On December 23, 2011 we ended our three and a half month circuit of the country.
We didn't know what to expect as we made the wide turn onto our driveway. But the gate worked. The gutters beside the driveway were not clogged with leaves. No fallen trees blocked our passage. The lawn was in decent shape. The big house and our garage apartment looked like it did when we left. No squatters had occupied the property. Our neighbors Alex and Delores had done a great job of maintaining the premises.
Our 840 square foot apartment felt palatial to us after those months in the motorhome. At first our dogs didn't appear to be excited, but they settled into their old routines pretty quickly. For Nancy and me it was weird being home, and it took a little time to realize that we didn't have to hook up the water and sewer hoses and electrical cable every day - that the handle for flushing the toilet was above the bowl, not below - that we didn't have to carry plastic poop bags whenever we took the dogs for a walk - that we didn't have to level our home every few days - that the stairs we use to exit the apartment don't retract and extend when we open and close the door - that we didn't have to strap down our dinette chairs so they wouldn't slide across the floor. Like that.
It was wonderful seeing friends and celebrating the holidays. The contrast with the scenery of the southwest we had driven through made us appreciate the beauty of California more than ever. It's fun being home. But we're still afflicted with wanderlust.
I'll take this opportunity to talk about some of the high and low points of our trip.
Our favorite city was Asheville, North Carolina. It's a beautiful place, the people are young, attractive, and friendly, and the climate is relatively mild, because it's around 2000 feet in elevation. Asheville is a college town, so there's a lot of music and culture.
We also liked Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, Walla Walla, Washington, and Missoula, Montana. Everywhere we went, people were friendly and interested in what we were doing. I think that the folks in southwest Louisiana were the nicest we came across. Now if we had talked politics or other controversial subjects, we might have a different opinion, but in general southerners were our favorites, for their kindness and gentle manners.
Our favorite driving experiences were Skyline Drive in the Shenandoah National Park, the Blue Ridge Parkway, and the Natchez Trace. Just sublime, all of them, and Shenandoah was especially beautiful because of the recent snowfall.
For me, the loveliest sights were Glacier Park up in Montana and the Teton ranges in Wyoming. Of course the fall colors in New England were spectacular. The prettiest campgrounds were Poche's Fishing Camp in Breaux Bridge, La, Mama Gertie's RV Park in Asheville, NC, and the Elks Lodge in Waynesboro, Pa.
Our favorite museums were the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, the Lyndon Johnson Presidential Library in Austin, Thomas Jefferson's Monticello in Charlottesville, Virginia, the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum in Tucson, and the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas.
We didn't eat out a lot, and many of our favorite meals were home grown, some cooked outside on our propane grill. The restaurant dishes we'll remember best are the Fried Shrimp Po-Boys in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the taco lunch at the Trailer Park in Austin, the pork belly pizza and deep fried wild boar meatballs at the Driskill Hotel in Austin, and the bison cheese fondue in Missoula.
On the other side of the ledger, our worst driving experience was the poorly maintained toll roads in the suburbs of Chicago at rush hour. Frightening. The traffic we experienced in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee was the heaviest and slowest I'd ever seen anywhere, and we lived in the greater Los Angeles area some years back.
As I said earlier, the scenery on the drive home through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and eastern California was just plain ugly and by far the worst of our trip. I apologize if I've hurt anybody's feelings. Things hit rock bottom when our dogs were covered by stickers in what we consider to be the armpit of the nation, somewhere near Alpine, Texas.
Another low point of our adventure was about a month into it when something on the motorhome seemed to be breaking every few days. Miraculously, at some point the glitches stopped, and we had no mechanical problems at all the last month and a half of the trip.
By the time we finally pulled into Ben Lomond, we felt like veterans of the RV lifestyle. We had discovered that we can live happily in what some would consider cramped spaces, that we enjoy sharing new experiences together every day, and that our dogs make us happy.
We are already talking about where we want to go next. Up north to Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia? A swing through Colorado and Utah? Yosemite? Tahoe? We'll let you know.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Paso Robles
Crossing the California border and heading toward home, it occurred to us that ever since the Mississippi River delta in Louisiana, we had seen very few trees. From Texas, through New Mexico and Arizona and even eastern California, the terrain had been flat and mostly ugly, to our eyes at least, with bare dirt and dormant grasses and scrub brush and not much else, except for occasional hills and small mountains in the distance.
.
We stayed one night at a campground in Bakersfield. The driver of the motorhome parked next to us was a middle-aged black man. Nancy, having recently spent a lot of time in the South, walked over and said to him, "I don't think we've seen a single colored person in an RV before, our whole trip!"
Our 41st wedding anniversary was December 22, and we wanted to celebrate it in an area that we consider special - Paso Robles, which has a charming downtown, lots of fine restaurants, and is the fastest growing wine region in the country, I'm told. We had great crabcakes for lunch at Cass Winery, did wine tastings at a couple of the 150 wineries in Paso Robles, and our anniversary dinner was at Robert's, a wonderful restaurant in the downtown area. Nancy is a treasure in my eyes, and I consider myself damned lucky to have found her all those years ago. Spending three and a half months in an RV will test a marriage, and ours made the honor roll.
The next morning, as we prepared to leave on the last leg of our journey, back to our home in Ben Lomond, I found the water hose which runs from the spigot to our motorhome's water supply inlet frozen solid. I'd forgotten that California does get cold sometimes.
After the flat mostly desert landscape of the south central US, the rolling hills and vineyards around Paso Robles were very attractive, and when we approached and then turned onto Hwy 1 at Moss Landing, with its lush trees and views of the ocean and nearby mountains, we were reminded of just how beautiful California is. Our state may be destitute, but at least it looks good. And that's what's important, right?
.
We stayed one night at a campground in Bakersfield. The driver of the motorhome parked next to us was a middle-aged black man. Nancy, having recently spent a lot of time in the South, walked over and said to him, "I don't think we've seen a single colored person in an RV before, our whole trip!"
Our 41st wedding anniversary was December 22, and we wanted to celebrate it in an area that we consider special - Paso Robles, which has a charming downtown, lots of fine restaurants, and is the fastest growing wine region in the country, I'm told. We had great crabcakes for lunch at Cass Winery, did wine tastings at a couple of the 150 wineries in Paso Robles, and our anniversary dinner was at Robert's, a wonderful restaurant in the downtown area. Nancy is a treasure in my eyes, and I consider myself damned lucky to have found her all those years ago. Spending three and a half months in an RV will test a marriage, and ours made the honor roll.
The next morning, as we prepared to leave on the last leg of our journey, back to our home in Ben Lomond, I found the water hose which runs from the spigot to our motorhome's water supply inlet frozen solid. I'd forgotten that California does get cold sometimes.
After the flat mostly desert landscape of the south central US, the rolling hills and vineyards around Paso Robles were very attractive, and when we approached and then turned onto Hwy 1 at Moss Landing, with its lush trees and views of the ocean and nearby mountains, we were reminded of just how beautiful California is. Our state may be destitute, but at least it looks good. And that's what's important, right?
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Lake Havasu City
With the weather worsening in Flagstaff and Albuquerque, we stayed to the south, and parked one night at BlueWater Resort, an Indian casino in Parker, Arizona. Casinos, like Walmarts, are a source of free overnight camping. Of course there is no electricity or water, but most RV's are self-contained to one extent or other. Our GPS description of this casino said that anybody can stay in one parking space for three days, then they have to move to a different space, but can continue to park there. We learned that that three day rule had never been enforced. There were a lot of RV's, most of them pretty delapidated-looking. We talked with one fellow who had been there for a month, and he said that a camper just down the row had been there for two years. They have to drive about ten miles away to get free water fillups. Tough life, especially in the summer heat.
The next day we drove to a nice campground in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. That's the town where you can drive across the London Bridge. Back in 1967 London deemed its London Bridge unsafe for the high volume of vehicular traffic and dismantled it. The external masonry was bought by an American, Robert McCulloch, transported to Arizona, and used to build a replica of the bridge as a tourist attraction. Nancy and I happened to visit Lake Havasu City within a year or two of its reconstruction, in the small and primitive motorhome we owned at the time. At that point there wasn't much there except for the bridge and a sleepy little village.
What a change! Lake Havasu City is now a good sized city on a pretty lake, surrounded by mountains. The whole area is a mecca for RV's. This is one of the prime sites for "snowbirds" - the folks from cold climates in Canada and the northern US who head south for the winter. There may be just as many or more in Florida and the Gulf Coast, but you'd think half the RV's and half the mobile homes in America are there, packed in parks along the various lakes in the area, and up in the hills. Generally this isn't the kind of scenery that Nancy and I like, but the town has the feel of a beach resort, and it's rather attractive.
We had our first In-And-Out burgers since we left California, and we took a ferry across the lake to Havasu Landing, which features a casino and resort on the California side. We had a cheese plate and Lemon Drop cocktails at a picnic table at our campground while we watched the sunset. Other than interfacing with our fellow RVers at the campground, there wasn't much to do in Lake Havasu City, except for the excitement of the 49er-Steelers game on TV.
It's beginning to hit us that we're going to be back home, back to the real world, in less than a week. Bittersweet. Of course we look forward to seeing friends for the holidays, but we've learned that we really, really like motohome living. Every day was an adventure. Some of those adventures were small, some were big, many were wonderful, a few were frightening, but we were never bored. We find ourselves daydreaming about another - shorter - trip, in the spring of 2012.
The next day we drove to a nice campground in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. That's the town where you can drive across the London Bridge. Back in 1967 London deemed its London Bridge unsafe for the high volume of vehicular traffic and dismantled it. The external masonry was bought by an American, Robert McCulloch, transported to Arizona, and used to build a replica of the bridge as a tourist attraction. Nancy and I happened to visit Lake Havasu City within a year or two of its reconstruction, in the small and primitive motorhome we owned at the time. At that point there wasn't much there except for the bridge and a sleepy little village.
What a change! Lake Havasu City is now a good sized city on a pretty lake, surrounded by mountains. The whole area is a mecca for RV's. This is one of the prime sites for "snowbirds" - the folks from cold climates in Canada and the northern US who head south for the winter. There may be just as many or more in Florida and the Gulf Coast, but you'd think half the RV's and half the mobile homes in America are there, packed in parks along the various lakes in the area, and up in the hills. Generally this isn't the kind of scenery that Nancy and I like, but the town has the feel of a beach resort, and it's rather attractive.
We had our first In-And-Out burgers since we left California, and we took a ferry across the lake to Havasu Landing, which features a casino and resort on the California side. We had a cheese plate and Lemon Drop cocktails at a picnic table at our campground while we watched the sunset. Other than interfacing with our fellow RVers at the campground, there wasn't much to do in Lake Havasu City, except for the excitement of the 49er-Steelers game on TV.
It's beginning to hit us that we're going to be back home, back to the real world, in less than a week. Bittersweet. Of course we look forward to seeing friends for the holidays, but we've learned that we really, really like motohome living. Every day was an adventure. Some of those adventures were small, some were big, many were wonderful, a few were frightening, but we were never bored. We find ourselves daydreaming about another - shorter - trip, in the spring of 2012.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Tucson, AZ
Well, there was a border checkpoint on the freeway out of El Paso - but it was so far out of town that there must have been all sorts of ways to avoid it, if we had been so inclined. With our honest faces, they just waved us through, which was a relief to Maria, Corazon, and Rosalita hiding in back.
We stayed that night in Deming, New Mexico, partly because of a billboard advertising St. Clair winery as the producer of the best white wine in America, according to somebody or other. The campground we stayed in turned out to be, we learned, the national headquarters for Loners on Wheels, an RV singles club. Nancy said that the people she talked with at the bunkhouse - the general meeting room - were extremely sweet and invited us to a potluck supper. Luckily, none of the gentlemen singles there won her away from me.
After our experiences in Texas, we weren't expecting much from the St. Clair tasting room, but we learned that the winemaker is French and that most of the grapes are indeed grown in the area. Surprisingly, the wines were good, and reasonably priced.
The weather reports on the internet the next morning were not encouraging. Heavy snow was falling in Flagstaff and Albuquerque, which were at higher elevations, so safety dictated that we head to Tucson, Arizona, instead. Still, our driving weather was bad, and when we climbed over a summit near the Arizona border, the rain turned to snow.
Our campground in Tucson was a big one, with lots of palm trees. Over a thousand sites, most of them mobile homes. With all the rain, the gravel base was a little soft, but we got settled in a nice big space in the RV section.
Just after five o'clock we noticed some commotion in the next row. A motorhome that had just pulled into their site had sunk about a foot into the gravel. We later learned that some digging had been done there recently, without compacting, and the heavy rain had resulted in a quicksand effect. A tow truck was called, and the RV park had to foot the bill.
We awoke the next morning to clear skies, with beautiful snow-covered mountains in the distance. We visited the Desert Museum, where you walk outdoors among the flora and fauna of the Sonoran desert. The highlight of the day was when the handlers brought out five magnificent raptors - Harris Hawks - which flew from Saguaro cactus to tree branch to plucking prey out of the air. Often they passed within what seemed like inches over our heads. We also toured the International Wildlife Museum, which features the taxidermist's art, plus an astonishing display of trays of butterflies, moths, beetles, and other insects. The primary lesson of both museums was the absolutely incredible diversity of animal and plant life that evolution has given us.
Our dogs had gotten a little dirty and stinky, so we had a personal grooming day for them. At a self service dog washing salon, Nancy washed and blow dried Tammy Faye, and I did Sophia. Nice job, humans.
We stayed that night in Deming, New Mexico, partly because of a billboard advertising St. Clair winery as the producer of the best white wine in America, according to somebody or other. The campground we stayed in turned out to be, we learned, the national headquarters for Loners on Wheels, an RV singles club. Nancy said that the people she talked with at the bunkhouse - the general meeting room - were extremely sweet and invited us to a potluck supper. Luckily, none of the gentlemen singles there won her away from me.
After our experiences in Texas, we weren't expecting much from the St. Clair tasting room, but we learned that the winemaker is French and that most of the grapes are indeed grown in the area. Surprisingly, the wines were good, and reasonably priced.
The weather reports on the internet the next morning were not encouraging. Heavy snow was falling in Flagstaff and Albuquerque, which were at higher elevations, so safety dictated that we head to Tucson, Arizona, instead. Still, our driving weather was bad, and when we climbed over a summit near the Arizona border, the rain turned to snow.
Our campground in Tucson was a big one, with lots of palm trees. Over a thousand sites, most of them mobile homes. With all the rain, the gravel base was a little soft, but we got settled in a nice big space in the RV section.
Just after five o'clock we noticed some commotion in the next row. A motorhome that had just pulled into their site had sunk about a foot into the gravel. We later learned that some digging had been done there recently, without compacting, and the heavy rain had resulted in a quicksand effect. A tow truck was called, and the RV park had to foot the bill.
We awoke the next morning to clear skies, with beautiful snow-covered mountains in the distance. We visited the Desert Museum, where you walk outdoors among the flora and fauna of the Sonoran desert. The highlight of the day was when the handlers brought out five magnificent raptors - Harris Hawks - which flew from Saguaro cactus to tree branch to plucking prey out of the air. Often they passed within what seemed like inches over our heads. We also toured the International Wildlife Museum, which features the taxidermist's art, plus an astonishing display of trays of butterflies, moths, beetles, and other insects. The primary lesson of both museums was the absolutely incredible diversity of animal and plant life that evolution has given us.
Our dogs had gotten a little dirty and stinky, so we had a personal grooming day for them. At a self service dog washing salon, Nancy washed and blow dried Tammy Faye, and I did Sophia. Nice job, humans.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
West Texas
A lady in Fredericksburg told Nancy that Alpine, Texas is a real pretty college town, and the roads to and from it are scenic. So we decided to head there on our way west.
Along the way we pulled into a rest stop, and I took Tammy Faye and Sophia out to do their business. They wandered out into the underbrush, generally a better business environment than concrete. Suddenly they stopped moving, and I couldn't get them to even walk back to the motorhome. They had stepped into a sticker patch, and their coats were full of nasty stickers. When I tried to pull them off, it hurt me as well, for each little kernel was covered with sharp needlepoints. There were stickers in our dogs' pawpads, which was the reason they were unable to walk. I had to carry the two of them, one under each arm, back to the motorhome.
Nancy and I spent almost an hour removing the stickers from the dogs' coats and paws, combing, pulling, and cutting them out. It was awful, but we got them all.
We stopped for the night at a campground near Ozona, Texas. The campground manager, who stank of alcohol, told Nancy that the area was full of stickers, and that our dogs should not, under any circumstances, be allowed off the gravel. That evening, when they had to do their toilet duties, we carried them to the gravel driveway beside our site. But after only a few steps, they became immobilized again, and we had to extract more stickers from their pawpads. The whole area was infested.
The only solution was for Nancy and me to each carry a dog in our arms about a hundred yards to a concrete area that was nowhere close to any dirt or underbrush, and thus, we hoped, safe. There, after much coaxing, our dogs were able to perform, and remained sticker-free. We repeated that process, with good results, the next morning, before we left.
That part of Texas is an absolute hellhole for long-haired dogs and the men and women who love them.
We drove into Alpine, Texas that afternoon. It was a one-horse town, and the horse was lame. Alpine did indeed have a college, but that's about all. Nancy had been misled. We had planned to stay there for several days, but soon realized that it wasn't a three-day town. After one night at a campground there, we drove to El Paso. The landscape along the way was stark, almost treeless, with cactus and sagebrush and dormant vegetation. Ever so often we'd see a house out in the middle of nowhere and wonder what could lead a person to settle there.
El Paso is right on the Mexican border, across from Juarez, which has mostly been taken over by the drug cartel. Entering the city, driving on a freeway, we saw a fence just over to our left and suddenly realized that this was the border fence erected by the US to keep out illegal immigrants. It didn't look tall enough to be of much use, but later we saw that there was a deep concrete ditch on the other side.
Our campground for the next two days was a mobile home park in the barrio with some campsites for RV's. There was a wall around the place, with barbed wire on the fences, and a security guard at night. Very confidence-inspiring. Once, when Nancy took our dogs out for a toilet run, a flock of squawking guinea hens came charging at them, and they had to retreat back to the motorhome, venturing out again only after the band of birds had departed.
We drove into the city and saw a large number of people walking across a bridge from Mexico into the US, and most of them were shopping at stores on the US side. At a tourist information center a few blocks away, we were told that it's easy for Mexicans to get shopping passes, and they like to come over and buy our goods, which is great for the local economy. The lady said that there are checkpoints on all the roads out of El Paso, and there's good recordkeeping, so it's not easy to leave the area, thus few illegal aliens come across that way. I remain skeptical.
We asked about local sports bars so I could watch the 49er game. Our information lady told us that there is a 49er support group in El Paso, that they meet at a bar every week to watch the game, and that this week they would be at Smoky's. We went to Smoky's on Sunday afternoon and indeed there were a number of 49er fans, some of them wearing the jerseys of Michael Crabtree, Vernon Davis, Patrick Willis, and others. Most of them were Hispanic, and one was a border guard who told us about his work. Unfortunately, San Francisco lost that football game, but it was fun sharing the experience with my El Paso brethren.
As we were preparing to leave our barrio campground, Nancy had a conversation with the lady manager and learned that during the construction of the border fence, there was gunfire from the Mexican side, and some of the El Paso buildings still bear the scars. And that many of the border shops and businesses in Mexico had shut down, because they either paid protection money to the cartel or were forced out. And that there were eight murders in Juarez this past weekend. Sounds to me as lawless and dangerous as Somalia.
Along the way we pulled into a rest stop, and I took Tammy Faye and Sophia out to do their business. They wandered out into the underbrush, generally a better business environment than concrete. Suddenly they stopped moving, and I couldn't get them to even walk back to the motorhome. They had stepped into a sticker patch, and their coats were full of nasty stickers. When I tried to pull them off, it hurt me as well, for each little kernel was covered with sharp needlepoints. There were stickers in our dogs' pawpads, which was the reason they were unable to walk. I had to carry the two of them, one under each arm, back to the motorhome.
Nancy and I spent almost an hour removing the stickers from the dogs' coats and paws, combing, pulling, and cutting them out. It was awful, but we got them all.
We stopped for the night at a campground near Ozona, Texas. The campground manager, who stank of alcohol, told Nancy that the area was full of stickers, and that our dogs should not, under any circumstances, be allowed off the gravel. That evening, when they had to do their toilet duties, we carried them to the gravel driveway beside our site. But after only a few steps, they became immobilized again, and we had to extract more stickers from their pawpads. The whole area was infested.
The only solution was for Nancy and me to each carry a dog in our arms about a hundred yards to a concrete area that was nowhere close to any dirt or underbrush, and thus, we hoped, safe. There, after much coaxing, our dogs were able to perform, and remained sticker-free. We repeated that process, with good results, the next morning, before we left.
That part of Texas is an absolute hellhole for long-haired dogs and the men and women who love them.
We drove into Alpine, Texas that afternoon. It was a one-horse town, and the horse was lame. Alpine did indeed have a college, but that's about all. Nancy had been misled. We had planned to stay there for several days, but soon realized that it wasn't a three-day town. After one night at a campground there, we drove to El Paso. The landscape along the way was stark, almost treeless, with cactus and sagebrush and dormant vegetation. Ever so often we'd see a house out in the middle of nowhere and wonder what could lead a person to settle there.
El Paso is right on the Mexican border, across from Juarez, which has mostly been taken over by the drug cartel. Entering the city, driving on a freeway, we saw a fence just over to our left and suddenly realized that this was the border fence erected by the US to keep out illegal immigrants. It didn't look tall enough to be of much use, but later we saw that there was a deep concrete ditch on the other side.
Our campground for the next two days was a mobile home park in the barrio with some campsites for RV's. There was a wall around the place, with barbed wire on the fences, and a security guard at night. Very confidence-inspiring. Once, when Nancy took our dogs out for a toilet run, a flock of squawking guinea hens came charging at them, and they had to retreat back to the motorhome, venturing out again only after the band of birds had departed.
We drove into the city and saw a large number of people walking across a bridge from Mexico into the US, and most of them were shopping at stores on the US side. At a tourist information center a few blocks away, we were told that it's easy for Mexicans to get shopping passes, and they like to come over and buy our goods, which is great for the local economy. The lady said that there are checkpoints on all the roads out of El Paso, and there's good recordkeeping, so it's not easy to leave the area, thus few illegal aliens come across that way. I remain skeptical.
We asked about local sports bars so I could watch the 49er game. Our information lady told us that there is a 49er support group in El Paso, that they meet at a bar every week to watch the game, and that this week they would be at Smoky's. We went to Smoky's on Sunday afternoon and indeed there were a number of 49er fans, some of them wearing the jerseys of Michael Crabtree, Vernon Davis, Patrick Willis, and others. Most of them were Hispanic, and one was a border guard who told us about his work. Unfortunately, San Francisco lost that football game, but it was fun sharing the experience with my El Paso brethren.
As we were preparing to leave our barrio campground, Nancy had a conversation with the lady manager and learned that during the construction of the border fence, there was gunfire from the Mexican side, and some of the El Paso buildings still bear the scars. And that many of the border shops and businesses in Mexico had shut down, because they either paid protection money to the cartel or were forced out. And that there were eight murders in Juarez this past weekend. Sounds to me as lawless and dangerous as Somalia.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Fredericksburg, TX
Fredericksburg, Texas, not far from San Antonio and Austin, is a town settled in the 1800's by German immigrants. We saw brochures indicating that it is a prominent Texas wine area and has other attractions, and we decided to stop there on our way west.
We found a very charming tourist town. Lots of pretty buildings, many of them very old and made of light-colored locally quarried stone. A variety of interesting shops along the main drag, including wine tasting rooms. And most importantly, one of the finest museums I've ever visited - the National Museum of the Pacific War.
This is a large complex that includes the Admiral Nimitz museum (Chester Nimitz grew up in Fredericksburg and as Commander in Chief of the US Pacific Fleet was the American signee of Japan's terms of surrender) and the George H. W. Bush Gallery (Daddy Bush was the pilot of a bomber shot down in the Pacific in WWII). It's easy to spend hours in the Bush Gallery, which consists of what seems to be a never ending series of irregular rooms, each telling a story about some aspect of the conflict. I learned a lot. For example, I wasn't aware of how militarily aggressive Japan was long before the war. Submarines, planes, boats, artillery pieces, and tanks from both sides, some of them heavily damaged, were displayed. If you're a World War II buff, Fredericksburg might be worth a special trip.
By coincidence, we were there on December 7, the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Some survivors of that attack were honored at a big ceremony on the grounds of the museum, which featured a flyover by vintage prop planes.
There are a number of wine tasting rooms along the main street. At one of them, D'Vine Wine, all the wines were somewhat sweeter than we're used to, and even though the grapes were from California, the wines were not of high quality. Our sommelier revealed that he had been taught how to make their wine in the back room, which I don't think is the way they do it in Bordeaux.
We popped into another tasting room down the street - one which featured a variety of the locally grown, locally bottled product. Unfortunately, what was poured - cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, or merlot - had nothing in common with the corresponding varietals we enjoy back home. And we're easy graders.
Surprisingly, the weather was bitter cold. Ice on the windshields. Well below freezing at night. We had the fireplace, which is really an electric space heater, running all night at full bore, supplemented by our gas furnace. Nancy is pleased, in a way, because this means that we won't be able to stay at any more Walmarts until the cold snap breaks, since we need a campground's electric service to stay warm. In fact, the internet told us that Albuquerque, New Mexico, which we had planned to visit next week, was running nightime temps in the low teens, with heavy snow, and we may have to reconsider our route.
But the local people were great. At a grocery store the employees were so incredibly friendly that as we were walking out, I whispered to Nancy that we were going to have to re-evaluate our low opinion of Texans. A lady just ahead of us started laughing. I was mortified.
We found a very charming tourist town. Lots of pretty buildings, many of them very old and made of light-colored locally quarried stone. A variety of interesting shops along the main drag, including wine tasting rooms. And most importantly, one of the finest museums I've ever visited - the National Museum of the Pacific War.
This is a large complex that includes the Admiral Nimitz museum (Chester Nimitz grew up in Fredericksburg and as Commander in Chief of the US Pacific Fleet was the American signee of Japan's terms of surrender) and the George H. W. Bush Gallery (Daddy Bush was the pilot of a bomber shot down in the Pacific in WWII). It's easy to spend hours in the Bush Gallery, which consists of what seems to be a never ending series of irregular rooms, each telling a story about some aspect of the conflict. I learned a lot. For example, I wasn't aware of how militarily aggressive Japan was long before the war. Submarines, planes, boats, artillery pieces, and tanks from both sides, some of them heavily damaged, were displayed. If you're a World War II buff, Fredericksburg might be worth a special trip.
By coincidence, we were there on December 7, the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Some survivors of that attack were honored at a big ceremony on the grounds of the museum, which featured a flyover by vintage prop planes.
There are a number of wine tasting rooms along the main street. At one of them, D'Vine Wine, all the wines were somewhat sweeter than we're used to, and even though the grapes were from California, the wines were not of high quality. Our sommelier revealed that he had been taught how to make their wine in the back room, which I don't think is the way they do it in Bordeaux.
We popped into another tasting room down the street - one which featured a variety of the locally grown, locally bottled product. Unfortunately, what was poured - cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, or merlot - had nothing in common with the corresponding varietals we enjoy back home. And we're easy graders.
Surprisingly, the weather was bitter cold. Ice on the windshields. Well below freezing at night. We had the fireplace, which is really an electric space heater, running all night at full bore, supplemented by our gas furnace. Nancy is pleased, in a way, because this means that we won't be able to stay at any more Walmarts until the cold snap breaks, since we need a campground's electric service to stay warm. In fact, the internet told us that Albuquerque, New Mexico, which we had planned to visit next week, was running nightime temps in the low teens, with heavy snow, and we may have to reconsider our route.
But the local people were great. At a grocery store the employees were so incredibly friendly that as we were walking out, I whispered to Nancy that we were going to have to re-evaluate our low opinion of Texans. A lady just ahead of us started laughing. I was mortified.
Monday, December 5, 2011
San Antonio and Austin
We thought of Texas as mostly a lot of miles to get across, except for two cities - San Antonio and Austin.
I remembered the San Antonio River Walk fondly from a business trip many years ago. Created back in the 1920's as part of a flood control program, it consists of walkways along the banks of the San Antonio river, running one level below the streets of downtown San Antonio. You walk alongside the water, no barriers to prevent an impaired celebrant from falling in, and mostly what you see is one pretty restaurant after another. No fast food, no T-shirt shops, no gee-gaw stores, just mid to upper class restaurants, hotels, and bars. The river - which here is really a canal dug for commercial purposes - winds back and forth in a picturesque way, and it's exhilarating to stroll along, taking in the sights and sounds at night. When we were there, some of the trees had been wrapped with Christmas lights, and it was all pretty spectacular. One night we ate at Salt Grass Steak House, another at a Tex-Mex place. Lots of charm.
During the day we took the dogs along on a part of the River Walk that was fairly new and hadn't been commercially developed yet. We talked with a cop on a bicycle who told us that his primary duty was to keep homeless people from sleeping and congregating on the walk.
On our last morning in San Antonio we toured their other big tourist attraction, the Alamo, and learned its history. San Antonio is a nice town, and only about 80 miles from Austin, the state capitol, which was next on our list.
We'd heard a lot of nice things about Austin. Our campground, within the city limits, was McKinney Falls State Park. It rained off and on both on the way there and during our stay. We dropped into a tourist office downtown and asked about the drought we had read about. The lady said that this rain, and some last week, was the first they had gotten in almost a year. They had thirty days straight of over 100 degree heat this summer and were still experiencing rolling blackouts.
She told us that they would be lighting the state Christmas tree the next evening. I asked if the governor would be there. When Nancy made some disparaging remark about Governor Perry, the lady said that there were bumper stickers quoting Molly Ivans, saying, "I TOLD you not to elect a Texan president!" As we were leaving, the black employee holding the door for us told us that a local columnist had said that Rick Perry and Ron Paul would make us miss George W. Bush.
I'm just reporting the conversations, folks, not making a political statement.
Austin is an impressive city, with a few magnificent skyscrapers, but a downtown that's easily and pleasantly walkable. Sixth Street, only a few blocks from the capitol building, has a bunch of nice restaurants and bars with live music - and Austin has an incredible amount of high-quality music. It reminds you of Bourbon Street, but without the girlie shows. We had a lovely dinner at a fine old hotel, the Driskill, and observed the local population. It's a city with a lot of well dressed young people and appeared to me to be number one among the places we've visited in the attractiveness of its citizens, for those of you keeping score. The womenfolk are particularly well turned out.
We visited the Lyndon Johnson Presidential Library, which is beautifully done, and came away with an appreciation of what an outstanding president he was, in many ways. The quantity of important legislation under his watch was unprecedented. Of course his escalation of the Vietnam War made him unpopular and hurt his legacy.
Austin was the birthplace of Whole Foods, and we shopped at their flagship store, which may be the greatest grocery store we've ever seen, though not the cheapest. For lunch one day we went to the Trailer Park, which is a semi-permanent collection of food trailers. Nancy said that the shrimp taco may have been her favorite Mexican meal of all time.
The weather didn't allow us to explore Austin as much as we would have liked, but Lord knows they need the rain. Another reason not to complain is that we heard about the high winds and power outages back in the Santa Cruz area at the same time. Our overall impression was that Austin would be a great place to live, but not in the summer.
I remembered the San Antonio River Walk fondly from a business trip many years ago. Created back in the 1920's as part of a flood control program, it consists of walkways along the banks of the San Antonio river, running one level below the streets of downtown San Antonio. You walk alongside the water, no barriers to prevent an impaired celebrant from falling in, and mostly what you see is one pretty restaurant after another. No fast food, no T-shirt shops, no gee-gaw stores, just mid to upper class restaurants, hotels, and bars. The river - which here is really a canal dug for commercial purposes - winds back and forth in a picturesque way, and it's exhilarating to stroll along, taking in the sights and sounds at night. When we were there, some of the trees had been wrapped with Christmas lights, and it was all pretty spectacular. One night we ate at Salt Grass Steak House, another at a Tex-Mex place. Lots of charm.
During the day we took the dogs along on a part of the River Walk that was fairly new and hadn't been commercially developed yet. We talked with a cop on a bicycle who told us that his primary duty was to keep homeless people from sleeping and congregating on the walk.
On our last morning in San Antonio we toured their other big tourist attraction, the Alamo, and learned its history. San Antonio is a nice town, and only about 80 miles from Austin, the state capitol, which was next on our list.
We'd heard a lot of nice things about Austin. Our campground, within the city limits, was McKinney Falls State Park. It rained off and on both on the way there and during our stay. We dropped into a tourist office downtown and asked about the drought we had read about. The lady said that this rain, and some last week, was the first they had gotten in almost a year. They had thirty days straight of over 100 degree heat this summer and were still experiencing rolling blackouts.
She told us that they would be lighting the state Christmas tree the next evening. I asked if the governor would be there. When Nancy made some disparaging remark about Governor Perry, the lady said that there were bumper stickers quoting Molly Ivans, saying, "I TOLD you not to elect a Texan president!" As we were leaving, the black employee holding the door for us told us that a local columnist had said that Rick Perry and Ron Paul would make us miss George W. Bush.
I'm just reporting the conversations, folks, not making a political statement.
Austin is an impressive city, with a few magnificent skyscrapers, but a downtown that's easily and pleasantly walkable. Sixth Street, only a few blocks from the capitol building, has a bunch of nice restaurants and bars with live music - and Austin has an incredible amount of high-quality music. It reminds you of Bourbon Street, but without the girlie shows. We had a lovely dinner at a fine old hotel, the Driskill, and observed the local population. It's a city with a lot of well dressed young people and appeared to me to be number one among the places we've visited in the attractiveness of its citizens, for those of you keeping score. The womenfolk are particularly well turned out.
We visited the Lyndon Johnson Presidential Library, which is beautifully done, and came away with an appreciation of what an outstanding president he was, in many ways. The quantity of important legislation under his watch was unprecedented. Of course his escalation of the Vietnam War made him unpopular and hurt his legacy.
Austin was the birthplace of Whole Foods, and we shopped at their flagship store, which may be the greatest grocery store we've ever seen, though not the cheapest. For lunch one day we went to the Trailer Park, which is a semi-permanent collection of food trailers. Nancy said that the shrimp taco may have been her favorite Mexican meal of all time.
The weather didn't allow us to explore Austin as much as we would have liked, but Lord knows they need the rain. Another reason not to complain is that we heard about the high winds and power outages back in the Santa Cruz area at the same time. Our overall impression was that Austin would be a great place to live, but not in the summer.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Cajun country
Although I lived in New Orleans for four years of medical school, I never made my way out into the swamps and bayous and backroads of southern Louisiana. On this trip I wanted a true Cajun experience.
"Cajun" is a bastardization of "Acadian". The Acadians were French settlers in Nova Scotia, Canada, who were kicked out by the British in 1755 when they were unwilling to swear allegiance to the crown. After some time many of them were resettled in Louisiana and established a unique culture there - distinctive food, music, and language. When I was a lad many of them spoke only a version of French. Today everybody speaks English, but with an accent all their own.
Driving from New Orleans on Thanksgiving Eve, we got caught in the mother of all traffic jams around Baton Rouge. Two hours to go 20 miles, which made it dark when we pulled into our campground, Poche's Fishing Camp in Breaux Bridge.
What a lovely spot it turned out to be! A hundred nice campsites around a series of huge manmade lakes. Great white egrets, mother and child, standing on an island in the center of the lake our motorhome overlooked. Magnificent sunsets across the water.
The next day - Thanksgiving - the owners, who also run a restaurant, grocery, and specialty meat market a couple of miles away, asked some of their camping customers, including us, over to their house on the property for Thanksgiving lunch - deep fried turkey and all the trimmings. This was to be a recurring theme - the friendliness, courtesy, and just plain niceness of the people here in southern Louisiana is amazing.
Cajun country is a different kind of place, foodwise. Poche's meat market sold pork stomach, rabbit, alligator meat, boudin sausage, tasso ham, and a bunch of other specialties. We bought some of the latter, which is the smokiest and most heavily seasoned ham I've ever tasted.
We stayed at the campground for six days and did a lot of tourist stuff. We visited Shadows on the Teche, a plantation house. We went to a restored Cajun village in Lafayette and watched a film about Acadian history. We ate several po-boy sandwiches, all good, but none as delicious as the ones we had at the New Orleans Sandwich Company in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. We ate dinner at Prejean's, which features traditional Cajun music every night. Their menu was spectacular, with at least twenty fascinating dishes listed. The food that emerged, however, was tasty but not exceptional. But whether we were blown away or disappointed by food or attraction, the experience was almost universally outstanding, because of the sweetness of the local people we were dealing with. Incidentally, while most of the country folks have strong accents, many of the younger ones don't - especially in the city of Lafayette. In fact, Nancy insulted our waiter at Prejean's restaurant by saying, "You sound like a Yankee!"
On the last full day in Breaux Bridge, we signed up for a swamp tour. Believe it or not, it was bitterly cold when we arrived at 11 AM, and people had warned us that we wouldn't see much wildlife this time of year. Our leader, Bryan Champagne, is a full blooded Cajun who's been doing these tours for fifteen years. The eighteen of us took seats in a boat with an outboard motor, and before long we were in an almost surreal world, surrounded by cypress trees laden with Spanish moss. Deep in the swamp Bryan spotted an alligator, only its head visible. Bryan climbed out of the boat and began nudging the beast with an oar, causing it to thrash about spectacularly.
Surprisingly, there were lots of birds - great white egrets, magnificent great blue herons, cormorants, and others. It was a great experience.
We all considered ourselves very lucky to have seen a wild alligator up close, but that afternoon, back at Poche's Fishing Camp, Nancy learned from our camp manager that Bryan isn't popular with the other swamp tour leaders - not only because he's financially successful, but because he feeds the alligators to make sure his customers have a good shot at seeing one - which they consider cheating.
The next morning we headed west toward San Antonio. I had seen a lot of billboards advertising boudin and cracklins, which I had never tried, so before crossing the Texas border, we stopped at a truck stop and bought a boudin ball and cracklins. Man, that's some good eating. Cracklins are deep fried pork skin and pork fat, seasoned with cajun spices and sugar. Boudin is a spicy Cajun sausage that includes rice, and a boudin ball is a tennis-ball-sized sphere of boudin that is deep fried. In other words, health food. We liked both so much that it's a good thing we didn't discover them earlier.
"Cajun" is a bastardization of "Acadian". The Acadians were French settlers in Nova Scotia, Canada, who were kicked out by the British in 1755 when they were unwilling to swear allegiance to the crown. After some time many of them were resettled in Louisiana and established a unique culture there - distinctive food, music, and language. When I was a lad many of them spoke only a version of French. Today everybody speaks English, but with an accent all their own.
Driving from New Orleans on Thanksgiving Eve, we got caught in the mother of all traffic jams around Baton Rouge. Two hours to go 20 miles, which made it dark when we pulled into our campground, Poche's Fishing Camp in Breaux Bridge.
What a lovely spot it turned out to be! A hundred nice campsites around a series of huge manmade lakes. Great white egrets, mother and child, standing on an island in the center of the lake our motorhome overlooked. Magnificent sunsets across the water.
The next day - Thanksgiving - the owners, who also run a restaurant, grocery, and specialty meat market a couple of miles away, asked some of their camping customers, including us, over to their house on the property for Thanksgiving lunch - deep fried turkey and all the trimmings. This was to be a recurring theme - the friendliness, courtesy, and just plain niceness of the people here in southern Louisiana is amazing.
Cajun country is a different kind of place, foodwise. Poche's meat market sold pork stomach, rabbit, alligator meat, boudin sausage, tasso ham, and a bunch of other specialties. We bought some of the latter, which is the smokiest and most heavily seasoned ham I've ever tasted.
We stayed at the campground for six days and did a lot of tourist stuff. We visited Shadows on the Teche, a plantation house. We went to a restored Cajun village in Lafayette and watched a film about Acadian history. We ate several po-boy sandwiches, all good, but none as delicious as the ones we had at the New Orleans Sandwich Company in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. We ate dinner at Prejean's, which features traditional Cajun music every night. Their menu was spectacular, with at least twenty fascinating dishes listed. The food that emerged, however, was tasty but not exceptional. But whether we were blown away or disappointed by food or attraction, the experience was almost universally outstanding, because of the sweetness of the local people we were dealing with. Incidentally, while most of the country folks have strong accents, many of the younger ones don't - especially in the city of Lafayette. In fact, Nancy insulted our waiter at Prejean's restaurant by saying, "You sound like a Yankee!"
On the last full day in Breaux Bridge, we signed up for a swamp tour. Believe it or not, it was bitterly cold when we arrived at 11 AM, and people had warned us that we wouldn't see much wildlife this time of year. Our leader, Bryan Champagne, is a full blooded Cajun who's been doing these tours for fifteen years. The eighteen of us took seats in a boat with an outboard motor, and before long we were in an almost surreal world, surrounded by cypress trees laden with Spanish moss. Deep in the swamp Bryan spotted an alligator, only its head visible. Bryan climbed out of the boat and began nudging the beast with an oar, causing it to thrash about spectacularly.
Surprisingly, there were lots of birds - great white egrets, magnificent great blue herons, cormorants, and others. It was a great experience.
We all considered ourselves very lucky to have seen a wild alligator up close, but that afternoon, back at Poche's Fishing Camp, Nancy learned from our camp manager that Bryan isn't popular with the other swamp tour leaders - not only because he's financially successful, but because he feeds the alligators to make sure his customers have a good shot at seeing one - which they consider cheating.
The next morning we headed west toward San Antonio. I had seen a lot of billboards advertising boudin and cracklins, which I had never tried, so before crossing the Texas border, we stopped at a truck stop and bought a boudin ball and cracklins. Man, that's some good eating. Cracklins are deep fried pork skin and pork fat, seasoned with cajun spices and sugar. Boudin is a spicy Cajun sausage that includes rice, and a boudin ball is a tennis-ball-sized sphere of boudin that is deep fried. In other words, health food. We liked both so much that it's a good thing we didn't discover them earlier.
Friday, November 25, 2011
New Orleans
Our campground in New Orleans was the French Quarter RV Park, an upscale gated enclave surrounded by tall brick walls, two blocks from the Quarter. The clientele ran the gamut from million dollar Prevost coaches to a converted red schoolbus a Danish tour group had bought in Canada.
Nancy and I leashed up our dogs, and the four of us set off for the Quarter, walking past low income housing projects to get there. I went to medical school at LSU in New Orleans and lived for two of those years in the Quarter. It's always fun wandering the streets, checking out shops, people watching, and listening to street music. I love the architecture and the energy of the city. Even though all the businesses are tourist-oriented, there's still a charm there.
That evening I made a pilgrimage deep in the French Quarter to Paul Prudhomme's K-Paul's Restaurant, dragging Nancy along. I got heavily into Cajun cooking some years back, using Prudhomme's Louisiana Kitchen as holy writ. We enjoyed our dinners but it wasn't the knockout we were hoping for.
The next day, after the traditional bad beignets and cafe au lait at the French Market cafe, we talked with a lady in a welcome center about the possibility of driving out to tour the Ninth Ward, the area hardest hit by Katrina back in 2005. She was living not too far from that area at the time, and her home had been damaged, so she was a great source of information.
We drove through the Ninth Ward, which is a poor, mostly black area. The homes didn't look quite as bad as I expected, the worst flood damage being interior, apparently. There were a couple of streets with rows of pretty multicolored new homes, all elevated on posts, so a great deal of rebuilding is going on.
Nancy, our pop culture guru, told me that a few years ago Brad Pitt started a foundation that has been constructing a bunch of energy-efficient homes in the Ninth Ward, using his wealth to good purpose, and we wanted to get a look at a few of them. We saw a very modern two story structure on eight foot posts that looked a little out of place in the neighborhood, and Nancy felt that this was the style Brad was going for.
We got out of the pickup and started walking up the street. A young black guy - maybe 16 years old or so - emerged from the house and offered us three pralines for $5. Nancy paid him and asked him if this was where Brad Pitt was building houses. He told us that in fact this was the first home that Brad had built, and that he had met Brad. "Nice guy?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, real nice. And Angelina come along, too."
"How did she look?" I asked. "Was she hot, or a little too old for you?"
"Hot," he said, sheepishly.
We asked him how high the water got in the neighborhood. A hard looking white woman on the upstairs porch of Brad's first house called down, "Got up to 22 feet here. A house in the neighborhood floated up off its foundation. There was people in the trees waiting to be rescued."
The young praline salesman said, "My grandmother" - he indicated an elegant elderly black woman also up on the porch - "was trapped on the roof of her house for twelve hours. Brad built that first house for her."
I asked if they felt that the levees had been fixed enough that they felt safe. The grandmother said, "We sure hope so. Have to trust in the Lord."
From the Ninth Ward we drove out along the levee and stopped at the Museum of the Battle of New Orleans, at the site where Andrew Jackson defeated the British in the War of 1812. The ranger there helped us to understand how Katrina's storm surge had caused the flooding.
For our last night in New Orleans, we decided to walk to Antoine's and eat at its beautiful bar. That's a walk of almost a mile, and since a few sprinkles had fallen, we took an umbrella. About halfway there, the heavens opened and the Quarter flooded big time. By the time we reached Antoine's, our shoes and clothes were soaked, and we didn't feel presentable. So we returned to our campground, took warm showers, and Nancy made BLT's. Can't eat any better than that.
Nancy and I leashed up our dogs, and the four of us set off for the Quarter, walking past low income housing projects to get there. I went to medical school at LSU in New Orleans and lived for two of those years in the Quarter. It's always fun wandering the streets, checking out shops, people watching, and listening to street music. I love the architecture and the energy of the city. Even though all the businesses are tourist-oriented, there's still a charm there.
That evening I made a pilgrimage deep in the French Quarter to Paul Prudhomme's K-Paul's Restaurant, dragging Nancy along. I got heavily into Cajun cooking some years back, using Prudhomme's Louisiana Kitchen as holy writ. We enjoyed our dinners but it wasn't the knockout we were hoping for.
The next day, after the traditional bad beignets and cafe au lait at the French Market cafe, we talked with a lady in a welcome center about the possibility of driving out to tour the Ninth Ward, the area hardest hit by Katrina back in 2005. She was living not too far from that area at the time, and her home had been damaged, so she was a great source of information.
We drove through the Ninth Ward, which is a poor, mostly black area. The homes didn't look quite as bad as I expected, the worst flood damage being interior, apparently. There were a couple of streets with rows of pretty multicolored new homes, all elevated on posts, so a great deal of rebuilding is going on.
Nancy, our pop culture guru, told me that a few years ago Brad Pitt started a foundation that has been constructing a bunch of energy-efficient homes in the Ninth Ward, using his wealth to good purpose, and we wanted to get a look at a few of them. We saw a very modern two story structure on eight foot posts that looked a little out of place in the neighborhood, and Nancy felt that this was the style Brad was going for.
We got out of the pickup and started walking up the street. A young black guy - maybe 16 years old or so - emerged from the house and offered us three pralines for $5. Nancy paid him and asked him if this was where Brad Pitt was building houses. He told us that in fact this was the first home that Brad had built, and that he had met Brad. "Nice guy?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, real nice. And Angelina come along, too."
"How did she look?" I asked. "Was she hot, or a little too old for you?"
"Hot," he said, sheepishly.
We asked him how high the water got in the neighborhood. A hard looking white woman on the upstairs porch of Brad's first house called down, "Got up to 22 feet here. A house in the neighborhood floated up off its foundation. There was people in the trees waiting to be rescued."
The young praline salesman said, "My grandmother" - he indicated an elegant elderly black woman also up on the porch - "was trapped on the roof of her house for twelve hours. Brad built that first house for her."
I asked if they felt that the levees had been fixed enough that they felt safe. The grandmother said, "We sure hope so. Have to trust in the Lord."
From the Ninth Ward we drove out along the levee and stopped at the Museum of the Battle of New Orleans, at the site where Andrew Jackson defeated the British in the War of 1812. The ranger there helped us to understand how Katrina's storm surge had caused the flooding.
For our last night in New Orleans, we decided to walk to Antoine's and eat at its beautiful bar. That's a walk of almost a mile, and since a few sprinkles had fallen, we took an umbrella. About halfway there, the heavens opened and the Quarter flooded big time. By the time we reached Antoine's, our shoes and clothes were soaked, and we didn't feel presentable. So we returned to our campground, took warm showers, and Nancy made BLT's. Can't eat any better than that.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tallulah
I grew up on a farm outside Tallulah, a fairly prosperous middle-class farming community in northeastern Louisiana, and when I was about sixteen years old, we moved into a house my folks had built within the city limits. I received my grammar and high school education in Tallulah. The town's population then was evenly divided between black and white residents, with a railroad track the dividing line between the two. That was during the segregation era, when there were separate drinking fountains, restaurants, and schools for white and black. When my parents died, Nancy and I put my family home up for sale; that was in 1999, and I hadn't been back since.
All my coming-of-age memories are from Tallulah, so I was really curious as to how it had changed in the years since I saw it last.
We drove the twenty miles from Vicksburg and parked beside the house in which I spent my high school years. Under the carport was a crowd of black people. Some of them didn't look friendly. Two dogs were with them - a Doberman and a pit bull mix. There were four or five cars in the driveway, and things weren't neat and tidy. Nancy and I walked over to the group, and I said, "How are y'all? I grew up in this house, and twelve years ago we sold it to a minister."
An elderly man sitting in a chair and holding a cane smiled and said, "That's me!" He told us that he had had a stroke a few months before, but even though his speech was not back to normal, he had missed only one week of preaching. He and his wife had had ten children, nine of them still alive, and a bunch of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "Go get your mama," he told one of his sons. A nice looking, sweet, somewhat younger woman came out in a nursing uniform. "It was so nice of y'all to pay for the heater that went out when we bought the house," she said. She asked for our address so they could keep in touch. They seemed genuinely delighted that we had stopped by to say hello.
I asked the old gentleman, "How are things in Tallulah these days?" "Not so good," he said. "No jobs for the young people." I didn't feel comfortable inquiring about current race relations.
As we walked away, he said, "God bless you, and have a safe trip." I told them that we were headed for New Orleans. Lot of sin in New Orleans, I pointed out, but Nancy assured them that we were going there for the food, not the sin.
I didn't see any white people in my old neighborhood. We drove to the end of the street, to what had once been a nursing home. It had become living quarters for migrant Latino farm workers.
We passed the long building within which I had attended both Tallulah Elementary School and Tallulah High School. An impressive edifice at one time, it was now deserted and run down.
We next went to the Methodist church I attended as a boy, and I hoped to have a look at the elevator whose construction my mother had helped organize and which bore her name on a plaque. No one was there; it didn't look well kept up. I began to wonder if perhaps all the white people had fled the area.
Downtown Tallulah was never Rodeo Drive, but the main street had always had thriving businesses throughout its length. Now only a few shops remained open. Most of the storefronts were delapidated; some were boarded up. It was a depressing sight.
It was obvious that the downtown area - and in fact everything on one side of the bayou that flows through town - was pretty much exclusively black now. I said to Nancy, let's go over on the other side of the bayou, where the upscale homes have always been. It wasn't long before we realized that the only people we saw walking in that area were black as well. Unfortunately, the upkeep of those residences appeared to be deteriorating. Further out, there were a few areas that were still largely white-dominated, as far as we could tell. Tallulah is not much better integrated now than it was when I was a boy, and the people are poorer. That makes me sad.
Wikipedia tells me that the total population hasn't changed much since I lived there - still about 10,000 - but the racial demographics of Tallulah are now 75% black and 25% white. This is classic white flight, southern small town variety.
So the town of my childhood memories is gone. It surely won't make a comeback during my lifetime. Almost all the people I knew there have died or moved. It's unsettlling.
All my coming-of-age memories are from Tallulah, so I was really curious as to how it had changed in the years since I saw it last.
We drove the twenty miles from Vicksburg and parked beside the house in which I spent my high school years. Under the carport was a crowd of black people. Some of them didn't look friendly. Two dogs were with them - a Doberman and a pit bull mix. There were four or five cars in the driveway, and things weren't neat and tidy. Nancy and I walked over to the group, and I said, "How are y'all? I grew up in this house, and twelve years ago we sold it to a minister."
An elderly man sitting in a chair and holding a cane smiled and said, "That's me!" He told us that he had had a stroke a few months before, but even though his speech was not back to normal, he had missed only one week of preaching. He and his wife had had ten children, nine of them still alive, and a bunch of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "Go get your mama," he told one of his sons. A nice looking, sweet, somewhat younger woman came out in a nursing uniform. "It was so nice of y'all to pay for the heater that went out when we bought the house," she said. She asked for our address so they could keep in touch. They seemed genuinely delighted that we had stopped by to say hello.
I asked the old gentleman, "How are things in Tallulah these days?" "Not so good," he said. "No jobs for the young people." I didn't feel comfortable inquiring about current race relations.
As we walked away, he said, "God bless you, and have a safe trip." I told them that we were headed for New Orleans. Lot of sin in New Orleans, I pointed out, but Nancy assured them that we were going there for the food, not the sin.
I didn't see any white people in my old neighborhood. We drove to the end of the street, to what had once been a nursing home. It had become living quarters for migrant Latino farm workers.
We passed the long building within which I had attended both Tallulah Elementary School and Tallulah High School. An impressive edifice at one time, it was now deserted and run down.
We next went to the Methodist church I attended as a boy, and I hoped to have a look at the elevator whose construction my mother had helped organize and which bore her name on a plaque. No one was there; it didn't look well kept up. I began to wonder if perhaps all the white people had fled the area.
Downtown Tallulah was never Rodeo Drive, but the main street had always had thriving businesses throughout its length. Now only a few shops remained open. Most of the storefronts were delapidated; some were boarded up. It was a depressing sight.
It was obvious that the downtown area - and in fact everything on one side of the bayou that flows through town - was pretty much exclusively black now. I said to Nancy, let's go over on the other side of the bayou, where the upscale homes have always been. It wasn't long before we realized that the only people we saw walking in that area were black as well. Unfortunately, the upkeep of those residences appeared to be deteriorating. Further out, there were a few areas that were still largely white-dominated, as far as we could tell. Tallulah is not much better integrated now than it was when I was a boy, and the people are poorer. That makes me sad.
Wikipedia tells me that the total population hasn't changed much since I lived there - still about 10,000 - but the racial demographics of Tallulah are now 75% black and 25% white. This is classic white flight, southern small town variety.
So the town of my childhood memories is gone. It surely won't make a comeback during my lifetime. Almost all the people I knew there have died or moved. It's unsettlling.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Natchez Trace
In order to get our inverter working again, we drove to Inverter Service Center in White House, Tennessee, over two hundred miles to the west, but sort of along the path we wanted to take.
A technician named Bobby met us when we pulled into their parking lot. A serious young man, he was friendly but unsmiling. We showed him where the inverter had been installed by the dealership after we bought the motorhome. It's under our bed, which is hinged to allow access for storage. He removed the inverter, took it to his workbench, and later called us over and said, "See those little blue dots? That means that some moisture got into the unit, and Magnum will not warranty any inverter that shows evidence of moisture. I have no idea how that could happen, where it's installed." I thought about telling him that I sometimes wet the bed, but decided that he might not know I was joking.
After sleeping on it, I suggested to Bobby that he re-install the inverter but disconnect the external A/C power supply, and we would replace the unit when we get back to California. The logic is boring, so I won't go into it, except to say that the inverter was still functional on battery power but blew up whenever alternating current hit it. Bobby thought that would work, and reinstalled the unit. When I asked what we owed them, Bobby said, "Nothing. We didn't fix it." That was a new one on me. I guess they do things a little differently in Tennessee.
White House, it turned out, is a suburb of Nashville. The Natchez Trace, a 440 mile long highway that parallels the ancient trail between Nashville and Natchez, is part of the National Park system, and I'd always wanted to drive it. It's two lanes all the way, with no shoulders and a 50 mph limit. There are tall trees on both sides for almost the entire length, and the grass bordering the road looks manicured. It's beautiful and restful and there was almost no traffic.
We had gone about a hundred miles on the trace and were rounding a left hand curve when something caught my eye in our left hand mirror - the side of the pickup truck we were towing. When the road straightened out, the tow seemed to track okay, but aside from slow speed sharp turning maneuvers in parking lots, the pickup had never been visible in the rear view mirrors before. I wanted to pull off and make sure everything was okay, but I had to wait for the next turnout, which was about five miles away.
The tow mechanism consists of two swivel arms that attach to a tow plate on the pickup. One of those arms had come loose and was in two disconnected pieces. Luckily the one remaining arm had kept the pickup from flying into the woods.
So the steady stream of motorhome glitches continued. I called the nearest RV repair facility, which by coincidence carried the same brand of tow bars. It turned out that the screw that holds the metal rod in place had either unscrewed or stripped, and the manufacturer honored the warranty in this case. After a couple of hours we were on our way, with a brand new tow bar in place.
We continued our drive on the Natchez Trace and after entering Mississippi pulled in to a rest stop and took our dogs for a walk. There was a man sitting in a car, a good old boy minding his own business, and Nancy, as is her habit, walked over and said hello. In a strong country Mississippi accent he said that he was waiting to meet a man from Alabama who was bringing a coon hound that he might buy. There was, in fact, going to be a coon dog competition in a couple of days which he wanted to participate in. Each hound was expected to locate a raccoon, tree it, and bay in a proper manner, and it would be scored according to rules which he didn't enumerate. I asked if it was too late to enter Tammy Faye and Sophia, and he said, no, the deadline wasn't until the following day, they would be welcome.
I told him that I had grown up in Tallulah, Louisiana but had never tasted raccoon and asked him if they did actually eat coons. He said yes, indeed, you skin it and cut off the head and paws and then add spices and boil it for several hours with a couple of water changes. It's important to remove four glands in the armpits and groin before cooking, or it'll smell too bad to eat. If prepared properly, it's just like squirrel or chicken. I told him I planned to shoot a raccoon when we got back to California and prepare it according to his recipe.
After almost 400 miles on the Natchez Trace, we cut across to Vicksburg, which is about twenty miles from my ancestral home, and we made camp at the Walmart there.
A technician named Bobby met us when we pulled into their parking lot. A serious young man, he was friendly but unsmiling. We showed him where the inverter had been installed by the dealership after we bought the motorhome. It's under our bed, which is hinged to allow access for storage. He removed the inverter, took it to his workbench, and later called us over and said, "See those little blue dots? That means that some moisture got into the unit, and Magnum will not warranty any inverter that shows evidence of moisture. I have no idea how that could happen, where it's installed." I thought about telling him that I sometimes wet the bed, but decided that he might not know I was joking.
After sleeping on it, I suggested to Bobby that he re-install the inverter but disconnect the external A/C power supply, and we would replace the unit when we get back to California. The logic is boring, so I won't go into it, except to say that the inverter was still functional on battery power but blew up whenever alternating current hit it. Bobby thought that would work, and reinstalled the unit. When I asked what we owed them, Bobby said, "Nothing. We didn't fix it." That was a new one on me. I guess they do things a little differently in Tennessee.
White House, it turned out, is a suburb of Nashville. The Natchez Trace, a 440 mile long highway that parallels the ancient trail between Nashville and Natchez, is part of the National Park system, and I'd always wanted to drive it. It's two lanes all the way, with no shoulders and a 50 mph limit. There are tall trees on both sides for almost the entire length, and the grass bordering the road looks manicured. It's beautiful and restful and there was almost no traffic.
We had gone about a hundred miles on the trace and were rounding a left hand curve when something caught my eye in our left hand mirror - the side of the pickup truck we were towing. When the road straightened out, the tow seemed to track okay, but aside from slow speed sharp turning maneuvers in parking lots, the pickup had never been visible in the rear view mirrors before. I wanted to pull off and make sure everything was okay, but I had to wait for the next turnout, which was about five miles away.
The tow mechanism consists of two swivel arms that attach to a tow plate on the pickup. One of those arms had come loose and was in two disconnected pieces. Luckily the one remaining arm had kept the pickup from flying into the woods.
So the steady stream of motorhome glitches continued. I called the nearest RV repair facility, which by coincidence carried the same brand of tow bars. It turned out that the screw that holds the metal rod in place had either unscrewed or stripped, and the manufacturer honored the warranty in this case. After a couple of hours we were on our way, with a brand new tow bar in place.
We continued our drive on the Natchez Trace and after entering Mississippi pulled in to a rest stop and took our dogs for a walk. There was a man sitting in a car, a good old boy minding his own business, and Nancy, as is her habit, walked over and said hello. In a strong country Mississippi accent he said that he was waiting to meet a man from Alabama who was bringing a coon hound that he might buy. There was, in fact, going to be a coon dog competition in a couple of days which he wanted to participate in. Each hound was expected to locate a raccoon, tree it, and bay in a proper manner, and it would be scored according to rules which he didn't enumerate. I asked if it was too late to enter Tammy Faye and Sophia, and he said, no, the deadline wasn't until the following day, they would be welcome.
I told him that I had grown up in Tallulah, Louisiana but had never tasted raccoon and asked him if they did actually eat coons. He said yes, indeed, you skin it and cut off the head and paws and then add spices and boil it for several hours with a couple of water changes. It's important to remove four glands in the armpits and groin before cooking, or it'll smell too bad to eat. If prepared properly, it's just like squirrel or chicken. I told him I planned to shoot a raccoon when we got back to California and prepare it according to his recipe.
After almost 400 miles on the Natchez Trace, we cut across to Vicksburg, which is about twenty miles from my ancestral home, and we made camp at the Walmart there.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Pigeon Forge, Tennessee
One of my favorite memories as a young boy was the time my family went tent camping in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I especially enjoyed riding the white water of one of its many streams on an air mattress. So I was anxious to visit the park again.
We decided to make Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, a town just a few miles to the west of the park, our tour headquarters. On the map it looked like just an average burg, and about the only thing of substance we knew about it was that Dollywood, Dolly Parton's amusement park, was there.
A couple of miles away from our campground, at around 4 PM, the traffic got heavy. Los Angeles rush hour heavy. As we crawled along, we took notice of some interesting establishments along the way. A Titanic museum. Hatfield and McCoy Dinner Theater. Jurassic Jungle Boat Ride. Christ in the Smokies. An Elvis Museum. Every fast food restaurant and amusement ride and outlet store ever franchised. Mile after mile of that stuff. In short, the greatest collection of entrepreneurial tackiness and bad taste I've ever seen. Don't miss it if you get the chance.
After pulling into our campground, I plugged our electrical cable into the pedestal's 50 amp service. There was a little flash, and the pedestal's circuit breaker was tripped. That knocked out our TV and most of our wall outlets. It turned out that our inverter (the component that takes house battery power and converts it into 120 volt, 60 cycle house current) had blown. This meant that we had no television service - an obviously unacceptable situation for the little woman and myself, especially since there were two important football games coming up that weekend. I came up with a temporary television fix by plugging an extension cord into the one working outlet in the living area.
Our campground was a nice one, and with a discount offer we couldn't refuse, and a working TV set, we ended up staying there for five days.
Every morning Nancy drove down to Krispy Kreme and brought back coffee and a doughnut for each of us. We're still dealing with guilt over the calorie load. Nancy said that the store was full of divorced women battling the heartbreak of obesity and talking about their divorces.
The day after our arrival, a Saturday, we drove into the national park and headed toward Gatlinburg. We couldn't understand why traffic was so horrible until we realized that this was the Veterans Day three day weekend. Inside the park, it wasn't so crowded, and it was wonderful riding alongside the mountain streams that border many of the roads. We went for a nice long walk with Tammy Faye and Sophia on the only trail where dogs are allowed. Later in the day we saw a sign for an 11 mile scenic wildlife drive and turned onto that road, not realizing that it was one lane and filled with tourists who would stop at every rumor of bird or mammal, blocking everyone behind them. There were times when we didn't move for five or ten minutes, and when we got a look at what everybody was stopping for, it was a few deer or a coyote. Heck, we could have seen the same show on our front lawn back home. It took us an hour and a half to complete the circuit.
Nancy has complained for months about her purse. She dumps everything into it and has trouble quickly finding keys, cards, her phone, her camera, and everything else - because it has no divisions inside. I told her that I wanted her to buy a great new purse that will make it easy to organize, expense no object. In Pigeon Forge we passed a Handbag Superstore, and she found the purse of her dreams, at a price closer to K-Mart than Coach. I'm a lucky man.
After a weekend during which I watched, on our motorhome TV, Stanford lose to Oregon and the 49ers beat the New York Giants, we drove back to the national park and stopped in Gatlinburg, which is a slightly upscale version of Pigeon Forge. It has all sorts of attractions - Ripley's Believe It or Not, Guiness Book of World Records, and so on. It also has some cute restaurants. We had Shrimp Po-Boys at New Orleans Sandwich Company that were so good I don't think we'll find their match when we get down to the Big Easy. The bread was remarkable, with a thin crunchy crust, and our waitress said it was an old family recipe brought from New Orleans and baked to their specs by a local grocery store.
Just down the street we visited a working still and had a moonshine tasting. We bought a Mason jar of Apple Pie moonshine, which was the least disgusting version. For those fans of the TV show Justified, as we are, Apple Pie was also the moonshine flavor Mags used to poison somebody. The price was outrageous, of course, as is the case with most tourist traps.
We enjoyed Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg and the Smokies - but the traffic was so overwhelming that we probably won't be back anytime soon.
We decided to make Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, a town just a few miles to the west of the park, our tour headquarters. On the map it looked like just an average burg, and about the only thing of substance we knew about it was that Dollywood, Dolly Parton's amusement park, was there.
A couple of miles away from our campground, at around 4 PM, the traffic got heavy. Los Angeles rush hour heavy. As we crawled along, we took notice of some interesting establishments along the way. A Titanic museum. Hatfield and McCoy Dinner Theater. Jurassic Jungle Boat Ride. Christ in the Smokies. An Elvis Museum. Every fast food restaurant and amusement ride and outlet store ever franchised. Mile after mile of that stuff. In short, the greatest collection of entrepreneurial tackiness and bad taste I've ever seen. Don't miss it if you get the chance.
After pulling into our campground, I plugged our electrical cable into the pedestal's 50 amp service. There was a little flash, and the pedestal's circuit breaker was tripped. That knocked out our TV and most of our wall outlets. It turned out that our inverter (the component that takes house battery power and converts it into 120 volt, 60 cycle house current) had blown. This meant that we had no television service - an obviously unacceptable situation for the little woman and myself, especially since there were two important football games coming up that weekend. I came up with a temporary television fix by plugging an extension cord into the one working outlet in the living area.
Our campground was a nice one, and with a discount offer we couldn't refuse, and a working TV set, we ended up staying there for five days.
Every morning Nancy drove down to Krispy Kreme and brought back coffee and a doughnut for each of us. We're still dealing with guilt over the calorie load. Nancy said that the store was full of divorced women battling the heartbreak of obesity and talking about their divorces.
The day after our arrival, a Saturday, we drove into the national park and headed toward Gatlinburg. We couldn't understand why traffic was so horrible until we realized that this was the Veterans Day three day weekend. Inside the park, it wasn't so crowded, and it was wonderful riding alongside the mountain streams that border many of the roads. We went for a nice long walk with Tammy Faye and Sophia on the only trail where dogs are allowed. Later in the day we saw a sign for an 11 mile scenic wildlife drive and turned onto that road, not realizing that it was one lane and filled with tourists who would stop at every rumor of bird or mammal, blocking everyone behind them. There were times when we didn't move for five or ten minutes, and when we got a look at what everybody was stopping for, it was a few deer or a coyote. Heck, we could have seen the same show on our front lawn back home. It took us an hour and a half to complete the circuit.
Nancy has complained for months about her purse. She dumps everything into it and has trouble quickly finding keys, cards, her phone, her camera, and everything else - because it has no divisions inside. I told her that I wanted her to buy a great new purse that will make it easy to organize, expense no object. In Pigeon Forge we passed a Handbag Superstore, and she found the purse of her dreams, at a price closer to K-Mart than Coach. I'm a lucky man.
After a weekend during which I watched, on our motorhome TV, Stanford lose to Oregon and the 49ers beat the New York Giants, we drove back to the national park and stopped in Gatlinburg, which is a slightly upscale version of Pigeon Forge. It has all sorts of attractions - Ripley's Believe It or Not, Guiness Book of World Records, and so on. It also has some cute restaurants. We had Shrimp Po-Boys at New Orleans Sandwich Company that were so good I don't think we'll find their match when we get down to the Big Easy. The bread was remarkable, with a thin crunchy crust, and our waitress said it was an old family recipe brought from New Orleans and baked to their specs by a local grocery store.
Just down the street we visited a working still and had a moonshine tasting. We bought a Mason jar of Apple Pie moonshine, which was the least disgusting version. For those fans of the TV show Justified, as we are, Apple Pie was also the moonshine flavor Mags used to poison somebody. The price was outrageous, of course, as is the case with most tourist traps.
We enjoyed Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg and the Smokies - but the traffic was so overwhelming that we probably won't be back anytime soon.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Biltmore
I mentioned the Biltmore Estate, the family home of George Vanderbilt, in the last blog entry. You've all seen pictures of it. It's a massive multi-towered, multi-gargoyled chateau that looks as if it was dropped here from medieval Europe. The largest private home ever built in the US, it's the eastern counterpart to Hearst Castle, and was first occupied in 1895, about 30 years earlier than Hearst Castle.
We toured the house's interior late one afternoon, and almost had it to ourselves. Naturally, the rooms were enormous and impressive. Most of the furnishings were original, so it was easy to imagine me, Nancy, Tammy Faye, and Sophia as house guests of the Vanderbilts at the turn of the century. Easy for me, anyway. We were told that a month would be considered a short stay; most guests remained at the estate for several months.
The next morning Nancy and I hiked along a three or four mile path behind our campground that climbed steeply up to the mountain ridge. We want to do more of that as the trip proceeds.
Later we returned to the Biltmore and walked through its gardens, after which we drove a mile or so to a commercial complex on the estate which consisted of a hotel, restaurants, gift shops, a museum (which was showing Tiffany lamps), and the Biltmore Estate winery. The winery has a free tasting room for most of their wines, plus a premium counter for their best bottles. Our pourer at the premium counter was very familiar with Santa Cruz and in fact she and her husband have rented a house in Carmel for a month this winter. She mentioned having enjoyed going to the Bonny Doon tasting room up in the Santa Cruz mountains. We told her that a different winery - Beauregard - had taken over the tasting room. She let out a scream, which I thought was overreacting. Then I looked around, and a somewhat inebriated elderly gentleman was lying on his back on the floor, having misjudged the interface between butt and chair bottom. I sympathized; we've all been there. After being hauled to his feet, he was able to exit the premises under his own power, with all the dignity he deserved.
Biltmore Estates has some really nice wines, at very reasonable prices. We especially liked their Pinot Noir and Sangiovese. They have a French winemaker. Almost all their red wine grapes, and some of their whites, are grown in California and transported, unpressed, to North Carolina for processing. They do grow a lot of white varietals on the estate, and all their sparkling wines are locally grown. Based on limited experience, we liked the North Carolina wines better than the Virginia ones, and bought a mixed case, more red than white.
We wanted an Asheville dining experience and made reservations at the Corner Kitchen in Biltmore Village, which advertises itself as featuring innovative Southern cuisine. It's a converted residence, with a few tables in each of several rooms. We both enjoyed their great soups. I ordered pecan-crusted river trout and Nancy had a couple of pretty good appetizers. I came away convinced that you can dine very well in Asheville.
As we were leaving, we noticed pictures of Barack Obama on the restaurant wall. The owner told us that a year earlier he had gotten a call one night from the Secret Service saying that the president and first lady would be arriving in twenty minutes for dinner, for a reservation made earlier under a different name. The president was friendly and gracious. His main course was mahi-mahi with cocoanut rice; Michelle's was a pork chop with molasses sauce. They had wine with dinner and tipped generously. We Americans love stories of the rich and famous.
The next morning we left Asheville and headed toward the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Mama Gerties had turned out to be our favorite campground so far. And Asheville left us with a very favorable impression, as a place where a couple slightly past their prime could live quite comfortably if circumstances led them to that part of the world.
We toured the house's interior late one afternoon, and almost had it to ourselves. Naturally, the rooms were enormous and impressive. Most of the furnishings were original, so it was easy to imagine me, Nancy, Tammy Faye, and Sophia as house guests of the Vanderbilts at the turn of the century. Easy for me, anyway. We were told that a month would be considered a short stay; most guests remained at the estate for several months.
The next morning Nancy and I hiked along a three or four mile path behind our campground that climbed steeply up to the mountain ridge. We want to do more of that as the trip proceeds.
Later we returned to the Biltmore and walked through its gardens, after which we drove a mile or so to a commercial complex on the estate which consisted of a hotel, restaurants, gift shops, a museum (which was showing Tiffany lamps), and the Biltmore Estate winery. The winery has a free tasting room for most of their wines, plus a premium counter for their best bottles. Our pourer at the premium counter was very familiar with Santa Cruz and in fact she and her husband have rented a house in Carmel for a month this winter. She mentioned having enjoyed going to the Bonny Doon tasting room up in the Santa Cruz mountains. We told her that a different winery - Beauregard - had taken over the tasting room. She let out a scream, which I thought was overreacting. Then I looked around, and a somewhat inebriated elderly gentleman was lying on his back on the floor, having misjudged the interface between butt and chair bottom. I sympathized; we've all been there. After being hauled to his feet, he was able to exit the premises under his own power, with all the dignity he deserved.
Biltmore Estates has some really nice wines, at very reasonable prices. We especially liked their Pinot Noir and Sangiovese. They have a French winemaker. Almost all their red wine grapes, and some of their whites, are grown in California and transported, unpressed, to North Carolina for processing. They do grow a lot of white varietals on the estate, and all their sparkling wines are locally grown. Based on limited experience, we liked the North Carolina wines better than the Virginia ones, and bought a mixed case, more red than white.
We wanted an Asheville dining experience and made reservations at the Corner Kitchen in Biltmore Village, which advertises itself as featuring innovative Southern cuisine. It's a converted residence, with a few tables in each of several rooms. We both enjoyed their great soups. I ordered pecan-crusted river trout and Nancy had a couple of pretty good appetizers. I came away convinced that you can dine very well in Asheville.
As we were leaving, we noticed pictures of Barack Obama on the restaurant wall. The owner told us that a year earlier he had gotten a call one night from the Secret Service saying that the president and first lady would be arriving in twenty minutes for dinner, for a reservation made earlier under a different name. The president was friendly and gracious. His main course was mahi-mahi with cocoanut rice; Michelle's was a pork chop with molasses sauce. They had wine with dinner and tipped generously. We Americans love stories of the rich and famous.
The next morning we left Asheville and headed toward the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Mama Gerties had turned out to be our favorite campground so far. And Asheville left us with a very favorable impression, as a place where a couple slightly past their prime could live quite comfortably if circumstances led them to that part of the world.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Asheville, NC
A nice ride along the upper Blue Ridge Parkway - overcast, no snow, fall colors fading but pretty views, very few cars - and we pulled into Mama Gertie's Campground outside Asheville. This part of North Carolina is absolutely beautiful this time of year, even though the foliage isn't as spectacular as it must have been a few weeks ago.
Asheville was one of several cities in America that we targeted before our trip as a possible future place to live, if we ever left Santa Cruz. It's in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, so it doesn't get as hot in the summer as most of the south. It has the reputation of being extremely liberal compared to most of the old South. There are several colleges there, and an impressive concert schedule. It sounded promising.
Asheville was one of several cities in America that we targeted before our trip as a possible future place to live, if we ever left Santa Cruz. It's in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, so it doesn't get as hot in the summer as most of the south. It has the reputation of being extremely liberal compared to most of the old South. There are several colleges there, and an impressive concert schedule. It sounded promising.
We began by taking a trolley tour of the city. Our driver was a foghorn-voice fellow whose night job is bass player in a bluegrass band. The first place we visited was Montford, an elegant big money neighborhood with mansions and estates everywhere, several magnificent hotels, and a fascinating history.
Thomas Wolfe grew up there and wrote his great book Look Homeward Angel about life in the area. It is said that half the citizens were outraged at how they were depicted, and the other half were disappointed that they weren't included. There's a big Thomas Wolfe museum in Montford.
The trolley took us by Highland Hospital. F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife Zelda died there in 1948 when the psychiatric hospital in which she was confined burned to the ground.
We passed the Montford house in which William Jennings Bryan, the prosecutor in the Scopes Monkey trial, lived. Nancy asked our tour guide if evolution is taught in the schools locally. He laughed and said, yes, of course – but that creationism is also a part of the curriculum.
Downtown Asheville has some nice neighborhoods and a lot of interesting restaurants. We hopped off and had sandwiches at Paul Boudreaux's Bar-B-Que for lunch. Our waiter was part of a band that had played a couple of times at Moe's Alley in Santa Cruz. Almost every day on our trip we've encountered somebody who has been to Santa Cruz and remembers it fondly.
Another Asheville neighborhood is Biltmore Village, a community that grew up near the famous Biltmore Estate, built by George Vanderbilt in 1895, the largest private residence in the US, an attraction that we planned to visit during our stay. That concluded our trolley tour. It was a good introduction to Asheville.
Back at Mama Gertie's campground, with time pressure off, Nancy and I enjoyed wandering among the RV's and talking with our fellow travelers, especially those with dogs. I don't know if it was the beauty of the campground or the nice weather or the southern ambiance or simply our more relaxed outlook, but we found ourselves making friends more easily than elsewhere. We went to a pizza joint with an older (read, our age) couple from Texas – he a former park ranger, and we had a younger couple (by a few years) – he a retired HP programmer - over for appetizers and chocolate martinis and talk deep into the night. Nancy and I are sliding comfortably into the trailer park lifestyle. My southern accent is coming back, y'all.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Thomas Jefferson
The Elks Lodge in Waynesboro, VA has two electrical hookups for RV's, and the only cost to us was whatever contribution we chose to make to the lodge. We grabbed one of the sites and stayed there for two days in order to explore the area.
Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence and our third president, designed and built his home - Monticello - outside nearby Charlottesville, VA in a neoclassical Renaissance style. It's quite beautiful. It includes a number of rooms that are at least partially octagonal and it is topped by a dome. Most of the bricks and some of the furnishings are original. All through the place are examples of Jefferson's creativity - a dumbwaiter for wine bottles, an articulated gadget that made copies of all his writings as he made them, a pendulum clock with faces visible from both inside and outside the building, and many others.
Although he was philosophically opposed to slavery, Jefferson owned a large number of enslaved individuals, presumably because he could see no practical alternative for getting the estate's work done. The Hemmings family was the leading slave clan during his time there, and you may remember the controversy about the possibility that he was intimately involved with Sally Hemmings, who became pregnant and presumably delivered his child. Since Jefferson's wife had died many years earlier, Thomas gets a hall pass from me if he did indeed have carnal knowledge of Sally Hemmings, assuming that there was honest affection between the parties. For whatever that's worth.
After the formal tour, Nancy and I explored the extensive basement level, which is where the slaves lived and worked, including kitchen duties. We walked the lovely grounds and visited Jefferson's grave.
Jefferson also founded the University of Virginia, which is visible from Monticello, and designed most of its architecture. I couldn't help wondering how it was that there were so many truly great men among our founding fathers and so few today in government who are even competent.
Incidentally, Jefferson, having spent some years in France, was probably the leading American wine connoisseur of his time. He tried unsuccessfully to establish a vineyard near Monticello, but some of that acreage is currently being used to grow grapes, and there are twenty or so boutique wineries in the Wayesboro/Charlottesville area today, with new ones springing up all the time as if it were California. Virginia is the fifth leading producer of wine in the US, trailing California, Washington, Oregon, and New York. We did a wine tasting at Jefferson Winery nearby and bought a bottle of Meritage. Viognier and Cabernet Franc seem to be featured more and Cabernet Sauvignon less than out west. Our impression of Virginia wines - based on limited evaluation - is that they tend to have good noses but lack virility in the area of taste at this point and are somewhat overpriced compared to the West Coast product. Still, it's exciting to see another state making serious wines.
Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence and our third president, designed and built his home - Monticello - outside nearby Charlottesville, VA in a neoclassical Renaissance style. It's quite beautiful. It includes a number of rooms that are at least partially octagonal and it is topped by a dome. Most of the bricks and some of the furnishings are original. All through the place are examples of Jefferson's creativity - a dumbwaiter for wine bottles, an articulated gadget that made copies of all his writings as he made them, a pendulum clock with faces visible from both inside and outside the building, and many others.
Although he was philosophically opposed to slavery, Jefferson owned a large number of enslaved individuals, presumably because he could see no practical alternative for getting the estate's work done. The Hemmings family was the leading slave clan during his time there, and you may remember the controversy about the possibility that he was intimately involved with Sally Hemmings, who became pregnant and presumably delivered his child. Since Jefferson's wife had died many years earlier, Thomas gets a hall pass from me if he did indeed have carnal knowledge of Sally Hemmings, assuming that there was honest affection between the parties. For whatever that's worth.
After the formal tour, Nancy and I explored the extensive basement level, which is where the slaves lived and worked, including kitchen duties. We walked the lovely grounds and visited Jefferson's grave.
Jefferson also founded the University of Virginia, which is visible from Monticello, and designed most of its architecture. I couldn't help wondering how it was that there were so many truly great men among our founding fathers and so few today in government who are even competent.
Incidentally, Jefferson, having spent some years in France, was probably the leading American wine connoisseur of his time. He tried unsuccessfully to establish a vineyard near Monticello, but some of that acreage is currently being used to grow grapes, and there are twenty or so boutique wineries in the Wayesboro/Charlottesville area today, with new ones springing up all the time as if it were California. Virginia is the fifth leading producer of wine in the US, trailing California, Washington, Oregon, and New York. We did a wine tasting at Jefferson Winery nearby and bought a bottle of Meritage. Viognier and Cabernet Franc seem to be featured more and Cabernet Sauvignon less than out west. Our impression of Virginia wines - based on limited evaluation - is that they tend to have good noses but lack virility in the area of taste at this point and are somewhat overpriced compared to the West Coast product. Still, it's exciting to see another state making serious wines.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Snowstorm
Partly because our motorhome was delivered to us almost two months later than promised, we had been under some degree of time pressure ever since we drove away from Ben Lomond. We had to be in Pennsylvania in October to help Nancy's parents move to a senior facility, and we hoped - and tragically failed - to meet friends in Maine. With Ren and Dottie squared away in their new digs, we suddenly had a lot more freedom to slow down, to explore, to be observers of the American way of life in its regional variety, to interact with our fellow citizens.
But first we needed to deal with our leveling jacks, which continued to perform unreliably, and we made an appointment with a repair facility at an RV dealership in southern Pennsylvania. On the way there, snow began to fall. By the time we reached the repair shop Saturday morning, visibility wasn't very good, and snow was already accumulating on the ground.
A technician reset the leveling reference point and pronounced us cured. With the weather looking worse and worse, we decided to stay overnight at the adjacent campground run by the dealership. So we turned on our electric fireplace and curled up on the sofa with Sophia and Tammy Faye and watched television as the snow continued to fall and the temperatures dropped. Nancy and I had both dreamed of evenings like this - freezing cold outside, warm and cozy inside the motorhome. Heaven!
We awoke to a winter wonderland, with four or five inches of snow on the ground. The sun was out and the world was beautiful. Our dogs had never seen snow before but seemed to enjoy walking and playing and peeing in it. News reports said that this was abnormally early for an East Coast snow storm, and that hundreds of thousands of residents of New England and Pennsylvania were without power. Nancy's sister Julie was one of them.
We located a sports bar - Buffalo Wild Wings - nearby and drank beer and ate disgusting and delicious tailgate-type food while watching the 49ers whup Cleveland.
Heading toward Asheville, North Carolina, we took the scenic route. We entered the Shenandoah National Park and drove almost the entire length of Skyline Drive, a magnificent road that runs in Virginia along the ridge of the Shenandoah Mountains. There was still wonderful foliage color, and with snow covering the landscape, and jawdropping views of the hills and valleys below, it was one of the prettiest drives I could ever remember. And we had time to enjoy the scenery - speed limit was 35 mph for the entire hundred miles or so.
I wanted to visit Monticello, the home designed by Thomas Jefferson, so we stopped for the night in Waynesboro, Virginia, at an Elks Lodge. You may recall that I am a proud member of that proud fraternal organization.
But first we needed to deal with our leveling jacks, which continued to perform unreliably, and we made an appointment with a repair facility at an RV dealership in southern Pennsylvania. On the way there, snow began to fall. By the time we reached the repair shop Saturday morning, visibility wasn't very good, and snow was already accumulating on the ground.
A technician reset the leveling reference point and pronounced us cured. With the weather looking worse and worse, we decided to stay overnight at the adjacent campground run by the dealership. So we turned on our electric fireplace and curled up on the sofa with Sophia and Tammy Faye and watched television as the snow continued to fall and the temperatures dropped. Nancy and I had both dreamed of evenings like this - freezing cold outside, warm and cozy inside the motorhome. Heaven!
We awoke to a winter wonderland, with four or five inches of snow on the ground. The sun was out and the world was beautiful. Our dogs had never seen snow before but seemed to enjoy walking and playing and peeing in it. News reports said that this was abnormally early for an East Coast snow storm, and that hundreds of thousands of residents of New England and Pennsylvania were without power. Nancy's sister Julie was one of them.
We located a sports bar - Buffalo Wild Wings - nearby and drank beer and ate disgusting and delicious tailgate-type food while watching the 49ers whup Cleveland.
Heading toward Asheville, North Carolina, we took the scenic route. We entered the Shenandoah National Park and drove almost the entire length of Skyline Drive, a magnificent road that runs in Virginia along the ridge of the Shenandoah Mountains. There was still wonderful foliage color, and with snow covering the landscape, and jawdropping views of the hills and valleys below, it was one of the prettiest drives I could ever remember. And we had time to enjoy the scenery - speed limit was 35 mph for the entire hundred miles or so.
I wanted to visit Monticello, the home designed by Thomas Jefferson, so we stopped for the night in Waynesboro, Virginia, at an Elks Lodge. You may recall that I am a proud member of that proud fraternal organization.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Ren and Dottie
Nancy's parents, Ren and Dottie, 92 and 89 years old, had decided some months earlier to move into a senior citizen's facility in Downeytown, PA, in order to have meals provided, a safer bathroom, and 24-hour front desk availability in case of emergency. Nancy and I wanted to help them move. A couple of weeks ago, in a previous episode of this blog, we did some preliminary assistance, though to be honest we did more visiting than packing at that time.
From Massachusetts we headed toward Pennsylvania, but stopped off at a motorhome repair facility in Sewell, New Jersey, to take care of the mechanical issues that had arisen in our coach. While they worked on our unit, Nancy and I and the dogs drove the pickup truck to Atlantic City. When Nancy was a child, she and her family went there on vacation, and one of her favorite memories was watching the famous diving horses, ridden by young women, who leaped from a high platform into a relatively shallow pool beside the boardwalk.
Our first stop was the Borgata Hotel, supposedly the newest and fanciest casino in Atlantic City. We parked in their garage, intending to leave Tammy Faye and Sophia in our pickup while we explored the hotel and its restaurants and gaming rooms for a little while. As we were walking toward the entrance, a security guard drove up and informed us that the hotel did not allow dogs to be left in vehicles. So we left. Our critters may well have saved us a fair amount of coin.
We ended up strolling the boardwalk on a rainy afternoon. It's lined by casinos, gift shops, restaurants, and every kind of tourist trap you can imagine. This was offseason and many of the booths and stores were closed. But it was fun, especially since one of our favorite TV shows is Boardwalk Empire.
Upon returning to the repair shop, the malfunctioning furnace turned out to be due to spider webs, we were told. The steps were repaired, so that we no longer had to physically pull ourselves up to floor level. The biggest problem they worked on was the leveling mechanism, and they appeared to fix that as well, by replacing the front leveling jacks. So as we drove away we felt that we had a new motorhome again.
Once again we stayed in the Walmart parking lot near both Ren and Dottie's old apartment and their new one. This time we - Nancy's brother Rennie, his daughter Melissa, Nancy's sister Julie, Nancy, and I - worked hard, packing and transporting boxes to the new place and preparing things for the moving company that was scheduled to transport the furniture.
Ren, a former engineer, drew a detailed floor plan of the new apartment and placed numbered furniture diagrams where each would go. He attached a numbered label - 1 to 52 - to each piece of furniture so that the movers would know where to place it. Those pieces which didn't fit in the new apartment got a "B" label so that the movers would put them in basement storage. According to the movers, this was a unique plan - but a good one. And it worked well.
We the grunts spent several more days carrying over the remaining items and helping to arrange things in Ren and Dottie's new home - unpacking the boxes and putting their contents away. I hung pictures and tried to make sure that all the pathways were as clear as possible, for safety's sake. Nancy did a great job of organizing her mother's clothing and supplies. Melissa cleaned the old apartment so that the security deposit would be returned. Moving to a new place is always exhausting, but all in all, not a bad job. We're glad we could help.
After an emotional farewell, Nancy and I returned to our motorhome and made plans to head south, toward the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia.
From Massachusetts we headed toward Pennsylvania, but stopped off at a motorhome repair facility in Sewell, New Jersey, to take care of the mechanical issues that had arisen in our coach. While they worked on our unit, Nancy and I and the dogs drove the pickup truck to Atlantic City. When Nancy was a child, she and her family went there on vacation, and one of her favorite memories was watching the famous diving horses, ridden by young women, who leaped from a high platform into a relatively shallow pool beside the boardwalk.
Our first stop was the Borgata Hotel, supposedly the newest and fanciest casino in Atlantic City. We parked in their garage, intending to leave Tammy Faye and Sophia in our pickup while we explored the hotel and its restaurants and gaming rooms for a little while. As we were walking toward the entrance, a security guard drove up and informed us that the hotel did not allow dogs to be left in vehicles. So we left. Our critters may well have saved us a fair amount of coin.
We ended up strolling the boardwalk on a rainy afternoon. It's lined by casinos, gift shops, restaurants, and every kind of tourist trap you can imagine. This was offseason and many of the booths and stores were closed. But it was fun, especially since one of our favorite TV shows is Boardwalk Empire.
Upon returning to the repair shop, the malfunctioning furnace turned out to be due to spider webs, we were told. The steps were repaired, so that we no longer had to physically pull ourselves up to floor level. The biggest problem they worked on was the leveling mechanism, and they appeared to fix that as well, by replacing the front leveling jacks. So as we drove away we felt that we had a new motorhome again.
Once again we stayed in the Walmart parking lot near both Ren and Dottie's old apartment and their new one. This time we - Nancy's brother Rennie, his daughter Melissa, Nancy's sister Julie, Nancy, and I - worked hard, packing and transporting boxes to the new place and preparing things for the moving company that was scheduled to transport the furniture.
Ren, a former engineer, drew a detailed floor plan of the new apartment and placed numbered furniture diagrams where each would go. He attached a numbered label - 1 to 52 - to each piece of furniture so that the movers would know where to place it. Those pieces which didn't fit in the new apartment got a "B" label so that the movers would put them in basement storage. According to the movers, this was a unique plan - but a good one. And it worked well.
We the grunts spent several more days carrying over the remaining items and helping to arrange things in Ren and Dottie's new home - unpacking the boxes and putting their contents away. I hung pictures and tried to make sure that all the pathways were as clear as possible, for safety's sake. Nancy did a great job of organizing her mother's clothing and supplies. Melissa cleaned the old apartment so that the security deposit would be returned. Moving to a new place is always exhausting, but all in all, not a bad job. We're glad we could help.
After an emotional farewell, Nancy and I returned to our motorhome and made plans to head south, toward the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Leaves and Shakers
Leaving upstate New York, we crossed into Vermont. Almost immediately the roads improved - beautiful smooth highways lined with trees showing their finest colors. Vermont is, I believe, not a wealthy state, but the homes and yards we passed looked more prosperous and better kept than we had seen in the countryside we passed through in Pennsylvania and New York. There seemed to be a real pride in maintaining their properties.
We crossed over into New Hampshire to walk around beautiful Dartmouth College - a classic campus with great old buildings and green open spaces. There was an adjacent shopping street with a number of nice restaurants - much more upscale than we had seen at the University of Wisconsin in Madison but less interesting.
Some years back Nancy had taken a trip across country with her sister Diane, who has since passed away. One of her favorite experiences then was a visit to a Shaker village in Kentucky. Massachusetts was another center of Shaker activity during its heyday, and there is a Shaker village in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, so we headed there.
The United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing began in eighteenth century England and came to America near the time of our nation's birth. They were given the name "Shakers" because of the gyrations observed during their charasmatic church services. They were admirable in many ways, believing in equality of the sexes and kindness toward all. They were very inventive craftsmen and are well known for their simple but elegant furniture production. They lived communal lives. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Shaker lifestyle is that they did not believe that God wanted them to have sexual relations. This, of course, limited procreation rather severely and made the movement less attractive to the lustful. Of course Nancy and I couldn't help but wonder if slipups were occasionally made, and if so, what happened to the offenders when a new little Shaker popped out.
The buildings in the village are wonderfully preserved, and the staff is great at explaining what things were like when the community was active. No Shakers have lived there for many years. There is one small Shaker community remaining in Maine. Please contact me if you want further information on how to join.
A mighty wind blew that day, before and after our Shaker visit. Swept most of the color from the trees, leaving bare limbs and diminishing the beauty of the drive back to assist Nancy's parents in their move to a senior facility.
We crossed over into New Hampshire to walk around beautiful Dartmouth College - a classic campus with great old buildings and green open spaces. There was an adjacent shopping street with a number of nice restaurants - much more upscale than we had seen at the University of Wisconsin in Madison but less interesting.
Some years back Nancy had taken a trip across country with her sister Diane, who has since passed away. One of her favorite experiences then was a visit to a Shaker village in Kentucky. Massachusetts was another center of Shaker activity during its heyday, and there is a Shaker village in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, so we headed there.
The United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing began in eighteenth century England and came to America near the time of our nation's birth. They were given the name "Shakers" because of the gyrations observed during their charasmatic church services. They were admirable in many ways, believing in equality of the sexes and kindness toward all. They were very inventive craftsmen and are well known for their simple but elegant furniture production. They lived communal lives. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Shaker lifestyle is that they did not believe that God wanted them to have sexual relations. This, of course, limited procreation rather severely and made the movement less attractive to the lustful. Of course Nancy and I couldn't help but wonder if slipups were occasionally made, and if so, what happened to the offenders when a new little Shaker popped out.
The buildings in the village are wonderfully preserved, and the staff is great at explaining what things were like when the community was active. No Shakers have lived there for many years. There is one small Shaker community remaining in Maine. Please contact me if you want further information on how to join.
A mighty wind blew that day, before and after our Shaker visit. Swept most of the color from the trees, leaving bare limbs and diminishing the beauty of the drive back to assist Nancy's parents in their move to a senior facility.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Cooperstown
We left the Walmart in Exton, PA and drove out in search of fall foilage and found peak color in northwestern Pennsylvania. We stopped at a campground there, and when I turned on the automatic leveling system to get us ready for the night there was a loud mechanical scraping sound, and the coach pitched left to right. One of the four leveling arms got bent, so we will be unable to level the coach precisely until it's repaired. The owner of the campground said, "I'm pretty handy and can fix almost anything." He volunteered to unbolt the damaged mechanism and secure it to the undercarriage so we could safely drive the vehicle - and he and two buddies did just that! Good samaritans are still out there. I expressed our gratitude with a fine bottle of Ridge cabernet sauvignon. He was not offended at the offer of an alcoholic beverage.
Driving through the countryside of Pennsylvania and upper New York state, the fall colors were spectacular. Entire hillsides were covered with brilliant jujube pastels. If you haven't been to New England during October, I highly recommend that you add that trip to your wish list.
We pulled into a campground in upstate New York. When Nancy walked over to the office, everything inside was piled up in an ungodly mess. It turned out that there had been severe flash flooding when hurricane Irene hit the east coast a little over a month before. Many of the RV's in the campground had been damaged before the owners could get them to higher ground. The same thing had happened at the previously mentioned campground in Pennsylvania, by the way. Out on the West Coast most of us weren't aware of just how severe that storm had been on the Eastern coastal states.
So the park was not in great shape, but the owners found us a nice level spot. They mentioned that during the summer the campground is always packed, because so many people come to the area to see the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. We weren't even aware that it was almost next door; that's what happens when you are on a schedule and don't investigate what there is to see nearby.
The next day we drove into Cooperstown. It's extremely charming. They haven't allowed any chain stores or restaurants to spoil the ambiance, so it's fun to explore. Across the street from the Hall of Fame building, we saw four protestors - three elderly women and one middle aged man holding up anti-war signs. We told them that being from Santa Cruz, California, their protest made us feel like we were back home. They were Quakers, and one of them had been to Ben Lomond. I joined their protest, briefly sharing a "War is bad" sign with the gentleman, while Nancy took a photo to commemerate my dedication.
The Hall of Fame museum is wonderful if you have any interest in baseball - and is quite nice even if you don't. There are statues of many of the greats, and a lot of historical movies and photographs. Sections honor African-American, hispanic, Asian, and women baseball players. The all-time statistical leaders in hundreds of categories are listed. There is a small section honoring the current reigning world champion San Francisco Giants. In one room are bronze plaques for every player inducted. All in all, it's fascinating and extremely well done. See it if you can.
Driving through the countryside of Pennsylvania and upper New York state, the fall colors were spectacular. Entire hillsides were covered with brilliant jujube pastels. If you haven't been to New England during October, I highly recommend that you add that trip to your wish list.
We pulled into a campground in upstate New York. When Nancy walked over to the office, everything inside was piled up in an ungodly mess. It turned out that there had been severe flash flooding when hurricane Irene hit the east coast a little over a month before. Many of the RV's in the campground had been damaged before the owners could get them to higher ground. The same thing had happened at the previously mentioned campground in Pennsylvania, by the way. Out on the West Coast most of us weren't aware of just how severe that storm had been on the Eastern coastal states.
So the park was not in great shape, but the owners found us a nice level spot. They mentioned that during the summer the campground is always packed, because so many people come to the area to see the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. We weren't even aware that it was almost next door; that's what happens when you are on a schedule and don't investigate what there is to see nearby.
The next day we drove into Cooperstown. It's extremely charming. They haven't allowed any chain stores or restaurants to spoil the ambiance, so it's fun to explore. Across the street from the Hall of Fame building, we saw four protestors - three elderly women and one middle aged man holding up anti-war signs. We told them that being from Santa Cruz, California, their protest made us feel like we were back home. They were Quakers, and one of them had been to Ben Lomond. I joined their protest, briefly sharing a "War is bad" sign with the gentleman, while Nancy took a photo to commemerate my dedication.
The Hall of Fame museum is wonderful if you have any interest in baseball - and is quite nice even if you don't. There are statues of many of the greats, and a lot of historical movies and photographs. Sections honor African-American, hispanic, Asian, and women baseball players. The all-time statistical leaders in hundreds of categories are listed. There is a small section honoring the current reigning world champion San Francisco Giants. In one room are bronze plaques for every player inducted. All in all, it's fascinating and extremely well done. See it if you can.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Family business in Pennsylvania
Nancy a few months ago: "Walmart is the devil. They drive all the local stores out of business. They pay their employees so little that they give them pamphlets telling them how to go on Medicaid. They are evil and I hope I never step foot in one of their stores."
Nancy now: "Ah ... these prices! One of my favorite meals lately is the beef filets in those cute little packages. Their produce is nice, too, and the stores are clean. Oh, look. They have a hair salon in this one. If I hadn't made an appointment in town, I'd go here. And they're so nice to allow us to park overnight for free. Once we get back to the motorhome, I'll search the GPS to see where there's one close to where we're stopping tonight."
Nancy's parents live in an apartment in West Chester, Pennsylvania. They are scheduled to move on October 22 back to Ashbridge Manor, a senior living facility down the road in Downingtown. We had planned the timing of our trip so that we could assist in the transfer to their new quarters. We arrived in the area about two weeks before the moving date and wanted to help them get organized, with plans to then head north to see the New England fall color changes and return a few days before the final move to be of whatever assistance we could.
On the internet Nancy located a Walmart just a few minutes from where her parents live. It wasn't a Walmart Supercenter (meaning, for you non-Walmart-aficionados out there, that it wasn't as gargantuan as their biggest and didn't have a full grocery department), and it wasn't open all night - but it did have a huge parking lot and they graciously allowed us to park the motorhome there for several days.
Nancy's dad Ren is 92 and her mother Dotty is 89 years old. Both have a few physical problems but they haven't lost anything mentally so I'm hopeful that with those good genes, when I go gaga Nancy will still be capable of taking care of me.
Ren is a very smart former engineer who loves jazz and keeps up with all the political and scientific news. Dottie doesn't get around too well but still manages to run a pretty tight ship. We had a lot of quality time with Nancy's folks but with all the talking I can't say that Nancy and I accomplished a lot in helping them prepare for the move.
Nancy's brothers are Rennie, an electrician who had a liver transplant some years ago, and David, an accountant who lost his wife to cancer last year, and both have great senses of humor. Nancy and I got together with them on football Sunday at a sports bar to watch the 49ers game against Tampa Bay, which turned out to be one of the best performance by the 49ers in years. Unfortunately for Rennie, who is a diehard Eagles fan, the Eagles and Michael Vick lost their game that day - a week after the 49ers defeated them - but he maintained his composure and good spirits, which goes to show that he's a far better man than I. Good brew, good fattening bar food, and lots of laughs.
So after helping her parents not all that much, Nancy and I prepared to leave our Walmart parking lot - to which we would probably return in about a week - and head north, through upstate New York, and across to Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine.
Nancy now: "Ah ... these prices! One of my favorite meals lately is the beef filets in those cute little packages. Their produce is nice, too, and the stores are clean. Oh, look. They have a hair salon in this one. If I hadn't made an appointment in town, I'd go here. And they're so nice to allow us to park overnight for free. Once we get back to the motorhome, I'll search the GPS to see where there's one close to where we're stopping tonight."
Nancy's parents live in an apartment in West Chester, Pennsylvania. They are scheduled to move on October 22 back to Ashbridge Manor, a senior living facility down the road in Downingtown. We had planned the timing of our trip so that we could assist in the transfer to their new quarters. We arrived in the area about two weeks before the moving date and wanted to help them get organized, with plans to then head north to see the New England fall color changes and return a few days before the final move to be of whatever assistance we could.
On the internet Nancy located a Walmart just a few minutes from where her parents live. It wasn't a Walmart Supercenter (meaning, for you non-Walmart-aficionados out there, that it wasn't as gargantuan as their biggest and didn't have a full grocery department), and it wasn't open all night - but it did have a huge parking lot and they graciously allowed us to park the motorhome there for several days.
Nancy's dad Ren is 92 and her mother Dotty is 89 years old. Both have a few physical problems but they haven't lost anything mentally so I'm hopeful that with those good genes, when I go gaga Nancy will still be capable of taking care of me.
Ren is a very smart former engineer who loves jazz and keeps up with all the political and scientific news. Dottie doesn't get around too well but still manages to run a pretty tight ship. We had a lot of quality time with Nancy's folks but with all the talking I can't say that Nancy and I accomplished a lot in helping them prepare for the move.
Nancy's brothers are Rennie, an electrician who had a liver transplant some years ago, and David, an accountant who lost his wife to cancer last year, and both have great senses of humor. Nancy and I got together with them on football Sunday at a sports bar to watch the 49ers game against Tampa Bay, which turned out to be one of the best performance by the 49ers in years. Unfortunately for Rennie, who is a diehard Eagles fan, the Eagles and Michael Vick lost their game that day - a week after the 49ers defeated them - but he maintained his composure and good spirits, which goes to show that he's a far better man than I. Good brew, good fattening bar food, and lots of laughs.
So after helping her parents not all that much, Nancy and I prepared to leave our Walmart parking lot - to which we would probably return in about a week - and head north, through upstate New York, and across to Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Muddy outside Cleveland
By coincidence a friend of ours from Santa Cruz was scheduled to undergo a procedure at the Cleveland Clinic just after we planned to drive by. He arrived there a few days before his surgery for pre-op tests and evaluation, and we made plans to drive in and meet him at his hotel, catch some lunch, and hear the news from Santa Cruz.
The pickings for campgrounds anywhere near Cleveland were slim. We settled on one about 40 minutes away from the hospital and pulled in and got settled the night before we were to meet our friend. It was not one of your upscale RV parks and looked like what you'd find in the backwoods of West Virginia or Zayante. The rain was coming down pretty good, and while our motorhome was on solid gravel footing, most of the campsite was wet and muddy.
At around eleven o'clock it was time to take the dogs out for their last run of the day. Because of the stormy and sloppy conditions, and the fact that they sleep on our bed, I decided to carry them one at a time to a gravel pad for their late night business.
Tammy Faye was first. She's kind of a load. I was carrying her in my arms, in the dark, when my foot slipped. I fell forward, banged my head on the slideout surface, and fell directly onto my back in the mud, still clutching Tammy Faye to my chest.
I took inventory. No acute pains. No loss of consciousness. I knew the month and year, and while I wasn't clear on the day of the month and the town I was in, I knew who the president was. I was pleased to note that Tammy Faye had held her bladder during the excitement and didn't seem emotionally damaged. Nothing worse than a dog with PTSD.
Surprisingly, there were no aftereffects the next day. Nancy and I met our friend in Cleveland, and we had a nice lunch. Traffic in Cleveland back to the motorhome was nothing like Chicago, and we headed East toward Nancy's parents and family in Pennsylvania.
The pickings for campgrounds anywhere near Cleveland were slim. We settled on one about 40 minutes away from the hospital and pulled in and got settled the night before we were to meet our friend. It was not one of your upscale RV parks and looked like what you'd find in the backwoods of West Virginia or Zayante. The rain was coming down pretty good, and while our motorhome was on solid gravel footing, most of the campsite was wet and muddy.
At around eleven o'clock it was time to take the dogs out for their last run of the day. Because of the stormy and sloppy conditions, and the fact that they sleep on our bed, I decided to carry them one at a time to a gravel pad for their late night business.
Tammy Faye was first. She's kind of a load. I was carrying her in my arms, in the dark, when my foot slipped. I fell forward, banged my head on the slideout surface, and fell directly onto my back in the mud, still clutching Tammy Faye to my chest.
I took inventory. No acute pains. No loss of consciousness. I knew the month and year, and while I wasn't clear on the day of the month and the town I was in, I knew who the president was. I was pleased to note that Tammy Faye had held her bladder during the excitement and didn't seem emotionally damaged. Nothing worse than a dog with PTSD.
Surprisingly, there were no aftereffects the next day. Nancy and I met our friend in Cleveland, and we had a nice lunch. Traffic in Cleveland back to the motorhome was nothing like Chicago, and we headed East toward Nancy's parents and family in Pennsylvania.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Days in Hell
Somewhere in Montana our dash heater/air conditioner went out. Working fine one day, dead the next. In hot weather, we were sweating; in cold weather, our toes were freezing. I called Ford (the motorhome is on a Ford chassis) and they made an appointment for us at a Ford truck service center in Madison. We dropped off the motorhome and while they worked on it, our dogs went to a local groomer.
The technicians found that a wire had come loose, patched it, and we got back on the road, headed for a campground in Rockford, Illinois. Then a weather front moved in. There were gusts of over 50 mph, we found out later, and our motorhome was tossed right and left, terrifying man and beast.
We reached the campground after the office was closed. According to information posted there, several sites were available, and Nancy selected the map for one of them. It was a strange campsite - very narrow, with a big tree on the right. In retrospect, it was entirely unsuitable for a motorhome, especially one with slideouts. With the storm still blowing and night approaching, I gamely drove the unit into position. There was a thunk. Thunks are never good in the RV world. It turned out that even though there was plenty of room between the tree and the right side of the coach at eye level, there was an upper tree branch that bent over and smote the awning roller over the rear slideout and scraped it pretty good. Lesson learned.
We drove out, chose a different site, and proceeded to go through the usual setup procedures. But the rear slideout wouldn't extend fully; the pooch had been screwed. So we brought the slideout in, which left no room at the foot of the bed. For me to get to my normal sleeping position, I had to crawl over Nancy and the dogs. Not very elegante. REM sleep was hard to come by.
The next morning we got up early and drove to an RV dealership in Rockford that sells some of the Thor motorhome models and has a well-reviewed repair service. I threw myself on the mercy of the service department, and a very nice gentleman - who claimed to be a 49er fan - promised to try to get us on the road that day if at all possible. Since it was Friday, if they couldn't get it fixed that day, I knew that it would be Monday at the earliest before we could resume our trip.
Happily, when we called some hours later, we were told that we were good to go. A metal arm that allows the awning to extend over the slideout had been bent in the tree incident, and they were able to get things functioning again. We were very grateful, and paid the bill with smiles on our faces.
But as we were climbing in and out of the coach, preparing to leave, the steps at the door - which are supposed to automatically lower into place when the door is opened, and retract when it is closed - just sat there, half in and half out, swinging in the breeze. A technician came out and noticed that a bolt had fallen out of the hinge mechansim, and several components were hanging loose. The technicians said that a half inch bolt had simply snapped. Now Nancy and I may have picked up a few pounds on this trip, but we and the techs were certain that it was not our fault but most likely a factory defect that would be covered by warranty. They worked on the steps for a while, but couldn't fix the problem. They taped up the steps to keep them out of the way, and suggested that we get them repaired or replaced when we would be in one location long enough for a service department to order the necessary parts. Without those steps, it was necessary to pull ourselves up and lower ourselves down - difficult but doable - and we hit the road.
Someone at the going away party had cautioned us to avoid Chicago traffic at all costs - and we tried, routing ourselves considerably south into the suburbs - but it wasn't far enough. The traffic at that Friday afternoon was heavy and aggressive and frankly a little scary. The roads in Illinois - in fact the highways all through that area - are terrible. The ride is bumpy and noisy and unpleasant. To add insult to injury, Illinois collects high tolls for the privilege of driving on those abominations.
Exhausted, we asked our GPS to take us to a Walmart, where we spent the night.
The following day, after driving over more bone jarring roads and fighting the winds, we pulled into a country campground in Ohio. Finally I could relax. We put the slides out, had dinner, turned on the furnace, and watched some television. Then I noticed on that cold evening that the furnace had stopped after only a few minutes. I looked at the control panel and was disheartened to see that not only was the temperature display on the thermostat blank, but the water heater couldn't be turned on, and most disturbing of all, the slideouts were inoperative. This was not good. We were in trouble.
I checked the circuit breaker panel; none had been tripped. I even removed the control panel from the wall, looking for loose wires, thinking that the awful roads might have jarred something loose.
We had been told that we had emergency roadside assistance available to us, although we weren't sure who was supposed to provide it. Nancy began looking through our papers to figure out who we would call in the morning. We were pretty sure that we would have to be towed in or otherwise transported. Our spirits were as low as they could get.
As a last gasp attempt, I checked the circuit breakers again. No luck. At that point I noticed a little black plastic door that I hadn't seen before and whose function, if any, was unknown by me. With some effort I was able to get it open. Inside there were about 15 fuses, each 15 amps. Each fuse had two metal prongs that should be inserted into two receptacles. I saw, to my amazement, that beside one of the fuses a red light was on. It turned out that that fuse had been installed improperly, most likely at the factory. One prong was lying on its receptacle rather than inside it, and until the recent road trauma it had maintained enough contact to function properly. When I stuck it in as intended, the red light went out, the furnace started up again, the slides became functional, the water heater came alive, the lame were made to walk, and the blind could see.
Nancy began jumping and shrieking, "You da man, you da MAN!"
As you can imagine, I don't get many of those. From boob to brainiac in two short days.
After weeks with everything working, suddenly it seemed that we were under a black cloud. Would things get better?
Stay tuned.
The technicians found that a wire had come loose, patched it, and we got back on the road, headed for a campground in Rockford, Illinois. Then a weather front moved in. There were gusts of over 50 mph, we found out later, and our motorhome was tossed right and left, terrifying man and beast.
We reached the campground after the office was closed. According to information posted there, several sites were available, and Nancy selected the map for one of them. It was a strange campsite - very narrow, with a big tree on the right. In retrospect, it was entirely unsuitable for a motorhome, especially one with slideouts. With the storm still blowing and night approaching, I gamely drove the unit into position. There was a thunk. Thunks are never good in the RV world. It turned out that even though there was plenty of room between the tree and the right side of the coach at eye level, there was an upper tree branch that bent over and smote the awning roller over the rear slideout and scraped it pretty good. Lesson learned.
We drove out, chose a different site, and proceeded to go through the usual setup procedures. But the rear slideout wouldn't extend fully; the pooch had been screwed. So we brought the slideout in, which left no room at the foot of the bed. For me to get to my normal sleeping position, I had to crawl over Nancy and the dogs. Not very elegante. REM sleep was hard to come by.
The next morning we got up early and drove to an RV dealership in Rockford that sells some of the Thor motorhome models and has a well-reviewed repair service. I threw myself on the mercy of the service department, and a very nice gentleman - who claimed to be a 49er fan - promised to try to get us on the road that day if at all possible. Since it was Friday, if they couldn't get it fixed that day, I knew that it would be Monday at the earliest before we could resume our trip.
Happily, when we called some hours later, we were told that we were good to go. A metal arm that allows the awning to extend over the slideout had been bent in the tree incident, and they were able to get things functioning again. We were very grateful, and paid the bill with smiles on our faces.
But as we were climbing in and out of the coach, preparing to leave, the steps at the door - which are supposed to automatically lower into place when the door is opened, and retract when it is closed - just sat there, half in and half out, swinging in the breeze. A technician came out and noticed that a bolt had fallen out of the hinge mechansim, and several components were hanging loose. The technicians said that a half inch bolt had simply snapped. Now Nancy and I may have picked up a few pounds on this trip, but we and the techs were certain that it was not our fault but most likely a factory defect that would be covered by warranty. They worked on the steps for a while, but couldn't fix the problem. They taped up the steps to keep them out of the way, and suggested that we get them repaired or replaced when we would be in one location long enough for a service department to order the necessary parts. Without those steps, it was necessary to pull ourselves up and lower ourselves down - difficult but doable - and we hit the road.
Someone at the going away party had cautioned us to avoid Chicago traffic at all costs - and we tried, routing ourselves considerably south into the suburbs - but it wasn't far enough. The traffic at that Friday afternoon was heavy and aggressive and frankly a little scary. The roads in Illinois - in fact the highways all through that area - are terrible. The ride is bumpy and noisy and unpleasant. To add insult to injury, Illinois collects high tolls for the privilege of driving on those abominations.
Exhausted, we asked our GPS to take us to a Walmart, where we spent the night.
The following day, after driving over more bone jarring roads and fighting the winds, we pulled into a country campground in Ohio. Finally I could relax. We put the slides out, had dinner, turned on the furnace, and watched some television. Then I noticed on that cold evening that the furnace had stopped after only a few minutes. I looked at the control panel and was disheartened to see that not only was the temperature display on the thermostat blank, but the water heater couldn't be turned on, and most disturbing of all, the slideouts were inoperative. This was not good. We were in trouble.
I checked the circuit breaker panel; none had been tripped. I even removed the control panel from the wall, looking for loose wires, thinking that the awful roads might have jarred something loose.
We had been told that we had emergency roadside assistance available to us, although we weren't sure who was supposed to provide it. Nancy began looking through our papers to figure out who we would call in the morning. We were pretty sure that we would have to be towed in or otherwise transported. Our spirits were as low as they could get.
As a last gasp attempt, I checked the circuit breakers again. No luck. At that point I noticed a little black plastic door that I hadn't seen before and whose function, if any, was unknown by me. With some effort I was able to get it open. Inside there were about 15 fuses, each 15 amps. Each fuse had two metal prongs that should be inserted into two receptacles. I saw, to my amazement, that beside one of the fuses a red light was on. It turned out that that fuse had been installed improperly, most likely at the factory. One prong was lying on its receptacle rather than inside it, and until the recent road trauma it had maintained enough contact to function properly. When I stuck it in as intended, the red light went out, the furnace started up again, the slides became functional, the water heater came alive, the lame were made to walk, and the blind could see.
Nancy began jumping and shrieking, "You da man, you da MAN!"
As you can imagine, I don't get many of those. From boob to brainiac in two short days.
After weeks with everything working, suddenly it seemed that we were under a black cloud. Would things get better?
Stay tuned.
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