Wind rustling the leaves, mist, salt air, light fog, and set-stillers spell Halloween on Nantucket. I dressed for the occasion in my black tights with little white ghosts, black boots, skirt, four-ply cashmere sweater, and painted a tiny ghost on my face.
At the Whaling Museum's Ghost Gam we sat amidst whaling artifacts and under the skeleton of an eighty-foot whale with jaws that could have absorbed a car – Moby Dick material.
We brought a bag of chocolate-covered cranberries to nibble while a reader read Cornish ghost tales accompanied by a harpist. The spookier the story, the faster we nibbled, and the more Minnie and I didn't want to walk alone back to our room at the Jared Coffin House. It has its own ghost. Shivers.
Locals told of walking by the cemetery and being chased by the ghosts that sit on the fence posts. Proper etiquette for approaching the 'setstillers' was discussed. If they were kindly acknowledged, would they still chase people? You check it out.
I got up and told of a house at home a ghost kept from selling. Her presence cooled it even on the hottest days of summer: supernatural air-conditioning. The house would sell, but the buyers would call within a day and back out. Through prayer and intuitive expertise, the ghost was encouraged to leave and take her baby with her. She did. Within a few days the house sold and stayed sold.
When the whalers were out to sea, a passing ship from home meant a Gam: exchanged mail, gossip, and booze: a party! I'll bet they wished they could have exchanged underwear.
Whalers were gone for months whaling the Atlantic. When it was fished out, they were gone years at a time whaling the Pacific. There was a story on display about a couple married fifteen years who had spent a total of fifteen months together. The women were left behind to run the farms and businesses. I could feel "woman power" in the air.
Fortified with lobster eggs Benedict and wrapped in warm coats, Minnie and I braced ourselves for the after-dark ghost walk. Our group stuck close together; no one wanted to be "left behind."
According to our guide, ghosts have been seen, and continue to be seen, going into the basement of a business to work on looms. Another climbs the stairs to sit by a window and rock. We looked with our eyes open and closed, felt the air for quivery cold, and were disappointed, sort of; we weren't sure we wanted to see them.
The ghosts are seen in period costumes. Maybe they don't know they're dead. At one location the energy felt dangerous raising the hair on the back of our necks. We shivered and moved quickly away. Our guide said ghosts are seen many more places, but the home owners don't want to be included in the tour. We concluded there are ghosts everywhere but on the census.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN wherever you are. Don't let the ghosts get you.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Scottish Parade
It’s a Scottish kind of day: chilly, gray, gloomy, rainy. They apologized for it. We expected it. Minnie and I felt at home in Scotland, even though our Scotch heritage is minimal.
I’m thousands of miles away, but I can pretend with a cup of tea and some butter biscuits. Scones, clotted cream and jam would be better - and with my sister. I’d go for a drive, but it wouldn’t be the same driving on the right. She’d say, “Left! Drive left,” and “Look at those white stones on the green, … or are those sheep?”
Hot tea invites memories to tumble and parade. The wee drop of Scotch blood in me says, ‘Oh,lassie, come stroll the glens with me shadow’. Give me a tartan plaid to wrap in, and we'll talk.
Gooseberries: with yogurt, pureed with scones, jam with orange marmalade for toast, but not all at the same meal. When we were children, no matter what pie anyone made, Dad said it would have been better if it were gooseberry. You guessed it. A neighbor made him a gooseberry pie, and stood there while he ate it. He said it was good, and never mentioned gooseberries again.
Charlie and Eleanor’s overflow, unadvertised B&B near Aberdeen: We were weary from weeks of road travel and gloomy weather. They welcomed us with hot tea and warm conversation, just as interested in us as we were in them. Collecting friends is my ideal. They worked some for a titled family and spoke highly of them.
After an hour I asked for directions to a pub or restaurant for dinner. Eleanor replied, “You’re sinking. The fresh fish truck came today. There’s a piece of fish and a boiled potato for each of you.” At their kitchen table she gave up her piece of white fish for one of us, and her home-canned pickled beets gave up their juice coloring my potato. We were family.
Talked out, I headed up to our room, and found a lump in my bed. Uncertain, I hovered my hand above it. It was warm. Was it alive? Quietly I opened the bedroom door, and grabbed a pillow off the other bed; one of us was going to run. On the count of three, I threw back the covers. The hot water bottle never moved.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
I’m thousands of miles away, but I can pretend with a cup of tea and some butter biscuits. Scones, clotted cream and jam would be better - and with my sister. I’d go for a drive, but it wouldn’t be the same driving on the right. She’d say, “Left! Drive left,” and “Look at those white stones on the green, … or are those sheep?”
Hot tea invites memories to tumble and parade. The wee drop of Scotch blood in me says, ‘Oh,lassie, come stroll the glens with me shadow’. Give me a tartan plaid to wrap in, and we'll talk.
Gooseberries: with yogurt, pureed with scones, jam with orange marmalade for toast, but not all at the same meal. When we were children, no matter what pie anyone made, Dad said it would have been better if it were gooseberry. You guessed it. A neighbor made him a gooseberry pie, and stood there while he ate it. He said it was good, and never mentioned gooseberries again.
Charlie and Eleanor’s overflow, unadvertised B&B near Aberdeen: We were weary from weeks of road travel and gloomy weather. They welcomed us with hot tea and warm conversation, just as interested in us as we were in them. Collecting friends is my ideal. They worked some for a titled family and spoke highly of them.
After an hour I asked for directions to a pub or restaurant for dinner. Eleanor replied, “You’re sinking. The fresh fish truck came today. There’s a piece of fish and a boiled potato for each of you.” At their kitchen table she gave up her piece of white fish for one of us, and her home-canned pickled beets gave up their juice coloring my potato. We were family.
Talked out, I headed up to our room, and found a lump in my bed. Uncertain, I hovered my hand above it. It was warm. Was it alive? Quietly I opened the bedroom door, and grabbed a pillow off the other bed; one of us was going to run. On the count of three, I threw back the covers. The hot water bottle never moved.
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 7 - Life at the bottom
Before it grew completely dark on the floor of the African-looking Grand Canyon, we had to get out of the cold creek water, put our boots on, and setup camp. I wasn't much help. Donna worked at setting up the tent until she felt a hump in the floor. Peeking under with a flashlight she discovered an anthill. We had to move. As if on cue, a man came out of nowhere, helped her tear down the tent, move it, set it up, drag the bare bed springs from the creek to our camp and shove them inside. We thanked him. He disappeared.
All the topside planning we’d done for nourishing trail meals went out the window, or tent door. Too tired to light Sterno, we ate a bit of jerky. Donna hung our sealed packs as high as she could reach in the scrub brush to keep varmints out. Deer probably wouldn’t care, but ringtail cats and squirrels might want to shop.
The night air was growing cold. I’d left my sleeping bag at the Rim since it was a warm day, and now I regretted it. The thinsulate pad on the bare springs was too short. Cold and wearing all our clothes, we snuggled under Donna’s sleeping bag until she caught her hair and me a toe. As my sister-in-law was known to say, "If you want all the conveniences of home, stay there." But that wouldn’t be any fun. Making the only noises in the night, we giggled through untangling, until sleep stepped in and took over.
(more later - after we rest)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
All the topside planning we’d done for nourishing trail meals went out the window, or tent door. Too tired to light Sterno, we ate a bit of jerky. Donna hung our sealed packs as high as she could reach in the scrub brush to keep varmints out. Deer probably wouldn’t care, but ringtail cats and squirrels might want to shop.
The night air was growing cold. I’d left my sleeping bag at the Rim since it was a warm day, and now I regretted it. The thinsulate pad on the bare springs was too short. Cold and wearing all our clothes, we snuggled under Donna’s sleeping bag until she caught her hair and me a toe. As my sister-in-law was known to say, "If you want all the conveniences of home, stay there." But that wouldn’t be any fun. Making the only noises in the night, we giggled through untangling, until sleep stepped in and took over.
(more later - after we rest)
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, October 16, 2005
I don't want to hike these mountains.
MSN photo
Are my glasses gooey? No, it's just a little fog. These mountains look unfriendly, now that I've become a MS Delta flat-lander.verse copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
ITALY, lost......us, not it
Around and around and around the roundabout I drove not knowing when or where to get off. Caught in our circles, a frustrated driver rolled his window down and shouted in English, "Just pick one. Get off!"
We'd flown into Geneva, Switzerland, picked up a rental car, and headed to our resort destination Mount Campione, Italy. At late afternoon, we were lost and without a map. On the atlas it looked like a very short distance, not so, and I hadn't request a detailed map. My sister always takes care of the maps when we travel, but she wasn't on this trip.
As if a different driver could find our map-less way, nellie got behind the wheel. Driving in city circles we looked for help. At dusk she spotted a family leaving an apartment. The beautiful Italian lady spoke enough English to understand our predicament, and graciously offered to help. After numerous calls she found it and directions.
Angela translated our problem to her husband and two daughters who looked at us in amazement. 'If you won't leave home without American Express, how could you leave home without a map?' I'd already heard the complaint from my fellow travelers. At "dark-thirty", and without hesitation Angela and her family offered to lead us to our resort.
This was the off-season at Mount Campione. Skiing season is its peak. We drove for an hour to arrive at an empty lobby. On the front desk lay a key with my name on it; they were optimistic. Angela and her family helped us locate our room and unpack the car. Grateful for their kind assistance, we invited them to the bar for thank you
refreshments, and noticed it wasn't crowded.
In the daylight we learned specifics. The complex housed ten guests: we three American girls, an American couple and their daughter, two couples from Cape Town, South Africa, and no open restaurant.
Settled in, Dali did hand laundry wringing the clothes out in the extra sheets. Hung in our windows to dry, the laundry identified our quarters from a distance; a good idea considering there must have been 150 empty rooms. nellie took pictures of Dali in the window to add to Dali's "Woman in Window" collection from around the world.
The families from South Africa prepared our first dinner in Italy: spaghetti with a red sauce, garlic bread, green salad, and red wine. Sharing food and exhilarating conversation made for an international delight. I love collecting friends. One of the Cape Town gentlemen shared that he wears a suit to service expensive cars. They invited us to South Africa. We invited them to America. Who will get where first?
One of our trips down the mountain for groceries, Dali stuck her head out the backseat window. In her beautiful soprano voice she sang into the sunshine at the top of her lungs, "Don't Cry for Me Argentina." She blessed the mountaintops. I'll bet she was heard for miles.
Loving the outdoors, nellie, Dali, and I decided to hike the treeless mountaintops. Where we started we noticed a cow down in the valley with a wide leather neckband and enormous, burdensome bell.
For about an hour we hiked up and down, around crevices, and across the rounded tops enjoying the sun and distant scenery. Everything looked small, but the sound of the distant bulldozer carried. We sang and danced like kids, picnicked, and took lots of pictures.
All was well until the fog slipped in and over us. We were socked in, lost, afraid, had no sense of direction, and were all talking at once. Nobody knows we're here. We didn't see any people all afternoon. What will we do when it gets dark? It's getting cold. Those crevices we walked around, we might fall in now. If we get hurt, how will we get help?
Huddled together we prayed. What was that tiny sound? A cowbell. Since we'd seen just one cow, we decided to hike toward the sound. Holding hands we silently picked our way straining to hear and guarding our footsteps.
When the cowbell sounded farther away, we stopped. Were we going the wrong way or had she moved? Step by step we worked our way back ever mindful of the crevices we'd hiked around. After what seemed like hours, we made out the shape of the resort with the laundry in our windows and almost ran. We could have kissed the cow.
And were we hungry; bread, cheese, chunks of lunchmeat, plums, and chocolate with hazelnuts filled us. We didn't spend a lot of time on what might have been. Over big mugs of hot chocolate we looked ahead. We had places to go. "Venice, here we come!"
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We'd flown into Geneva, Switzerland, picked up a rental car, and headed to our resort destination Mount Campione, Italy. At late afternoon, we were lost and without a map. On the atlas it looked like a very short distance, not so, and I hadn't request a detailed map. My sister always takes care of the maps when we travel, but she wasn't on this trip.
As if a different driver could find our map-less way, nellie got behind the wheel. Driving in city circles we looked for help. At dusk she spotted a family leaving an apartment. The beautiful Italian lady spoke enough English to understand our predicament, and graciously offered to help. After numerous calls she found it and directions.
Angela translated our problem to her husband and two daughters who looked at us in amazement. 'If you won't leave home without American Express, how could you leave home without a map?' I'd already heard the complaint from my fellow travelers. At "dark-thirty", and without hesitation Angela and her family offered to lead us to our resort.
This was the off-season at Mount Campione. Skiing season is its peak. We drove for an hour to arrive at an empty lobby. On the front desk lay a key with my name on it; they were optimistic. Angela and her family helped us locate our room and unpack the car. Grateful for their kind assistance, we invited them to the bar for thank you
refreshments, and noticed it wasn't crowded.
In the daylight we learned specifics. The complex housed ten guests: we three American girls, an American couple and their daughter, two couples from Cape Town, South Africa, and no open restaurant.
Settled in, Dali did hand laundry wringing the clothes out in the extra sheets. Hung in our windows to dry, the laundry identified our quarters from a distance; a good idea considering there must have been 150 empty rooms. nellie took pictures of Dali in the window to add to Dali's "Woman in Window" collection from around the world.
The families from South Africa prepared our first dinner in Italy: spaghetti with a red sauce, garlic bread, green salad, and red wine. Sharing food and exhilarating conversation made for an international delight. I love collecting friends. One of the Cape Town gentlemen shared that he wears a suit to service expensive cars. They invited us to South Africa. We invited them to America. Who will get where first?
One of our trips down the mountain for groceries, Dali stuck her head out the backseat window. In her beautiful soprano voice she sang into the sunshine at the top of her lungs, "Don't Cry for Me Argentina." She blessed the mountaintops. I'll bet she was heard for miles.
Loving the outdoors, nellie, Dali, and I decided to hike the treeless mountaintops. Where we started we noticed a cow down in the valley with a wide leather neckband and enormous, burdensome bell.
For about an hour we hiked up and down, around crevices, and across the rounded tops enjoying the sun and distant scenery. Everything looked small, but the sound of the distant bulldozer carried. We sang and danced like kids, picnicked, and took lots of pictures.
All was well until the fog slipped in and over us. We were socked in, lost, afraid, had no sense of direction, and were all talking at once. Nobody knows we're here. We didn't see any people all afternoon. What will we do when it gets dark? It's getting cold. Those crevices we walked around, we might fall in now. If we get hurt, how will we get help?
Huddled together we prayed. What was that tiny sound? A cowbell. Since we'd seen just one cow, we decided to hike toward the sound. Holding hands we silently picked our way straining to hear and guarding our footsteps.
When the cowbell sounded farther away, we stopped. Were we going the wrong way or had she moved? Step by step we worked our way back ever mindful of the crevices we'd hiked around. After what seemed like hours, we made out the shape of the resort with the laundry in our windows and almost ran. We could have kissed the cow.
And were we hungry; bread, cheese, chunks of lunchmeat, plums, and chocolate with hazelnuts filled us. We didn't spend a lot of time on what might have been. Over big mugs of hot chocolate we looked ahead. We had places to go. "Venice, here we come!"
Copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, October 13, 2005
TOADSTOOLS
eruptions
from
an other-world
resting place
for
small thoughts
2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
from
an other-world
resting place
for
small thoughts
2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Hiking the Grand Canyon - part 6 1/2 - the rest of the way down
Into the fifth hour of hiking at a creep, I estimated I was half-way to the camp. Donna hiked with ease retracing her steps now and again to check on me. Few hikers were on the trail. One couple passed without speaking or breaking stride.
With ease, a couple came up the trail stopping long enough to say they were from a flat state, also. To condition, they'd put on their packs and climbed up and down a grain elevator. Why didn't I think of that?
The trail had a wide spot I stepped into, but looked before I leaned on the wall. Stretching my vision outward, the color changes in the distance were astounding. Mother Nature's paint-chip slide-show displayed pink, fuchsia, lavender, rose, yellow, orange, bronze, brown, turquoise, purple and more. A tiny lizard zipped across my boot; an eagle flew in the distance below the Rim.
Scrunching sounds came from the left. I waited off the trail. The sober mule train leader almost smiled. Maybe it was the heat. The temperature had progressed from the 60's this morning to the mid to high eighties. I didn't have to move to the outside this time, thank God. The seven passed without incident.
Thankful for the opportunity to see God's unusual, awesome creation first hand, and be in its innards, I stepped back on the trail. Two hikers coming up the trail stopped, smiled, and related they were grandfather and grandson hiking from Rim to Rim. The man said the most drag-outs are 18 to 25 and male; they don't know their pace. If a helicopter is needed, the cost is in the thousands. He was proud he and his grandson were able to make it on their own. Good for them. I hoped I would.
The moleskin on my feet helped, but I should have put some on the ends of my toes. My boots fit well with two pairs of socks, but with the steep grade, my toes were getting too friendly with the toe-end of my boots. That kind of toe-end closeness I reserve for my dancing shoes.
More scrunching from behind warned of a third mule train approaching. By now I was almost too tired to be scared to stand to the outside and face the mules, but not quite. The grumpy leader stopped, leaned toward me, and said, "Just wait 'til you try to get out."
His words shot through me, hit my wall of determination, and brought back a red flag. My temper flared, but I didn't say a word. Silently I vowed I would not be a drag-out, so help me God! The eleven passed. I straightened up and stepped back on the trail fiercely determined to make it in and out on my own two feet. He wasn't getting a drag-out fee from me.
Donna made it to camp before I did, looked back and saw me bent over with my load. She couldn't see my tears, or know how hard I was working just to walk, or how many hundred times I'd said, "I think I can." My mission was keeping me going.
Daylight was leaving the Canyon floor making room for dark, I had to keep moving. At 6:30 pm a young man came up the trail and asked my name. I complied. A search party of one, he frowned and said, "You should have been in camp by now. Could I take your pack for you?" Too exhausted to speak, I nodded.
Arriving at Cottonwood Campground I thought I was in Africa: scrub brush, big rocks, and powdery, sandy, flat earth, and I couldn't fall off. Donna helped me to the outhouse-sized First-Aid station for knee bandages, Gatorade, and, as if I didn't know, instructions to stay off my feet. We had hiked down 4,000 feet of elevation over seven miles.
Leaning together we crept to the creek, rolled up our jeans, took off our boots, and plunged our feet into the cold water. Oh, it felt good. I remembered all I'd eaten since breakfast was one energy bar - no appetite. My canteen was empty, and I had sweat out every drop of waste.
Donna bust out laughing. Short on humor and with effort, my eyes followed where she pointed. It was funny. In the creek were double-bed bed-springs.
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
With ease, a couple came up the trail stopping long enough to say they were from a flat state, also. To condition, they'd put on their packs and climbed up and down a grain elevator. Why didn't I think of that?
The trail had a wide spot I stepped into, but looked before I leaned on the wall. Stretching my vision outward, the color changes in the distance were astounding. Mother Nature's paint-chip slide-show displayed pink, fuchsia, lavender, rose, yellow, orange, bronze, brown, turquoise, purple and more. A tiny lizard zipped across my boot; an eagle flew in the distance below the Rim.
Scrunching sounds came from the left. I waited off the trail. The sober mule train leader almost smiled. Maybe it was the heat. The temperature had progressed from the 60's this morning to the mid to high eighties. I didn't have to move to the outside this time, thank God. The seven passed without incident.
Thankful for the opportunity to see God's unusual, awesome creation first hand, and be in its innards, I stepped back on the trail. Two hikers coming up the trail stopped, smiled, and related they were grandfather and grandson hiking from Rim to Rim. The man said the most drag-outs are 18 to 25 and male; they don't know their pace. If a helicopter is needed, the cost is in the thousands. He was proud he and his grandson were able to make it on their own. Good for them. I hoped I would.
The moleskin on my feet helped, but I should have put some on the ends of my toes. My boots fit well with two pairs of socks, but with the steep grade, my toes were getting too friendly with the toe-end of my boots. That kind of toe-end closeness I reserve for my dancing shoes.
More scrunching from behind warned of a third mule train approaching. By now I was almost too tired to be scared to stand to the outside and face the mules, but not quite. The grumpy leader stopped, leaned toward me, and said, "Just wait 'til you try to get out."
His words shot through me, hit my wall of determination, and brought back a red flag. My temper flared, but I didn't say a word. Silently I vowed I would not be a drag-out, so help me God! The eleven passed. I straightened up and stepped back on the trail fiercely determined to make it in and out on my own two feet. He wasn't getting a drag-out fee from me.
Donna made it to camp before I did, looked back and saw me bent over with my load. She couldn't see my tears, or know how hard I was working just to walk, or how many hundred times I'd said, "I think I can." My mission was keeping me going.
Daylight was leaving the Canyon floor making room for dark, I had to keep moving. At 6:30 pm a young man came up the trail and asked my name. I complied. A search party of one, he frowned and said, "You should have been in camp by now. Could I take your pack for you?" Too exhausted to speak, I nodded.
Arriving at Cottonwood Campground I thought I was in Africa: scrub brush, big rocks, and powdery, sandy, flat earth, and I couldn't fall off. Donna helped me to the outhouse-sized First-Aid station for knee bandages, Gatorade, and, as if I didn't know, instructions to stay off my feet. We had hiked down 4,000 feet of elevation over seven miles.
Leaning together we crept to the creek, rolled up our jeans, took off our boots, and plunged our feet into the cold water. Oh, it felt good. I remembered all I'd eaten since breakfast was one energy bar - no appetite. My canteen was empty, and I had sweat out every drop of waste.
Donna bust out laughing. Short on humor and with effort, my eyes followed where she pointed. It was funny. In the creek were double-bed bed-springs.
(more later)
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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