and 70). Folks that have visited Key West, Florida are familiar with the term “Going to sunset” — a nightly party, poorly masked as a spiritual ritual of contemplation. I don’t know for sure, but I think the good people of Yellow Springs have their own daily, spiritual ritual – known as “Going to 4:20” (I suspect many of you will understand the phrase, but will be unwilling to admit it).

The name? There is a series of springs that bubble up out of the iron rich soil, eventually flowing into the Little Miami River — albeit more orange than yellow. It has nothing to do with the causes of yellow snow, as I had originally mused (c’mon, admit it, you were thinking the same thing).

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.