Ann Carol Goldberg

Sorry, oh, sorry, I’m sorry,… Have you ever noticed how often we use the word sorry sub-consciously, as a reflex, more often spoken into the air or under our breath than directed at a specific person? This word is one of the most overused in the English language. It is involuntary, along with the phrases how are you or have a good day.


The word slips out when we shuffle our way into the middle of the row in a movie theatre or concert venue when it’s the aisle sitter who chose to block our way in the first place. Americans are so sorry when we almost run down each other’s shopping carts at a blind spot at the end of a grocery isle or reach for the same pear or orange on the produce counter or encounter a hiker along a narrow spot on the trail. The host or hostess in a restaurant or a cashier who took 30 seconds to wait on you says he or she is sorry.  We utter sorry when we vie for the same seat on the subway or send a belated email response or, on and on. Fill in your own triggers for uttering  the catch-all word sorry.


Being American born, saying sorry is part of my nature. One of the first words I learn when visiting a foreign country is their word for sorry. (Spanish, lo siento or perdon, Hebrew, Slicha, French, désolé, Turkish, ozür dilerim…)  There is even a board game called SORRY that has been around  since 1934. Although, I don’t believe in the course of the game that the players share their sorrow for knocking each other back home or off the board.


I have read that Americans apologize to strangers constantly as we cruise through the day but that saying thank you or apologizing to loved ones is hard in coming. The flower and sweets industries says that they thrive partly on the backs of folks that send flowers or chocolate because that comes more easily than actually saying thank you or I am sorry in person. 


Europeans on the other hand, are not known to apologize if they bump you in a grocery line or enter the rapid transit or subway car before you are allowed to exit. They are purposeful in their actions not giving thought to manners but continuing on their way. Americans say “sorry” when we have nothing to be sorry about. It is under our skin, an ingrown trait. Does it stem from our Puritanical heritage, from what our mothers taught us or just that we are too darn polite? 


Ann Carol Goldberg

He said it:  BIll Keller writing an Op Ed in the New York Times, reiterated my long thought out and heartfelt dream that Hillary Clinton fill the VP slot for Barak Obama’s re-election replacing VP Biden.  We need you now Hillary. Your pizzazz, your popularity, your wisdom, your influence, your femininity and your experience, your warmth and your guidance.
There is no better time than now for a Barak Obama/Hillary Clinton slate, She is regarded world wide  as a diplomat, an intellect, savvy and  world wise. She has proven her prowess in all of these directions.  President Obama needs 4 more years to rise above the Republican morass that has set obstacles blocking every step toward building new directions in  health care reform, economic recovery, environmental issues,  and repairing the path to bipartisanship and high hopes for a better life in our country and abroad.
A Obama/Clinton slate would put the world on notice, on alert; the needed punch to raise the level of hope and awareness above the noise from the opponent’s side of the pre-political convention- circus.  I won’t belabor or reiterate Bill Heller’s fine words and knowledgeable insight. I will dwell on the reality that this ticket will bring to the election campaign. It will be electric instead of dull, vibrant instead of flat. Imagine 4 years of excitement and growth with Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton in charge or our nation, gaining attention and applause from the rest of the world.
Fantasy? perhaps.  Reality? yes, it could so easily be realized.  To win in November, the Democratic slate needs an eye-catcher, new life, pizzazz and hope. Please, President Obama, give us the shot in the arm this country needs to shine. Put Hillary in the navigator seat. Give VP Biden a Diplomatic role. Give Michelle a hug and kiss and an appreciation for all that she has fostered and allow two fabulous woman in your political life. Give our country hope to overcome the infighting and doldrums on the other side of this coming election.  Give us all a victory in November.

ALASKA!!! We have departed Alaska for the final time, spending a day in the remote town of  Hyder, AK viewing the bears feeding in Fish Creek. We will miss Alaska, as well as the memorable Yukon Territory, as we continue our way south via beautiful BC and Alberta and into the north central states (Montana, Wyoming, Iowa  and Nebraska,) eastward toward Rochester and home. This amazing trip has been BEYOND EXPECTATIONS.

My blog has been silent for so long.  I have been overwhelmed with emotion and ideas as we traveled the long, bumpy and sometimes terrifying roads of Alaska, seeing many wonders of the world on a daily basis. It has been impossible for me to write without rambling. I will set words down as my concentration settles in once more for anyone who cares to share my thoughts.

As I have declared again and again about the north western reaches of this continent;  the breathtaking scenery, spectacular wildlife, engaging history, startling geography and all that we have learned while doing this dream-trip are unsurpassed only by the Alaskans we have met. It is too much to absorb, too much to crunch into a few paragraphs. the stories will unfold over time.

My best to all, Ann Carol

fireweed on Chilkoot River

bear feeding on salmon

Hi folks.

I have not been writing my blog-message in a minute because, I have been too busy taking it all in; on our journey to Alaska. We have quipped about its being a five year plan in the making, finally putting tire tread to the road in this, our 6th summer.  We are indeed headed for Alaska.  As I write, we are camped in the Toad River Lodge and RV park in the Northern Canadian Rocky

Mountains of British Columbia, following route 97–north of Fort Nelson and south of Muncho Lake. Tomorrow or the day after, we will be in the Yukon.

I never in my life thought I would be in the Yukon; Alaska was more reachable in my mind, and we did enjoy a van tour through Alaska in the late 90’s. The sum of what this trip brings to us is best expressed in describing to you the light in the sky as it changes from minute to minute, mile by mile. This morning we had sun and blue sky with temperatures in the high 60’s. At mid day it was partly sunny as we left Fort Nelson and then pouring rain and in the low 50’s in the mountains.

Sitting, now in the campsite at 8:30 PM it is cool (mid 50’s) with thunder rumbling in the distance. We can see the thunder head hovering over the mountains. The storm has stayed on the other side, we did not feel a drop of rain.  However, the sun is playing changing games with the clouds. The mountain range is awash in pale mist one moment and dark with gray clouds the next. Glorious. It will be light until 10:30 and we are headed towards the land of the “midnight” sun.

The sum of this trip is also expressed in the people we meet; the campground owners, the oil and gas industry workers, the residents of Alaska returning home to Anchorage, Fairbanks, Wasilla and parts more remote after a winter away from the cold and snow, the man named Marl Brown who started the museum in Fort Nelson in 1970, creating a unique and fetching history of the building of the ALASKA HIGHWAY (route 97).  Here he is looking at his old Studebaker, part of a vast collection of cars and other antique items and artifacts, reminders of the Alaska Highway story.

It is hard to believe that the original road was built in 18 months (of harsh winters and a brutal summer) between 1942-3 after the threat of Pearl Harbor and the need to transport military personal and gear to the north.  More to be said at other times of this remarkable journey.

As we continue up the road, we are prepared with a larder filled with food and supplies, a full gas tank ($$$), mosquito netting and spray, guide books, 2 GPS systems, cameras, batteries, maps, guide books, anticipation, expectations, awe and wonder at the adventures awaiting us. We wish you all a glorious spring and summer and want to keep in touch via email and phone when service allows.

Ann Carol

A photo of children posing in the back of a “Stockade” style sign in the campground at Toad River on the Alaska Highway and the view from the front of the sign.

Watching gray whales dance northward, dancing to the Latin Beat; happenings that marked the beginning and the end of a day in the life of motor home nomads like us. Don’t ask please what is around the next turn, we just don’t know, we can’t pretend to predict what is next on the horizon.

Camping in Caspar Beach, just north of Mendocino, CA, the tour book advertised the three weekends scheduled for the annual whale watch festival and celebration of daffodil days. (yes, the daffodils are in full glorious bloom) Little River’s festival coincided with our stay so off we drove to meet the ranger and docents from the Van Damme State Park and head toward the coastal headwaters to encounter the whale migration northward.

Due to the still impending tsunami alerts, we were not allowed down on the beach but walked above on the headlands with binoculars, scarves, hats and gloves in the low 50F temperatures and great hopes in our hearts to actually see some migration activity; there is no guarantee after all.  These great whales keep their own schedules, males migrating first while the mom’s and babes stay south until April, when the little ones gain enough layers of blubber to survive the long dance northward and cold temperatures to boot.

Lucky we were! Told to eyeball until we saw spouts of water rise like wisps of smoke, then train our binoculars on that spot for a chance glimpse of body or maybe tail of the whale. Our group saw numerous wisps and bodies moving rapidly northward, a good distance away, making photography impossible but planting the vision in our minds forever.

The experts educated us on the flora, fauna and scat details of the wildlife on the headlands such as this small, yellow plant and the mushroom in the photos.

The day continued to amaze us as we toured the galleries and met the people of this ragged coastal area around Mendocino. One jewelry artist alerted us to another treat. Her husband plays flute and sax in a Latin (octet) band called iMAMBO This. Better yet, the venue is about a mile from our campsite.  We showed up at 8:30 with varied expectations.  We left at 11:30, expectations surpassed, having danced almost every Mambo, Salsa, cha cha, and variations thereof, moving to the beat, not caring if our moves were “right” or not and learning from the friendly crowd that kept the Inn hopping into the Daylight Saving Time night.

Indeed it was a day of bookend delights, new friends, adventure and eagerly dancin’ to the beat at hand.

Photos, dancin’ to the iMAMBO This and the video at Caspar Inn

There are signs labeling Tsunami warning area on the road along PCH 1-the fantastic highway following the California coast. As we approached our campground at Caspar Beach, we took the signs in our stride, never imagining the onset of reality. At 4:00AM on March 11th we were awakened by a neighbor knocking on our door. His radio alert system screamed of the horror in Japan and the Tsunami threatening the whole western coast including our little spot in the Caspar Beach RV Campground. We sleepily accepted the impending danger hurrying to pack up the rig to drive to higher ground.

Three fire trucks, lights flashing and populated by many volunteers from the local fire department drove in to make sure the campground was safely evacuated. Wishing our neighboring campers well, and heartily thanking the sleepy-eyed volunteers, we all ascended up the road to a safe spot on hwy 1, passing the tsunami warning area sign with a totally new understanding of its message.

It could be 10-12 hours before the warnings would end. Where should we go to safely await the all clear? As usual, no situation is clear and straight forward. We have a roaring rig, a “hot rod” house on wheels. Our exhaust system has sprung a hole or leak and we spent our last 125 miles climbing up and down highway 1. A refuge closer to the campground would be our best bet. The lights of a USA gas station, a welcome Mecca beckoned on the right side of the road. Paul pulled in, we topped off the gas tank and received permission to perch in the parking lot. We did and it was a wise decision.

We were safe, “Right on level-important in an RV, and intermittently tuned in to news and emergency stations on Paul’s Droid. Our situation was of course, greatly diminished by the terror in Japan. A sense of humor wins all situations and we kept ours in tact. Being antsy and unable to sit still, I managed to keep busy on board, also taking time to finish my current book (Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson-written in 1884 about the very region we have been exploring) and watched our host gas station in amazement—a seemingly profitable gold mine. The traffic in and out was constant, consumers filling their needs for fuel of all kinds, gasoline, beer, candy bars, bags of chips; filling the needs and wants of the moment at large.

There was no traffic jam or rush of traffic on the road, most folks around live above sea level and were not in danger. Most folks were oblivious to the events that sent us scurrying out of our cozy hole on the coast to high ground and safety from the wave surges that we later learned lapped at the edges of the campground, rendering the road closed until about 4:30 PM.

I indulged in a walk along the road photographing the “accidental” scenery I never would have encountered had life been otherwise simple and according to plan. Of course, life is not so organized. We returned safely to our campsite, roaring our way back down the coastal road to set up and continue our lives. I share couple of these shots with you and offer my prayers and help for those victims of the latest tragedy on the Japanese coast.

Is this Harry Potter Country??

Mushroom buyer!

Cabins for rent, Anyone interested?

Thanks for reading my “accidental” blogs,

Ann Carol Goldberg

Tea is my beverage of choice.

I clearly remember entering the teashop. The walls are lined with shelves bearing square silver canisters tagged to name the tea encased inside.  I clearly remember the sales clerk quizzing me about my tea favorites and feeding those back to her. That is when it happened. She reached into the first canister with a silver scoop, moving the scoop toward my nose for a whiff.

When I naturally reached for the scoop she gestured that I was out of bounds; she solely would hang on to the scoop.  I remember a sense of feeling unattached,of  floating light-headed, as she presented scoopful after scoopful of choice tea, testing my olfactory skills, patient with me and anticipating making a sale.

One sniff then on to the next choice, return to sniff again. I listen to the description of each tea, then move on to picking favorites, making decisions.  The process lasted for many minutes. Perhaps the constant deep breathing as I sampled the teas enhanced the oxygen levels in my system. I felt strangely outside of myself, experiencing a dance through time. I was deeply engaged in weighing choices, conveying my responses and realizing that at least a dozen canisters sat before me, culled from the larger number offered to me as possibilities. 

The word ritual had quickly flashed  through my mind as I stepped over the threshold into the store, planting images of Japanese beauties in daunting kimonos performing an elaborate tea ceremony, stories of Indian, Chinese  and African teas as cargo on sailing ships slipping through the pages of historical novels,  my Russian grandmother’s hot tea in a glass with cherry preserves coating the bottom, boiling tea water over a campfire, brewing tea with great care in my own kitchen. 

Shaking out of my reverie, I made several selections and departed the shop to continue exploring the “historical downtown district” of the town “of the moment.”  How pleasurable it is to visit historical districts and hear the histories related to us by long-time shop owners.  This is the real history of any community and the opportunity to sense what is au currant, to taste the present on the shoulders of the past.

So, for the tea lover, these are good times.  A cycle of  tea shops have opened in the last few years providing access to choice loose tea leaves from around the world.  Within these shop walls, the tea leaves are not crammed into commercially packaged tins, or  expensive bags crammed onto a shelf and vying for our patronage.  In these shops, the tea leaves are most commonly stored in sizeable metal or glass canisters labeled simply to identify the tea inside. 

The shop owners understand their products through their own love of tea, study the sources and offer “down home” service to please their customers. The tea ceremony grows less formal, less strict, but pouring boiling hot water over loose tea leaves, ingesting the aroma, feeling the heat and waiting the appropriate amount of time to brew still assures a perfect cup of tea.

Ann Carol Goldberg

It happened the other day, I tuned into a local Texas country and western music station on my way to the Laundromat (a part of the RV life style) and bounced down the road to Elvis singing about  “lonely street” in the song Heartbreak Hotel.

Remember his crooning “I found a new place to dwell, its down at the end of lonely street, at heartbreak hotel.”  Perhaps it’s the December time of year.  Within the last week or so I have had several long conversations with strangers; widows and widowers, divorcee’s, a woman, lonely, though living with her husband in a campground filled with people. Lonely men, lonely woman, we encounter people’s stories so often in campgrounds and count our blessings.  People open up, tell more than they may have wanted. It just pours out of them.  They are friendly but the nuances of their loneliness are hard to miss, their eyes often cast with a longing stare.

One widower stands out in my memory.  He had traveled with his wife and supported her as her Alzheimer’s condition progressed for several years.  How hard it was when she passed, but he found solace in continuing what they had done for years.  He showed us a sort of shrine that he has kept in her memory in the kitchen of the RV.

One man told us of his divorce with uncertainty in his expression, as if he did not quite yet believe it. He wanted to travel, she was tired of life in a trailer, so they each went in their own directions. He got the truck and trailer, but she “is costing me lots and lots of money,” he complained.  He volunteers (work camps) in campgrounds and lost no time in expressing his pride that day in having scrubbed and cleaned the bathrooms.  No need to feel sorry for him, his other duties get him out and about the campground, doing repairs, ground work and other chores he enjoys.  “Best of all”, he says, “I get to meet and greet people like you, from all walks of life who give me some reprieve from the loneliness.”

A woman decried her loneliness to me, seemingly opening up her inner soul to a stranger, even though she and her husband are together work-camping in Texas all winter long.  Her husband goes off daily doing his work and she stays home trying to keep busy, not choosing to work-camp and wishing they’d resume their travels.  “Forget staying put year after year in the same place,” she complained, “I still want to see the country.”

It is possible to be lonely, even among other people.  We reach out to folks when we can. “Come in for a drink, join us for a walk, sit with us and share stories. “ We count our blessings, of course, that we have our health, great energy and a quest for adventure.  None of us knows how long we have or what status we may face down the road.  But facing Elvis’s lonely street gives pause for introspection. 

How true it is that there is strength to be gained through other people by reaching out for human contact.  Perhaps that is the power behind the urge to open up to strangers;  receiving human kindness may be the pathway to turn down the next road away from lonely street. 

Ann Carol Goldberg

What place did you like most on your travels?–the most common question we hear referring to our motor home cross country treks.  Answers are hard to come by.  Picking one place  is impossible but we now have one more to add to the list; The Liberty Opry in Liberty, Texas, a top notch country music house tucked into a corner of Texas.  Visit www.libertyopry.com if you’d like to see pictures or the performance schedule.  For you map lovers, Liberty is located north and slightly east of Houston and 45 minutes south of Livingston, (another corner of Texas where Paul and I frequently hang out in an Escapee membership campground.)

The ad for Liberty Opry appeared in the campground brochure.  As great fans of country, western and folk music, we called. They generally perform every Saturday night at 7:00 but for New Year’s Eve (2010-1) they featured a Friday night 4 hour long show . We reserved two tickets (would you believe at only $11.00 per person) and drove the 45 minutes to Liberty.  The theatre is located on the town square and was built in 1938 as a movie house. It was converted many years later into a performance hall with classic stage and theatre seating. Next to the theatre is a large hall serving as a cafe, sales counter for CD’s and such and collection center for local food banks. (I wish we had known to bring canned food to donate).

We had good seats, in row G and settled in to be entertained. Our row mate was a lovely woman, native to Liberty.  She told us about the history of the Opry and we knew we were in for a real treat!!

The people of Liberty and in our experience, all of Texas are friendly and helpful to strangers.  As we drove through Liberty, there seemed to be more retail shops , businesses and malls per 8500 residents than one would expect. They must love to shop and even have a Walmart.  I believe that every one of those business advertises in the playbill and lends their support to the theatre.

THE SHOW features a “resident” country swing-style band of talented and professional musicians who love what they do and are glad to have a venue in which to perform. The bill featured 3 performers for the New Year’s Eve show+ plus the master of ceremony and his comedy side kick “Booger Lee,”  The performers were Donna B, the Ebony Cowgirl and wonderful singer, Jabbo Cannon Liberty native and cousin of our row mate, raised in the Gospel tradition and Heath Spencer Philip, the “energizing bunny” Elvis/60’s style rocker and over-the-top performer. There were two intermissions where we could mingle with the performers, people watch and talk to other attendees.

The hardest part of listening to the show was staying in my seat.  I habitually bounce and react to upbeat rhythm be it classical, rock and roll, country or folk; I can’t sit still. How many times I came close to grabbing Paul and dancing in the aisle. I could have–should have I am sure but, not knowing the “protocol” for this theatre, did not want to be first. (no one else did either).  Shucks, I have regrets, I love to dance.

We heard the likes of Ring of Fire, One of These Days, All I Have to Do is Dream, 15 Tons, Nadine, Unchained Melody, Jailhouse Rock, Stagger Lee (you get the era) and finished at midnight with the audience standing to AULD LANG SYNE.  The 4 hours melted away. The locals stayed for the after show buffet, racing into line even after they were asked to let the musicians eat first.

Paul and I chose to head on home, setting the GPS for the campground and singing and reliving the show.  We were even greeted by a fireworks display on the way.  Liberty Opry is another addition to that list of what constitutes “Americana”.

Ann Carol Goldberg

The summer passed the colorful leaves on the ground.  My husband Paul and I missed the opportunity for our usual summer RV trek for many reasons that seemed big at the time.  With happy endings to those stories, we once more chose the nomadic life and are on the road again in our rubber wheel-based home.

People ask where we are going this year.  Not intending to be glib the answer is where ever the winds, temptations, people we know, events that lure us in or “whispers in our ears” take us.  What a privilege this free choice.  It is to be cherished.  Nomads are defined in the dictionary as drifters, gadabouts, gypsies, knockabouts, meanderers, vagabonds and wanderers.  We fit all categories.

Letting go of our city life for life on the road is always challenging and the other way around as well.  We certainly anticipate both segments of our life as they come, but love the phase we are in at the present.  Oops, bear with me; An ear worm that just burrowed into in my head from Finian’s Rainbow:

When I’m not near the girl (town, back road, hike) I love,
I love the girl (town, back road, hike) I’m near.

Two thoughts occur to me:  first, that the idea of being “On the Road” has a long history with many colorful characters, and second, that “choice” is the key.  Going without choice connotes dire circumstances and another long history of  people labeled as  refugees, deportees, exiled, homeless=desperate and another whole subject for dissertation.

Grateful to have choice, I ponder those who have gone before me filling bookshelves, photo and film collections , archives and wish lists with the allure of travel less planned.  The legacy of stories  telling of past great explorers, pioneers, gold diggers, traveling salesman, hobos, and more lived nomadic lives enriching world history with the wonders of their adventures:

Typed on an 120-foot roll of teletype paper he called a scroll,  Jack Kerouac re-wrote and revised his earlier versions of  On The Road; an “autobiographic novel based on his 1947 road trip” published in 1957 by Viking Press.  He covered many miles, befriended many celebs and discovered countless treasures.

 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Road)

John Steinbeck wrote Travels with Charley in 1960, “a travelogue of his road trip with his poodle Charley.  “Steinbeck bemoans his lost youth and roots, while dispensing both criticism and praise for America. According to Steinbeck’s son Thom, Steinbeck went on the trip because he knew he was dying and wanted to see the country one last time.”  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Steinbeck

Inspired by Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, Charles Kuralt persuaded CBS to let him try his idea to go on the road for 3 months.  The result, he broadcast for many years, wore out 6 motor homes, took back roads and received many awards for his popular program. appearing as a segment on The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite.

So, I too lead a glorious nomadic life, inspired by the past, free to follow a whim, seeking adventure, safe, healthy and free. Unlike the refugee, I am unshackled by politics, strife or deprivation.  Off my husband and I go once again, our wheels under us, our eyes on the road, anticipating the next stop somewhere else.

Ann Carol Goldberg