Rockport's Legendary Bird Woman: 1886 - 1973

It was the strangest birding trail we have yet encountered named for Connie Hagar. It is not off in the woods or deep in a ravine, in a meadow or high on a mountain ridge; it follows a course literally along the main road, route 35, in the area of the Tule Creek restoration project in Fulton, Texas. Follow the 19 interpretive signs placed along the grassy trail to find your way to the ending at the Aransas Bay.

First, you may visit an observation deck along the marsh and then turn around and walk along the road for 1/3^rd mile or so. The trail eventually turns right into a housing development across from the public trail. The signs meander a bit, past a small picnic area and the Rockport Cemetery down to the the final interpretive sign and the edge of the Aransas Bay littered with boats, yachts and restaurants. The Cemetery is old, with mature Live Oak and full of very colorful flowers and highly decorated gravesites in the manner of Hispanic ritual for remembering the dead. Connie Hagar is buried in the cemetery.

On our visit, we did not find many birds—deep into January of the coldest winter in recent records. But the sun was bright and the walk welcoming. I must say, we were alone along the trail.

What is the story behind this rather strange setting? I had to know.

The site is dedicated to Connie Hagar (Martha Conger Neblett) who was born on June 14, 1886 in Corsicana, Texas to Robert Scott and Mattie Yeater Neblett, the eldest of 3 children. Martha Conger Neblett (Connie) was brought up with the graces of becoming a lady, educated in music, art, literature, history and a given a high regard for nature and the state of Texas, very characteristic of the Victorian era in which she was raised.

It is recorded that "Connie was a tomboy" enjoying long walks with her father studying nature and enveloped by the sounds and sights of nature. She became knowledgeable in identifying trees, shrubs, wild flowers and the birds and wildlife they observed, capturing this young girl's mind.

Soon grown up and married, Connie Hagar lived in a cottage (on the corner of South Church and First streets) in Rockport, with her husband Jack until her death in 1973. Beginning in 1935 she would make daily rounds studying the bird population and keeping meticulous records of her findings. Connie is credited with "changing the books about birds of the Coastal Bend and of Texas."

Their cottage was moved to another location soon after her death and is now privately owned. The cottage site was purchased in 1994 to ensure preservation of the land and Roger Tory Peterson helped dedicate the sanctuary to perpetuate Connie's work. The trail we visited is in a separate location, on Route 35, in Fulton, Texas. It forms part of the Tule Creek restoration project, protecting land and wildlife so dear to Connie during her life.

There is so much more to know about the Coastal Bend area and Connie's work, life and the era in which she lived. If you wish to to learn more and see photos of her life, visit the URL below. A visit to the Coastal Bend of Texas is perhaps, a well-kept secret, not as highly touted and advertised as other areas of Texas. It is worth visiting in The Rockport, Aransas, Goose Island areas. Seek out the endangered Whooping Cranes, Sand hill Cranes, and the many shorebirds, songbirds, birds of prey, alligators, snakes, tress, shrubs and flowers and so much more. What a boost it is to all of us, preserving precious natural sites in the name of a pioneer such as Connie Hagar.

References; http://www.birdrockport.com/connie_hagar.htm

Winter/Spring Visitor's Guide, Rockport/Fulton, Texas

Central Florida Highs

One of the joys of the vagabond life via motor home; you never know what is next on the horizon.  This is the year of the COLD  — featuring record setting winter weather up and down the eastern seaboard reaching to the depths of Florida. 

Luck was with us  when we called our dear friends, the Topfs and were able to camp for two nights in their lovely campground at Deer Creek in central Florida. 

The first night there we attended a concert in their clubhouse featuring the HARMONICATS, retro back to the 40’s when they became famous for playing every size and vocal range of harmonica with alacrity and skill.  They played for well over an hour, and did not seem to tire, even though they are in their late 60’s to late 70’s. 

That not being enough of a treat and surprise, the next day, we visited a National Historic landmark called Bok Tower Gardens.  Frederick Law Olmstead, Jr. designed the gardens. This singing tower features a grand carillon and we arrived just in time for the daily concert.  The sound is bright, crisp and beautiful.  The tower is on a knoll about 342’ above sea level, the highest point in central Florida.  see their website; http://www.boktowergardens.org/ Edward Bok was quite a Humanitarian and edited the LADIES HOME JOURNAL for 30 years. It is worth a visit to the web site to learn more about him and this memorable landmark on the web site.

There is more; it was hard to leave this wonderful place but they closed at 5PM.  We drove to dinner through an area that is “old Florida,”   featuring old tree and shrub growth, old buildings with character, lakes, ponds, Spanish Moss and lacking the big boxes, chain restaurants and gated communities.  The GPS led us to CHERRY POCKET FISHING CAMP.  It is just that; a rustic area where fishing boats line the dock, old trailers and motor homes, trucks ,vans and rustic buildings form a haven for “fisherfolk” and a wonderful restaurant in a large, shack-like building that is as welcoming as a pair of old, favorite slippers. 

Vegetarians rejoice, I called ahead and was assured that each dish was made to order and I could indeed find something on the menu that was free of anything none vegetarian and indeed I did.  The menu is large and our friends were all very happy with their large portions of gumbo, fish tacos, fish sandwiches, grouper dishes, and more.,  I had a salad and cheese. mushroom quesadilla. We left very full, happy and in good spirits.  What a great day, spontaneous and full of good friendship, shared memories and great cheer.

I Walked in the Sunshine

I walked in the sunshine into the garden. The day was warm and sunny, a rare kind of spring day in upstate New York. Even in the sunshine, my spirits were low, a usual state after listening to the day's news filled with trouble and turmoil in this crazy world of ours. My spirits lifted immediately upon hearing the birdsong conversations and watching butterflies waft in and out of the butterfly bush. While swatting away tiny bugs in the air I stepped carefully to avoid crushing ants on the walkway. I breathed deeply while sniffing the strong scent of the periwinkle colored Rhododendrons blooming after the long winter months.

Is it folklore or reality that achieving purple and blue toned blossoms on Rhododendron plants is a matter of loving attention and care, along with fertilizing the soil with coffee grounds and lots of water. A former neighbor used to perform these rites, but she moved away several years ago and I doubt anyone else has followed suit (adding coffee grounds to the soil). Perhaps it is some quirk of nature that the current blossoms still retain this color. I will not complain, they are beautiful.

Periwinkle is an illusive shade. It crosses from blue-tones to purple tones and may be deemed an indecisive or nondescript color by some critics I suppose. I first remember learning the name periwinkle as a child. My beloved Grandmother Rose Caplan loved to sew. How delighted she was to have her granddaughter wear her creations. How delighted my mother was to have a mother who would sew beautiful garments.

The jumper she made for me was of periwinkle dyed cotton. It was a cotton verging on linen, both coarse and with a bit of softness at the same time. The top, being a jumper, had no sleeves and tapered to a fitted waist and a flared skirt. The front near the neckline was laced together with a shoelace of the same color and ended in two small spools of thread, one sunny yellow and the other Japanese red. I still remember how sad I was when I outgrew the jumper and it became a “hand me down” to Mary Jane, a younger friend, always the next in line for my outgrown clothing.

I sat down on the wooden bench in the center of the garden, somehow transported back to reality from my reverie into my childhood. I breathed deeply, saddened by the news reports from Iran and more specifically the absurd January arrest of Roxana Saberi, the 32 year old journalist jailed on charges of espionage. My thoughts were with her wondering how one can survive in such a harsh land, the homeland of her father.

There is a beautiful photo of Roxana, her head wrapped in a Muslim woman's headscarf or hijab, the color so close to the periwinkle jumper of my childhood and to the flowers in the garden. Paralleling my freedom to walk into my garden, this vignette popped into my head of Roxana's “walk” to her cell with an 8 year sentence weighing on her shoulders;

Hardly aware of the perpetrator(s) I was pushed harshly into a cell, the door clanged shut behind me. I lay stunned where I fell on the bare, gruff, cold and broken cement floor trying to gather the strength to look up or even to stand up and assess my surroundings. The scent of filth, urine, vomit, the dankness and slightly damp warmth of electric heat from the bare bulb of despair surrounded me. I finally found the strength to pull myself up to sit on the edge of the iron cot. I finally found the strength to open my eyes and assess my surroundings. I found the strength to take a deep breath. I will fight this, I will have faith, I will begin a hunger strike, I will take action and believe that people out there care.

In my cell, I heard no birdsong, I felt no sun, no butterflies wafted about, no tiny bugs teased my head, no ants crawled on the ground, only a few beetles and other crawling things hid among the dust and dirt. I believe I sat in a reverie for hours, for days. I must have had some sustenance, some contact with my jailers, but I could not relate any stories of this to anyone who may have asked. I long to walk in the sunshine.

I awoke from this reverie in the garden, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun and smelling the sweet floral fragrances. I returned to my townhouse , free and with the glow of the sunshine warming my hair.

I continued to dwell on Roxana's fate hoping that the international effort to help her, her parents presence in Iran and the grace of all of the gods prayed to would help her become free. We did, after all, have a bond in the beautiful periwinkle color that sways indecisively between blues and purples, the pleasant shades of hope.

As we were learn soon, diligence paid off. Roxana's sentence was commuted to 2 years and then to freedom. She has returned to the US after living in Iran for 6 years. She is speaking to groups and has defied the will of the superpowers of Iran, a woman, a professional, and one who was such a powerful threat to the will of the demigods of that nation.

After many visits to the garden, I stood up from the garden bench, walking once again in the sunshine, into my townhouse and back to NPR and my addiction to the news. I would soon learn that Roxana would be free. My spirits soared.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Remember the Days?

Remember the days when life in America seemed simple and and easily defined? People were optimistic and held expectations for the future that were often met. The world felt a bit safer, the sun seemed brighter, the sky a deeper blue, the rain crystal-clear. Children were allowed out to play without parental fear of the streets. The pace of life was low key, electronic toys weren't vying for our leisure time. Paper publications, TV programs, films and popular songs idealized this world into a Norman “Rockwellian” scene. Was life indeed less complex and innocent?

In my memory, I cherish the simple act of baking together often with my sons. We had a good time, a chance to bond together, to learn to follow directions and gain skills and self confidence. The boys created enjoyed yummy treats and received praise from their dad. Of course mom had to practice ultimate patience, waiting for the child to measure, sift, beat or pour each ingredient into the Kitchen Aide; blending it in more or less properly so the finished cake would turnout somewhat edible. Then, the reward for those little faces—time to lick the beater blades.

 

 

 

LICKING CHOCOLATE FROSTING—so good...so safe?

Now those licking-the blade days are long gone by, killed by the threat of contaminated eggs or other bacteria wending their way into the batter. How many children got sick from this treat? I don't know of any! But nowadays we wouldn't allow anyone to lick raw egg batter. Licking egg-free frosting is still in but raw eggs are out--verboten.

Or so I thought. I have been following the recent recall of the Nestle's cookie dough and the presence of E. coli, discovered in Nestle's Danville, Va. plant. How surprised I was to read that consumers actually do eat raw commercial cookie dough. I must be naive and out of touch. How many actually eat raw dough? Apparently, thousands have been stricken over several years. What am I missing by not even considering eating raw dough (commercial or homemade)...getting sick on E. coli bacteria, that is what.

The last decade seems to have been swamped by incidents of contaminated foods in or agricultural system, raising flags, causing recalls, heightening research, media coverage, films addressing our food culture aimed at raising awareness among consumers. Think of Mad Cow disease, tainted ground beef and bird flu episodes, , tainted dog food recalls, making me glad to be a vegetarian...

...and then, lo and behold, there came the tomato scares, spinach scares, pistachio nut and peanut butter scares, infant formula hoaxes, incidents of tainted milk, and this summer, (2009) late blight fungus spoiling commercial and home vegetable gardens attacking tomato, eggplant and potato plants.

An astounding number of informational sites were revealed searching through Google using the key words below. The results prove epidemic;

consumer, food, recalls;   Results 1,340,000

tainted, meat, recalls;   Results 45,800

food, recall, eggs;   Results 499,000

prescription, drug, recalls;  Results 1,040,000

late blight, fungus;  Results 59,900

Food safety information is readily available to the consumer. The media and CDC (Center for Disease Control) keep us informed, issuing warnings to the general population, questioning how agricultural controls or checks and balances can be accelerated. A wealth of informative books are being published and films are being produced highlighting the “state of the health” of our food system and the production, delivery, safety and pitfalls of feeding our nation.

Long-trusted food sources must now be scrutinized and questioned, old habits, abandoned. We are now better-informed consumers aware that the system we have so long trusted can suffer breakdowns in quality control. Parents still enjoy engaging their children in the kitchen, but the beaters are placed directly into the dishwasher, no licking allowed. Everyone must wait for the wafting odors of the chocolate cake to fill the kitchen, endure the cooling and frosting and eat the food on their plates before running their “clean” finger through the frosting to savor a good, wet lick.

Ann Carol Goldberg

from townhouse to nomad house

December 29th, 2009, we have thrust ourselves upon the snowy highways heading into our other life, on the road again.  What a feeling of freedom, adventure and anticipation.  Our motor home (Gee-2) survived the Mid-Atlantic snowstorm in Covesville, (near Charlottesville) Virginia, on our son’s farm.  It is a Polar-Bear of a rig, hearty and ready to go, like the rest of us who have lived so long in the north country. It started up immediately, allowing us to stay aboard the first night upon arrival.

Our son Dan, daughter-in-law, Malena and Ali and Corey spent a cozy week under 2 1/2 feet of snow.  They put on skis, snowshoes, boots, and big smiles to care for the chickens, dogs and cats and visited neighbors.  They live in a Hollow on the Blue Ridge, a community of friendly and loving neighbors. 

It is so exciting to be on the brink of our Winter 2010 trek. The process of leaving our Rochester life is always one of “letting go” of the most recent get-togethers and experiences.  Our thoughts still linger on life as we have left it, friends and  family members, the joys and sorrows we have shared in the past weeks.  How wonderful to live in this electronic era to be able to stay in touch in so many ways and share the lives of all of you as we share our travels with you.

So many thoughts rush into my head as we look forward to the months ahead, including a special trip to Havana, Cuba, visiting family in Florida and Los Angeles and catching up with friends strung out across the country.  How lucky we are to have choices, to be able to seek adventure and to enjoy such wonderful family members and friends. 

Outside my window, I face my kid’s house—they are inside engaging in a session of home schooling, staying warm by the wood burning stove. 

Outside my window I see the forest behind the house, encased in fog and mist, beautiful and speaking to the unusual wintery weather that has come their way.  A lovely send-off to the weeks ahead as we continue on the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ann Carol Goldberg

Return

When I can, I make the choice never to follow the same route. I don't even like to return from someplace the same way. My preference is to visit different places than the places I have already seen. After all, there is so much to see or experience in this world. My philosophy is to take the road less traveled, the route that is unexplored.

Then again, I do allow myself to break that rule; after all, I am only human. Again this year, my husband and I, on our winter motor home trek westward returned to a favorite spot in the Imperial Valley Desert criss-crossing the California/Arizona borders. In that world, nothing is formal. One just parks the rig “snug up” against the Imperial Dam reservoir, a place of shifting sands, changing winds and daily fluctuations in water level.

This refuge offers us two weeks of solitude. There are no hook ups or complications other than those of choice. This place offers hiking, kayaking, biking, endless opportunities for exploration and adventure, little light pollution and new friendships. The winds this year were relentless. The sands blew, the water level in the reservoir by our rig fell to a new low and stayed that way for several days. Our kayak remained near the rig, high and dry awaiting the water's return. The mud dried and cracked and sand accumulated everywhere.



And sand there was; inside the motor home, on the windowsills, thin coatings on the mirrors, counter tops, and the dashboard. On the exterior, sand coated the sides, the windshield and windows, the surfaces of the electric coils that connects to the tow vehicle. The car and bike were coated too. The sand layers can be erased, but the events of this year's desert dwelling will be embedded in my mind forever. This year we did hit the “jackpot.”

I am a great believer in Kismet, or beshert or fate, whatever word works best for you. Somehow, people are there at the right time filling in the spaces. It is almost as if these people are “planted' in the right place by some outside force, even when you think you are the only one in that place. Often on a hike or in a strange town, someone appears at the moment you face a fork in the trail or turn in the road and they provide the guidance to set you on track. It seems to work both ways, that we are there to help others at their right moment. Corny or not, it occurs often enough to keep me believing it is so.

This year, the fluctuating sands and low water brought new adventures on the trails and as the layers of sand accumulated we added new friendships that helped enrich our stay. The backgrounds of these people were as varied as the grains of sand. We shared our adventures nightly around a campfire or just sharing drinks and salsa or nuts.

These folks come from the all over the states, Canada and overseas. Some travel full time, some with pets aboard, some keep their older rigs or have the newest in the industry. As on the trail, we learn so much from each other and are never at the loss for words. The best thing is that after our two weeks are up, we can stay in touch via email or Facebook and perhaps meet again the next year.

It was fun to walk on the dried river bed and hike in areas that are not exposed when the water is high. After several days, the water did return to a high level. The kayak was put to use and we hiked to the distant mountains finding trails, seeking old mines, seeing the wildflowers in early bloom. We encountered a couple on that trail with whom we could share our discoveries and learn about their success rock hounding for Turquoise and other gems.

The two weeks fly on by. We drive the rig up the sloping road with some regret, headed for another desert, more new friendships and the constantly shifting sands. Return we will to repeat our quest for adventure and discovery in the ever changing desert.

Out My Left Window

Point of view is everything. In RV terminology, the left side of the rig is street side, where traffic flows. The right side is curb side, entrance and exit; the “portal” to adventure.

The street side houses the hookups, electric, water, sewer and stuff that makes the mobile unit into a stationary home. Once the rig is hooked up, the left side is neglected unless there is some work to do or items to retrieve from the basement storage. This side though is curb side for your neighbor, becoming a sort of “pecking order” for each rig in the row. Each of us is vulnerable to the awareness of the curb side neighbor. Just being on board, observing the left neighbor becomes a default and unintentional act of voyeurism.


It brings to my mind the tale of living in a glass house open to scrutiny all around. Living in a “stick” house (homes without wheels) offers more privacy with more interior living space. In a motor home, windows prevail, exterior movement and sound is “in your face.” Sure, you can pull down your shades or dismiss what is going on next door. I have never observed anything earth shattering such as physical abuse, extreme quarreling, murder. But, it is hard to completely shut out every activity. Sounds of motorcycles revving up cannot be ignored, sounds of children's voices cannot be ignored, sounds of exuberant conversation cannot be ignored nor can movement of any extraordinary kind.

What I have most often observed are Rvers in their daily routine just as our curb side neighbors observe us. Most commonly, I see folks arrive and set up their rigs, pack their car for a day of adventure, mount their bikes, take off on a hike, pack a picnic, unload groceries, prepare to do laundry, play with their pets, entertain visitors and grandkids. I observe people happily pursuing life on the road. A few stand out in my memory.

In a Texas State Park, we pulled in next to a vintage Air Stream trailer, the gleaming aluminum variety revered by so many. The couple appeared to be spunky but quite senior. They sat outdoors in two lawn chairs, next to two curious items, a pet leash and an empty lawn chair. Later, a cat slept in the sun tied onto the leash. It hardly moved, why the leash, you may ask?

Then we observed the gentleman helping an elderly woman down the trailer steps into the third lawn chair. We did meet these charming people, English folk by background, and heard their story. They were en route from a a trip across country and a month in Mexico to join their family in reunion in San Diego. The cat was 27 years old. The elderly “mum” 104 and going strong. (The couple in their 80's). Ironically, we encountered them the next winter. The cat had died but “mum” was still going, but sadly not nearly as well as the year before. Aren't' people amazing?

A couple from Quebec (according to their license plate) were outside speaking loudly and excitedly in their beautiful French, of which I know not a word beyond the tourist talk variety. They seemed to be awaiting someone's arrival. Soon, another French speaking man arrived. The neighbors wife and this man sat at a table directly under the window where I write and edit photos. They each began to work on needlepoint projects the size of blankets or coverlets. The husband retreated indoors. Soon the TV screen began to flicker.

The conversation under my window was exuberant and animated as they worked. Outdoors, the needlepoint workers each hunched over their work maintaining a constant and animated Gallic chatter, presumably about their needlepoint projects. I have no other information about their work or their relationship. They were still at the table working when I returned to the rig 3 hours later, the husband probably napping in front of the TV.

There are endless stories I could relate about people under my window, caretakers for spouses in wheelchairs, parents of a disabled child and the simpler more common examples of RV living. More can be seen from the window, breathtaking views of desert, mountains, rivers, oceans, creeks and reservoirs, threatening storm clouds approaching the campsite, days on end of rain, snow in areas of unexpected accumulation, the Blue Angel Jets on a fly over, helicopters dousing the land with buckets of water.

Life out of my left window takes on an aura of voyeurism, mystery and romance. But, the best part of this style of living is exiting the coach on the curb side and pursuing your own dreams.

Ann Carol Goldberg