Ann Carol Goldberg

This is a dark blog, not my usual tone.  The current book of non-fiction on my Kindle and my obsession with world news led me to create this entry.  One of the constants in this world is conflict. Nothing new, but the latest news is always there feeding our obsession with the need to know . Hatred, war, pillage, desecration, dominance, genocide and extermination are among the plagues practiced since the beginnings of mankind. The book alluded to above has brought this together for me in a poignant way: entitled, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States, (Revisioning American History) by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz. 

The author vividly documents the history or our country from the Indigenous Peoples’ point of view, It is not glossed over, cleaned up or glorified as in the history books we have read or historical sites we have visited.  It is not to say that battles, scourges and attacks have been overlooked, but from the point of view of the Indigenous storytellers, it clarifies the horrid and constant treatment of those occupants of our land before Chris Columbus led the way to the New World. It is clear that the final solution is not a discovery of the 20th century, but ages old. 

From the first settlers in the 1500’s and sadly to the present day, the natives of our land have been tragically slaughtered and tortured beyond the realm of my understanding, remembering the many famous battles, Indigenous children’s re-education and removal from their families, the Trail of Tears, displacement from their traditional lands and more. Reading this history is eye opening. I am just half way through the book, but cringe at the treatment of this tribal people. 

I now try to accept that the world was born in Genocide, not with the love of tolerance and peace. From early man, the tragic stories continue world wide, yet again in waves of migrants, killing on our streets, killings in our schools, in the market, parks and parking lots, neighborhoods, in our homes. 

The words of Martin Luther King, JR, presented well after these events, provide the words underlying my ire centuries after the  days of our nation’s birth. The quote, as an introduction to chapter five entitled Birth Of A Nation on page 78 in Dunbar-Ortiz’ book reads; 

That these behaviors do not cease or modify is horrific and depressing. I still believe it is in the individual and their stories that hope springs eternal.  Sorry to be so serious, but my heart is aching at the suffering endured around the globe. I know I am not at all alone in these thoughts.

Next week, back to something sweet, humorous or hopeful.

Ann Carol 

 show an orange-red eyeshine, the Chuck-will’s Widow eyes show pink or orange eyeshine.The Bobcat, Domestic cat, and so many more species display bright eyeshine giving the avid birdwatcher a hint of their whereabouts in the night sky. 

 Eyeshine is an American underground rock band formed in 2004 by front man Johnny Yong Bosch
https://tpwd.texas.gov/publications/nonpwdpubs/young_naturalist/animals/eyeshine/

Animals that display the brightest eyeshine, such as the bobcat, have more rods (light receptors) and fewer cones (color receptors) in their retinas than animals with no eyeshine. As a result, they have excellent night vision, but most are color-blind.

The majority of animals displaying eyeshine also are nocturnal animals.

CHUCK-WILL’S-WIDOW Caprimulgus carolinensis A big brown nightjar of … Like other nightjars, shows pink or orange eye–shine in headlight beams at night.

A face appeared in the top segment of the bathroom window of my apartment. He balanced a protective helmet atop his head, wore overall style work clothes and a plaid shirt and held a mean paint scraper in his right hand.  It is summer and we are off the road from our 10 month adventure via motorhome. This marks the second year the painting crew will work on the facade of our vintage 1868 Cast Iron building. The guys soar from work area to work area gliding on a platform held high on a royal blue long necked ribbon of the crane. What a Herculean task they have taken on, scraping, prepping and painting the large facade of the building that started life housing a patent medicine factory appropriate to the era of its birth. As tenants, we enjoy the beautiful and sturdy wooden floors, walls of brick, some sporting graceful archways, plaster abstract shaped ceilings high above our heads and wavy, old flowing glass windows that fill most of the facade of the building.

I have adopted the habit of checking the windows for those innocent but determined faces that could appear from 7:30AM on as I may be entering the shower or other morning routines. Unannounced, they arrive to scrape and paint their way to the finish date sometime in the near future. It is a challenge to duck and avoid their unintentional gaze. 

The accidental voyeur intrusion is behind us now. We are on the road for the next few months and free from the blue long necked held platforms appearing on our windowsills.  The pigeons return as the workers depart, to poise on the window ledges cooing and wobbling back and forth communicating in language only other pigeons may understand.

We anticipate many adventures ahead of us on the road and in many campsites, where we also practise vigilance in closing window shades for privacy, keeping to the quiet hour rules and properly managing our hookups. At present, we are camped in a campground in Pennsylvania, called Shangri-La. We have stayed here many times and brought family members and guests with us. The campground is very child oriented, and on this Columbus weekend there are children and dogs everywhere managed by parents, relatives and siblings. Camping here has always been a place of transition to enter this other faze of our lives. Letting go is a process, whether it is seeing children off to kindergarten, camp, college, saying goodbye to dear friends, loosing a family member or dear friend,  We will miss family, friends, favorite cultural venues, long walks along the river, and great memories.  This year is made easier in anticipation of two of our grandsons celebrating their b’nei mitzvot in the coming months, and the adventures to come.

Life is full of change, enhanced by the ability to communicate electronically. Trying to keep on top of current vehicles to communicate is another adventure. Will we miss the hum of the blue necked crane at our windows? Probably not but we will welcome the joyous voices of children at play, hugs and kisses as we favorite people along the road, the delight of the next beautiful sunset out our rig’s windows and yet more enchanting discoveries throughout this vast and beautiful land of ours.

So many of you have been notably kind to ask me if they have missed seeing my blog “message in a minute.”  I have been remiss, it has been long time since my last post. What a point of frustration this is for me as I love to write. Life gets in the way, just doing so many wonderful things. I am still amazed that people care or even think of my blog posts, but I do enjoy reading blogs from people like you, so I get it. My current plan and approach is to post a blog every Monday (I am hoping to be disciplined enough to carry this through and cover many topics ad tell many stories.)

How to start again? I needed an idea. Humans love categories and classifications; such as the lineup of sibling birth order, 1st born, 2nd born…and the effects on our growth and development. Consider the theories about number of siblings, family background, family interaction, economics, parental occupations, personality traits and more. I decided to delve into the history the day of our birth has had in lore, fable and storytelling.  I looked up my birth date and day and confirmed that I am a Monday Child.  Ah, a starting point and title. 
My source:
URL of reference http://www.dayofbirth.net/leftlinkmain.php?day=mon#.VhGnYHpViko

Born on a MONDAY: I checked sources to see what traits are attributed to Monday births;

Recycle your Possibilities!   Driving along our favorite and irresistible highway–California’s Route 1 along the Pacific coast we passed a hiker bearing those words on a he-man backboard sign explaining in three simple words his purpose for trekking along this route. We drove past him climbing a steep uphill road. He was needless to say, walking slowly, reserving his strength and waving to passersby.

It makes you wonder about his story and choices in life, propelling him to devise a hike for all to witness. What conversations he must share when he has company trekking alongside or heads off road for a snack break, a meal, or night’s sleep in his sleeping bag and tent. What an adventure. But then again, isn’t that life? Seeking a new direction, healing, adventure, change, choice, struggle, hopefully with the support of others who care.

Our rig was perched in a campsite high above the beautiful blue Pacific Ocean. Our mail-forwarded package arrived on time (from our address in Texas.) Following our usual routine, Paul opened the large envelope and scanned through the mail that included most of usual items; magazines, bills, updates of accounts, Medical reports, agency and organizational letters and brochures (“tree-killing hard copies that we beg companies and agencies to only send via email.  (They don’t always honor those requests) and a few other items. A letter addressed by hand was included at our address. My name, Carol was quite legible, the last name was illegible and we never checked it and it was routinely slit open. The return address was an address in Denver  (no name, a place that we have visited and have acquaintances.) Paul nicely placed it on the table for my reading. 

Needless to say, I was in tears by the time I read the final words. First of all for her life story and second of all, because I felt like a voyeur, an intruder. At that point I looked harder at the front of the envelope. Our address was correct but the letter was indeed intended for another client of the mail forwarding service. Again, the first name was legible, the last name indecipherable. I placed the opened letter in another envelope with a note to the forwarding service to PLEASE PLEASE determine the correct box number and forward this letter to the intended recipient. I placed it on the dashboard to mail in the morning. 

Descent; descending; going down; it is all downhill from here. Reaching your low, down and under, all cliches that come to mind when thinking of simply going downward. But, I am thinking in simpler, physical terms. Our last week was spent camping in our rig in the mountains of southern California in Jojoba Hills, an SKP co-op park sitting 2200 feet above sea level, Our purpose, to audition” a possible location to call our western base. Besides our Rochester apartment, our Eastern base is our son’s and family’s wonderful farm nestled in a hollow in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia–altitude, 1250′ above sea level.

The location of Jojoba Hills is glorious and the membership so caring and friendly that we are now #18 on the waiting list for a lot of approximately 50′ x 70′ with views to raise your spirits and offering every amenity, class, activity, volunteer opportunity to fill a life time. Today, we tore ourselves away from the mountain refuge to spend a wonderful holiday–Pesach in Los Angeles with our other son and family. That is where the descent comes in.

I am presently looking through the windshield staring at the Pacific Ocean, vast, swift and beautiful. We are in Malibu Beach at about 12′ above sea level. The views are still breathtaking, the sea winds match the sweetness of the mountain breezes, the air is fresh if not a bit misty. The only problem is the relentless drought that has the Southwest in its tight grip (and of course, dense traffic.)

It is hard not to be grateful for the beauty of our planet and our common voices expressing disdain for the environmental problems, social behaviors, wars and conflicts that plague our world. Let us not fall into the pit and hit bottom, Working together (Utopian I know) we can return to the heights and breath the truly fresh air and see the stars in all of their glory.

Camped once again in Scottsdale, AZ, my head is turned toward nostalgia. As a family, we first journeyed to Scottsdale way back in 1972.  This was one of our legendary family trips orchestrated by my wonderful in laws. December school vacation, 1972, we had reservations for a week at the Wigwam Resort with horse back riding, chuck wagon cookouts and a good taste of life in the west in store for all of us. Paul bought his first pair of cowboy boots on this trip and perhaps, his first cowboy hat as well. Our boys were 4 and 6, my gosh, 43 years ago.

In search nearby farm markets and our continuing quest to support locals Tripadvisor pointed to a farm market in Litchfield rated 9th out of 10 markets:  location the Wigwam front lawn. Who are we to pass up a trip to the past. The market was disappointing (perhaps time of year) 


only 6 vendors, one luckily had lovely organic produce, so all was not lost. The Wigwam was very much a presence and going strong. Our curiosity was at high pitch, yes it still exists, but in 4 decades much had to have changed. I interviewed some of the locals, telling me that there was nothing surrounding the wigwam but bare land and farm land, as I recalled. 

Sprawl of course has inflicted itself
upon this area, not a surprise, but the Wigwam grounds were still vast and lovely. Many of the buildings are new or refurbished and we believe our rooms were in similar buildings as depicted in the second photo. When we arrive back in our home base, we will search for photos of that trip. I do remember splendid buffets of food, very attentive waiters and staff, the horse back rides and oh so sore thighs, cookouts on the plain and on Christmas eve the staff had “snuck” into each room leaving wrapped gifts for all patrons. The children awoke to see these gifts and tore open the wrappings as eager to have gifts, even on Christmas, not our usual celebration. Life is made of 50% memories I believe and I cherish our trip to Arizona. As an aside, we arrived home after the usual winter weather delays, late at night. We had just moved into our new house and were asleep when the workman arrived to start renovations. We all slept until late morning, not bothered by the noises and launched into the next phases of our lives. 

Motorhomers know that Elk Lodges (with membership) offer wonderful places to camp. Once again, we are perched on a site next to the Scottsdale, AZ lodge. I walked about with a storm blowing in from the west and with my camera slung on my shoulder. Self imposed photographic themes have shaped my work through the years and through one of those I was in search of shapes in nature, natural materials and happenstance composition. Some worker had recently pruned a Palm tree across from our rig. The cuttings were strewn neatly under the tree. The wind and setting sun were tough obstacles but  of course, I had to make images and clicked away.  I felt that after the storm the fronds and stems forming my subjects would be soggy and limp. Here are some of the shots to share;

After the storm, indeed the subject
matter was limp and soggy and had lost color and luster. But the Palm tree stands tall and proud with its new hair cut, a lone tree on the Elk Lodge grounds. Our neighbors come and go, as we will in a few days, but we have met a variety of folks from different states including Alaska and all with stories to share. Camp grounds of every type are rich mines for learning, meeting and making life long friends. Perhaps the tall and proud Palm tree stands as a symbol of welcome and caring, a few moments of silent thought and escape from our everyday cares.