Message in a Minute Collection

If you thought a Hornet was an insect to be feared with a barrel body and a big sting, think again. Picture a shiny azure-blue, jet propelled flying machine. This marvelous machine combines ”high power, light weight…maneuverability,” unmatched “climb and acceleration” and is devoted to both combat missions and the incredible choreography as demonstrated during the Blue Angels’ air shows.*

Standing on the ground while the Blue Angels perform their legendary and amazing maneuvers above diminishes the spectator to the realm of miniscule. The planes loop, dash, turn, return and spin while maintaining a distance of only 1 1/2 to 2 feet apart. Viewers must concentrate on the reality that what you are seeing are airplanes, not circus acrobats The Blue Angel pilots are trained with ultimate precision leaving no margin for error

I hadn’t given much thought to these magnificent men in their flying machines until we began trekking across country in our “driving machine” taking us to El Centro, Ca. and, most recently to Pensacola, Fl. The Big Bend campground in El Centro provided quite a surprise our first day there—the loud roar of jet planes. Paul and I ran out of our motor home to view blue streaks soaring on by. We were soon to discover that El Centro is the summer home of the Blue Angels, the Naval answer to the flying trapeze acts of the past but with intense precision and danger built in.

During our stay in this part of California, we could rub elbows with pilots, family members and friends of pilots and hear tales of their skills. Many of these encounters occurred in our favorite Mexican restaurant, located in a remote agricultural area about 30 minutes from the campground.

This year, we visited Pensacola, Florida, and the incredible Naval air museum. Pensacola is the winter home of the Blue Angels. Inside the museum, suspended high above our heads were 4 F/A-18 Hornets, the planes flown by this team of expert flyers. The story of this flying core and their support squadron is incredible. They have recently celebrated the 50th anniversary of their founding underlined by the 100th anniversary of powered flight. Their safety record is impeccable. I can’t imagine the concentration, skill and raw nerve it takes to fly “elbow to elbow” in this vast circus ring in the sky.

*Quotes taken from the Navy Flight Demonstration Squadron (Blue Angels) flyer from Pensacola, Florida

Her name is Chelcie. That is the way she spells it as displayed on her nametag. She is in the 8th grade at Whitwell Middle School.

The place is the small, rather poor town of Whitwell, Tennessee, population 1600. Whitwell is nestled between two mountain ranges just west of Chattanooga in the Sequatchie Valley.

The Paperclip Project story began one day in the year 1998 in a middle school classroom studying the holocaust. The students were appalled that people could be so cruel, that people could treat others like dirt and that so many were killed. One student exclaimed to his teacher, “I just want to see what 11,000,000 looks like, referring to the number of estimated dead,

That was the beginning of the Paperclip Project and the Children’s Holocaust Memorial in Whitwell, the extent of which could not have been imagined or believed on that day.

In writing this blog, I wish to avoid violating my premise of brevity for “a message in a minute” or to evade redundancy in the telling. I refer you to the website www.marionschools.org/holocaust for a more accurate and engaging history of this project than I can provide. I strongly URGE you to visit the web site and to view the documentary “PAPERCLIPS” now available for rent in video stores.

Whitwell, TN served as a railroad town a long time ago. No tracks even remain in the town today, except a short span of track at the Children’s Holocaust Memorial. The Paperclip Project memorializes the 11,000,000 dead and is centered in a German railroad car that was actually used for transport of Jews to concentration camps.

This car sits on that short span of track and contains upwards of 11,000,000 paperclips; more than 25,000,000 have been received to date and they are still counting. The paperclip served as the Norwegian symbol of protest against the Nazis during WW11 and was chosen as the symbol for the project after that fateful day in the Whitwell classroom in1998.

Chelcie, Logan, Robby and her other classmates in the 8th grade serve as student guides and skillfully share what they have learned about the holocaust and fully explain the scope of their Paperclip Project. The video mentioned above has played around the country and indeed around the world. People of all walks of life, all religions, and backgrounds and with varied agendas have visited in person or sent memories, photos, materials and contributions to the school. The program will be expanded next year to include the 9th grade and some students will travel as far as Poland and Capetown, South Africa to meet other young people and exchange country visits.

Because of the great international interest and significant financial support, Whitwell Middle School will have a new building and a new domed arena to contain the Children’s Holocaust Memorial railroad car and to allow display of more of the collectables and paperclips, butterflies and other symbols now in the school’s archives (currently stored in the railroad car, the library, under the gym and everywhere there is space).

Through the years, I have visited several holocaust memorials, including Yad Vashem, met many survivors, visited camps, museums, Jewish communities and various cities in Eastern Europe. However, the emotions I carried away from Whitwell are hard to match. It was hard to leave, but the 8th grade class had to continue their schedule for the day. Chelcie gave us a hug at the exit and sent us off with her big smile and a cheerful, see ya’all again soon, I hope. You will see us again Chelcie or your counterparts now in a lower grade. We will never forget what we have learned this day.

The Mexicans call the great river, Rio Bravo. North of the border, the river is called Rio Grande. The channels of a river are never permanent. They meander and wander, flood, and even disappear. This is the story of a region called the Chamizal, also the name of a bush indigenous to the Rio Grande Valley. The history of the border covers an area of 1900 miles along the Rio Grande and Colorado rivers forming a geologically unstable border between El Paso Texas and Juraez, Mexico.

In 1849, a Joint Boundary Commission was formed becoming the first effort to survey the wandering borderlines. This difficult and slow process led to the understanding that erosion from one bank and accretion to the opposite became the basis of international guidelines leading to significant agreements between the two nations leading to the Convention of 1884 that declared the boundary to be the center of the deepest channel of the river.

Anyone living along a body of water knows the rules of Mother Nature can change dramatically. Early flood control was attempted, but as usual, the river took over. The river channels flooded and receded in their own time and choked off large tracts of land that had been considered Mexican owned. The boundaries now extended to the north of the border. The dispute grew into an impasse of international proportions.

The significance of the Chamizal dispute and the fact that so captured my attention was the peaceful solution involving sharing and mutual concern that has lasted for almost half a century. When this is contrasted with today’s repeated news reports of failed agreements and treaties, Chamizal stands out as being very special. In 1962, Presidents John F. Kennedy and Adolfo Lopez Mateos acted to break the deadlock. Technology overtook international law in this case and concrete-lined channels for the Rio Grande were built to maintain the boundaries, making north and south banks permanent.

After JFK’s death, President Lyndon B. Johnson also a strong advocate of U. S. Mexican relations, signed the Chamizal Treaty of 1963 and final agreement of 1967. The mural (see the photograph and the portraits of the presidents) is one of 100 murals depicted on the walls of the Chamizal monument in El Peso, Texas and elsewhere in the cities of El Paso and Juarez.

Chamizal celebrates the joy of sharing and peace that this place has come to represent. Every spring, a large festival celebrates the Mexican American cultures and the long lasting friendship and goodwill that have become associated with Chamizal. What a lesson for the rest of the world.

The setting was deep in the mountains of the Anzo Borrego desert. Coarse sand, desert trees and wind-sculptured mountains surrounded our campground. Peering out of the dining area window, I could see a woman in a wheel chair being rolled onto a ramp and lifted into her motor home. Her spouse stands lovingly by obviously making sure she is stable and secure.

In another setting, a man “drove” his wheeled cart along the pathway in White Sands National Monument, expressing joy and wonder at the beauty surrounding him. He was hooked to an oxygen pump that sat at his side.

So often, friends ask about the people we meet on the road and park next to in the campgrounds. I often reflect on those we meet; who they are, where they come from and where they are “going”—their stories. Clearly, they are not the stereotypes people had in their minds when asking the question—lesser educated, of lesser means, sloppy and boisterous.

Mostly, we have encountered (on the average, retired) doctors, teachers, lawyers, professors, business entrepreneurs, administrators, diplomats, law enforcement officers, anti-terrorism personnel, artists, craft-makers, missionaries, truck drivers, school-bus drivers, widowers, widows, single folk traveling alone, same-sex couples, pet-lovers and avid birders, fisherman, sports fans, people of all religions, nationalities, races and creeds. OK, you get the point; RVing is for everyone and anyone. Occasionally we have encountered some who are noisy and inconsiderate but they are few and far between and usually don’t stay for very long in one place.

People are all so friendly and eager to tell their stories. We have made long-term friends and that list gets longer: folks that we communicate with regularly and schedule to meet along the way. People are full of life, anxious to teach and to learn, share stories of life and travel on the road. But they are not always in top physical health, sometimes lacking energy, or the ability to keep a full daily schedule; which leads me to a point I wish to share. There are those we have encountered with severely limited physical capability, heart disease or verging on Alzheimer’s and other afflictions of aging, but sustaining an unlimited love of life and adventure. Perhaps they are restricted to using canes, walkers, motorized carts or are confined to wheel chairs. Many in early stages of Alzheimer’s are lucky to travel with highly supportive and dedicated mates.

Their rigs are specially outfitted to meet special needs. The burden is on the spouse to do everything from driving, campground setup and take down, maintenance of exterior and interior, cooking and medical care. What is striking is the devotion and positive attitude of these folks, living to their fullest, always pushing forward, happy to be on the road and not giving up for as long as possible. It gives me pause. I am reminded time and time again, not to dwell on a cold day, a broken part, spilled milk or other inconsequential disappointment.

I just wanted all of you to know that life on the road is full of the same wonder you encounter in daily life, a cross-section of humanity, glimpses into reality and a chance to experience all sides of living. Thanks for reading and listening. I am going out the door to feed the birds, hike in the mountains and talk to our new neighbors. I know I will make more discoveries before the day is over and before we hit the road again.

The wildfires raged and advanced on Julian, CA as the country watched.

Julian is perched in southern California on the edge of the Anzo Borrego desert. We visited there in 2001 and were very taken by the town—famous for apples—apple pie, cider, and more. We decided to return to Julian someday…

…And then, the October 03 wildfires. We watched the news closely as the slopes leading up to Julian heated up—by some miracle the fires halted on the outskirts of town and main street was spared. Along Routes 76 and 79 there were many signs of charred wood and blackened land. There were campers and trailers all over the mountain- serving as temporary quarters for folks who were rebuilding their burned or damaged residences.

Julian’s history is steeped in the days of the gold rush-a survivor, not a town turned into a ghost town. Wildfires are not unheard of in this area. Most recently, there were pinewood fires in the fall of 2002 and the fires last October. Well beyond the days of the gold rush, Julian is a modern tourist destination, situated at 5500 feet about sea level. Expect piles of snow in the winter and noticeable heat in the summer. Apples are a big draw here, with delicious apple pies and cider for sale. Become regaled with tales of Julian’s place in the pioneering history of our country and in early lore of Indian tribes making their mark on the land.

Close to 800 Julian homes burned in the October wildfires. Sadly, other valuable land burned as well taking most of the Cuyamaca Nature Reserve and Park which covers 27,000 acres. Only 375 acres of that land were spared. Cuyamaca means Mountains of Rain in one native American language and because of the implied dampness of the climate the diversity of plant life is reportedly vast.

Considering the after effects of the burn, the park is still beautiful in the long view. But the lakes, picnic grounds, hiking, biking and horse riding trails, and campgrounds are now blackened and closed up tight. Recovery in the aftermath of the fires will be very slow.

We spoke to many residents about their efforts to rebuild. One woman told us of the “elders”, long time residents who refuse to rebuild for financial reasons or because they lack the will to rebuild. They have chosen to live the rest of their lives in trailers, family member homes or cabins and shacks found in the hills, victims of another episode displaying the power Mother Nature to affect our lives in what may seem like an instant.

But, the town of Julian goes on, refusing to give in to the legacy of its dynamic history.

1/07The sun was shining the day we left;
Our children and grandchildren are such a blessing. How lucky we are. After a glorious week in Charlottesville, VA visiting our son Dan and Malena and their children, Ali and Corey with our motor home (G-2) parked in the driveway as an “annex” to their house, we had to say goodbye and move on to begin our winter 2007 adventure.

The weather has been breaking records in the northeast; high temperatures, no snow, glorious days and clear nights. We left on a Tuesday with a change in the air, cold temperatures and a promise of rain or snow down the road. No matter, the sun was shining as we said goodbye. We took our leave from Charlottesville with good memories, smiles on our faces and the promise of a return in the spring.

There were now a few clouds in the sky:
Not being true fans of major highways, we climbed in our “rig” up the Blue Ridge to drive along the Parkway, one of the most beautiful byways in the country. Perhaps the barrier in the road going north was a sign of some sort, but the road heading south was open, the air clear as a bell and the vistas immediately breathtaking. It is hard not to constantly say “oh look, oh how beautiful” at every turn, distracting the driver who is supposed to have “the eyes on the road.”

How strange to be the only vehicle on the road, save one or two cars going north. We selfishly breathed in the beauty and the solitude, a very different atmosphere from the bustle of our kids’ household. The valleys sparkled in the sunshine.

The sunshine faded away:
Clouds appeared on the horizon and soon the sun played “peek-a-boo games” with us. We spotted fog and possible storms in the distant vistas and sought an exit from the Blue Ridge Parkway. The descent into the Shenandoah Valley led us along highway 60W and through the picturesque and seemingly old Virginia town of Buena Vista, nestled under the splendor of the mountains. Pride of ownership apparently resides in this town. The homes were immaculate, the lawn manicured, the businesses neat and trim.
We approached route 11S still able to avoide the big highway (81) until we were offered no other choice. Our lively conversation focused on our visit with family and then onto the months of travel, discovery and adventure ahead. How lucky we are to live as vagabonds when we choose encountering a wealth of different people, sights and sounds.

Go south for snow;
We drove awhile longer and pulled into the Natural Bridge Zoo parking lot for lunch. It was drizzling and 37degrees F. Lunch was accompanied by the braying of donkeys, chatter of gibbons and baboons and calls of macaws joined by other animal sounds filtering through the zoo fence. Once under way, the rain became suspiciously thick and a bit white. Indeed, the meadows were covered with snow as we continued south. How ironic we thought to meet snow in the south after a snow-free fall up north. Auspiciously we drove passed a road sign noting an accident at exit 42 warning of the closure of the right lane some 80 miles away. “Oh,” we thought. ”It will be cleared by the time we arrive at that distant exit.“

The snow covered the hillsides:
Ordinarily on travel days, we aim to reach a campsite between 4 and 5 Pm, before dark. This was our plan on this day as well. We had called Baileytown campground in Tennessee, and old favorite and they would expect our arrival a bit later than usual, we still had 100 miles to go. Indeed, we made good time, admiring the irony of the southern snowfall and listening to a CD of poetry by Walt Whitman. Soon, we reached mile marker 50. Traffic stopped, after a forced merge to the left as an 18 wheeler deliberately blocked the right lane.

We all waited;
We all waited, crawling every little while to gain just a few feet.
Some anxious folks exited when possible, but the adjacent roads were clogged as well. We all waited a bit longer, crawling every little while to gain just a few feet. One hour and 45 minutes passed, eased by the words of Walt Whitman, cell phone calls and our own conversation. What kind of accident could cause all of this delay?

And then it was our turn to observe the answer. Two 18 wheelers lay by the side of the road. The back of the one facing down the road was a mess. The second truck was on its side turned 180 degrees, the wrong way on the road. The cab of this truck was ripped and torn as if made of cloth and formed a black hole spilling burnt debris onto the pavement. Someone had lost his life that day, I am sure of that. It gave us all pause as we drove past the wrecks and began to resume our travel speed only to be slowed down once again as we drove into blowing snow and wind and more delay.

Luckily the storms were intermittent allowing us to catch our breath and continue slowly to our chosen campground. The campground hostess welcomed us as we arrived well after dark. The grass was bare and not covered with snow, the sky was brilliant and clear, shimmering with starlight and our rig became cozy and comfortable as we set up our camp site after so many hours driving down the road. We are vagabonds, we have wanderlust, but we do appreciate the warm and welcome feeling of “home.”

Travel safely ya’all and may your skies be clear and your roads all dry.

The fast pace of Los Angeles is behind us. What a wonderful visit we had with our son and daughter in law and two lively grandsons, but it was time to head east again. Our plan was to head into California’s Anza Borrego Desert to camp and hike. After the drive southward down the fast paced California freeways, we turned east on Route 78 toward Julian (at an altitude of 4000 feet with no snow this visit) continuing on toward S2. This adventuresome road descends rapidly, following sharp curves and steep grades down to 1000 feet and the boundaries of the desert park and on to the Aqua Caliente County Park Campground.

Here we would rediscover the magic of the moon as we walked back from the “therapy spa.” It may be hard to imagine pulling into a desert campground in the middle of the Anza Borrego Desert Park and finding a beautiful campground, friendly people, and breathtaking scenery with a bonus; a natural hot spring spa offered free to campers. The natural temperature of the mineral water is 90 F but the temperature is boosted to 104 F in the pavilion pool. We basked in the hot water for a while, comparing travel “notes” with other bathers. At the risk of suffering from hyperthermia, we forced ourselves to climb out of the pool and take what felt like a cool shower. We were still warm and glowing as we stepped out into the cool air.

And then it hit us. The full and brilliant moon cast its MoonShadows everywhere. The light was soft, beige, and otherworldly. Silence reined. Even the ever-present howling of the Coyotes had ceased, at least for the time being.

In the silence, Paul and I stopped, entranced. We are camped in a vast bowl-like valley ringed by mountains silhouetted in a jagged array. The stars were brilliant with no city lights to wash out the sky. The moonlight bathed the sands in a strange, soft beige light. The MoonShadows were inky and translucent. The effect was alien and surreal. Our flashlights were in our pockets. There was no need to light the road; the moon lit our way, but not until we could break through the “trance” set upon us by the eerie light of the moon. Both of us took a deep breath and place one foot in front of the other, silently returning to our Motor home. Only then did we break our silence expressing the wonder of the moon, the shadows and the place.

How lucky we are to have the time to enjoy these wide-open spaces, taking time to linger and ingest our surroundings and to be constantly entertained by the wonders before our eyes.

How long is a thunderclap supposed to last? As kids, we used to count the seconds from a lightening strike to the clap of thunder and supposedly that told us the distance of the storm. I don’t remember any significance to how long the thunderclap could last. I wonder if there was thunder during Katrina. If so, I doubt that those caught in her fury bothered to wonder about the duration of the thunder. They were desperately trying to survive the storm.

Paul and I are sitting in the Dogwood Campground outside of Natchitoches, LA, (pronounced NAK-I-TISH and is the home of the story-“STEEL MAGNOLIAS”). The campground is quite rustic and sitting well up on a hill. The drive up the driveway was challenging having to follow a twisting road with buckling pavement. The reward was a warm welcome and the last available pull through campsite in the campground. (luckily, we had called ahead). We now sit reading; Paul-a Stuart Wood mystery (a breather after having finished Operation Solomon about the rescue of thousands of Ethiopian Jews) and myself, Genghis Khan by Jack Weatherford (thanks Malena and Dan for the book.)

It is the evening of MLK day and there are torrents of rain falling on our roof. Rain on an RV roof is noteworthy; it is noisy and rhythmic and cannot be ignored. Also not to be ignored are the lightening flashes and those long claps of thunder, among the longest lasting thunder booms in my memory.

Driving from Vicksburg, MI, it wasn’t until mile 30 on the Natchez Trace parkway, still in Mississippi that we saw the first traces of Katrina and the damage suffered in the area. There were large areas of broken trees, piles of debris, logs crossing the road (the area on the road having been cleared for traffic), mounds of leaves and twigs and small branches lying snarled along the roadside. This “messiness” is highly uncharacteristic of the Natchez Trace, ordinarily a well-kept and restful byway. There was obviously enough money to pay for clearing the byway, but not enough money to pay for a complete cleanup of the roadside. That will undoubtedly take years.


Further along, into Louisiana, we saw construction that was “stopped in it tracks” so to speak. The funds were most likely diverted to pay for the more important projects resulting from Katrina’s visit late last summer. Paul and I had fully intended to volunteer a week or two in the areas devastated by Katrina, but we have not been able to complete those plans or gain the assurance that we can securely park our rig. We still hope to connect with the New Orleans Jewish Community, but getting online has been illusive this week.

Books on Tape are a favorite pastime as we roll down the highways and byways and we are currently indulging in The Edge of the World, by Simon Winchester, (also author of Krakotoa). He zeroes in on the terrible earthquake of 1906 in San Francisco and discusses the year of 1906 as having been infamous for other disasters—tsunamis, earthquakes and hurricanes in Sumatra, South America, and elsewhere. He then alludes to the horrors of 2004-5 (tsunamis, earthquakes and hurricanes) and the fact that many single years throughout recorded history seem to include large numbers of disasters. Let us hope that this string of disasters is past.

The rain is still pounding on our roof, the lightening and thunder have ceased at least for now but the world outside our door promises to be very soggy and wet. We may be happy that our campground is on high ground and will escape any storm damage. The morning will be very interesting indeed.

In late December, Paul and I were shuffling our way through the Elizabeth Collection, a wonderfully eclectic warehouse full of stuff and art in Rochester. In the bottom level near the space reserved for kids birthday parties and other celebrations, I heard a lovely female voice in my left ear asking; you’re Mrs. G, aren’t you? Yes, I was and still am Mrs. G, the title used by my students for all of those years teaching photography and life skills and all of the other roles we play as teachers that are not taught in graduate school. The voice belonged to a pretty red head that I recognized as Jamie, a former student and a good one at that.

How moved and happy I was to catch up with her and to have a report of her best friend, Lynne. They are both still using their photo skills, if indirectly, and becoming successful young women. Paul and I moved on to the gallery down the street featuring Ramon Santiago’s work, a Rochester artists whose career we had followed for many years.

I heard a lovely female voice in my left ear asking; you’re Mrs. G, aren’t you? Yes, standing in a space filled with wonderful paintings and prints created by Ramon Santiago, I am still Mrs. G and happier and happier for my title. There stood a pretty strawberry blond that I soon recognized as Cheryl, after some help, a former student as well. She informed me that she is still doing photography and her best friend Jessica, also a former student is still around. I had much to think about as I reminisced for the rest of the day about those students and my time in the classroom. I have experienced many encounters in the past with students and always felt elated that they would remember me and still be eager to discuss their experiences in my classroom.

Just yesterday, in Austin, Texas, Paul and I stood in an eclectic flea market, more of a bazaar with multiple vendors, I heard a lovely female voice in my left ear asking; you’re Mrs. G, aren’t you? Paul, our dear friend Leigh and her husband Patrick, the reasons for our visit to Austin stood on my right. There stood a pretty auburn-haired young woman that I soon recognized as Marti. I remembered that she loved photography but had always dreamed of working in a veterinary setting.

She told me that she is indeed working in a vet’s office and her best friend Sarah is in Austin, also in veterinary work, but has just given birth to a baby girl, so is taking time off. They are both making photos as well and will email some examples to me.

Do you enjoy quiet, peaceful camping, or memorable day trips, friendly people, helpful park rangers, birding, fishing; life on the slow track? If so, escape to Falcon State Park in the bottom of Texas for a week or two. The park is tucked in between Roma and Zapata along the Rio Grande on the border with small Mexican towns that are just a walk or bike ride away.

Perhaps the peaceful life stems from the remote location of the park. There is no great gorge, or particularly high mountain to climb, no water parks or large beaches to attract noisy crowds. There isn’t much to do except bird watch, fish, hike, converse with your neighbor, join a bird walk, drive to Rio Grande city to pick tomatoes, sign up for the Friday night dinner or participate in or listen to “Pick and Grin” jam session Tuesday and Thursday nights.

On one Tuesday morning bird walk we identified 35 bird species and were shown the location of the bird blinds, the 2-mile nature walk, the boat ramp and directed to the nearby wildlife refuge in Salineno. My husband and I visited the wildlife refuge at 8:30 AM one morning. We entered what may seem to be a fantasy in a storybook. Through a gap in the fence, we could see several homemade WELCOME signs. We followed the signs, took the turn in the road and entered a bird sanctuary developed by the DeWinds beginning 22 years ago.

They drive down from Wisconsin, park their motor home and place numerous bird platforms laden with seed, oranges and peanut butter, set up a dozen chairs and welcome anyone who comes by their reserve. They are knowledgeable and love their “job.” They are memorable for their knowledge and their big smiles.

There are other places to visit near the Falcon State Park, but it is easy to get into the mood to just sit and watch the birds, hear the coyotes, breathe the fresh clean air right from your folding canvas seat and wait for the glorious sunsets.

Thanks to writer John R. Catsis for the article on “Living Ghost Towns,” Hillsboro and Kingston, New Mexico in the February 2007 issue of MotorHome Magazine. The timing was perfect having read the article while camped in Fort Stockton, Texas within easy reach of Mr. Catsis’s directives. On Jan 21st, we drove North on Interstate 25 to the town of Caballo and then turned west onto route 152 into Hillsboro.

Parking our 36’ motor home/tow across from Sue’s antiques (closed for the season) was not a problem. No one was on the move. The streets were quiet and carried a thin layer of snow. Walking up the block we stopped in Ben and Doreen Lewis’ Barber Shop Café and General Store for a chat and advice before continuing on route 25. Next, we crossed the street to the Percha Creek Traders Artists Co-Op. The artists represented live within a 60 mile range, producing creative and innovative crafts in wood, wire, fabric, clay and mixed media bordering on the unusual and must see categories.

On Ben’s advice and Mr. Catsis’s recommendation, we continued along route 152 (indeed a beautiful and worthwhile journey) toward Kingston with Ben’s promise that we could indeed turn our rig around at the courthouse and fit under the 2 bridges marked “clearance 12”6”, just a few inches above our requirements. We wished to continue west to Emory Pass at an elevation of 8828 feet and then down the 10 MPH switchbacks (reminiscent of other mountain road adventures) to route 81 and the beautiful campground at the City of Rocks.

What I have “failed” to report thus far is the increase in the amount of snow, not falling, but sitting heavy on the grass and trees. The road was closed at the entrance to Kingston preventing our sighting of the courthouse or even Kingston. Our choice was to unhitch the toad, pull a K turn and return the way we had come. Not a terrible prospect, to experience once more the beautiful mountain scenery shrouded with fresh snow.

Further rewards awaited us with cattle, bulls and buffalo crossing the road, llamas in the pastures and a deer racing us along the side of the road for 1/4 mile pegged at 40 miles an hour. Our GPS system directed us to follow route 27 to route 26. Our Trailer Life Guide directed us to stop at the Starlight Village RV Park and Motel.

The following morning delayed by a blizzard, the campground became our “mecca.” All southwestern New Mexico roads are closed, snow is falling, winds are howling and we are content having spent a day in living history.

Remnants of an old brick road peaked through the layers of leaves, loam and debris. However, any signs of the old chipped bricks disappeared altogether on the other side of the gate that we had been seeing in the distance. Four shiny padlocks hung on the rusty gate, promising entry for four different keys. Paul and I squeezed past the gatepost to continue our hike up a dirt road adjacent to our son’s farm in Covesville, Virginia. Covesville lies 30 miles south of Charlottesville and is nestled in the vicinity of the historic Blue Ridge.

The day blissfully turned into a beauty---imagine January 9, 2006, partly sunny, a bit breezy reaching a high of 63F. The two dogs (Amber and Bella) were impatient with us, indulging in endless round trips trying to urge us on. We trekked toward the hunters lodge above giving reason for the road’s existence and the four padlocks. No one was “home” and the door opened easily with a twist of the doorknob. The building was sturdily built with living room, kitchen, bathroom, fireplace and a loft sporting a ladder to gain access. The walls were wooden slats with definitive lines of blue sky showing through. The roof looked solid and hole-free. As one could imagine on seeing the litter and dirt, cobwebs and animal droppings, the sometime inhabitants did not care much about hygiene or cleanliness.


We were anxious to continue our hike and exploration and the dogs were noisily addressing the fact that we were not paying attention to them. Two trails – not exactly well groomed, beaconed to us. We chose the trail along a ridgeline. Our four-legged escorts ran ahead, up and down the cliffs along the side the trail and jumping into the running brook.

To my great delight, I was hiking PAIN FREE after my very successful hip replacement in September 05. I couldn’t help, however, being super-cautious, my doctor’s words ringing in my ears. Enough said, I don’t ask for problems, so cautious and sensible I will remain.


The rustic trail traversed the brook several times, but what is a little mud and muck covering the hiking boots on such a gorgeous day. There were numerous rewards; “ribbed” ferns as healthy and happy as if it was mid summer, bright green mosses hiding in patches like the bricks beyond the gate and dark brown vines enveloping the tree trunks resembling crawling ropes seemingly with a purpose and destination reaching high into the tree-tops.

The trail disintegrated into high and slippery slopes. I declared enough, I don’t want to jeopardize my titanium hip. With the dogs well ahead of us, we returned to the hunter’s lodge and then around the gate to the far side of the house to investigate a possible new site to plant our motor home on future visits to Covesville.

The hike was stellar for me, getting “back on my feet” pain free. The good weather was a bonus beyond our expectations. The serenity on the mountain will linger in our minds for weeks.

DESTINATION; Nashville, Tennessee and in need of service on our home on wheels. The repair (furnace) is scheduled for mid afternoon, so we planned to stay overnight.

DESTINATION; Nashville, Tennessee. Dilemma; time on our hands. We choose to take in the famous Grand Ole Opry and feed our new appetite for blues and blue grass music. The Opry tickets include bus transport to and from the Opry house and the campground, but we have to be ready early, at 6:15 after an early dinner. The show lasts for 2 1/2 hours or more.

The search for a restaurant proved that this part of Nashville has a high “tourist quotient”—no great expectations here. We settled for a chain called Santa Fe, a steak house, with a promise of vegetarian choices for me. It is a peanut-in-the-shell world as well, with large buckets of peanuts for everyone in the lobby and again at the table after being seated.

We had “team” of two waiting on us. A young man, Ed--the trainer, and a young woman, Amy--the trainee. They were exuberant and personable and after much deliberation, they took our order. I know it is a beer place, but I can’t handle beer, so, a fool, I ordered Merlot. It arrived steaming hot and in a warm glass. After my complaint, the second glass arrived, in the same condition.

Amy took the 2nd steamy glass to the bar tender to discuss the mistake. She stopped by to explain that the wine bottle would be put in the refrigerator for a bit to chill and later lamented the fact that the broken air conditioning may be part of the problem. (Paul and I couldn’t miss the bloody fat lip and large facial bruise on Amy’s face.) It also felt too late in the saga to cancel the wine order, so I waited.

Our duo-team was very attentive, stopping by often to chat. Slowly, each of their stories unfolded. Amy and her 8 year old daughter recently arrived in Nashville to live. Post divorce, her daughter had to be near her daddy. Amy could not find a job using her financial background and is waiting tables to help ends meet.

Outwardly, she seems optimistic and happy. A good front I presume. Inwardly, I imagine must be a different story. We never got the story confirming the alleged abuse, I can’t let go of the feeling that she is a long time victim.

Ed is holding two jobs. When asked about his second job, he described his life as an air marshal, traveling as a security officer on commercial airlines. It seems that someone so vital to the security of our airways should be paid enough so that he doesn’t have to rely on a waiter job to make ends meet.

The stories presented by the two 30-somethings are stories that we have heard repeated in kind over and over in our Chat’s with folks as we travel down the road. Mostly we heard tales of dashed dreams, hardship and hard work, courage and hope.

OUTCOME; The wine came back very cold…the food was poor to medium, but the warmth and courage extended by our servers made up for everything. The themes we heard later set to music at the Grand Ole Opry reiterated the hopes and dreams of Americans like Ed and Amy extending through time, reaching back into the past and extending into the future. Our trail leads us to everywhere.

Paul and I saw this list of ISMS hanging as part of an exhibit in Austin, Texas in the Branson Gallery, on the UT campus at Austin. We were quite amused at the list and very much taken with the gallery which stands as a true asset on the University of Texas campus. The gallery is named for a former history professor, soon to become Chancellor of the University. With chutzpah and forethought he sought to acquire an extensive collection of art from the modernists explaining that so many other institutions established collections of old and ancient work that this university would serve well to concentrate on more recent work.

How refreshing it was to view an exhibit detailing the creation of modernism (including visual art, literary art, film, and poetry) instead of the old favorites, which we all still love and revere and can view elsewhere—works of Ancient Greece, medieval Italy, or the Victorian era and so on. Experiencing an extensive and annotated display drawing on the origins of modernism made our day.

NO ONE at the gallery could provide any information about the origins of the list in this photograph. I put Paul (he is taller and could get a better point of view) up to shooting a photo from the hip for me-against gallery rules, I imagine.

I questioned the docent on duty about the list, a young third year English student with a love of art. She agreed that it was indeed a strange and unfamiliar list of isms, but could offer no further information. In case you have trouble reading the attached photograph, it reads as follows;

Text from photo (Where blank, no dates were available)
Symbolism 1880-1890’s
Primitivism 1908-1912
Cubism 1907-12
Futurism 1909-1929
Expressionism 1910-1918
Der Blaue Reiter 1911-1914
Creationism 1914-1925
Nowism 1916-1918
Numism
Simultaneism
Presentism
Dada 1917-1021
Vorticism 1914-1915
Imagism 1914-1918
Constructivism 1913-1929
Suprematism 1914-1923
Bauhaus 1919-1933
Elementalism
Surrealism 1924 1945

Does anyone have any further feedback about the above list? We thought it was quite “enlightening.”

The name Kate Chopin rang a bell. My first thoughts were writer and/or feminist, but I could not get far beyond that from memory. Then, I encountered the Kate Chopin house in Cloutierville. Louisiana and met a bit of history face to face.

Kate Chopin was a feminist and a writer, encouraged by her husband to be independent and unconventional in the evocative Victorian era. Can you picture her female neighbors whispering and gasping into their lace shawls as Kate drank beer, smoked small cigars, rode horses and wore skirts hemmed above her ankles* or how about the males in the neighborhood wishing they were the recipient of her supposed flirtations? Kate raised her 6 children under the age of 12 as a young widow after her husband, Oscar died of Swamp Fever in 1882. Perhaps she did not have time for such flirtations.

Kate was born in St. Louis, Mo. into the maternally dominant O’Flaherty family and in 1870 married a French Creole named Oscar Chopin. They moved to New Orleans and thrived on the business of selling cotton, until disaster struck 9 years later. The business failed and the family moved to Cloutierville, a town named for the architect of their newly inherited home.

This structure, as shown in the accompanying photograph is now open to the public with very informal tours. I had to ring a large cowbell to get the attention of the volunteer on duty. The signs in the photograph say, ”Open for Tours” and on the wrought iron gate, “closed admission charged.” The blue sign beyond the brick post simply reads Kate Chopin House.

Kate Chopin is most renowned for her story, The Awakening. Recognition and acknowledgement of her work was minimal during her lifetime. Literary recognition of her work and for her ability to portray women of courage in the face of “conventional restraints.” has greatly escalated since her sudden death in 1904. I certainly plan to seek out and read her stories very soon.

*Anecdote: Kate must have been both practical and frugal; she was known to wear her wedding dress while doing chores in the house so the one-time garment would not go to waste.

LIVE OAK, the graceful tree remains one of enduring symbols of the south, robust, captivating and long lasting. Much thought and devotion, unaccountable dollars, innumerable hours of toil and an abundance of love are put into preserving these precious trees.

Numerous specimens of live oak are invariably seen covered with hanging masses of Spanish moss and have provided welcome and cooling shade to generations of children at play, slaves at work, slave owners at leisure and young couples in love. The example in the photo is approximately 250 years old and stands strong and proud along the Cane River on the Melrose Plantation south of Natchitoches, (pronounced NACK-I-TISH) Louisiana.

While driving throughout the Deep South, Paul and I spotted many glorious specimens of live oak on farms, ranches, historical sites and elsewhere. One can’t help but marvel at the formidable shapes and patterns, lacey silhouettes and dark contrast compared to the wide-open blue sky and adjacent fields of crops. So often the live oak with its characteristic hanging moss has been copied as logo or symbol on consumer products, used as a romantic backdrop in films and photographs and let stand as an icon of the south.

Live Oak is part of the Beech family and is deciduous. They may live for 200 years or more surviving war, drought, neglect and abuse. The graceful live oak truly remains a highly recognizable and poignant symbol of the American south. What a story they could tell. Enjoy.

That’s her, sitting proudly, with a bit of sag and lean, across the harbor from our campground. The Queen Mary, grand ship of the mid 20th century, sporting 3 stacks and riding high in her berth. Paul and I were privileged to ride the queen over the Atlantic Ocean in August of 1964—a fabulous ending to a fabulous European honeymoon-the very fabric of dreams.

The ship was declassified in 1967 and moved to Long Beach, CA as a moneymaker and publicity stunt. It is now a hotel and restaurant, and is open to tours and available for conferences. Our son and daughter in law and two grandsons now live in Long Beach, so time did not permit our taking a tour, but we’d love to look once again at the great interior filled with mahogany woodwork, mirrored lobbies, art deco appointments and broad decks once again to check how accurate our memories are 40 years later.

I remember riding the train from Paris to the docks of Cherbourg to board the great ship. We actually had a bonus day in Paris, thinking we were to leave one day earlier. When we realized our mistake, we took off for more sightseeing in Gay Paree and sat once more around the Round Pond watching children sail their boats and feed the pigeons.

I remember walking up and down the staircase (that encircled the elevator shaft) in rolling seas. Sometimes the stairs were level as the ship pitched in the high waves. The Atlantic is not a forgiving sea and the week was stormy.

I remember our daily walks on the main deck, fighting hard against the tremendous winds and the elderly Englishman, walking with his cane and cap, gasping at the power of the wind as he tried to navigate around the bow of the ship.

I remember taking meals, very British in nature in the vast dining room often shared with a couple that were also on their honeymoon and having been married on the same day in June. Just as I had done, the woman just graduated with a BS degree in Speech and Hearing Therapy and minored in drama. They were going to live in Manhattan as well, but we have unfortunately lost touch.

I remember having to dress up, long dresess and gloves, shirts and tie for dinners aboard ship and a formal dinner “with the captain.” We had a suitcase filled with clothing specially meant for aboard ship sent to ourselves in Paris. What an adventure going to the custom house to find and claim the item and take it back to the hotel.

I remember listening to live jazz in the dining room after dinner as the ship tossed and turned. Our chairs slid, drinks on the table slid and spilled, and the band finally gave up and left the stage.

I remember sitting in the bar and posing for the ship’s photographer. We picked up our black and white photo the next day tacked to a large board with all of the portraits he had sold the night before. The photo sits in our scrapbook, a bit yellowed, but in tact.

I remember feeling very green for much of the trip and constantly going above deck to try to combat the nausea. Paul was just fine however, and sought out the pool deck to take a swim. He tells about finding the lifeguard as green as his new wife, clinging to the side of the pool area. Paul never gives up--he found a shower to chase and a steward to fix him a sandwich. It remains today that I turn green in rough seas and his stomach is made of steel.

I remember arriving in New York City and passing under the Statue of Liberty on a sunny and lovely day, disembarking and being met at the dock by my brother Arthur and sister in law Natalie.

Yes, there she is sitting alongside the wharf, sharing the limelight with a submarine and other Long Beach attractions. We have been told that her interior is a bit shabby and that perhaps we should think twice about a nostalgic tour. Perhaps we should just take out our old slides and scrapbook fillers and be satisfied with that. We did hear a rumor that the Queen will undergo a face lift in the near future. Perhaps that is the perfect time to walk on her decks once more and be so thankful for the riches of the last 40 years. Live and be well.

Follow Interstate Highway 35 North of Austin, Texas, and discover a bevy of small towns worthy of a stop to absorb the history of Central Texas, to explore the restaurants, historic Inns and Bed and Breakfasts and the unique variety of shops. One town in particular, Salado, Texas, (IH35 exits 283-5) stands out as a gem and offered a special surprise to this visitor one sunny but cool Sunday in late January.

Salado was long known as an agricultural town of “mills and gins, “ but at the turn of the 20th century this town was in dire need of an economic boost to secure its future. In 1910, the destiny of this Central Texas town hinged around an effort to lay train track through the town making Salado the “Middlebuster” town providing a connection to the towns of Seymour, Quanah and Dublin lying in the remote corners of this vast state.

In the throes of a power struggle among town leaders and railroad officials, the plan was aborted in favor of neighboring Belton further to the north. If Salado’s town leaders of the time had gotten their way, the town would have been a vastly different place today; busy, sprawling and noisy instead of the attractive and appealing town that it has become and worthy of a spot on your itinerary. In the early 1900’s, the loss of that prospect of becoming a railroad town loomed large. In the early years of the 2000’s, this loss is our gain. Treat yourself to a relaxing visit to Salado, stay in a 100 year old Inn, shop in historic buildings and sit by the Salado creek for a few minutes of people watching and meditation.

The buildings once belonged to Salado’s prominent citizens such as E. S. C. Robertson who helped found Salado College in the 1850’s and served as Chief Justice of the State Supreme Court, Rev. Levi Tenney, Presbyterian Minister and first president of Salado College, Capt. Robert Bonner Halley, civil war commander. Salado also housed the first Farmer’s Grange in the country. Longevity and careful preservation have prevailed in Salado. The homes built by these prominent citizens now serve as award winning inns and restaurants attracting visitors to the town.

True loving care and hard work have preserved the beauty of this town. Scour the antique shops, fine art galleries, gifts and crafts houses, trendy clothing, shoe and specialty shops. Meet artisan Jim Benton, his daughter Brandy in their gallery, a staple at 401 South Main Street for 35 years. His paintings and jewelry are featured along with sculptures in metal and wood and a collection of butterfly specimens from around the world.

Visit the 100 year old award winning Rose Mansion and the Levi Tenney House, or stay in their guest rooms, enter Judith Miller’s fine art gallery, shop in the old-time 1860 shop, Horsefeathers antiques or browse Susan Marie’s for the latest fashions.


The Salado Creek long divided the town. It was united with the building of a unique suspension bridge in 1868 to be replaced several more times before today’s unique and graceful bridge was built. Search for the delightful sculptures by local artist Troy Kelley, including the Three Billy Goats Gruff and especially the Puma in a tree. Central Texas offers many adventures and discoveries. Each town has a story and develops indigenous characteristics. Salado has held its own place in the area. About that surprise I promised to share, it is the town in which I spotted a BOBCAT along the creek. It was there and then gone in a flash. It eluded my camera. I can only see it in my mind’s eye and savor my visit to Salado, Texas.

How do you keep a secret when dealing with upwards of 80,000 people? Why do you keep a secret when dealing with upwards of 80,000 people? Answer; When desperation is an issue. When faced with the very basic question of survival.

Given; the United States was attacked on December 7th, 1941 by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. Our country was forced into World War 11 and suffered tragedy and terror. By 1945, after the destruction of Hitler, the United States threatened the Japanese government with another sort of destruction of monumental proportions if they did not surrender--atomic power unleashed in a bomb.

How could the presidents FDR and later, Harry S. Truman back these threats? This is the reason for the creation in 1942 of secret city of Oak Ridge and the focus of our visit to the American Museum of Science and Energy (AMSE) on the outskirts of Knoxville, TN.

The occupants of the secret city nestled in this remote area of Tennessee and cradled in the shadows of the Appalachian Mountains included the most brilliant scientists of the day, (Albert Einstein) and the top military strategist, General Leslie Groves. Numerous units of housing and several high-tech research facilities were built in record time. It was said that the houses and hutants (prefabs) were built at the rate of one house every 30 minutes. The city became a gated compound with tough security to keep people in or to keep people out, depending on who you were.

The expected size of the city was to be 30,000. It swelled to 80,000 in the end. FDR believed that the Germans were close to developing a nuclear bomb to be used to destroy our country. He vowed to be the first in developing such a weapon and aimed to use the weapon well ahead of the enemy.

Secrecy became the internal weapon in Oak Ridge City to guarantee success. Workers were trained to carry out their jobs only, to be uninformed of other aspects of the work being done and to cease from discussion among themselves and others about life or their work in the secret city.
In August of 1945, the role of Oak Ridge and the Manhattan Project bore fruit. The first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and the rest is history.

The American Museum Science and Energy recounts the stories of life and work in the planned city of Oak Ridge. It has been fully documented on film due to the work of Ed Wescott, a young photographer, who was hired in 1942 to capture the events taking place in Oak Ridge. His images depict the stories of the scientists, the work in the research labs, the machinery, the equipment, the social life and the development of the society of the now infamous Oak Ridge--a town, whose purpose rapidly declined upon the surrender of the Japanese government in 1945.

In spite of this decline, the population did not shrink greatly in Oak Ridge after the war. The term fallout took on a new meaning after the advent of nuclear warfare. The study of the effects of nuclear radiation upon the inhabitants of Oak Ridge became intense, opening up the gates of the secret city and revealing these secrets to the world.

To learn more about the history of Oak Ridge City, visit http://www.oakridgevisitor.com/home.html
To see more of the photographs of Ed Wescott’s work visit http://sunsite.utk.edu/westcott/

Our children and grandchildren are such a blessing. How lucky we are.
After a glorious week in Charlottesville, VA visiting our son Dan and
Malena and their children, Ali and Corey with our motor home (G-2)
parked in the driveway as an "annex" to their house, we had to say
goodbye and move on to begin our winter 2007 adventure.

The weather has been breaking records in the northeast; high
temperatures, no snow, glorious days and clear nights. We left on a
Tuesday with a change in the air, cold temperatures and a promise of
rain or snow down the road. No matter, the sun was shining as we said
goodbye. We took our leave from Charlottesville with good memories,
smiles on our faces and the promise of a return in the spring.

There were now a few clouds in the sky:
Not being true fans of major highways, we climbed in our "rig" up the
Blue Ridge to drive along the Parkway, one of the most beautiful byways
in the country. Perhaps the barrier in the road going north was a sign
of some sort, but the road heading south was open, the air clear as a
bell and the vistas immediately breathtaking. It is hard not to
constantly say "oh look, oh how beautiful" at every turn, distracting
the driver who is supposed to have "the eyes on the road."

How strange to be the only vehicle on the road, save one or two cars
going north. We selfishly breathed in the beauty and the solitude, a
very different atmosphere from the bustle of our kids' household. The
valleys sparkled in the sunshine.

The sunshine faded away:
Clouds appeared on the horizon and soon the sun played "peek-a-boo
games" with us. We spotted fog and possible storms in the distant
vistas and sought an exit from the Blue Ridge Parkway. The descent
into the Shenandoah Valley led us along highway 60W and through the
picturesque and seemingly old Virginia town of Buena Vista, nestled
under the splendor of the mountains. Pride of ownership apparently
resides in this town. The homes were immaculate, the lawn manicured,
the businesses neat and trim.
We approached route 11S still able to avoide the big highway (81) until
we were offered no other choice. Our lively conversation focused on
our visit with family and then onto the months of travel, discovery and
adventure ahead. How lucky we are to live as vagabonds when we choose
encountering a wealth of different people, sights and sounds.

Go south for snow;
We drove awhile longer and pulled into the Natural Bridge Zoo parking
lot for lunch. It was drizzling and 37degrees F. Lunch was
accompanied by the braying of donkeys, chatter of gibbons and baboons
and calls of macaws joined by other animal sounds filtering through the
zoo fence. Once under way, the rain became suspiciously thick and a
bit white. Indeed, the meadows were covered with snow as we continued
south. How ironic we thought to meet snow in the south after a
snow-free fall up north. Auspiciously we drove passed a road sign
noting an accident at exit 42 warning of the closure of the right lane
some 80 miles away. "Oh," we thought. "It will be cleared by the time
we arrive at that distant exit."

The snow covered the hillsides:
Ordinarily on travel days, we aim to reach a campsite between 4 and 5
Pm, before dark. This was our plan on this day as well. We had called
Baileytown campground in Tennessee, and old favorite and they would
expect our arrival a bit later than usual, we still had 100 miles to
go. Indeed, we made good time, admiring the irony of the southern
snowfall and listening to a CD of poetry by Walt Whitman. Soon, we
reached mile marker 50. Traffic stopped, after a forced merge to the
left as an 18 wheeler deliberately blocked the right lane.

We all waited;
We all waited, crawling every little while to gain just a few feet.
Some anxious folks exited when possible, but the adjacent roads were
clogged as well. We all waited a bit longer, crawling every little
while to gain just a few feet. One hour and 45 minutes passed, eased
by the words of Walt Whitman, cell phone calls and our own
conversation. What kind of accident could cause all of this delay?

And then it was our turn to observe the answer. Two 18 wheelers lay by
the side of the road. The back of the one facing down the road was a
mess. The second truck was on its side turned 180 degrees, the wrong
way on the road. The cab of this truck was ripped and torn as if made
of cloth and formed a black hole spilling burnt debris onto the
pavement. Someone had lost his life that day, I am sure of that. It
gave us all pause as we drove past the wrecks and began to resume our
travel speed only to be slowed down once again as we drove into blowing
snow and wind and more delay.

Luckily the storms were intermittent allowing us to catch our breath
and continue slowly to our chosen campground. The campground hostess
welcomed us as we arrived well after dark. The grass was bare and not
covered with snow, the sky was brilliant and clear, shimmering with
starlight and our rig became cozy and comfortable as we set up our camp
site after so many hours driving down the road. We are vagabonds, we
have wanderlust, but we do appreciate the warm and welcome feeling of
"home."

Travel safely ya'all and may your skies be clear and your roads all dry.

In an earlier Message in a Minute, I related the encounter with our
first blizzard of the season in southern Virginia deeming it to be such
a quirk of fate. However, the quirky weather continues as we drove
through heavy rains in Louisiana, ice storms in Texas and caught up
with the news covering the damaging storms in California (wiping out
the citrus crops) in Kentucky, Missouri, Oklahoma and then overseas in
the UK—bringing the advent of global warming to mind.

The aftermath of Katrina was foremost in our minds as we were drawn to
the southern most reaches of Louisiana and New Orleans, still in the
throes of recovery. The tourist areas are functioning almost as if
nothing interrupted the flow. The residential communities are in a
variety of stages of recovery, repair and re-invention. The contrasts
were astonishing.

The French Quarter appears as good as new; at least it did on Jan.
15th, Martin Luther King Day, a very rainy night. The crowds were
thin, but all of the venues were open for business and looked fresh and
unscathed to the untrained eye. Our favorite restaurant, Oliviers was
busy. Perhaps we couldn't see the "Band-Aids" that still held the
Quarter together.

Beignets are again available daily in the market, open even on a very
rainy and cool evening and the SEAMY SIDE (in my mind) of New Orleans;
Bourbon Street has not changed. Business there was simply interrupted.
It still thrives on selling alcoholic drinks that could plow you under
with just their smell, garish clothing, miles of beads, strange
gadgets, cheap souvenirs and lurid attractions that, I feel, are aimed
at the young, impressionable and unwary. But commerce is commerce and
this is brings big money to the city.

We did not get to see much of the low-lying districts wiped out by the
flooding of the broken delta, but we did see the suburbs to the east
and west of town where blue roofs (repair tarps) predominated the view,
huge shopping plazas, schools, libraries and residential complexes were
closed and boarded up, deserted or fragmented as if they had been toy
villages picked up by little fingers and flung in all directions.

We left New Orleans and drove west along the bayous remembering our
stay three years ago in Morgan City and the like. There we observed a
continuum of trees and brush torn apart as well as homesteads, farms
and whole towns devastated by the storm. Trailers and mobile homes
were everywhere, in New Orleans and the towns and in the countryside,
nestled next to destroyed homes or in clusters with crude, handwritten
signs noting this as an RV park. Signs of warning were posted—"keep
away" or "keep out, private property," or the posting of the number of
an insurance policy covering this land.

Holly Beach lies further to the west along the Gulf shore. During our
stay there 3 years ago it was very wet, almost under water at that
time. The tiny town was extremely rustic with a small general store
and a "drive up" bar. Yes, you can drive up, order a drink and drive
down the road consuming your purchase.

As expected, arrived at Holly Beach to see nothing. Nothing but 5-6
trailers parked where the town had been. Perhaps someone will think it
worthy enough to rebuild this town, trying once again to beat the power
of Mother Nature. Our observation of the storm damage and devastation
continued well into eastern Texas slowly replaced by our encounter with
unexpected ice storms, snow and high winds. "What a year for weather,"
everyone we spoke to repeated.

During these travels, I gathered an "unintentional survey" about global
warming as people offered their opinion on the subject after commenting
to each other about the strange weather at hand. Alarmingly, a
majority of the people disavowed a belief in global warming. They
spoke of long-term weather cycles, reminisced about memories from their
childhood of vast winter storms, high snow drifts and other phenomenon.

This isn't global warming they declared, this is history repeating
itself over and over. "Our country has done so much to prevent
pollution, recycling, emission control of cars, and so on." The blame,
many said, lies with younger generations who are rude in their behavior
and crass and careless about our planet and they blame other countries
for doing nothing and show a great disregard for the earth. Phew, I
was taken aback by some of these folks but time did not allow delving
into deep conversations about responsibility of our powerful country or
denial of facts. I guess these attitudes are just another
"inconvenient truth." We have lots of work to do indeed.

Pecans; how do you pronounce the name of this delectable nut? Apparently south easterners say P(a)cans and deep southerners say P(ee)cans. Northerners, we are on our own!!! Pecans are a big business in the south. Signs reading WE BUY PECANS are frequent and common.

The signs themselves can vary from very formal commercial designs on specially printed signboards to rough, hand written or hand scratched versions tacked onto walls, tree trunks, light poles, barn walls, fences, fence posts or any other convenient space that would hold the message. The balance between the number of signs saying we buy Pecans and we sell pecans was unclear.

Splendid groves of tall and graceful pecan trees are abundant and bountiful along the farm roads, highways and byways. Traveling in January and February, we were too late to see the trees in production season. The branches were bare. Pecan trees are tall with slender trunks and lacey, long branches reaching straight to the sky. The growing season ends in mid to late fall.

Our friends in Austin blessed us with a grocery bag full of pecans from their grandmother’s tree. When questioned about giving away too many nuts, they produced a very large shopping bag full of pecans. Of course, we ran right out to buy a nutcracker for the RV kitchen.

Here are some facts about pecans that I learned from Leigh and Patrick and through research on the Internet.

“Native Americans enjoyed the flavor and taste of the pecans. The name is Indian for paccan or a nut with a shell so hard it must be cracked with a stone.”

Types of pecans include THE PAWNEES, CHOCKAWS , CHEYENNES, AND KIOWAS but there are about 500 varieties. The best-known uses for pecans include pecan pie, pecan rolls and pecan pralines—sweet tooth addicts love ‘em.

Nutritional studies have revealed that pecans can lower blood cholesterol levels and contain antioxidant properties. They consist of over 19 vitamins and minerals and contain the types of fat that are heart-healthy—monounsaturated and polyunsaturated. But before you consume a fist full of pecans, remember they contain the least amount of protein and the most fat along with macadamia nuts. Does anyone have a favorite Pecan Pie recipe??

Natchitoches, LA – If you aren’t sure how to pronounce the name, don’t feel that you are alone. (Try Nack-i-tish). The name is Indian and several meanings have been suggested including its use as a girl’s name, Paw Paw or Indian for friendship and more. The town is about 60 miles south east of Shreveport, LA and a delightful find, thanks to an article is Country Discovery Magazine. French Traders who took advantage of the town’s access to the Cane River settled the town in 1714.

This photo of what was called Yucca House was the first residence of the Metoyer family, former slaves and then slave owners (yes, it seems redundant but it was common practice). The house is typical of the architecture of the mid to late 1700’s. Preceding the building of the house, Yucca plants covered the landscape and had to be pulled out of the soil using a great deal of sweat and toil to clear the way for building. It was said at the time, “they (Yucca’s) grow so thick, that the sun never reaches the ground underneath. In addition, the land is infested with insects, the air is hot and humid, and cypress grows all around.”

The houses as shown in the photograph were built with local materials, walls, floor and ceiling beams of ”hand-hewn” cypress beams, walls covered with Bousillage, river-mud mixed with deer hair and the plentiful Spanish moss. Windows were placed precisely across from each other to force good ventilation and cooling. The blue stain on the doors and shutters is Indigo dye grown on the plantations for the purpose of decoration for buildings and clothing.

Typical plantation crops included indigo, tobacco, corn and food crops and later, the cotton that is so indigenous to our image of the South. If you are in this area, a visit to Natchitoches is a must and should include a stop at Melrose and the other Plantations.

In addition, we learned about Clementine Hunter, a cook (of color) at Melrose in the 1940’s. She became a renowned, self-taught primitive artist, capturing life in this fascinating place. Her point of view is sassy, refreshing and playful. Her work is represented on the walls of this site and has received attention among art scholars in the last few decades. You can find out more about her work and her life on the Internet.