I sat behind the wheel of our forty-foot motorhome looking ahead at 635 miles of unknown. All but the last verse of the 23rd Psalm had unfolded. I'd prayed myself blue, but was I "prayed up?" More support couldn't hurt. Calling to Jesus and Mary, Arch Angel Michael for protection, Lady Master Rowena to clear my path, and all my dead relatives and friends gave me a busload.
JB called, "I've got a plan. Tell me your mile marker and read me your gauges. I'll be able to follow you in case I have to come get you." NASCAR drivers have their Crew Chief, JB was mine. He'd see me through. I lightened up; this might be fun.
At six o'clock I waved goodbye to the shop guys and eased onto the road. Overwhelmed, I contemplated sleep. It was too early, and I was wound like a clock. Every step was another challenge. I needed gas. At a high and wide station it took 66 gallons to fill our 100 gallon tank.
Thinking I couldn't possibly stretch my mind or abilities further, I decided it was ridiculous to limit myself. How would I know what I could do with God's help, unless I quit heaving, sighing, and whining, and just do it.
As designated driver, my friends know not to give me more than one direction at a time. I could drive until I got tired, and it would be cooler in the evening. Satisifed my mind had a grasp on the project, I called my Crew Chief, "JB, let's go."
Without hesitation he replied, "Go for it."
I'd love to announce to the NASCAR drivers, "GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!!!!!!!"
Starting the biggest race of my life, I giggled, said it to myself, and took off west on I20. I'm going to win this one!
A glance at the dash rear view camera proved the rear end did follow. I smiled. The engine purred. My confidence started to bloom. JB called often for gauge and mile marker readings. I sang, prayed, and drove into the sunset hopeful.
9:30 pm. At Van Horn, Texas, I pulled off to sleep. My eyes closed but my mind wouldn't shut down. Should I or shouldn't I go on? Ask JB. "Go ahead, if you feel okay with it. I'll stay up all night to track you." His dedication tugged a tear.
"Thanks, JB, I love you." Another deep breath, and I headed into the dark and cell phone dead space.
On the long, quiet road, memories of my ancestors surfaced. Grandpa and Grandma Williamson traveled by covered wagon from Illinois to Kansas and Nebraska when they were children. A child died in each family. They returned to Illinois for commital, and got back on the trail without paving, a map, or A/C. I could do this.
Grandpa and Grandma made the best apple dumplings together. I could taste the crisp lard pie crust outside and soft apple inside with raisins, cinnamon, sugar and butter in the core. Their freezer was filled with the fall harvest we enjoyed all winter. Grandma, a Taurus, loved blue dresses. I tried to get her into red, but there's no waving red at a Taurus bull.
Aunt Bobbe had polio at age six. She grew up to drive the car with hand controls, and live and work away from home. An inspiration, she encouraged me to keep trying, "Don't give up," she would said.
Our dark-haired mother was so pretty. We loved to see her in the red nylon dress she made. Her passion for curiosity and travel inspired us. I would drive the family Ford tractor and two-wheeled trailer across the pasture. Twice around the lone tree in the far corner, and Jani and I were in California.
Over peanut butter and banana sandwiches, with a smidge of orange juice to keep all from sticking to the roof of our mouth, and a jug of water, we dreamed of travel as grownups, and suspected we'd never get as far as Kansas. We were sure the world ended at Fairbury because we didn't know anyone past there.
Mom was such a good cook, Dad never had trouble getting farm help. I wished I had a piece of her grasshopper pie made with creme de minte and ground oreos. The divinity she made at Christmas was perfect: dry on the outside and soft in the center. She said I could barely reach the edge of the table, but before she noticed, I'd sampled all the way around. Peppermint was my favorite. Mom was the best.
I imagined Papa's strong arms on my shoulders helping me drive. He loved mushroom hunting in the fall, and would walk miles to inspect a boxelder tree. Once I walked along, looked inside a hollow tree, and found five. He'd clean them, soak them in salt water, and I'd fry them with onions and potatoes. He was happy when we had enough to take to Minnesota for fall fishing.
I was alone, but I wasn't. The love, support, and prayers of many took me through the night. As soon as we could talk again, JB had me check all the gauges and the mile marker. "You're right where I calculated you'd be. Thank God." Yes, thank God.
JB cautioned that the Tucson exit is tricky. At 4:40 am I was the only vehicle headed west in El Paso, Texas. I couldn't decide which lane I needed to be in, and switched a couple of times. Blue lights flashed. The concerned patrolman asked, "Mam, are you okay?"
"I think so."
"Are you sure you aren't over-tired?"
"Why?"
"You're all over the road."
Oops, I didn't think it prudent to say I was just warming my tires. At the Tucson exit I stopped and took a nap.
"JB, I just passed an eighteen-wheeler on an uphill grade."
"Fantastic," he replied thrilled. Iowa has steeper hills, but Arizona has altitude. When Donna and I hiked the Grand Canyon, my confidence exploded. This trip it doubled. At a rest stop I felt pretty cocky until I saw a tiny, young woman hop into an eighteen-wheeler, and drive off as if it were a convertible.
JB called with the Tucson exit number. Waiting for the train we switched vehicles, hugged tight, and thanked God. He angled into our space at the RV Park, shut it off, and the radiator boiled over. So did the last verse of the 23rd psalm: And surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen. Thank you one and all.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Saturday, August 27, 2005
French Lavendar Field
Oh, I wish I were in the south of France to
smell the lavendar. I'd bring some home to use
in herb de Provence for cooking meats, for the
bath, to flavor cookies and cakes, with stems to
decorate my bathroom, to make sachets for my
closet and dresser drawers, and one for my pillow
to soothe me to sleep. Pleasant dreams.
MSN photo
verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Do peahens sneeze?
Little sister's name is Janis, Jani, or Minnie. Driving us out of Austria over Brenner Pass into Italy she complained of fever and chills. I felt her forehead. She was burning up. At a rest stop where everyone stood for a cup of coffee, we asked for help, but couldn't make ourselves understood - we don't speak Italian.
At Trento an English speaking man directed us to a hospital, but it was an orthopedic. At 4 o'clock an ambulance transported her to the general hospital. I rode along worried about her and how we'd get back to our car.
X-rays revealed nothing. They frowned and shook their heads. Maybe it was the "fern," something to do with wind and altitude. At five they dismissed her with a prescription for penicillin, and orders to drink lots of water.
She wasn't in walking shape. We poked along. Not a straight line from the hospital to the car, we searched, stopped often so she could rest, and found it right were we'd left it, unlocked, but with nothing missing. Thank God.
Checking into a small hotel at Verona, I understood dinner was at seven. Jani went to bed. At seven I went to the dining room. No one was there. I wouldn't get veal parmesan and tiramisu tonight. Maybe the help went to dinner at seven. Oh, I wished I spoke Italian.
In our room we ate our leftover lunch of croissant sandwiches and an apple, and watched an old black and white Gregory Peck movie dubbed in Italian. A game show followed awarding mops and asparagus. With her eyes closed and her voice weak, Minnie said, "I hear it's pretty in Iowa this time of year." She gets homesick; I could gone on and on.
While the "big boots of penicillin" stomped out her fever, I prayed. I didn't want her to die here or anywhere, even if she is a pissant at times. Feeling guilty, I left to procure chicken soup.
After updating our travel diary, I washed socks and hung them on our portable line like the catch-of-the-day. Yes, they were keepers. I have a problem with socks. They disappear between the foot of the bed and the washing machine, in it, and else where. I suspect I'm a "sock-seeder." Is there a support group? JB says I should number them. Right, would #5 come when I call?
The second day her fever broke. She felt well enough to sit in the yard under the grape arbor, sip chicken soup, and watch the peacocks strut and fan their gorgeous tail feathers with the brilliant turquoise and blue iridescent eyes on the ends. Their dull brown peahen mates rolled on the ground to take a dust bath. Minnie asked, "Do peahens sneeze?"
Unusual questions run in the family. Minnie's four-year old son, Andy, asked his nine-year old brother, Sean, what the big truck was. Sean looked at the Mayflower Moving Van and replied, "That's who Columbus called when he wanted to move to America." They come by it honestly.
Day three Minnie got out of bed and showered. "How do you feel?"
"Good enough to sit in the back seat and kick the front."
"Time to go, pissant."
We still don't know if peahens sneeze.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At Trento an English speaking man directed us to a hospital, but it was an orthopedic. At 4 o'clock an ambulance transported her to the general hospital. I rode along worried about her and how we'd get back to our car.
X-rays revealed nothing. They frowned and shook their heads. Maybe it was the "fern," something to do with wind and altitude. At five they dismissed her with a prescription for penicillin, and orders to drink lots of water.
She wasn't in walking shape. We poked along. Not a straight line from the hospital to the car, we searched, stopped often so she could rest, and found it right were we'd left it, unlocked, but with nothing missing. Thank God.
Checking into a small hotel at Verona, I understood dinner was at seven. Jani went to bed. At seven I went to the dining room. No one was there. I wouldn't get veal parmesan and tiramisu tonight. Maybe the help went to dinner at seven. Oh, I wished I spoke Italian.
In our room we ate our leftover lunch of croissant sandwiches and an apple, and watched an old black and white Gregory Peck movie dubbed in Italian. A game show followed awarding mops and asparagus. With her eyes closed and her voice weak, Minnie said, "I hear it's pretty in Iowa this time of year." She gets homesick; I could gone on and on.
While the "big boots of penicillin" stomped out her fever, I prayed. I didn't want her to die here or anywhere, even if she is a pissant at times. Feeling guilty, I left to procure chicken soup.
After updating our travel diary, I washed socks and hung them on our portable line like the catch-of-the-day. Yes, they were keepers. I have a problem with socks. They disappear between the foot of the bed and the washing machine, in it, and else where. I suspect I'm a "sock-seeder." Is there a support group? JB says I should number them. Right, would #5 come when I call?
The second day her fever broke. She felt well enough to sit in the yard under the grape arbor, sip chicken soup, and watch the peacocks strut and fan their gorgeous tail feathers with the brilliant turquoise and blue iridescent eyes on the ends. Their dull brown peahen mates rolled on the ground to take a dust bath. Minnie asked, "Do peahens sneeze?"
Unusual questions run in the family. Minnie's four-year old son, Andy, asked his nine-year old brother, Sean, what the big truck was. Sean looked at the Mayflower Moving Van and replied, "That's who Columbus called when he wanted to move to America." They come by it honestly.
Day three Minnie got out of bed and showered. "How do you feel?"
"Good enough to sit in the back seat and kick the front."
"Time to go, pissant."
We still don't know if peahens sneeze.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 4 - Biscuits, Bullets'n Backpack
I like the unusual. When my girls were little they helped mix graham flour and honey, and spread it on a cookie sheet to bake. Cooled and ground we had grapenuts. We learned appreciation for the store-bought version.
For the hike, I packed freeze-dried meals and energy bars, but kept my options open to other foods. A friend told me about a recipe for biscuits Roman soldiers took into battle for nourishment.
Using the coffee grinder and blender, I pulverized the wheat George brought, added honey, mixed, and plopped mounds on a cookie sheet to bake. How long? Until I was satisfied. I felt primitive, excited to bring the past to life. Warm, we could eat them. Cold, they turned hard as bullets. We couldn't break a piece off, and we don't own a battle axe. I eased them into the trash, as if they'd go off. It didn't matter. I couldn't hit anything anyway. So much for that experiment.
To get a "feel" for the pack, I wore it empty around the house. When the snow and ice melted, I wore it walking. Each week I added gear. The full pack with sleeping bag and mat weighed twenty-five pounds, and my hiking boots weighed five. The whole "outfit" was hot and heavy, and this was flat land, but I had to condition. My kids looked puzzled and scared, "Mom, why are you doing this?"
"...because I said I would. Won't you be proud of me when I accomplish it?" They looked more pained than proud.
We heard people were betting for and against our success. Drag-out fees are expensive, especialy if a helicopter is needed. The 18 to 25 year-old males have the most problems. They don't know their pace. Not male, past 25, and not about to give up, I pre-addressed labels for the betters postcards, and prayed the losers would have to pay up.
Time to pack. I laid everything out on the bed that went in the backpack: large plastic bag to double as a raincoat, a change of clothes, chapstick, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, sunscreen, small plastic bags, a squashed roll of toilet paper, baby wipes, camera, film, diary, pen, mess kit, canteen, knife made from B52 and shield, dehydrated soups, energy bars, dried fruit and nuts, graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows, matches, two bottles of water, and prayers others asked me to carry to the Canyon floor. Donna would have the same plus the tent and firecrackers in case of emergency.
The list is so long, no wonder the pack is heavy. And I had a first aid kit, candles, flashlight, aspirin, and moleskin for those blisters.
Just for a picture, I put on all the gear and George's coonskin cap with horns and smiled. The pith helmet was too hot and heavy and I passed on the spats.
Papa and George took me to the Lincoln Airport in the rain. Papa said, "You're doing this backwards: fly, bus, drive, walk." We hugged and prayed. He fought tears. I bit my lip.
"I'll call you as soon as I get to Donna's." This was it. As I walked away, it hit me. What if I didn't make it back alive? I turned, went back, hugged Papa, and told him the words I wanted him to remember me by, "I love you."
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
For the hike, I packed freeze-dried meals and energy bars, but kept my options open to other foods. A friend told me about a recipe for biscuits Roman soldiers took into battle for nourishment.
Using the coffee grinder and blender, I pulverized the wheat George brought, added honey, mixed, and plopped mounds on a cookie sheet to bake. How long? Until I was satisfied. I felt primitive, excited to bring the past to life. Warm, we could eat them. Cold, they turned hard as bullets. We couldn't break a piece off, and we don't own a battle axe. I eased them into the trash, as if they'd go off. It didn't matter. I couldn't hit anything anyway. So much for that experiment.
To get a "feel" for the pack, I wore it empty around the house. When the snow and ice melted, I wore it walking. Each week I added gear. The full pack with sleeping bag and mat weighed twenty-five pounds, and my hiking boots weighed five. The whole "outfit" was hot and heavy, and this was flat land, but I had to condition. My kids looked puzzled and scared, "Mom, why are you doing this?"
"...because I said I would. Won't you be proud of me when I accomplish it?" They looked more pained than proud.
We heard people were betting for and against our success. Drag-out fees are expensive, especialy if a helicopter is needed. The 18 to 25 year-old males have the most problems. They don't know their pace. Not male, past 25, and not about to give up, I pre-addressed labels for the betters postcards, and prayed the losers would have to pay up.
Time to pack. I laid everything out on the bed that went in the backpack: large plastic bag to double as a raincoat, a change of clothes, chapstick, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, sunscreen, small plastic bags, a squashed roll of toilet paper, baby wipes, camera, film, diary, pen, mess kit, canteen, knife made from B52 and shield, dehydrated soups, energy bars, dried fruit and nuts, graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows, matches, two bottles of water, and prayers others asked me to carry to the Canyon floor. Donna would have the same plus the tent and firecrackers in case of emergency.
The list is so long, no wonder the pack is heavy. And I had a first aid kit, candles, flashlight, aspirin, and moleskin for those blisters.
Just for a picture, I put on all the gear and George's coonskin cap with horns and smiled. The pith helmet was too hot and heavy and I passed on the spats.
Papa and George took me to the Lincoln Airport in the rain. Papa said, "You're doing this backwards: fly, bus, drive, walk." We hugged and prayed. He fought tears. I bit my lip.
"I'll call you as soon as I get to Donna's." This was it. As I walked away, it hit me. What if I didn't make it back alive? I turned, went back, hugged Papa, and told him the words I wanted him to remember me by, "I love you."
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
'Go where the cars are, make "square prayer"
Although I was raised Presbyterian, when we're on the road, I dress up on Sunday and go where I see lots of cars. I love learning what's sacred to people, how they worship, and joining my voice with theirs in praise, thanks, and prayer.
One person praying is one person's energy. When two or more pray the number squares itself: square prayer. Three people's prayer energy equals nine; 9,000 people x 9,000 is 81,000,000.
In Presbyterian Sunday School I learned Jesus loves me. At the age of four I invited him into my life. I'd lay in bed with my arm raised, palm up, in hopes he'd touch me. It got all tingly. I think it just went to sleep.
Before I understood I could talk to God and Jesus anywhere, I felt lost when my church was locked. My Catholic friend's church was always open. I appreciated I could go to theirs to pray.
Catholic Saints and novenas help me. Saint Jude is the Saint of Impossible Situations (capitalized to specify really big problems). For his intercession, I gave up chocolate for nine days. Everything looked like chocolate, even my tires. Not eating my friend's chocolate birthday cake hurt her feelings. I wanted to, but I had to stay true to my novena. When I explained it to Lori, she understood. With Saint Jude's help my issue was resolved. Thanks again.
When my grandmother needed nursing home care, no space was available. On August 15th, Mother Mary's Day, I went to mass early with a friend. After lunch we got a call that space was available. Thank you.
Aug. 15th was my friend, Lee's birthday. I'd known him since he was twelve. Mom taught him in country school. He passed on last year, but I still hold his friendship dear. Happy Birthday Lee, you are still loved.
Through visiting other churches, I realized I was buttoned down. If I had a problem, I didn't want anyone to know. Once I accepted that everyone has problems, I understood it's okay to ask for help and other's prayers, and do the same for them; we're all in this together.
In the Deep South I found the people open, warmer, and friendly. A Louisiana Pastor invited us to come to the front with our problems so he and others could pray. I gave up trying to resolve mine with just my prayers, took it to the front, they prayed, and I waited, a bit skeptical. The very next day it resolved. Now I ask for and accept all the help I can get. Thank you all.
The most alive I've felt in any church was in Macon, Georgia. Maria invited me to sit in the front row. The music and spoken inspiration fueled us for five hours. At 2:30 pm the Bishop came to me with huge, soft eyes, and said, "MJ, God is watching over your writing. Your books will be published and you will prosper." I gasped. He put his hands on my head and asked the congregation to pray with him. Thank you one and all.
After church I had a call from my friend, Diane, in Idaho. "HRH, our pet name for each other, what's going on? I felt you clear out here."
"Prayer power." I related all and she was thrilled; we champion each other. When I had a death in my family she said, "Put Mother Mary to work. Ask her to wrap you in her Blue Cloak and give you comfort and peace." I did. Mother Mary did. Thank you. Now that I "know her," I put her to work for others.
Today is 8/15, Mother Mary's Day. I'm going to mass to celebrate her and ask her intercession to find you, Publisher. 'maeannj at alltel.net' All prayers for such are appreciated.
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
One person praying is one person's energy. When two or more pray the number squares itself: square prayer. Three people's prayer energy equals nine; 9,000 people x 9,000 is 81,000,000.
In Presbyterian Sunday School I learned Jesus loves me. At the age of four I invited him into my life. I'd lay in bed with my arm raised, palm up, in hopes he'd touch me. It got all tingly. I think it just went to sleep.
Before I understood I could talk to God and Jesus anywhere, I felt lost when my church was locked. My Catholic friend's church was always open. I appreciated I could go to theirs to pray.
Catholic Saints and novenas help me. Saint Jude is the Saint of Impossible Situations (capitalized to specify really big problems). For his intercession, I gave up chocolate for nine days. Everything looked like chocolate, even my tires. Not eating my friend's chocolate birthday cake hurt her feelings. I wanted to, but I had to stay true to my novena. When I explained it to Lori, she understood. With Saint Jude's help my issue was resolved. Thanks again.
When my grandmother needed nursing home care, no space was available. On August 15th, Mother Mary's Day, I went to mass early with a friend. After lunch we got a call that space was available. Thank you.
Aug. 15th was my friend, Lee's birthday. I'd known him since he was twelve. Mom taught him in country school. He passed on last year, but I still hold his friendship dear. Happy Birthday Lee, you are still loved.
Through visiting other churches, I realized I was buttoned down. If I had a problem, I didn't want anyone to know. Once I accepted that everyone has problems, I understood it's okay to ask for help and other's prayers, and do the same for them; we're all in this together.
In the Deep South I found the people open, warmer, and friendly. A Louisiana Pastor invited us to come to the front with our problems so he and others could pray. I gave up trying to resolve mine with just my prayers, took it to the front, they prayed, and I waited, a bit skeptical. The very next day it resolved. Now I ask for and accept all the help I can get. Thank you all.
The most alive I've felt in any church was in Macon, Georgia. Maria invited me to sit in the front row. The music and spoken inspiration fueled us for five hours. At 2:30 pm the Bishop came to me with huge, soft eyes, and said, "MJ, God is watching over your writing. Your books will be published and you will prosper." I gasped. He put his hands on my head and asked the congregation to pray with him. Thank you one and all.
After church I had a call from my friend, Diane, in Idaho. "HRH, our pet name for each other, what's going on? I felt you clear out here."
"Prayer power." I related all and she was thrilled; we champion each other. When I had a death in my family she said, "Put Mother Mary to work. Ask her to wrap you in her Blue Cloak and give you comfort and peace." I did. Mother Mary did. Thank you. Now that I "know her," I put her to work for others.
Today is 8/15, Mother Mary's Day. I'm going to mass to celebrate her and ask her intercession to find you, Publisher. 'maeannj at alltel.net' All prayers for such are appreciated.
coyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, August 13, 2005
50 cent Stage Coach Ride
A week at Fort Robinson in Northwest Nebraska topped our August vacation list every other year for twenty years. Stripped pine trees placed in a semi-circle inside a semi-circle, with the branches laid across the top, made shade - a squaw cooler the Indians used for sacred ceremonies. Seeing it standing made our nights eerie.
There's a lot to do. In the dark blue night Minnie and I gazed at the sky jam packed with stars. We took bumpy jeep rides to the top of the bluffs, rode horses through the pasture, watched the buffalo eat at their prairie buffet, took in the melodrama with boos and hisses, ate buffalo stew at the cookout by the creek, and laughed at the rodeo "hide ride:" a cowboy and his horse pulled a buffalo hide around the arena with little kids on it. They'd roll under it, but wouldn't let go - a great opportunity for a soap commercial.
The entertainer for the buffalo cookout invited us to his authentic Pine Ridge Indian teepee. Without street lights, the full moon guided us to it's silhouette on the prairie. Inside, he strummed his guitar and sang while his wife popped corn over the pit in the center the toddler stumbled around. We sang along. Timelessness shattered when she poured the popped corn into a plastic bowl.
We've stayed in the leather-smelling rooms at the lodge wishing the walls would talk. For Papa's August 13th birthday we stayed in an enlisted men's house in the center room. Everyone had to go through it to and from the bathroom, and everytime they did, they sang happy birthday.
The Officer's Quarters adobe duplexes have a hard wood central hall the officers used for dances. To keep up morale, keep them civilized, they made weekly visits to other officers. We didn't dance, but the kids had fun slidding in their stocking feet.
My sister's and my favorite activity involved the fifty-cent stage coach ride. We'd hang around the barn until passengers thinned out, then tip the driver to run the mules. He'd race across the prairie, through the creek, and back. We'd bounce around the springless-stage, and laugh so hard our bewildered family could hear us back at the barn. We had so much fun, and it felt so good when he stopped.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
There's a lot to do. In the dark blue night Minnie and I gazed at the sky jam packed with stars. We took bumpy jeep rides to the top of the bluffs, rode horses through the pasture, watched the buffalo eat at their prairie buffet, took in the melodrama with boos and hisses, ate buffalo stew at the cookout by the creek, and laughed at the rodeo "hide ride:" a cowboy and his horse pulled a buffalo hide around the arena with little kids on it. They'd roll under it, but wouldn't let go - a great opportunity for a soap commercial.
The entertainer for the buffalo cookout invited us to his authentic Pine Ridge Indian teepee. Without street lights, the full moon guided us to it's silhouette on the prairie. Inside, he strummed his guitar and sang while his wife popped corn over the pit in the center the toddler stumbled around. We sang along. Timelessness shattered when she poured the popped corn into a plastic bowl.
We've stayed in the leather-smelling rooms at the lodge wishing the walls would talk. For Papa's August 13th birthday we stayed in an enlisted men's house in the center room. Everyone had to go through it to and from the bathroom, and everytime they did, they sang happy birthday.
The Officer's Quarters adobe duplexes have a hard wood central hall the officers used for dances. To keep up morale, keep them civilized, they made weekly visits to other officers. We didn't dance, but the kids had fun slidding in their stocking feet.
My sister's and my favorite activity involved the fifty-cent stage coach ride. We'd hang around the barn until passengers thinned out, then tip the driver to run the mules. He'd race across the prairie, through the creek, and back. We'd bounce around the springless-stage, and laugh so hard our bewildered family could hear us back at the barn. We had so much fun, and it felt so good when he stopped.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Her Own Pit Crew - part 2 - MS fig jam & Iowa bread
Monday morning no one came to help me move the motorhome to the repairshop, but the 23rd Psalm continued to unfold. He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. I told myself not to waste time blaming or get crabby with the repairman. This is the hand I was dealt. Trust.
Behind the wheel, I eased onto the road thankful it was a short trip to the shop. The RV Manager put it in a bay to diagnose. It had more problems than a whole wagon train. For one, the vacuum pulley had frozen causing the brake problems. Ahha, it wasn't my imagination.
Learning the repairs would take a few days, I thought of the English: in times of stress, make tea; organize the kettle. I had fresh Mississippi figs in the refer. Dorothy had given me a box of JELL-O, and the shop secretary gave me 3 cups of sugar. I made jam rather than tea, and defrosted a loaf of homemade, whole-wheat bread I'd bought in Iowa, while the repairmen tore a bay window-sized hole in the engine. At afternoon break fresh jam and bread put a smile on everyone's face.
At closing the boss informed me I would spend the night in the Bounder Hotel locked in the shop. No! I panicked. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. I was alone, but I wasn't. JB said, "get busy with something."
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. The mouse, where's the mouse that adopted us in Iowa, and shows up from time to time dancing through the motorhome? Was it an enemy? Not really, more of a show-off. It could have escaped today, but I wanted company. Calmed by the Psalm and JB's words of encouragement, I did bookwork and my great-aunt Nora act: do everything early except die. And went to bed.
Early Tuesday morning I put shampoo in my hair before I remembered I didn't have any water. Thou annointest my head with oil. God has an answer for everything. At noon the secretary invited me to lunch with her and her husband. Thank you. Everyone was watching out for me. My cup runneth over.
Wednesday by 5:30 all parts were replaced without pieces left over. "Let's test drive it," the manager said. Everything worked, and now for the bill. If this was my grandparents wagon, they might have had to pay with Grandma's pearls. I used plastic and hoped it wouldn't take too long to pay off.
Behind the wheel, I eased onto the road thankful it was a short trip to the shop. The RV Manager put it in a bay to diagnose. It had more problems than a whole wagon train. For one, the vacuum pulley had frozen causing the brake problems. Ahha, it wasn't my imagination.
Learning the repairs would take a few days, I thought of the English: in times of stress, make tea; organize the kettle. I had fresh Mississippi figs in the refer. Dorothy had given me a box of JELL-O, and the shop secretary gave me 3 cups of sugar. I made jam rather than tea, and defrosted a loaf of homemade, whole-wheat bread I'd bought in Iowa, while the repairmen tore a bay window-sized hole in the engine. At afternoon break fresh jam and bread put a smile on everyone's face.
At closing the boss informed me I would spend the night in the Bounder Hotel locked in the shop. No! I panicked. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. I was alone, but I wasn't. JB said, "get busy with something."
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. The mouse, where's the mouse that adopted us in Iowa, and shows up from time to time dancing through the motorhome? Was it an enemy? Not really, more of a show-off. It could have escaped today, but I wanted company. Calmed by the Psalm and JB's words of encouragement, I did bookwork and my great-aunt Nora act: do everything early except die. And went to bed.
Early Tuesday morning I put shampoo in my hair before I remembered I didn't have any water. Thou annointest my head with oil. God has an answer for everything. At noon the secretary invited me to lunch with her and her husband. Thank you. Everyone was watching out for me. My cup runneth over.
Wednesday by 5:30 all parts were replaced without pieces left over. "Let's test drive it," the manager said. Everything worked, and now for the bill. If this was my grandparents wagon, they might have had to pay with Grandma's pearls. I used plastic and hoped it wouldn't take too long to pay off.
At 6 p.m. they turned me loose to fend for myself. I gave the Manager a jar of jam. He gave me a hug and a prayer. Behind the wheel, too scared to move, I wanted to stay, but God said no, you're needed in Tucson.
(watch for part 3)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Wiliamson's, those "rowdy" border folk
Leaving Cherbourg, France, we drove onto the ferry last. I'm told it's a five hour trip. I don't know, I took a nap.
We exited the ferry first at Portsmouth, England. It's true, if everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. "Left, drive left," my sister yelled as we clumsily emerged into traffic. Disoriented, I drove right through the middle of the first roundabout. Flat bricks in a circle didn't mean a thing. Fortunately the locals stopped.
Getting the hang of it, we made our way along the coast. The map says there is a place called "Land's End," but we didn't go that far. At home, "Land's End" is a clothing catalog.
Near Dorchester we found a thatched roof B&B. After stating our given names our hosts asked our family name. Being of mutt heritage, half Swedish and a mix of English and German, we haven't placed a lot of emphasis on our "family name," but the English do. It determines where a person can and can't go. We paused, thought, and said Grandpa's innocent name, " Williamson." Wrong! They were the rowdy border folk (between Scotland and England), always making trouble. (We wouldn't be "doing" the living room.)
Shocking! Our sweet, gentle, always ready to rescue us, Grandpa wasn't rowdy. He was fun, tricky, asking Grandma at every meal if she wanted milk. She hadn't drank it since childhood. At the table he swiped bread and jam from his neighbor, and felt disappointed if no one swiped his. His favorite trick was squeezing the cake in our hand, but rowdy he wasn't.
In spite of our "low birth," they invited us to stay, and made sure we always had a tea tray and water in our room. Our host served a breakfast of cereal, coffee, toast, jam and honey, and his wife graciously allowed us to do laundry. We did our best to stay mild-mannered, polite, and quiet in their home.
At the local pub we ate fish and chips and laughed with two English couples. They said, "You're a bit rowdy." Either there's no escaping our heritage, or they'd already heard about our "family name," maybe even thought it was a joke. Whatever, we're still proud of our Grandpa Williamson.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We exited the ferry first at Portsmouth, England. It's true, if everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. "Left, drive left," my sister yelled as we clumsily emerged into traffic. Disoriented, I drove right through the middle of the first roundabout. Flat bricks in a circle didn't mean a thing. Fortunately the locals stopped.
Getting the hang of it, we made our way along the coast. The map says there is a place called "Land's End," but we didn't go that far. At home, "Land's End" is a clothing catalog.
Near Dorchester we found a thatched roof B&B. After stating our given names our hosts asked our family name. Being of mutt heritage, half Swedish and a mix of English and German, we haven't placed a lot of emphasis on our "family name," but the English do. It determines where a person can and can't go. We paused, thought, and said Grandpa's innocent name, " Williamson." Wrong! They were the rowdy border folk (between Scotland and England), always making trouble. (We wouldn't be "doing" the living room.)
Shocking! Our sweet, gentle, always ready to rescue us, Grandpa wasn't rowdy. He was fun, tricky, asking Grandma at every meal if she wanted milk. She hadn't drank it since childhood. At the table he swiped bread and jam from his neighbor, and felt disappointed if no one swiped his. His favorite trick was squeezing the cake in our hand, but rowdy he wasn't.
In spite of our "low birth," they invited us to stay, and made sure we always had a tea tray and water in our room. Our host served a breakfast of cereal, coffee, toast, jam and honey, and his wife graciously allowed us to do laundry. We did our best to stay mild-mannered, polite, and quiet in their home.
At the local pub we ate fish and chips and laughed with two English couples. They said, "You're a bit rowdy." Either there's no escaping our heritage, or they'd already heard about our "family name," maybe even thought it was a joke. Whatever, we're still proud of our Grandpa Williamson.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, August 05, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 3 - a hole in one
Eastern Nebraska is flat with gentle rolling hills. I broke in my hiking boots walking in town in the winter. The first time I went out, I bundled up and promptly did the nasty: sweat. Thereafter, I layered. When the weather warmed up, I walked two miles to the cemetery to water the flowers. Papa came to pick me up, but hesitated telling anyone he went to the cemetery to collect his wife. In my fifteenth mile, I walked a hole in one sock.
Growing stronger by the day, I took to the countryside with the walking stick Papa made. A man from the area offered me a ride. I declined. "But, you're miles from anywhere."
"I know. It's where I need to be." I smiled and kept walking. He drove off shaking his head and muttering something about "women." I needed to strengthen my body and grow accustomed to solitary effort.
Donna's job with the Forest Service conditioned her. She applied for our permits in March. In the summer she received confirmation of three-day passes for September, and learned that people doing the mule ride make reservations up to two years in advance.
At a walking pace, I discovered a mouse house in a discarded pop can. Yellow, sweet-smelling wild flowers from the ditch graced our table and reminded us of the slower, sit-on-the-porch, way of life. I appreciated everything and everyone more.
Watching the sweetcorn grow from a sprout, I knew by the smell when it was ready to eat. The racoons did too and staged late-nite heists. If I'd walked at night, I could have heard the leaves twist and pop as the corn grew, but might not have heard the tricksters at work. Anticipating fresh corn for dinner, I picked up the pace back to town to shop at the Farmer's Market and also buy Lillian's fruit-filled kolaches.
My kolache recipe makes ninety and takes all day. Now I buy them from Lillian who's baked them for over seventy years. Her kitchen has yeast in the air which benefits each new batch. Author William Faulkner took his office doorknob with him when he went in to work. Lillian uses a doorknob to make the indentation in the dough for the filling.
Right now I wish I had a doorknob I could turn, write undisturbed, and eat kolaches to my heart's content: apricot, cherry, prune, poppyseed, strawberry-rhubarb, apple, cottage cheese and raisins, and peach. With some lunch meat, I could hole up for days.
It's not to be. I can't stop walking and write now, I'll do that after the trip. I must keep walking. I've darned my "hole-in-one" and another. We're at count-down. I leave for Donna's in ten days.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Growing stronger by the day, I took to the countryside with the walking stick Papa made. A man from the area offered me a ride. I declined. "But, you're miles from anywhere."
"I know. It's where I need to be." I smiled and kept walking. He drove off shaking his head and muttering something about "women." I needed to strengthen my body and grow accustomed to solitary effort.
Donna's job with the Forest Service conditioned her. She applied for our permits in March. In the summer she received confirmation of three-day passes for September, and learned that people doing the mule ride make reservations up to two years in advance.
At a walking pace, I discovered a mouse house in a discarded pop can. Yellow, sweet-smelling wild flowers from the ditch graced our table and reminded us of the slower, sit-on-the-porch, way of life. I appreciated everything and everyone more.
Watching the sweetcorn grow from a sprout, I knew by the smell when it was ready to eat. The racoons did too and staged late-nite heists. If I'd walked at night, I could have heard the leaves twist and pop as the corn grew, but might not have heard the tricksters at work. Anticipating fresh corn for dinner, I picked up the pace back to town to shop at the Farmer's Market and also buy Lillian's fruit-filled kolaches.
My kolache recipe makes ninety and takes all day. Now I buy them from Lillian who's baked them for over seventy years. Her kitchen has yeast in the air which benefits each new batch. Author William Faulkner took his office doorknob with him when he went in to work. Lillian uses a doorknob to make the indentation in the dough for the filling.
Right now I wish I had a doorknob I could turn, write undisturbed, and eat kolaches to my heart's content: apricot, cherry, prune, poppyseed, strawberry-rhubarb, apple, cottage cheese and raisins, and peach. With some lunch meat, I could hole up for days.
It's not to be. I can't stop walking and write now, I'll do that after the trip. I must keep walking. I've darned my "hole-in-one" and another. We're at count-down. I leave for Donna's in ten days.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Wales leeks
No, it doesn't have a hole in it, leeks are a vegetable. But what influence does a name have? My friend named her son Rusty before she knew he didn't have sweat glands. If she'd named him oil like they say it in the south, Earl, would his sweat glands have worked?
At Mold we drove to a rural B&B through a mass of thickets on a narrow, old road worn to a ditch five feet below the cleared fields. I don't know why they don't clear the road, Papa could help with his little Ford tractor.
In the Jones's huge farm kitchen we learned about leeks and fresh eggs on their counter. "If the eggs have never been refrigerated, we don't refrigerate them."
Over tea, our gracious hosts explained the high esteem for leeks. "It's our National Emblem along with the daffodil. Worn on the soldiers caps going into battle, it distinguished them from their foes, and they won. On St. David's Day leeks are worn and eaten raw. From the onion family, the white of the leek is the result of 'mounding' the soil around it which requires thorough washing before using. The small ones are the most tender."
The French call leeks "poor man's asparagus." In Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat, she shares a recipe for leek soup to shed pounds when their bodies can't pass the zipper test. And they have a piece of dark chocolate every day - my kind of menu.
Now that I've tried them, I like leeks raw and in place of onions, and I'm not even Welsh. In Suzanne Somers Fast & Easy she uses leeks with chicken for a stew with cream cheese - satisfying on a cold day.
Now remember, if you're asked a trivia question about a leek, if it's spelled "leak," it's a hole in something. If it's spelled "leek," it's the vegetable held in high regard by the Welsh.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
At Mold we drove to a rural B&B through a mass of thickets on a narrow, old road worn to a ditch five feet below the cleared fields. I don't know why they don't clear the road, Papa could help with his little Ford tractor.
In the Jones's huge farm kitchen we learned about leeks and fresh eggs on their counter. "If the eggs have never been refrigerated, we don't refrigerate them."
Over tea, our gracious hosts explained the high esteem for leeks. "It's our National Emblem along with the daffodil. Worn on the soldiers caps going into battle, it distinguished them from their foes, and they won. On St. David's Day leeks are worn and eaten raw. From the onion family, the white of the leek is the result of 'mounding' the soil around it which requires thorough washing before using. The small ones are the most tender."
The French call leeks "poor man's asparagus." In Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat, she shares a recipe for leek soup to shed pounds when their bodies can't pass the zipper test. And they have a piece of dark chocolate every day - my kind of menu.
Now that I've tried them, I like leeks raw and in place of onions, and I'm not even Welsh. In Suzanne Somers Fast & Easy she uses leeks with chicken for a stew with cream cheese - satisfying on a cold day.
Now remember, if you're asked a trivia question about a leek, if it's spelled "leak," it's a hole in something. If it's spelled "leek," it's the vegetable held in high regard by the Welsh.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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