Ann Carol Goldberg

Along with the first Model T Ford, roadside distractions have caused havoc along the way. There were the simple days, litter on the road, potholes, billboards, Burma Shave ads, tuning the radio, scolding noisy kids in the back seat. Then fast food came into being and drivers began to reach for McD’s hot beverage or chomp on the triple cheeseburger, others would comb their golden locks, apply makeup, or get a close shave with a razor. 


Teens cruisin in their dad’s Olds flirted with attractive girls in hot pants. They would marry and have kids who would fight over the DVDs to watch in the backseat, mall sprawl went ballistic. Next, then on to cell phones, Ipads or Ipods, billboards gone video and perhaps the deadliest, TEXTING.  From my seat of the motor home, I have become a habitual voyeur, observing the trends as the nation drives down the road. Next?


The highways have gotten a bit bumpier with a new distraction, an epidemic of young (mostly male) “sign wavers.” These characters are exuberant, full of energy, often dressed in costume as Statues of Liberty, bulls, bear, cowboys, clowns. They hoist big arrow-shaped signs trying to draw the driver to their employer’s business. They beg you to sell your gold, buy Liberty Tax Services, fast food, a car, boat, vacation, an endless list of gimmicks. Does this ploy work? Does it sell product or lure in the driver from their original destinations? I just had to investigate and learned the following from Jerome Osteryoung’s Posting:on Jan 27, 2012;

The idea was hatched by Liberty Tax Services, their sign wavers wearing flowing glowing green robes, Statue of Liberty halos and waving signs to lure customers to their corner and away from H & R Block’s block. Two former sign wavers, working in 2002 started their own company–AAROW ADVERTISING. They have upwards of 500 employees and offer a franchising operation, not only on our home turf, but internationally. They deem eye contact and a big smile as essential to success.


From my observation out of the RV windshield, excessive enthusiasm, endless energy to dance, hop, skip, jump, wave heavy signs and smile ear to ear is imperative. Also, the willingness to perform in sweltering heat and cold driving rain helps too.

Jackson Mississippi sits in the southern end of one of our favorite byways; The Natchez Trace. We have traveled the Trace from north to south and south to north first with car and tents and then via our motorhome for years.  We keep coming back so we can savor the two lane strip of highway not to exceed 50 MPH speed limit.  One breathes in the sense of history and discovery following this road, calling up images of the “Kaintucks” or the “boatmen from the Ohio river Valley.” They floated their furs and other wares down the Mississippi River by raft to sell and then trekked on foot about 500 miles from Natchez to Nashville forming the Natchez Trace. The 30 day trip must have been packed with adventure.

Jackson too  is a city deeply immersed in history, founded in 1821 situated on a bluff along the Pearl River. Noting that this location had “beautiful and healthful surroundings, good water, abundant timber, navigable waters, and proximity to the Natchez Trace,” the General Assembly authorized this location as the permanent seat of government for the state, naming the city Jackson in honor of Andrew Jackson, soon to be the 7Th president of the United States. http://www.jacksonms.gov/visitors/history


The role of the city throughout the years since its founding is long, involved and brilliant and today, players in that history are celebrated including Medgar Evers, Eudora Welty and so many more. 


Arriving in Jackson on a Friday, we searched the web for info on the local Jewish community and Shabbat services.  We found Beth Israel Congregation and were surprised at its deep roots and long history. Founded in 1860, it was the first synagogue in Mississippi, serving 15 families. The first rabbi was hired in 1870.  He moved the congregation to embrace the Reform movement and offered his sermons in English. Notably, On September 18, 1967, the then new temple building was bombed by the Ku Klux Klan, followed two months later by the bombing of Rabbi Nussbaum’s home. Damage was done, but no one was hurt. These acts of terrorism “helped to galvanize Jackson’s white community to action” in the Civil Rights Movement. 

Knowing that Shabbat morning services begin at 9:00 AM and Torah Study at 10:30, we walked into the synagogue after being greeted by Gavin as he arrived on his motor cycle. He directed us to the front door. The welcome was golden as we were greeted by member after member introducing themselves, asking where we were from and extending pure southern hospitality to us. We felt at home, stayed for the moving service and participated in the stimulating conversation about the Torah portion of the week. 


Rabbi Valerie Cohen gave us a tour of the synagogue and the honor of Aliyah, blessing Torah. We enjoyed speaking with Rosemary, orienting us with prayer books and seats, with Carol from Chicago, now in Jackson for a year helping her grandfather through the loss of his wife of many years (Carol’s grandmother) and with his up-coming surgery. Gavin is also facing multiple surgeries and rode his motorcycle for what may be the last time on his road to recovery. We wish everyone well and once again, celebrate having acquired new friends. How we have benefited from fine hospitality and continue to thrive as we continue on down the road. 


Ann Carol Goldberg

We are a hugging nation. Publicly, hugs are encountered everywhere, airports, shopping malls, encounters on a neighborhood street, playground, park, at the country club, at the movie theatre and more. Hugs are frequent in private, at home, at family parties and celebrations, an endless list. Americans hug strangers as we make fast friends, find common threads of interest or share a humorous moment. 


It is no myth that we are a welcome-mat nation, long known for opening our arms to generations of immigrants; a Melting Pot, weaving our fabric of ethnic diversity. In light of recent revelations, when it comes to welcoming visitors to our shores, the status of our welcome-mat becomes quite another matter. 


According to a New York Times article, March 15th and sited below) those seeking a visit to our nation must answer off the wall questions or confess, if they dare, to outrageous secrets. Before traveling to just visit the USA, a foreigners  must pay $14 to complete an online United States government form called ESTA, short for Electronic System for Travel Authorization.

ESTA has space for your personal data, (name, date of birth, the usual.)  It also asks whether you are guilty of “moral turpitude,” whether you’re planning crimes or “immoral activities” and whether you suffer from “lymphogranuloma venereum” (don’t ask).  How would you answer these questions? Mostly just leave them blank out of astonishment if no other reason. The request to fill out such a form to visit our country is unique in the realm of travel. Most democracies do not require a visa let alone require such a nasty form and charging a fee ($14). 


As a child, I remember hugs as being special, performed for good or specific reasons. They were proper for family,. for close friends or a special someone you haven’t seen for ages. I do celebrate and enjoy our growing friendliness and the hug-epidemic of today. Hugs are so welcome and comforting when sincere and warm.  Americans are seen hugging all over the place, expected in some locations. 


Why then does this ESTA form get thrown in the face of would be tourists or alleged trying encounters with gruff immigration personnel?  We the citizens did not make these rules, we wish to maintain our aura as the friendly Americans  that we truly are, hugging and welcoming, open and eager to meet folks from other lands. 


Is this another wall put in the way of foreigners coming to our shores?  I was astonished by the article that I have quoted above an offer the URL if you would like to read more.  I worry that all foreign visitors will be required to speak English before they disembark from the plane or ship that brought them here. 
 http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/16/opinion/the-unwelcome-mat.html?_r=1&ref=opinion


Ann Carol Goldberg

CLICHE WARNING; Good things come, yes, in small packages. When traveling on the road, we find these small packages, sightsee-ers joy, best kept secrets, you’ve got the idea. The latest find is a small “artisan” goat farm in the heart of Moreauville, Louisiana,  In the campground office (of a very large Casino/hotel/spa/ complex, I picked up a flyer directing us to the farm. And what was better, it happened to be their farm  market day.

From the sound of the information card, we expected a large, commercial operation. After all they promised 2 hour tours of the farm and facilities with advanced reservations, except on Thursday, Market Day. We drove from Marksville southerly a few miles to the farm. Crossing a bridge over the Bayou we immediately faced the farm, a rustic, un-manicured entrance, the driveway a mix of dirt, rocks and gravel, some spanish moss overhead and an unpolished-style charm of the old south. No fancy, over the top commercial facility here but a warm southern welcome with coffee, fresh pecans, generous samples of the Goat Feta, and the Brie that Marguerite Constantine (The Mar in WesMar) is developing. We were invited to sit under the rustic shelter to join their friends and some customers having coffee and treats. One gentleman was holding a 2 day old goat. As cute as could be, of course.

We resisted the delicious truffles but purchased two containers of the garlic and herb Chevre — kept frozen until ready to use, a container of Goat Feta and a quart of the Goat Milk. It is all delicious and we were restricted solely by the space in our RV’s refrigerator. We chatted some more and grabbed some more PR fliers to take back to the RV park office for others to find. We said our goodbyes and Marguerite stopped us on the way to the car and handed us a full, round 4″ wheel of her new Brie. She asked us to “taste-test” it and to email feedback to her. How delightful to be part of the response team. We will indeed follow up with our opinions and are so delighted to have met the Constantines. They are hardworking and devoted to their work.

The towns of Marksville and Moreauville, LA are another fascinating story.  Marksville survives mostly on the back of the huge Native American Casino run by the Tunica Biloxi Tribe and was the first land based Casino in Louisiana.  Casinos are not our usual haunt, we don’t gamble and the smoking is overwhelming. However, Casinos are famous for having wonderful RV camp sites at very reasonable prices (such as $8 to $10 a night for full hookups).

I swore I would never give up paper books. I meant it, I still believe it, but I have cheated on my constant declaration of loyalty to the printed book, I have cheated on the friends and family that have heard me so declare my loyalties, I have cheated on my public library and favorite home grown book stores around the country. 


Yes, I admit that I now own a Kindle Fire. I brought it home and glared at it for a few minutes and then by some miracle of technology, realized that my first copy of the New York Times was awaiting my caress to be brought to life. There it was, articles listed under tabs of Front Page, National, International, Editorial, Arts, Books, Science, Sports, Most emailed stories, the paper clone, a.technological wonder. I read the first article and wasn’t struck down as a fraud. I could touch a word or phrase and a blue highlighted link would appear like a genie out of a bottle teaching me more about the subject from someplace on the web. I could link to the web for relevant articles, look up definitions.  I was hooked. 


The first novel I downloaded was THE BIRTH HOUSE by Ami KcKay. After another twinge of guilt, I bookmarked my place electronically so I could return to the page I had left off reading, just like using a favorite specimen from my paper bookmark collection. I could highlight words or phrases, I could annotate notes in the virtual margin, I could instantly look up definitions of words, find the origins, archaic usages and on and on. I took a deep breath, I am now hooked on ereaders and have never turned back, except to force myself to take a breather and read the paper magazines that still come in the mail, or read a paper book so I don’t forget how.


How angry I sometimes get at the device–that is the lingo, when I loose the place or it shouts at me that I have 15% battery left and I had better find a plug to give it a re-charge. Resistance to progress has always gotten in my way.  I have lived long enough to have had to learn to adapt to CD’s from Vinyl, velcro instead of laces, microwaves, Cuisinarts, LED light bulbs, liquid soap, keyless locks, digital imaging, DVD’s, social media and so much more. Move ahead say I. Life is progress and progress is life.


Now, my game is to download and collect many books into my device, to form a virtual bookshelf reiterating the bookshelves in my house. Now, I don’t have to worry about the overweight of books on the motor home. I do miss the trading libraries as we travel but I can still share book titles and savor the written word. Searching for a new book is almost as enjoyable as walking into my favorite home grown book store and I do worry about the future of the book store. There has to be a way to transform the bookstore into the modern age, but perhaps not in the way proposed in Amy Stewart’s novel, THE LAST BOOKSTORE IN AMERICA.  Read it. By the way, it is only available downloaded on to your device. 


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