There are songs that come free from the blue-eyed grass, from the dust of a thousand country roads.
This is one of them. In late afternoon, in the autumn of 1989, I'm at my desk, looking at a
blinking cursor on the computer screen before me, and the telephone rings.
On the other end of the wire is a former Iowan named Michael Johnson. He lives in Florida now. A
friend from Iowa has sent him one of my books. Michael Johnson has read it; his sister, Carolyn,
has read it; and they have a story in which they think I might be interested. He is circumspect,
refusing to say anything about the story, except that he and Carolyn are willing to travel to Iowa
to talk with me about it.
That they are prepared to make such an effort intrigues me, in spite of my skepticism about such
offers. So I agree to meet with them in Des Moines the following week. At a Holiday Inn near the
airport, the introductions are made, awkwardness gradually declines, and the two of them sit
across from me, evening coming down outside, light snow falling.
They extract a promise: If I decide not to write the story, I must agree never to disclose what
transpired in Madison County, Iowa, in 1965 or other related events that followed over the next
twenty-four years. All right, that's reasonable. After all, it's their story, not mine.
So I listen. I listen hard, and I ask hard questions. And they talk. On and on they talk. Carolyn
cries openly at times, Michael struggles not to. They show me documents and magazine clippings
and a set of journals written by their mother, Francesca.
Room service comes and goes. Extra coffee is ordered. As they talk, I begin to see the images.
First you must have the images, then come the words. And I begin to hear the words, begin to see
them on pages of writing. Sometime just after midnight, I agree to write the story — or at least
attempt it.
Their decision to make this information public was a difficult one for them. The circumstances
are delicate, involving their mother and, more tangentially, their father. Michael and Carolyn
recognized that coming forth with the story might result in tawdry gossip and unkind debasement
of whatever memories people have of Richard and Francesca Johnson.
Yet in a world where personal commitment in all of its forms seems to be shattering and love has
become a matter of convenience, they both felt this remarkable tale was worth the telling.
I believed then, and I believe even more strongly now, they were correct in their assessment.
In the course of my research and writing, I asked to meet with Michael and Carolyn three more
times. On each occasion, and without complaint, they traveled to Iowa. Such was their eagerness
to make sure the story was told accurately. Sometimes we merely talked; sometimes we slowly drove
the roads of Madison County while they pointed out places having a significant role in the story.
In addition to the help provided by Michael and Carolyn, the story as I tell it here is based on
information contained in the journals of Francesca Johnson; research conducted in the
northwestern United States, particularly Seattle and Bellingham, Washington; research carried out
quietly in Madison County, Iowa; information gleaned from the photographic essays of Robert
Kincaid; assistance provided by magazine editors; detail supplied by manufacturers of
photographic films and equipment; and long discussions with several wonderful elderly people in
the county home at Barnesville, Ohio, who remembered Kincaid from his boyhood days.
In spite of the investigative effort, gaps remain. I have added a little of my own imagination in
those instances, but only when I could make reasoned judgments flowing from the intimate
familiarity with Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid I gained through my research. I am
confident that I have come very close to what actually happened.
One major gap involves the exact details of a trip made across the northern United States by
Kincaid. We knew he made this journey, based on a number of photographs that subsequently were
published, a brief mention of it by Francesca Johnson in her journals, and handwritten notes he
left with a magazine editor. Using these sources as my guide, I retraced what I believe was the
path he took from Bellingham to Madison County in August of 1965. Driving toward Madison County
at the end of my travels, I felt I had, in many ways, become Robert Kincaid.