As there's not much to love about an early morning drive to the airport, an emotional farewell, a delayed first flight (Reno to SF), a run for the gate (just made it), and an uncomfortable economy class (read "steerage") seat, today I will have to fall in love with a reflection of this road trip.
Eleven days on the road with my son, a gazillion miles traveled, and not a single argument on the way. That, in and of itself, is something to be in love with. But I'm going to look through a different lens -- at the incredible and amazing sights we saw along the way. My camera can testify to the beauty of California (and Nevada), but bear with me while I tell you in words.
Susanville, where we began, lies between the desert and the mountains. The beauty of a diverse landscape is intense. The duality of opposites -- to look in one direction and see a forested mountain and look in the other direction and see a flat, sagebrush-covered expanse -- simply forces one to consider the differences that exist all around us.
Mountains that soar 7,000 or 8,000 feet above us command us to consider our place on this planet. "Purple mountain majesties," indeed. Who am I in this world but a speck of dust?
And the sea . . . the rage and calm of the ocean, the ebb and flow of memory and anticipation, the security of believing that the water will always be there. I am sorry for those who have never or will never know that power, that beauty, that sacred blessing.
The inland valleys that nourish us have a beauty all their own. The vineyards, the farms, the miles and miles of produce -- apricots, plums, avocados, grapes, olives, nuts . . . I cannot help but think of the migrant workers of Steinbeck's novels. Mack and the boys, George and Lennie, the Joads. There's a simple beauty in working the land and a greater beauty in the harvest. The gardener in me kneels before the farmers who create this beauty.
And then there is Yosemite. The grandeur of our National Parks is breath-taking. I marvel at the pioneers and settlers and conservationists who discovered these jewels of the landscape. I tip my hat to the country's leaders who made it a priority to make these treasures accessible to everyone. At Muir Woods National Monument, I obtained an America the Beautiful National Parks and Federal Recreational Lands Pass, good for the rest of my life. It cost me $10.00. How's that for accessible?
Mountains, forests, deserts, valleys, coastlines, canyons -- America has it all. Now if we could only work on the "brotherhood" part.
(You must have noticed that there were no pictures included in this post. Get out there and take some for yourself. You heard me. Start planning it now.)
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
Sierra Nevada
Yes, I'm in love with the mountains. And yes, I'm in love with the beer. Twice the love.
Our road trip began in Reno and ended in Reno. We journeyed northwest, then west, then south, then northeast. The beginning and end of our travels took us through the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Miles and miles of Ponderosa pine, towers of evergreen praying skyward. One can get used to such a majestic landscape and take it for granted, I suppose. I, however, was hesitant to take my eyes away from the view out my passenger-side window. I knew that our road trip would end soon, and although I love where I live on the East Coast, I would miss the pines that seemed to travel with us on this West Coast journey. And the possibility exists that I may never see these mountains again. (So many places to travel, so little time.)
I have a strong feeling that I will be buying Sierra Nevada beer at home for quite awhile.
Our road trip began in Reno and ended in Reno. We journeyed northwest, then west, then south, then northeast. The beginning and end of our travels took us through the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Miles and miles of Ponderosa pine, towers of evergreen praying skyward. One can get used to such a majestic landscape and take it for granted, I suppose. I, however, was hesitant to take my eyes away from the view out my passenger-side window. I knew that our road trip would end soon, and although I love where I live on the East Coast, I would miss the pines that seemed to travel with us on this West Coast journey. And the possibility exists that I may never see these mountains again. (So many places to travel, so little time.)
Our last stop before returning to Sam's home-away-from-home was Chico, California, home to Sierra Nevada Brewery. We arrived too late for the hourly tour, but in time for lunch, so we each ordered a "flight" to sample. Four small beers, selected from about 16 possibilities. I played it safe with my selections; Sam was adventurous. But we both agreed that our lunch was the best restaurant meal we'd had on the entire trip and were pleased to learn that the Brewery uses local meat and produce.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Yosemite
"Yosemite Valley, to me, is always a sunrise, a glitter of green and golden wonder in a vast edifice of stone and space." ~ Ansel Adams
Here are some words: lichen, sequoia, glacial, granite, meadow, creek, valley, canyon, nunatak, pika, alpine columbine, chickaree, dogwood, rockfall, spire, arch.
And a few more: Tioga, High Sierra, Mariposa Grove, El Capitan, Half Dome, Bridalveil, Cathedral, Ahwahnee, Wawona.
But everyone knows a picture is worth a thousand words. So here are a few thousand more:
Need I say more?
Here are some words: lichen, sequoia, glacial, granite, meadow, creek, valley, canyon, nunatak, pika, alpine columbine, chickaree, dogwood, rockfall, spire, arch.
And a few more: Tioga, High Sierra, Mariposa Grove, El Capitan, Half Dome, Bridalveil, Cathedral, Ahwahnee, Wawona.
But everyone knows a picture is worth a thousand words. So here are a few thousand more:
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Giant Sequoia
The Mariposa Grove, near the south entrance to Yosemite National Park, is home to about 500 mature Giant Sequoias. These trees are among the oldest living things on earth, estimated to be as old as 3,000 years. Their trunks can reach over 25 feet thick, and they can grow up to 379 feet tall.
Yep, that's me, standing in the rain in front of a downed Giant Sequoia.
Arriving in Yosemite, Sam and I went first to the home of a high school friend of mine. Jane and her husband, Steve, actually live in Yosemite, in the little village of Wawona. Before it got dark, they took us down to see the Big Trees. Never mind that it was raining . . . the first rain they'd had since May . . . we needed to see these giants.
Two of these trees are among the thirty largest Giant Sequoias in the world. Looking up into that incredible height with rain drifting down was quite emotional. So much so that I didn't take a picture. My bad.
Further adventures in the park would reveal more Sequoias to us, but none as impressive as these Big Trees.
See what I mean? You're going to have to let me cheat a little bit here. That's what the Internet is for, right?
How's that? You can see the love? Of course!
Arriving in Yosemite, Sam and I went first to the home of a high school friend of mine. Jane and her husband, Steve, actually live in Yosemite, in the little village of Wawona. Before it got dark, they took us down to see the Big Trees. Never mind that it was raining . . . the first rain they'd had since May . . . we needed to see these giants.
Two of these trees are among the thirty largest Giant Sequoias in the world. Looking up into that incredible height with rain drifting down was quite emotional. So much so that I didn't take a picture. My bad.
Further adventures in the park would reveal more Sequoias to us, but none as impressive as these Big Trees.
Friday, September 26, 2014
The Pacific
Sam and I followed the Pacific coast for six days from Arcata down to San Simeon, with the exception of a stretch from Albion to the Golden Gate Bridge. (You cannot see the Pacific from the Napa Valley!) Shelter Cove, Fort Bragg, Mendocino, Sausalito, Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel, Big Sur -- even the names sound romantic. You could say that we were getting used to the curves of US 1, where around nearly every hairpin turn, the rocky coast appeared.
The first time I saw the Pacific Ocean was in 1983, the year that US 1 was closed down (as were the San Francisco cable cars). But in San Diego, I saw the Pacific slam up against The Chart House restaurant at sunset. I still recall how surprised I was that the Pacific was not a mirror image of the Atlantic, but rather, a wild and angry beast. Not quite as "user-friendly" as the Atlantic, as a friend recently commented.
Ah, but last December, my family and I did a road trip on the East Coast of Australia, and indeed, it was the Pacific that kissed the beaches of Agnes Water and Daydream Island in the Whitsundays . . . quite user-friendly.
I have also seen the Atlantic crash onto the Cliffs of Mohr in County Clare, Ireland, home of my ancestors.
There are two sides to every ocean.
These days, there are two sides to everything, it seems. And everyone is hugging the coastlines, as if that vast expanse in the middle didn't exist. I'm as guilty as anyone. And I don't know what the answer is.
Or maybe I do. Drive along a coastline and recognize how small we really are. It can be very humbling. Maybe some humility is all we need.
Tomorrow morning, our road trip heads northeast, leaving the coast behind. I miss the Pacific already.
I have also seen the Atlantic crash onto the Cliffs of Mohr in County Clare, Ireland, home of my ancestors.
There are two sides to every ocean.
These days, there are two sides to everything, it seems. And everyone is hugging the coastlines, as if that vast expanse in the middle didn't exist. I'm as guilty as anyone. And I don't know what the answer is.
Or maybe I do. Drive along a coastline and recognize how small we really are. It can be very humbling. Maybe some humility is all we need.
Tomorrow morning, our road trip heads northeast, leaving the coast behind. I miss the Pacific already.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Baseball
I'm not an athlete and not a sports fan. But if there's one sport I enjoy watching, it's baseball. Seems I always had boyfriends who played, starting with the Little League teams of my childhood -- the Farmers (blue) and the Wallkills (yellow). My son Sam played T-ball, Little League, Fall Ball, and high school baseball. It all ended four years ago, and I have missed it.
Tonight, Sam and I attended a San Francisco Giants baseball game at AT&T Park, a few blocks from our hotel. The SF Giants, who just earned a spot in the playoffs, were playing the Padres.
Sam selected our seats several weeks ago. High up, but with a good view of the Bay. Call 'em the cheap seats -- $23 each -- but we were fine with that. We could walk to the game, it was baseball, it's a cool stadium (with an actual garden behind center field!) and a great view. Okay, so $11 for a beer really sucks, but that's America.
The game started off rather slow, with a sense that the Giants would walk away with an easy win, but things soon got exciting. We got to see a grand slam by the Padres, a home run that hit the foul pole, and a suicide squeeze. But the best part was in the second inning, when the Giants' Brandon Belt knocked one into the water! We had a bird's-eye view of some guy named DAVE in his kayak swoop in to retrieve the ball, joyful beyond belief. But here's the best part -- whenever a ball gets hit into the water like that (and this was only the 68th time it's happened), one lucky section of fans gets rewarded for the "Levi Splash." Section 302 -- that's us!
We showed our tickets at Guest Services and received a Giants sew-on patch . . . along with a paper to redeem at the Levi's store on Market Street for a $50 gift certificate! We ended up with five patches (don't ask), drank another beer, and watched the Giants win, 9 - 8.
We were two happy baseball fans walking back to our hotel late at night. Ya gotta love baseball.
Postnote: Sam and I were first in line as the Levi's store opened its doors the next morning. Our $250 in gift cards got Sam two pairs of jeans and two shirts, and I got a very nice wool and leather shoulder purse. Score!
Tonight, Sam and I attended a San Francisco Giants baseball game at AT&T Park, a few blocks from our hotel. The SF Giants, who just earned a spot in the playoffs, were playing the Padres.
The game started off rather slow, with a sense that the Giants would walk away with an easy win, but things soon got exciting. We got to see a grand slam by the Padres, a home run that hit the foul pole, and a suicide squeeze. But the best part was in the second inning, when the Giants' Brandon Belt knocked one into the water! We had a bird's-eye view of some guy named DAVE in his kayak swoop in to retrieve the ball, joyful beyond belief. But here's the best part -- whenever a ball gets hit into the water like that (and this was only the 68th time it's happened), one lucky section of fans gets rewarded for the "Levi Splash." Section 302 -- that's us!
We showed our tickets at Guest Services and received a Giants sew-on patch . . . along with a paper to redeem at the Levi's store on Market Street for a $50 gift certificate! We ended up with five patches (don't ask), drank another beer, and watched the Giants win, 9 - 8.
We were two happy baseball fans walking back to our hotel late at night. Ya gotta love baseball.
Postnote: Sam and I were first in line as the Levi's store opened its doors the next morning. Our $250 in gift cards got Sam two pairs of jeans and two shirts, and I got a very nice wool and leather shoulder purse. Score!
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Country Living
I'd like to say that I left my heart in San Francisco, but if I did, I think it would have been run over by a truck, trampled by a pedestrian, or fined for parking illegally.
Sam and I are not city people, so driving in a city is unfamiliar and stressful. Nonetheless, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and headed to our lunch destination.
The GPS got us to Burma Superstar, and imagine our joy at finding a parking spot right in front of the restaurant! We fed the meter and went inside to enjoy an Anchor Steam and some Burmese food. The tea leaf salad and vegetarian samosa soup was as delicious as I anticipated, and Sam's sesame chicken pleased him as well.
But wait . . . what's that on the windshield? A parking ticket? Damn! The country bumpkins fed the wrong meter! The one to the right of the space was the closest; it never occurred to us that the meter to the left of the space, so far away, was the one we should have fed. There's a $66 mistake. (I will protest this, along with proof of our time there, my credit card receipt for the meter, and a very sweetly worded letter. I will let you know how that turns out. But in my pedestrian mind, I paid for parking and should not be fined for not doing so just because I'm not city-savvy.)
Good thing our hotel wasn't too far away, because by now, we were both pretty stressed out. (And I wasn't even driving!)
Tonight, a friend is picking us up to go out to dinner, and tomorrow, we will do a walking tour of the city. We are within walking distance of the ballpark for tomorrow night's game, and we will leave the city the following morning for the coast highway.
For now, although we intend to enjoy what San Francisco has to offer, Sam and I are both in love with the fact that neither one of us lives (or has to drive) in a city. And we just cannot imagine doing so. Call us hicks, we don't care . . . we love country living.
Sam and I are not city people, so driving in a city is unfamiliar and stressful. Nonetheless, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and headed to our lunch destination.
But wait . . . what's that on the windshield? A parking ticket? Damn! The country bumpkins fed the wrong meter! The one to the right of the space was the closest; it never occurred to us that the meter to the left of the space, so far away, was the one we should have fed. There's a $66 mistake. (I will protest this, along with proof of our time there, my credit card receipt for the meter, and a very sweetly worded letter. I will let you know how that turns out. But in my pedestrian mind, I paid for parking and should not be fined for not doing so just because I'm not city-savvy.)
Good thing our hotel wasn't too far away, because by now, we were both pretty stressed out. (And I wasn't even driving!)
Tonight, a friend is picking us up to go out to dinner, and tomorrow, we will do a walking tour of the city. We are within walking distance of the ballpark for tomorrow night's game, and we will leave the city the following morning for the coast highway.
For now, although we intend to enjoy what San Francisco has to offer, Sam and I are both in love with the fact that neither one of us lives (or has to drive) in a city. And we just cannot imagine doing so. Call us hicks, we don't care . . . we love country living.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The Grape
There are over 450 wineries in the Napa Valley. But only 4% of California's wine is produced there. And that's just the Napa Valley. California has five major wine regions, with the Napa Valley being in the North Coast region, along with the Sonoma Valley, Anderson Valley, etc. Let's just put it this way -- there are a lot of grapes in California. And considering that it takes about two-and-a-half pounds of grapes to make one bottle of wine, let's be thankful for California.
Lucky me: I have friends who live in Napa and are connected to the wine industry. No need to make a decision on which winery to visit . . . we went to three where the name Oggenfuss gets you some special treatment. It was obvious that the people we met there love and respect Jurg and his son Chris. We began at Odette, where the wines we tasted (from Odette, Plumpjack and Cade wineries) were poured from $100+ bottles. Jurg taught us the "five esses": see, swirl, smell, sip and swallow (or spit). Let it be known that I did not spit. Not once. Jurg's teaching also involved discerning the fruits and flavors that the wine brought to mind, but I failed miserably at this. It all tasted like wine to me. Apple? Pear? Oak? I don't know, but can you pour me another, please?
At Domaine, we toasted with a glass of champagne. What were we toasting to? I don't know . . . Tuesday morning?
The drive up to Cade was beautiful. As the tastings at Cade last about two hours, we opted instead to enjoy a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc outside with a spectacular view of the Valley.
We also drove up to the Castello di Amorosa. This is vintner Dario Sattui's tribute to his Tuscan roots. He had 170 containers of handmade antique bricks and tiles shipped over from Europe to construct the 107-room castle. Ninety-seven of those rooms are dedicated to the wine-making, and the wine can only be purchased here at the castle.
All for the love of the grape.
Lucky me: I have friends who live in Napa and are connected to the wine industry. No need to make a decision on which winery to visit . . . we went to three where the name Oggenfuss gets you some special treatment. It was obvious that the people we met there love and respect Jurg and his son Chris. We began at Odette, where the wines we tasted (from Odette, Plumpjack and Cade wineries) were poured from $100+ bottles. Jurg taught us the "five esses": see, swirl, smell, sip and swallow (or spit). Let it be known that I did not spit. Not once. Jurg's teaching also involved discerning the fruits and flavors that the wine brought to mind, but I failed miserably at this. It all tasted like wine to me. Apple? Pear? Oak? I don't know, but can you pour me another, please?
At Domaine, we toasted with a glass of champagne. What were we toasting to? I don't know . . . Tuesday morning?
The drive up to Cade was beautiful. As the tastings at Cade last about two hours, we opted instead to enjoy a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc outside with a spectacular view of the Valley.
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| The view at Cade Winery |
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| Castello di Amorosa |
Monday, September 22, 2014
Baja
Sam bought a used 2005 Subaru Baja this past spring, invested some money into necessary repairs, and drove it out to California, his bicycle perched on top. It is our current road trip vehicle, and so far, a perfect one.
Since I have no experience driving a stick shift, Sam is the designated driver for the entire journey. I thought our adventure on my first day here, when he drove us up to Thompson Peak, was a challenging drive. Yesterday's and today's drives made the drive to Thompson Peak seem like a walk in the park.
Driving the Lost Coast Highway yesterday was an exercise in navigating hairpin turns, but Sam did a great job. I mistakenly thought that this was the end of the windy roads for awhile, but this morning's drive proved me wrong. Route 1, before it reaches the Pacific, continues the hairpin theme. Again, Sam managed it well.
The Baja is a great road trip vehicle. It's comfortable, there's plenty of room for our gear, the sound system is good, and the shift is smooth. And check this out -- on our drive on Saturday, Sam had forgotten to close the tailgate. He realized it on one of our stops at a vista. But nothing had fallen out! (Whew!)
That same tailgate came in handy when we enjoyed a picnic lunch on the Lost Coast.
More Baja challenges lie ahead, as Yosemite and Tahoe are at the end of our itinerary. I don't want to jinx anything by claiming confidence, but so far, the Baja has been berry, berry good to us, both the vehicle and the attitude.
Driving the Lost Coast Highway yesterday was an exercise in navigating hairpin turns, but Sam did a great job. I mistakenly thought that this was the end of the windy roads for awhile, but this morning's drive proved me wrong. Route 1, before it reaches the Pacific, continues the hairpin theme. Again, Sam managed it well.
The Baja is a great road trip vehicle. It's comfortable, there's plenty of room for our gear, the sound system is good, and the shift is smooth. And check this out -- on our drive on Saturday, Sam had forgotten to close the tailgate. He realized it on one of our stops at a vista. But nothing had fallen out! (Whew!)
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| View from our tailgate lunch. |
Sunday, September 21, 2014
The Lost Coast
The day began with our scenic drive on SR299 along the Trinity River. We drove through miles and miles and miles of pine forests, stopping a few times for breath-taking views.
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| Sam at Berry Summit |
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| Stuff on the beach |
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| Sam, King of the Mountain |
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Whiskeytown
After a drive up to a view of Mt. Shasta, Sam and I headed west from Redding on SR299 to Whiskeytown Lake. After a rocky, curvy ride on a dirt road, we reached access to the Brandy Creek Trail.
The hike up to the Brandy Creek Falls was under two miles, but it was pretty much all uphill, not easy for an old lady like me. But I did it, and yes, I am proud of that accomplishment
The higher we hiked, the cooler it got. At the base, the temperature was close to 100 degrees, but by the time we reached the top of the falls, it was close to being chilly.
The falls were beautiful, loud, soothing and powerful. One has to feel humbled in the midst of that majesty.
The hike up to the Brandy Creek Falls was under two miles, but it was pretty much all uphill, not easy for an old lady like me. But I did it, and yes, I am proud of that accomplishment
The higher we hiked, the cooler it got. At the base, the temperature was close to 100 degrees, but by the time we reached the top of the falls, it was close to being chilly.
The falls were beautiful, loud, soothing and powerful. One has to feel humbled in the midst of that majesty.
On the hike up to the falls, we encountered two women making their way down. They gave us a heads-up on what to expect. On our way down, we met up with them again, and then once more by our car in the parking lot. Turns out they'd parked much further down, and had hiked up much farther than they'd needed to. Clearly, they were tired, so Sam and I offered them a ride to their car. The conversation revealed that they'd lived in the area for many years, but had never hiked to the falls. Isn't it always true . . . you never see what's in your own back yard? After the experience they had today, they were determined to see everything they could in their neck of the woods.
I doubt very much if I will ever get to Whiskeytown again, but I wouldn't be surprised if Sam does. For today, I am in love with Whiskeytown, and I will remain in love with the memory of an amazing day.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Sagebrush
Sam and I took a leisurely stroll today on the Bizz Johnson Trail in Plumas National Forest from Devil's Corral to the odd train tunnel where Sam had attended a party on his first weekend here in Susanville. Along the path, he pointed out various flora, including bitter brush, rabbit brush, cheat grass, Ponderosa pine, horse grass, and sagebrush. It was all lovely, and the stillness in the air made the walk dreamlike.
Later, we drove up a steep, rocky, twisty and rather scary road to Thompson Peak, elevation 7,795 feet. We parked the Baja and hiked up the last stretch to the fire station at the top. There we met Rich, quite happy for the company, as he maintains his post for ten-day stretches. We learned a thing or two about the current wildfires plaguing the land here, then bid Rich a fond goodbye, and strolled down to what looked a like a good picnic spot.
Leftover Thai food and Butte Creek Organic Beer made for a satisfying lunch. But what really tipped the scales for me was the air perfumed by the sagebrush at our feet. I know (from my own herb garden) that sage can be overpowering, but at nearly 8,000 feet, in a vast forest of Ponderosa pine, the scent of the sagebrush was simply perfect.
Sam tells me that there are three varieties of sagebrush out there. To discern one from the other, you can make guesses based on their height. But the only true way to tell them apart is to grind them up and shine a backlight on them, then compare the color.
No need, as far as I'm concerned. All I need to know is that the sagebrush smelled like heaven and simply enhanced the beauty of an already perfect afternoon.
Later, we drove up a steep, rocky, twisty and rather scary road to Thompson Peak, elevation 7,795 feet. We parked the Baja and hiked up the last stretch to the fire station at the top. There we met Rich, quite happy for the company, as he maintains his post for ten-day stretches. We learned a thing or two about the current wildfires plaguing the land here, then bid Rich a fond goodbye, and strolled down to what looked a like a good picnic spot.Leftover Thai food and Butte Creek Organic Beer made for a satisfying lunch. But what really tipped the scales for me was the air perfumed by the sagebrush at our feet. I know (from my own herb garden) that sage can be overpowering, but at nearly 8,000 feet, in a vast forest of Ponderosa pine, the scent of the sagebrush was simply perfect.
No need, as far as I'm concerned. All I need to know is that the sagebrush smelled like heaven and simply enhanced the beauty of an already perfect afternoon.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Pioneers
Flying over the Sierra Nevadas on a plane headed for San Francisco, I was struck by how endless and dreary the mountain range looks from the sky. Trying to imagine the pioneers crossing this difficult passage was not something I could wrap my head around.
From the San Francisco airport, I boarded a puddle jumper to take me to Reno, where my son was picking me up for our California road trip adventure. Across the aisle sat a young, adventurous woman from Romania who had the good (or bad) fortune to be sitting next to an older gentleman who was happy to give her a lesson or two in American history. He was telling her about the pioneers who got stranded at Donner's Pass. Whether he told her the part about the resulting cannibalism, I'm not sure, as his voice lowered the further into the story he got. But the fact that she then plucked a magazine from the seat pocket tells me that she'd heard enough from this well-meaning gentleman. Personally, I think a story about Lewis and Clark might have been more appealing.
My affection and respect today goes to the gutsy pioneers who headed west, facing all sorts of treacheries on their journey. Their pluck and courage are incredible to imagine.
Today, I crossed the country in less than six hours. Amazing.
I'd like to think that the pioneer spirit will accompany Sam and me on this road trip. No, we won't be traversing uncharted lands. But we could discover some uncharted territory as we talk our way through the miles and miles that we will travel, sharing our past and our dreams. But more importantly, I hope that we live in the moment, in the remarkable and adventurous present. Just like the pioneers.
From the San Francisco airport, I boarded a puddle jumper to take me to Reno, where my son was picking me up for our California road trip adventure. Across the aisle sat a young, adventurous woman from Romania who had the good (or bad) fortune to be sitting next to an older gentleman who was happy to give her a lesson or two in American history. He was telling her about the pioneers who got stranded at Donner's Pass. Whether he told her the part about the resulting cannibalism, I'm not sure, as his voice lowered the further into the story he got. But the fact that she then plucked a magazine from the seat pocket tells me that she'd heard enough from this well-meaning gentleman. Personally, I think a story about Lewis and Clark might have been more appealing.
My affection and respect today goes to the gutsy pioneers who headed west, facing all sorts of treacheries on their journey. Their pluck and courage are incredible to imagine.
Today, I crossed the country in less than six hours. Amazing.
I'd like to think that the pioneer spirit will accompany Sam and me on this road trip. No, we won't be traversing uncharted lands. But we could discover some uncharted territory as we talk our way through the miles and miles that we will travel, sharing our past and our dreams. But more importantly, I hope that we live in the moment, in the remarkable and adventurous present. Just like the pioneers.
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| Brewpub in Susanville, CA |
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
The Return of the Cat
So Jenna took the cat with her to Vermont, but it seems that it is not working out. There is litter all over the place, the cat's pee is missing its target, and the nocturnal cat is uninterested in changing her internal clock. Hence, Jenna is tired and stressed out. So this weekend, she will return Cassie to the only home she has ever known.
I have mixed feelings about this, as you can imagine. While I love Cassie dearly and miss her, there was a certain relief in being free of the responsibility of a pet. I giddily stored the litter box, the catfood dishes, and all the other accoutrements of cat-ownership, knowing that Cassie was in loving hands with Jenna. Now I'll have to haul them back out again. Deal with the messy litter, the messy food, the cat hair, the dander, the leftover mouse heads that greet me in the morning.
None of this would be a big-deal problem, except for one thing: my travel. Once again, I am confronted with the responsibility of locating cat-care for when I am away from here. Not looking forward to that.
But, as previously stated, I love this cat. I've felt bad that she was taken from her familiar haunts and placed in a situation, although loving, where she would no longer have access to the outdoors. I guess I'm not surprised that it didn't work out.
Jenna will bring her home this weekend, after I've left for California. My new roommate, Kathy, says she has no problem taking care of Cassie until I get home. Now, that's pretty generous. As for me, I will be happy to see her when I return from my road trip. As for my next trip, I'll deal with that when the time comes.
So welcome home, Cassie! I've missed you!
I have mixed feelings about this, as you can imagine. While I love Cassie dearly and miss her, there was a certain relief in being free of the responsibility of a pet. I giddily stored the litter box, the catfood dishes, and all the other accoutrements of cat-ownership, knowing that Cassie was in loving hands with Jenna. Now I'll have to haul them back out again. Deal with the messy litter, the messy food, the cat hair, the dander, the leftover mouse heads that greet me in the morning.
None of this would be a big-deal problem, except for one thing: my travel. Once again, I am confronted with the responsibility of locating cat-care for when I am away from here. Not looking forward to that.
But, as previously stated, I love this cat. I've felt bad that she was taken from her familiar haunts and placed in a situation, although loving, where she would no longer have access to the outdoors. I guess I'm not surprised that it didn't work out.
Jenna will bring her home this weekend, after I've left for California. My new roommate, Kathy, says she has no problem taking care of Cassie until I get home. Now, that's pretty generous. As for me, I will be happy to see her when I return from my road trip. As for my next trip, I'll deal with that when the time comes.
So welcome home, Cassie! I've missed you!
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Packing
Heading out to California soon, and I'm 99% packed. My son sent me a list of things he wanted me to deliver to him, as his internship has been extended three months. Warmer clothes, you might think? Well, yes, but that's the easy part. Among the things he asked for were these: ski boots, cross-country ski boots, ski helmet, snowshoes, and tennis racket. These are not lightweight foldable items, people! I'm amazed (and grateful) that he did not ask me to bring his skis along with me.
So I packed all these things and more in a very large suitcase and zipped it all up. Then I got out my little bathroom scale and weighed myself. (Not tellin'.) Then I picked up the very large suitcase and got back on the scale. Did the math . . . and the suitcase is either 49 1/2 pounds (Yay!) or 50 1/2 pounds (Boo!). Those of you who fly know that 50 pounds is the magic number before you have to pay more money to check a bag. I am prepared to remove something from the suitcase at the airport check-in and stow it in my carry-on if necessary.
Oh, but there's no room in the carry-on! I packed clothes and shoes for twelve days in one carry-on suitcase! And if you're thinking that packing summer clothes is easy, let me tell you that the temperature range for the places on our road trip is something like 101 degrees to 42 degrees. Layers. And the layers take up some space.
I will also have a backpack, so whatever I remove from the big suitcase will either fit into the backpack . . . or it will fit on my back. So what if the plane is hot. I can wear two layers of fleece, right?
It will all work out. And we will have lots of room in the Baja as we travel the mountains, forests and coastlines of California. If I need to buy another layer on the road, so be it. I will have lots of room in the suitcases for the return trip, as I will not be returning with ski boots or helmets or snowshoes. Room for souvenirs? You bet! (Although I don't know how many bottles of Napa Valley wine I will be allowed to pack.) Well, the best souvenirs will be the pictures, the journal, and the memories of a California road trip with my favorite son.
All packed! And loving it!
So I packed all these things and more in a very large suitcase and zipped it all up. Then I got out my little bathroom scale and weighed myself. (Not tellin'.) Then I picked up the very large suitcase and got back on the scale. Did the math . . . and the suitcase is either 49 1/2 pounds (Yay!) or 50 1/2 pounds (Boo!). Those of you who fly know that 50 pounds is the magic number before you have to pay more money to check a bag. I am prepared to remove something from the suitcase at the airport check-in and stow it in my carry-on if necessary.
Oh, but there's no room in the carry-on! I packed clothes and shoes for twelve days in one carry-on suitcase! And if you're thinking that packing summer clothes is easy, let me tell you that the temperature range for the places on our road trip is something like 101 degrees to 42 degrees. Layers. And the layers take up some space.
I will also have a backpack, so whatever I remove from the big suitcase will either fit into the backpack . . . or it will fit on my back. So what if the plane is hot. I can wear two layers of fleece, right?
It will all work out. And we will have lots of room in the Baja as we travel the mountains, forests and coastlines of California. If I need to buy another layer on the road, so be it. I will have lots of room in the suitcases for the return trip, as I will not be returning with ski boots or helmets or snowshoes. Room for souvenirs? You bet! (Although I don't know how many bottles of Napa Valley wine I will be allowed to pack.) Well, the best souvenirs will be the pictures, the journal, and the memories of a California road trip with my favorite son.
All packed! And loving it!
Monday, September 15, 2014
James
November 10, 1985. It was my mother's birthday. It was also the day of my first-born's baptism. I remember it as an unusually balmy day for mid-November. Early in the morning, I got a phone call from my best friend, whose presence at the ceremony I was expecting. I can't make it, she said. James is going to be born today. And so he was.
Sweet Baby James, whose mother loved him to the moon and back. Mischievous, energetic James, who raced through his childhood, spirited and curious. Loving, affectionate James, who navigated the ruins of divorce and a broken home. Tormented, confused James, who could not possibly understand why Death took his mother from him when he was 14 years old.
James came to visit today, specifically to retrieve the oak rocking chair that his mother gave me years ago. It was the rocker in which she rocked James and his sister, and now that his sister has her own baby, I wanted her to have the chair. It took us less than five minutes to load the chair in the car, and then we sat down on the back deck with a couple of beers to catch up.
An awful lot of emotion was packed into the hour and a half that we chatted. I am no stranger to the pain that is visited upon children who lose a parent, as my own children have suffered the pain of losing their father when they were too young to understand what was happening. But whereas my children have grown up with stories about their father, James, due to circumstances he was not responsible for, experienced a great void of stories about his mother. He looks to me to fill that void.
And I offer him as much as I can recall. I am aware that I am telling him stories I have told him before. I will tell them again. And that is okay; he likes hearing them again. I just wish I had more stories, different stories, new stories.
Don't we all?
Today, I am in love with my best friend's son, the child she left behind, who has grown into a man of whom she would be proud. Pete used to tell me (based on the psychology classes that he took) that everything you are going to do for your child, you will have done by the time the child is five. Of course, that doesn't mean that you drop the ball when the child turns six. But the groundwork, the values and the behaviors, are pretty much established by age five. JoAnn did a good job. James is a good man. And he has a lot of love to give.
Sweet Baby James, whose mother loved him to the moon and back. Mischievous, energetic James, who raced through his childhood, spirited and curious. Loving, affectionate James, who navigated the ruins of divorce and a broken home. Tormented, confused James, who could not possibly understand why Death took his mother from him when he was 14 years old.
James came to visit today, specifically to retrieve the oak rocking chair that his mother gave me years ago. It was the rocker in which she rocked James and his sister, and now that his sister has her own baby, I wanted her to have the chair. It took us less than five minutes to load the chair in the car, and then we sat down on the back deck with a couple of beers to catch up.
An awful lot of emotion was packed into the hour and a half that we chatted. I am no stranger to the pain that is visited upon children who lose a parent, as my own children have suffered the pain of losing their father when they were too young to understand what was happening. But whereas my children have grown up with stories about their father, James, due to circumstances he was not responsible for, experienced a great void of stories about his mother. He looks to me to fill that void.
And I offer him as much as I can recall. I am aware that I am telling him stories I have told him before. I will tell them again. And that is okay; he likes hearing them again. I just wish I had more stories, different stories, new stories.
Don't we all?
Today, I am in love with my best friend's son, the child she left behind, who has grown into a man of whom she would be proud. Pete used to tell me (based on the psychology classes that he took) that everything you are going to do for your child, you will have done by the time the child is five. Of course, that doesn't mean that you drop the ball when the child turns six. But the groundwork, the values and the behaviors, are pretty much established by age five. JoAnn did a good job. James is a good man. And he has a lot of love to give.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Finalizing the Itinerary
Oh, yes! I am a planner! I am decidedly NOT a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of traveler. I like to have everything planned, booked, and preferably paid for. But that is not to say that I cannot be spontaneous. There is plenty of room in my itinerary for impulsive decisions. But when you plan a road trip that begins on one specific day and ends on another specific day (and involves expensive airfare), it is nice to know how many miles you must travel on any given day and where your bed will be at the end of that day.
At this point, I would think that you are wondering where I am going. And I am happy to tell you, because I am so excited about this trip! In a few days, I will fly out to Reno, where my son will pick me up and take us to his current location in northeastern California. After checking out his digs for a day or two, he and I are headed out on a ten-day road trip! I have been planning this trip for several weeks, and today, I put the finishing touches on the itinerary. And it's good!
Our road trip involves mountains, lakes, ocean beaches, and redwood forests. Wineries, breweries, baseball stadiums, and castles. Waterfalls, lost coasts, national monuments and parks, walking tours, and mystery spots. Lodges, cafes, inns on the beach, a Burmese restaurant, and lots and lots of windy roads. Great variety!
Oh, it's going to be fun! And the fact that my 22-year-old son is willing to do a road trip with his 64-year-old mother is, in and of itself, a wonderful thing. Sam and I enjoy the same music, so even if we run out of conversation on the road, we will be happy listening to our tunes. It's all good.
Tonight, I will type up our itinerary, start a list of what to pack, and dream of the adventure we will have. I haven't seen Sam in nearly four months, so you can understand my eagerness. I hope all my planning pays off in a memorable trip. You can be sure that you will be reading about it in future posts!
At this point, I would think that you are wondering where I am going. And I am happy to tell you, because I am so excited about this trip! In a few days, I will fly out to Reno, where my son will pick me up and take us to his current location in northeastern California. After checking out his digs for a day or two, he and I are headed out on a ten-day road trip! I have been planning this trip for several weeks, and today, I put the finishing touches on the itinerary. And it's good!
Our road trip involves mountains, lakes, ocean beaches, and redwood forests. Wineries, breweries, baseball stadiums, and castles. Waterfalls, lost coasts, national monuments and parks, walking tours, and mystery spots. Lodges, cafes, inns on the beach, a Burmese restaurant, and lots and lots of windy roads. Great variety!
Oh, it's going to be fun! And the fact that my 22-year-old son is willing to do a road trip with his 64-year-old mother is, in and of itself, a wonderful thing. Sam and I enjoy the same music, so even if we run out of conversation on the road, we will be happy listening to our tunes. It's all good.
Tonight, I will type up our itinerary, start a list of what to pack, and dream of the adventure we will have. I haven't seen Sam in nearly four months, so you can understand my eagerness. I hope all my planning pays off in a memorable trip. You can be sure that you will be reading about it in future posts!
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Roommates
I think I have only had four roommates in my life (not counting family members) and only one of those, my first college roommate, was a mismatch. Of my other two college roommates, which were both great, I am still in touch with one. We may not see each other often (she lives in Georgia), but when we do, we just pick up where we left off. I also had a roommate for my grad school residencies, and she and I are still in touch, over thirty years later. In fact, I will be visiting her in Napa in about a week and a half.
As of today, I have a new roommate. I guess I should say housemate. One of my dearest friends, who until today lived down the street, moved into the upstairs loft temporarily. She sold her house but is still employed locally until she decides to retire. We've known one another for years, we've traveled together, we have never had a harsh word between us, so we think it will work out fine.
Meanwhile, as I am adjusting to Jenna and the cat having moved out, it will be nice to have someone else living here. Also nice to have someone holding down the fort (as they say) when I am traveling. It's a win-win.
I know there will be times when Kathy and I will be like two ships passing in the night. But I also know that there will be other times when we will "catch up" over a bottle (or two) of wine or a six-pack (or two) of beer, and the next thing we know, it will be three o'clock in the morning. (This has happened many times before.) We just need to be sure this doesn't happen on a night before Kathy has to go to work or I have to catch a plane.
So Jenna walked out the door. And Kathy walked in. These doors just keep closing and opening.
As of today, I have a new roommate. I guess I should say housemate. One of my dearest friends, who until today lived down the street, moved into the upstairs loft temporarily. She sold her house but is still employed locally until she decides to retire. We've known one another for years, we've traveled together, we have never had a harsh word between us, so we think it will work out fine.
Meanwhile, as I am adjusting to Jenna and the cat having moved out, it will be nice to have someone else living here. Also nice to have someone holding down the fort (as they say) when I am traveling. It's a win-win.
I know there will be times when Kathy and I will be like two ships passing in the night. But I also know that there will be other times when we will "catch up" over a bottle (or two) of wine or a six-pack (or two) of beer, and the next thing we know, it will be three o'clock in the morning. (This has happened many times before.) We just need to be sure this doesn't happen on a night before Kathy has to go to work or I have to catch a plane.
So Jenna walked out the door. And Kathy walked in. These doors just keep closing and opening.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Closing Doors
I think the last time I could close the door that leads to the laundry room downstairs was in the summer of 2001. Upon returning from a family road trip to the Southwest, we adopted two orange cats and named them Bryce and Zion. Unfortunately, one of our dogs killed little Zion. After that dog left our family, we adopted Cassie, a beautiful and sweet kitten that Jenna claimed as hers. Once Bryce and Cassie were old enough, we directed them to a litter box in the laundry room downstairs. Hence, the open door.
Jenna moved to Vermont today and took 12-year-old Cassie with her. We are crossing our fingers that this works out, because Jenna truly loves Cassie and could use the comfort of a furry, purring creature when she comes home from her new job each day.
While adjusting to the emptiness of the house, I realized that I can now close that door to the downstairs! Wow, it sure provides a cleaner look to the kitchen! Who knew?
Cassie is/was an indoor/outdoor cat. In order to come and go as she pleased, I installed a cat door in the patio screen door off my bedroom. So from early spring until early winter, I have slept with the door cracked open enough to allow Cassie to move in and out all night long. Let me just say that I have survived many cold nights with extra blankets. It occurred to me today that I can sleep without the door open tonight when the temperature will go down to fifty degrees. I wonder if I will get too hot?
So am I in love with closing doors? That's a tough one, because closing those doors is, of course, metaphorical. I no longer have a pet for the first time in . . . let me think . . . FORTY YEARS! (And that's not counting the pets I had as a child in my parents' home.) But before you suggest that I go out and adopt a pet, let me tell you that this is a change that has been long in the making. I like to travel, and it is not fair to pets to upset their daily routines with pet-sitters or drop-in pet feeders. I prefer to do my traveling guilt-free. So I guess you could say that one door closes and another opens? Cliched, but true.
And doors are opening for Jenna, too. She has landed a job that could evolve into a very satisfying career. If her cat can provide her with love and affection while she adjusts to her new surroundings, that's a good thing. It will take me awhile to adjust to my life without Cassie here (just as I am still adjusting to life without Mack, my beloved Golden, whom I lost last December), but I have a couple of trips lined up this fall, so I will be distracted enough.
Doors close. Doors open. And sometimes they swing.
Jenna moved to Vermont today and took 12-year-old Cassie with her. We are crossing our fingers that this works out, because Jenna truly loves Cassie and could use the comfort of a furry, purring creature when she comes home from her new job each day.
While adjusting to the emptiness of the house, I realized that I can now close that door to the downstairs! Wow, it sure provides a cleaner look to the kitchen! Who knew?
Cassie is/was an indoor/outdoor cat. In order to come and go as she pleased, I installed a cat door in the patio screen door off my bedroom. So from early spring until early winter, I have slept with the door cracked open enough to allow Cassie to move in and out all night long. Let me just say that I have survived many cold nights with extra blankets. It occurred to me today that I can sleep without the door open tonight when the temperature will go down to fifty degrees. I wonder if I will get too hot?
So am I in love with closing doors? That's a tough one, because closing those doors is, of course, metaphorical. I no longer have a pet for the first time in . . . let me think . . . FORTY YEARS! (And that's not counting the pets I had as a child in my parents' home.) But before you suggest that I go out and adopt a pet, let me tell you that this is a change that has been long in the making. I like to travel, and it is not fair to pets to upset their daily routines with pet-sitters or drop-in pet feeders. I prefer to do my traveling guilt-free. So I guess you could say that one door closes and another opens? Cliched, but true.
And doors are opening for Jenna, too. She has landed a job that could evolve into a very satisfying career. If her cat can provide her with love and affection while she adjusts to her new surroundings, that's a good thing. It will take me awhile to adjust to my life without Cassie here (just as I am still adjusting to life without Mack, my beloved Golden, whom I lost last December), but I have a couple of trips lined up this fall, so I will be distracted enough.
Doors close. Doors open. And sometimes they swing.
 |
| Move? Me? You're kidding, right? |
Thursday, September 11, 2014
This Random Life
Okay, this post might be controversial. I don't want it to be. But it could be construed that way. Hell, anything can be construed any way anyone wants.
Today (in case you've been sleeping) is September 11, otherwise known as Nine-Eleven. So my Facebook newsfeed is full of 9/11 memes. Of all the "Never Forget!" posts that I saw, there were only two that resonated with me. One was a post by a schoolmate of Tom Linehan with a picture of his name engraved in the memorial. Tom, once a student at a high school where I taught, perished in the towers. The other, written by a dear friend of mine, was a very poignant description of what it was like to watch the tragedy unfold on television while waiting for a spouse to come home from his job at the World Trade Center. All the rest were generic we-will-never-forget kind of things.
We are a forgetful nation, so there may be some wisdom in reminding us never to forget this particular tragedy. As if we could. But I have to wonder: what else are we forgetting?
There are many ways to die. And there are many terrorists. The terrorist that claimed my husband (age 45) and my best friend (age 51) was named Cancer. The terrorist that claimed another best friend (age 53) was named Heart Disease. The terrorist that claimed my mother was named Alzheimers. And the terrorist that claimed another childhood friend (age 30) was named Random Car Accident.
They aren't terrorists! you might respond. No? Think about it. Of course they are. We are all terrorized by Cancer. We all live in fear of Alzheimers. We all say a spoken or unspoken prayer to Saint Christopher whenever we get into a car. There are many ways to die. And my point is that we don't get to choose which way is ours or when it will happen. We all live on a wing and a prayer.
As did the people in the Towers that day. There but for fortune . . .
What is my point here? We all mourn our dead, no matter which terrorist claimed them. So I think that our hubris about 9/11 isn't so much about the lives lost as it is about hatred and fear of the other. (This is the part that is probably controversial.) But let me clarify: if you lost a loved one in the Towers on that day, you have a right to be angry, to grieve, to memorialize the day. Just as I have a right to grieve my husband's death from Cancer, to be angry, and to memorialize his death. But I do not believe that a death in the Towers is any more grievable than a death from Cancer. So I guess when cancer deaths become a national pastime in the same vein as 9/11 deaths, maybe I will rethink my position.
The bottom line? This life is a crapshoot. None of us knows how or when we will die. And more importantly, none of us knows why. The only thing we do know for sure is that eventually, one day, all of us will die. And yes, in a weird kind of way, I am in love with that randomness. Because not knowing the when or the how or the why of my demise is what keeps me learning, traveling, observing, and loving. For as long as I can.
Today (in case you've been sleeping) is September 11, otherwise known as Nine-Eleven. So my Facebook newsfeed is full of 9/11 memes. Of all the "Never Forget!" posts that I saw, there were only two that resonated with me. One was a post by a schoolmate of Tom Linehan with a picture of his name engraved in the memorial. Tom, once a student at a high school where I taught, perished in the towers. The other, written by a dear friend of mine, was a very poignant description of what it was like to watch the tragedy unfold on television while waiting for a spouse to come home from his job at the World Trade Center. All the rest were generic we-will-never-forget kind of things.
We are a forgetful nation, so there may be some wisdom in reminding us never to forget this particular tragedy. As if we could. But I have to wonder: what else are we forgetting?
There are many ways to die. And there are many terrorists. The terrorist that claimed my husband (age 45) and my best friend (age 51) was named Cancer. The terrorist that claimed another best friend (age 53) was named Heart Disease. The terrorist that claimed my mother was named Alzheimers. And the terrorist that claimed another childhood friend (age 30) was named Random Car Accident.
They aren't terrorists! you might respond. No? Think about it. Of course they are. We are all terrorized by Cancer. We all live in fear of Alzheimers. We all say a spoken or unspoken prayer to Saint Christopher whenever we get into a car. There are many ways to die. And my point is that we don't get to choose which way is ours or when it will happen. We all live on a wing and a prayer.
As did the people in the Towers that day. There but for fortune . . .
What is my point here? We all mourn our dead, no matter which terrorist claimed them. So I think that our hubris about 9/11 isn't so much about the lives lost as it is about hatred and fear of the other. (This is the part that is probably controversial.) But let me clarify: if you lost a loved one in the Towers on that day, you have a right to be angry, to grieve, to memorialize the day. Just as I have a right to grieve my husband's death from Cancer, to be angry, and to memorialize his death. But I do not believe that a death in the Towers is any more grievable than a death from Cancer. So I guess when cancer deaths become a national pastime in the same vein as 9/11 deaths, maybe I will rethink my position.
The bottom line? This life is a crapshoot. None of us knows how or when we will die. And more importantly, none of us knows why. The only thing we do know for sure is that eventually, one day, all of us will die. And yes, in a weird kind of way, I am in love with that randomness. Because not knowing the when or the how or the why of my demise is what keeps me learning, traveling, observing, and loving. For as long as I can.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Following Rivers
They say that honey heals the body
They say that music can soothe the soul
I've learned the heart has reasons
River runs by my window
River runs by my door
River runs so sweet
Those are lyrics to a Tom Rush song, River Song, that I happen to love. The fact that he dedicated it in concert to Pete one time notwithstanding, I have always been compelled by the simplicity of the lyrics. Like the simplicity . . . and complexity . . . of a river.
There are hundreds of songs written about rivers. Go ahead, think about it for five minutes and you should come up with at least a dozen. What, exactly, do the rivers say to us?
Still in Vermont today, Jenna and I drove along the Connecticut River up to Putney and then to Bellows Falls. The Connecticut River separates Vermont from New Hampshire. (And as many New Hampshire people told us, so does a state sales tax.)
We also drove along the West River, which runs along VT Rt. 30, the road that Jenna will be living on. Although Jenna has always lived near a river, in particular, the Delaware River here at home, she will now have the West River pretty much in her back yard. I am happy about this.
Driving along VT Rt. 30, one is almost always in view of the river and its rocks. You might know me well enough to know that I love rocks. It is all I can do to resist climbing down the riverbank to retrieve some rocks to bring home and place somewhere on my property But the rocks belong to the river, and I will leave them there.
Returning home this afternoon, we traveled through southern Vermont along Rt. 9. So did the Whetstone Brook. And driving down the New York State Thruway, the Hudson River stayed with us. It occurred to me that we'd been following rivers for two days.
I don't know where that river roams
But she goes around the bend
There are many things to follow in this life. I'll choose the rivers.
They say that music can soothe the soul
I've learned the heart has reasons
That reason can not know
River runs by my window
River runs by my door
River runs so sweet
Might never roam no more
Those are lyrics to a Tom Rush song, River Song, that I happen to love. The fact that he dedicated it in concert to Pete one time notwithstanding, I have always been compelled by the simplicity of the lyrics. Like the simplicity . . . and complexity . . . of a river.
There are hundreds of songs written about rivers. Go ahead, think about it for five minutes and you should come up with at least a dozen. What, exactly, do the rivers say to us?
Still in Vermont today, Jenna and I drove along the Connecticut River up to Putney and then to Bellows Falls. The Connecticut River separates Vermont from New Hampshire. (And as many New Hampshire people told us, so does a state sales tax.)
Returning home this afternoon, we traveled through southern Vermont along Rt. 9. So did the Whetstone Brook. And driving down the New York State Thruway, the Hudson River stayed with us. It occurred to me that we'd been following rivers for two days.
I don't know where that river roams
But she goes around the bend
Just might roll around the great wide world
Come on home again
Come on home again
There are many things to follow in this life. I'll choose the rivers.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Covered Bridges
Today was my third trip to Vermont in as many weeks. It's only a four-hour drive to the town where Jenna will be living, so today we drove both vehicles up there, loaded with about half of Jenna's "stuff." After unloading both cars, we went off in search of a new couch and some used furniture.
Windham County is home to a few covered bridges. And nothing says Vermont like a covered bridge. In our search for used furniture shops, we crossed two of those bridges repeatedly. On our way to Jenna's town, we cross the Williamsville Bridge which runs along the Rock River. It was built around 1870.
As you can see, the bridge appears after a sharp curve in the road. (More about that later.)
Also in Windham County is the West Dummerston covered bridge. This one was built in 1872. It's a bit longer than the Williamsville Bridge.
There's one more covered bridge that was in our vicinity, but it's a private bridge.
Windham County is home to a few covered bridges. And nothing says Vermont like a covered bridge. In our search for used furniture shops, we crossed two of those bridges repeatedly. On our way to Jenna's town, we cross the Williamsville Bridge which runs along the Rock River. It was built around 1870.
Also in Windham County is the West Dummerston covered bridge. This one was built in 1872. It's a bit longer than the Williamsville Bridge.
There's one more covered bridge that was in our vicinity, but it's a private bridge.
I think you can see why the owners wouldn't want a lot of leaf-peepers crossing their covered bridge.
So why am I in love with covered bridges? You might think it's because of their idyllic beauty. You might think it's because of their pedestrian and practical purpose. (You might even think that it's because of the way they lend themselves to alliteration.) It's all of that, of course, but there's something else.
When you approach a covered bridge in Vermont, you have to stop. And wait. If another car is already in the bridge, you continue to wait until it has completed its crossing. If the way is clear, you get to go. Seriously, there's no way around this. Think about it. Two cars approach the bridge from different directions at the same time. Both proceed into the bridge. What happens when they meet in the middle? Do they get out of their vehicles and duke it out for right-of-way? Or does one vehicle gracefully back out?
It should never come to this. You have to stop. And wait. Repeat: Stop. And wait.
Imagine if this way of doing things applied elsewhere. Imagine if we all stopped and waited before we proceeded in whatever the hell we think is so important. Would there be fewer wars? Fewer divorces? Fewer unwanted children? Would there be better use of our hard-earned dollars? Better use of our state and federal taxes? Better outcomes in education, career, and life choices?
Stop. And wait. The covered bridge has it down.
Monday, September 8, 2014
My Jeep
You know I try not to fall in with material possessions in this blog. Today I will make an exception for my 13-year-old Jeep Liberty. It's a 2002 model, but I remember quite well the day I took delivery of it in September of 2001. Why? Because it was the day after 9/11, and I wondered if I should be buying a new car if, indeed, the world was going to end.
But I completed the purchase. And now, very close to 13 years and 106,000 miles later, it has become one of the best purchases I ever made.
The Liberty had just come out in the spring of 2001. Pete caught a glimpse of one at the Jeep dealership on his way home from work, and said, "Terry, that car is you." Turns out he was right. But it's not so much the Jeep itself that I am in love with, but rather, what that Jeep has done for me.
When the Jeep stopped being "new" in late summer 2004, it began its work. Moving my oldest daughter to her college in Annapolis, Maryland, was its first assignment. Over the years that Katrina went to school and then worked in the Annapolis / DC area, that Jeep made a gazillion trips, many of them to move furniture and belongings from one place to another. I am an excellent packer, and I filled that Jeep with more than you could possibly imagine.
But the Jeep was doing double duty at the time. There were trips to Saratoga Springs where Jenna went to school, though not as many. And as soon as Jenna graduated, Sam was off to school in Burlington, Vermont. More moving stuff.
And after Sam's graduation, just when you might think that the Jeep could retire, there's another job assignment. Jenna is moving to Brattleboro, Vermont, this week, and as I am writing this, both her car and my Jeep are sitting in the driveway bursting with her belongings. We will both drive up tomorrow and unload all of it, then return home. On Friday, Jenna and her cat move up to stay.
I promised her I will come visit in October. I have a feeling that by then, she will have thought of all the things she forgot, and instead of my little VW Eos, I will need to pack up the Jeep for my visit. Although both of us might be moaning and groaning with age, we will get the job done.
Only in a Jeep.
The Liberty had just come out in the spring of 2001. Pete caught a glimpse of one at the Jeep dealership on his way home from work, and said, "Terry, that car is you." Turns out he was right. But it's not so much the Jeep itself that I am in love with, but rather, what that Jeep has done for me.
When the Jeep stopped being "new" in late summer 2004, it began its work. Moving my oldest daughter to her college in Annapolis, Maryland, was its first assignment. Over the years that Katrina went to school and then worked in the Annapolis / DC area, that Jeep made a gazillion trips, many of them to move furniture and belongings from one place to another. I am an excellent packer, and I filled that Jeep with more than you could possibly imagine.
But the Jeep was doing double duty at the time. There were trips to Saratoga Springs where Jenna went to school, though not as many. And as soon as Jenna graduated, Sam was off to school in Burlington, Vermont. More moving stuff.
And after Sam's graduation, just when you might think that the Jeep could retire, there's another job assignment. Jenna is moving to Brattleboro, Vermont, this week, and as I am writing this, both her car and my Jeep are sitting in the driveway bursting with her belongings. We will both drive up tomorrow and unload all of it, then return home. On Friday, Jenna and her cat move up to stay.
I promised her I will come visit in October. I have a feeling that by then, she will have thought of all the things she forgot, and instead of my little VW Eos, I will need to pack up the Jeep for my visit. Although both of us might be moaning and groaning with age, we will get the job done.Only in a Jeep.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Winning
Yep, I admit it. I am in love with winning. And tonight, I was a winner.
Dirt Magazine is a pretty cool small publication, serving southern New York State and Northwestern New Jersey. It's savvy, it's hep, it's green. So when they announced a Kitchen Garden Contest, I thought, "Why not?" I'm an organic gardener who doesn't know what she's doing half the time, but I do it anyway. So I entered my garden. That was back in the spring. Who knew that this was going to be the summer from hell for gardeners? The judges came to see my gardens in late July, and despite the blight that was claiming my tomato and basil plants, they liked what they saw. I was encouraged to keep up with all the work of gardening in readiness for the garden tour, which was today.
Despite the fact that the sign for my garden was placed six houses down on my neighbor Marion's house, a few stalwart garden tourists found me. Ten women, all lovely, and it was fun to chat with them and show them my digs. I even gave clematis volunteers to a couple of them. (I just hope that other people didn't stop at Marion's house, wondering where the gardens were. Marion is 85 years old, and I do not think she would have understood or appreciated the confusion.) One garden tourist even presented me with one of her treasures, Crocosalia "Lucifer," at the awards ceremony in exchange for the clematis I'd given her.
So Jenna accompanied me to the awards ceremony (free wine, beer and hors d'oeuvres) where my little fan club of ten women were cheering the announcement that I'd won one of the prizes. It felt good. I also won one of these garden hods:
Am I in love with being a winner? Or am I in love with the fact that I work hard in my garden and that hard work was recognized tonight?
Both. But mostly, I am in love with the very simple fact that I took on the task of gardening with no understanding or preparation eleven years ago . . . and today I won an award for the most creative garden.
Despite the fact that the sign for my garden was placed six houses down on my neighbor Marion's house, a few stalwart garden tourists found me. Ten women, all lovely, and it was fun to chat with them and show them my digs. I even gave clematis volunteers to a couple of them. (I just hope that other people didn't stop at Marion's house, wondering where the gardens were. Marion is 85 years old, and I do not think she would have understood or appreciated the confusion.) One garden tourist even presented me with one of her treasures, Crocosalia "Lucifer," at the awards ceremony in exchange for the clematis I'd given her.
So Jenna accompanied me to the awards ceremony (free wine, beer and hors d'oeuvres) where my little fan club of ten women were cheering the announcement that I'd won one of the prizes. It felt good. I also won one of these garden hods:Am I in love with being a winner? Or am I in love with the fact that I work hard in my garden and that hard work was recognized tonight?
Both. But mostly, I am in love with the very simple fact that I took on the task of gardening with no understanding or preparation eleven years ago . . . and today I won an award for the most creative garden.
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