It's the last day in September. We're into our packed fall schedule heading into October, November, December and the run-up to Christmas and New Year's. But this year feels different. I can't quite put my finger on why, but it seems somehow meloncholy.
Maybe it's the events of the past twelve months which tore our economy apart and left us all to try to stay above water till things returned to "normal." But this recession-depression-calamity hasn't seemed like others I remember. This time I could see the pain on faces, feel the panic of friends and neighbors, and finally be affected personally by Barbara's lessened support for her teaching work and more cutbacks at her school. I'm sure that's part of what I feel now as September Song comes to an end.
And also maybe it's the loss of both Mom and Dad within six weeks of each other a year ago beginning at Halloween. We flew to Indiana for each funeral, of course. On October 31 the fall foliage was ablaze and glorious. Dad loved the leaves and took many beautiful photos and videos of them for decades around our county and down at the Salamonie Reservoir and State Park. Glorious, glorious autumn. Crisp, pumpkin weather, a bright sunny chill in the air, the old brick Bingham farmhouse now converted into a flower shop. I thought at the time as so many old friends came to pay their respects, "Well, you did it, didn't you, Dad. You brought us back to our autumn and family and friends we hadn't seen for years. It was a shame it had to be like this, but it is somehow your hand in it all, and I'll bet you are smiling down this day. Dad treasured family and friends above everything.
Mom died at the start of January, and when we flew up for the funeral it was snowing everywhere, and very beautiful and very cold. Mark and Scott made snowmen and snow angels at the motel parking lot, and we got some snow disks at Walmart and slid down the big hill at Memorial Park, grown men turned ten again. We gave the snow disks to some real children when we left for the airport; there was nowhere left in Huntington for our possessions then, with the house long sold, we couldn't pack them for the flight home, and what would we do with snow disks in South Florida? The stark maples and elms and firs were black and twiggy against the glaring white blanket that covered all as we laid her to rest beside Dad's grave, barely settled and still fresh earth. And again the good friends and family made their way to pay their respects with us and renew our stories and our bonds. Mom and Dad had planned their final arrangements years earlier, and done so well it was inspiring.
Barb's brother, Stephen--my firstborn's namesake--, had been the folks' living will executor and taken care of just about everything for many years as they fell victim to Alzheimers and the infirmities of age and needed nursing home care. He lived with his wife just 22 miles away, and everything fell to him to care for them, sell the house, pay the bills and manage. He did a Herculean and wonderful job of it, and his city manager skills of balancing many things at once served him well. There was little we could do but try to be supportive of his decisions. We were 1,200 miles away in Florida and could only visit the home town Barb and I both grew up in once or twice a year.
This summer for the first time in many years we didn't go to Huntington. And now a year has passed since the sweet sadness of autumn and winter of the previous October and January.
We are headed for Mackenzie's ninth birthday party this weekend, and we'll be with Dr. Steve and his lovely wife Rhonda, Christopher, who just turned twelve in August, and the birthday girl. who just may be the most beautiful granddaughter in the world.
Then we're flying to New York this Halloween to see the Central Park's autumn at its peak, which is supposed to be the last two weeks of October and the first week in November. Scott is looking forward to some fall foliage photography with his new high resolution camera. (Sound familiar?) Something pulled at me to go also, something hard to explain. Something abiding. Family. Love. Continuity. Circles unbroken. But I really wanted to, and talked Barb into it. She can scarcely afford the two days off work, but one's a teacher workday. She'll go, with our middle son Scott and me over Halloween weekend and we'll be together with Mark, our youngest, with the family again, in autumn. Glorious, glorious autumn.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Senator Kennedy's Services were Historic and Inspiring
I thought till very recently I was very lukewarm at best toward liberal causes and parties, Though I have always had a strong sympathy for the tribulations and terrible sacrifices of the Kennedy family, my initial response to Senator Kennedy's passing was gratitude his suffering was ended, after a long and accomplished career, and he alone among the brothers had lived long enough to die of natural causes. As with the recent deaths of Michael Jackson and other icons, I realized the news services would spend many hours honoring and celebrating his life--hours I would probably tire of. But as the tributes and services continued into the weekend I found myself drawn to them. They spoke of a man I really didn't know, or only knew one side of, and a most remarkable life. In it I found enduring values. Loyalty. Love. Patriotism. Adventure. Compassion. Wit, humor, grit and determination--this man grew throughout his life as I would hope to grow, despite his shortcomings and unbearable tragedies. In the end he reached a personal character and stature that might have been impossible in a normal life.
Senator Ted Kennedy's passing closes a long history of steadfast service to the nation he loved despite its toll on him and his family. I did not embrace his causes, but I was very moved by his funeral and memorial services. At his funeral came his colleagues from both sides of the aisle to pay homage and tribute to a truly great American, family head, friend, colleague, father, brother, son, uncle, grandfather, and remarkable human being. His Democratic colleagues from the Senate were there of course, but so were Senators John McCain and Orrin Hatch, among many other Republicans. It was the first time I can remember seeing so many political rivals together in civility, common sympathy, and cordiality in many years, and one commentator remarked that Kennedy began his career at an age when political rivals still could view their opponents as fellow patriots.
Teddy wasn't perfect, but he was larger than life in both his accomplishments and shortcomings, and his concern for his fellow man was legendary. He was a champion of political accomplishments, but even more a champion of human compassion, so much so , eulogized by the President and honored by the presence of three former presidents at his funeral, including Carter, Clinton, and Bush. Placido Domingo and Yo-Yo Ma were among the musicians to perform, and to hear his children speak of their father, and the children of Robert and Jack Kennedy of their uncle, to hear so many touching stories of courage and humor, love and concern from one's own family made me weep with many others.
Regardless of one's politics and philosophy, from a human standpoint I hope that every American will one day listen to what has been said of this remarkable man, because it contains inspiration and lessons for us all to emulate. Perseverance. Compassion. Family. Faith. Love. It wasn't just about Ted Kennedy and partisan politics, liberalism or conservatism. It was about how to live and how to treat others. Teddy Kennedy's life had lessons for us all.
Senator Ted Kennedy's passing closes a long history of steadfast service to the nation he loved despite its toll on him and his family. I did not embrace his causes, but I was very moved by his funeral and memorial services. At his funeral came his colleagues from both sides of the aisle to pay homage and tribute to a truly great American, family head, friend, colleague, father, brother, son, uncle, grandfather, and remarkable human being. His Democratic colleagues from the Senate were there of course, but so were Senators John McCain and Orrin Hatch, among many other Republicans. It was the first time I can remember seeing so many political rivals together in civility, common sympathy, and cordiality in many years, and one commentator remarked that Kennedy began his career at an age when political rivals still could view their opponents as fellow patriots.
Teddy wasn't perfect, but he was larger than life in both his accomplishments and shortcomings, and his concern for his fellow man was legendary. He was a champion of political accomplishments, but even more a champion of human compassion, so much so , eulogized by the President and honored by the presence of three former presidents at his funeral, including Carter, Clinton, and Bush. Placido Domingo and Yo-Yo Ma were among the musicians to perform, and to hear his children speak of their father, and the children of Robert and Jack Kennedy of their uncle, to hear so many touching stories of courage and humor, love and concern from one's own family made me weep with many others.
Regardless of one's politics and philosophy, from a human standpoint I hope that every American will one day listen to what has been said of this remarkable man, because it contains inspiration and lessons for us all to emulate. Perseverance. Compassion. Family. Faith. Love. It wasn't just about Ted Kennedy and partisan politics, liberalism or conservatism. It was about how to live and how to treat others. Teddy Kennedy's life had lessons for us all.
Monday, July 13, 2009
What a Trip!
We left steaming South Florida for Branson, Missouri, camping in our used 2004 RV in its second long trip. I had gotten the potty valve replaced and a new carbeuretor on the generator, silicone-caulked the shower skylight, had a tuneup and replaced a leaky tire valve, and gotten the old lizzie really roadworthy, and we'd carefully packed and loaded up. When we left Coral Springs it was raining cats and dogs. But our spirits were high. Even with rising fuel costs replacing staying in motels, it's still cheaper to go camping when we take a summer trip, and for us, more fun. And though we'd used our "Ritz" for a spare bedroom on holidays and taken it around the state the past couple of years, this was to be a major test of whether we could still enjoy a nice out-of-state, non-Indiana-bound vacation trip living and traveling in it.
We planned our trip this year to travel to places we'd never been before and were curious about. Rather than following our usual route up through Eastern Tennessee and Kentucky to Indiana, we peeled off to Birmingham from Atlanta and enjoyed visiting Alabama, Mississippi, and finally Memphis, where we'd cross the mighty river into Arkansas and eventually head up to Branson.
But before we went west we visited Graceland. Who hasn't got a rich memory trove of associations from Elvis's life and music? And Graceland, though it has been widely publicized and filmed and featured from the beginning of his fame, was very different from what I had known of it beforehand, and much more impressive. I was especially interested in how much Elvis had done to make it a family home he could share with Priscilla, Lisa, and his parents and friends, and how proud he was to be able to share a mansion with his parents in such contrast to their humble little house where he was born in Tupelo, not far south. He was never so happy as when he was home with his family, we were told. By the looks of it, that may have been true. He built in a lavish billiard room, studio, lounge, formal dining room, several music rooms, a handball court, stables, car collection loggia and riding meadow. A large modern office for his father Vernon to later run his worldwide affairs following his death was converted from space in an adjacent garage, and the huge collection of The King's career memorabilia, trophies, gold records, famous movie outfits and other items had subsequently been displayed very efficiently in lighted-cabinet-lined halls converted from around the handball court.
What impressed me most, I think, was the very well done, even ingenious design of making it all of it available and enjoyable for the endless volume of tourists and visitors that flock to Memphis' leading landmark. We were given to understand that that is mainly thanks to Priscilla's personal hand in the planning and design. For example, there's nothing "touristy" about the estate. To look at it from the street, you'd think it was just a spacious, attractive home. But across the street is a Disney-sized parking lot, two personal full-size jet airplanes you can tour optionally, an air conditioned, modern visitor center, themed souvenir shops, photo lines, and shuttle busses whose only job is to move the throngs forty yards across the street in manageable size groups, each carrying a comfortable, personal headphones that feed comments in the ear as one moves from place to place in the mansion and grounds. Guests aren't allowed above the first floor, but there is plenty of access to all the rooms there and in the lower levels and adjacent buildings and grounds, and the tour ends at the columned family memorial garden sloping to the south of the mansion where he, his parents, and other family members are buried.
But for Graceland, the street is unremarkable on Elvis Presley Boulevard. Neighboring homes are average, and even the mansion wouldn't draw comparison to larger estate homes elsewhere. But one feels the presence of a remarkable life, a vibrant love of life, a warmth and an exuberant, generous spirit throughout. It's been very well maintained with a combination of respect, love, and memory. I was most impressed with Graceland, our first vacation attraction, and one I'll never forget. The family, to their credit, seems to have realized that their beloved and iconic leader belongs not only to them but to hundreds of millions of others worldwide, and to be eager to share what he was and what he gave with those many others.
We drove to Hot Springs, Arkansas that evening and camped at a mountainside KOA, then went in to visit the baths and spas the next day. Again, we were very unused to what we found, totally surprised at the large hotel-style bath houses in a row, with inviting Adirondack chairs reclining across wide, white-pilastered porches and cool spa chambers discretely segregated into male and female facilities by the prim morality of their heyday in the '30s and '40's. They even had separate elevators for men and women on the two halves of the buildings so the genders wouldn't accidently mingle in their spa-ready immodesty.
We had looked in vain for Hot Springs National Park until we found we were in it! The city spa area is the national park. I had always thought a national park was undeveloped, pristine woodlands and lakes, with only the occasional log building, but not so this one. I have always scoffed at buying bottled water, but in the gift shop here I bought only an empty bottle, labeled, for nearly three dollars, then took it around to the back and filled it from hot water coming straight out of the rock, clean and clear--and free. It's in our refrigerator now. We'll drink it on a special occasion.
As at Graceland, I felt the presence of many spirits here as I moved silently through the bare gray marble and porcelain baths, elaborately-fitted showers, and massage rooms. FDR had treated his polio-racked body here, and many arthritic and neuro-muscular diseased souls found healthy improvement--real or imagined--in this Lourdes-like place over the years. The theme of images and statues from ancient Egypt was frequently found on walls and stained glass--anks, Ramses and Nefertiti heads, gold and jeweled statuettes on shelves, etc. Mysticism and faith intermingled to convince the body the mineral hot spring water somehow cleansed their ills. I've never visited such a place before, like Graceland, and I'm very happy I did.
Driving up to Branson later that day took most of our time, but we found the best campground of the trip--a private one at that--and an office calico cat that we could have easily mistaken for our own Dixie, left to the care of the vet back home while we "dared to go where no man has gone before"--at least not us. That night brought the first rain of our trip, then woke us with violent wind and rain turbulence about five the next morning. We thought overhanging branches were banging against our camper, but it was our outstretched awning wrenching, flapping and twisting and threatening to rip off the supports. We ran outside to find one of the owner's sons hurriedly helping us furl the awning and secure it before it was ruined, a gesture we really appreciated. No harm done, but it was one doozy of a storm that hit. No damage, fortunately, by morning.
We saw a show that night--a pop music review variety show at the Osmonds dinner theatre. The Osmonds, as most other name stars, were not in their theatres that night--Andy Williams' Moon River Theatre, Dolly Parton's Dixie Jamboree, etc.-- but we got a taste of the over one hundred nightly shows competing for the tourist dollars of Branson. There weren't that many of us in the audience, however--perhaps 70 or 100 at most, no more than enough not to cancel the performance. I realized the shows were hurting. Too many, and not enough people. I also realized the mounds of high hills of Branson, Missouri weren't very grid-friendly as I got lost more than once in a one-street town and went the wrong way. Branson wasn't what we expected. I couldn't easily find my pickin' and grinnin' bluegrass and country music except where we paid for it, we didn't really find that many RV's, and there weren't many adjacent stores except in the malls and riverfront, with its tony shops and Hilton waterfront fountain-and-flame displays. We cruised on an old-style riverboat and invited Geoff, an accountant from Manchester, England, to chat with us, in what was to be what we best liked about Branson.
And it did fill our memory coffers with new experiences and interesting people.
But Branson wasn't what any of us expected, and that's the thing, you see: when you go somewhere new or try something different, you may not always like what you find. But that's the adventure of it. Would it have been better to retread our Indiana vacation routes of many years one more time? No. We were doing something different this year. I didn't know how different it would become.
We left Branson after three days and headed for--of all places--Gatlinburg. Maybe we'd just lost our Lewis and Clark adventurism. But we quickly got lost in the twists and turns of the Ozarks and drove through eight of the ten Mark Twain National Forests that blanket the state of Missouri in huge patches. And the highways, though good road, have nowhere to turn around and steep side ditches that make even pulling off impossible for many miles. In an RV it was torture, and went on for hours and hours. Barb said if she had drunk cream it would be butter! We dubbed that the quote of the trip.
Finally we crossed the mighty Miss again (and immediately again across a second span). I thought it was just an island in the river. It was instead the confluencing Mississippi and the Ohio. We were at the juncture of two of the great rivers of our nation! I had seen it on maps many times. Now I was there. And we were in Kentucky! We camped at a KOA when we reached I24 shortly thereafter, in the only campground where we built a campfire and had a "patio party" as we call our late night family discussions outside.
Next day we drove to Gatlinburg by way of Nashville, and from then on we were done exploring new routes. But we weren't done with having new experiences. It was a mistake on my part to think going to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, would be a good way to experience a July 4 weekend. We fought for a campsite in a Pigeon Forge loaded with camps and got the last one at Rivers Edge, one of over two hundred fifth wheels, Class A's (bus style), Class C (overhead cab on a small truck chassis), and Class B's (van conversions). It took us a half-hour to get off our exit ramp, and another hour just driving through Sevierville and Pigeon Forge while we burned up our cellphones phoning KOA's that wouldn't even answer and several campgrounds in a 2007 Woodall's, the campers' bible. But we finally got set up and stretched our newly-bought semicircle of red,white, and blue bunting across our Ford grille like a big happy smiling car character. The place was packed.
We didn't know how packed it was until Barb and Scott walked two miles at 11:00 from the Trolley stop rather than wait for another trolley that night. With so many vehicles on a one-street town, only trolleys were crawling around town and into Gatlinburg, and the service was badly overloaded and poorly managed. Schedules were way off. Scott and Barb had tried in vain to reach the Christmas Palace before it closed, only to be interminably stopped by their trolley to grab off another 50 cent fare here and there. They got to the store ten minutes before it closed. Barb was devastated. The Christmas Palace is her holy grail of Gatlinburg area shopping, as our sundry-decorated christmas tree gives testament to. Even worse, the Bob Evans next door was shut down for good--another unwelcome surprise. How could a major restaurant like that go out of business in a place like Pigeon Forge? The economy really is bad.
But the next day was far worse than even the night before. There was no way we could heft that RV of ours into Gatlinburg against the sea of cars clogging all the lanes. Why I thought we had to even go is a mystery to me now, but go we did, to the stop for the trolley to take us the other direction from what we wanted to go, the trolley central hub, where we had to board a Gatlinburg-bound, nonstop second trolley to take us to the Aquarium trolley hub in Gatlinburg. And that one wasn't air-conditioned, was packed in its 30-passenger posted maximum capacity with a standing-room-only 50-passenger overload. I've ridden some jarring New York subways, but that trolley had them all beat. I had to not only stand the whole trip but had to strain on tiptoes to grab onto too-high rails to avoid falling. But for the crowded aisle I might have ended up on another passenger or three. When we finally debarked I was nearly nauseous, and we whisked up the street to a Wendys I knew of, in the Mountain Mall.
That lunch helped a lot, but where was the pickin' and grinnin' I was sure we'd find? Nowhere! No "Rocky Top", no cloggers, no local washboard bands on the streets, no music except what the storefronts played. Not like last year at all. The economy again, we thought. Cities couldn't justify hiring entertainers with jobs at stake. Oh, it was bad, bad. We continued up and then down the street shops and Scott and I rode the aerial lift to a great overlook of the city, which we really loved. But the trolley ride back was only a little better than the trolley ride there, and overall we were really miffed. Supper was a long waiting line at the trolley stop hub nearby restaurants next to Liberty Park, where the fireworks would soon begin, if you can imagine. Another dream down the tubes. If I couldn't depend on Gatlinburg, where could I find a balm for my country soul?
The fireworks later were nominal, but at least we had good seats. As the last site in the camp, we were the first in line for viewing, it turns out--that is, at least till some pickup trucks pulled in across our bow and their viewers set up lawn chairs in the truck beds. Oh well....
Following Branson, the plan now revised had been to head for Gatlinburg, then Charleston (Scott's never been) then Savannah (same) then home. When we left Gatlinburg, however, our collective wanderlust was gone. We started for home, but got restored enough that we salvaged a quick tour of Savannah at least. And we all had a good tour trolley (we had sworn we'd never get on another, but this was an uncrowded tour trolley with points of interest map and interesting comments by the guide/drivers, on/off stops at our pleasure, and good organization and execution. It restored our faith a lot. Charleston would have been interesting also, but it required more of us and was more out of our way. We were ready, when we left Savannah about three in the afternoon, to come home. We pulled in about eleven that night. And over the next several days we began to mythologize what a wonderful time we had, as we're prone to do with the passing of time. In a few more weeks it may seem like the best time we ever had.
We planned our trip this year to travel to places we'd never been before and were curious about. Rather than following our usual route up through Eastern Tennessee and Kentucky to Indiana, we peeled off to Birmingham from Atlanta and enjoyed visiting Alabama, Mississippi, and finally Memphis, where we'd cross the mighty river into Arkansas and eventually head up to Branson.
But before we went west we visited Graceland. Who hasn't got a rich memory trove of associations from Elvis's life and music? And Graceland, though it has been widely publicized and filmed and featured from the beginning of his fame, was very different from what I had known of it beforehand, and much more impressive. I was especially interested in how much Elvis had done to make it a family home he could share with Priscilla, Lisa, and his parents and friends, and how proud he was to be able to share a mansion with his parents in such contrast to their humble little house where he was born in Tupelo, not far south. He was never so happy as when he was home with his family, we were told. By the looks of it, that may have been true. He built in a lavish billiard room, studio, lounge, formal dining room, several music rooms, a handball court, stables, car collection loggia and riding meadow. A large modern office for his father Vernon to later run his worldwide affairs following his death was converted from space in an adjacent garage, and the huge collection of The King's career memorabilia, trophies, gold records, famous movie outfits and other items had subsequently been displayed very efficiently in lighted-cabinet-lined halls converted from around the handball court.
What impressed me most, I think, was the very well done, even ingenious design of making it all of it available and enjoyable for the endless volume of tourists and visitors that flock to Memphis' leading landmark. We were given to understand that that is mainly thanks to Priscilla's personal hand in the planning and design. For example, there's nothing "touristy" about the estate. To look at it from the street, you'd think it was just a spacious, attractive home. But across the street is a Disney-sized parking lot, two personal full-size jet airplanes you can tour optionally, an air conditioned, modern visitor center, themed souvenir shops, photo lines, and shuttle busses whose only job is to move the throngs forty yards across the street in manageable size groups, each carrying a comfortable, personal headphones that feed comments in the ear as one moves from place to place in the mansion and grounds. Guests aren't allowed above the first floor, but there is plenty of access to all the rooms there and in the lower levels and adjacent buildings and grounds, and the tour ends at the columned family memorial garden sloping to the south of the mansion where he, his parents, and other family members are buried.
But for Graceland, the street is unremarkable on Elvis Presley Boulevard. Neighboring homes are average, and even the mansion wouldn't draw comparison to larger estate homes elsewhere. But one feels the presence of a remarkable life, a vibrant love of life, a warmth and an exuberant, generous spirit throughout. It's been very well maintained with a combination of respect, love, and memory. I was most impressed with Graceland, our first vacation attraction, and one I'll never forget. The family, to their credit, seems to have realized that their beloved and iconic leader belongs not only to them but to hundreds of millions of others worldwide, and to be eager to share what he was and what he gave with those many others.
We drove to Hot Springs, Arkansas that evening and camped at a mountainside KOA, then went in to visit the baths and spas the next day. Again, we were very unused to what we found, totally surprised at the large hotel-style bath houses in a row, with inviting Adirondack chairs reclining across wide, white-pilastered porches and cool spa chambers discretely segregated into male and female facilities by the prim morality of their heyday in the '30s and '40's. They even had separate elevators for men and women on the two halves of the buildings so the genders wouldn't accidently mingle in their spa-ready immodesty.
We had looked in vain for Hot Springs National Park until we found we were in it! The city spa area is the national park. I had always thought a national park was undeveloped, pristine woodlands and lakes, with only the occasional log building, but not so this one. I have always scoffed at buying bottled water, but in the gift shop here I bought only an empty bottle, labeled, for nearly three dollars, then took it around to the back and filled it from hot water coming straight out of the rock, clean and clear--and free. It's in our refrigerator now. We'll drink it on a special occasion.
As at Graceland, I felt the presence of many spirits here as I moved silently through the bare gray marble and porcelain baths, elaborately-fitted showers, and massage rooms. FDR had treated his polio-racked body here, and many arthritic and neuro-muscular diseased souls found healthy improvement--real or imagined--in this Lourdes-like place over the years. The theme of images and statues from ancient Egypt was frequently found on walls and stained glass--anks, Ramses and Nefertiti heads, gold and jeweled statuettes on shelves, etc. Mysticism and faith intermingled to convince the body the mineral hot spring water somehow cleansed their ills. I've never visited such a place before, like Graceland, and I'm very happy I did.
Driving up to Branson later that day took most of our time, but we found the best campground of the trip--a private one at that--and an office calico cat that we could have easily mistaken for our own Dixie, left to the care of the vet back home while we "dared to go where no man has gone before"--at least not us. That night brought the first rain of our trip, then woke us with violent wind and rain turbulence about five the next morning. We thought overhanging branches were banging against our camper, but it was our outstretched awning wrenching, flapping and twisting and threatening to rip off the supports. We ran outside to find one of the owner's sons hurriedly helping us furl the awning and secure it before it was ruined, a gesture we really appreciated. No harm done, but it was one doozy of a storm that hit. No damage, fortunately, by morning.
We saw a show that night--a pop music review variety show at the Osmonds dinner theatre. The Osmonds, as most other name stars, were not in their theatres that night--Andy Williams' Moon River Theatre, Dolly Parton's Dixie Jamboree, etc.-- but we got a taste of the over one hundred nightly shows competing for the tourist dollars of Branson. There weren't that many of us in the audience, however--perhaps 70 or 100 at most, no more than enough not to cancel the performance. I realized the shows were hurting. Too many, and not enough people. I also realized the mounds of high hills of Branson, Missouri weren't very grid-friendly as I got lost more than once in a one-street town and went the wrong way. Branson wasn't what we expected. I couldn't easily find my pickin' and grinnin' bluegrass and country music except where we paid for it, we didn't really find that many RV's, and there weren't many adjacent stores except in the malls and riverfront, with its tony shops and Hilton waterfront fountain-and-flame displays. We cruised on an old-style riverboat and invited Geoff, an accountant from Manchester, England, to chat with us, in what was to be what we best liked about Branson.
And it did fill our memory coffers with new experiences and interesting people.
But Branson wasn't what any of us expected, and that's the thing, you see: when you go somewhere new or try something different, you may not always like what you find. But that's the adventure of it. Would it have been better to retread our Indiana vacation routes of many years one more time? No. We were doing something different this year. I didn't know how different it would become.
We left Branson after three days and headed for--of all places--Gatlinburg. Maybe we'd just lost our Lewis and Clark adventurism. But we quickly got lost in the twists and turns of the Ozarks and drove through eight of the ten Mark Twain National Forests that blanket the state of Missouri in huge patches. And the highways, though good road, have nowhere to turn around and steep side ditches that make even pulling off impossible for many miles. In an RV it was torture, and went on for hours and hours. Barb said if she had drunk cream it would be butter! We dubbed that the quote of the trip.
Finally we crossed the mighty Miss again (and immediately again across a second span). I thought it was just an island in the river. It was instead the confluencing Mississippi and the Ohio. We were at the juncture of two of the great rivers of our nation! I had seen it on maps many times. Now I was there. And we were in Kentucky! We camped at a KOA when we reached I24 shortly thereafter, in the only campground where we built a campfire and had a "patio party" as we call our late night family discussions outside.
Next day we drove to Gatlinburg by way of Nashville, and from then on we were done exploring new routes. But we weren't done with having new experiences. It was a mistake on my part to think going to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, would be a good way to experience a July 4 weekend. We fought for a campsite in a Pigeon Forge loaded with camps and got the last one at Rivers Edge, one of over two hundred fifth wheels, Class A's (bus style), Class C (overhead cab on a small truck chassis), and Class B's (van conversions). It took us a half-hour to get off our exit ramp, and another hour just driving through Sevierville and Pigeon Forge while we burned up our cellphones phoning KOA's that wouldn't even answer and several campgrounds in a 2007 Woodall's, the campers' bible. But we finally got set up and stretched our newly-bought semicircle of red,white, and blue bunting across our Ford grille like a big happy smiling car character. The place was packed.
We didn't know how packed it was until Barb and Scott walked two miles at 11:00 from the Trolley stop rather than wait for another trolley that night. With so many vehicles on a one-street town, only trolleys were crawling around town and into Gatlinburg, and the service was badly overloaded and poorly managed. Schedules were way off. Scott and Barb had tried in vain to reach the Christmas Palace before it closed, only to be interminably stopped by their trolley to grab off another 50 cent fare here and there. They got to the store ten minutes before it closed. Barb was devastated. The Christmas Palace is her holy grail of Gatlinburg area shopping, as our sundry-decorated christmas tree gives testament to. Even worse, the Bob Evans next door was shut down for good--another unwelcome surprise. How could a major restaurant like that go out of business in a place like Pigeon Forge? The economy really is bad.
But the next day was far worse than even the night before. There was no way we could heft that RV of ours into Gatlinburg against the sea of cars clogging all the lanes. Why I thought we had to even go is a mystery to me now, but go we did, to the stop for the trolley to take us the other direction from what we wanted to go, the trolley central hub, where we had to board a Gatlinburg-bound, nonstop second trolley to take us to the Aquarium trolley hub in Gatlinburg. And that one wasn't air-conditioned, was packed in its 30-passenger posted maximum capacity with a standing-room-only 50-passenger overload. I've ridden some jarring New York subways, but that trolley had them all beat. I had to not only stand the whole trip but had to strain on tiptoes to grab onto too-high rails to avoid falling. But for the crowded aisle I might have ended up on another passenger or three. When we finally debarked I was nearly nauseous, and we whisked up the street to a Wendys I knew of, in the Mountain Mall.
That lunch helped a lot, but where was the pickin' and grinnin' I was sure we'd find? Nowhere! No "Rocky Top", no cloggers, no local washboard bands on the streets, no music except what the storefronts played. Not like last year at all. The economy again, we thought. Cities couldn't justify hiring entertainers with jobs at stake. Oh, it was bad, bad. We continued up and then down the street shops and Scott and I rode the aerial lift to a great overlook of the city, which we really loved. But the trolley ride back was only a little better than the trolley ride there, and overall we were really miffed. Supper was a long waiting line at the trolley stop hub nearby restaurants next to Liberty Park, where the fireworks would soon begin, if you can imagine. Another dream down the tubes. If I couldn't depend on Gatlinburg, where could I find a balm for my country soul?
The fireworks later were nominal, but at least we had good seats. As the last site in the camp, we were the first in line for viewing, it turns out--that is, at least till some pickup trucks pulled in across our bow and their viewers set up lawn chairs in the truck beds. Oh well....
Following Branson, the plan now revised had been to head for Gatlinburg, then Charleston (Scott's never been) then Savannah (same) then home. When we left Gatlinburg, however, our collective wanderlust was gone. We started for home, but got restored enough that we salvaged a quick tour of Savannah at least. And we all had a good tour trolley (we had sworn we'd never get on another, but this was an uncrowded tour trolley with points of interest map and interesting comments by the guide/drivers, on/off stops at our pleasure, and good organization and execution. It restored our faith a lot. Charleston would have been interesting also, but it required more of us and was more out of our way. We were ready, when we left Savannah about three in the afternoon, to come home. We pulled in about eleven that night. And over the next several days we began to mythologize what a wonderful time we had, as we're prone to do with the passing of time. In a few more weeks it may seem like the best time we ever had.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Two Loves Have I
The French produced a song in the war years of Marlene Dietrich: "Two Loves Have I." At heart I also have two passions: music and writing. I suppose thinking and feeling are more valued to me than even music or writing, but my two passions express what I think and feel, so I try to find outlets for each.
For music I play the keyboards I have bought over the years and the $10 piano I bought from a lady in Aventura whose condo got flooded in Hurricane Wilma. I call it my $10 piano, though I paid her $100 for it because I'm a softie, and paid the movers another $100 to get it up here to Coral Springs. She was, however asking $10 for it, so I insist on calling it my $10 piano.
Unlike the electronic keyboards, I can really whack the heck out of my $10 piano and do so several times a week. There's nothing like the feel of pounding a true piano to release my hostilities and express myself emotionally. It's been a lifelong passion, one I used to make my living doing back in the day. I grew up with music, and I suppose met my wife through music. I must have it. I don't think I could live without it.
Between writing and music it's a hard call which passion I love most, but I know it tilts toward music when it comes to expressing feeling. Suzanne Langer, the American philosopher, called music "the sentience of feeling." I think that's very true.
Writing undoubtedly provides a wonderful outlet as well for expressing my feelings, but it's greater strength is for expressing my thoughts and reflecting upon whatever interests me. I usually do this through exposition, but at times through lyric poetry or fiction if my imagination is so inspired. Such inspirations are becoming less frequent as reality tends to dominate my attention more the older I become.
But it wasn't until very recently I began to appreciate that there is a great divide in my writing needs between writing to myself and writing to share publicly. In my private, handwritten journal I am able to jot down ideas more or less at the speed they come to me, unedited and with no concern for sharing them in blogs or anywhere else.
The mistake I've long made is believing I could transfer to the internet what I write strictly in my own journal, with the same lack of self-consciousness that I enjoy writing to myself alone. I simply cannot say to others, no matter whether family, friends, in a classroom or online, what I can say to myself. The moment I try, I begin to edit. I immediately feel the need to make sense, for one thing, to write coherently in reasonably standard English sentences, and not to just jot wordplay or nonsensical snippets as I feel free to do in my journal.
For another difference I find that I sometimes pray in my journal, which I would never feel comfortable doing online. Prayer, I have found, is nearly the only kind of expression that I can be totally honest doing. It would be absurd tying to be less than honest in prayer; who would I be fooling? Myself I might deceive, but not God. I believe deeply in prayer, but I don't feel comfortable praying online. I do, however, in my private journal.
There are many other differences as well, but no need to go into them here. My subject for this post is still about expressing myself through writing and music, and as I try this venue and that I find I don't need another place to write online. I have my blogs to express what I can publicly and my handwritten journal to express what I only can express privately.
And speaking of my blogs, I began another a few days ago as what I hoped would be a fresh approach, having gotten a bit tired of Writetosayit's look and feel over the years. I began it on Blogspot after trying a couple of Wordpress blogs I was using over at my commercial site, pageamonth.com. And I began it out of spite.
Let me explain:
I read in someone's new Wordpress blog how happy he was to be at Wordpress and to be rid of Blogger and Blogspot, which he said was "like living in the '50's" When I read that, I bristled. I doubt the fellow was even alive in the '50's, but I understood why he felt as he apparently did. Blogger is, in fact, a bit of a conservative dinosaur as a host, and definitely not "hip"--a bit long in the tooth, as they say. Browsing blogspot's typical posts it's rare to find the kind of f-word, in-your-face ranting and insulting language that sully many other sites of other hosts in this age of Twitters and tweets, MySpace chats, Craigslist crud, messaging and other gatherings which abound on the net. Blogger was one of the first to enable free blogging and built it to by far the largest hosting site in the world for many years. I don't know if Wordpress or any other host has matched its numbers yet, but that's beside the point.
I do know this: people on Blogspot tend to be more mature than the tennyboppers and frenetic professionals at Wordpress and other community-oriented hosts. Not necessarily more mature in years but seemingly past the rebellious stage of their lives. The people who run Blogspot also seem to provide sensible help menus and not get carried away with geeky techtalk to bloggers who just want a lay answer to a simple question. Blogspot menus make sense to me and the personality of the templates remains as attractive as anywhere.
The only thing I still find annoying at Blogspot is the hoops set up that force us all to do nonsensical, illegible word verifications for most posting and commenting. Other sites have managed to make this process--which I admit is a necessary one--less confusing and still be effective.
Oh, Blogspot also has a few quirks like producing thousands of duplicate copies of blogs I didn't write to clog up my editing lists. I gave up trying to delete them all after a few hundred. And Blogspot still has a long way to go for those after wider syndication. I suppose they don't want spam creeping in, but other sites syndicate widely in a range of formats through notification services like technoratti and ping-o-matic, and I miss that. Blogspot's still in the '50's that way.
In any case, I like the '50's and liked living in them. I like visiting Disney/MGM in Orlando with it's '40's and '50's themes and art deco buildings. It's what I grew up with. So that young man, who never lived during those times, disparaged what I value, and for that, I won't blog at Wordpress.com (plus the fact that they slap ads on your blog over there without asking your permission, which is why I quit them a few years ago.) If anyone is gonna pay any bills with my blogging, it's gonna be me. Sometimes spite feels good, and Hello Dolly, I'm back home where I belong. It's cool here, man, reeeel cooool....
For music I play the keyboards I have bought over the years and the $10 piano I bought from a lady in Aventura whose condo got flooded in Hurricane Wilma. I call it my $10 piano, though I paid her $100 for it because I'm a softie, and paid the movers another $100 to get it up here to Coral Springs. She was, however asking $10 for it, so I insist on calling it my $10 piano.
Unlike the electronic keyboards, I can really whack the heck out of my $10 piano and do so several times a week. There's nothing like the feel of pounding a true piano to release my hostilities and express myself emotionally. It's been a lifelong passion, one I used to make my living doing back in the day. I grew up with music, and I suppose met my wife through music. I must have it. I don't think I could live without it.
Between writing and music it's a hard call which passion I love most, but I know it tilts toward music when it comes to expressing feeling. Suzanne Langer, the American philosopher, called music "the sentience of feeling." I think that's very true.
Writing undoubtedly provides a wonderful outlet as well for expressing my feelings, but it's greater strength is for expressing my thoughts and reflecting upon whatever interests me. I usually do this through exposition, but at times through lyric poetry or fiction if my imagination is so inspired. Such inspirations are becoming less frequent as reality tends to dominate my attention more the older I become.
But it wasn't until very recently I began to appreciate that there is a great divide in my writing needs between writing to myself and writing to share publicly. In my private, handwritten journal I am able to jot down ideas more or less at the speed they come to me, unedited and with no concern for sharing them in blogs or anywhere else.
The mistake I've long made is believing I could transfer to the internet what I write strictly in my own journal, with the same lack of self-consciousness that I enjoy writing to myself alone. I simply cannot say to others, no matter whether family, friends, in a classroom or online, what I can say to myself. The moment I try, I begin to edit. I immediately feel the need to make sense, for one thing, to write coherently in reasonably standard English sentences, and not to just jot wordplay or nonsensical snippets as I feel free to do in my journal.
For another difference I find that I sometimes pray in my journal, which I would never feel comfortable doing online. Prayer, I have found, is nearly the only kind of expression that I can be totally honest doing. It would be absurd tying to be less than honest in prayer; who would I be fooling? Myself I might deceive, but not God. I believe deeply in prayer, but I don't feel comfortable praying online. I do, however, in my private journal.
There are many other differences as well, but no need to go into them here. My subject for this post is still about expressing myself through writing and music, and as I try this venue and that I find I don't need another place to write online. I have my blogs to express what I can publicly and my handwritten journal to express what I only can express privately.
And speaking of my blogs, I began another a few days ago as what I hoped would be a fresh approach, having gotten a bit tired of Writetosayit's look and feel over the years. I began it on Blogspot after trying a couple of Wordpress blogs I was using over at my commercial site, pageamonth.com. And I began it out of spite.
Let me explain:
I read in someone's new Wordpress blog how happy he was to be at Wordpress and to be rid of Blogger and Blogspot, which he said was "like living in the '50's" When I read that, I bristled. I doubt the fellow was even alive in the '50's, but I understood why he felt as he apparently did. Blogger is, in fact, a bit of a conservative dinosaur as a host, and definitely not "hip"--a bit long in the tooth, as they say. Browsing blogspot's typical posts it's rare to find the kind of f-word, in-your-face ranting and insulting language that sully many other sites of other hosts in this age of Twitters and tweets, MySpace chats, Craigslist crud, messaging and other gatherings which abound on the net. Blogger was one of the first to enable free blogging and built it to by far the largest hosting site in the world for many years. I don't know if Wordpress or any other host has matched its numbers yet, but that's beside the point.
I do know this: people on Blogspot tend to be more mature than the tennyboppers and frenetic professionals at Wordpress and other community-oriented hosts. Not necessarily more mature in years but seemingly past the rebellious stage of their lives. The people who run Blogspot also seem to provide sensible help menus and not get carried away with geeky techtalk to bloggers who just want a lay answer to a simple question. Blogspot menus make sense to me and the personality of the templates remains as attractive as anywhere.
The only thing I still find annoying at Blogspot is the hoops set up that force us all to do nonsensical, illegible word verifications for most posting and commenting. Other sites have managed to make this process--which I admit is a necessary one--less confusing and still be effective.
Oh, Blogspot also has a few quirks like producing thousands of duplicate copies of blogs I didn't write to clog up my editing lists. I gave up trying to delete them all after a few hundred. And Blogspot still has a long way to go for those after wider syndication. I suppose they don't want spam creeping in, but other sites syndicate widely in a range of formats through notification services like technoratti and ping-o-matic, and I miss that. Blogspot's still in the '50's that way.
In any case, I like the '50's and liked living in them. I like visiting Disney/MGM in Orlando with it's '40's and '50's themes and art deco buildings. It's what I grew up with. So that young man, who never lived during those times, disparaged what I value, and for that, I won't blog at Wordpress.com (plus the fact that they slap ads on your blog over there without asking your permission, which is why I quit them a few years ago.) If anyone is gonna pay any bills with my blogging, it's gonna be me. Sometimes spite feels good, and Hello Dolly, I'm back home where I belong. It's cool here, man, reeeel cooool....
Spring Housecleaning
It was time, I decided, to do some spring cleaning on my growing venues of expression. I scrapped the former blog "NBK Stuff" and saved only its former space on Blogger under the temporary title of "Summitsummers." But that blog didn't succeed in distinguishing its purpose or tone from this one, "Write to Say It," so I deleted Summitsummers also. I still maintain several blogs with my main expository journaling Writetosayit, my fiction and poetry writings, Inner Elves, and now a new blog on my commercial website, Pageamonth.com, in support of my spreadsheet budget product. That's really enough to catch ahold of whatever I feel I can say publicly.
I scrapped NBK Stuff because it outlived its purpose: to try Adsense ads on a blog and see if it made me a millionaire overnight. It didn't, and so out she goes. But why did I try to start Summitsummers?
It had to do with the way Blogspot is set up. When you delete a blog, the dashboard keeps it around in case you change your mind and want to reinstate it, and also asks you to create another blog on the spur of the moment to take its place. In fact, it doesn't even let you leave the page until you type in the name of that new blog. So I did, and called it the first word I could think of, "Summitsummers." Where that came from is beyond me. But it got me off the page.
I scrapped NBK Stuff because it outlived its purpose: to try Adsense ads on a blog and see if it made me a millionaire overnight. It didn't, and so out she goes. But why did I try to start Summitsummers?
It had to do with the way Blogspot is set up. When you delete a blog, the dashboard keeps it around in case you change your mind and want to reinstate it, and also asks you to create another blog on the spur of the moment to take its place. In fact, it doesn't even let you leave the page until you type in the name of that new blog. So I did, and called it the first word I could think of, "Summitsummers." Where that came from is beyond me. But it got me off the page.
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