Destination USA

Just an Old Sweet Song Keeps Georgia on My Mind

On December 22, 1864, General William Tecumseh Sherman wrote to

Lincoln

:  “I beg to present to you, as a Christmas gift, the city of

Savannah

, with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, and also about 25,000 bales of cotton.”

I was reading the brilliant E.L. Doctorow novel, The March, which describes in harrowing detail

Sherman

’s March to the Sea, taking you through the bloody campaign that led to the end of the Civil War, as we entered

Savannah

, a city that truly deserves its reputation as the Belle of Georgia. 

Forget the ghosts and legends.  Forget, if you can, John Berendt’s incredibly popular (and captivating) Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which for the last decade has served as the driving force for much tourism to

Savannah

.

Focus instead on the fact that

Savannah

is one of the very first planned cities in the nation – a plan which included 24 city squares, of which 21 still stand.  Focus on the fact that

Savannah

contains the third oldest Jewish congregation in the

United States

, dating from 1790.  Or that today

Savannah

's downtown district – all two and half square miles of it – is a National Historic Landmark.

This is one hell of a gorgeous city.  Thank god

Sherman

preserved it instead of razing it to ground, as it he did so many other cities that lay in the path of his march.

During a hop-on, hop-off bus tour (of which there are dozens), we heard a great deal about how housing prices in

Savannah

have skyrocketed in recent years.  As we rode, we were told that the medium-sized Victorians and Colonials that line the city squares could cost as much as $300,000.  $300,000? we thought. That would buy you a broom closet in

Boston

.

In fact,

Savannah

would be a very appealing place to retire. 

Tybee

Island

, a real island with a real lighthouse and real, down at the heel seafood restaurants, is just 20 minutes away, so you’re close to the sea.  Whenever the spirit moves you, you can visit

Bonaventure

Cemetery

for some peace and quiet down by the river.  Perhaps you could even find an open spot in the Jewish section where you could relax for eternity.

Of course, you’d have to deal with the hundreds of busses clang clanging their way down the streets, and the frequent ghost tours that arrive outside the window of your home, as one downtown

Savannah

resident told us.  She’s pretty sick of the gawkers at Mercer Williams house, home of Jim Williams, the millionaire protagonist of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil; and the movie lovers who flock (yeah, we flocked as well) to sit on the bench where Forest Gump uttered the immortal words, “life is like a box of chocolates.”

When we met her, she was walking her two King Charles Spaniels through one of the squares.  We were sitting while Henry played with two children he had just met, whose parents were in

Savannah

for a convention. 

She told us that we were doing precisely what a visitor to

Savannah

should be doing – and I must admit, it felt glorious.

Here’s one of the most awesome things about this trip. 

Every once in a while, without any conscious planning on our part, we find ourselves somewhere that, never in a million billion years I ever thought I would be, doing something that never in a million billion years imagined we would be doing.

And so, after

Savannah

, we decided that we didn’t want to go to

Atlanta

– too big, too much traffic, too much like other cities.  But we needed to stop somewhere.  I noticed that, just several hundred miles away,

Macon

,

Georgia

was starting its annual Cherry Blossom Festival on St. Paddy’s Day.  So off we went.

Now, thus far, we have missed just about every festival and event the

United States

has to offer.  We’re too late, or it just ended when we get there.  Or it’s another five hundred miles and we don’t have the energy or the money to make it happen.  We haven’t been to a rodeo or a state fair, or even the Wizard of Oz festivals that would make my life complete.

But now that we have been to the Cherry Blossom Festival, we are content.  It was all we could have asked for, and more.

We arrived at the fairgrounds for the ribbon cutting ceremony, where we were able to see the King and Queen of the Festival, as well as junior dignitaries.  We also met Lacie, the permanently pink poodle. 

His owner gave us a postcard with a picture of Lacie on one side and an invitation to worship at the

Cornerstone

Baptist

Church

on the other.

Then we set off on our tour bus to see the cherry blossoms in bloom.  With some 300,000 flowering Yoshino cherry trees, Macon bills itself as the "Cherry Blossom Capital of the World” – and our tour guide said that Macon may have actually given Washington, D.C. its cherry trees, though he can’t confirm the truth of the statement. 

More surprising to us was the incredible beauty of

Macon

’s antebellum homes, most of which survived the “War Between the States” unscathed. 

And that was another fascinating aspect of our visit to

Macon

.  Throughout the tour, our guide referred to the “conflict,” as the “War Between the States” and I wondered why.  Most northerners, to the best of my knowledge, call it the Civil War.  Where does the difference in terminology come from?  Civil war historians could certainly tell me.  But in looking it up, I’ve found some clues.

Wikpedia says that “the causes of the war, the reasons for the outcome, and even the name of the war itself, are subjects of much controversy, even today.”   

Florenceweb.com, web home of the War Between the States Museum (no italics for this museum) in

Florence

,

South Carolina

, which boasts a confederate flag on its home page, puts it more succinctly:

The Civil War was a war between two governments: The

United States of America

, and The

Confederate

States

of

America

.

After our two-hour bus tour, which was eye-opening in a host of ways, we returned to the fairgrounds, where we feasted on food from across the south including Bourbon Chicken from Louisiana, and Granny’s Apple Fritters with a heaping helping of vanilla ice cream on top.  We went on rides, played games, listened to live music, and took advantage of all the Cherry Blossom Festival had to offer.   It was a perfect southern experience – a slice of life, as Rick calls it. 

And though it doesn’t happen as often as I’d like, that’s what this trip is all about.

Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer (I Wish)

The elderly woman looked at my son swimming in the pool and smiled.  “Are you on vacation with grandma?” she asked.

“Grandma?”  My four-year-old looked at me, scrunching his eyebrows in bemusement.

The old lady was aghast.  “Are you his mother?” 

I was ready with my now-stock answer to the question.

“They’re making mothers a lot older these days,” I said.

What I really wanted to say was, hey, you old bag!  What planet are you living on?

I think that my annoyance (o.k., anger and humiliation) at the question is possibly misplaced.

When that old lady was a young lady, the planet looked a lot different.  Women had children in their 20s.  A few, like my mother, had children really, REALLY, old.  She was 38 when she gave birth to her last child, and everyone was extremely worried about how she would cope.

Today, of course, women have eggs implanted in their functioning but way-past-its-prime uterus when they’re in their 50s.  Sometimes, they have their eggs (if you got ‘em, use ‘em) or someone else’s, implanted in young woman’s uterus. 

And every once in while, in what appears to be a miracle, women in their 40s do get pregnant and bear children.

But, from what I can see, it doesn’t happen nearly as often as the newspapers report.  All my friends have children who are at least one decade older than mine.  We’re going to three bar mitzvahs this year, and they are for the youngest children in the family.

I know that when Henry gets to kindergarten next year, if I’m lucky, there will be another parent in his class – I take that back, in the school – who is my age.  The rest will be nubile youngsters, able to play soccer with their kids without wheezing like an accordion.

Having spent a great deal of time recently in the

America

’s mecca’s of plastic surgery – Southern California and

Florida

– I have seriously considered having a few wrinkles blasted.  Then I looked at the cost of even minor rejuvenation and it will be upwards of $3000. 

That’s well over $100 for each person who has called me “grandma” since Henry was born.  And while I can’t put a price on never hearing that dreaded word again, I do know that $100 is too much.

So the question that I ask myself – and repeat out loud to my husband from time to time – is, what planet am I living on? I especially ask it after Henry has begged me to pick him up and I tell him that his 49-pound girth is going to break my back.  Or when Henry asks me to take out the bikes and my heart sinks. 

And I know what’s coming.  In a year, Henry will be playing soccer on a local team – it’s a rite of passage.  He’ll be able to play basketball in the big hoop instead of the kiddie one. 

He may, God forbid, ask to do something even more strenuous than ride a bike.  Like skiing or snowboarding.  Hiking or mountain climbing… real hiking, not just the walking that some people call hiking to make it sound fancy.  Surfing, ice skating, or any plethora of athletic activities that I am unable and to be honest, unwilling, to participate in.

Mom is old and fragile, I will say.  But I’ll be happy to watch.

And then I’ll ask myself again, what was I thinking when we had a child at the age of 44?

Of course, I know that answer to that.  I was fulfilling a lifelong dream, one that had not presented itself to me until I was over the age that most people think is appropriate to bring a child into your life.

And though it may be the best thing I have ever done, because of that decision, I may not ever get the chance to see my own grandchildren.

So instead of asking myself why, perhaps I should embrace “grandma.”  It may not be entirely accurate, it may not be complimentary, and it certainly doesn’t make me feel like a youngster.

But, on the other hand, it could be a prophecy of things to come. 

 

Deep in the Heart of Texas

Of all the states that we have been on this trip (and, just having added

Louisiana

, it’s up to 23),

Texas

has been the most culturally alien.  That dissimilarity to where I come from, the Northeast, can have both big positives and big negatives.

Texans are without a doubt the friendliest people we met in these

United States

.  Our very first night in

Texas

we received an invitation to dinner from a gentleman we had known for exactly five minutes.  Admittedly, he was from

Tennessee

, but the offer came in

El Paso

.  After six months of traveling and meeting hundreds of people, this was the first – the first – invitation we had received to spend time with another couple. 

But it was far from the last that we would receive in

Texas

.

A couple of weeks later, in

Austin

, we met a charming local family who were in town for a stock show.  Once again, within a matter of moments, we had a genuine offer to visit their ranch in

Hondo

,

Texas

.  This time, we said yes and had a lovely afternoon fishing in the pond, playing with the newborn lambs, chatting and eating hot dogs.

Texans are unfailingly polite and helpful.  They LOVE to talk, and will answer nearly any question you put to them.

While they are talking, they will throw around words like “wetback,” and “queers” without blinking … or thinking.  I do believe that is as much of the culture as kindness.  And it seems to me that the kindness comes from the fact that, in

Texas

, religion – specifically, Christianity – is an imbedded part of the culture as well.  There are churches on every corner, of every denomination, of every size, some tall and modern and new, others aging and fading.  But they are there, evidence to the fact that Jesus guides their actions. 

“Jesus” is another word they use with impunity, one which people from the East tend only to employ when annoyed. 

Synagogues?  Haven’t seen one.  And I’m not even sure that Texans would know what to do with a Jew if they met one.  Jews, my guess is, are as alien to them as they are to us.

The only city we have visited that seems to welcome variation (or, perhaps, it merely puts up with it) is

Austin

, where we noticed purple hair and other signs of rebellion. 

Many people told us that the Mexican culture is an indelible part of

Texas

culture, and that they welcomed it.  Certainly, one of the most popular spots in

San Antonio

is the

Market Square

, the largest Mexican “mercado” outside of

Mexico

itself.  And there are Tex-Mex and Mex-Mex restaurants galore.  But, outside of the Tejanos, we found few Texans who have embraced the Mexicans and Mexican-Americans enough to actually learn the language. 

When visiting

Ciudad Juarez

(on the other side of

El Paso

) and

Market Square

. Henry sometimes felt like he was in a foreign country, and got frustrated by the fact that everyone around him was speaking a language he didn’t understand.  Rather than asking me what they were saying, or being inspired to learn more, he just wanted to find a place where he was more comfortable.  Maybe that’s how some Texans feel.

During a visit to

San Antonio

, my father was shocked by the fact that so many Texans smoke – and they smoke just about everywhere.  Haven’t they heard that smoking can kill you?  My guess is that have, and that they don’t care, and no health nuts are going to tell them where they can and cannot smoke.

That’s

Texas

for y'all.

 

Barney Smith Can’t Keep a Lid on His Obsession

We were not the first to visit Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Museum in San Antonio, Texas.  Many have come before us, and they have come from across the globe. 

Israel

.  The

Philippines

. 

Korea

. 

Australia

and

Europe

.  Barney gets about 1,000 visitors a year and he keeps meticulous lists of their names and locations.  There were about 20 from

Massachusetts

, though we were the first from

Boston

.

Television and newspapers have discovered Barney’s museum as well.  He has been on The View, Montel Williams, The Early Show and The Tonight Show – and he created a memento in the form of a toilet seat from each visit. 

Today, at the age of 84, Barney’s collection encompasses 765 seats, and his creations run from the sublime to the trivial.  In the 35 years that he has been carving toilet seat art, he has recorded most major national events including the Challenger disaster, 9/11, and the shooting of President Reagan.  Some of the artwork has less serious subjects.  There’s a Star Wars seat, license plates from all 50 states, and even Brad Pitt has been commemorated on a toilet seat. 

“I promised my wife I would quit at 500,” he says.  “She thinks it’s a load of hooey.”  But Barney can’t stop, even though, as he admits, “it’s getting out of control.” 

A former Master Plumber, Barney was also a fine artist creating oil paintings before he turned his attention to toilet seats.  “I sold a few things down on the Riverwalk,” (a

San Antonio

landmark) he says proudly.  The turning point came when his guild decided to put on shows on Palm Sunday and Easter.  Barney refused to use the holy day for art instead of prayer.  He still won’t open the museum until 2:00 p.m. on Sundays, he says, “After I go to church and take my wife out to lunch.”  That was 35 years ago and he’s never looked back.

Unbelievably, Barney actually had competition in toilet seat art for a number of years.  Another fellow, John Kostopoulus, known as The King of Toilet Seat Arts, had an even larger collection, but he died in 1996, and now Barney is, as far as he knows, alone in his obsession.  He has an application for the Guinness Book of World Records, but has yet to find the time to fill it out.  There are still more toilet seats to create.

What will happen to his collection when he passes, I ask timidly.  Well, one toilet seat manufacturer has already expressed interest.   But “they’ll have to deal with my daughter,” he says.   

Though Barney sells souvenirs, he refuses to sell a toilet seat or work on commissions.  “I don’t have the time,” he says.  It takes approximately 20 hours to complete a work, and he definitely has his preference as to what kind of toilet seat he likes to work with.  “Plastic is too hard to engrave on,” he says.  He prefers the wooden seats.  “A lot of people ask, what you do with the rings?” he says.  “I use them too!”  Often the rings get covered in some kind of material and he pastes things onto them like flowers.  In fact, Brad Pitt’s seat is actually a ring covered with a t-shirt that is emblazoned with Mr. Pitt’s image. 

Where does he get his inspiration? I ask.  By the time we leave the museum, I have my answer.  He gets it from everywhere – including his visitors. 

When one visitor realized he didn’t have a license plate from

North Dakota

, he offered to get Barney one.  “I’ll have it signed by the governor,” he claimed.  Barney didn’t believe it until the license plate arrived along with a letter from John Hoeven, governor of the state.  Another woman noticed that there was nothing to honor the nation’s libraries.  Barney is waiting for information to arrive on that.  And just recently, he completed his first and only Wizard of Oz toilet seat, inspired by a couple who love the movie and sent memorabilia.

“I’ll have to give it up someday,” he admits.  But not before, I hope, he completes an RV Travel toilet seat. 

We promised to collect some of our RV materials, including a picture of us and Gus the Bus, our 2001 Holiday Endeavor, and deliver it to Barney before we leave

San Antonio

.  Henry, our four year old son, has already given Barney a power ranger and a matchbox car to be included in the work of art.  Barney accepted them both graciously.  In fact, he and Henry really seemed to take a shine to one another.  In addition to being an artist, Barney is a very, very sweet man who takes great pride in his collection – and spent nearly two hours showing it to us.

When we went to see the Toilet Seat Art Museum, we never imagined that our visit would end by with Barney offering to include us in his collection.  It’s a real honor – and we couldn’t be more proud.

By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be rising

Before we left on our “great adventure,” I advised my husband that traveling full time is not nirvana.  Some days, I said, will be boring.  Some days will be hard.  Some days will be frustrating.

And some days will be perfection.

Yesterday was just such a day.  Perfect weather, perfectly beautiful scenery, perfect town, perfect tour.  We left

Tucson

for

Bisbee

,

Arizona

, a mining town in which time has stood relatively still for a century. 

All the mines in Bisbee are now shut down – either they are mined out or the cost has become prohibitive.  Much of the ore that we now use comes from more cost effective mines in

Bolivia

,

Chile

, and

Peru

, where the pay scale is just a little lower -- about $3 a day.  According to our guide, Cally, they have just recently discovered that platinum is waiting 7,000 feet below ground and a new mine in Arizona will open in the next decade or so, paying miners $24 an hour.

What made our day in Bisbee so perfect?  Well, to get there, we drove approximately 50 miles through the desert.  There were times that there was no one behind or in front of us – and it makes you feel like you are the only people left on earth.  You might think that feeling would be lonely, but in fact it’s just the opposite.  For a brief moment in time, the breathtaking mountains and cactus and blue sky belong to you and no one else, and you gasp at the power and beauty of it all. 

Bisbee itself is a real town, a working town, a town where people actually live unlike so many of the tourist towns that exist only to serve those passing through.  We ate lunch at the well preserved Copper Queen, the oldest hotel in town.  To make the day even more ideal, the food was awesome.

What else contributed to making this day such a memorable one?  In a word – Henry. 

He is truly the only 4 ½ year old I know who could join a group of adults going 1500 feet into a mine and not only behave himself, but add to the experience.  There was a moment, deep in the mine, when Cally asked us all to turn off our lanterns and experience the complete darkness of being so deep underground.  Henry was scared.  But he sucked it up and did it without complaint, as he does so many things on this trip.  Whether we’re taking a Humvee through Saguaro National Park (pronounced Swaro, which was new information for me), a dune buggy along the Oregon Coast, or a seaplane over Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, he approaches each new adventure with enthusiasm and a willingness to try just about anything (except, of course, vegetables).  It makes him a joy to have around.

Thoughts on

California

Quite frankly,

Southern California

leaves me cold.  That’s because, outside of the weather, there’s nothing warm about it.  The avenues and streets are too broad; the architecture is too new, the people are too shallow. 

We spent Thanksgiving in

San Diego

with my friends Steve and Sven.  While chatting, Steve remarked that “

California

friends” are dilettantes.  That is, they are friends as long as life is good.  When it turns bad, they turn to something more pleasant.  Steve can’t stand the cold, so he’ll never leave.  And they do have great Mexican food, which is a plus – but not enough of an advantage.

We even tried

Palm Springs

and it was worse.  The roads are immaculate (what’s bad about that?  It’s just not real), and the car lots sell Bentleys and Jags. A little too chi, chi for me.

We had the same issues with

Phoenix

.  Though I understand its one of the fast growing cities in the

U.S.

, it too had no personality.  We went into town one day in a desperate search for a neighborhood and came up empty.  There simply seemed to be no community there, just a lot of huge buildings and malls. 

Scottsdale

was better, but still very upscale.

Tucson

, on the other hand, was wonderful.  It has it all – a large University, a small and manageable downtown, a thriving arts community, and an old town with adobe buildings and a sense of history.  At about 900,000 people, it has enough of a presence to be taken seriously, but is not so big you get lost.

Taliesin West – Frank Lloyd Wright’s Desert Masterpiece

“The greatest artists this country has ever produced, seems at last to be coming into his own.  America’s other great artists – its painters, sculptors, composers – don’t really rank with the tops of all time.  They’re not Rembrandt or Beethoven.  Wright alone has that standing.”

                                      Robert Campbell, Architecture Critic

                                                               

Boston

Globe

I knew virtually nothing about Frank Lloyd Wright before I headed out to

Scottsdale

to visit Taliesin West.  Like most people, I was familiar with the Guggenheim in NYC and had seen photos of Fallingwater in

Pennsylvania

; that was the extent of my familiarity with his work.  Taliesin West was a revelation. 

Built almost entirely from scrap because Wright was a notorious over spender and despite the generous sums he received from commissions managed to consistently pay out more than he made, Taliesin West is now considered one of the 100 most significant works of architecture in the last century. 

Construction was begun on the

McDowell

Mountains

in northeast

Scottsdale

when the town of

Scottsdale

was practically non-existent.  Interestingly, and one of the fascinating idiosyncrasies of Wright, it was built below rather than on the mountain, deliberately not taking advantage of the breathtaking views.  He felt that building on the mountain would destroy its sacred presence – and despite many entreaties from clients, refused to build houses for them on top of mountains either.

Though, from the outside, Taliesin West looks luxurious, in fact it is just the opposite.  The only roof was made of canvas, which certainly did let the light through but was not enough to keep out the heat of the summer or the cold of the winter.  Practical Wright was not.  The canvas leaked dreadfully inspiring Wright to put rain gutters inside.  Everything inside Wright’s living quarters is easily moved – in the summer, when the site was evacuated to Wright’s other studio in Wisconsin, all furniture was put in the middle of the room and covered with tarps.  Floors and walls were made of stone and were simply wiped down before moving back in.

Wright’s work force for his structure came from a cadre of apprentices, who one can only assume were thrilled to do the heavy lifting for the great man.  In fact, I was told, the way he determined the size of the rocks to be used for his massive walls was by human strength – “get a two man rock, or a five man rock” he would say, referring to the number of men it would take to haul the piece of stone.

One of the things that make Taliesin West so wonderful is that, to this day, it continues to be a working camp and home of the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation as well as his

School

of

Architecture

– which is as idiosyncratic as the architect.  Students construct their own desert “shelters” on the property as a part of their education, and put on musicals and shows to hone their presentation skills.  Does it make for great architects?  Our guide, Joel, claims that the school is one of the most respected in the nation and that graduates are highly sought after. 

As Wright said, “the imagination of the mind of man is an awesome thing to contemplate.”  And nowhere is that imagination on better display than at Taliesin West. 

I left my heart in San Francisco

We did it! 

We found the most expensive gas in the

United States

. 

It was on Pacific Coast Highway 1 about 10 miles outside of Big

Sur.

  We should have suspected something when 1) the attendant washed both our front and back windshields and 2) there was no sign listing gas prices. 

But there we were, facing sixty miles of winding road enroute to

Monterey

with the bells ringing and the light on empty flashing.  “Fill it up,” Rick said nonchalantly.  When he turned around to read the pump, it said $44.  That must be for a vehicle with a 20 gallon tank, we thought.  But how very wrong we were.  It was for our little

Malibu

.  At $4.20 a gallon, that’s what “fill it up” amounts to.  Shame on us for not paying more attention.  And shame on them for raping their customers.

That is not the first time that we have found

California

to be just a bit more expensive than some of the other places we have visited.  In

South Dakota

, we paid $18.00 for a full hookup RV site with cable and Wifi.  In

Marina

, six miles north of

Monterey

, we paid $60 without the Wifi.  Ouch!  Kinda tough to keep to our budget of $100 a day when a site for Gus costs $60, a trip to the Monterey Bay Aquarium (a great place and the most kid-friendly, interactive aquarium we have ever visited – you could touch bat rays and starfish) is $55 for three people. 

Yup, it’s costly here on the

Pacific

Coast

.

On the other hand, the drive from

Monterey

to

San Simeon

rates as one of the most beautiful in the world – right up there with the

Amalfi

Coast

in

Italy

.

Hearst

Castle

is a tribute to decadence, though done in impeccable taste.  After learning a little more about William Randolph Hearst and his love of European culture – combined with a passion for the mountains of San Simeon – one might gain some understanding of what drove him to spend more than 15 years and $10 million to fulfill his dream of a castle on a hill.  And yet... does anyone really need a 60 room house? 

Our itinerary over the last several weeks has taken us south through the Redwood National Forest down to Mendecino to Stanford where we took a relaxing break to stay my cousins’ house (whoopee – a laundry room!) and spent several days in San Francisco.    A visit to Alcatraz, walking along the Embarcadero, pizza and meatball subs in North Beach, Lombard Street (the crookest street in the world), the sea lions on Pier 39, and a trip to the San Francisco Harley Davidson, where Rick added yet one more T-shirt to his collection. 

Rick and I had been to

San Francisco

on our way back from our

Hawaiian

Island

honeymoon, so we didn’t feel the need to “do it all.”  Plus, there are only so many places that you can drag a four year old without him kicking and screaming.  So long walks along the Castro are out of the question.  What we have learned, however, is that it is possible to encourage him to explore if you can dangle a carrot at the end.  One day, we took a lovely drive from Stanford to Ano Nuevo national beach, where during the winter you can have an up close and personal encounter with elephant seals. 

It was three and a half mile round trip to get across the dunes, but knowing that the elephant seals would be there was enough to motivate Henry.  Every year, about this time, the juveniles come out of the ocean for a break.  For weeks, they will lie on the beach, lazing in the sun, doing little more than sneezing and breathing and occasionally going back in the water for a swim.  Little did we know that, a few miles south, we could find many more elephant seals just on the side of the road -- no hiking required.  But the walk was lovely, and we played sneaky crackers (that comes from the title of a Henry and Mudge book which involves Henry buying a spy kit and looking for clues with his drooly dog Mudge) along the way.  Right now, it’s all youngsters, who are still very cute.  Later in life, they develop a huge fatty neck which detracts a little from their looks.  In a few months, the adults will come onto the beach to breed. 

Now that would be a show -- but we won’t be there to see it.

Bringing Up Baby

There are several critically important attributes that any child must have in order to make an adequate start in life and prepare for a successful future.  And in the last three months, I have had both the time and the appropriate learning conditions to help Henry become a fully-rounded human being. 

Moral and ethical issues aside, these attributes are:

The ability to tell the difference between pop and rock and roll – and to choose the latter.

Without this critical faculty, Henry could become the kind of person who elects to worship Britney, Christina, or ‘NSync, and be lost to the forces of pop forever.

What can you do to influence your child in the right direction?  First and foremost, you must listen to the classics – the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd,

Bowie

, etc.  And while you’re listening, you must constantly turn to your child and say, “isn’t this great?  Now this is real music.”   

If you’re a Zeppelin fan (which I’m not particularly), that’s fine.  The kind of music you play is more important than precisely which bands you favor.

It also helps that many of the movies your child watches will have great rock and roll attached to them.  Smashmouth and Counting Crows sing on, respectively, Shrek 1 and 2.  I’m not against Disney by any means, but if you sing along, you may put your child’s musical future at risk.

The other thing I find very helpful is to quiz him from time to time … something I know that my nephews adored when I was their music education teacher.  All you have to do is listen to the classic music stations, and ask every time a song comes on “who is this” giving hints until he gets the correct response.  An example:  yesterday, My Sweet Lord came on the radio while we were driving along the

Oregon

Coast

?  Who is this, I asked.  The Rolling Stones, responded Henry.  No, I said unequivocally.  Here’s a hint – only two of this band’s members are still alive.  Elton John, he shrieked.  No.  They sang “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”  At this point, Rick took a guess.  John Lennon, he said.  No.  Paul McCartney?  No.  George Harrison?  Who else would it be, I responded.  Ringo? 

While it might be easier to just give the answer, I have found that the game helps to create a situation in which the song and singer are remembered more readily.

Development of a spirit of adventure.

Before we left on this trip, my sister and brother-in-law presented us with $1,000 in “mad money,” which we immediately earmarked for thrills and chills. 

The first $150 was spent in

Coeur d’Alene

,

Idaho

, where we took a sailplane ride above the lake.  I am a big fan of all things that have wings and wheels, and this was the first major test of Henry’s evolution into a true adventurer.  He passed with flying colors. 

The other day, on the Oregon coast (why do I not read more about this spectacularly beautiful coastline – one of the most gorgeous places we have seen thus far?) he was tested yet again when we rented a dune buggy for a ride along the Oregon Dunes Recreation Area.  On previous trips, Rick and I have rented ATVs, so we knew that we were both deeply into the off road experience, but this was everyone’s first experience on a dune buggy. 

Again, a complete success.  Henry preferred the roller coaster like trip along the trails to the wind and sand in your face of the ride along the beach, but he thoroughly enjoyed himself.  And when Henry has a good time, so do Mom and Dad.

I didn’t realize how much I missed the coast until we got south of

Portland

,

Oregon

.  Though we had been on the water on all three cities we had visited recently –

Seattle

,

Vancouver

, and then

Portland

– we had not really been on or near the beach.  The

Oregon

Coast

is, at least in parts, very accessible, much more so, Rick feels, than the coast of

Massachusetts

.  Of course, this may be due to the fact that it is off season and relatively deserted.  There is little more likely to ruin a coastal experience than the sight of thousands of sun seekers slathering themselves in suntan lotion.

Of the three cities we recently visited, the one I enjoyed the most was

Seattle

. 

Portland

, while charming, is a little bit too small. 

Vancouver

is a little bit too modern.  But

Seattle

is just right. 

The Pike Street Market is great fun.  Here, the aroma of flowers competes with the odor of fish to create a cornucopia of smells and sights.  Another highlight was a tour of Safeco Field, which gave me more information about the Seattle Mariners than I needed, but also provided all of us with the first and only chance we have ever had to walk on a baseball field (just the diamond, not on the grass) and to see our name in lights!  Henry was particularly taken with the press box, where he tried out all the microphones. 

Again, we were struck by just how little green space

Boston

has as compared with other cities.  In

Vancouver

,

Stanley

Park

has thousands of acres of open space, public beaches, and rainforest.  And boy do Vancouverites take advantage of it to roller blade, bike, and hike.  We were also made aware of just how unfriendly us East Coasters are compared to the rest of the country… and particularly in

Oregon

. 

One day, Rick stopped on the side of the street to let me out for a few minutes and pop into a store.  During the 10 minutes he waited in the car perusing a map, two different people, noting the Red Sox license on the car, came up to him and asked if he needed help.  How friendly is that!  When we got stuck at an RV site (which happens – Gus does not have a flexible turning radius and when a miscalculation occurs, we have to unhook the

Malibu

in order to back up) five people miraculously appeared to help. 

Yesterday, which admittedly was in Del Norte County, California, but just down the street from Oregon, I asked a man who was picking up garbage along the shore how he was doing and his response was an enthusiastic “wonderful!” 

What is the matter with us Easterners?  Why can’t we say “wonderful” and mean it?  Is it the cold weather?  Well,

Seattle

residents see about 90 days of sunshine a year and they’re friendly enough. Our English roots?   The people across the pond wouldn’t wax enthusiastic if their lives depended on it, and I lived there so I know firsthand.

For years, my response to question “how are you?” was “not bad” just in order to hedge my bets.  What if my day took a turn for the worse?  But really, how bad can it be?  You’re alive, you’re making a living (hopefully), perhaps you have a loving spouse and children or good friends.  How bad can it possibly be? 

Of course, for a woman who is taking a year to travel the country in the company of her loving husband and adorable son, waking up to a “wonderful” day is relatively easy.

Lewis and Clark Have Nothing on Us!

What have we learned after ten weeks on the road?  More that we would have thought. 

There are the obvious things, such as how to live an RV and deal with constant togetherness.  But we have also discovered some things about ourselves, and

America

, that have surprised, pleased, and even scared us.

Henry is a Rock & Roller.

Every night for the past four years, Henry has listened to Baby Beatles, a muzak CD of Beatles tunes, upon going to bed.  Everywhere we went –

Spain

,

Ireland

,

Paris

,

Mexico

,

Maine

–

Baby Beatles went too.  That is, until two weeks ago.

During long rides, when Henry is not watching DVDs on his portable DVD player (the best investment we ever made), we listen to Mommy’s music – both classic (such as the real Beatles) and modern (the Thrills).  Something about the Police caught Henry’s fancy… and since then, he has been transformed! 

And it’s not just Sting, though that’s his choice of bedtime music most of the time and we have seriously considered taping Henry’s version of “Roxanne” to send Sting’s way.   He also appreciates The Rolling Stones, Annie Lenox, Elton John, Mindy Smith – just about anything I put on. 

Being a Tim McGraw and

Garth

Brooks

fan, Dad finds his musical taste questionable.  But I couldn’t be more proud of my little rock and roller! 

The West is the Best.

I had no idea.  Truly.

First of all, it’s gorgeous.  From

Missoula

,

Montana

to

Sheridan

,

Wyoming

, it feels wide open – something you just don’t experience in the city.  Plus, it is much more modern (in parts) than I imagined, especially in college towns like

Bozeman

and

Missoula

.   I mean lattes and organic vegetables, small boutiques and art films, pastrami sandwiches and independently owned bookstores.  Everything a liberal needs to survive. 

Yes, there are WalMarts and plenty of them.  But they have their place in a modern society as well.

Suprisingly, at least to me, some of our experiences in the West have felt like being on safari in Africa – especially in parks such as

Yellowstone

and Custer.  Instead of searching for leopard and lion, you’re looking for elk, pronghorn, and buffalo.  We have had burros stick their heads into the window of our car (in Custer, people often feed them) and a small herd of buffalo cause a traffic jam.  Make no mistake – the parks belong to them and we are simply tourists passing through.

Rick Needs Social Contact More Than I do.

At any point, I can open whatever book I happen to be reading and have all the company I need.  I can solve a mystery along with Dalziel and Pascoe, travel to the

Battle

of the Little Big Horn, make magic with Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.  And I am content.  I don’t need actually need to converse with a human being (which may surprise some of you who know me as a highly verbal person). 

Not only that, but small talk – discussing the number of axles on your RV, which can go on for hours between owners – doesn’t interest me.  If you can’t talk about something of substance, why bother?

Perhaps it’s a skill I’ve acquired after years of traveling alone.  Or it’s just a woman thing.  But I’m just fine for weeks without having a conversation with anyone other than my husband or son.

Rick, on the other hand, needs more.  He goes a little stir crazy without a meet and greet from time to time.  At campsites, he is the one who makes friends.  And RVs are endless source of fascination for him as well as just about every other male RV owner he meets on the road.  At night, instead of watching TV or reading, he posts and reads messages online at RV net, his favorite website.  It must be guy thing.

You Can Do Without… and Do Just Fine.

Four weeks into our trip, Rick and I filled up two garbage bags with clothing and sundries and handed them off to my father to bring back to

Boston

.  We had overpacked due to the fact that I just couldn’t imagine leaving home without 25 t-shirts, 3 tubes of mascara, 45 books, and 7 hats… just in case. 

I mean, what if I was forced to wear the same shirt twice in a row?  The world would come to an end.

But, after buying an entire set of Corelle dinnerware, it turns out that we almost exclusively use paper plates.  The huge tub of toys that sits in the storage compartment underneath Gus has only come out once.  And that mascara is going to dry out before I get the chance to finish it.  It looks kind of stupid to be at a place like

Yellowstone

in full makeup.

How much can you do without and still be perfectly comfortable?  More than you might think.

A 4 Year Old Can Be an Awesome Traveler.

Henry took his first trip overseas at six months old.  He has slept in a port-a-crib, a blanket on the floor, a cot, a double bed surrounded by pillows, a couch, and just about everything else.  Perhaps this taught him flexibility.  Or perhaps he was just born with it.  But the fact is, he is not particularly phased by a change in his surroundings.  And that is the first characteristic of a great traveler.

What is even more a revelation – and a joy – is that Henry’s endless curiousity translates so well to the experience of seeing the country.   

On a 12 hour trip to the Grand Tetons -- a bitter, cold, rainy and even sometimes snowy day -- Henry complained not once.  Quite the contrary.  He entertained the entire bus!  His enthusiasm for animal spotting was welcomed by the other people on our tour, and he added a real sense of innocence to the trip. 

Of course, there will be times when he is tired and cranky.  There is only so much information he can take in before he goes on overload, and a great deal of it goes right over his head.  He is only four.

But mostly, he shares our excitement about discovering the country and all it has to offer.  He welcomes new experiences, new places, and new people.  And that’s all it really takes to be an awesome traveler. 

Well somewhere in the black mountain hills of Dakota

There’s not a whole lot to “do” in the

Badlands

in mid-September.  Rodeo season is over, there are no amusement parks or water slides, and the biggest tourist attraction in miles is Wall, the original drug store which these days takes up an entire city block.  Those activities can occupy you for a day or so.  But you could spend months here and never tire of the scenery.  Carved by centuries of wind and rain, the terrain ranges from lunar to prehistoric.  Around each corner is another breathtaking vista, with spires that resemble castles and gothic churches.  Having traveled on five of the six continents, I have had the privilege of seeing some of the most beautiful places on earth.  And the

Badlands

can stand with the best of them.

On the other hand, you’ll find tons of “sights” in the

Black Hills

, just a few hours away by car.  And we took advantage of all the region has to offer.  A trip through

Custer

National Park

is like an American safari – as you drive, you are constantly on the lookout for area wildlife including prong-horn antelope, prairie dogs, and buffalo.  The big attraction is, of course, the buffalo, as the park boasts a free roaming range of about 1500.  After hours of driving, we still hadn’t seen them and were afraid of disappointment when, just outside the parameters of the park we spotted a small herd of about 20.  A few miles later, we found two buffalo relaxing right by the side of the road, and the day was complete.

Another highlight of our stay in the Black Hills was

Mount Rushmore

, which was not too high on my list of attractions.  A man-made monument here in the heart of all this gorgeous scenery?  How can it compete?  But compete it did.  We arrived at Rushmore at sundown for the lighting ceremony and it was educational and inspirational.  A short movie tells you a bit about the lives of the four presidents immortalized in rock – Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln – and explains why each of them deeply affected the course of our nation.  By this time, the monument is in darkness.  Then slowly, very slowly, the lights begin shining on their faces, at first barely noticeable then brighter and brighter as “

America

the Beautiful” plays over the sound system. 

As it this weren’t enough to get your heart pounding and your eyes misty, a Park Ranger calls on veterans to lower the flag.  During the ceremony, I heard the distinctive sound of sniffling, including the man to my right, Rick, who is a dyed in the wool patriot.  Even I, a critic of American politics, was moved. 

To satisfy my liberal longings  –  and to find a sort of middle ground after Rushmore – we went to the Crazy Horse memorial, fifty seven years in the making and as yet unfinished.  It is said that all the faces on

Mount Rushmore

can fit into the face of Crazy Horse, and the story of dedication and perseverance that surrounds the creation of this memorial is exceptional.  The

Black Hills

were considered a sacred area to the Indians whose land it was by birthright and then by treaty – before Americans came crossing the plains in search of gold and fortune. 

Last but not least, we spent a few days in Deadwood, deathplace of Wild Bill Hickcok and infamous for its lawlessness in the 19^th century.  I was told that tourism has increased considerably since the HBO show of the same name, and it turns out that the show, at least the first season of it, does have some historical basis.  The Gem Saloon, owned by Al Swearingen, did in fact exist.  Seth Bullock was once sheriff (and before one shootout on the street, which takes place three times a day, Henry was honored with a deputy sheriff’s badge, which he still wears proudly).  And Wild Bill really was shot in the back of the head during a poker game.

The town allowed gambling in 1989, so the clang clang of slot machines are everywhere – there are even slots in the local supermarket.  Rick took the opportunity to play a little blackjack and, after two nights of play, came away the winner of a total of $5.50.

I started singing Rocky Raccoon the moment that we saw the first billboard for the Black Hills, and I’ve been singing it ever since.  For those of you who don’t remember all the lyrics, here they are:

Well somewhere in the black mountain hills of Dakota
There lived a young boy named the Rocky Raccoon
One day his woman ran off with another guy
He hit young Rocky in the eye.
Rocky didn't like that. He said "Well I'ma get that boy."
So one day he walked into town
And booked himself a room in the local saloon.

Rocky Raccoon, he checked into his room
Only to find Gideon's Bible.
Rocky had come equipped with a gun
To shoot off the legs of his rival.

His rival, it seems, had broken his dreams
By stealing the girl of his fancy.
Her name was Magill, but she called herself Lil,
And everyone knew her as

Nancy

.

Well she and her man, who called himself Dan,
Were in the next room at the hoedown.
Rocky burst in, and grinning a grin, he said,
"Danny boy, this is a showdown."
But Danny was hot, he drew first and shot,
And Rocky collapsed in the corner. Ah...

Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...

Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...

Doctor came in and stinking of gin,
Proceeded to lie on the table.
He said, "Rocky you met your match."
He said, "No, Doc, you know it's only a scratch.
And I'll be better, Doc,
I will be better as soon as I am able."

So Rocky Raccoon, he fell back in his room,
But only to find Gideon's Bible.
Gideon checked out, and he left it, no doubt,
To help with good Rocky's revival.

Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...

Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo...

The Treasure of Mitchell, South Dakota

While traveling through

Mitchell

,

South Dakota

, nearly every tourist makes a stop at the

Corn

Palace

, the city’s most unusual landmark.  Intended as an agricultural showcase, it is now a basketball stadium whose exterior is totally corn-y.  Every year, the murals (made of corn) are completely redesigned to address a particular theme; in 2005, it was “Life on the Farm.”

But most miss out on what is truly the treasure of this small town – Harry’s Antique Safe Collection, housed just a block and a half away.

After the obligatory visit to the Palace on a quiet Sunday afternoon, we found Harry sitting outside on a lawn chair, hoping to entice some visitors inside to see the collection.  We were happy to oblige.

A retired dairy farmer, Harry’s been collecting safes for 25 years.  His interest in safes began when his father bought his first safe and continues just because “I’ve always been in love with antique safes.”  It’s not a simple or easy collectible, Harry admits, since a number of his safes weigh more than two tons and have to be moved with a winch and a flatbed truck. Some are from the early 19^th century with the majority from about 1900 on.

But that won’t stop Harry from pursuing his dream.  Many of the antique safes are in dreadful condition when he first buys them at auction.  He sands them down and fixes them up, then employs artists to paint them in the style of the day.  He’s a knowldgable and enthusiastic tour guide, stopping in front of especially unusual models to point out their unique characteristics. 

He especially likes the ones that have automatic timers and be set to open at whatever time the owner chooses. One boasts three different timing mechanisms, each designed to take over if the previous one fails.

And he has a number of combination safes that have never been opened.  “Can’t you use a stethoscope like they do in the movies?” we asked.  He smiled indulgently.  “It don’t work that way” he said.  But isn’t he curious about what’s inside?  Absolutely, he admits.  But he’s not willing to destroy the safe to find out.

One friend of his had a safe that had belonged to his father and never been opened.  It had been sitting in a barn for decades.  His friend knew the combination, but had been unable to open the safe.  Harry cracked the case immediately.  The number that was written had someone turning the combination twice to the right, which Harry knew was all wrong.  When the safe was finally opened, it contained cash and the title to an antique car worth a fortune.  We asked if Harry got any kind of a fee for opening the safe.

“I got to keep the safe” he replied.

At first, Harry was charging an entrance fee to his collection both to help recoup some of the expense of buying and restoring the safes as well as cover the rent. But people were reluctant to risk entering.  They were unsure of whether the collection would be worth it.  So now Harry just asks for donations… and hopes it will be enough to keep him going.  The jury is still out as Harry only opened the place on May 1^st.

But he assures people that a visit to his place will be, at the very least, interesting.   “I’ve never been able to find a collection that matches this,” he says.  “A couple from

Texas

came in… they had traveled around the world and never seen anything like this.” 

And we would most definitely agree.