And we wait ...

The night breeze is damp, cool, but not cold. I feel it kiss my hands, my wrist, my face as it rolls through my hotel room window. 

Hotel room. Yes. I am in a hotel room in Hampton, VA, instead of in my motorhome heading into warmer places because our transmission broke. Otto is sick, but we get him  back on Wednesday with a new transmission, new brakes and even a new fuel filter.

Until then, it's this hotel. We live in a hotel. And you know what? It's a blast. A vacation like no other.

I watched the Food Network on TV for four hours this morning. Napped for four hours, then watched the Food Network again for four more. (I love the Food Network; I don't get it at home.)

All the while, my hubby dove into his computer and my dog? Well, he stretched out in the middle of this king-sized bed. All day. (See the picture? That's Allen on the left; Jacob sleeping in the middle of the bed; and on the right is Guy Fieri sampling BBQ at some Diner, Drive-In or Dive.) 

I'm sure tomorrow we'll do more than vegetate.

But for now, this cool damp breeze kissing my hands and my face is just the best.

Swallowing my pride never tasted so good

 I am covered in sand, embarrassment and determination.

I've just watched my 70-year-old husband scurry up a steep sand dune with an 7 year old at a beach on Ocracoke Island, the whole of which is a National Seashore.

I have failed to make the climb. I am on my knees in the sand, breathless, after going nowhere despite doing a series of Stairmaster lungs in the spilling sand.  I have failed.

Yet I cannot fail. I refuse to settle for defeat.

So I stand up, wipe myself off, and observe the dune, looking for a less parallel  wall of sand to climb. That's when I hear my friend Julie send one of her children -- I said CHILDREN -- to help me make the climb. Now these kids define litheness. One of me outweighs all three of them combined. Still, here is an 8 year old, Kenson, at my side, hand outstretched to help. How can I let him down? So I tell him to pave my way and I follow.

Suddenly Paul, Kenson's dad, is right next to me, also with hand outstretched. I make two of Paul. I could take him down in a slip. Yet his offer is so genuine, his effort so sincere. How can I let him down? So I take his hand (from time to time) and step where he steps to climb, laboriously to the top.

We make splendid (still embarrassing) progress. One of the children, I don't know who (and please don't tell me) pushes me upward from behind while Paul tugs me skyward from above.

We continue making progress toward the top.

Where I now stand. Winded. Ashamed (because of all the help AND because Julie photographed this whole shameful episode of my life) yet tremendously excited that  I made it.

Paul and I do the Rocky fist punch in the air, and then slide back down.

I'm still covered in sand and embarrassment yet now have a modicum of pride, because I (well, we) did it.

It's Always Something

We're having a Rumo Day. (Our friends the Rumos have five children. Every day is an adventure for them.   Never wake up, exist, then back to sleep. Never. Always a little monkey wrench  works itself in somewhere.)

Three of their kids ride with us in our RV, named Otto, traveling down North Carolina's Route 12 in Cape Hatterras National Seashore, heading toward the ferry to  Ocracoke Island. The parents await us there.  We plan to celebrate New Year's Eve together. Say hello to 2014.

So we are on the road. And our 14-hour journey to meet up with their parents  now spans 29 hours because, well, Al can't be rushed.

But we are almost there. Thirty minutes to the ferry, an hour ferry ride then we will be there. Ocracoke. 

But ROAR ROAR ROAR. Something's wrong with Otto. ROAR ROAR ROAR. We've lost gears. We're coasting down Route 12, no gears and three young children yearning for  Mom and Dad.

Our first little miracle: A turnout. So we coast safely off the road with just Otto's nose sticking into the road. No problem.  We have CoachNet, a super expensive road emergency service for RVs. I call. I cry. Our policy expired in February.

Our second little miracle: CoachNet assists us anyway, finding a qualified mechanic and notifying police to come to our rescue. We leave lots of messages for the mechanic (it's Saturday night now and nobody is home). The police come and we -- me, two 8-year-olds and the cop -- push Otto to safety (Al's behind the wheel; the youngest tends to the dog.)

It's getting late and we decide to head on to Ocracoke for the night and tend to Otto tomorrow. 

Our third little miracle. All six of us (me, Allen, the three boys and our giant standard poodle) and our overnight bags fit into our toad, a Scion IQ (Go ahead, Google it ...).

Our fourth little miracle: Neither the police who watch us pile into the little car nor the Coast Guard who watch us pile out cite us for failing to meet the safety code.

Our fifth little miracle: Kenzie, Kenson and Kenley, the three little boys with us, smile, laugh and giggle despite the uncertainty.

Finally, 34 hours into our 14 hour journey, we meet up with the Rumos and snuggle in for the night, happy, laughing and pleasant.

Yes, it was a Rumo kind of day. And, thank God, it ended that way, too. 

Sturdier Stock Than I

 

I don't like Fort Davis, Texas.

It's a dusty little town forgotten by most and existing, well, I'm not sure why.  It's dusty here. When the wind blows, it brings more dust. My skin suffocates under layers of it. My hair scares me. My breathing labors. So, we're getting out of here.

But first, I need to mail off some birthday cards.

So we head to the post office, where I first meet a fellow sorting mail. He's a youngish guy, all smiles. He nods. Friendly.

At the counter, I watch as two women engage in a brief hug, then, with their arms still engaged, pull back and give each other wide, toothy grins. "It's so good to see you," one of them says. "I heard about your loss. I am so sorry."  "Oh, thanks. I'm OK," the woman in mourning says. They lock eyes briefly, then  they detach and get on with their business. Girlfriends.

My turn at the counter is sweet. I tell the postal worker my oversized card is for my granddaughter. So she digs in her drawer and pulls out a "Finding Nemo" stamp. Thoughtfulness.

I thank her and turn to leave and am stopped by the sight of a crowded bulletin board. Bake sales. Story times. A firehall dance. An involved community.

Then two men in front of me exchange greetings and the one man says to the other, "How are ya?" The older man smiles and nods, then says, "I'm just fine!  I miss (Maude? Mable? inaudible name, but definitely a recently passed wife), but I'm getting on just fine."   Resilience.

On my way out the door, a feller tips his hat and says, "Howdy." 

OK. I get it.  Fort Davis, dust and all, is a pioneer town. It's alive, perhaps, because of people like these, people who reinforce their independence with self-reliance  and a strong sense of community. 

People who don't crumble under the dust. They just shrug it off.

Well, Hello 2013; Nice to Get To Know You

We're sitting around a campfire (well, a propane-fed flame licking fake charred wood in a metal pot) at Padre Island National Seashore welcoming in the New Year (2013). 

With strangers.

It's windy, so our impromptu party of 12 (plus one dog) gathers leeward, using one of those monster motorhomes as a shield against the blowing sand and wind.

We're having tentative fun. We don't know each other. We're all so different. Some drink tequila, wine, beer; others do Coke or tea. Shy conversations abound, but all seek common ground: Where are you from? Been here before? Where are you going? And, a frequent question tonight, "What is your name again?"

We're all gray-haired, retired, not really able to dance the night away, but, strangely, I feel like I'm in a bar, a college bar. What's your major? Come here often? We're getting to know each other.

We are a community of Winter Texans, escaping the cold and icy climes of Ohio, Michigan, New York. We have a few real Texans, too. We laugh at clean jokes. No off-color ones are told.  We're warming up to each other.

And we dust off old stories new friends enjoy hearing. Like the time Howie played a practical joke on Kathy, pretending he was a lecherous Santa; or the time I had breakfast with Keith Richards. Pat broke all hearts with her story about how her Aunt Cat's alzheimer's  is winning.

We munch on popcorn, tell more tales. Laugh. Sometimes heartily. That laughter recasts  our unfamiliar as familiar.

Soon, we collect our things and it's time to go, to walk back to our RVs. This assortment of strangers are now friends.

Happy New Year.

Look What The Wind Blew In

I know it's a stretch, but see those two dark blobs? That's them!

Flutter flutter, scratch scratch.

What's that?

It's morning at Padre Island National Seashore and I'm making the bed in our motorhome. That involves me climbing up on the mattress on my knees and crawling around like a 1-year-old to tuck in the sheets and stow the pillows overhead. And I hear "flutter flutter, scratch scratch.

What is it?

I sit back on my legs and look around.  And listen. There it goes again. Flutter flutter scratch scratch. I turn toward the sound. The window.

I think something's come lose in the window beside the bed. We had fierce winds all night that rocked Otto like a baby in a cradle. So it's possible something's come loose. 

I scootch over to the window to investigate and there!  I see two shadows inside the shade. Two M-shaped shadows. AND THEY MOVE!  SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH.

BATS! BATS! Two bats took shelter from last night's storm by hiding inside our  windows that crank open and close like awnings. 

I inch closer and, nearly trembling, raise the shade a smidgeon and one of them LOOKS RIGHT AT ME. But, thank God, he's BEHIND the screen, and I think he's scared.

SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH. He and his buddy disappear. Where did they go? OH, the window is open, just a hair. They must have flown out. I raise the shades all the way and crank the window open wide. Yep, I think they're gone.

Except now it's dusk, about nine hours after our first bat adventure and Allen cranks out the windows again, to get some air, and FLUTTER FLUTTER SCRATCH SCRATCH. They're still here!

But this time, he SEES them fly away, into the dark, AWAY from our motorhome.

It's Always About Jacob

This looks exactly like Jacob's painful snack.

Jacob ate a Portuguese Man-O-War.

Jacob

Yes, my 9-year-old standard poodle ate the little venomous, jelly fish-like creature and he's now shaking his head violently and slobbering massively. Bluish goo drips from his front teeth.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

We are about a mile from the motorhome, walking the beach and there is no one around. No one. The beach is empty, except for me, Allen, our other standard Joshua and poor pain-racked Jacob. 

Why is is always Jacob?

So far, Jacob has survived a New Mexican tussle with tumbleweed, which scratched his cornea (he had lunged into the brush after some animal and the tumbleweed attached itself to his face); food poisoning after eating God knows what on a long walk through the woods in Alabama; a traumatic toe injury on Padre Island National Seashore while trying to rustle a ghost crab from its den (he dug into the sand with such fury, that when he hit a piece of concrete, he snapped a toenail off) and the worst -- something he did absolutely nothing to cause -- cancer, which we got rid of when we had one of his left rear toes removed.

Now this. And we knew it was bound to happen.

At times, the Padre Island National Seashore beach serves up hundreds of small dead or dying Portuguese Man-O-War. We warn Jacob constantly "Don't eat that" but today we weren't watching and he did and now his mouth hurts from the stinging tentacles and we can do nothing about it but pity him.

We already know the consequences. A few years ago, when Jacob first tried to snarf up one of the gooey things, we asked a park ranger how safe it was. Well, he told us, he won't die, but his mouth sure will hurt for a while.

So, poor Jacob. He shakes and spits. It's 25 minutes until we finally reach an outdoor hose (at a fish cleaning station here on the island) and I wash out his mouth. He's grateful. I can tell. He slurps and slurps and slurps the fresh water.

And now the head shaking ends. Jacob crisis over. For now.

Answers to Unspoken Prayers

Ethan and Mahira

Joan

I miss Christmas.

I don't know what I was thinking when I agreed to be away from home on the holidays.

No problem, I thought. Our far-flung families commonly celebrate this exciting time without us. So it's often just us. And we don't make a fuss for just us. Much of our fuss is church related. We go to church and celebrate the birth of Jesus, who is the center of our lives.

I didn't realize until today that the other stuff we do at Christmas rounds out my heart. We visit with friends, break bread together, play games.  I miss being a part of that friendship fold. 

I feel so alone.  I'm here at the beach, in the warmth of Padre Island National Seashore. And I am lonely.

And then there's a knock at our motorhome door.

"Hello? Is this a good time to drop by?"

The greeting is from a family we just met. Our RVs are similar, so they've stopped by to see how we manage to live inside such a small space. They stay and chat; we chat some more. Their kids, Ethan and Mahira, stay long after their mom and dad leave because, well, we're busy, playing iPad games, talking about books, exchanging life stories.

Then Joan stops in. We've just met Joan. She's 80 years old and traveling across country in a pick-up truck towing a trailer by herself (well, she has two dogs.)

She's stopped by for cocktails. And because we don't drink, she's brought her own as well as a tray of cheese and crackers. 

It's now crowded inside our little RV. But no one notices. Because we're laughing, playing games, nibbling on h'ors deuvers. It's (almost) like a family get-together, celebrating Christmas.

I'll be so bold as to say Jesus felt my heart breaking and brought good people to surround me, to help me heal. And the ones he chose were a family of Jews and an elderly agnostic. 

They came to me on Christmas, extending the gift of friendship. Thank you. Thank you.

For the Birds

Not sure what kind of birds these are. Someone suggested female crackles. OK.

Our water heater leaks.

I'm sitting in the sun, next to our motorhome on Padre Island National Seashore, and I see drip, drip, drip. Water from our leaky hot water heater dribbles off the bottom edge of our motorhome, creating a widening dark spot on the pavement. It annoys me. Precious water. Evaporating. Exasperating. Dry campers understand this.

Suddenly, WOOSH. Birds, about 20 of them, descend on my leak. HA! They flutter about, muscling  for the best spot to bathe or drink.  And then they're off. Except for two. I'll call then Dad and Son.

Son hops over to the drip and hops up, like he's on a trampoline, slurping each drip. Drip, hop, slurp. Drip, hop, slurp. Exhausting to watch. Drip, hop, slurp.

Dad pushes Son aside. "Watch me!" He tilts his head back, opens his beak and catches the drip.

Drip, drink, drip, drink. Son, typical Son, ignores Dad. Instead, he siphons water from a small puddle.

Satiated, Dad flutters off.

Son repositions himself under the drip, tilts his head back. Drip, drink. Drip, drink.

I hope Dad's watching.

In The Eye of the Beholder

In addition to being beautiful (wink wink), these fake flowers are  functional. I store chains in the pot.

I like my outdoor carpet, a plastic woven extension of our living space here on Padre Island National Seashore.

It's homey. I set up our chairs on that carpet, and often include a little table between them. It creates the allusion of an outdoor living room, an inviting space for friends to stop by. But few do.

Maybe because the room is not pretty. You see, it's windy down here on Padre Island, and because the carpet turns magical at times, lifting in the breeze, we anchor it down. With ugly stuff. A tool chest, a wheel. Just ugly stuff. I hate ugly stuff.

So my girlfriends Sage and Vickie and I hit the thrift store circuit, looking for a potted posie that's not too tacky to subplant the hardware. Nothing flowery, I tell my friends. Just greenery. Maybe a plastic philodendron.

And then I see it. A pot of colorful pretties. A pot designed to be looked down on. Something I can put on the edge of my caret and when I walk over to it, I can look down and see pretty. Not ugly.

But it's fake flowers. Lots of them. It might be tacky. Maybe I can't see the tacky? So I ask Sage and I ask Vickie: "Is this tacky?"

Silly me. They see I see "pretty." Neither wants to hurt my feelings. They bobble their heads and offer consolation coos. I'm thinking, "They see tacky."  I buy the pot anyway. It's only $3. I can toss it out. Later. If at some time I see tacky.

But for now, it's sitting on the edge of my outdoor carpet. Attracting little yellow butterflies and little orange ones, too. And maybe a new friend or two will stop by to appreciate them, too.

The Colonel and Allen in Corbin, KY

Back in the day, Kentucky Fried Chicken served finger lickin' good food. Remember the spicy, sweet cole slaw and the warm, peppery gravy? 

A dozen or more years ago, the fast food chain cooled the heat, saying the hot stuff just wasn't family friendly. That's when we stopped eating there. Without the bite, it was boring.

So we are excited tonight because we're hungry and we see road signs for Sander's Cafe in Corbin, KY, the birthplace of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The signs promise we can eat at the original cafe, the very place Col. Sanders transformed an already popular southern treat, fried chicken, into a national pleasure with a secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices. 

Maybe, just maybe, we hope, we can order the original cole slaw (I'll buy a quart!) and  savor the bite of the original gravy.

We pull off the highway and drive for a while. Then, there it is. A neon sign. Sander's Cafe. Suspiciously, it glows in the shadows of a modern KFC marquee. You know the one. The bucket with the colonel's face.

We park. Go in. Rats. It's not a cafe at all. It's a KFC franchise connected to a little museum featuring the life of Col. Sanders and his famous fare.

When we order,  I ask if the food is the Colonel's original recipe. The teen behind the counter wrinkles her nose. "Huh?" Then she mumbles and shrugs.  "I dunno." At least that's what I think she said.

We order anyway. The chicken was good and greasy. But the cole slaw? Awful. The mashed potatoes and gravy? Nondescript.

We'd feel cheated, but thanks to the museum we can honestly say "goodbye ho-hum." It's a charming little place that takes us back into yesterday, which is where we intended to go anyway. 

A Thanksgiving Gotcha

Our friends even made place cards for our holiday meal.

Good friends. We have such good friends.

It's Wednesday and we're inside Otto (our motorhome) in a Walmart parking lot in Elizabethtown, KY. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and all has gone according to plan.

My husband, Allen, and I will spend Thanksgiving together, in this parking spot at  Walmart, where we will enjoy chicken salad and cranberry sauce as our holiday feast.

Like I said, it's all according to plan. We schemed to do this, telling very few people, and especially avoiding holiday conversation with the friends we visited earlier this week (Betty and family) and those we will visit on Friday (Bob and Kathy).

Because we want to avoid imposing on anyone's holiday, we're hush hush, sitting in this Walmart parking lot, according to plan.

Then, I get an email: "Allen & Nancy, Call Bob when you get this." So we do. And Bob asks forthright: "Are you planning on spending Thanksgiving in a Walmart parking lot?"

With that one question, he dashes all our planning, all our scheming, all our good intentions. We can obfuscate no longer. And we cannot lie.

So we end up blessed -- BLESSED -- as Thanksgiving guests No. 12 and 13 with Bob and Kathy's family.

We have such good friends. Such good intuitive friends.

Finding Kindness in the Appliance Department

I'm in the Charleston (WV) Sears with my friend Betty because her 40-year-old stove (a cook top) died last night. We need a new one. Thanksgiving is a few days away.

Earlier today  we found a few for $1,000. We don't have $1,000. Then, Sears  promised us one in stock for $350.  Yowser! We're  renewed. Happy. Thinking about turkey.

So we're in Sears, explaining our high hopes to sales associate Suzanne. We explain why our hopes rise high. She checks her computer, and pops our bubbles. The only one in stock costs $1,000.

We still don't don't have $1,000. Our holiday plans begin to shatter. 

The news gutts Betty. "Well Happy *******  Thanksgiving," she grumbles and walks away. 

I try to distract Suzanne (she's just the messenger), but she hears Betty and frowns. I await her parry; instead, she gives her heart. "Don't get your hopes up (again), but let's try something," she said, pointing to a pile of boxed-up merchandise waiting to be shelved.

She digs through the pile, slides boxes around, tips some up on end. No luck.  No cook top. But this time, it's OK. We feel good because Suzanne has joined our holiday rescue.

She gives us what she can, a big red bow (pictured above), which finds more smiles for us.

We leave Sears with lifted hearts, talking about Suzanne, not about that darn stove. We talk about how we want to tell Sears what a nice person she is. About how she is what a sales person should be.

About how thankful we are for the Suzanne distraction, even though we still have no stove. 

Portraits of Mom

My hubby Allen, new hubby Steve, new bride Maggie and then there's the oh-so-happy me

We are our moms. Sometimes inside, but mostly out.

My niece is getting married and I am on my way to help her dress. It's an important thing we do for our kids. And, no, Maggie is not my kid, but she has my heart, the way I had my mom's heart. It just happens.

So I am on my way to help this little girl/turned woman I love slither into a wedding dress with yards and yards of ribbons and sashes. We're late; the wedding is in 20 minutes. So when I arrive at the house of her soon-to-be inlaws, I hesitate properly for pleasantries and introductions. Shake hands, nod,  then ask loudly "WHERE IS SHE?"

"Down here, Aunt Nan!" That's my GREAT-niece Abby, the Maid of Honor, dressed in royal purple and a swath of pink in her upturned blond hair. "DOWN HERE!"

I rush down the hall, turn the corner and blurt "Where?" I pan the small room FILLED with too many people and a large nearly wall-sized mirror.

"Here, Aunt Nan." That's my niece, the bride, talking. The beautiful woman I just nanoseconds ago mistook for my sister, HER mother.

Wow. She looks like her mother, back in the day.  My niece (like her mother)  is a tall beautiful woman with a dynamite smile she hides too often, sharp cheekbones, which today turn crimson without Cover Girl, and perfect eyes, with deep expansive lids that carry color effusively.

At second glance, I see inside, and she is all my Maggie, with tenacity for a  brilliant future and compassion teaming with love for so many people, including her soon to-be-husband, her children (two of whom  jockey today to be near her)  and, I am so honored, touched and grateful to say, for me.

I look at her mirrored image and then see mine, my mother (her grandmother), right in that room with us.

Calm, Cool Texas

I love Texas. And we're finally here. But we're crammed in a traffic jam, backed up on Interstate 10 from Rose City  to Beaumont.

I check the Web and learn that hours ago, a truck overturned carrying hazardous material. So the fire department closed a part of this main Texas thoroughfare for cleanup.

So we're stuck. With thousands of others. Oh, we're moving. But not much. We inch, then sit.

I look around. Hmmm. No one appears angry or even irritable. No frustrated horn blasts. No yelling, cursing. No fist shaking at God.  People behave, well, cordially. This is Texas. So laid back.

Oh, look. A few  hot-rodders scramble past us on the shoulder. Ha! They gain a five-car advantage. An ambulance scoots by, using that same space. Everyone edges over, courteously.  A Texan being born?

Finally, after nearly three hours,  we and thousands of others funnel to freedom down the little Magnolia Street exit, which leads us to our 10 p.m. fast-food dinner.

A lady next to me in line stands with her arms relaxed, reading the menu. She's with two teen girls, who cuddle, giggling, over a freezer case.

"Were you on the highway?" I ask.

"Oh, yes," the lady clicks her tongue, tucks her chin and looks at me over her glasses. "We came to Beaumont for a prom dress. Well, that store's sure closed by now. And I'm not doing this again tomorrow. She'll shop in Lake Charles."

"Well, how's she taking it?" I asked. Then thought, silly me. I know the answer. A missed prom-dress opportunity? Pure meltdown.

"Not well at all," the lady clucked.

I look at the teens again, straining to find that angst, that teenage prom-dress drama. But, they look calm.


Just like all those drivers.

I love Texas.

More Than Just Cardboard Cutouts

We're at Cherokee Campground in Helena AL, and I'm struggling to multitask.

I hope no one is watching.

My two dogs zig-zag in front of me, braiding their leashes with the bag of trash I'm trying to carry.

They stop to sniff, their leashes go slack, the bag of trash is freed.

When we continue our walk, I hold the trash bag higher in one hand this time and their leashes together in the other. We look silly. I hope no one is watching.

But look. There. A man. It's dark. Yet still, he waves. Oh gee, he's waving at me? Why?

Oh wait. HA! It's not a man. It's one of those stupid cutouts, those painted-back silhouettes  people stick next to their mailbox, or on the side of their garage.

I don't see the need. In fact, I think it's quite, well impertinent. Startling me, unnecessarily. Making me think someone is watching me. To what end?

I walk by the wooden form, dump my trash and we head back to the motorhome for the night. We sleep.

The next morning, we head out for our morning walk down to the lake to see the geese, explore the campground. 

And immediately I see another stupid cut-out.  It's a cat, chasing a squirrel, along a bench.

It's kind of cute. Very well done. I smile.

We turn the corner. And look!  Goose cutouts mingling with real geese. And there's more. Bears, cubs, horses, dogs, more cats, squirrels, women, men, a whole community of shadow dwellers.

As we walk, we see them everywhere, silently going about their lives, chasing each other, watering their flowers, watching us.

Wind Rocks Our World

We're complaining because it's windy and cold.

We left a balmy Syracuse winter to escape to the Teas coastline. To get there,  we're driving through disastrously cold and windy weather in southern Ohio and Kentucky.

Our 24-foot motorhome rocks back and forth violently as we crawl down the highway, going 44 mph. We're pummeled, whammed repeatedly by menacing wind gusts. Still, we inch along. Because the coast of Texas beckons.

And, as we inch, we complain, and cover ourselves in three, four layers of balmy-weather clothes  because we failed to pack the stuff that stands up to winter.

And we complain, as we pump $5.19-a-gallon propane into our tank so we can crank up the inside heater so we won't become ice cubes.

And we complain as we walk our dogs in the wind and the snow and the horrible cold. Oh, how we pity us.

Our phone rings, and it's our neighbors from back home. Worried about us. Are we OK? (Yes.) Did we hear the news?

No ... What news?

Less than 150 miles to our east, while we were complaining, a tornado was killing people, destroying communities. Tearing families a apart. I just read about a 2-year-old, found barely alive in a field, who is now critical in a local hospital. Her parents and siblings dead. Killed by that tornado.

All that death. All that destruction. How pitiful our complaints.

Peace, Love, Freedom and Whose Happiness?

Shea calls herself a hippie.

An honest to goodness, 2011 hippie. Not a vestige of the '60s. But a 38-year-old free-spirit  whose sooty overalls smell of yesterday's campfire and whose smile exudes joy.

She says she and her boyfriend, Clay, hang with the Rainbow Family. And they wander the US in a beaten-up Ford, towing  their life behind them -- clothes,  books, pots and pans stuffed in an open-bed trailer. They meet up with friends in national forests, where their "happenings" are called "gatherings." They're intentionally homeless. Free. Unfettered.

And I'm envious. Just like I was when I was a teen, when the first hippie movement swept through my life. I wanted that peace, love, freedom, happiness. And I mimicked the look, wearing tied-died T-shirts, beads, moccasins, bell bottoms. And flowers in my hair.

So I sit with Shea, the woman I wish I was,  gleaning tales about the life I think I want.

She tells me about the thousands who meet up in the woods. The organized chaos. The mass feedings (she's part of the cook detail) and the intentional cleanings (leave the Earth unharmed.) They sing, dance. Laugh. Enjoy the freedom of an unfettered life.

Yes. Yes. I love it. Life should be this way.

But how do you pay for this freedom?

Between here and there, she says, she begs money for gas and food at street corners,  "flying signs" (holding signs asking for money) or "bustin" (singing or playing music.). She (well, her boyfriend)  has food stamps. They visit soup kitchens, food pantries and even attend some church services, where Christians pay them in gas vouchers to listen to the message of salvation.

Oh.

They work the welfare system. To finance their freedom to live an unfettered life.

My enthusiasm pales.

So, I ask, why are you here? In quaint Streeter Park, a free city campground in straight-laced Aurora, Neb.  Hundreds of miles and attitudes from a "gathering."

She's stuck here, she says, because her  boyfriend is in jail. 

Ah, I think to myself. Just like the first-generation hippies, this one tousles with the law.

She says the cops  pulled them over for a busted blinker. Then nabbed Clay on  a weapons charge because his licensed handgun was under the seat, not out in plain view.

Later, while I'm back at my campsite having lunch, I see the cops pull up to Shea's and claw through her stuff in the trailer. (Pic at left)

They were looking for drugs, she tells me when I return (with a food donation for her). They're convinced she's dealing. She laughs at the thought.

She concedes drug use threads through the Rainbow Family life. But not sales.

Oh. Drugs. My enthusiasm dims. I don't like drugs.

And then her cell phone rings. And it's her 16-yer-old daughter. Wondering is Mom's safe. Is Mom OK? When is Mom coming to see her?

My envy flatlines.

And after 40 years, I finally learn the hippie life is not for me. Unfettered. Yes. But it is not free. Others pay. Some dearly.

Hey, You Never Know!

We've just returned from the wilds of Wyoming.

Really.

We drove the Pilot Butte Wild Horse Scenic Drive, looping from Green River to Rock Springs. The dirt trail climbs up and around 50 miles through the White Mountains, where 2,500 horses run free.

We saw eight.

But those eight run free, across remote buttes and through canyons. Without fences. In Wyoming's wide open spaces. At one point, we looked out upon on an area cradled by three mountain ranges. A sign said Massachusetts would fit on this land, as far as we could see. That's how big it is. And wide open.

Not once did we think about safety.

Before heading out this morning, I read warnings (but didn't heed them) about the desolation of the place we were headed. Take plenty of water. We didn't. Tell someone where you are going. We didn't. Be sure to have a full tank of gas. Did we? And remember, there's no cell service.

None of these precautions seemed relevant. Over the past several months, we've explored intense wilderness in British Columbia, Yukon and Alaska. How dangerous could it be to drive a 50-miles loop from busy Interstate 80?

No problem. We finished the scenic, magnificent drive without delay.

Now we're at McDonalds in Rock Springs, needing to use wifi and get directions to the nearest post office. I see a young woman, maybe 22, sitting at a back booth cruising the Internet. So I ask: "Excuse me. Can you tell me where the post office is?"

She looks up from her computer and grins. "Don't trust my directions," she says. "I just got lost out by Boar's Tusk. For 12 hours!"

We saw Boar's Tusk on our little adventure. It's like Devil's Tower, only a bit smaller. Rumor has it you can find  diamonds  there. And that's what interested Britta (she tells me her name). She's a rock hound. And went 12 miles out from busy I-80 into the "wilds" of Wyoming's high desert to hunt for diamonds. And  got stuck in the sand.

For 12 hours.

No one drove past her. There's no cell service. She told no one where she was headed. Her gas tank was full. But it did her no good stuck in the sand.  She had a bottle of water.  And prayer. "I kept praying that God would tell my husband where I was. I kept repeating Boar's Tusk, Boar's Tusk, over and over." That sustained her for 12 hours, when a Search-and-Rescue team appeared.

It was her husband, she said,  who called the police and suggested she'd gone to Boar's Tusk. He'd heard God's voice, but called it a hunch. And it paid off.

So she's safe now, sipping soda at McDonalds, checking out sites to dig for her treasures.

And next time, she says, she'll heed those safety warnings and leave a note behind. Take more water and some food.  And perhaps, she winked, we should, too.

  

A High Desert Serenade

I'm at Buckboard Campground, 25 miles from nowhere in Wyoming, staring at a high desert sky so close I can smell it.

Across the horizon, I see mountains and buttes and a landscape polka-dotted by yellow and silver sagebrush.

It's still out here. Nothing moves, except jackrabbits.

A breeze kicks up. I hear leaves quiver.

Allen works on his bike and I'm sitting in the shade, reading.

I'm thinking it doesn't get much better than this.

When  "Heheheheheheee wipe oooout!" The Beach Boys? They're so loud, the drum solo thuds in my chest. Where is it coming from? Who cranks up music in the desert?

Allen and I look at each other. And we figure it must be a fellow camper a little too enthusiastic about rock 'n roll. Disturbing my peace.

I stand up and scan, looking for the soure of our concert. And I see just one motorhome in the midst of the music. So I leash up my dog to take a walk to find out what's what. As I walk, the Beatles join me in this dusty place. And the Eagles, too, welcoming me to "Hotel California." 

As I near what I think is the out-of-control music lover, I find the source. It's not a selfish camper at all. The strains waft from a marina about a mile away, next to the Flaming Gorge Reservoir. There's a bar-be-cue, I learn, for anglers in competition to raise money to support research into Down Syndrome. And it might go on for hours.

Nice cause. But hours?

Well, it could be worse. At least the music's not awful. Just out of place. Out of sync with reality. So we decide to ride our bikes, out into the desert.

I'm thinking we can get away from it out there. And recapture the bliss.

But it follows us. This concert. As we pedal along a dirt trail through the desert, past yellow and gray sagebrush, as the sun drops behind the mesa, turning the sky a brilliant red, orange and Prussian blue, we do so to a classic rock soundtrack. Like we're in our own personal movie.

And, oddly, I'm no longer bothered. Instead, I'm thinking, it doesn't get much better than this. 

Jacob Goes For A Hunt

We're taking a nap and I hear what I think is someone stealing my bicycle.

I raise up, peek out the window and see my bike, just sitting there, surrounded by  Wyoming's high desert (See the pic? That's our view).

We're pretty isolated here, about 25 miles south of Green River, WY,  in Buckboard Crossing Campground. I doubt a crook's anywhere nearby.

Oh well. Must have been a dream. I'm awake now. So I get up. And feel an eerie emptiness in the motorhome.

Because they are gone.

My dogs, my giant standard poodles. My babies! Are both gone.

Th door is wide open (that's what I heard ... the door opening) and my dogs escaped.

I don't panic.

I'm sure Joshua, our good boy, is near. Jacob, our hunter, our runner, is Milwaukee already (joking), so there's no sense in me running.

I grab Jacob' leash (joshua doesn't need one) and head out the door to hunt for them. And, amazingly, they're both nearby. And both come running to greet me. Wow. Jacob's not running away! Jacob's not hunting! Jacob's trotting merrily back to see me.

He's so happy to see me. Maybe he's changed?

For the next two days, we give Jacob freedom. And he's such a good boy. He stays right with us. He doesn't hunt. He doesn't run.

Until Day Three.

Allen opens the door to take the trash out and Jacob leaps LEAPS out, and runs RUNS deep into the desert. He' gone. Out of sight. Just disappeared, where scorpions and rattlesnakes live, where coyotes howl. Oh my. Jacob's GONE!

I grab his leash, run outside and start to call. JACOB! JACOB! JACOB!

A fellow camper stops. 

"Are you looking for a black dog?"

"YES!" I say.

"He's across the road. Chasing a herd of pronghorn deer."

A whole herd? JACOB!

I jump in the car and drive back and forth along the road, looking for my dog, his deer or even a suspicious cloud of dust.  Instead,  I see a flash of black down by the marina. JACOB!

I zip down. Jacob sees me and a jackrabbit. And he's OFF, chasing that rabbit! And I chase them. In my car.  Over ruts and across brambles. In the high desert. JACOB!

Then, I see Allen, on his bicycle, circling around to the left. I'm on the right. Jacob's in the middle. He stops. We got 'em. But ZOOM! He's off!

Oh, this is a bad doggie.

He stays 10 feet ahead and refuses to even look our way.  He runs up hills, down the street , leaps over ravines and chases a whole warren of jackrabbits.

And then SPLASH! He goes for a swim in the Flaming Gorge Reservoir. JACOB!!

But AHA! Allen's set for the catch. Jacob comes out of the water the same way he went in. And Allen gabs him by the collar, hands him off to me, and I stuff him in the front seat of our little car (he's never been in the front; his head touches the ceiling). He' dripping wet. Out of breath. But, wait, is he grinning?

At home, he sleeps for hours and awakens with a limp. But he's not sad. Instead, I see that grin again. And think maybe he's thinking about the hunt, the excitement of a swim and the thrill of a front-seat ride home.

  

(Things) Really Go Bump in the Night

It's dark out here.

For so long, well, since June 1, we've had so much sunlight, that the darkness tonight seems novel, and impenetrable.

But penetrate we must, because my dog Jacob needs to go out.

OK. Let's go. I leash him up and my hand's on the door knob ... Oh. Wait. It's really dark out there.

And we're nearly wilderness camping along the remote 450-mile Cassiar Highway, Route 37. It's a two-lane paved/gravel road flowing down from Yukon into British Columbia  with burps of rustic population every 60 to 100 miles. 

So we're next to nowhere. The most next to nowhere we've ever been. Really.

And Jacob wants to go out into that menacing dark. Where, in the past few days of driving,  we've seen bears, an arctic wolf, a coyote and signs for moose and caribou. And then every half hour or so, we see a car, truck, motorhome or motorcycle.

OK. Now I'm spooked. What's OUT THERE, lurking, salivating for fresh blood? A grizzly, needing to pack on more weight to overwinter?  A cannibalistic wolf, lying in wait to savagely destroy my dog?  Or maybe a crazed mountainman, really ticked because we disturbed his peace?  Maybe all three!!!

{{{Shivers.}}}

Jacob whines. I realize the inevitable. Grab my flashlight. Turn the porch light on. Step out.

What's that beyond the light? There. And over there? I swing the flashlight back and forth like it's a gun, ready to fire at anything that moves. Jacob trots along, gaily. How can he leave the protection of the porch light, where my feet are  frozen, and my arms swing that flashlight wildly to save my life?

Hello? What's that sound?  If it's an animal, maybe I can scare it away by making lots of noise: "I'm here," I whine. "You stay there. OK. I'm here, no need to come near to me."

I've had enough. We're going to die out here. I must save my dog. And me. I reel Jacob in and we both climb back to safety.

Back to where light wards off all dangers.

My Rock-Solid Friends

We're heading north into British Columbia after visiting Skagway, Alaska, driving along the South Klondike Highway. Others encouraged us to travel this beautiful route. And we see why.

The miraculous landscape turns surreal at times. A handful of miles before Canadian Customs, we enter an eye-popping realm, where sub-alpine flowers in full bloom brush a moonscape with watercolors.  And then the flowers and color disappear, replaced by endless scenes of solid rock, some rolling, some jagged and ... wait ... what was that?

Off to my right. Movement?  And then again, here. Look.

WOW! What am I seeing? Scattered rocks? Wait. Little piles of rocks? NO! Rock PEOPLE!

Look at them all. There must be thousands of them built alongside the road, standing on multiple ledges in a barren landscape of mostly rock. But they're really hard to see; they blend into the background. Rock into rock. And as I turn my head left and right, they pop into my peripheral views, appearing to move. Menacing me with their outstretched arms. 

Wow.

We stop. Get out.  I want to salute.

Because there is an army of these silent sentinels, thousands and thousands of piles of rocks assembled to look like little people, guarding the land as far back as I can see.

I walk among these foot-high protectors, staring, my mouth  open. I swear I see movement again. Back there. Over here.

I know it's not so. These are rocks, solid minerals. Collected and assembled by tourists like me. 

So I do the same.

I climb back into the ranks (just a little), collect a pile  of jagged rocks and struggle to build my own little man. When I'm done, he looks more like a pile or rocks than a little warrior. But he's mine. And I'm proud.

We take his picture (at right), salute, then drive off.

At Customs, the border patrol guard tells us these rock warriors are inuksuk, a native word meaning "in the likeness of humans." They are little  markers People of the North build as signposts in a landscape barren of trees and other natural landmarks. They build them, he says, to point the way home, mark a burial site or good hunting grounds, and even to designate a place where powerful spirits dwell.

Sometimes, they build them as warriors, to act as fellow hunters, to scare animals right into a trap.

So, I'm thinking as we drive away, these little warriors  are sentient beings with an inner energy. They serve. They survive.

And I imagine the gang we left behind is, at this moment, springing to life to help my little pile of rocks become a warrior, just like them.

Out Of Their Mouths

Colorful leaves obscure Dillon the Screech Owl. 

About 400 Bald Eagles live in Haines, AK.

In the fall, that number swells to 4,000 when a late salmon run chokes the  Chilkat River.

So now I'm here, in the Valley of the Eagle. And to learn more about them, I visit the American Bald Eagle Foundation.

Once inside, I mosey around and watch a trainer feed Scottie, a resident (and permanently disabled) Bald Eagle who eyes me with mistrust. Then I see a barred owl on a perch. And he's watching me. His hoot-owl eyes are like saucers. Eerie.

Next up is a  red-tailed hawk, who also watches me as I watch him. His eyes shiny, beady. Then I see Dillon.

Dillon (I learn his name later) is a tiny,  tiny screech owl. He's so small, and blends in so well with the bark and leaves on his perch I almost miss him.

He catches my eye because his eyes are squinty. Little slits. Next to him is a little girl, maybe 10 or 12,  with long dark hair, just standing there, wearing a huge heavy leather glove. I look around for Mom or Dad, thinking they'll take her picture soon.

I'm sure this is a touristy photo op, which means there's a person nearby to answer questions about the bird.

I walk closer and, yes, I see the woman. About 60. Wearing a badge. So I ask: "Is he nocturnal?" She sort of nods "Yes," but she doesn't look at me.  "Well," I continue, trying to keep her attention, "I notice his eyes are closed down to slits ... is that what he usually looks like, or is he dozing?"

"Lydia," the woman says, ignoring me,  "This is your question."

I'm confused. Who's Lydia and why is this woman giving away my question?

Then, the little girl with the long brown hair and big leather glove speaks. "Oh, Dillon is asleep. He sleeps pretty much all day." And then she smiles. And with her eyes, she begs for more questions. I donate a few: "Will Dillon ever go free." Oh, no. He's blind in one eye." "How can you tell?"  When he opens his eyes, the pupils are different. One large, one small.

Oh my. This girl's  not just a pretty picture. She's a smart little cookie and she's in charge of Dillon. And so we go back and forth, me with questions, her with answers. Answers she provides with grace and confidence. 

I learn not just about Dillon, but I find out Lydia is a junior ranger of sorts, and went through a foundation training program to  earn the right to handle the birds. She's even on YouTube, she tells me.

And then the woman, the one who didn't want to steal Lydia's show, tells her the time's up. Dillon has to go back to his cage.

So he and Lydia leave. I walk away, too, thinking "out of the mouths of babes ..."