I was taking a long walk around my hometown, generally via the freeway.  The whole walk had overtones of a cross country walk, though, and I actually thought of Charles Kuralt's "On the Road" feature on CBS.  At one point I was consulting a U.S. map and figured I had walked most of the way around the coast of Florida, and wondered if part of my walk hadn't been down the coast to Florida.  Anyway, I had left Uncle Joe and Aunt Wilma's house.  I never walked on the beltway, but my route followed the general direction of the beltway-i.e. I was never far outside it or far inside it.  I kept anticipating having leg-collapsing problems at any time, but never did.  At one point, I was walking through a wooded area and my path converged with that of another guy.  Soon we came to a tunnel.  I was apprehensive that he might make homosexual overtures, but he didn't.  We entered the tunnel and turned to our right.  When we emerged from it, we were in a construction site, sort of like that at National Cathedral, with big chunks of ornamental marble and concrete lying around.  The other guy picked some up and carried it on his back for a while.  He suggested I do the same, but I refused, expressing amazement that he should help someone else do the work that they were getting paid for.    Soon thereafter our paths parted, and I entered the ground level of a sort of stadium.  To enter the playing area there were turnstiles you had to pass through, and the admission was 25 cents.  I was reluctant, because I was short on funds on this walk, but it was sponsored by the Girl Scouts or some church or something, so I went ahead.  I found myself going against a line of people coming out through the turnstile, but I made it OK.  I was thinking at this point that it would be cold enough when night came that it might be uncomfortable sleeping outdoors, since I wore shorts and was barefoot.  I considered going back to the Stermes' each night and coming back each morning to resume my walk where I had left off, but that seemed impractical -- at least it would necessitate having someone come and get me every day, and besides, I had a romantic ideal of doing it all myself -- walking all the way around the beltway or cross country or whatever, sleeping out, living off the land, and seeing life in the U.S. as people seldom see it anymore when they travel.    I emerged onto the playing area of the stadium, which was really just a park.  A lot of people were playing croquet-at least they had a huge croquet set, had team colors to match their mallets, etc.  It looked like a very big deal, an organized thing, or I would have tried to get in on it.  The strange thing, though, was that they were actually playing baseball using the balls and mallets.  I walked near the batter, and he was swinging wildly, heedless of me, and I bawled him out as I walked away, but he paid no attention.    Beyond this field was a terrace above which I saw my sister Nancy  Diah and Omar and some other mothers and children.  Rick Adams was playing catch there with some other guys I knew, and I was impressed by how hard they could throw.  I figured it was because they were tall.  I asked Nancy if there was a telephone nearby, just as I stepped through the broken door of a telephone booth lying on its side.  She pointed to the Little Tavern, alongside which Rick and the other guys were playing, so I decided I would use this phone.  Just then I heard someone from below the terrace call "Queen." or "Queenie."  At first I thought he might be calling me, though I couldn't figure out why that way, but then some woman came up behind me from the right, between me and the Little Tavern, and it was obvious that he was talking to her.  She was horribly ugly, her face a mass of wrinkled flesh and absolutely white as chalk.  She looked in the window and asked the guy who called her if that was homemade, pointing to a pie that she saw through the window.  He said yes, and she asked him to give her half of it.  He was incredulous that she should want such a large amount, but she stuck by her request.