On the Road

Tunnel Vision

2009-07-31T14:25:00.000-07:00

Asheville, North Carolina and the Blue Ridge Parkway

2009-07-31T14:07:00.000-07:00

July 28

We are nearing the end of our journey, and this part of the drive is no less beautiful than all of the others. Asheville is a charming, artsy town, that reminds us a bit of San Francisco. On the tourist pamphlet stands, we see pamphlets touting hot air balloons and a surprise "Fabric, Fiber, and Bead Trail" (move over, New Mexico!). We definitely must add this to our list of weekend jaunts to take in the future.

At the Blue Ridge Parkway visitor center, we watch a breath-taking film about the Parkway, to prep us for our drive along the beautiful mountain road. We take a few moments to pop in to the Folk Art Center that displays the gorgeous arts and crafts of the renowned Southern Highlands Craft Guild.

The drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway is a bit disappointing, and a bit harrowing. Road construction projects seem to have followed us all across the USA (must be a result of the economic recovery act, we figure), but on these winding mountain roads it slows us down tremendously, and we think we ought to abort the mountain route so that we will not be driving all night long. But that decision is actually made for us, as a detour takes us off of the mountain road and through more populous areas. Good thing we have Maggie, our Magellan GPS, along with us -- she is getting quite a workout! (Lots of recalculating...)

Tennessee to North Carolina

2009-07-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

July 27

The drive from Tennessee to North Carolina takes us past limestone cliffs that look like they were carefully laid, layer by layer, by skilled stonemasons. This landscape is all deep green, a nice change after hundreds of miles of desert browns and pale yellows.

The Hermitage

2009-07-31T13:35:00.000-07:00

July 27

This is turning out to be a bit of a Presidential road trip -- as well as a fiber road trip. The two come together as we tour the Hermitage, on the outskirts of Nashville.

The Hermitage was the home of General Andrew Jackson, seventh President of the US. It was also a cotton plantation. Much more than the modern Presidential libraries we have toured, this mansion -- like those of other early Presidents -- displays a combination of history, archaeological evidence, and a great deal of speculation about the lives of the President and the others who lived on the estate.

It appears that those who lived here at the time of Jackson numbered around 200 -- most of whom were Black slaves. Jackson is noted to have been an early crafter of the tenets of democracy and founder of the Democratic party. But he was a man of many paradoxes, most notably in his ownership and treatment of his slaves, and in having been the architect of the "Trail of Tears." The Trail of Tears was the forceful eviction of native peoples from southeastern lands to central U.S. territory that had been identified to house the Indian peoples.

The income that sustained Jackson and his plantation, and the work of the 1,100 acre plantation, was primarily based on cotton. With the hard labor of slave field hands and slave skilled craftspersons, the cotton was grown, harvested, ginned, and carded; and some of it spun and woven to sew simple garments, likely for the slaves to wear.

Some similar processes, but a far cry from the textile craft work that I so enjoy!

The pretty green and tan yarn that I found at Hillcreek Fiber Workshop in Missouri is spun primarily from cotton. How this journey all interconnects...

Nashville, TN

2009-07-31T13:27:00.000-07:00

7/26-27

"Music City, America" greets us with its bright city lights as we cross the great Mississippi River late on Sunday night. It is always a bit of a thrill to see, and especially to cross, America's grand river. But tonight it is especially awesome to rise over the bridge and see suddenly before us the bright glow of an exciting city.

We know that all those bright lights are associated with equally bright music in the many clubs an musical venues where music -- and stars -- are made. Alas, it is nearing midnight, and we need to check in to our hotel and ready for Monday's road trip. So the music, which the hotel pamphlets cite as Tennessee's best product, plays for us only in our minds tonight. We settle in at a magnificent sheraton, whose wall art reflects the town's musical heritage. G'nite.

Little Rock, Arkansas

2009-07-31T13:15:00.000-07:00

July 26

On the way from Oklahoma through Arkansas, the road wiggles around, doing a funny little dance with the Arkansas River, as roads and railroads and rivers often do throughout the country.

In Little Rock, we stay downtown, by the shores of the Arkansas River. In fact, we are on President Clinton avenue. The focus of our very brief stop here -- other than sleep and refueling -- is to visit the Clinton Presidential Library.

This library is much more expansive and sophisticated than either the JFK or the Truman library.In fact, it's more of a complex -- encompassing the library/museum, a park, and the Clinton School of Public Service (University of Arkansas).

Half of the third floor of the museum is host to changing exhibits. The exhibit shown while we are there is "from the Moon to Mars", a NASA exhibit that tells a bit of the story of the space program. Included are amazing photos from the Hubble telescope, illuminated specially to display the incredible pictures of galaxies. There is even a chunk of moon rock on display.

Lotawatah Road

2009-07-29T21:55:00.001-07:00

I sure love road-namers who have a sense of humor!

OK by Me

2009-07-29T21:40:00.000-07:00

July 25

Oklahoma is considerably greener than the other states we've been driving through in this southern trek eastward. Lush forests give way to farmland and then return to complete the Oklahoma landscape. Farm acreage is embellished with neatly rolled hay bundles, by the hundreds. On the road, we drive through nation after nation of Native american lands: Comanche, Apache, Shawnee, Seminole, Choctaw, Muskogee (Creek).

We have been on this fabulous road trip for five weeks now. My transition to retirement has been quite a remarkable journey, in every sense of the word. "This Land is Your Land" has gained stupendous new depth of meaning.

But, we remind ourselves, and each other, we have got to get home again -- and soon. So we resolve to "make tracks" and cover 300-450 miles of American road each day for the rest of our return trip. Less spontaneity, fewer diversions. But we still have plenty of beautiful ground to cover, and more friendly people to meet along the way.

Texas Waterfowl

2009-07-29T21:30:00.000-07:00

The Mane Event

2009-07-29T20:56:00.000-07:00

7/24

So, Cheyenne has its painted boots and San Francisco its hearts. Wichita Falls, like a fewother Texas towns, has its painted ponies.

So of course I had to try to rope as many of these beautiful fiberglas horses (with my trusty camera) as I could. I captured oh, maybe 10 of them. But, alas, it seems that there are a total of 40 tucked away in various corners of Wichita Falls. Well, perhaps we'll be back someday to find the rest...

The Sixth Floor

2009-07-29T20:52:00.000-07:00

July 23

Most of our touristy stops have ben fun and exciting or fun and educational. This particular stop is surely educational and enlightening... but it is somber. We are visiting the Texas School Book Depository. It is a spare old brick building, seven stories high, near an intersection of highways and across from a well-groomed green grassy knoll.

The sixth and seventh floors are now museums: the sixth floor, a display and analysis of the events surrounding the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, and the seventh a tribute to Robert Jackson, the photographer who captured a number of memorable American moments, including the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, President Kennedy's alleged assassin, by Jack Ruby.

It's a bit difficult to be here on the sixth floor, and to see the corner window where Oswald purportedly had brought a rifle, concealed by a long brown paper bag; positioned the rifle atop cardboard schoolbook boxes to steady it; pulled the trigger; and murdered the young President who was so full of promise -- a shot that was truly heard around the world.

Chronicling this event at the the time, and analyzing it for years to come, was the iconic news reporter Walter Cronkite. Tis week, we mourn his passing, at age 92. Watching replays of his news footage in 1963 (in the aftermath of the assassination) and in the late 1980s (after the investigative commissions had concluded their work), we are impressed once again with the depth and humanity of Cronkite's reporting, the avuncular help he gave his audience in making sense of the event, its antecedents, and the dramatic events that came in its aftermath.

Having been to the JFK library in Boston at the beginning of our summer travels, Garry and I found it fitting to view this Dallas-eye focus as we continue our great American odyssey.

Wichita Falls, Texas

2009-07-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

July 22-24

We arrived in Wichita Falls, Texas last evening. As always, it is wonderful to be with our good friend John once again. John was an Air Force buddy of Garry's in Cheyenne in the period 1967-1970. In fact, John was the first person whom Garry met when he arrived in Cheyenne as a young airman. Then, in 1975, I got to become friends with John myself when he came to Fort Belvoir for six months to attend Garry's Advanced Geodetic Survey Class in the Defense Mapping School DMS). From 1979 to 1983, John returned to DMS to be a teacher there himself. At that time, we were starting our family, and "Uncle John" became a member of the family. How sad we all were when he was transferred out of the area, to Barksdale, Louisiana.

So it is that we decide to extend our visit in Texas to three days, to capture the moment and recapture fond memories.

New Mexico Fiber Arts Trail

2009-07-27T08:57:00.000-07:00

The Fiber Trail is a very large "trail", covering several sections of the state, running from outside of Albuquerque north to outside of Santa Fe, and east to Tucumcari. It was established in an attempt by New Mexico leadership to encourage entrepreneurship, while allowing rural artists to make their living by their own hands, without having to travel long distances or to deal with third-party intermediaries in order to market their wares. The philosophy is that "creativity flourishes on the back roads, for both artists and travelers." (NM Dept. of Cultural Affairs).

There are 71 destinations along the trails, including galleries, shops, and the homes of working artisans. Working these trails would have been more than a summer's road trip, in itself. Trying to be realistic, I selected two destinations: Good Fibrations in Edgewood, and Viorge Designs in Tucumcari.

Good Fibrations -- with a name like that, how could you go wrong?! This is one of the "cottage industries" among the fiber trail stopping points. There, I find "Yarn from my backyard," as the shopkeeper put it, "from Teesha and her family." Teesha, as it turns out, is a sheep, and she and her family are lovingly raised, ass have names, and are hand-clipped. The fiber is cleaned and carded and spun and died or died and then spun, depending on the desired color effect). The information about the source of the yarn is significant to the mama of vegans, who cannot abide the treatment of commercially-raised sheep that are bred for large-scale production.

Also at Good Fibrations are lovely handmade wooden tools that are crafted from exotic woods for fiber fanatics like myself. The shopkeeper and her assistant seem happy to answer my many "what's this?" and "what's that?" questions. One rather mystifying wooden gizmo with nuts and bolts and dowel-sized holes askes the question of itself, with an intriguing sign tacked to it, "What's this?" "Okay, I give up -- what is it?" I ask the ladies. They don't know either.

I resist the temptation to take it home to figure it out. But it sure looks like it could be useful. For something...

But time is short, and we must press ahead to Tucumcari, which is the end not only of this fiber trail, but also the end of the legendary Route 66 which we have been traveling from time to time.

With the help of Maggie, our faithful GPS, we find our way to the address for the Viorge design gallery. We figure that this is in their home. But when we arrive that the modest little white house at the eastern end of the state, we see no sign for an artisan gallery. Instead, in what otherwise looks like an abandoned old house, there are signs scrawled in Spanish about prayer services. Seems that this building may now be used sometimes as a little neighborhood church. Or not. No people are around, and the two large dogs in the adjoining yard are barking with increasing assertiveness. We move along.

More About Battle Mountain

2009-07-27T08:48:00.000-07:00

You may recall an earlier posting, on our way into Nevada, when we noted with humor the giant "BM" on the side of a mountain (no scatological jokes, please). But while touring the Southwest, we have learned more about that mountain.

It is the site of the Dry Creek turquoise mine, which includes a rare form of turquoise which is white, with black, grey, or brown inclusions (aka matrix). The color of the matrix depends on the mineral content of the stone. This form of turquoise, known as White (sacred) Buffalo Turquoise, can be quite striking, and Garry has bought me a few pieces. Relatively rare, this stone is found only in that one mine. (However, it apparently has been often imitated in recent years, using the less precious Howlite stone). The animal namesake of White Buffalo, also quite rare, is considered to be sacred and a sign of good luck to native peoples

Garry and I have been on a quest to find pieces of white buffalo turquoise to add to my modest collection since we first discovered the stone in Cheyenne (in a shop) in 2003. It's nice to know that we have been to the mountain -- i.e., the mountain which is its source.

Albuquerque

2009-07-27T08:39:00.000-07:00

July 21

In Albuquerque, we visit the “old town” section, a colorful magnet for the tourist trade. In addition to its expensive jewelry shops and cheap souvenir shops, the old town has interesting architecture and the definite imprint of its Native American populations.

I am delighted to encounter an open courtyard performance of a Zuni elder with the unlikely name of Fabian, who sings and dances in his native tradition, in full (and no-doubt oppressively hot) ceremonial regalia. His costume includes enormous feathers which make him, at times, appear to be a giant bird, swooping and nearly flying in his energetic dance. His multi-layered garb features hand embroidery, mostly crafted by his wife (who sings with him) and extensive beadwork, most of which is his own work. He tell me that he had to earn the right to wear many of the elements of his ceremonial costume. Much of the embellishment, especially the beadwork, is particular to his family. When another tourist asks is she can photograph his beadwork, he agrees, but implores, “Please do not copy my beadwork.” It is replete with meaning that is sacred to his family.

Albuquerque is an interesting town, and we have too little time to even do a good job of scratching its surface. We realize that our plan to make it to Santa Fe this afternoon was way too ambitious (aka unrealistic). But we are okay with the promise of a return visit. Next summer, we plan to return to this interesting city for Convergence, the national conference of the Handweavers’ Guild of America. I have yearned to attend this fiberworks’ feast since the first (and only) time I attended, about 20 or so years ago, when it was held in the D.C. area. This time, by golly, I think I will.

Life in the Desert

2009-07-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

July 20

In the sparsely populated areas, so many modest little homesteads speak of difficult lives. In the middle of vast desert dotted by occasional scrubby little shrubs, there may be a lone mobile home, perhaps with a car alongside it – and, for the well-endowed, perhaps an additional little building, such as an outhouse or a dog house. In 2009! Not even a satellite dish, no flowers, no trees, no neighbors.

Meteor!

2009-07-23T21:06:00.000-07:00

July 20

Driving along the road from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, we come across a tiny notation on the map and a curious sign on the road: “Meteor Crater Road”. Curious, we veer off the highway, and up this long, narrow, mysterious road through the desert. Then another, larger, louder sign: “THE PROTOTYPE FOR THE STUDY OF ALL METEORS IN THE GALAXY”. Hmm, pretty big claim. Wonder what it is.

What it is – of course – is a hole in the plateau and a hole in the ground. A very, very big hole in the plateau. The crater is nearly a mile across and over 550 feet deep. It is the site of the largest meteor to hit planet Earth – an event that occurred 50,000 years ago. The giant meteor is judged to have weighed millions of tons, although all that remains of the meteor today is a small iron-nickel specimen and a collection of smaller fragments.

Today, on this 40^th anniversary of the lunar landing, it is fitting that we two vagabonds should be visiting this inanimate invader from outer space.

Into Every Life Some Rain Must Fall

2009-07-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

July 20

Most of this trip has been top-down weather, except for the brutal heat of Death Valley and some rain in the Rockies. But today in Flagstaff, Arizona – one of the driest towns in the U.S. – the skies have opened up, pouring torrents on the town as we sit in our car outside the Flagstaff Post Office.

No matter. We can sit this one out. We have checks to write, letters to complete, while we sit in the car. We figure that the storm is likely to blow over quickly; we can see the sun already fighting its way through the clouds.

But as we sit engrossed in discussing our checks and letters, Garry and I are rudely interrupted by the jarring sound and jolt of metal upon metal. Startled, we look up to see a large white city utility van that has just missed its mark while attempting to navigate its way into the parking space in front of us. The driver knows tat he has “touched” us, and tries to right a wrong by backing up. Bad move. Garry honks the horn, but maybe the driver can’t hear it through the pouring rain. He hits us again. Again a honk, louder. Again he backs up. Bam!

Three strikes, and the passenger in the truck gets out into the torrential downpour, and asks us to back up. He knows he’s hit us now.

I am as crushed as little Sebrina (my pet name for my pretty blue Chrysler Sebring). “Don’t be that way”, I try to tell myself. Nobody is hurt, the car is still operational – just dents and cracks and bruises to the front bumper, side panel, and headlight.

The young city worker who miscalculated so badly is duly apologetic, remorseful. Perhaps he can read in my face how this pains me. Sebrina has been our faithful companion from coast to coast and partway back again, the key player in this big road trip. And she’ll continue to carry us, with fine performance despite a bruised face. We’ll get her fixed when we get home. For the rest of the trip, we’ll have to remember to take photos only of her good side.

The Grand Canyon

2009-07-23T16:48:00.000-07:00

July 19

We weren’t planning to visit Hoover Dam, since we’d been there before, in 1997. But the road from Henderson to Grand Canyon City takes us right through the dam area, so we can’t avoid stopping to gawk once again at this amazing feat of engineering in the middle of the beautiful Nevada desert.

The views on this trip are beautiful, as we wend our way to the National Geographic’s Grand Canyon visitor center. “This, “ says Garry, “is the jumping-off point for the activities in the canyon’s South Rim.” I grimace at his unfortunate word choice.

Once at the visitor center, we have a host of treats ahead of us. First, a preview of what we are to see – a movie on the big IMAX movie screen that has us marveling, holding our breath, and ducking, as the larger-than-life scene takes us on a glider plane’s-eye-view of this natural wonder, the Grand Canyon.

Then, we head on a small tour bus with our able young guide, Angie, who gives us a fact-filled tour of the south Rim. This high plateau, over 7,000 feet high, is the third highest plateau in the world. She introduces us to the trees that live there: the Ponderosa pine, which smells like butterscotch; the Pinon pine, whose tiny nuts are harvested carefully by native workers (who are the only people who are allowed to gather the pine nuts which are used by industry and the public as-is or in making pesto); and the juniper, with its large blue berries.

Angie fills us in on some of the fascinating lore of the native peoples of the canyon, early pioneering explorers, and recent follies such as the fellow who only two weeks ago drove his car off the ledge in a Thelma-&-Louise gesture to end it all. (He accomplished his mission. The car is yet to be retrieved from the bottom of the canyon.) She also gives us little geology lessons, as we peer in amazement at the breathtaking, multi-layered, multi-colored scene before us.

Although our tour is four full hours long, it is only a little taste of the overwhelming marvels of the canyon. So much more to see and do: hike the trails, raft the rapids, fly into the center. Too much for one afternoon, for sure. Perhaps we’ll get back some day.

No Condiment Canyon, Either (inside joke)

2009-07-23T16:38:00.000-07:00

July 19

What a surprise for us to happen upon a kabob forest! We thought that Brad might enjoy this in a future vacation. But we could not locate Hummus Gulch – we were sure that there must be one nearby...

Lost Vegas

2009-07-23T15:56:00.000-07:00

July 17-18

Well, we spent two days on the outskirts of Las Vegas, but never quite made it up to The Strip.

Somehow, we can’t seem to motivate ourselves this week to get elbow-to-elbow with big crowds of fortune hunters; or to get bumper-to-bumper with recipients of free casino drinks; or to feed our hard-earned coins into a slot machine. The Fiesta casino-hotel in Henderson is Las Vegas enough for us. We chose this hotel because AAA told us that it was a decent place – and with a price tag of $21 for the night, we felt that we’d hit a jackpot of sorts.

So, we are using our time in Henderson instead to take care of little details: get the car an oil change, pay bills, etc. We try to find Sharman, the artisan who created the beautiful beaded capelets that you may have seen me wear from time to time through the years. I purchased my first Sharman capelet in Utah six years ago, but never got to meet its maker. But now, alas, we are disappointed: when we arrive at her shop address, we find only an empty storefront, with the sign taken down. We fear that this is more evidence of these tough economic times.

But as it turns out, Sharman has closed her store but remains in business at www.sharmark.com. So at least I get to meet her online, in a brief and friendly exchange.

The highlight of our Henderson stay is a rare opportunity for us to visit with the Troys (parents of our daughter-in-law, Sharon). They greet us warmly, and we enjoy a delightful evening together. As an added bonus, we arrive in time to celebrate Buster’s second birthday, a very big deal in the Troy house (Buster being the energetic family pup).

As Low as You Can Go

2009-07-17T13:23:00.000-07:00

7/16/09

I must admit, I was not entirely wildly enthusiastic when Garry expressed interest in touring Death Valley. But I know that this side trip is on Garry's (very long) bucket list, so I go along for the ride. Somehow, despite the romantic imagery of Death Valley Days on t.v. in the 1950s, I didn't expect this to be a highlight of our trip.

For those who are too young to have grown up with the western television shows of the 50s & 60s, a little background: this was the show that featured the young actor Ronald Reagan. The intro to the show was memorable --

"As the early morning bugle call of the covered wagon trains fades away among the echoes, another true Death Valley Days is presented by the famous Borax family of products- 20 Mule Team Borax and Boraxo. "

Now we begin to understand this legendary sponsorship, as we pass white powder landscape that has to be borax, a highway exit that points to Twenty Mule Team Road, and an industrial processing plant that certainly must be Boraxo.

The very light traffic of the highway dwindles to nothing as we head into Death Valley National Forest. There, we begin an ascent that goes to more than 5,000 feet, over parched ground with little growing besides scrubby shrubs. The name of the valley is no mystery. Today is a good day to experience the true DV: the thermometer climbs to 120 degrees (!) during our 100+ mile trek. It is also a good day to keep the car roof up, and the a/c humming -- which we do. We also make great use of our amply-filled water bottles.

But I have to admit that the views are spectacular, the ride thrilling, and my attitude suitably adjusted. Even as the daylight begins to dim, and the road begins to feel very, very lonely, I am fascinated by nature's artistry, by the thoughts of pluck and determination of early travelers who first crossed this valley in the mid-1800s, and by the quest for the low point of the trail, which is in fact the lowest point not only in the U.S. but in the entire Western Hemisphere. We see believably vivid mirages of lake water in the long-dry lake beds. (Sorry, sons, no ducks here!) At long last, we arrive at Badwater Basin, the lowest point in the valley at 282 feet below sea level. The "badwater" that gives the place its name is the water that bubbles up from below the surface, so salty that even the pack animals that helped the early travelers would not drink the water. The small bit of water that we see now is surrounded by salt crisps and occasional small holes in the sand where water continues to boil and bubble. We learn with little surprise that the natural water here is even saltier than the ocean.

Another phenomenon of Badwater Basin: tourists! This is in fact the first time all day that we have encountered tourists in our off-the-beaten-path escapades.

We continue on in the waning light, through terrain created with a heavenly artist's pallette: red, pin, yellow, colored by the iron oxides within; green, purple, tinted by volcanic mineral contents. We stop by the side of the road to collect rocks for Jim's collection, and find some that look strikingly like volcanic rock. We drive through canyons cut into alluvial fans, and marvel at the geologic variety.

Driving out of Death Valley and on into the starry night, we feel a sense of peace in the world. Until, quite suddenly, the dark emptiness that had sparkled only with the starlight at this new moon becomes ablaze with bling. Arising from the distant desert there comes a giant display of lights and flash and color.

Las Vegas ahead!

Mojave Desert

2009-07-17T13:06:00.000-07:00

July 15-16

After the wild and glorious ride along the California coast, we are soothed by the next set of quite different, but equally impressive, panoramas. The desert has its own quiet brand of beauty. The colors are less vivid, more soothing, like a gorgeous pastel painting on an enormous canvas. The varieties of rock and rock formations are an interesting counterpoint to the flora and fauna of the seaside views. The huge sweep of geometry, muted colors and enormous outcroppings dazzle anew as we round each bend of road. We see great expanses of uninhabited land, small abandoned old towns, and the occasional extravagantly lonesome ranch of homesteaders without neighbors.

We take a break from our journey to go visit Edwards Air Force Base, where Garry had done some work in the early 1970s, and get a personalized tour of the base from geodicist Bob Tisczka. Edwards was the site where much of the filming of the movie Top Gun was done, and Bob proudly points out the control tower, the aircraft, and even the rock pilings that were featured in the film. Somewhat of a history buff, Bob brings his command of interesting facts and tidbits, gleaned from 16 years of experience working at this desert outpost, to bear on his enthusiastic and informative presentation.

Monterey Ducks

2009-07-17T13:03:00.000-07:00

California Coast

2009-07-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

It is a thrill a minute on the California coastal highway, as we curve and sway through exciting winding roads along the edge of the cliffs overlooking incredible views of America's western coast. It's a death-defying, breath-taking, awe-inspiring journey! My feeble attempts at capturing the splendor by camera just cannot come close to reproducing the visual experience. And the visual is only a small part of this experience. The sounds of the pounding surf, the birds, and even the elephant seals' song are so much a part of the experience. And the fragrances of the journey: lovely pine; the wild fennel that grows in remarkable profusion; wild mint; flowering trees; and of course, the salty aroma of the sea, ever-present and ever-evocative.

We make a regrettably brief stop in the picture-postcard town of Monterey; breeze through little Carmel-by-the-Sea; spend a day in charming San Luis Obispo; and overnight in Santa Barbara. Too fast: this deserves a longer run! But we do, at least, take time in SLO to enjoy a fabulous gourmet dinner at the al fresco restaurant Novo, where we dine under the stars beneath a grand tree by a creek (serenaded throughout dinner by nearby frogs). And we poke into a hip little gallery where one of the featured artists is Mike Marcus.

And of course, we take a moment to say hi to the ducks of Monterey.

Shower in Walnut Creek

2009-07-17T12:29:00.000-07:00

7/12/09

When it rains, it showers. OK, so maybe I still have Morton's Salt on my mind. The only rain we've seen on this trip was when we were starting out from the D.C. area, and then up in the Rockies.

But we have extended our stay in the Bay area one night to attend the fortuitously scheduled Couples Shower that Brad & Becky's friends, Whitney & Bryan, are throwing for them at their home in Walnut Creek. This is a lovely affair, casual and fun, and a great chance to spend a little more time with family and family-to-be. It is nice to see the kids being "showered" with gifts, each of which Becky opens with great glee. The wedding date is just a little over a month away, and this event adds to the ever-mounting feeling of anticipation.

More Heart in San Francisco

2009-07-17T12:07:00.001-07:00

I love this town! There is music at ever street corner, and in between, too. That was my very first impression when I came to town the first time, to visit my brother Gerry in 1971 -- and that impression has been renewed with every return visit through the decades.

Now the city is also embellished with performance artists, who entertain us at all the touristy hot-spots. They paint themselves silver or gold or wear outrageous costumes and make curious gyrations or simply stand absolutely still in poses that make my joints ache. This trip there seem to be more such performers than ever, holding tin cups or hats to collect your appreciation in the coin of the realm. I don't know the stats, but San Francisco has got to have the highest concentration of people who have developed the act of standing still and doing nothing to a fine art.

But there is also much art and science going on among those with higher energy and motion levels. Just as D.C. has its painted donkeys and elephants and Cheyenne has its giant boots, so San Francisco has its large painted hearts.

For me, of course, the heart and the art of SF are all about the family members who reside in the Bay area. We stay in the center of the city, at the Union Square Marriott (compliments of my dear ACE staff -- thank you, thank you for the gift cards that made our prolonged stay in the city affordable!). Spending time with our kids and their ladies, my brother Gerry and his family -- what a gift! We even get to share dinner with my brother Ken, who serendipitously shows up in SF for one night, the night of our arrival.

For me, it's tough to leave SF to continue on our journey. But we will be back, and soon, for Brad & Becky's wedding next month.

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

2009-07-13T11:24:00.000-07:00

We are spending four nights downtown in San Francisco, right in the midst of all the action (of which there is plenty!). We are down the street from Union Square, and just three Bart stops away from Tim & Sharon's place in the Mission District. There is music everywhere, at street corners, subway stations, cable car stops. Love it!

Our first big tourist stop is the San Francisco office of Atlassian -- the Australia-based tech company where Tim works. The office is in a spacious converted warehouse, which has minimal furniture but maximum technology -- and toys (for grownups). Friday afternoon is usually beer-and-games day -- very different from my former workplace at Fairfax County Public Schools! But by the time we arrive, weekend has begun for most of the staff. There are still a few employees glued to their computer monitors, as well as a couple of dogs which apparently are welcome and add to the ambiance of this friendly office atmosphere. We are amazed at the gigantic double-monitor on Tim's desk, a big departure from the small screen iPhone that we usually see him scanning.

Sea to Shining Sea

2009-07-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

It is always a great thrill to see the Golden Gate Bridge, but more so this time, when it signifies that we have made it all the way across, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Garry says he has goosebumps, and fills up with the emotion of imagining how soldiers and sailors must have felt when, war-wary, they viewed this symbol of home and knew that they had made it. We have logged 3,700 miles on our marvelous journey.

G-d Bless America!

Wine, Dairy, and Horse Country -- Napa, Sonoma, & Marin

2009-07-13T09:05:00.000-07:00

July 9 -- We are on our way from Benecia to San Francisco, driving the indirect scenic route through the North Bay. Our quest is to take an advance peek at the places where, a month from now, we will be enjoying Brad & Becky's Rehearsal Dinner and celebrating their wedding.

The lush geometrics of the vineyards, with their even rows of healthy grapevines, are as pleasant to view as the wine will be to drink. I am reminded of the makeshift arbors that my aging grandpa struggled to tack up on the back of his city tenement building in Dorchester, MA, as he grew his own precious grapes to make wine for his daily kiddush (blessing). The city Board of Health eventually made him take them down. But here in the North Bay, the grapevines rule, and the stern warning signs that "Fireworks are forbidden in Sonoma County" reinforce that message.

In Santa Rosa, we stop at Safari West, to check in on rehearsal dinner arrangements. We are greeted warmly by the enthusiastic staff, who no doubt remember being charmed already by Becky & Brad. They give us a brief tour, and I am able to snap quick photos of some of the giraffes and birds.

Then, following a tip from Micah (my significant-other-in-law), we stop by a cheese factory that's only slightly off-route, to taste some award-winning brie. It does not disappoint!

The journey down to San Francisco takes us along the Coastal Highway, through the Point Reyes National Seashore, to the Golden Gate Bridge. Breath-taking views, which my little camera can't begin to capture.

Benecia, California

2009-07-11T21:07:00.000-07:00

On July 7, we move on to Benecia, CA, to spend a couple of days with my brother Gerry and his family. Benecia was at one time the capital city of California, but today has a small-town atmosphere and serves as home to a vibrant community of glass artists. Our nephew Mike counts himself among the glass artists, turning out gorgeous and imaginative works of dichroic (fused) glass. You may have seen me sporting his beautiful work; I wear Mike Marcus originals quite often.

Our visit with my older brother and his fam is, as usual, delightful. Their home overlooks the Carquinez Strait, and the view is breathtaking. The backyard is a fabulous display of beautiful groomed flowers and wildflowers, attracting lots of bird life, including the ever-charming hummingbirds. In our newly slowed-down lifestyle, we find that we can spend happy hours just taking in the sights and sounds and fragrances of this beautiful setting. And the opportunity to spend time with family on the other side of the country....priceless!

Hangtown

2009-07-11T20:20:00.000-07:00

Enroute from Lake Tahoe to Berkeley, we decide to veer off the main road, in search of food and a pit stop -- and ended up taking the colorfully numbered highway 49 and going through gold country. There, we encounter the little town of Placerville, formerly known as Hangtown. Hangtown got its name from the no-nonsense way in which the town, during Gold Rush days, tended to handle their troublemakers, it seems. No trial, no bother, no fuss -- just hang 'em high! We were told that there was a historic noose hanging in the center of town, but I delicately averted my eyes.

Garry, on the other hand, kept his eyes keenly alert, and in so doing found himself a marvelous antique surveyor's transit in one of the Placerville antique shops. The shopkeeper was a pleasant chap, who just loved finding a serious collector who knew what he was talking about. Most people, he complained, are just looking for something pretty to display on their shelf -- a boastable. But to find someone who is truly interested in the history and technology and fine details of a well crafted precision instrument -- ah, that's a true delight!

Quirkly Berkeley

2009-07-11T16:36:00.000-07:00

Berkeley, California is a fun city, different from San Francisco but quite quirky in its own right. Our son Brad and his fiance Becky live not far from the university (UCLA Berkeley), in a tiny house that Brad has dubbed the Hobbit Hole, due to its small size and hobbit-hole-like entrance cut out of the back gate. In the back yard, Brad has managed to eek somewhat of a Garden of Eden out of the small patch of city dirt that's there. Fruit trees, berry bushes, vegetable plants, herbs: an amazing market basket of thriving plants!

Brad always takes pains to point out the wonderful bead shops that dot the city streets of Berkeley. I poke into a couple to find local treasures that I can use in future creations, when I am back at home and with time enough to string beads and do other playful activities.

Lake Tahoe

2009-07-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

For the Fourth of July weekend, we were the guests of Becky’s family at their Nevada condo on the beautiful shores of Lake Tahoe. (Becky is our daughter-in-law-to-be). Looking across the gorgeous green-turquoise-blue waters, we could see the snow-topped California Sierra mountains . The condo was beautifully situated, with every window view picture-perfect – and the view from the porch, breathtaking. We rode out on the family boat to look for golf balls in the water by the golf course, a favorite Erhart sport. But there were too few golf balls, too much boat traffic, and so we moved on.

That night, the full moon over the lake was in tough competition with the brilliant fireworks that were a gift to us all from the local casinos (which didn’t mind at all seeing so much money go up in smoke!). The vivid colors, fire and sparkle over the lake were truly a sight to behold!

Nevada

2009-07-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

We didn’t notice a “Welcome to Nevada” sign, but we did notice that quite suddenly there were casinos and giant neon signs everywhere. When we stopped for a Starbucks cuppa, even, we had to walk through the smoke-filled hurly-gurly of a casino to get to the coffee bar.

Did they know I was coming? I was really pleased with the welcome I received in central Nevada. But Garry suggested that what I was looking at was not a welcome for Bonnie Moore, but rather an identifier for Battle Mountain. Ah, well, who’s to say which interpretation is correct?

Wildflowers

2009-07-11T10:05:00.001-07:00

Reflections

2009-07-11T09:59:00.000-07:00

This ride is like an ever-unfolding performance. Around every turn is a new and marvelous panorama, ever-changing, ever-inspiring. We are amazed aew at the pluck and perseverance of early explorers and settlers, for whom the journey was so long and difficult and unpredictable. For us, on the other hand, it is merely spectacular.

Salt

2009-07-11T09:53:00.001-07:00

Salty Tale

2009-07-11T09:49:00.002-07:00

Just like the grassland, that seemed to go on forever (just like the ocean), so the salt flats of Utah stretch on and on, vast and flat and remarkable. Who knew this about Utah?

This afternoon, we have driven through mountains and past amazing cliffs and rock formations. Garry the Geology Professor is delighted. Then we journey on and wade into the Great Salt Lake. But driving away from this remarkable lake, we are awed by the salt flats that extend for miles and miles – the remnants of a dried up ancient inland sea.

There are even salt hills. Standing among all this salty goodness is a production plant. Painted on the side of the building is a picture of that famous little girl whom we all have known from childhood – the umbrella’ed little Morton Salt girl, who has proclaimed for more than half a century, “When it rains, it pours.”

2009-07-11T09:49:00.001-07:00

Which Way to Look?

2009-07-11T09:44:00.001-07:00

Throughout this trip, I suffer the observer’s ambivalence: Do I look up, or do I look down? If I don’t look up, I will miss the awesome massive magnificence of hills and cliffs and buttes. If I don’t look down, though, I will miss the simple pleasures of fabulous wildflowers, pushing their glorious colorful little heads out of scruffy roadside, fertile soil, white sand, or seemingly impenetrable rocks. Blue, lavender, yellow, fuchsia, brilliant purple. Indian paintbrush, brown-eyed Susan, wild mustard, prickly pear cactus.

One of my favorite ground-level features of the west is the sagebrush, which grows in splendid profusion. Its fragrance is spicy and delightful. I pick a small bouquet to add its aroma to our tightly stuffed tiny car trunk. After it has dried, it will be a delightful little decoration in our Virginia home.

Utah, an Unexpected Delight

2009-07-11T09:39:00.001-07:00

Utah is certainly a masterpiece of landscape design, with its sandy hills and splendid rock formations. The hills look carved, like immense sand castles. We can even imagine that there are carved turrets in the massive formations.

The striations in the rocks tell the history of these cliffs to those who are able to decipher them. Too bad I am not fluent in the language of the rocks. I have no doubt that the layers upon layers of differing colors and textures sandstone and shale, are telling the story of planet Earth.

Driving Through Clouds

2009-07-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, July 2, we are driving through clouds at over 10,000 feet above sea level. At Glenwood Canyon, we are, surrounded by beautiful striated red rock mountains. The road leads us through tunnels, right into the mountains. America is one gigantic amusement park, a big thrill ride through and over and into the landscape.

Driving alongside the mountain rivers, we are watching the white water of the Colorado River foam and bubble and race to beat us to our destination. Elk herds leisurely cross the highway, the way the geese do back home – heedless of the schedules that the human drivers on the roads need to keep. Fortunately, we have no schedule to keep today, and can take our time taking in the sights.

We come upon a joyful scene of children playing in the snow. In their shirtsleeves. In July. The climate has made a dramatic change from 82 degrees in the foothills to 40 degrees in the high elevations.

The canyons on Interstate 70 on the western slope are spectacular – and assuredly, underrated. We marvel at the engineering of the roads and railroad tracks through this beautiful but difficult landscape.

Now, we are passing the Union Pacific train, south of Granby. Why, it’s the very same train that we had watched pull out of Cheyenne a few days ago! We recognize it by both its official markings and the unofficial – graffiti embellishing the boxcars. Today, the train is moving in the opposite direction from us – no doubt, returning from the end of its multi-state run.

Awhile later, we are riding along from the town of Silt to the town of Rifle, in White River National Forest. One day, I will chronicle all of the descriptive town names that we have been traveling through. No, Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore – and we are definitely not in Fairfax County.

My camera isn’t quick enough to capture the buffalo roaming as we whiz along the interstate. Too bad. I have been yearning to see the buffalo and the antelope, and surprisingly today is the first day that I have had a glimpse of this characteristic western scene.

Marmot on the Mount

2009-07-07T09:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, in the face of enormous things – like mountains 12,000 feet high – we are charmed by little things. This critter was frolicking among the rocks at 11,000+ feet, and enjoying the scenery – and the attention of tourists – as much as we were enjoying him.

Death and Rebirth in the Forests

2009-07-07T09:10:00.000-07:00

Rounding a bend, we gasp as the Rockies reveal a terrible new truth. Acre upon acre of brown, dead trees are standing where lush green conifers once stood. Like the victims of poverty, they stand tall and proud but destitute, starved o the life and potential that once made them beautiful. Pine bark beetles, it is said, are the culprits. Moving on, we see piles of sticks – the trees that had died earlier and which fell in place.

What hath humankind wrought? The pine beetle population, it seems, may have proliferated due to the effects of global warming, which created an environment more hospitable to the destructive bugs – and therefore less hospitable to the lovely trees. Is this death of the forests attributable, then, to our heedless consumption of earth’s resources?

Moving along we see larger spaces between the dead pines, and the spaces are filled in with the young green saplings of little deciduous trees. Aspens! Their young and graceful beauty is creating the rebirth of the forest! The sense of human guilt subsides. Fear not. The forests know how to regenerate themselves – first with low scrub, then with the leafy deciduous trees, and eventually the pine trees will be reborn.

Despite the flaws of human society, we must remember that Mother Earth knows how to take care of herself.

Rocky Mountain High

2009-07-07T09:05:00.001-07:00

Being up in the Rockies is an amazing and uplifting experience. As we wend our way up, the air gets thinner and the scenery takes the rest of our breath away! We make it all the way up to the highest peak of Rocky Mountain National Park, over 12,000 feet.

Boulder

2009-07-07T08:59:00.001-07:00

I had told some of my friends that I was going to Boulder to rediscover my inner hippie. It really is a fun and quirky little town, nestled in the Rockies. Boulder is a college town, but is populated too by a good representation of aging hippies.

We are staying in a lovely bed-and-breakfast, the Bradley Boulder Inn, which we had discovered during our last trip to Colorado, three years ago. The Bradley is both elegant and friendly. We are immediately embraced (figuratively and literally) by several of our inn-mates who seem to just love our auras and great karma. It turns out that they are in town for a convention of purveyors of merchandise for new-age boutiques (aka hippie shops). That ‘s so Boulder!

Kinda like their karma as well.

Population One

2009-07-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

The road sign boasted, “Smallest Town in the USA!” But when we stopped at the Lincoln Highway visitor center and asked the ranger about this, he grinned and said, “No, that’s not true.” Yes, Buford is a town with only one resident. Used to have more, it seems, but they all moved away.

But Buford isn’t the only town in the rugged west with a lone resident. “There are lots of town like that,” he tells us.

Bit of a loner, I’d say.

Cheyenne Ducks

2009-07-04T00:46:00.000-07:00

I was actually looking for buffalo. But hey, we take what we can get. Even the wild west has its darling ducks.

(This one, too, is for my three sons…)

These Boots Are Made for Talkin’

2009-07-04T00:36:00.000-07:00

Here in the Washington, D.C. area, we are acquainted with the quirky painted sculptures of donkeys and elephants that are scattered throughout the city. In San Francisco, the City of Love – not surprisingly – they have hearts, big, big hearts, artistically rendered and placed throughout the city.

So in Cheyenne, there are the boots.

Cowboy boots, of course. Standing at seven feet tall, these boots are decorated by local artists to convey various themes about this wild, wild western town. I discovered the boots during our 2006 visit, and thought that during this visit I might make it my mission to try to photograph all of the boots, all over the city.

That was before I learned that there are 19 of them! Our visit here was just not long enough.

But I did catch a bunch of them, and those photos will be posted on my Facebook page (Facebook identifier: BonitaMoore). It is Cheyenne’s contention that “these boots are made for talkin’.” And they do a pretty decent job of it, telling the city’s story.

I wonder if other towns in the US have similar projects? I haven’t come across any yet in our travels. Have you?

Surveyors and Mappers in Cheyenne

2009-07-04T00:23:00.000-07:00

The precipitating event that started this whole road trip was the 50^th Anniversary reunion of the Geodetic Survey Squadron. Garry was in this squadron, then called the 1381^st Geodetic Survey Squadron (GSS), in the mid to late1960s and early 70s. At that time, they were headquartered at F.E. Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

This squad, no longer operational, first reunited in summer 2003. That was a wonderful coming-together of former colleagues and old friends, and was so successful that the group decided that they needed to get together again in three years….and then again, three years later. With each successive reunion, more old comrades are found – but, sadly, with each three years more of the aging group is lost to illness and passing.

For this reunion, Garry had volunteered to be the reunion coordinator. It proved to be an even bigger job than he had anticipated, rounding up people from all over the map, and taking care of a daunting number of details. But he carried the task out with aplomb, and it turned out (as I knew it would) to be a fabulous event. For me, it provided an opportunity to reunite with good friends from the honeymoon chapter of our lives. But it also offered more insight into the lives and experiences of this terrific band of veterans.

What was particularly interesting in this 50^th anniversary reunion, was observing veterans of different eras meeting up with those elders who came before them – and those younguns who came after them – and who thereby developed an understanding of the vertical history of their craft and of their political and personal relationships.

It was fun, educational, heartwarming, and inspiring. I was proud to be a part of it!

Cheyenne Scenes

2009-07-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

Cheyenne, The Magic City of the Plains

2009-07-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

Here we are, driving through hundreds of miles of flat prairie, punctuated occasionally by grazing herds of cattle. The sun is hot, the roads are nearly empty, and the towns are scarce. Then, the sign we have been looking for: Entering Wyoming. And then, the town that has been our destination, a delicious piece of our past and a romantic destination.

Romantic destination? Cheyenne???

Absolutely! The romance of the West is so much a part of our culture, and the dreams of so many little would-be cowboys and cowgirls of the 1950s. The pioneering spirit, fiercely independent American spirit, urge to be wild and free – all wrapped up in big blue skies, hot sun, and cool breezes.

This is our third trip back in nine years – also just our third trip back in 37 years – a long-kept desire that has materialized as Garry’s old Air Force group, the Geodetic Survey Squadron, has been reuniting, and inspired many of us to once again go west.

Cheyenne stays true to its pioneer past and its cowboy/cowgirl traditions. It is so much fun to stroll its dusty streets. The picture you see is of our coach driver and the mother-daughter equine duo that brought us around town.

In truth, Cheyenne’s streets are a lot less dusty than they usually are. Locals tell us that they never saw so much green. Fields that are normally parched and brown by late June are lush and green in a season that brought rain for 20 days out of 22.

Our visit brought mostly sunny skies. Even when it was raining. Our reward at the end of the pot of gold: a huge, magnificent double rainbow.

Truman Presidential Library

2009-07-01T22:00:00.001-07:00

Of course, we can’t pass through Independence, Missouri without stopping to visit the Truman Library. Like the Kennedy Library, which we visited while in Boston in early June, and like all of the other presidential libraries, this facility seems less like a library and more like a museum. In fact, it is a repository of presidential papers, as well as many other artifacts. Franklin Roosevelt was the first president to turn his papers and other materials over to the public, but it was Harry Truman who made the preservation of these items a matter of public policy. The library provided a fascinating lesson in history – not only of the president and his life and work, but also of the context of his time.

We may just make a quest of visiting as many presidential libraries as we can on this road trip (and future trips). It’s a great way to make history come alive!

Hillcreek Studio

2009-06-30T08:22:00.000-07:00

One of the delights of being a craftsperson or artisan is working with fine tools. In fact, despite my current fiber addiction, what initially drew me to weaving was the looms, rather that the yarns. The small weaving community is supported by an even smaller community of woodworkers, who keep us equipped to make our creations.

Some years ago I discovered a remarkable technique developed by handweaver Carol Leigh Brack-Kaiser, called Continuous Strand weaving. She practiced this technique on a unique loom that her son Carl Spriggs helped her to invent, the adjustable triangle loom. This technique allows the weaver to create her warp with her weft thread, thus eliminating the time-consuming process of “dressing” the loom (threading all those hundreds or thousands of threads through all those metal posts, or heddles).

In fact, it was my lovely cherry wood triangle loom that I used to create my daughter-in-law Sharon’s bridal shawl, as well as the shawls for her wedding party (this was also the shawl that niece-in-law Andrea used in her shipboard wedding in early June). And it was the Leigh/Spriggs follow-up invention, the rectangle loom, that I used to weave the many-colored wrap that I made to help comfort my mother-in-law Mary Moore in her precious but painful final weeks.

So it is that, as we are driving through Columbia, Missouri, it occurrs to me that these fine looms were invented and manufactured in Columbia. Wouldn’t it be fun to go to the source?!

On impulse, we leave the interstate and venture deep into the heart of Little Bonne Femme Creek Valley, a little bit south of civilization and nestled deep in the woods. Hillcreek Studio is aptly named, situated on the hill by the creek. It’s really an unpretentious little house that is filled to the brim with all things fiber: in the workshop, in the makeshift store, in the kitchen and in the living room of this humble abode. It‘s fun to meet Carol Leigh, and to tell her of the role that her creation has played in our family life.

And of course, I have to pick up a wee bit of yarn, to use on the latest of my continuous strand looms: the travel-size square and triangle looms. And so from there, I will continue to weave my way across country – this time, quite literally.

The Center of the Country

2009-06-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska

2009-06-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

I grew up near a lake, and not far from the Atlantic Ocean. Consequently, my geographic perspective is always shaped by early experiences on and near the water.

Riding top-down across the prairie, sun on my face and wind in my hair, is not unlike the exhilarating feeling of riding in a sailboat or other ship across the water. Ok, so the fragrance in cattle country is decidedly different from that of the sea. But the visceral feeling is the same. And when I look out at waves upon waves of grassland, as far as the eye can see, it does bring back the primal experience of looking out upon the ocean, seemingly limitless in its scope and in its profundity.

Some who have taken this road-trip cross country remark that by Kansas it gets a bit boring, a whole lot of flat nothing for miles and miles. I disagree. I find a certain kind of liberation in the vastness, the calm. The hues of America’s farmland, with its lovely varieties of green -- interspersed occasionally by the golds and browns of early-cut crops and rotated crops – are truly beautiful. There is certainly a romance in the sensation that Garry and I are the only two people in the world – this world. In that situation, 100% of the people within fifty miles of us are laughing at my jokes. Ok, just some of my jokes.

And then, there are the towns. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss them. A railroad station and a grain elevator. That’s all. Just as it was when we last drove through, 37 years ago.

But then, there are changes, too. Whole towns, interesting places with lovely homes and tourist attractions, in places where we only remember farms and grasses.

In Lebanon, Kansas, we come across a notable spot. This is the center of the 48 contiguous states, the true middle of America. We divert from our planned route to find the marker, the X that marks the spot. It’s a stone marker with an American flag stuck in the middle, and in the middle of – you guessed it – miles and miles of farmland. There is a nice little sign, a welcoming white rooster, and a tiny chapel, no bigger than an outhouse. That’s it – a pretty unpretentious presentation for the very center of this great land. Strains of “This Land is Your Land” fill my head – in the remembered voices of my ESOL students at the Bryant Center and in the voices of my beloved staff, who sang to me, spontaneously, at our last remarkable gathering. This is another memorable moment. Garry and I take pictures of one another (and the rooster) and then, as we prepare to leave this spot, another car with another tourist couple pulls up – this one coming from California. Dang, it’s getting crowded here: tourists from both coasts converging at center.

We continue our glorious trek, on through Kansas and across to Nebraska. Ogallala is our destination for the night. Nighttime comes late: at 10 p.m., the sun is just deciding to go down. Meanwhile, storm clouds are gathering on the formerly perfect blue skies.

Suddenly, there are storms in the distance. We are still top-down, but no longer sun-kissed. Now, we are tempting fate, with rain clouds all around. There is a bolt of lighting streaking across the sky. Then, a flash of light behind this cloud, a responding flash from that one, and a chiming in from a third. Again and again. It reminds us of the dualing flashes between earth and the space ship in the movie Close Encounter of the Third Kind (except, there is no accompanying music). It’s a fabulous light show over the prairie, punctuated occasionally with brilliant bolts of lightning in the spaces between the clouds. But this great celestial light show is a good 40-50 miles away from us, so we can enjoy it, continuing our journey undaunted.

We stair-step our way from Interstate 70, north and west from Kansas through Nebraska, traveling country roads and running through small towns until we’re back on the big highway, I-80, the road that will take us to our one-time home and long-time destination, Cheyenne.

But first, a night’s rest in Ogallala, where the people are friendly but the mosquitoes are fierce.

Fire at the Hilton

2009-06-24T04:40:00.000-07:00

The Hilton would not necessarily be our accommodation of choice. A little too stuffy, a little too large. And too many employees vying to carry the bags that, thank you very much, we’d rather carry ourselves. But on this trip, we are trying to economize, so end up in the places that hotwire.com finds for us. Sometimes, we tell ourselves, we just gotta tough it out.

So, here we are, this Monday morning in St. Louis, next door to the famed Anheuser-Busch Stadium, and down the street from the mighty Mississippi and the impressive St. Louis Arch, Gateway to the West. At a most luxurious hour, 7 a.m. (Central Time), I am just stepping sleepily out of the shower. Pre-retirement, I had worried that I would have difficult adjusting to a slower pace of life. But because I am beginning my transition to retirement “on vacation”, in hotels and motels and on the road, the changed pace of life is inconsequential.

So on this particular Monday morning at 7 a.m., instead of dashing from my morning cup of coffee to begin my rush-hour commute, I am stepping absent-mindedly out of the shower, when I hear the blare of the morning alarm clock. "Blast it!” I say to myself, “the last customer who stayed in Hilton’s room 610 must have left the alarm clock set.” I wonder why Garry, still abed, isn’t shutting it off. Must be one of those complicated new-fangled do-everything alarm clocks that are too complex to operate without the manual.

“Bon,” I hear him saying as I open the bathroom door, “do you hear that?”

“Yes,” I reply with a bit of impatience, “Why don’t you shut it off?” He looks at me quizzically.

Only then do I realize that this is no mere obnoxious alarm clock buzz that I’m hearing. It’s a fire alarm! The Hilton is on fire!

We throw our clothes on hurriedly and dash to the stairwell. “Good thing”, I think to myself, “we’re only on the second floor: just one flight down, and we’re out of here.”

But as we approach the bottom of the flight of stairs, I see a big and disappointing number 5 on the door. Oh dear, we were on the second floor in Indianapolis. Now we’re in St. Louis. Sixth floor. Still not bad, in a hotel that touches the sky at 24 stories! Could be worse, much worse, I hear my knees whisper to each other.

But as we scurry down the five flights, we notice a smell of smoke that gets stronger and begins to sting the eyes. Downstairs in the vast hotel lobby, guests are lingering, wandering, despite the continuing painful blare of the fire alarm and the slight haze of smoke in the air.

The Starbucks adjoining the hotel lobby is still open for business. Garry and I exchange glances. “Naw,” we both say, in a rare urge to pass up a Starbucks. Instead, we head for the outdoors, where we watch for the fire engines to arrive.

Like us when we came into town last evening, the engine drivers seem a bit confused by the pattern of one-way streets around the hotel. But unlike us, they can enjoy the thrill of blaring their sirens and forging ahead, against traffic, down the one-way streets.

“Traffic” is perhaps an exaggeration in this city. At what would be the thick of rush hour in Northern Virginia, the streets are only speckled with cars here and there.

As we walk around the block, we see three large fire trucks with a passel of firefighters gathered around a garden hose that is spraying a pile of charred pink towels. “Chemical fire,” we’re told. As is often the case, the smoke was more threatening than the fire itself. It makes me think of that misguided old adage, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Maybe we need to re-orient our concerns.

Where there’s fire, there’s smoke.

Long Time Coming

2009-06-21T18:55:00.000-07:00

This trip was actually 36 years in the making. Garry and I started our life’s journey together with a 2,000 mile August road trip from Massachusetts to Cheyenne. This was, in fact, our honeymoon – travelling to the Air Force base where Garry was stationed at the time. Four and a half months later, we made the trek back, this time in separate cars and with a Virginia destination. We were on a three-year assignment to Fort Belvoir.

As the newness of D.C. began to fade, we dreamed of taking a westward-bound road trip once again. Many late night coffee breaks were spent at Denny’s in those days (open ‘til 2 a.m.!), using their map-placemats to map out possible travel routes, spinning our dreams for leisure time. But first, there were jobs to do, careers to build, degrees to earn. And then, as John Lennon had told us, “Life is that thing that happens while you’re making other plans.” Two a.m. coffees at Denny’s lost their allure, as duties changed, responsibilities grew, and babies were born.

Anyway, Denny’s changed the placemats that they were using.

Chapter 3, Cross-Country Road Trip: The First Leg

2009-06-21T08:29:00.000-07:00

Our road trip begins with a dreary, rainy slog through heavy traffic, as we head out of town, bound for our big adventure. But, with a seemingly measured sense of purposefulness, slowly the sun begins to push out from the clouds as we approach the Catoctin Mountains. Serendipitously, the radio is playing road songs, including Beach Boy car songs, as we gain momentum. It’s a watercolor picture – literally – as we look through rain-spotted windows at the lovely pastels of crown vetch dotting the gently sloping Maryland landscape in abundance.

Then suddenly, we find ourselves surrounded by blue skies, with fast-moving clouds scurrying to get out of our way.

Now we’re in the part of Maryland that, like most of Virginia, bears absolutely no resemblance to the fast-paced D.C. metro area: lovely farmland, corn rising, picture postcard rural scenes. Everything looks particularly lush following the rainy early summer. Though we humans have been complaining about the endless rains in the east this year, the vegetation has certainly loved the lingering three-month-long aprilesque weather.

Entering Pennsylvania, a huge heavenly light switch splashes bright, healing sunlight. Looking down over the right side of the car, we see a fabulous bucolic scene. “Pleasant valley” Garry calls it – remembering this landscape as one of the highlights of our frequent forays to Pittsburgh when Tim was at Carnegie-Mellon. “That’s it!” Garry exclaims, as he does whenever he spots a possible Once & Future home for us (Other contenders for that’sits include the majestic farmhouse on a bluff overlooking the Susquehanna River that we always admire on our trips north to New England; and – of course – the perfect house for us, on the banks of the Potomac in Alexandria, aka Mount Vernon).

Our first destination on this leg of the journey is Breezewood, PA, where past trips through PA always led us to water our horses (er, I mean, gas up the car).

Then, back in the car. By the time we get to the vicinity of Donegal in western Pennsylvania, our car top is down and we are basking in the glorious sunlight. We’re driving on I-70 past towns with picturesque names like Pleasant Hill and Scenery Hill and Lover (!). Then, as the sun moves lower on the horizon, we wheel past Wheeling, West Virginia. We wonder aloud why that small finger of territory between Pennsylvania and Ohio was carved out to be part of West Virginia, rather than belonging to either of its neighbor states.

Our ambitions for the first day’s drive seem perhaps a bit too high, as the long road brings us past midnight when we finally arrive at our first night’s stop in Indianapolis. This was to be the high-mileage part of the trip. The rest of our trip to Cheyenne will be taken in shorter doses.

This here Pearl

2009-06-19T21:08:00.000-07:00

"If life ain't fun, take this here pearl,

It's never too late to be a cowgirl". -L.D. Burke III

The above quote, hanging on the wall of the ladies' room at Silverado Restaurant ( a few blocks down the street from Plum Center), proved to be just the inspiration I needed during some of my darkest moments this spring.

Yee-haw! I'll write again from the trail...

p.s. For those who don't know this... the "P" in my name is for Pearl...

Romance on the Seas

2009-06-16T14:13:00.000-07:00

It was something of a storybook wedding. The Schooner Hindu was a vessel with history, having been deployed in the spice trade in the 1920s. It could only hold about three dozen people on its well-kept though well-traveled deck. Moored* in Provincetown, off the tip of Cape Cod, Massachusetts, the Hindu is now employed to take tourists and other travelers for a spin around the bay. But on the afternoon of June 6, the Hindu took an enthusiastic and slightly misty-eyed throng on a spin into a new chapter of family history, as the dashing Jamie Moore (my nephew) and his gorgeous bride Andrea Adam exchanged vows in a ceremony that was intensely personal, heartwarming, funny, and engaging.

Jamie is a Francophile, having studied French for many years, taught French to American schoolchildren, taught English to French students, and in the process of developing a taste for fine French wines became a wine expert and licensed sommelier. With his language and cultural fluency, Jamie now works as an executive assistant to Professor Elie Wiesel, the Nobel Peace Laureate and Holocaust survivor. Ironically, Andrea is a native of East Germany. She works as the Executive Director of the German University Alliance and is also, by the way, a marathon runner of some distinction, who has been running in marathons throughout the world. Jamie was the person who worked with the White House to coordinate Dr. Wiesel’s journey with President Obama to Buchenwald a couple of weeks ago (just before the wedding!). We first met Andrea at my son Tim’s wedding in San Francisco two years ago. Within, oh, three to five minutes, Andrea had made her way into all our hearts and fit right in with our family.

The wedding was a civil ceremony, officiated by Meg, a high school teacher of Jamie’s who went on to become his mentor and then a close friend. She peppered the serious ceremony with words of wisdom, observations, and amusing anecdotes about Jamie and Andrea.

For her “something borrowed”, Andrea borrowed the wedding shawl that I had woven for my daughter-in-law, Sharon. Sharon and Tim had incorporated the shawl into their wedding ceremony on the beach at Crissy Field, San Francisco, two years ago. It was a generous act for Sharon to pack up the shawl and ship it to Andrea ~ and it certainly made me feel wonderful!

Following this most romantic wedding ceremony, Jamie & Andrea and members of the wedding party walked down the main street of the village to head back to the inn where they were staying. The throngs of tourists in the street parted like the Red Sea in front of Moses, and roundly applauded the beautiful bridal couple – like a scene out of a corny (but nonetheless touching) movie.

This was followed, under perfect summer skies, by a wedding feast in a vineyard in nearby Truro, Maine. Who ever knew that Cape Cod has vineyards??! Last time we were on the Cape, all they were growing was cranberries! The feast was lovely, the fine wine free-flowing, and the assemblage friendly and fascinating. Wedding guests had flown in from all over the world for this happy occasion.

The following afternoon, we all boarded another ship, the Dolphin III, to go on a whale watch. I think they must have paid the whales off to attend this event. Normally on whale watches – and I’ve been on a few – one is delighted and excited at a sighting or two or three, usually at some distance. But this was the mother of all whale watches! Jamie counted 60+ humpback sightings – some nearly within petting distance! They came so close, and stayed so long, that the captain had to cut off his engines. We were in fact over an hour late getting back to shore! The whales had us surrounded. “It’s an ambush!” cried the captain. A mom and her calf on the starboard side of the ship swam under the boat and came up on the port side. All of the watchers ran to the other side of the boat. So the rascally pair dove under the boat again and came up on the starboard side. And of course all the watchers ran back to the other side of the ship. Over and over and over again. What fun we all were having! (Good exercise, too!) Meanwhile, a trio of performers were surfacing and diving, flipping their tails, rolling over, and generally showing off their considerable repertoire of tricks.

That evening on the beach, by the dim light of a cloud-shrouded moon, we lit a big bonfire and exchanged lovely conversation and fun stories. Andrea gave a lesson in German on making that American favorite, s’mores – no English translation necessary!

What a lovely way for Jamie & Andrea to begin their married life together! And what a lovely and inspiring treat for us to be a part of it.

*No pun intended.

Well yeah, maybe it was. Of course a boatful of Moores would be moored in its harbor!

Duck Drama

2009-06-10T16:15:00.001-07:00

Webster, MA -- June 2, 2009

This entry is for my sons, who for some reason have turned out to be duck fanciers. Must have been all those stops in lovely Mystic, Connecticut, as we made our 400 mile treks from Massachusetts to our home in Virginia through their growing years. Mystic is a charming seaside village with beautiful scenery, a lovely little village of interesting shops and galleries, and the historical sailing ship, the Charles W. Morgan.

But for Tim, Brad, & Greg, Mystic was famous not for these features, but for the duck pond full of animated ducklings that never failed to perform, please, and delight, as chortling tourists tossed crackers and bread and popcorn in terrible abundance into the duck pool.

Today's drama, however, took place not at a tourist haven but at quiet Memorial Beach, along the banks of Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. This lake has the distinction of carrying the longest name for a geographical feature in the United States. Formerly home to the Nipmuck Indians, the lake -- according to local lore -- was named to mean You fish on your side, I fish on my side, and nobody fish in the middle (Note: the veracity of this translation has been hotly contested).

No longer home to the natives who were here first, the lake now is no longer even home to the majority of local residents, except for the tiny strip of public beach, designated as a "memorial" to World War II veterans. The rest of the lakefront has been divided up into small expensive parcels, available only to the very wealthy, while the mostly blue-collar townspeople are forced to squeeze into the small bit of beach that still belongs to the town.

But on this mild morning in early June, we have the beach practically to ourselves. We take a side-trip through the woods, along a spit that separates the lake proper from a swampy inlet, and cross a foot bridge that runs over that inlet.

There, we stand witness to an emerging drama. The water is covered with hundreds of little round lily pads popping with long-necked yellow lily blossoms. With delight, we inhale the spicy fresh fragrance of the flora and fauna; we tune in to the humorous sound of the bullfrogs; and we delight in the sight of a graceful mama duck gliding seemingly effortlessly through the calm waters. She's a lovely sight, her dignified but drab brown and white feathers accessorized by feathers of white and royal blue (same shade of blue as my car) which she keeps deftly hidden while blending in with the drab colors atop the lake. Also nearly hidden from sight by their clever camouflage are three little brown mounds which turn out to be her downy ducklings. They paddle and glide behind her, now aligned in a perfect little parade behind mama, then separating to do their duty to find tiny morsels of lunch on and among the lilies.

Suddenly, mama duck's calm demeanor is upset. The beautiful mallard of teal iridescence, which we had just been admiring on the footbridge, has dived into the water and is suddenly an intruder on this scene of domestic duck tranquility. Suddenly, he is chasing mama duck, who takes quick and rather frantic flight, leaving her three little ones to continue to find their lunch.

Lurking in the dark waters nearby is another female duck, who comes close to the trio of babies but looks the other way, as if disinterested in them as well as the whole drama before her.

Time and again, mama duck rejoins her little charges, only to be chased repeatedly by the obnoxious mallard. Two of the wee ones mind their own business, looking for snacks but not looking for trouble. A precocious third, however, seems to understand that something is amiss, and each time the mallard meanie starts in mama's direction, the Cautious Quacker flaps his tiny webbed feet as fast as he can, to go join or warn his mom.

Like so many things, we never did learn the intentions of the aggressor, the thoughts of the oppressed, or the outcome of this drama. When we returned to the scene two days later, there was a whole new set of ducks and geese, with different issues of their own.

Chapter 2, Massachusetts, The Little Road Trip

2009-06-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

On May 31, we journeyed up to Massachusetts to visit with Garry's family and to attend the wedding our our nephew Jamie and his bride, Andrea. Garry's hometown, Webster, Massachusetts, is, like so much of the country, seeing tough times. Webster was born during the great Industrial Revolution, and was the location where Samuel Slater established his legendary textile factory. In its heyday, Webster was on its way to becoming a small city, based on its vibrant textile industry. But as factories moved from North to South in the middle of the last century, the lifeblood of Webster flowed away.

When I started going to Webster in the late 1960s/early 1970s, the town and its environs still hummed with a number of major textile factories. In 1984, I began to take up handweaving as an avocation, and with that new interest came a new fascination with the factories in Webster and the neighboring town of Uxbridge. But in the subsequent three decades, those factories too went elsewhere, and with them the wonderful outlet stores that helped me to build my fiber stash -- and, more importantly, the factory jobs that kept so many of the townspeople gainfully employed.

During this visit in late May/early June 2009, I read with dismay the front-page headlines that cried out the sad news that the last of the giant factories, Cranston Print Works, was closing that week. Downtown Webster was a sad place, as so many American main streets are today, with boarded up buildings and vacant storefronts. Cranston's work is being shipped to China. Bad for Webster, bad for America.

Chapter 1, The End of a Career

2009-06-10T15:18:00.000-07:00

Not to be unoriginal, but it was, indeed, the best of times -- and indeed the worst of times. My dedicated team of educators and support staff were working with me to create and nurture one of the largest and finest adult and community education programs in the nation. We worked hard, with a peace corps mentality and an urgency to make the American dream accessible to all who wanted it, to make a rich life of the mind approachable to all who had the energy to pursue it.

And then, with reasoning that defied logic, my organization and my position were gone, with the stroke of a pen. It was not a money thing. It was a political thing. At a time when our country and our community needed adult education more than ever, the decision was made to discontinue this organization that had stood so proudly, accomplished so much, and built such a strong sense of community.

Here are the remarks that I delivered at the retirement celebration which my wonderful staff held for me on May 29, 2009...

I stand, truly, on the shoulders of giants. If you were inclined to the lowest form of humor -- punnery -- you might say that I took a Plum* program and tried to make it Moore. I stepped into a program that was already great, built by the likes of Jane Cruz, Elaine Baush, and Ellen Carlos, scores of program specialists, hundreds of staff members, thousands of teachers and volunteers, and hundreds of thousands of learners.

And I have been in this great work for fully half of my life. And more than half of ACE's life, too.

And it is great work.

Adult education is not a profession for the faint of heart. It is a profession for the good of heart. In the United States, adult ed continues to be marginalized, underfunded and undervalued, poorly understood and poorly promoted.

There are always wolves scratching at our doors, threatening loss of funding loss of facilities space, loss of respect.

Partly this is because of our mission and the people whom we serve. We serve the displaced, the misplaced, the misguided, and the misunderstood; those who are down in the dumps or down on their luck; the dropouts, stopouts, locked up, messed up, dragged down, beaten down; and... the frivolous learners who only want to expand their minds, develop their skills, broaden their perspective, enrich their lives, improve their businesses, and build their communities.

But ACE** is about more than adult learners. We teach children of all ages, before and after school, on weekends and throughout the summer. We teach in businesses, community agencies, county offices. We teach school bus drivers and custodians and office workers and teachers. We promote lifelong learning in its purest sense. And we live what we promote.

And that's very important to us ACErs, to live what we promote, to be lifelong learners ourselves, to value ourselves and one another as we want our customers to value themselves.

And we are all teachers. Whether at the head of a classroom or the front of a registration line, a voice on the phone or a smiling face in the corridor, ACE staff and building coordinators and volunteers, as well as our instructors, teach and inform and guide our learners and customers.

This work has been a gift, given to us by our learners, our customers, our public. It's been a great run -- not without its bumps and wrinkles, frustrations, and challenges. But what an amazing group I have been running with. For so many years, we have laughed together, cried together, dreamed together, faced seemingly insurmountable challenges together -- and conquered those challenges.

But the time has come for me to take a different path. My traveling companion*** and I will be heading on a road trip, a sentimental journey of sorts, heading west top-down in my royal blue convertible. We'll be stopping for a few days in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where I will re-discover my inner cowgirl -- a few days in Boulder, Colorado, where I will rediscover my inner hippie -- mosey across the great Continental Divide -- and then spend some time in the San Francisco area visiting two of our sons, who are on their own grand adventures in the city by the bay. Then we'll head down the California coastal highway, meander along the southern route, and take our time getting home.

And you, dear ACErs, have much work left to do. This is a time of big changes, and change isn't easy. Despite the change in organization, the need for our services will not abate, the opportunities for coming up with creative solutions will not decrease, and the importance of your work will not be diminished. Remember that the work that you do is a gift -- a gift that you receive, and a gift that you give. Every time that you hear that hackneyed expression, "It is what it is", remember this: It is not (yet) what it could be. But you have the power to make it so.

And, those of you who cruised with me on the Good Ship Dandy earlier this month, please remember -- and tell the others -- you have got to keep the children together.

__________________________________

*Refers to Delegate Kenneth R. Plum, longtime Director of Adult & Community Education in Fairfax County. Ken built the program over a period of nearly 30 years, making an immeasurable contribution to the residents of Fairfax County, Virginia. It is in his honor that the Plum Center for Lifelong Learning was named.

**ACE stands for Adult & Community Education.

***My traveling companion is my husband of nearly 37 years, Garrett Moore. We have traveled many wonderful years and miles together.