"We're doing it again, following a wrecker towing our motorhome. Ah, but the scenery is different: Mississippi was hot, humid and green; Texas is hot, dry and brown. Maybe we aren't prayed up?"
"Maybe we are. It could have been worse," JB replied from deep-thought mode. It's Saturday. Repairs can't begin until Monday. We need to be in Tucson, Arizona, Sunday evening by six - 635 miles away.
At Big Springs, Texas, the king-sized wrecker deposited our forty-footer, minus it's drive shaft with scattered bearings, at Rip Giffin's Texas-sized parking lot. Seeing no alternative, in his soft, Southern voice JB asked, "Could you stay behind, get it repaired, and drive it the rest of the way?"
I don't believe it! I've driven this forty-footer once with him in the passenger seat. Shocked, barely audible, I responded, "You want me to do what?"
"I'll come back and get you, if you can't," he assured.
With my guts in a knot, it took everything in me to say without choking, "I'll do my best."
Sunday morning, driving my car towing his, JB left for Tucson with a week's clothes, water, a can of smoked oysters, and some crackers. Left behind, I wilted knowing I couldn't do the job alone. When all else fails, consult the Master. While I prayed, the 23rd Psalm came apart: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Hmm, that's encouraging.
He makes me lie down in green pastures. I looked at His pasture: asphalt and light poles; the horizon interrupted by oil wells perched like greedy grasshoppers sucking rich black syrup; a humming Freightliner to my left radiating cow-calf security. Thank you.
Alone, a little housework , nonstop munching on cheese, crackers, lunch meat, apples, walnuts and cookies - anything not nailed down, and calling everybody I knew for support, I managed to make it through the afternoon, but nothing eased my panic.
The wrecker man replaced the drive shaft with new, well-behaved bearings. I called JB. He'd stopped for gas, and opened the can of oysters. I couldn't imagine eating them while driving and not spilling them, but he could better. "Just drive it around the parking lot to get a feel."
"You know it takes three-hundred pounds more than me to stop it." Terrified, I shook my head in disbelief that I could possibly drive it to Tucson.
I walked around it: forty-feet, eight-feet, forty-feet, and eight feet - a monster. "Put it in drive and look forward, the rear end will follow. Just go slow, and don't turn too fast or you could wipe out a lane of traffic." That's encouraging.
I crept around the parking lot like a low-slung cat stalking prey: once, twice, three times.
Yeah, I had a feel for it, but cherished parking next to the humming Freightliner. As I stood up from the seat, a woman drove by maneuvering an eighteen-wheeler. Well! If she can do it, so can I!
In quiet prayer more of the Psalm unfolded: He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. Feeling nudged to step off in faith, I let go surrendering all to God. In an instant peace settled on, in, and through me. Oh, why didn't I do that in the first place? Now I knew that with God in charge, it would work out okay, the how didn't matter, but I suspected it would be an adventure.
(watch for part 2)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 29, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Dutch Loafers and Bed in a Box
Aunt Bobbe's Dutch wooden shoes fit me in fourth grade. I made lots of noise, stood up straight, and didn't bruise my clumsy feet.
Grandma grew red and white tulips. For science class I cross-pollinated them which created stripes the next year. Great-aunt Nora displayed the same bouquet of plastic red tulips on her dining room table our entire childhood and until she died. Holland's treasure influenced both of them. Driving from Germany into Holland we learned right off to stop and look at the flowers, and drive aware of bicyclers of all age - they have the right-of-way.
We wanted a vegetarian B&B with a washing machine. A visitor's center placed us at Dronten. According to their information, Dronten is on the manmade island that surfaced after the building of the dike in the 1950's. If the dike broke, 60% of Holland would be under water. A residential yard sign stated: "We're on our way!" ...to heaven or higher ground?
Our host had lived in Indonesia until he was twelve. Our hostess and a girlfriend hitchhiked through Egypt into the Sudan. Wow! Tell us more. They invited us to share their Indonesian dinner: rice, potatoes, and hard boiled egg slices in a peanut sauce, with a soup made of coconut milk - exotic, like the enormous houseplants they'd had for years that flourished in the natural humidity.
In the living room they served ice cream with mice (chocolate sprinkles), hazelnut liqueur, amaretto, and homemade wine. We shared life and learned about Holland. The tulips grow in "ghost-ground": earth, sand, and peat. People really did sleep in boxes and wooden shoes have been around since the 13th century.
Friendships forged, we parted with hugs, and promises to keep in touch, and backed out the wrong direction. Rob joked, "What will the neighbors say?"
"Tell them we're on our way."
We had to see a "bed in a box." The Zeiderzee Museum captured Dutch history with slanting, sinking houses that seemed miniature - the right size for tiny Holland. An enclosed horizontal closet with a door made a bed a box that kept the occupants warm. Beneath the bed drawers served for storage. Whatever works.
In the spring, when I look out at my blooming tulips, I smile, stop and look at Bobbe's wooden shoes on my bookshelves, and wonder what our Dutch friends are doing.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Grandma grew red and white tulips. For science class I cross-pollinated them which created stripes the next year. Great-aunt Nora displayed the same bouquet of plastic red tulips on her dining room table our entire childhood and until she died. Holland's treasure influenced both of them. Driving from Germany into Holland we learned right off to stop and look at the flowers, and drive aware of bicyclers of all age - they have the right-of-way.
We wanted a vegetarian B&B with a washing machine. A visitor's center placed us at Dronten. According to their information, Dronten is on the manmade island that surfaced after the building of the dike in the 1950's. If the dike broke, 60% of Holland would be under water. A residential yard sign stated: "We're on our way!" ...to heaven or higher ground?
Our host had lived in Indonesia until he was twelve. Our hostess and a girlfriend hitchhiked through Egypt into the Sudan. Wow! Tell us more. They invited us to share their Indonesian dinner: rice, potatoes, and hard boiled egg slices in a peanut sauce, with a soup made of coconut milk - exotic, like the enormous houseplants they'd had for years that flourished in the natural humidity.
In the living room they served ice cream with mice (chocolate sprinkles), hazelnut liqueur, amaretto, and homemade wine. We shared life and learned about Holland. The tulips grow in "ghost-ground": earth, sand, and peat. People really did sleep in boxes and wooden shoes have been around since the 13th century.
Friendships forged, we parted with hugs, and promises to keep in touch, and backed out the wrong direction. Rob joked, "What will the neighbors say?"
"Tell them we're on our way."
We had to see a "bed in a box." The Zeiderzee Museum captured Dutch history with slanting, sinking houses that seemed miniature - the right size for tiny Holland. An enclosed horizontal closet with a door made a bed a box that kept the occupants warm. Beneath the bed drawers served for storage. Whatever works.
In the spring, when I look out at my blooming tulips, I smile, stop and look at Bobbe's wooden shoes on my bookshelves, and wonder what our Dutch friends are doing.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 2 Coonskin cap and fresh wheat
I opened the National Geographic to a spread of the Grand Canyon wall, and scared myself. To get a grip, and keep my promise, I adopted the mantra, "I think I can."
As word of our hike spread throughout the community, gear appeared: a pith helmet, WWII spats, a knife made from a downed B52 bomber, an aluminum backpack, a canteen, a sleeping bag, and a thinsulate pad to put under it. Papa made my most valuable tool by stripping and shelacing a four-foot pine tree, affixing a rubber tip on one end, and a leather strap handle on the other.
Someone asked if I would carry a gun. What if we ran into a motorcycle gang? The trail is for hiking not biking. No, I wouldn't carry a gun. With a twinkle in his eye, a friend brought a coonskin cap complete with tail and horns and a small bag of wheat. The cap was a bear and buffalo repellent he'd had for years and it worked, but what about the wheat?
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
As word of our hike spread throughout the community, gear appeared: a pith helmet, WWII spats, a knife made from a downed B52 bomber, an aluminum backpack, a canteen, a sleeping bag, and a thinsulate pad to put under it. Papa made my most valuable tool by stripping and shelacing a four-foot pine tree, affixing a rubber tip on one end, and a leather strap handle on the other.
Someone asked if I would carry a gun. What if we ran into a motorcycle gang? The trail is for hiking not biking. No, I wouldn't carry a gun. With a twinkle in his eye, a friend brought a coonskin cap complete with tail and horns and a small bag of wheat. The cap was a bear and buffalo repellent he'd had for years and it worked, but what about the wheat?
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 15, 2005
I raced "The Big Brown Truck!"
UPS is the sponsor for NASCAR driver Dale Jarrett, #88.
Picture this: Tucson, Arizona, 6:30 P.M. I stopped at a red light with my window down. "The Big Brown Truck" pulls to a stop at my left. The driver looks at me. I look at him. Would he? Could he? I mouth, "Do you want to race?" He nods. On the left means he's on the pole, the fastest, but I know I can beat him. I feel wild and wreckless reving my engine.
Green light. Muscles tensed, and my mind fixed on the start-finish line, I peel off in my Bravada. At 109 degrees I don't need to warm my tires. Like the tortoise, he steadily gains. I lead by a block - the first lap counts. I lead by two blocks when somebody pulls out in front of me - obviously a lap down. In the third block he passes me laughing - all the way to the finish line - the next red light. He wins the checkered flag. I come in second, but I got to race "The Big Brown Truck." Come on Dale, pleeeeeeease race "The Big Brown Truck."
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Picture this: Tucson, Arizona, 6:30 P.M. I stopped at a red light with my window down. "The Big Brown Truck" pulls to a stop at my left. The driver looks at me. I look at him. Would he? Could he? I mouth, "Do you want to race?" He nods. On the left means he's on the pole, the fastest, but I know I can beat him. I feel wild and wreckless reving my engine.
Green light. Muscles tensed, and my mind fixed on the start-finish line, I peel off in my Bravada. At 109 degrees I don't need to warm my tires. Like the tortoise, he steadily gains. I lead by a block - the first lap counts. I lead by two blocks when somebody pulls out in front of me - obviously a lap down. In the third block he passes me laughing - all the way to the finish line - the next red light. He wins the checkered flag. I come in second, but I got to race "The Big Brown Truck." Come on Dale, pleeeeeeease race "The Big Brown Truck."
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, July 11, 2005
Shadow Pictures & Applejack
Our parsley-eating, French friends invited us to an evening Sound & Light Show - he'd drive. Just before sunset they whisked us through the countryside to an outdoor performance. We joined other ground-sitting spectators on the terraced hillside overlooking the theatrical village.
At dark a surprise drizzle canceled the performance. Projection lights beaming from behind inspired our ever-ready imaginations to bend our fingers making giant rabbits appear on the stage.
Camille, our Normandy Auberge host, eagerly awaited our return. As we parked he came out with a bottle in hand, a skip in his step, his white hair bouncing, and an impish grin on his face. Proud of his homemade applejack (apple brandy), he stated he didn't share it with just anybody.
Our daytime outdoor table, with its red and white checkered cover, looked magical by candlelight with four tiny cups and a sugarcube perched on each saucer. With flair, Camille poured a short tablespoon in each cup with instructions to dip the sugarcube and suck it.
His eyes twinkled. "How is it?" Apples on fire! Unable to breathe, we sort of nodded approval, which I would regret later. (Hard liquor and I don't get along. I tried it at seventeen and thirty-seven, and gave up.)
Savoring each mini-sip, sharing our life's joys and sorrows gave our friendships time to blend and deepen. We went to bed smiling over this chapter of our French travels: shadow pictures and applejack.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At dark a surprise drizzle canceled the performance. Projection lights beaming from behind inspired our ever-ready imaginations to bend our fingers making giant rabbits appear on the stage.
Camille, our Normandy Auberge host, eagerly awaited our return. As we parked he came out with a bottle in hand, a skip in his step, his white hair bouncing, and an impish grin on his face. Proud of his homemade applejack (apple brandy), he stated he didn't share it with just anybody.
Our daytime outdoor table, with its red and white checkered cover, looked magical by candlelight with four tiny cups and a sugarcube perched on each saucer. With flair, Camille poured a short tablespoon in each cup with instructions to dip the sugarcube and suck it.
His eyes twinkled. "How is it?" Apples on fire! Unable to breathe, we sort of nodded approval, which I would regret later. (Hard liquor and I don't get along. I tried it at seventeen and thirty-seven, and gave up.)
Savoring each mini-sip, sharing our life's joys and sorrows gave our friendships time to blend and deepen. We went to bed smiling over this chapter of our French travels: shadow pictures and applejack.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Bulls and Onions
We have a working travel system: little sister navigates and I drive. She loves maps and can read them in a moving vehicle - I might upchuck. One Sunday we drove around Lake Como, Italy, over the Alps, and into Germany's Black Forest. When I asked our location she replied, "...north of the Alps and south of the construction."
Tucked into the tall, dense, dark forest, a 600 year-old Black Forest Inn stands long and two-story. At this remote location I doubted speaking English would get us a room. Using my long-ago high school German I asked for a room. The innkeeper looked puzzled, turned to the kitchen, and yelled to his wife, "Honey, come out here, some woman is trying to speak English."
Hungry, I decided to leave a room reservation until later, resorted to just plain English, requested two servings of deep-fried Camembert with cranberry sauce, and got it! It delighted our mouths with crunchy, soft, sweet, and tangy.
The Innkeeper explained the Inn's multi-purposes. Half of the structure houses bulls. When snow blows and piles up, they can get to them easily. The other half of the ground floor is the restaurant with rooms for rent overhead.
We found the upstairs room ample, complete with feather ticks to sleep under, and a tiny bowl of potpourri by the bed - a cover up for bulls or onions?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tucked into the tall, dense, dark forest, a 600 year-old Black Forest Inn stands long and two-story. At this remote location I doubted speaking English would get us a room. Using my long-ago high school German I asked for a room. The innkeeper looked puzzled, turned to the kitchen, and yelled to his wife, "Honey, come out here, some woman is trying to speak English."
Hungry, I decided to leave a room reservation until later, resorted to just plain English, requested two servings of deep-fried Camembert with cranberry sauce, and got it! It delighted our mouths with crunchy, soft, sweet, and tangy.
The Innkeeper explained the Inn's multi-purposes. Half of the structure houses bulls. When snow blows and piles up, they can get to them easily. The other half of the ground floor is the restaurant with rooms for rent overhead.
We found the upstairs room ample, complete with feather ticks to sleep under, and a tiny bowl of potpourri by the bed - a cover up for bulls or onions?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 01, 2005
No flag, no parade, no hotdogs
As American citizens we didn't know what was involved with clearing customs, until we returned from Mexico. Before computerization, US agents looked through a huge, worn book. If the passport name was found, the person could not enter the US.
As I stood in line in Texas, I raced through my past. I had nothing to report. Still, I broke out in a sweat. We couldn't leave to eat or use the restroom. What will we do if we can't get in? What will happen to our kids? Where will we go? I understood kissing home ground.
While the agent searched, I held my breath. Satisfied we weren't felons, he stamped our passports, and said, "Next." Thank God.
Minnie and I were in Germany one July 4th without a small American flag, and didn't see one anywhere. We felt "foreign," out of place, but we would make the best of the day.
Our childhood holidays meant picnics and celebrations with extended family and community unless the wheat needed to be harvested. Ripe, it was too fragile to leave in the field. We wrote our names with sparklers and lit black caps on the sidewalk to make messy worms. Until July 4th summer was up and coming. After, it was downhill to school and winter.
White asparagus with hollandaise replaced hotdogs. For that I could give up hotdogs. A quiet walk in the country replaced a noisey parade, but without people to watch. Wild red poppies looked like a sea of onlookers waving flags at passing floats. That put some life into it. We waved back.
A quiet game of Rummy replaced yelling at a ballgame. We missed Mom's after-the-game root beer floats and malts with the homemade rich, creamy ice cream we'd worked all afternoon taking turns cranking. I love the taste of malt powder. The texture reminds me of sawdust.
From a hilltop after dark we saw a few fireworks from an American base. We couldn't smell them, and no children or dogs complained about the noise.
Our low-key, lonely celebration put into perspective that the rest of the world does not revolve around the US. It did deepen our pride in America, and strengthen our love and loyalty to home and country.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
As I stood in line in Texas, I raced through my past. I had nothing to report. Still, I broke out in a sweat. We couldn't leave to eat or use the restroom. What will we do if we can't get in? What will happen to our kids? Where will we go? I understood kissing home ground.
While the agent searched, I held my breath. Satisfied we weren't felons, he stamped our passports, and said, "Next." Thank God.
Minnie and I were in Germany one July 4th without a small American flag, and didn't see one anywhere. We felt "foreign," out of place, but we would make the best of the day.
Our childhood holidays meant picnics and celebrations with extended family and community unless the wheat needed to be harvested. Ripe, it was too fragile to leave in the field. We wrote our names with sparklers and lit black caps on the sidewalk to make messy worms. Until July 4th summer was up and coming. After, it was downhill to school and winter.
White asparagus with hollandaise replaced hotdogs. For that I could give up hotdogs. A quiet walk in the country replaced a noisey parade, but without people to watch. Wild red poppies looked like a sea of onlookers waving flags at passing floats. That put some life into it. We waved back.
A quiet game of Rummy replaced yelling at a ballgame. We missed Mom's after-the-game root beer floats and malts with the homemade rich, creamy ice cream we'd worked all afternoon taking turns cranking. I love the taste of malt powder. The texture reminds me of sawdust.
From a hilltop after dark we saw a few fireworks from an American base. We couldn't smell them, and no children or dogs complained about the noise.
Our low-key, lonely celebration put into perspective that the rest of the world does not revolve around the US. It did deepen our pride in America, and strengthen our love and loyalty to home and country.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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