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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ann Carol Goldberg
Message in a Minute

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Message in a Minute,
Ann Carol Goldberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Message in a Moment
Ann Carol Goldberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay safe on the road and happy journeys to all.

Message in a Minute
Ann Carol Goldberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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