Category Archives: Uncategorized

Rainy Charleston morning

Charleston is a magical city, even in the rain. The big “pictures” I  took with my mind and heart.  A few little details, I took with my cell phone camera.

Window shopping in Wallace

I’m pulling together sets of photos from my travels so far.  Here’s one from Wallace, Idaho.

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Meeting people along the way (Part 2)

In geographically random order, here are a few more of the folks I’ve met along the way….

 

When Anthony was a kid, his uncle woke him up every morning by playing a stack of Delta Blues albums.  Every morning, the blues.

He hated it.

But somewhere along the line, the music entered his soul and became a part of him. The last 7 years, he’s worked here at the Delta Blues museum in Clarksdale, Mississippi. His favorite musician?  Now, that’s a tough one. But when pressed, he picks Muddy Waters, who grew up on a plantation just outside of town.

There’s an old telegram on the wall of the museum, wishing Muddy Waters a happy birthday. “Without you, we wouldn’t be who we are today,” it says.  And it’s signed Mick, Keith, Bill and Charlie. (i.e., for the younger set, the Rolling Stones.)

I told Anthony that my parents woke us many a Saturday morning with Johnny Cash.

He shuddered a bit and replied:  “No disrespect, ma’am, but I’m so sorry.”

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On this site, in 1897, nothing happened.

When I read this sign on the Holiday Motel Lodge in Lander, Wyoming, I knew it was my kind of place. I’d been camping for quite a while and was ready for electric lights and a hot shower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                            Betty                                                                                                      Barb

Comfortable, inexpensive, and a little quirky, the motel draws an eclectic clientele. Like me, I guess – and  the four 70-something gentlemen who were traveling to see the Four Corners in four separate vintage cars.

I planned to ask for a group shot of the men and their cars – the ’55 Chevy being the only one I recognized. But they were up and gone very early. And I wasn’t.

“The world comes to my door,” Barb said. She and her husband have run the motel for 15 years, taking over from his parents, who had it for 18.

Betty is on the cleaning crew. She lives out of town, on seven acres down a dirt road. She tried to retire at 70, but it just didn’t take.  Maybe next year.

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When I passed the rough-hewn structure deep in the Arkansas Ozarks, John was sitting in his porch rocking chair and adjusting his well-worn hat. I had no choice, really. I had to stop.

John and Annalie ­­­­­own a craft shop, chocked full of items they make themselves. Stunning hand-made quilts. Dozens of woven baskets. Intricately carved walking sticks.

For 34 years, John has been carefully picking which white oaks to harvest, shaving the thin strips and weaving intricate baskets. He wove a few around my fingers to show me how it’s done. Then he got out an old bucket, turned it over, and showed me how he weaves the base of a basket around it.

I was a goner.  I paid $30 for two of his baskets. And $230 for cedar chest that I knew would cost hundreds more just about anywhere else. It would have fit in the Toyota if I didn’t have so much (necessary) stuff packed in there.  Finally, I decided to have them ship it.

Annalie added up the numbers up with a stub of a pencil on her much-used notebook.  She kept shaking her head slightly. In pity, I think, for one so daft.

‘You think I’m crazy to spend $60 to ship this, don’t you?” I finally asked her.

“Yes, I do,” she replied without hesitation.

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I’d spent nearly an hour photographing a couple dozen donkeys in a field near Yates Center, Kansas, when they all started to bray at once. It was one of those rare times when one can legitimately use the word cacophony.

I had been so engrossed in my new four-legged friends that I hadn’t noticed the pickup truck when it pulled up beside me.  It was feeding time, and Jack Turner and his son, Lane, had arrived with a load of hay.

Retired first from the military and then from years of coaching and teaching high school, Jack now raises, shows and sells miniature donkeys. He was, of course, a wealth of information on the topic.

Did you know, for example, that:

  • Donkeys, jackasses, asses & burros are all the same animal?
  • That donkeys range in size from miniatures (up to 36” at the withers) to mammoths (56” and over?)
  • (Or, for that matter, that the withers indicate the high part of the back, between the shoulders?)
  • That males are called  Jacks and females Jennets (though many people call them Jennys?)
  • That people all over the country raise donkeys as a hobby or business?
  • A mule is the product of a male donkey and a female horse?

I didn’t.

Jack offered to show me some baby miniature donkeys, and I followed the truck  back to Jack’s house to do so. Soon they asked if I wanted to see the most beautiful mule in the country.  Who could pass that up? So the trek continued to Lane’s place.

Halle Berry is a site to behold, from her regale bearing to her pure-white eyelashes.  When I asked why he named her Halle Berry, Lane was quick with his answer: “Because her father is black and her mother is white, and she is beautiful.”

I did not find this odd. After all, I’ve had a dairy cow named after me.  They said it was because of the big brown eyes, but I’ve never been completely convinced of that….

Jim Beam in the Morning

Hurricane Sandy and 12 inches of snow  have a way of changing one’s plans.

My friend, Janice, met me in Lexington, KY, for a week of traveling together.  But instead of heading east, we turned west through the rolling hills of Kentucky. They really do roll, by the way, but even squinting, I couldn’t quite make the bluegrass look blue.

We visited the Sisters of Loreto Motherhouse, the boyhood home of Abe Lincoln, a lovely equestrian center and, yesterday morning, the Jim Beam Bourbon distillery.

Did you know that:
* 95% of the bourbon in the U.S. is made in Kentucky?
* If it’s not made in the U.S., it’s not bourbon?
* If it’s not put into a new cast, it’s not bourbon?
* There are more bottles of bourbon in Kentucky than there are people?

Maybe you did, but I didn’t.  I don’t drink bourbon, but I just found the whole process fascinating.  And visually alluring…

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So it was Jim Beam in the morning, and Churchill Downs in the afternoon. A good day.

 

You ain’t nothin but a hound dog

Bella taking a snooze on the porch of the house where Elvis was born and lived until he was 13.

Three days in Tupelo, Mississippi, and I hate to leave.  Partly, I suppose, because these have been three absolutely perfect summer days.  In October.

Yesterday was an errands/chore day and I bought a couple of carabinners in the Tupelo Hardware where Elvis bought his first guitar for $7.50. (I bought my first guitar in Aberdeen at the same store, in the same era Kurt Cobain bought his.  Unlike the other guys, it was my last guitar.  But I digress….)

Tupelo is pretty darn understated when it comes to Elvis.  The Tupelo Hardware Store has a plaque outside that tells you Elvis actually wanted a rifle, but his mother didn’t want him to have one, so they compromised on a guitar.  Inside, on one obscure wall, there’s a small bulletin board where Elvis impersonators leave their cards and fans leave a few notes, but that’s about it.

It’s the coolest hardware store I’ve ever been in – built in 1926, the walls are 18 feet or so high, lined with shelves full of building/farming/ranching stuff. Looks like the original flooring. I thought people were looking at me because I was the only woman in the place, but then I realized it might because I was unconsciously humming Love Me Tender.  Whoops.

While I was waiting in line to buy carabinners (I’ve discovered you can never have too many carabinners when you’re traveling) the elderly clerk asked his elderly customer:

Been over to the Delta lately?
Yep
Not the same these days, is it?
Nope.
Still got the best food around, though.
Yep.

I was over to the Delta before coming here.  More sunny days. Wandered along the Blues Trail listening to Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson and BB King as I drove.  Stopped in little towns along the way.

I have to confess, I enjoy called “Ma’am.” Everyone talks the ma’am- and-sir way, except for very old women, who are more likely to call you “Hon.”

At this moment, I’m sitting outside at the Tupelo Starbucks, using the Wi-Fi and getting a back-home fix.  After pulling up with my Washington plates, an interested gal wanted to chat.

You’re a long way from home!
Yes, ma’am, I am.
Well, bless your heart!
Thank you, ma’am.

I know I was only marginally polite, because I didn’t pause to talk. I’ve learned that a conversation can start with you’re a long way from home and before long you’re hearing about someone’s middle son who is on the verge of dropping out of high school and we’re worried about him a’course, but what can we do? Normally, I enjoy this very much, but this time Bella was still in the quickly heating car and I couldn’t leave her for more longer than it took to make a tall soy latte, extra hot!

Speaking of worried, oh fretting family members, know that I’m keeping an eye on the weather and staying well clear of Tropical Storm Sandy.

What lies beneath…

What you’ll find in Harrison, Arkansas:  A tidy town with clean streets and a solid feel to it.  A pleasant bike path along the Buffalo River.  Friendly folks who stop to chat with you, and then honk and wave when they see you elsewhere in town. An awesome historical museum.

What you won’t find in Harrison, Arkansas:  Any black faces. And no reference (not even in said awesome historical museum) as to how this happened in a region where 56% of the population is African American.

Here’s how it happened here:

The documentary “Banished” (which I have been unable to find in its entirety, but have now read much about) apparently tells this story of Harrison and other communities with similar histories. One article mentioned that these towns remain all-white to this day.

To this day?  Surely not.  So I took on the challenge of finding some black faces. I looked in passing cars, in local parks crowded with families.  In shops and banks, the library and the local hardware store. Fast food joints.

I looked in every room of every floor of the Boone County Historical Museum and found the county history, the city history, the Civil War heroes.  Even a room with the history of the local high school.  But not a word about what happened in 1907 and 1909.  And nary a black face in any photo, anywhere.

Finally, I saw a young African America man on the basketball court behind the junior high school. Families with tiny tikes in miniature shin guards were streaming passed him from the nearby soccer field. I had seen of groups boys playing pick-up football in nearby parks, but this guy was shooting hoops alone.

Later, I read that Harrison today has the largest and most active Ku Klux Klan unit in the U.S. I’m not sure what “active” means, but I found myself wondering who might be a member. The firefighter who waved at me as I drove by?  The gentleman who told me this is a nice, safe town?

I’m trying not to pass (too much) judgment here.  As it turns out, my great-great (and maybe one more great) Uncle John House was a slave owner in Missouri, and probably other great-greats were as well.

I just find the demographics and the selective history-telling to be disturbing.

 

 

 

After the storm…

With a major storm upon us, we slept in the car last night.  I oohed and ahhhed over the lightening show, while Bella finally stopped jumping up at every roar of thunder.  It was quite the night – we were rocked at times by the ever-present-but-now-stronger Oklahoma wind.

Unfortunately, I made a minor blunder while rearranging everything in the dark, and one duffle bag got let out in the rain. So this morning, the few RV-ers who passed by on their daily walk cast us nervous glances and gave us a wide berth.

Who could blame them?  A lone, wild-haired woman, clad in pajamas and hiking boots as she sits on the ground on the edge of her dog’s cushion.  Said dog sending them a deep-throated, look-out-she’s-just-on-her-first-cup-of-coffee warning growl. Underwear and shirts draped over anything handy to dry. I probably would not have not approach me either.

After the storm, a lovely morning. Chicken Creek Campground, Ten Killer Lake, Oklahoma.

 

Kansas out the window…

Once the Rockies are in your rear-view mirror, driving across eastern Denver and western Kansas can get a little . . . . monotonous . . . I entertained myself by aiming my little point-and-shoot camera out the window, using the top of my head or my shoulder to steady it a bit.  (Keeping one hand on the wheel and eyes on the road at almost all times, of course!)

Lots of bug splatters and a fair amount of blur.  But entertaining, none-the-less.  For me, anyhow!

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Figuring out WHY by 4 p.m.

I’m in Iola, Kansas, staying with my friends, Susan and Brian.  Susan is the publisher of the Iola Register.  On Friday, she asked me to write a guest column about why I’m doing this trip.  What could I do?  I’m getting luxury accommodations here:  A sink in the guest room!  An office to work in! Good food!  Free medical care (Brian is a doctor) for an obnoxious rash of blisters on my mouth! Tolerance for my dog in a house of two cats!

She had me. The deadline was 4 p.m., so I had a few hours to figure out why I’m doing this trip.  Here’s what I came up with.  The headline is hers.

Then and Now

The last time I drove onto Lowry Air Force base, I told the guard I was there to pick up my cousin, Joe.  He has something to do with bombs, I told the guard.  Munitions, the guard corrected.

It was 1977, and my friend Janice and I were on the First Epic Road Trip. We took Joe to see the Denver opening of Star Wars, which blew us away.  After the movie, we were blown a different way when our truck would not start. Nada. Nothing. Zip.

Finally, I dug up the phone number for the Aunt Doris of a kid back home, who’d given me her number — just in case.

I called Aunt Doris and explained our plight.  I was amazed (and grateful) by her immediate offer of help to someone she’d never met.

Eventually, I married the kid back home and got to see Aunt Doris from time to time.

Friday, as part of the Current Epic Road Trip, I made my second trip to what is now the Lowry neighborhood, an outstanding example of successful urban redevelopment.

Aunt Doris directed me to one of her favorite restaurants and peppered me with questions about the family.

Now 90, she’s still amazing.

“I wake up every morning grateful to be here,” she told me, quite cheerfully. “Why worry about tomorrow?  I may not be here tomorrow, so I just focus on being here today.”