Message in a Minute

Rockport's Legendary Bird Woman: 1886 - 1973

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 23:22:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 14:02:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 14:52:00 +0000

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?

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 14:32:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 17:44:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 03:22:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 03:13:00 +0000

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

Facing Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 17:26:00 +0000

Facebook is like being invited to a “come as you are party”. It starts with an invitation to join and after that anything goes. It is astounding how rapidly it has grown from a young person's social network to a complex and multi-purpose “social” networking site.

Writing on the public wall redefines the term Graffiti. You choose your level of vulnerability when writing on the wall; will you be open and frank, highly vulnerable or low key? It seems that anything goes. Language isn't important, grammar has become insignificant. Social networking is already cliché and banal and has many outlets including various other social outlets, blogging,
texting, twittering and whatever else is being “invented” at this moment.
Personal profiles, photos, videos and décor for your Facebook page are standard and setting standards.

What I am writing here is certainly not news or even enlightening unless you are truly a Facebook novice. I favor and welcome progress and development in communication and high technology. It is just astonishing that there are no rules to protect our use of language; grammar and spelling.

Web texting has become the new wave of writing, the new prose and poetry. Many a teacher has complained about the decline in student writing in essays and homework, the decline in creative writing skill. Perhaps work in this style will become the future classics in the manner of highly regarded writers such as e. e. Cummings and John Steinbeck and all the other pioneers who brought change in literature and communication in the last century.

Facebook is huge with so many layers and complexities. It goes well beyond a simple way to check up on friends. By clicking into specialty sites, you can sign on to foster the release imprisoned Chinese journalists, offer sympathy to celebrity families suffering loss, donate in aid of disaster victims, help elect a president. You can hunt for a job, find classifieds, join causes or send virtual gifts to anyone you choose. Messages can be to one individual, group, to friends or to complete stranger.

Once invited to “come as you are” you are free to fit in as you “see fit.” How many hours will you rack up facing Facebook while it faces you right back. At the age of 16, I was invited to a “come as you are” party. I was caught dressed up returning home from a date. Nowadays, I prefer my jeans and T-top, I get “caught up” spending too much time on my Facebook Page. Through Facebook and like going on a date, the quest for “getting to know” you never ends.

Some images from my Facebook page;

Excuse Me If I Shiver

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 17:07:00 +0000

Excuse me if I s-s-s-stutter a bit. My teeth are chattering and it is hard to control my speech. I’ve just returned from a full day of errands. This is satisfying in itself, getting through the to do list, but first, I had a doctor’s appointment. I felt a bit light headed and hungry from fasting all night before a clinical test.

They finally called my name and ushered me into the examination room after sitting almost 1/2 hour in the COLD waiting room,
The instruction was to undress and wait lying prone on the table wrapped in a thin paper robe, desperate to keep warm,

The medical test was administered and then, still wearing the paper excuse for a robe, I had to carry my belongings into another examination room to see the doc. She appeared after another eternal wait, prone in the COLD room. The next step was to dress and venture back into the waiting area only to stand in line at the cashier while the two people in line ahead of me had to solve insurance problems—teeth still chattering, I was still shivering in the COLD dry air conditioning.

As I approached the exit, an LED readout on the thermostat by the door glared at me—“AC 62F. “

The next stop was the blood-drawing clinic, doctor’s order in hand. I sat in the COLD waiting room one more time and then was called into the blood-drawing room. The technician took the blood, and thankfully, I could stay dressed this time. I felt as if my blood sample was below 70F and I was beginning to turn blue. Back into line I went to check out of the clinic, hugging my sweater around me . I headed for the exit to find my car.

Ah, what heaven it was to step into the fresh, hot, withering air, 90F at 9:30 AM and bright sunshine. I wanted to stay there for an hour to defrost, but I was free and determined to do my errands. I had to pick up my photographs from the framer. As I opened their door, I could feel the frigid air spill out of the doorway. I had to drop off a form at the library. Not knowing where to go, I was directed on a wild goose chase in the chilly air-conditioned building until someone rescued me and headed me to the correct office. Then back into the sun for a brief and delightful respite. I climbed back into my car, windows open, air conditioning off and drove to the next stop.

This destination, a big box to pick up books for my grandsons and then onto another big box for supplies for our up and coming RV trip. Next stop, to the grocery/pharmacy to drop off my doctor’s prescription, grocery shop and then pick up the meds. Grocery stores in my opinion win hands down as the coldest of COLD places; no question about it. It felt like a dry 55 degrees F.

Yes, I understand that the majority of you are complaining loudly about the heat wave. You are hot; you are sweating, maybe loosing your temper, feeling dehydrated. You crave those blasting gusts of wind from air conditioning vents experienced in most facilities, offices and stores. I appeal to office managers and building maintenance staff, not all of us are made to tolerate such temperatures. It feels like abuse. I can understand and would welcome cool along with everyone else, but frigid, intolerable blowing air? There is something wrong here.

I am not alone. I have heard many office workers and retail clerks complain that it is much too COLD. Yet, they stay on the job and never request or give up asking for a little movement of the thermostat knob to raise the temperature to a livable level. So many people I know speak with a hoarse voice or rasping whisper, sneezing and coughing and complaining of a summer cold, of skin that is freezing to the touch, fingers and toes that feel numb as if just off the ski slopes or suffering the icy blasts of a winter storm.

Have you read the latest report that the more upscale the store, the colder the temperature in the store? Please explain that theory to me someone. Please tell me why we are so addicted in this country to blasts of cold air, when moderate air would be comfortable and so much healthier?

I wish to start a grass-roots effort fighting AC Extreme. If not for your own comfort, then for the environment. Millions of dollars would be saved, millions of watts of energy, vast amounts of hydro power, fuel, and more would be saved or spared by regulating our air conditioning. Let’s warm it up a little bit, stop shivering and enjoy summer. Fall will be here in the shake of a political curb sign.

Whenever I encounter a sister-sufferer in the dairy aisle of a supermarket, Hallmark lane in a pharmacy or in some office somewhere standing stiffly, hugging herself and rubbing her chilled arms, I just want to give her a hug, and shout out loud in grand chorus; I have company, I am not alone in this quest. I have found male sufferers as well. Have mercy on us shivering souls and give the thermostat button a tweak upward past freezing. Save medical bills, save the environment and diminish the amount of used Kleenex tissue thrown into the land fill. Thanks for listening, I have stopped shivering for the moment.

Donald Judd, Minimalist Artist Eternalized

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 00:50:00 +0000

Marfa, Texas, located west of Austin and north of Big Bend National Park, is a town with secrets. We have passed through Marfa twice before without discovering the art scene that is reputed to exist or see the “mystery” lights that put Marfa on the map. A large observation center has been built 8 miles east of town to view these lights. Some people have called this a hoax. So be it.

Determined to solve these mysteries for ourselves, we camped in nearby Alpine and drove into Marfa to discover its secrets for ourselves. This proved difficult. There are no visitor center signs, no information centers, nothing points to the jewels we finally uncovered even though we could see several galleries and workshops in old and rustic buildings in town.

Quizzing the proprietor of El Paisano Hotel, the librarian, restaurant staff, and the chance meeting of the Conservator of the Judd Foundation, the veil finally fell off and we spent hours on guided tours and on our own exploring the Minimalist world of Donald Judd, Daniel Flavin and John Chamberlain.

Books are needed to do justice to the collections and permanent exhibitions in Marfa and their place in art history. These books and publications exist as well as web sites (see below) that will give you a glimmer of what we saw and learned. Donald Judd arrived in Marfa in 1973 and his story and work is maintained in two foundations, the Judd Foundation and the Chinati Foundation. I have signed a release and cannot share any images I made of the artwork in a public forum. It is worth an electronic journey in the least to these web sites and if you can, a trip to Marfa, Texas.
www.juddfoundation.org
www.chinati.org

Oh yes, the mystery lights are still under a veil for us. If you do visit and see the mystery lights, please, let me know.
Photos of Marfa Town Hall and Chinati foundation welcome sign

Ann Carol Goldberg

The Fire On The Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 00:41:00 +0000

The fire on the mountain rose in two pillars of white smoke. Our family had gathered for a winter reunion. There we stood on the dry grass in my son and daughter-in-law’s Virginia farmyard watching the smoke. The persistent drought was on all of our minds; is there a chance that the wildfire could blow our way? How did the fire start and how far away is the fire?

A truck roared up the driveway. It was marked Covesville Fire Department and driven by the fire chief. He requested permission to open the gate adjacent to Dan’s farm and drive up the road toward the fire area. The men in our group joined the chief to lend a hand. A dozen volunteers appeared in their pickups with their blue lights flashing. The driveway was jammed with their vehicles and anxious men standing and staring at the fire deciding what to do next.

All of us were wary. Could the fire be a threat to the farm? Would we have to evacuate? My son and daughter in law kept cool heads and discussed the possibility with the fire fighters. We had plenty of food and water to take and we could stay in town if necessary. The firefighters assured us that we were not in imminent danger.

My wonderful daughters in law, Malena and Miriam and I needed to grocery shop for there were five young appetites to fill. An opening was granted so we could drive down the farm road to the highway into Charlottesville to stock up. Until now, the road had been plugged with firefighters vehicles wending their way up to Hungry Town Hollow. We could see the smoke from Highway 29. There seemed to be two sizeable hillocks between the fire and the farm.

The location of the fire was remote and difficult to reach. Several the firefighters planned to hike to the fire to keep watch for the rest of the day and through out the frigid night. We did not envy them and did offer hot drinks and food. They were well stocked and prepared for this vigil. The cause of the fire was never relayed to us. One of our neighbors thought he had heard a loud noise and saw people walking on the ridge just before the smoke appeared. But this was most likely unrelated and coincidental, being the last day of deer hunting season.

We returned from town two hours later. The pillars of smoke had not grown in size and seemed to be contained. The trucks were gone; having dispensed the hardy firewatchers to their place for the mountain watch.

Life on the mountain farm is adventuresome. In a period of two days, we experienced the wild fire, fallen trees blocking the single road and icy driving conditions with a neighbor’s car going over the edge, incredibly with no injury or damage to the car. I am awaiting my first sighting of fox, bear or mountain lion; I will have to be very patient.

Ann Carol Goldberg

What a sight we must have been

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 22:46:00 +0000

What a sight we must have been, driving our motor home, climbing the narrow park road in Colorado Monument National Park. How incredulous was our response to the exquisite scenery deep in the canyons. Could there be still more unique and spectacular vistas than those we had already seen in places such as Zion, Bryce and Arches National Parks? As we ascended the mountain, we did have a niggling problem. Could we indeed negotiate the mountain tunnel that we knew lay ahead of us?

Two reliable sources, our host and the staff person at the Colorado visitor’s center had assured the accessibility to the tunnel. Our nerves were still tingling with doubt as we realized how narrow the road was and as we sighted the sign just in front of the tunnel; 10’ 6” clearance. I was at the wheel and had pulled as far to the right as I dared in case another vehicle entered the tunnel facing us. The traffic had been almost non-existent to say the least.

Should we indeed drive through the tunnel? After all, we had the assurances of experts and in “eyeballing” the tunnel; it did look higher than the prospect offered by the clearance sign. The story offered was that after an incident with a traveler “scraping” the side of his vehicle and suing the park authorities, the sign was changed to represent lower clearances than the actual height.

The weather was crispy, clear and sunny, We were about 7200’ above sea level. Turning around on this high ridge would be possible but tricky after unhitching the tow and pulling a tight K-turn with the motor home. We love adventure and challenge and the tunnel appeared “friendly.” We chose to charge onward.

Paul donned his barn coat and cap and exited the rig with the intent of leading me through, assuring that we would not scrape the air conditioners or air vents on the tunnel walls and stopping any on-coming traffic. We could see all the way through the tunnel, a big plus indeed. I centered myself on the entrance and he gave me the thumbs up. As I started to drive into the darkened mouth, a white van entered from the opposite direction and stopped about 20 feet from the rig, unable to get past me.

Paul tried to speak to the young woman driver, but as he said, “she ignored me or did not even notice me.” She just stared ahead, perhaps frozen or unsure of what to do. If she had just pulled a bit to her right, I could have adjusted my position to let her pass. I proceeded to move slowly to the right watching Paul’s hand direction like a hawk. The white van finally drove on. He urged me ahead, later declaring concern that he could not watch his back for oncoming traffic and lead me through as well. I returned to the middle of the road and continued to move ahead at about 2 miles an hour. It was dark and a bit difficult to see. Adding the headlights helped.

By now I was fairly confident that there was plenty of headroom but continued to move at a snail’s pace. Not a scrape, scratch or grinding noise. No more traffic faced us, and after an eternity we were through the tunnel. By this time, a red car caught up to our rear. Paul climbed aboard and we continued up the mountain as he sat down and belted in. I am sure our cheers of delight and relief could be heard for miles around. Perhaps we should have been more trusting of the words of our “advisors,” but fear of damaging our house on wheels was also strong.

This trip, we have finally reached the famous, natural sites of Nevada, Utah and now Colorado and it has made us so happy. Our destination in driving through the tunnel was Glade Park, CO just above the Colorado National Monument, to visit a delightful couple, my daughter in law’s sister and brother in law. They had invited us to park our behemoth RV on their property, alongside their exquisite new home. How excited we are to get to know them and to really be in Colorado for our first time. We are almost fully fueled with gas and propane. The temperatures are forecast for lows in the mid 20’s and highs in the mid 40’s.

In our minds, we are truly “failures” as snowbirds. The idea, as we understand it, is to leave the northeast in the winter to seek and find warm, even hot weather and to stay put for a while in these locations. We have had a few stretches of warm in Florida, Texas, Arizona, California and Nevada, but our woolly hats and gloves have also been at the ready. The decision this year has been a thrill; to experience the heritage and witness the beauty and splendor of the national and state parks in the southwest, high in the mountains, chancing cold temperatures and ice and snow.

This has allowed us to have hiked, rock-hopped via Jeep, climbed high ridges, trekked through “hidden canyons,” been soaked by secret waterfalls, assaulted by sand storms in a deep canyon, met wonderful people and experienced some of our dreams of a lifetime.

Perhaps it is in our blood, in our genes, in our psyches to gravitate toward cold. Perhaps, we can’t help ourselves. Perhaps we are a bit crazed, but we seek adventure, beauty and the chance to enlarge our horizons. We have not really suffered one bit, more than some dry and cracked skin and runny noses. Our cheeks are brilliantly colored from wind, and sun, we are robust and feel so lucky to take the roads less traveled.

Just South of the strip

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 05:27:00 +0000

Greetings from Boulder City, NV which turns out to be a desirable place to stay while Paul flies home to Rochester for a few days. Las Vegas looms large just to the North. I thought its proximity would spoil everything within 100 miles of the Gambling strip. I was proven wrong.

Boulder City has much to offer: from the historic downtown and the Boulder Dam Hotel, to Lake Mead, (still popular even though the water level is almost at a record low—drought and heavy demand) and an abundance of great choices for extensive hiking, biking and kayaking. Oh yes, and there are casinos, golf, dining and spas in town. Let’s not forget the delightful weather (at least in early spring before the 100F+ degrees begin. Besides all of these reasons, the folks here are super-friendly and anxious to tell a strange about their chosen place to live—most folks seem to be imports. Here are photos of a popular watering hole and a quilting shop called Tumbleweed that would be a Mecca for my quilting friends.

To fill my time while Paul was traveling, I chose to hike the railroad tunnel trail alongside Lake Mead. The railroad tunnels are a remnant of the dam construction in the 1930’s now sans the tracks. The sky was deep blue and the temperature 78F. My arrival time driving to the trailhead was delayed by the traffic jam waiting to cross the dam. I finally arrived via the start of a left turning lane leading into the park. I drove past at least 4-dozen cars waiting in line at the sign reading “Hoover dam—8 miles.”

Now on the trail, I thoroughly enjoyed the 4 1/2-mile hike to the dam. I am certain I reached the dam, walked part-way across and back and hiked the 4 1/2 miles to return to my car before these folks in their vehicles could park and visit the dam themselves. I am back on the rig, resting my tired legs and happy to have seen the Hoover Dam up close and personal.

From the Strawberry Garden; June, 1946.

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 02:41:00 +0000

“Key management;” this becomes important in our modern lives as we acquire multiple house, many vehicles and businesses. Security is an issue like never before. We have keys of all shapes and sizes, remote electronic keys and keypunch pads. For me, it brings up a memory of simpler times.

The house I grew up in was Circa 1930’s. A front porch spanned the front of the house with 5 steps providing access to the space that fed the over-active imaginations of pre-schoolers shared by my friends and myself. The porch held a round metal table, classic metal rocking chairs that actually bounced, and a classic cushioned glider complete with a loud squeak when moved. A thick, sweet-smelling honeysuckle vine hugged the glider, bringing the promise of spring.

The floors inside were dotted with heating ducts covered with lacey metal covers, a parlor with an upright piano, a stair case complete with “sliding” banister and a musty smelling, walled-in back-staircase and the back door also sported a small porch with its 5 steps. Heavy skeleton keys opened the doors and the water heater groaned into action at the push of a black button.

My dad had converted the large octopus coal-style furnace to gas sometime in the mid 1940’s. Therefore, the former “coal room” was transformed into my playroom; to enjoy my dollhouse, a miniature china tea set, my older brother’s old trucks or ride my tricycle around the large furnace and have plenty of smooth floor to roller skate in the winter.

My mother reigned over the gardens, one forming long and narrow strip between our driveway and the Little family’s driveway. She prized her peonies, strawberry plants and rhododendrons growing in that space. I remember “helping” plant, water and weed.

Of course, the pinnacle event came when the strawberries were ready to pick. They glistened red with dew, almost reaching out to your hand to help you guide their way into your cereal bowl. I was only 4, but I remember the joy of running out the back door, clad in PJ’s, sporting bare feet and stumbling over the stones in the driveway, enduring whatever pain was inflicted by the gravel to reach the dew-covered strawberries. That chubby little girl is me, a bit younger than 4.

Is it possible that the strawberries of memory were sweeter tasting than today’s berries or is it sweeter in memory? Unequivocally, the berries were well tuned with the vintage 1946 corn flakes. I wonder if corn flakes have changed at all in the 60 or so years—perhaps they are the same or now more fully whole grain, full of supplements and nutritionally geared to keep up with the times. (To see a of the history of corn flakes, go to; http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/kelloggcf.htm)

One misty, cool morning looms in my memory. My dad must have been away on tour with the RPO. Mom was in her housecoat. I was pajama clad as above and bare foot. We scooted outside to pick berries. The back door slammed shut, locked and stood solidly closed. I remember innumerable occurrences of being locked out, but later in the day, fully clad and less “desperate.”

To get back in, we always had recourse; two neighbors with skeleton keys that matched our door. We ran next door to the Little’s, fearing awakening them. Then we remembered their two-week trip to the Mountains. Perhaps that meant the Adirondacks or the Catskills.

The Shubener’s, also owned the “right key” but lived 3 doors away. I am sure my mother was highly embarrassed that anyone see her in her housecoat, but I am sure we both traipsed to their door—no answer, no one home. It felt like hours to me, but our problem became smaler when a neighbor in the apartment house across the street saw us looking forlorn. Perhaps we were sitting on the front steps, chins in hands. He returned to his apartment and emerged again holding a huge “jailer” ring of skeleton keys. Success, one of the keys worked and opened our door.

I don’t have the memory, but I am sure my mother showered our neighbor/savior with dew-clad strawberries and excessive thanks. We now added another source in impending peril, a large ring of heavy, gray metal skeleton keys. It just takes patience to find the right one to open our door.

Road, Railroad, Rollin' Tumbleweed

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 18:12:00 +0000

Everything in life seems to fit into some category or other. Traveling down the road as we do in our motorhome, we observe regional characteristics that we fit into categories of our own designation.

The scenery varies from rolling hills of central New York to the flat plains of the southwest, the huge farms of the food belt, the loblolly pine forests so common in the south, abundant wetlands and lake regions and ocean beaches.

For years we have referred to the three R’s of the roads we traveled as incessant miles of “Road-RR-River.” For miles we would seemingly match pace with trains on the track and boats on the river, running parallel to our road.

Now that we have traveled more extensively in the south, the 3 R’s have taken on a new character; “Road, Railroad & Rollin’ Tumbleweed.” Roads and railroads still remain but the Rivers give way to acre upon acre of arid land, huge open-range ranches, mile after mile of flat dust-blown plains, sometimes made up of plain empty sand or covered with desert brush. Long miles are lined with fences extending into eternity and frequented with plenty of rolling tumbleweed picking up dust and debris as it tumbles in the wind.

Rollin’ tumbleweed? That our path as well, rollin’ down the road. We add and subtract to ourselves, acquiring some dust, dirt and sand but mostly experience, new acquaintances and a collection of endless adventures. Soon, we settle down and stop rollin’ for a while as if the wind stopped pushing and we make ourselves stay put for a night or a week or two. We just have to control our restlessness, settle in and stay out of the wind to stop rolling.

In a rest stop on the way to the BLM (Bureau of Land Management) sites near the Yuma Proving Grounds on the Arizona/California State line, Paul was entranced by a bit of tumbleweed on the move. “It actually makes noise as it rolls.” Not loud, not harsh, not calling for attention as such, just a subtle “swish swish” of a noise, going the way of the wind and whim—just like us. But we have a purpose and learn from what we gather.

Long freight trains graced with double-stacked shipping cars don’t escape our attention. The goods that form our nation are on those trains. Goods meant to fill the big boxes duplicated over and over in every city in our country; goods for building, goods for consumption and supply. It is mind boggling to think of the items that pass by us every day. The push to buy locally, to decrease reliance on importing and trucking goods and the competition by small farmers and manufacturers to ‘beat down the reins” of the large farms and corporations wanting to smother them needs our attention and proper legislation.

It’s time to hook up and get back on the road. What will we acquire today? Hopefully, it will be more wisdom and insight beyond just plain picking up dust and dirt in keeping up with the rollin’ tumbleweed. Perhaps we will see a country moving forward to improved conservation, global relations and better times for all.

Desert snowballs

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 18:51:00 +0000

3/17/08 One reason Paul and I have become RV vagabonds is to escape the cold effects of the winter months. We seek sun, warm temperatures, adventure and the pleasure of meeting a wide variety of people on the road. The winter of 2008 has met all of these expectations.

We departed Los Angeles a few days ago after a glorious visit with our son Yechiel, our daughter in law, Miriam and our adorable grandsons, Azriel and Tal. For once, the weather in LA was warm, sunny and welcoming. Our motor home faced the Pacific Ocean and the beach just a few feet away from our windshield.

After our 12-day visit we departed LA, the busy freeways, the crowds of people all wishing to occupy the same space at the same time and headed northeast for the Mojave Desert Reserve. We have become fans of the deserts of California, the Imperial Valley, Death Valley, Joshua Tree, the Anzo Berrego and more. It was time to try a new location. We found the rustic campsite and set up to camp for several days. What better name could there be for the campground in the Mojave, but “Hole in the Wall”, (from the lore of Butch Cassidy the Sundance Kid and the Hole in the Wall Gang)? Our altitude was at 4000’ above sea level. Arrival time was late on a Thursday afternoon, with brilliant blue sky and the sun playing in the rough peaks and mesas near our campsite. The temperature was in the mid 70’s. We met our neighbors and enjoyed cocktails and conversation together to share our RV experiences.

Having listened to NOAA – the monotone but informative voice of the national weather channel, we knew to expect high winds and cooler temperatures. And that is exactly what we got. Our rig was buffeted and shaken with winds probably up to 45-50 MPH. Being old hands at weather of all kinds, we brought in our slides and battened down all “hatches.” With no hook ups at this campground, we were dry camping and loving it.

The wind whipped at us during the 4 days we were there. We had plenty of company including tenters. But, we remember our days of tenting and thinking this was heaven. (in case you think we are completely out of our minds, there were times when we would keep the tent in back of the station wagon and seek the nearest and greatest B & B for our comfort and staying warm and dry.) These folks did not have that choice; our location was very remote indeed.

Our minds were made up not to miss a trick or attraction in the Mojave now that we were embraced by its beauty and smack in the middle of the Reserve. Our days included visiting an historic town called Kelso with a rich history in the development of railroading, a dip down into the Mitchell Caverns to see the wonders of stalagmites, stalactites and a new formation to us called shields. (that look like flat, cylindrical plates pressed against the cave wall or ceiling). We did an unsuccessful hunt for baby desert tortoises (a bit too early in the season), hiked into and climbed a canyon wall for a spectacular view. We also climbed down into volcanic lava tubes and saw vast Cinder Cones left after earthquakes as recent as 10,000 years ago.

There are still some hikes to be enjoyed on our next visit, the Mojave Joshua tree forest, the “burn over” of a few years ago to photograph and the Kelso Dunes to climb. Our departure date was uncertain and would be determined by the prospect of diminishing the high and eventually annoying winds.

Sunday morning arrived with no diminishing of the winds and a new surprise: SNOW. The snow had been forecast for above 5200’. So it was indeed, a surprise.

We decided to depart the Mojave to seek relief from the constant blowing and the cold. My skin is so dry from the cold and my arthritis is saying “hello.” The campground is almost empty leaving only 2 rigs plus that of the campground hosts and the single tenter remaining. Warmer weather is due to arrive in a few days. The spring wildflowers will continue to grow, the kangaroo rats will chew on campers belongings left unattended and the baby tortoises will hatch without our notice this year. We have much to look forward to on our next visit to the Mojave Desert, a place well-noted in history through folk lore, fiction and works of art.

seafan landscape, rustic and fragile

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 03:22:00 +0000

Upon viewing a map of Louisiana, the land forming the vast delta below New Orleans flows away from that city to the west and south simulating a lacey, sea fan pattern into the Gulf of Mexico. The forces of erosion, time and the evolutionary process are fully evident. It isn’t news to report that since Katrina, the emphasis of reconstruction or the lack thereof focuses on New Orleans. After two years of return travel through that region, we have observed first hand the vast swath of the storm and the pain that it has inflicted near and far from New Orleans. This year, our path took us through New Orleans for a quick assessment of current conditions then we continued south from New Orleans, following route 1 from Riceland to Grand Isle in order to learn a little about life in that area.

Driving west into New Orleans on Route I-10 we gasped at the still vast neighborhoods in the same state of disrepair as we found them the January after Katrina, flattened concrete slabs that once held strip malls, service stations, banks and restaurants and apartment buildings and homes reminiscent of a war zone; skeletons of former buildings, debris still strewn around or sometimes piled into great pyres of destroyed lives. The color blue in the form of great plastic sheets covers damaged roofs providing some color in the otherwise bleak landscape but proving there is no relief in re-building these neighborhoods. The lasting state of disrepair is hotly blamed on governmental graft and corruption—what else is new in this world? Yes, acres of stored Formaldehyde-laden FEMA trailers are in full view.

We left behind the evidence of lives held in suspension; happy to leave the heavy traffic on route I-10 to discover what life is like on the fringes of the delta land toward Grand Isle. As expected, we were as students on a journey. The drive is long and slow, winding through many towns and villages along the intercoastal waterway. The scenery; rustic, rough, random and chaotic. These folks are not interested in aesthetic beauty or organization and order. They are interested in eking out a living in the two large industries of the area, oil and fishing (shrimping). They are serious and hard working as evidenced by our several return trips north in our tow car to observe more closely the way of life. Actually we saw few people, they were in school, at work and not out and about. The largest groups of people we could see were in the shipyards working on repairs—standing precariously on non-OSHA sanctioned scaffolding (see photo).

The support businesses specialize to serve the needs of this community. Billboards advertised helicopter leasing, off-shore catering, offshore delivery services, headache and other pain relief, addiction counseling and chiropractic services, work-injury aid, fishing net repair, long-term parking for off shore workers, as well as ‘ we are hiring” signs.

We had short encounters with people. They are very warm and welcoming focused on their own worlds. Paul’s desire to buy fresh shrimp became an adventure in driving, navigating and patience. It is off-season, but fresh shrimp could be purchased. We tracked a couple of dead-end routes wishing for an amphibious vehicle to actually reach the tiny shack on the dock’s end that advertised being open and having stock to sell. After three or four false end-points, he did indeed fill his quest for shrimp and for stone crab claws and enjoyed them very much. (I won’t express my opinion, being a veggie). The photo shows the large scale the local fisherman used to weigh one pound of shrimp. I guess they are used to selling amounts much more vast than one pound—the cost--$3.75. The man himself was a crusty character, his speech difficult to understand but he reflected the aura of the region.

The port towns are marked with long, singular rows of shrimping boats lined up parallel to the road, colorful against the otherwise bleak landscape of houses and land. There were no boats out on the water. Driving through the towns was slow enough, but every third or forth street seemed to host a school with 20 mph limits. Education of the young is not forgotten in this area.

This area has suffered devastation from many storms, beyond Katrina, but residents understand their vulnerability in the eyes of Mother Nature. Most stay; generation after generation, knowing of course that life is not easy, continuing to work in the industries that employed their parents. Technology affects and changes their lives and jobs come and go. Tourists arrive and build vacation homes on stilts but there is no dimension of booming growth and change as we have seen in other water-front areas. The restaurants and bars are rustic and simple. Life goes on. In the words of one store clerk, “life passes by slowly and that’s how we want to keep it.”

Sand fleas, mole crabs and a fisherman

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Sat, 26 Jan 2008 18:14:00 +0000

Location; Topsail Hill State Park; in the Florida Panhandle. They call this area, occupying the north coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the ‘FORGOTTEN COAST.” It is overdeveloped, under planned and overpopulated containing the usual big-box clones and too many people. But this state park is an oasis amidst this growth. It is toward the end of January, bleak, cloudy and low 50’s Fahrenheit. Our motor home is in place, set up in this lovely state park boasting full hookups and grassy, roomy sites on what had formerly been a privately owned campground. Paul and I set off on a hike beginning on the beach, a delightful activity we find, even in cool and stormy weather.

The dunes hugging the beach are protected by boardwalks for crossing to the beach and a continuous array of signs begging you to stay “OFF THE DUNES.” The sand in this region is quite fine and appears to glow in an off-shade of white, enhanced by the pewter clouds and dark green ocean. The waves rolled in on a symphony of sound, a background for the few seabirds; pelicans, sandpipers and gulls. The campground’s tri-fold brochure listed this hike as measuring 1.2 miles to the next beach access point where we would turn inland to continue our 5.5 mile hike around Campbell Lake and back to the campgsite.

Our walk was set at a brisk pace to offset the time spent sitting and traveling from the eastern campground on Mexico Beach, Florida. Eventually we could make out people in the distance at what we assumed would be this access point. Before us lay the glowing sandy beach, the abundant waves on our left, the lonely sand dunes on the right and clouds and a bit of drizzle overhead. We were alone for now. As we approached the access point, we could make out two figures and a line up of 4 slender and tall fishing poles “growing” out of the sand near the edge of the shore. A woman was sitting on a folding chair, bundled up against the wind surrounded by fishing gear, a cooler and reading a book. Her husband was clad in camouflage-patterned fishing overalls, boots and rainwear. He was approaching and receding from the shore with a rectangular basket attached to a long pole.

I was curious, of course. I approached him and asked what he was catching in the basket. He responded, “sand fleas, or at least that is what I am hoping to catch. In this weather, they are not very abundant.” “Sand fleas,” I asked? “I thought they were tiny, similar to “no-seeums” and they jumped away from your feet as you disturbed the sand.”

“Well,” he replied, “they are also called something like Sand Moles, and yes,” replying to my further query, “they make good bait for redfish.” Come I will show you some fleas.” We walked to his wife’s chair where he opened the cooler and pulled out a Tupperware type container. He placed 5 “fleas” in his hand and explained as he showed us that these were frozen from a more successful day of catching them in his basket.

He had caught a redfish that day but had to throw it back because it was too large to legally keep—more than 36”. That seemed to me to be a big fish to be caught so close to shore. Apparently they are very common in this area. He was still hoping to catch some Pompano or other fish for tonight’s dinner.

We wished him luck and made our way back over the dunes to continue the hike. I later “Googled” sand fleas and found out that they are called Mole Crabs and I have included a photo of the frozen ones in his hand as well as the fisherman and his basket. You never know what you may learn when you set out. Every step can be an adventure. By the way, we did not meet another person until we returned to our campsite and greeted our neighbors, but that is a whole other story. Happy fishing.

Ann Carol Goldberg
Message in a Minute

Stolen moments, shared delights

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 15:15:00 +0000

“What will I find if I go north out of your driveway I asked my sister-in-law, Sandy? You will find a great old barn that would be wonderful to photograph,” was her quick reply. The Vermont day offered heavy clusters of cloud, moving swiftly in the winds. The light was stunningly gray textured by a steady mist. In Vermont the light can change in a blink.

It was the Thanksgiving holiday. The weather had turned from the incredible “spring-like” autumn that the whole northeast had enjoyed to the crisp and invigorating cold we expect at this season of he year.

We were momentarily caught up on cooking, so I expressed a desire to shoot photos of this barn. My niece Minda decided to join me. She is a nature lover and dedicated student who spends her days researching the effects of carbon traces in the woods and their effect on climate change, (Minda taught me that this term is more inclusive than the popular term Global Warming used by the general population) We bundled up against the 24ºF temperature, grabbed our cameras and were on our way, indeed turning left out of the driveway. This is a bit tricky as the road to the left is uphill and on a curve. Extra care is a necessity.

I eased the car onto the road and safely uphill as we kept our eyes out for the barn about a half-mile away on the right. We came upon it quickly; it is set back from the road, hidden by a hill. The driveway is covered with stark white, marble gravel so indigenous to this area, used on numerous driveways, walking paths and road shoulders.

The light was still flat, gray and the air misty and cold. No one was around to ask permission to walk on the property to shoot our photos. We took a deep breath and decided to”go for it.” I parked the Prius at the end of the long and very straight driveway. We walked up the hill toward the barn to shoot photos. At that very moment, as if on a mysterious cue, the sun broke through the clouds casting a wash of beautiful yellow Vermont light and painting patterns of light in the clouds. We both blinked in disbelief sharing the moment of good luck and amazement. This magical light would certainly enhance our photos -- if it lasted.

The barn is old, rustic and huge. It had a sloped roof and several “rooms” filled with machinery, layers of debris, shelving, artifacts of years of use and storage. The trucks parked inside were licensed for active service. A small sign stuck in the earth advertised landscaping services. A house was seen buried in the distant woods separated from the barn by a large meadow dotted by huge, round bales of hay and a Jaguar (of the car variety) parked adjacent to the bales. Minda and I set off to shoot our images, sharing our ideas and discussing what we saw—the textures in the woods, trees clinging to the walls, debris laying around and the cold infecting our fingers.

The sun was still dancing in and out of the cloud layers, playing its little game with us, lighting our images. A fence lined the driveway up to the barn, but did not block us from entering the grassy field in front of the barn. We shot more photos and conjectured about the owners and the history of this place before heading back down the driveway toward the car. How amazed we were that as we approached the car, the heavy cloud layer returned, the light turned back into the gray haze and the air held a heavy mist that tickled our noses and froze our fingers even more. We drove back to the house, ready for some hot tea, and to delve back into helping to prepare the fabulous Thanksgiving feast that Sandy had planned.

I had a magic hour to share with Minda. Time flies too quickly to pass up a few shared moments, made special by surprises along the road, sunlight as a magical happenstance and our shared love of photography.

Message in a Minute,
Ann Carol Goldberg

Existential Sofas

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 03:14:00 +0000

Here I am, once again sitting on the floor of the public library holding my “to read” wish list and surrounded by my purse and my winter jacket. My head is muddled by the several un-shelved books also thrown around me. My task is to decide which books should come home with me today. It’s a major decision after all; as if I were adopting and raising the books, not just taking them home hoping at least one will be my next favorite “read.”

People sidle by me with a jealous look as I try to compact myself into a small clump so they won’t trip over my shoeless feet. How gratifying it is to spot occasional soul mates also strewn on the floor in high anticipation, much like a child in a toy store or a chocoholic in a candy stop.

My history of sprawling on library floors goes back to elementary school and the Rochester Monroe Ave. Branch Library, still in use and still glorious in its cement facade and multi-step entryway, lead--lined glass windows, vaulted ceiling and the imposing (to short stuff like me) central counter. This peculiar behavior continued through high school and into the revered stacks of public and university libraries I have inhabited through the years.

What makes a book appealing? Why select one book and leave other candidates behind? Any analysis has been futile so I seek to understand the thought process for answers. Most often, I arrive armed with a much-edited list of “books to read,” culled from various sources. I trot to the appropriate isle in hot pursuit of the treasures on my list. Perhaps I even find that book but the rich array of its neighbors takes over. I do athletic contortions trying to read the titles on the bottom shelves or tip toeing up high to read the titles on the higher shelves.

I ponder why I look at certain books and leave others untouched? Is it the color of the public end (binding), the cover design, thickness, implied subject matter, a Gestalt moment, a gut feeling or what? I cannot answer. I remain baffled and in awe. I still do not know by what means I decide to pick a book off of the shelf for keeps. I have discussed it with others. Some admit to pursuing only particular authors, genres, subject matter, particular book lengths or paper back versus hardcover. Others join me in awe of the process.

Reflecting further on this “sport” it is no wonder that the library floor has evolved into the “existential sofas” that have sprouted up in coffee houses, small business and big box bookstores and libraries of every sort.

I join the concern that the advent of online books, MP3’s, Ipods and all of that new technology will negate the need to pick up tangible books. Nothing is more satisfying to me than the printed page. Whatever the technology, there will always be the need to pick and choose from the vast list of available books or downloads, pick up the physical book, or highlight and download your choice into your earpiece or text screen to get a high from the great realm of literature.

I’d enjoy feedback on your approach to book selection and where your favorite existential sofa may sit.

Message in a Moment
Ann Carol Goldberg

Disciples, Tailgaters and huggers?

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 15:18:00 +0000

I am a vagabond, a wanderer, inveterate traveler, and even confess to be a voyeur peering through the camera lens. I am restless, always moving, ready to go at a word, forever ancy and hard to pin down. I travel by train, plane and automobile, by motor home, boat or ship, mule or horseback when offered the opportunity. I bike, I hike and I kayak. I have yet to find the opportunity to fly by hot-air balloon, rocket ship or dive in a submarine, soar in a dirigible and long to travel through time via time machine or other fantastical device.

How fortunate I have been to see so much of this planet; to meet people from many lands and diverse walks of life, to experience their habits, characteristics, attitudes and obsessions and to hold lasting memories of those whom I have met. But, their habits seen from behind the wheel of a road vehicle are a whole other animal so to speak.

After hundreds of hours plowing along highways and byways in our motor home, I have gathered lots of data to identify regional driving habits and traits indigenous to those areas. I thought it would be fun to share and compare notes with other “roadies.”

My categories descend from the best to worst;
A. Disciplined drivers apply the “letter of the law,” passing on the left when the oncoming traffic lane is clear, when road markings indicate it is safe to pass, they signal, they follow the rules.
B. Disciples--follow for a while, impatiently following your lead until they can pull out to pass, mostly following rules of safety.
C. Tailgaters-potential terrorists, hug your backside, wavering in and out to see the oncoming traffic and passing in the nick of time, burning rubber so you know they are angry or impatient.

On visits to the Maritimes though, I have identified another category that is baffling but consistent.
D. Huggers-Huggers “hover” snugly against your rear bumper without pushing or stressing you out except to make you wonder why they don’t pass on by. They are patient, they linger. My theory is that huggers are lonely, or just gregarious, crave company and need hugs and reassurances. Often they follow for miles without even attempting to pass.

Texans exhibit their own unwritten behavior becoming a sub-category observed on the roads deep in the heart of Texas; the lead vehicle simply pulls to the right, seldom slowing down and continues to travel along the shoulder until the other vehicle passes on by. It works well and everyone is happy. Texans are friendly and would probably give you a super-sized hug as well.

Stay safe on the road and happy journeys to all.

Message in a Minute
Ann Carol Goldberg

View from the Getty

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Carol) — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 04:05:00 +0000

“Three times and you are out the saying goes.” Not being very sports-minded, I apply the saying to life in general. In this case, I am referring to the J. Paul Getty Museum in downtown Los Angeles. Paul and I have visited the Getty 3 times now, twice in the downtown location and once in the Villa on the coast. It always rains. The Getty Galleries are noted for the artwork and special collections, exhibitions, startling multi-structure architecture and for the incredible views from the locations on the mountaintops.

Generally one associates mountaintop views with glorious vistas of the “oh look” variety; something we have missed because we have only visited in mist, rain, and heavy clouds. One thing you can count on during these visits, if it is raining, is that the facility is well stocked with umbrellas for visitor use. You pick one out of a bin as you exit a building and place it in another bin as you enter the next building.

What high hopes we had for this year’s visit. The sun had been shining and it stopped raining on the third day of our visit. No luck--as we drove to the Getty parking area with our daughter in law, Miriam, the mist settled in overhead and the rain began to fall. Such is life we decided and shrugged our shoulders.

The draw to the J. Paul Getty this year was a newly expanded photo gallery featuring two shows; Public Faces/Private Spaces; Recent Acquisitions showing work by 4 midcareer American photographers, Mary Ellen Mark, Anthony Hernandez, Donald Blumberg and Bill Owen. The second show is; Where we live, Photographs of America, from the Berman Collection. Both shows incorporate images from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s.

What a treat to see some familiar photographic works of that era; Mary Ellen Mark’s Street Wise Series photographing adolescents on the streets of Seattle and Bill Owen’s Suburbia. However, I was soon distracted by the voices of young people visiting the galleries on field trips with their teachers. The ages ranged from 5th grades to high school juniors and seniors. I confess that being a teacher and having taken my students to many fine exhibits in Rochester, I couldn’t help but hold back a little to hear comments and reactions by some of the students.

They teased and cajoled each other, they needed occasional reminders by their teachers to quiet down or simmer down, but mostly they were thoughtful and engaged, open and curious. They followed the teachers’ ideas about certain photographs and asked pointed questions. One young man asked how a photographer would come up with an idea to shoot as a series. Another student asked if people in the pictures knew that their photo would be shown in a gallery like the J. Paul Getty?

One might say, the sun was shining indoors in the guise of these young people trying something new, but it still did not shine outside, as we exited the museum that day. We waited with some of the students to board the tram to the parking lot. They were active and noisy but I overheard one student say, “I’d like to bring my mom here. I know she’d like it a lot.” That adds up to success and stood out as a bright spot on an otherwise gloomy day in LA.