Taming modesty to work with elephants

    I’m standing with my back to an elephant lean-to in the middle of the Cambodian jungle hiding my embarrassment. 

     I have split my pants. Raggedly and badly. 

    The split exposes my left, underwear-covered butt cheek and cellulite puckered upper leg (I am obese). 

     Just minutes earlier, I was whacking a path through the jungle with a machete to help mahouts and volunteers clear land and shear tree limbs to build a pig enclosure. In the jungle of Cambodia. 

     I think I need to stop here for the whole back story. 

     It is 2015 and I am in Sen Monorom, which is the capital city of the province of Mondulkiri in Cambodia. I am here for two weeks, volunteering at the Elephant Valley Project. The non-profit rescues elephants and returns them to the wild. The Cambodian culture is such that a mahout accompanies each rescued elephant. 

     The non-profit works not only to rescue the elephants, but to help the mahouts become self-sustaining. So what we are doing today is creating a pig enclosure in the middle of the jungle to provide the mahouts with a source of food and income. 

     Back to my split pants. 

     After we clear the land, we use the limbs to create a fence framework then pound corrugated metal sheets onto that frame. 

    

    As I bend down to hold the corrugated sheet in place, a stealth briar branch, which has escaped all of our machetes, grabs onto my pants (I do not know this.) 

     As I stand up and move on, my pant leg stays behind and rips, apparently too thin to resist the capture. (It is hot in the jungle and I had packed accordingly.) 

     Parts of my body I would never expose are now exposed. 

    Immediately, I seek to hide my rear. The nearest place is the elephant lean-to. That’s where my dear volunteer coordinator finds me. She offers the only covering she has, out here in the jungle: her emergency sweatshirt. 

     Tie the arms around your waist,  she says. The shirt can act as a cape. 

     She’s 98 pounds. I am obese. The arms of her shirt don’t reach around my belly. 

     So I stand and think a moment. I can leave (they’ve offered me a way out). Or I can stay, swallow my pride (my body shaming is terrific) and keep working.

     It really isn’t too hard to decide. 

     Here I am in the middle of the Cambodian jungle, surrounded by free-ranging elephants, harvesting bananas for them, sleeping in a jungle tent, listening to wild monkeys, building a pig pen. 

     I don’t want out. 

     So I go back to work and enjoy this amazing life.

The magical threads of "Harry Potter"

Sammy Joe and Donna

Like magic, "Harry Potter" transforms a hotel breakfast room peopled by strangers into a coffee clatch of best friends.

And all because I ask the the desk clerk (a spritely young woman —  she hides her wand well —  with impossibly short hair,  a dimpley smile and a passion for books) if she had read the J.K. Rowling series.

Oh my, the response.

First, it's Donna, over by the wall, who swings around and says, “Oh, YES! I pre-ordered each one and just counted down the days for them to arrive.”

Her own kids didn’t catch the fever. But her niece and nephew did. She now doles out her precious copies to them at age appropriate times.

Sammy Joe, sitting at the next table over from me, grins:  “My grandson and I learned to read using "Harry Potter".”

What?

He repeats: “I learned to read, with my grandson, and "Harry Potter".”

I catch my breath. Because I believe there is no more powerful prose than that which opens a lifetime of adventure.

The conversation continues and it’s just so magical.

But then I realize I never heard from my dimply sprite.  I look around and she’s gone back to work, all the while sprinkling her fairy dust behind her.

Women of Faith

“A clutch of women’s the most tender, most tough place on Earth.”  Excerpt From “Where the Crawdads Sing,”   by Delia Owens.

I am living that quote today.

I am at a women’s retreat at South Padre Island Baptist church, my home church for the winter.

 I’m a bit down, frustrated by a myriad of life’s little whammies. (Nothing serious at all, just too many of them at once.) 

So I square my shoulders (because I AM STRONG!)  and seek a table to join.  I find one, with green ribbons, white lilies and a big happy balloon. And sit down, all the while pulling on a mask of contentment (remember, hurting inside), and introduce myself. 

Thanks to a know-all God, I find myself at a table peopled with people like me, church kitchen ladies. They are my doppelgängers. They love serving coffee as much as serving God. Their hearty laughs define their outgoing natures. 

And they immediately see through my pretense. With genuine love and concern, they gang up on me, drill down into my soul and help me wrestle free from my worries all the while holding my heart. 

Then we do it for each other, one by one, so each of us sheds a bit of the day’ worries.

We are just like the author said, a tough and tender clutch of women. No place else like it on Earth.

Lovely mission in trouble

La Lomita, the  church that gave Mission, Texas, its name

Be still. Listen. 

I’m standing outside La Lomita, a simple 12-by-40-foot chapel in Mission, Texas, that's ministered to people for 155 years.

 It stands on a small rise overlooking the Rio Grand. (Its name means "Little Hill" in Spanish.) If the trees weren’t there, I could see Reynosa, Mexico. 

Such a cute little girl

It’s a quiet little whitewashed sandstone structure steeped in history. 

And then I step inside. And I see and feel an explosion of life. And love. Weekly worshippers keep fluffy pillows in the pews and fresh notebooks and pens on a prayer table. (I write my name and a little note.)

A garden of fresh-cut flowers, newspaper items, pictures and rosaries crowd the altar. What personality! A little rosary-draped bear appears to giggle shyly, showing off her youthfulness. A flower pot grins at me, inspiring me to grin back.

This historic place of worship is the namesake of the town of Mission.

 And I didn’t know until I started my research for this little blog that it is in trouble.

 The U.S. government wants to build its border wall here because of the hill it sits on and the sights it can see. 

Since 2018, the Catholic Church has fought the effort. So have the people in the community who feel this little chapel knits intricately into their history.

I never felt the turmoil while I was there. The walls spoke only of peace and love. And I was still when inside. And I listened. It spoke only of worship and the congregation who love it. 

Fresh flowers show a dedication to this chapel

A Lourdes Grotto

Almost all pews have pillows

Notebooks spill over the prayer table

Lovely flowers distract from crumbling walls

Lovin' that Can-Do attitude

Artist Connie Lovell is such an inspiration.

Litter-inspired art challenges the way I look at art. And I learned today, life. 

While walking to the beach, I see a great big blue something rising from a truck trailer parked at Andy Bowie beach on South Padre Island, Texas.

As I get closer, this blue behemoth takes on form. It's a dolphin (christened Dolly), frozen in a happy moment, leaping above lively, sparkling waves. As I get even closer, I see she’s born from a jumble of trash, litter, stuff people toss out on the beach and overboard boats. It’s all artistically juggled, magically creating Dolly.

Dolly. Photo by Al Fasoldt 

She’s beautiful. Mesmerizing. Intricate.

But the real story for me is the artist, Connie Lovell, 64, a tireless devotee of clean beaches and life. She began making these sculptures four years ago — age 60. She simultaneously built a successful Clean up The Beach campaign while upcycling thousands of pounds of tossed-out plastic into major art installations.

My life lesson? Age is no barrier to start something new. Attitude is.

Four years ago, at age 60, she hated the trash littering the Texas beaches so much, she didn’t complain. She sought a solution. And became that solution.

 Her age was no barrier. She just got up and did.

Bravo, Connie.

To find out more about Connie and her creations — Humberto the Great Blue Heron, Miguel the MahiMahi, Josie the Green Sea Turtle, Rusty the Red Snapper, Chloe the Clown Fish, Calli the BlueCrab. There are more — visit her personal website and the one for her project.

Excellent photographer Al Fasoldt and Rusty the Red Snapper

Dolly's tongue is a pink flipflop. Her teeth a transformed laundry basket.

This is how I can help.

Caught Myself in a Bias

Bikes outside Vermont Apple Pie

I try hard to avoid preconceived notions. Bias. Unintentional prejudices. Sometimes, though, I'm caught offguard by one of my own. 

We’re eating breakfast in a sweet, delicate  little mom-and-pop restaurant called Vermont Apple Pie in the even sweeter little town of  Proctorsville, VT.  The tiny dining room is upstairs, and the only server can’t see downstairs into the waiting room. So now and then, he calls down the steps, “Anyone waiting?”

This time, a boy-voice (maybe a teen, or young 20-something) responds, “Yes. Me and my mom. And a big group of bikers, maybe six of them.”

Bikers. Oh my. This is a small dining room.

Hubby in half the dining room

So our waiter calls into the kitchen for help and a woman (his wife?) scurries out to fix up the table for six bikers. 

I watch. And wonder how six burly men and their bulky leathers will fit around this delicate country table. Especially when each end of the table has been turned into a place setting.

I just keep eating. And watching.

“OK,” the server calls down the steps. “Table for six is ready.”

I wait for the thundering  herd.

I get no thunder. No burly men. The bikers are six tiny women. The biggest thing on them is a smile.

Even in their bulky leathers, they fit nicely, with lots of room to spare. And lots of stories to tell.

They all just met, through a Vermont bike touring company called MotoVermont. Two are from Washington State. Two from California. One from New York (outside Albany) and one from Connecticut. All are enjoying this  guided motorcycle tour of New England.

The tour guide hands me her card. Just in case. One day. Well, maybe.

  

Tour guide in pink

Why I LIKE IKE

President Dwight Eisenhower wearing "I Like Ike" glasses

And at the end the day, I like Ike, too.

We are at the Eisenhower Museum and Library, a small campus of buildings in Abilene, Kansas, a town so small its letters on a map need magnifying.

We came here for the presidential memorial. We bought a pass to it last month. But I looked everywhere this morning and couldn’t find it. So I was hoping they had a database with my name in it.

But nope. There is no way to prove we’d already bought tickets. 

The 60-something man selling tickets leaned back, crossed his arms high on his chest and stared at me through spectacles a bit too small for his face. “I believe you,” he said shortly. “Want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because Ike was an honest man. A good, honest man.”

He stamps two tickets and shoos us off to a guided tour of Eisenhower’s Abilene home (starting in two minutes), then yells to our backs as we hustle out: “WHEN THE TOUR IS OVER, COME BACK FOR THE FILM.”

What a nice man. 

The lady giving the tour of the family home is nice. The library staff is nice. 

And by the end of my visit today, I’ve come to understand Eisenhower was nice, too.  Not in a white-washed way. He was a likable man the world embraced. An honest man. I already knew his military excellence, his connections with the U.S.Interstate system and NASA.

What I didn’t know was even his distractors appreciated how decent a man he was.

The museum peddles this decency. 

As well as his wisdom:

""Teachers …  are developing our most precious national resource: our children, our future citizens."

His considerate leadership.

"I believe that the United States … does have the job of working toward that time when there is no discrimination made on such inconsequential reason as race, color, or religion.”

 His foresight:
On the concentration camps he visited at the end of WWII: "I made the visit deliberately, in order to be in position to give first-hand evidence of these things if ever, in the future, there develops a tendency to charge these allegations merely to 'propaganda’."

Good golly. He was a man who modeled decency. Who was married to a woman who could be everyone’s best friend.

So I like Ike, too. 

DON'T JUDGE A BOOK ....

A meteor struck Earth 50,000 years ago and left behind this crater

    Ever hear of Meteor Crater in northern Arizona? 

     Me neither. 

     The name alone sounds like a cheapy roadside attraction, right up there with the world’s largest catsup bottle,  Salvation Mountain  and the biggest ball of paint. 

     But when my brother-in-law suggested we visit, well, it was on our way, so we did and I am floored.

     This roadside attraction is perhaps one of the best in the country. 

     It’s a big hole in the ground, yes. But the Barringer family who owns it has invested millions into explaining what it it, how it got here and why we should care.

     And because of their dedication, the info center attached to it, called The Discovery Center, attracts the very generation it needs to survive: the tech-savvy generation.

    There are 24 exhibits inside the sprawling center, many of which employ various forms of whiz-bang technology to keep you interested, to bring you inside the project, to help you understand.

     And then the walk to the crater is an absolute WOW. A paved path goes up and down to several viewing platforms. With signage to ignite your curiosity. And telescopes, too. If the wind dies down, you’ll get a guided tour by a geologist.

    So, if you are ever in the neighborhood GO. It’s about 37 miles east of Flagstaff. If you can, go out of your way.

    This is a must-see slice of history bundled with science even the kids will enjoy.

Touch-screen technology encourages visitors to linger 

24 exhibits entice you to explore

PETRIFIED WOOD AND DINOSAURS

These guys lived 225 million years ago in what is now Petrified Forest

I am so easily wowed.

I’m walking where dinosaurs walked. Not the big guys. The human-sized guys. And I’m touching felled trees  they might have touched. Wow.

I'm on the Crystal Forest trail

We’re in Arizona, driving through Petrified Forest National Park on our way to see the Painted Desert.

 It’s a 30-mile ride through quite an unusual countryside: a semi-desert shrubby plains area that butts up against a subdued relative of the badlands. No trees. Yet it’s littered with large hewn logs.

There are so many, I imagine this is where Paul Bunyan whacked up thousands of trees on his journey to Storyland.

But 225 million years ago, this area was a lush river basin near the equator, home to dinosaurs, not Paul, and the 200-foot tall coniferous trees today’s logs came from.  They look like Paul was here because of gravity. And science. See, petrified wood is heavy. And for millions of years, it is hidden inside the Earth covered by earth. When the wind and the rain expose the logs, gravity versus weight causes them to break apart, like a piece chalk you drop to the ground. In 90-degree angles.

 

Colorful quartz

The mile-long trail I’m hiking winds through the Crystal Forest  which is littered with the logs. The colorful layers of quartz in the petrified wood twinkle in the morning sun.  (Go here for the science.)  

It’s a simple hike I’m taking back through time. And I am totally wowed.

Panorama of The Painted Desert

NEVER DOUBT THE POWER OF GOD OR WOMEN

Damaris owns the Western Motel and RV Park

I’ve learned to never underestimate senior women. To never doubt their strength. Especially ones I meet in New Mexico, the birthplace of the atomic bomb.

We’re staying in a tiny RV park behind the Western Motel in Magdalena, NM. It’s owned by a spritely woman named Damaris. (The name is in the Bible only once, she said. Acts 17. Last chapter.) 

She’s 62 and non-stop, this woman. She runs the motel and RV lot by herself.  I see her toting plumbing supplies, supervising repair of a water leak, directing two men doing odd jobs on her lot. 

I later learn these men are simple men who can’t hold jobs. So Damaris gives them worth. Lets them putter. She tends to them, out of faith. Like she does the community’s children with vacation Bible school every summer.

She’s a seriously faith-filled woman. Who invites me to church. So I go.

Inside the back door of the Magdalena Community Church I see five other older women and two older men engaged in conversation. It’s social hour. So I grab a bottle of water (we're in the desert) and sit down next to a woman named Marcia, who's in her 70s and enjoys creating non-denominational rosaries.  She shows me one and explains each bead in detail. 

She, too, is a faith-filled woman.

We soon usher ourselves into the sanctuary and I notice it is just us. The social-hour gang. No others have come to worship. Where’s the pastor? 

Soon, Marcia lights the altar candle then sits at the piano and leads us in hymns. She then toddles to the lectern and leads us in prayer.

Marcia wears many hats at church.

Then, Marcia, the rosary-making, prayerful pianist, presents the sermon, engaging us in a powerful message on Doubting Thomas. 

I later learn Marcia is also a retired nuclear physicist. Damaris is a political scientist. Another 60-someting woman I met is a physical therapist.

As I said, I’ll never underestimate the power of an older woman. Or the lengths to which faith takes us.

These people keep the church vibrant in Magdalena, NM. The lap quilts come in handy on cold windy days.

REIGNITING A PASSION FOR SMOKEY

Few people can't identify this icon of forest management.

     Someone needs to rescue Smokey the Bear.  Again.

     Someone with political clout. With money. And a vision for fun, education and young people. Not just the kiddies. Pre-teens. Teens. Even 20somethings. 

     I’m visiting Capitan, NM, a middle-of-New Mexico place where Smokey was born in 1950, rescued and eventually buried. But there’s so much more to this 75-year-old story.  Unfortunately, it unfolds yawningly inside in a museum designed for baby boomers.  

     The small Smokey Bear Historical Park houses a ton of historic fire-prevention posters (some I recognize), pictures of Hollywood icons from back in the day (I LOVE seeing Timmy and Lassie!) and a video of the now aged game warden talking about how he tended to the baby bear’s badly burned feet and bottom, then got him rebranded as the living embodiment of Smokey. 

     One room, for kids I guess, has baskets of crayons and coloring pages.

     There’s not much here to do.

     The extraordinary legend of Smokey is fading. Even the town has given up. It cancelled its annual  Smokey Bear Appreciation event this year. Couldn’t get enough volunteers.

     But Smokey is ageless and tireless. He’s still featured in fire prevention pubic service announcements. His likeness is still at national parks and wild places warning  about the day’s forest-fire threat.

     Smokey needs his own phoenix. 

What can be done? Some thoughts:

1.     Introduce a virtual reality room. (Beg Disney to pitch in. The two have history.)
2.     Hire contemporary cinematographers to retool videos. (Maybe start a Go Fund Me page.)
3.     Turn the two-acre outdoor park into a learnland/playland, with a geocache at Smokey’s gravesite and a  phone-based scavenger hunt.
4.     And please.  Get rid of the crayons. Or update it to include adult coloring kiosks.

     I’ll share these thoughts with the Smokey Bear Hometown Association members.  They’re the ones who cancelled the annual appreciation event. They say they're focusing instead on next year’s 75th anniversary birthday bash for the much-loved environmental icon. 

     Would’t it be nice if the party partnered with a makeover reveal?

An early Smokey poster. He's dreaming of his own rescue.

 

Inside, the museum looks lovely. Lots to read.

SCIENCE FICTION LOVERS TAKE NOTE

The guy with the cowboy hat is Allen, taking pictures

The VLA. The Very Large Array. A noted astronomical observatory. A science fiction lover’s dream. 

It’s a collection of 27 giant dish antennas, each with a dish face  82 feet in diameter. They are trained in unison skyward from the Plains of San Augustin, an ancient seabed 7,000 feet above sea level in New Mexico near nowhere.

They look into the universe and map it, one moon-sized piece at a time.

And we’re here. For an open house tour. Looking at them.

I read this: "Since the first observation in 1975, the Very Large Array has scanned the skies to learn cosmic secrets invisible to even the most powerful telescope. The VLA shows us the chaos caused by black holes, maps ice on the scorched planet Mercury, watches suns from inside their dusty gas cocoons, and even found a hole in the Universe billion light years around."

And it thrilled movie lovers in 1997 when “Contact” used the field of antennas as a backdrop for a message from space. All from the amazing mind of Carl Sagan.

Like I said. Science fiction. One truth at a time. My nerdy techno hubby Al Fasoldt thrills to be here.

MISSED MOMENTS

I don’t take my camera to the beach. Which means I miss a lot of really really neat photos.

This week alone:

• Three trios of beach walkers carry parade-style American and military flags. You know, the big flags, attached to 6-foot white poles nestled in belted cups. The flag bearers wear military rucksacks across their chests.

 I ask what’s up.

Turns out, these men and women routinely canvas the beach, looking for veterans. The rucksacks are filled with heavy stuff to represent the burden veterans with PTSD bear. They hope to bring comfort to the men and women they reach.

I want to hug them.

• Two jumpers parachute in. They land perfectly,  roll up their chutes and soak up the sun.

• Someone or a group someones created a 20-foot trail of fruit and flowers near the surf. It looks like a Hindu or Buddhist funeral offering. Whoever created this ribbon of loveliness chose unblemished bananas, mangoes, apples, oranges, pears, tulips and chrysanthemums. I feel the emotion.

So the next time I go to the beach, I take my camera.  To capture that emotional moment. That powerful event. That once-in-a lifetime sighting.

OK. Here it is. In time for Spring Break, which draws 100,000 high school and college kids to town.

A GROCERY STORY BLESSING

 I'm calling this a God Story.

Yesterday, we decided to tithe more than usual to a little church down here on South Padre Island, Texas,  because we’d been remiss in meeting our 10 percent. I was feeling bad about that, because I felt I was denying Jesus his share of the wealth He provides for us.

Now, this little church annoys me seriously. The pastor has said some very prejudicial things from the pulpit (like saying all Palestinians are terrorists …  SO very wrong). But …

Worshipping inside this little church has reminded me that no human understands the Bible exactly. No human preaches God’s heart perfectly.  I need to be in the Word for God to talk to me. And I also need to hear His Word in order to hear Him.

So we tithed.

Then we went to the grocery store, Where I spent a ton of money because I am making sloppy joes (great recipe)  to feed 25 people Monday night at a kid’s program the church sponsors in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the area.

I had a vase with three long-stem red roses in my buggy because Allen insisted on buying me flowers (then tired of shopping and left to wait in the truck). But at check-out, as I watched the cash register tick higher and higher, I asked the cashier to put the flowers back. “Too much,” I told him.
He handed the flowers to another man, (both  about 24 years old); they exchanged words in Spanish and the  other guy trotted off with the beautiful symbol of my husband’s love for me. (Just the thought still makes me smile.)

Soon, the other man returned, carrying a dozen long-stemmed red roses and handed them to me. “I can’t …,” I said. He waved me off. “They are free.”

Free.

I stared with disbelief at this lovely young man handing me roses. As I took them, he bounded off, and I realized, and I truly believe, he was a vessel of God’s love for me. And acknowledgement of sorts that God loves me and was thanking me for my gift to Him.

There. That’s my God story. And the picture shows my roses. From God.

IN THE COMPANY OF STARS

I’m star struck.

Twice.

First, I’m hanging out with Hedwig. Really. 

Well, I’m hanging out with one of the snowy owls used to portray Harry Potter’s companion owl. She wasn’t in the films. She did the promotional circuit for the immensely famous books about deliciously magical people.

And so I consider this a magical moment and even though there are more than 12 other magnificent raptors on perches in this small room (more later) I can’t stop staring at Hedwig. I remember reading when Hagrid gave her to Harry. And when she flew to France to deliver Hermione’s birthday present. Potter fans can be reminded of all things Hedwig here.  

Jonathon Woods uses an audience volunteer to feed the eagle

Star struck No. 2:  I’m hanging with Jonathon and Susan Woods, who are here with their birds, in this small room at the South Padre Island (Texas) Birding and Nature Center.  I paid $5 to voluntarily wedge myself into this small room packed with about 100 people because I am such a fan of The Raptor Project. It’s the same wild bird presentation Allen and I scrambled to see at the New York State Fair for years. In fact, 18 years. 

They aren’t at the fair anymore, they said. Been gone four or five years. Politics. Shame. Because the Woods are living encyclopedias of birds of prey. They manage to rehabilitate injured birds and set them free or, if the disability is too great, take them on this road show.  To educate people like me. And I love it.

These birds are not stuffed, just flexing

So this sardine-packed room has about 12 magnificent raptors in it and we are close enough to all of them to see their eyes blink. There’s a vulture, a caracara (known locally as a Mexican Bald Eagle) a real bald eagle, a golden eagle, many falcons and big and little owls.

And of course, there’s Hedwig. She sits through the 45 minute show watching us as intently as we watch her.  Whenever Jonathon is near her, he tussles her feathers, kisses her head. She coos. 

She’s his companion.

So you see, it IS Hedwig.

A SEA TURTLE SUPERSTAR

Donna

I know the day’s supposed to be about the turtles.

In fact, that’s why I am here, at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, at the south end of South Padre Island, huddled with hundreds of others behind yellow police tape, just waiting for the release of the rescued turtles.

(To find out why they need to be released, watch this video.)

But what captures my attention and soon my heart is Donna. She’s a Jennifer Aniston look-alike (well, nearly) and she’s kneeling in the sand a few people up from me. I learn, because of her sheer excitement, that Donna is a rescuer.

She found one of these cold-stunned turtles while she and her boyfriend were exploring Boca Chica, an expanse of beach not to far from here and right next to Mexico. It’s a stretch of land destined to become very, very famous because Elon Musk is building his Space X launch pad there.

But for now, it’s still wild, and it attracts adventurers like Donna and her boyfriend, who were walking down the beach toward the border with Mexico, to the place with the Rio Grand spills into the Gulf of Mexico. They moved along the sand,  huddled against the wind and the chill, looking for beautiful seashells as they go.

 What they saw instead was a lifeless, 100-pound lump of giant sea turtle stranded on the sand, not moving. She touched its head and its eyelids fluttered, so she knew it was alive. But not for long. They needed to help.

So she and her boyfriend hefted the giant up the beach and into the backseat of her car. Then drove about 45 miles to the Sea Turtle Rescue on South Padre Island, where volunteers warmed it up and, a few days later, released it back into the Gulf. (Yay!)

So now Donna is part of the family, part of the turtle safety net. She comes to all the turtle releases. She's giddy with renewed joy each time. Ands glows with excitement as volunteers carry the turtles back to the sea. For me, it’s fun to see. For her, it’s a homecoming.

PAYING HOMAGE TO SATURDAY

My little winter escape on South Padre Island, Texas

During the winter, I live in a quiet campground (just 16 trailers) usually populated by others like me, happily retired seniors who walk their dogs three times a day and mingle in the middle to chat.

This winter, though, two youngsters live among us, a 30-something burly construction worker and his wife, who work nearby on a natural gas pipeline. They work Monday through Friday. And they play on Saturday. They play hard, with loud music, loud car vacuums, loud whatnot. 

They create an energy to Saturday I’d long forgotten about, an energy that sets it apart from the work week. Because Monday through Friday is quiet and regimented. It’s a work week. Its form and function destine it to work.

But Saturday is Fun Day. Anything can happen because it’s off the clock. They tinker with their trucks, tend their dogs, vacuum the trailer, sip beers and listen to music.  Loud music. Sometimes head-banging music. But never for long.  (Who knew there's a funky rock version of "Margaritaville"? Heard it today. Hmmmm.)

I’ll not complain.  It’s OK for them to thump my world a little bit on Saturday because heck, I’m retired. Every day is my Saturday, so I have seven to their one. They can have their one however they want it, I say, listening to a rambling wild guitar riff I don’t actually like much at all. 

And because that riff is never ending, maybe I’ll go walk the beach. 

NEVER UNDERESTIMATE MILLENNIALS

They look like such ordinary kids. 20-somethings (well, one has tipped into his 30s). Out to tour the country (theirs and ours) before adulting (I’m getting used to this word.).

Nice kids from Canada. Friendly. They are camped next to us on South Padre Island, Texas, and plan to head home soon to Victoria (on Vancouver Island)  after spending nearly a year on the road. 

We invite them to dinner. Because they are so nice. And maybe, I think, a few new adults in their life might make the segue to adulting transparent. 

Oh. So. Naive.

Meet Justin and Tenile. He is from Yellowknife, Northwest Territory, and she is from South Africa. While she was in film editing school then running her own film editing business, he was driving the ice roads up North,  lumberjacking the jungles of Central America and volunteering to fight fires in Canada.  My head is spinning. Really? 

They met, married and partnered in her business, which they now do daily from their trailer, while on the road, exploring their country and ours.

They took to traveling because their life changed. They lost their home (literally … the owner plans to tear it down). So instead of trying to find another place to set down roots, they bought a trailer and started the traveling gig.

And now they are heading home because their life has changed again. They’ll soon be parents and they prefer Canada’s free health care system over the bloated one we have here.

Phew. Amazing. Wow.

OK. These not-so-ordinary kids don’t need lessons in adulting. They got it.