Herbert's Habits

Every afternoon at precisely 6:00 PM, regardless of the weather or planetary alignment, Herbert Evans would stop whatever he was doing and observe Happy Hour on the front porch of his home high atop the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Herbert lived at the highest point on Big Ridge Road, and from his front porch, you could gaze out over the crest of the mountains. The view was beyond gorgeous.

When we first traveled to Herbert's mountain home in 1988 with his niece, our friend Ginna, she warned us that Uncle Herbert had some strict habits, so I was immediately fascinated, being a strong creature of habit myself. I knew that he would be a kindred spirit, and indeed, he was. On that very first visit, Herbert came out to meet us and welcomed us graciously, as if we were family, as if he'd known us for years. All of us, including our daughter Sarah, who was only three at the time, immediately settled into his home and became a part of the family fabric.

Born in Savannah, Georgia, Herbert had spent his childhood in Beaufort, South Carolina, and Townshend, Vermont, and throughout his life, he maintained an identity with each of the places he had lived. He would tell stories of riding his bike in Beaufort and then, in the next breath, recall the magnificent fall foliage of Vermont. You could tell that these two places had real significance to him and had helped to shape his early years. After living in New York City, and then serving in World War II, he and his brothers John and Tom decided to open a family restaurant. After considering several cities in the Southeast, they finally opened the first Evans Fine Foods in Atlanta in 1946. Herbert served as bookkeeper while his two brothers ran the day-to-day restaurant operations. Herbert and his brothers made a good living for themselves and their families, and in the 1960's, they purchased a piece of land atop a mountain on Big Ridge Road, close to Glenville, North Carolina, where they built a home in the 1970's. It was to this home that Herbert retired in the early 1980's.

By the time our family made its first trip to Big Ridge, Herbert had it down to a science, and the kitchen especially was a strictly defined workspace. Herbert owned a vintage Philco refrigerator that had a unique door which would open in either direction. For some reason, he preferred that it be opened on one side. He wouldn't say anything if you opened it on the other side, but somehow, if you did that, you just knew that you were going against the grain. Ice cubes had to be manually evacuated from their trays in the Philco and kept in individual resealable sandwich bags. The dishwasher door, even when the dishwasher was not running, had to be closed and locked. It was not enough for it simply to be closed. I didn't know the reason for this, other than that insects might enter the machine if the door was not tightly latched. (Not that such a thing ever happens here in the Southern United States.)

Every evening, at precisely 6:00, Herbert would announce that it was time for Happy Hour. He would poll the crowd for preferred libations, then pour out a little bowl of nuts and Chex Mix. He mixed good drinks, and sometimes, we had seconds, but always only the one bowl of snacks; otherwise, we might spoil our dinner.

Dinner at Herbert's, more specifically grilling out, was a unique experience that I enjoyed immensely. Charcoal on the little portable green grill had to be drenched with charcoal lighter fluid (ah, that smell) and an electric lighter had to be placed in a certain position within the briquettes so as to provide optimal lighting efficiency. The grill had to be placed a few feet from the back porch, where there was an outlet into which the lighter could be plugged. One evening, while we were grilling after Happy Hour, we got a little too close to the house, but the important thing was that nothing was permanently damaged.

Herbert was a wonderful host, and he delighted in taking us to visit at friends' houses in the area, some of which were quite interesting. One friend had an immense wood shop in his basement, and others maintained a sizable Christmas tree farm. An Atlanta attorney and his family recently had built a spacious mountain retreat filled with modern Mexican art, and every Labor Day, we would visit their home for a huge shish-kebab festival. We generally did the driving to the friends' houses, because Herbert had a heavy foot and was not afraid to use it on the winding mountain roads. Every time he fired up his vintage International Harvester Scout with no seat belts, we felt our hearts skip a beat. Once, while Herbert and I were out for a drive in my wife Karen's new Isuzu Trooper, he led me up a mountain road which terminated on a steep ledge. We got stuck, so Herbert got out and helped me maneuver in the opposite direction, until we finally arrived back at the house, where everything was going well until Karen noticed a faint smell of burning clutch. 

In his later years, Herbert had to move to assisted living in Atlanta, because the house and its huge yard were simply too much to maintain, but he continued to be actively engaged in family activities for his remaining years, and when he passed away in December, 2011, at the age of 93, he had lived a very full life indeed.

I think there's a reason we have habits. I think they help define who we are and how we relate to the world at large. They give us a sense of predictability, which often can be quite comforting. In Herbert's case, they made him a unique gentleman who gladly shared his home with others. I treasure those days and those memories. We miss you, Uncle Herbert, every day.

Doing Shots with Mickey Mouse

For some unknown reason, I can remember events that happened many years ago with remarkable clarity. I cannot recall exactly what it is that I need to pick up this afternoon at the grocery store, but I can remember exactly where I was, and what toy I was playing with, when I heard that John F. Kennedy had won the 1960 Presidential election. It makes no sense, but it comes in handy sometimes.

Back in 1959, when I was one month shy of my fourth birthday, my parents and paternal grandparents decided to take a car trip from Tennessee to California to see my uncle, aunt, and cousins. My mom and dad had lived in California when I was born but had moved back East several years later, so in addition to visiting my dad's brother and his family, they also wanted to get back out West to see some of their favorite places. My dad had recently purchased a 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, shiny yellow with lots of chrome and a big old V8 under the hood. It was a powerful, yet comfortable car, but it was also produced during a time when air conditioning was a relatively new thing, and our car didn't have it.

And so it was, on a sunny morning in April, 1959, we headed west from our home in Dyersburg, Tennessee, with my dad driving, my mom in the front passenger seat, and yours truly in the back, sandwiched between my grandmother and grandfather, who by the way, were always impeccably dressed. We crossed the Mississippi and headed into the wilds of Arkansas.

My parents were savvy about car travel, having crossed the country many times on their own, so before we left, they purchased a couple of toys for me to play with on the trip. One, designated as the westbound toy, was a doctor's kit, and the other, which I was supposed to keep wrapped until the return trip east, was a plastic toaster that could be disassembled and reassembled. Once we had gotten some miles behind us, I pulled out the doctor's kit and got to work.

It's worth noting here that in those days, just about every other child born in the United States had some type of allergy or respiratory issue, and I was no exception. I was constantly being taken to the doctor, a wizened older fellow in downtown Dyersburg who would give me a shot in my buttocks (as Forrest Gump would say), then "allow" me to go home until the next poke session. The shots never seemed to do much, but I started to take them for granted as part of life.

Since our California trip would clock in at nearly 1,900 miles each way, and given the fact that I had no siblings, I brought along the only friend that would fit in the car with me and everyone else, a little squeezable plastic Mickey Mouse. He wore his trademark red pants but had long since lost his shirt, which was a good thing, since a) the car had no air conditioning and b) we would be driving through the desert. Almost immediately upon opening the doctor's kit, I started giving Mickey shots. I was concerned for his health, and it kept my little brain occupied knowing that I had to care for him on a regular schedule. In effect, it made the miles tick away. Mickey got a shot about every hour or so, and this amused my parents and grandparents alike.

We had many adventures on that trip. Mickey and I saw Hoover Dam, a vestigial version of Las Vegas (I still remember the old Sands and Golden Nugget signs), and the Grand Canyon. We even survived a flat tire in Needles, California, which is notable for often being the hottest place in the United States. Finally, after several days of driving, we made it all the way to Los Angeles and marveled at how anyone could grow a palm tree right in their front yard. We watched TV the night that my mom and dad went to see Lawrence Welk, and we saw, right there with our own eyes, my mom dancing with Mr. Welk. Mickey seemed to be doing well in California, so I pulled back on the shots schedule to give him a little room to enjoy himself.

After a couple of glorious weeks, it was time to head back East, so we said our goodbyes, and I resumed Mickey's shots, just to be on the safe side. I also opened the plastic toaster and began disassembling and reassembling it between administering shots. I was one busy guy, just let me say.

Everything was motoring along well until we got to Needles, where once again, upon entering the city, we had a flat tire. We got that fixed and left town, then headed east. It must have been about 30 or 40 miles before I realized that Mickey was missing, so my dad (and I will never forget this) turned the Bel Air around on an Arizona highway and headed all the way back to our motel in Needles, where I found Mickey safely nestled in the bed sheets. We got back out of town with no further tire damage.

I don't remember much about the trip back home, other than the fact that my grandmother put sheets of comics from the newspaper up on the windows to shield us from the desert sun. My grandfather, never a stitch out of place and almost always in a good mood, would make sly observations from time to time that would keep the rest of us reasonably happy, given the close proximity of our seating arrangements. My mom and dad seemed to have gotten their fix of California, at least enough to sustain them until their next trip out, which, as it happened, wouldn't be for another ten years.

I guess we often take family time for granted when we're younger. But I still remember so much of that trip, the joy on my parents' and grandparents' faces when we got out of the car in Los Angeles and saw our family. The moments we shared were all ours, and even Mickey was a part, thanks to some good proactive health care on the part of his owner. The trip was so worth it.

If you're headed out of town this summer, be safe, and I hope that you experience, to borrow an old Esso phrase, "Happy Motoring." I also hope that you can make some memories of your own, so that one day, you'll have some stories to tell, regardless of whether regularly scheduled preventive healthcare and appliance maintenance are involved.

Don't Take His Food

I realize that owing to more reasonable air fares and the march of time, many of you have probably never taken a really serious bus trip by yourself. You've probably taken city buses around town, tour buses on vacation, and made those group trips on chartered buses, the kind where you know almost everyone, but nothing quite compares to plopping your innocent self onto a commercial bus for a joyride of an appreciable distance.

Way back in 1977, I took such a trip, from Memphis to Los Angeles, ostensibly to look at graduate schools. I had earned my bachelor's degree at Northwestern University in Chicago and thought that I might like to pursue a PhD in either neurobiology or neuroscience. Two colleges on the West Coast, UCLA and UC San Diego, were at the top of my list. Actually, let's be honest...they really were the entire list by that time.

One afternoon in early October, I called my aunt and uncle in California and asked if I could stay with them while I visited the two schools. They said yes, and also asked if while I was there, I would mind helping them paint their house in preparation for moving my recently widowed Aunt Mary in with them. That sounded like an equitable arrangement, so I called around, finally deciding that taking the bus was a far more affordable alternative to any plane ticket I could find. And so it happened that on a Wednesday night in October, my mom and dad took me to the downtown Memphis Continental Trailways bus station, and I boarded a 7:00 PM bus bound for Los Angeles. My mom had even packed some food for me to take along on the trip, since it would last almost two days with no planned overnight stops.

When you take the bus, it's always a good idea to scan the human terrain, as it were, to determine who your traveling companions might be; after all, you're going to be in this deal for more than the few hours a typical flight takes. It seemed to me that we had a good cadre here: there were a couple of unaccompanied youth like me, a Quiet Young Man in a Service Uniform, and a group of Elderly Ladies Who Appeared to Already Know Each Other. I took the seat immediately behind the driver (you never know when you might have to make a quick exit in these cases), checked to make sure I had all my belongings, and tilted the seat back to a reclined and unlocked position. We pulled out of the bus station and headed west on I-40 toward our first stop: Little Rock, Arkansas.

I had made this trip twice before by car, so I knew what to expect from a landscape perspective. But because it was October and had therefore gotten dark early, one could see very little from the windows of the bus. We arrived in Little Rock a couple of hours later, and it was there that I realized how friendly people could be at bus stations. Complete strangers might walk up to you and want to be your friend, or so it seemed. Feeling that I had enough friends already, I grabbed a snack and headed back onto the bus. We had a new driver, who would take us to Oklahoma City.

We arrived in OK City in the "middle of the night." I recall waiting in the bus station as mysterious destinations were announced over the loudspeakers: places like Wichita, Cheyenne, Fort Worth and Amarillo. There were people everywhere, loaded down with suitcases and duffel bags, and it was only 4:00 AM. Somewhere along the line, I think I grabbed breakfast, but it was so early that I can't clearly remember. We hung out in the bus station for a little over an hour, then boarded the bus for our next stop, Amarillo.

It was important at any given time when at a bus station to keep an eye out for not only one's belongings, but also for others traveling on the same bus, because when your departure would be announced, you wanted to move as a unit to make sure no one was left behind. Given the limited number of people on the bus, you could always tell when someone "dropped off," and hopefully that was always intentional. After a while on the bus, it was like you got to know the people, at least in a casual way. I found that everyone on my bus was quite pleasant, and judging by their accents, they appeared to be from all over the country. Although I maintained my solo seat behind the driver, I did start to talk with a few of them on a regular basis.

We departed Oklahoma City as the sun rose, and we left the Interstate, opting for local highways where, according to the driver, we could pick up more passengers in the small towns along the route. I found this part of the trip fascinating. We passed through rolling hills full of swaying amber grass, every now and then encountering a small town which might have seen better days. Many of the towns looked straight out of the Old West, and were it not for the sidewalks, you could almost imagine horses hitched up while their owners quenched their thirsts at the local establishments. One memorable little town seemed to be built entirely of wooden structures with swinging doors that were only minimally attached to their frames.

At last we arrived in Amarillo, and since it was closing in on lunchtime, our driver recommended a local Mexican restaurant that was one of his favorites. This was common -- as we approached a city, the driver would call out this or that interesting place that we might check out while stopped. Drivers were changed every several hundred miles, so it was interesting to get the varying perspectives of each. In Amarillo, I didn't opt for the Mexican suggestion, but instead, grabbed something lighter and settled in with The Hobbit, which I'd just started to read. As I waited to board for our departure, I became rather engrossed with the first encounter with the character Gollum, and before I knew it, it was time to head out.

Early afternoon found us in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Above the ticket window I saw a small blackboard that listed the daily buses, one eastbound and one westbound each day. That was it. I took a seat in one of the church pews that the bus line had appropriated for seating and stared out the propped-open front door at the tumbleweeds rolling down the street. The scene reached perfection when "Luckenbach, Texas" began playing on the jukebox.

It wasn't much longer before we reached Albuquerque and the most modern bus station that we'd seen so far. Several of us dined together at the station cafe and then got back on the bus. As I took my seat, I noticed that the new driver was mounting some special CB radio equipment on the outside of the bus next to his rear view mirror, so I asked him what it was. He said, "Where we're goin', there ain't many people." Not to mention that it would soon be dark.

I've always enjoyed driving across New Mexico, and this was no exception. The colors of nature were on full display, and even as they faded to the more predominantly brown desert, the scene outside was still starkly beautiful. When we reached the border of New Mexico and Arizona, a uniformed agricultural inspector boarded the bus and told us that if we had any fresh fruit, we had to surrender it immediately. At that time, the state of Arizona, like its neighbor California, relied heavily on an agricultural economy and prohibited introducing fruit which might contain destructive non-native insects. I willingly handed the inspector a bag of oranges which my mom had packed for me for the trip, but the Elderly Ladies Who Appeared to Already Know Each Other would have none of this. In unison, they began scolding him by saying loudly, "Don't take his food! That's his food that his mother gave him...don't take it!" I stayed out of the fray and watched as the officer beat a hasty retreat, sliced my poor oranges and discarded them into a locked-top bin by the side of the road. I decided that I wanted these ladies on my side.

That drama having been completed, we ventured on into Arizona, which was remarkable, among other things, for having highly reflective signs pointing to national monuments you've heard of all your life but probably have not seen. (I've never visited the Painted Desert in the daytime, but I know precisely to get to it.) Somewhere along southbound I-17 on the way to Phoenix, the bus slowed down and came to a stop on the side of the road. Having traveled on many buses which have experienced mechanical failures and thereby landing me in places like Corsicana, Texas, I expected to be stopped for a while. There were no exits in sight, but there was a tiny motel on the top of a hill off the side of the road, and after we had stopped, the Quiet Young Man in a Service Uniform disembarked and walked up the hill to the motel. I hoped for his sake that he either had a rendezvous planned or that he at least knew someone up there.

Since the Trailways station in Phoenix was closed overnight, we pulled into the Greyhound station at about 3:00 AM and wandered around checking out the competition. There were numerous collectible lucite bus-shaped souvenirs to be had, but I did not feel that the purchase of one would have been appropriate, since by this time I had logged over 1,400 miles on Trailways. Aside from the lights in the souvenir display cases, the station was pretty dark, so we grabbed vending machine refreshments and headed back to the bus. The breakfast hour found us at Blythe, California, which is notable for generally being one of the hottest spots in the nation on weather reports.

Driver Number Eight had recommended a breakfast spot in Blythe, and we were not disappointed. The Courtesy Coffee Shop was like an untouched slice of 1955, and after a hearty breakfast at the counter, I walked back out to the parking lot, where the Elderly Ladies Who Appeared to Already Know Each Other had gathered. We laughed about the confiscation of the oranges, and one of them mentioned to me that her daughter lived in California, and that she made this trip several times a year from her home in Virginia Beach. I thought to myself that she was indeed a stronger person than I was.

It was now Friday morning, and the trip was nearing its conclusion. We made one last rest stop in the town of Indio, California. It dawned on me that I had been traveling with very little sleep and no bathing or shaving for almost two days, so when I finally looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I was horrified. How could someone who looked like this manage to have other people willingly talk to them? I cleaned up as best I could, then re-boarded the bus.

Some time around noon, Driver Number Nine wheeled us into the downtown Los Angeles bus station, where my uncle, a Methodist minister, was waiting to greet me. He, too, had been surprised at the overt friendliness of people at the station and mentioned how several complete strangers had walked up to him and wanted to be his friend. Alas, I thought, this commercial bus travel was something that more people should experience for themselves. In fact, I felt a bit sorry for fellow travelers who might have opted for an airline ticket, but surprisingly, on my way home several weeks later, I became one of them.

I could go on about how I visited the schools but later changed my direction in life, or how the house got painted while earth tremors were occurring, or how I almost got lost in downtown San Diego, but truly, the most memorable part of the trip was getting out there. My grandmother used to say that travel was the best education, and in many ways, I agree. These days, I've heard bus tickets can cost almost as much as plane tickets, but I'm glad I opted for the land based option way back when. It was educational, even though I lost a few oranges in the process. It was worth every one of them.

The Pinto Chronicles - Part Three

Leaving Colorado was something of a letdown; we knew that this was the last truly "Western" state that we would visit. Next stop -- Nebraska. But the adventure was not yet over. We stopped in Lincoln at the home of a former pastor of Paul and Peter's church and were treated to ice cold glasses of Schmidt Beer, except for Peter, of course, who received something softer. We played some pool, visited the local college, then headed out the next morning for the final leg of the trip.

Coming back through Missouri, we started to notice Southern accents once again. The pace had slowed, and the humidity had increased noticeably. At dinnertime, we pulled the Pinto into Grandma Grossheider's house. Paul and Peter's grandmother owned a farm outside Cape Girardeau, Missouri, where she maintained two small fishing ponds. For $1.50, you could sit by a placid little pond and pull out the fish. Grandma fed us well -- in her words, she fed us "a little something." After gorging ourselves on everything from ears of fresh corn to chicken, we bade farewell and started toward Memphis.

Driving down the last leg of I-55 from Cape Girardeau to Memphis, we reflected on all the adventures which the last three and a half weeks had provided. We would never really feel the same as before. Interstates, back roads, and places long forgotten by the mainstream had given us a road legacy to remember.

As we drove back across the Mississippi River bridge into Memphis, with the stars piercing the night sky and the lights of the city reflecting off the river, I thought about how vast and varied this country really was, not only physically, but culturally, spiritually and emotionally as well. Indeed, it was and is a superb place to be.

The Pinto Chronicles - Part Two

California is interesting. I'm sure that many of you have been there, or maybe you even live there (I know that a few of you do). I was born in Whittier, a suburb east of Los Angeles, well within the sprawling metropolitan area. My uncle is a retired Methodist minister who served for over thirty years in the Los Angeles Conference, so even though my parents had moved back East when I was very small, I had ample opportunities to visit over the years. For Paul and Peter, however, this was the first time they had visited or even been west of the Rockies, so there was a lot to take in.

Paul had slept outside on the patio at his aunt and uncle's in Alhambra after the long evening's drive, but when morning came, he appeared to be somewhat healed and was raring to go. And go we did. Over the next few days, we covered Greater Los Angeles like the best of tourists -- we hauled all the cousins and ourselves to Disneyland in the Pinto, visited Marineland of the Pacific (an early relative of Sea World), tried to get in to see a filming of "Barney Miller," visited Zuma Beach (my teenage beach), and spent a pleasant evening at Ports o' Call in Long Beach, where we stepped aboard the Queen Mary. All in all, it was a wonderful visit. But we still had many miles to cover.

After leaving the family in Alhambra, we headed north and spent a day or two with my own aunt and uncle in Camarillo, situated about fifty miles north of L.A. proper in Ventura County. It was great to see Aunt Ruth and Uncle Richard again. Aunt Ruth was a tall, beautiful, raven-haired woman who always appeared much younger than her years -- she taught me to play guitar when I was eleven, and she would periodically stop whatever she might be doing around the house to sit at her easel and paint. My Uncle Richard was and is probably one of the great storytellers of the South, and his relocation from Tennessee to the West with this talent was never lost on the people there. He and I had spent many days in the hills of California, exploring the back country while training his racing pigeons.

After a couple of days visiting with Uncle Richard and Aunt Ruth, it was time to head on. From this point forward, the whole trip would be new to me as well. Driving north up Highway 1, also known as Pacific Coast Highway or simply PCH, was a challenge in the Pinto. Having since owned a convertible, I would now relish the thought of driving this road, but back then, I was somewhat mortified. Here was this beautiful, no, make that gorgeous, landscape laid out in front of me, but my hands gripped the wheel tightly, and I could only appreciate the views when Paul resumed control. All in all, though, the day's drive was a good one, and we stopped for the night in Big Sur. And here I must pause.

Big Sur without a doubt possesses some of the most spectacular vistas to be found anywhere in the United States. You have probably seen them in numerous two-dimensional pictures, but you cannot be prepared for the visual feast which awaits you. Steep cliffs descend to the vast ocean below, and the coastline is charged with ever present breakers and flocks of seabirds. A stiff breeze blows off the ocean and whips back your hair. Across the road, stands of evergreens exude a wondrous fragrance.

But back to the details. We set up camp for the night at Ventana Campground. We had to hike up a hill to reach the site, but it was actually good to stretch the legs. The evening was worth it. I had brought along my acoustic guitar, which I always traveled with in those days, and looking down on the ground, I spotted a blue plastic pick, picked it up, and started to play. In the background was the sound of the surf. Needless to say, I kept that pick as a souvenir.

•••••

After a restful night, we broke camp and headed to San Jose, where Don, my college roommate from Chicago, was spending a few weeks with his brother George. Once again, we became part of an adopted family, resting by the pool and playing with the family's hefty but sweet malamute, who announced his arrival by licking the back of my neck as I rested in the water at the edge of the pool.

That first afternoon, we drove into San Francisco, where we took the Pinto through an ancient car wash that almost ate the molding off the front car doors. Boarding the ferry to Sausalito, we were astonished to find that this place was COLD. Standing on the deck of the ferry in a lightweight t-shirt, I looked enviously at the guy next to me, who sported a navy pea coat. He was probably comfortable.

We dined in Sausalito, then headed back over to San Francisco and tooled around for a bit longer before heading back to George's house. The next day, we toured the Winchester Mystery House, then did a bit more cruising around San Jose. Don's mother made us a wonderful, hearty Midwestern dinner that evening, and we gladly availed ourselves of this opportunity to eat real food again. Being energetic youths, we were accustomed to cruising at all hours of the day and night, so shortly after dinner, we decided to go out for a drive.

It was sunset, so we headed up a rocky road into the hills to gain a better view of the approaching twilight and the lights of the city. Suddenly, Paul stopped the car, or rather, the car was stopped. I still don't believe to this day that I saw this, yet it remains clear in my memory. Out of nowhere stepped a stern looking woman about sixty years of age, holding a rifle, with an ammunition belt slung across her shoulder. She recommended that we leave, and indeed, we took very little time in doing so.

Returning down the mountain, we stopped at a McDonald's for a brief respite, then headed back to the family at George's house. When we arrived, Don's mother, upon finding out that we had eaten a second dinner, was livid, in her own sweet way. "You boys went out to EAT after I had cooked you DINNER?" I felt about two feet tall, but as usual, she forgave us our foibles and we had a good laugh.

We made a second trip back into San Francisco the following day to see more local color, and then it was time to head on up the road. The next stop was Lake Tahoe.

Prior to heading out on our cross-country pilgrimage, Peter had purchased a new 35mm single lens reflex Pentax camera, which he had been using to its fullest advantage. Paul also had a Pentax, and I had purchased a small 35mm Konica in Camarillo, having brought only a small-frame Instamatic along. In other words, we made lots of stops for film along the way, and it was somewhere between San Francisco and Lake Tahoe that we saw it yet again -- the ubiquitous pairing of McDonald's and K-Mart. Wherever we would find a K-Mart, there was sure to be a McDonald's close at hand. This was convenient, in that any time we ran out of film, we would head to K-Mart for replenishment and there, lo and behold, was a convenient, predictable lunch.

Lake Tahoe -- what can I say? The clearest water I had ever seen outside of northern Arkansas' White River. We set up camp on the California side, at a campground where campers hang blankets on clotheslines to make fake walls around their sites. There was a general spirit of joie de vivre about the place which was infectious. And that was a good thing, because it was also chilly, which meant that Peter and I needed to scavenge for firewood while Paul heated up our dinner.

Locating suitable natural firewood at a large campground is not always an easy task. You find that you become quite creative. Yet Peter and I persevered, and within something close to thirty minutes, we returned to our site with arms of sticks and marginally acceptable kindling. We were hungry. But wait -- all we had was beans for dinner and yet the pot was close to empty. What had happened, we thought? The guilty look on Paul's face revealed the horrible truth -- in a fit of hunger, Paul had consumed a larger than normal share of the beans. But we couldn't be too mad at him, because Tahoe had cast its spell over us, and we were mellow fellows.

The next morning we got up, broke camp, and headed into the wilds of Nevada, entering at America's Biggest Little City, Reno. You could see the vestiges of the Old West in Reno. Without much effort, it was easy to imagine wooden sidewalks, horses tied to hitching posts, honky tonk pianos, and bar fights erupting behind swinging doors. We cruised on through and headed into the vast salt desert that comprises most of Nevada.

Not all parts of Nevada are like Las Vegas. There are places in the middle of the desert which are largely untouched by man, woman, or beast. The sun beats mercilessly down on a barren landscape, punctuated by tiny plants every now and then, but with little mercy for the traveler. We stopped at a rest area with a water fountain, above which a sign had been posted reading "Next Water is 78 Miles". A fellow traveler, a woman in her thirties, looked at the sign and said, "Oh, they must be kidding." No, ma'am, I think not.

This was a heads-down part of the drive. We stopped for the night at Winnemucca (pictured in a satellite photo at right). Winnemucca gets about eight inches of rain per year, and that fact was evident upon arrival. Weary from the drive, we found ourselves a comfortable, inexpensive motel and crashed for the night.

I knew something was amiss when I stepped into the shower and saw that the tilted floor had accumulated several days' worth of water. Hmmm. Looking out the bathroom window as I dried off, I could see some abandoned farm implements baking in the desert heat.

Clueless about where we might find dinner, we asked the desk clerk, a lady in her fifties who had obviously enjoyed a small toast of wine in the very recent past, for a suggestion. Slurring her words, she directed us to a "family restaurant" down the road. When we arrived there, we noticed that we had to walk through the obligatory casino prior to being seated at our table. (Remember that this was before the days of nationwide gambling, and casinos were only to be found in very few places.)

The waitress who served us our meal was a few years younger than we were, and she told us that she was working this summer job just to make a few bucks. She was curious about our appearance in Winnemucca, and when we told her a little about our trip and described a few places we had visited, she said rather plaintively, "Oh, wow -- I wish I could go the rest of the way with you." With our being in the middle of nowhere, as far as we could tell, we deemed it best to leave this one alone. Besides, the Pinto was already crowded enough with the three of us.

The next day took us out of Nevada and into Utah. The desert sand had whitened considerably, and before too long, we reached the Bonneville Salt Flats. We stepped out of the car long enough to watch a guy in a yellow Pantera pull off I-80 and onto the Flats, where he accelerated with abandon and headed off toward the horizon. The desert here provided a spectacular mirage, in that the hills in the distance appeared to float above the desert floor. But enough -- we still had to get to Salt Lake City by evening.

I-80 riding into Salt Lake presented us with even more unusual scenery. The Great Salt Lake itself appeared dark green in color, with definite hints of deep indigo. We stepped out of the car at a rest area and looked out over the briny, aromatic water. From seemingly out of nowhere, a band of motorcyclists roared into view. Looking down from the bluff where we were standing, we could see Hell's Angels emblems adorning the back of every rider's jacket. Interesting.

The drive into Salt Lake City was starkly beautiful, and the city itself was something of a treat for the eyes. Nestled on the side of a mountain, we could make out the Mormon Temple. Checking into a neat roadside motel, we ditched our bags and headed out to explore. After dinner, we drove up to the State Capitol building and took pictures while standing on the Capitol steps. A band of roving teens only a couple of years younger than ourselves yelled obscenities from their car as we came back down to the street, but they wanted nothing more. For the second time in the same day, we had seen something which didn't quite fit with our previous perceptions of Utah.

•••••

The next day, we took a tour of the Mormon Tabernacle and grounds. This was a memorable experience. We saw a statue dedicated to birds who had saved the farmers from a locust invasion. Of course, not being members of the Church of Latter-Day Saints, we could not enter the Mormon Temple itself, but nevertheless, the tour proved quite interesting. And besides, we needed a bit of cultural enlightenment before our next foray into the wilderness.

Bright and early the next morning, we packed up and headed north to Ogden. Sitting in yet another Sambo's, we planned in detail the next leg of the trip. We knew we wanted to head to the Grand Tetons, but the details were still a little sketchy. We decided to drive north into Idaho, then approach Jackson, Wyoming, from the west.

The drive from Ogden to Jackson was fairly uneventful until we approached the Wyoming border. Here, elevations increased dramatically, and again, we were treated to a palette of color similar to what we had seen in New Mexico. On the other "side" of the mountains, we descended into Jackson. At that time, Jackson Hole was not quite as developed as it is today, and consequently, about all we could find to eat was pizza, ice cream, and fried chicken. We settled for pizza and marveled at the size of a taxidermied elk which had been mounted on a wooden platform outside the restaurant.

Grand Teton National Park, as we were to discover, is probably one of the best places in the United States for day hiking. The trails, although somewhat challenging, are well marked and clearly spotted. We wasted no time taking advantage of this, beginning our hikes almost immediately upon arrival. And this time, unlike our evening at the Holbrook KOA, we had been able to set up the tent without any problems or disturbances to our fellow campers.

We had planned to stay only one evening at Grand Teton and then move on to Yellowstone, but after a night of camping at Yellowstone in high winds with grizzly bear alerts, we returned to the relative safety of our Teton campground. We took day hikes in Yellowstone, even hiking in areas which were considered off limits due to a recent avalanche. But we were careful and enjoyed everything both parks had to offer. We took some magnificent pictures, probably the finest shots taken during the entire trip.

After several days in the area, we decided to head on to our next destination, Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. We headed straight south out of Jackson to the town of Evanston, Wyoming, then east to Cheyenne. We stopped briefly in Laramie to see the University of Wyoming, where my friend Lewis had attended college for a year. Pulling into Cheyenne around dinnertime, we headed into a McDonald's for dinner. I remember that I was sporting an old hat which my father had worn in the 1950's. In the hatband was a Moshe Dayan button and a big rhinestone pin. Folks in the McD's probably thought we were possessed Eastern folk.

We reached the Colorado border sometime after dark and heard for the first time the song "Green Grass and High Tides" by the Outlaws as we drove into Fort Collins. Finally pulling into Denver, we booked ourselves into a TraveLodge, arguably the nicest place we had yet stayed. As Peter once again talked in his sleep, Paul and I sat up watching an ABC-TV production of "The Picture of Dorian Gray." It was better than the average show in those days and was humorously punctuated at intervals by Peter sitting up in his sleep and saying something totally out of context.

After a restful evening, and in spite of Peter's random exhortations, we awoke the next morning and headed into town, stopping at a sporting goods store alongside the railroad tracks. By this time, we were a bit too outdoor oriented to truly appreciate Denver, so we headed on to the park. Rocky Mountain, like Grand Teton and Yellowstone, gave us the opportunity to do some great day hikes. Here, elevations were even higher than in Wyoming. One day, we hiked up Flat Top Mountain, which topped out over 12,400 feet. At that elevation, I noted that my "Photogray" glasses (the ancestors of today's "Transition" lenses) had not only turned gray but had darkened further, to a deep cobalt blue. We threw snowballs at each other from atop a glacier in August.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a gust of wind took hold of Peter's beloved Army cap, which he had worn all day, every day, and lifted it on the breeze to an unknown location at a much lower altitude. It was gone. The icon of the trip -- it had been stolen by Mother Nature. Perhaps it was time to move on.

to be continued...

The Pinto Chronicles - Part One

In these days of discounted air fares, most people take the high road and get from one place to another as quickly as possible. But just a few years ago, when a transcontinental airline ticket was a semi-major investment, it wasn't that way. This is the story of how three young men traveled together from Memphis to California and back in a Ford Pinto and lived to tell about it.

The idea began one late spring evening in Memphis. My friend Paul, whom I had known since ninth grade, and I were sitting around talking when the idea struck us -- why not make a cross-country pilgrimage to L.A. and San Francisco? The more we talked, the better the idea sounded. After all, we were college kids with holdover summer jobs in town; we could probably do this. We decided not only to make the plan a reality, but to include Paul's younger brother Peter, who was 17 at the time. I was born in California and had visited several times in my youth, but for Paul and Peter, this would be their first West Coast pilgrimage. It would later come to be known the Great California Trip of 1975.

No good trip happens without a little preparation, and this was no exception. Entrenching ourselves firmly at the Ranch House on North Highland Street in Memphis, with roast beef sandwiches, fries, and ice cold beer, Paul and I set about planning at around 9:00 one evening. Within an hour or so, we had a basic itinerary. We would drive west on a Sunday afternoon, hoping to make Oklahoma City by evening. It could be done. It was going to happen.

There were several weeks of planning involved, in which we procured an old Boy Scout tent which belonged to Paul and Peter's church, visited an auto parts store to pick up belts and hoses, bought sunglasses, and discussed the plan in further detail. We set up the tent in my family's back yard just to make sure that a) we could do it, and b) there were no holes through which we might receive an unwanted washing or creatures of the desert. Having found no problems, we waited with anticipation for the date to arrive.

Finally, on a Sunday morning in early August, we headed out from Paul's house. We had mounted a sign in the back window that said, "California or Bust!" Peter donned his favorite Army cap, I put on some reflective sunglasses, and Paul took the driver's seat. Paul and Peter's family and my mom and dad all waved goodbye to us as we headed out of the driveway and into the unknown. It was gonna be great, and by the time it was done, it was gonna be over 5,000 miles.

•••••

The first day's drive was about what we expected. The route from Memphis west through Arkansas was a long, solid Interstate 40 haul with few interruptions along the way. Somewhere around Fort Smith, the bottom fell out, but the downpour didn't last long, and soon we were across the Oklahoma state line. At around 10:00 PM, we pulled into a Day's Inn in Oklahoma City -- $17 a night and very comfortable.

The next morning, we stopped at a convenience store to pick up the necessary provisions (more about this later) and got back underway. The plan was to spend the night at a campground close to Bluewater Lake State Park, New Mexico, fairly close to the New Mexico-Arizona state border. Little did we know what awaited us there.

That morning's drive through western Oklahoma and into the panhandle of Texas gave us our first glimpse of the west in all its dusty glory.  The last time I had made this drive, I was only four years old, but surprisingly, I had some recollection of the old Route 66, which our home road of I-40 paralleled (and in some cases, replaced). For Paul and Peter, it was an initiation.  

I suggested that since we were in Texas, it would be nice to stop for some "good Texas beef". Now, if you're from Texas, please don't take offense at what I am about to say, because it is not representative of the state in general. I've had many great times in Texas and have known some wonderful Texans. We just picked the wrong place on the wrong day.

We pulled off the road and into an Amarillo restaurant which had been widely advertised on billboards ever since we crossed the Oklahoma-Texas state line as promising great beef. We stepped out of the Pinto and into what was essentially a businessman's restaurant. Now, it being 1975 and all, we didn't exactly have that clean-cut look, and the regulars took notice. It seemed that everyone else in the place was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt with tie. Steer head belt buckles were in abundance. We, on the other hand, were three somewhat shaggy youth in a little car with Tennessee license plates.

Nevertheless, we were waited upon and presented with plates of "good Texas beef", or so we thought. The problem with the beef was that you needed much stronger teeth and jaws than any of us had. I assumed the beef came from longhorn cattle, not known for tender cuts. But regardless, it was food, and we gnawed down what we could, glad to have provisions and air conditioning. Back on the road.

It was hard to miss the Cadillac Ranch. Located just off I-40 were ten cars, dated 1949 to 1963, placed nose first into the sand, parallel to each other in single file. Erected in 1974 by a helium millionaire, this modern monument has since been moved to a site two miles west of its historical location to avoid displacement by the spreading development of Amarillo.

New Mexico presented us with an artist's palette of color almost from the moment we entered the state. I hadn't remembered this part of the route -- unusual rock formations along the way revealed splendid earth tones, and the clear light seemed to highlight every grain of sand along the side of the road. We breezed across the state, noting the bicycle riders in the Albuquerque heat with respect, since Paul and I both did a considerable amount of biking back in Memphis, but not in these temperatures. Before too long, we arrived at the Bluewater State Park campground, where we had reservations for a tent site for the evening. Paul pulled off the road and into the park entrance.

The Pinto was a tough little vehicle, but the road into Bluewater was daunting. We bounced along a rutted, dusty lane toward what appeared to be an open tomb of weathered RV's and tents. There was a sense of drama in the air. And then -- BANG! -- down came the Pinto on a protrusion of hardened earth. Paul thought for a minute that we might have punctured the oil pan, but everything appeared to be OK, at least for the moment.

Peter had been experiencing gastric difficulty for quite a few miles, so we pulled off the dirt road, well away from any other campers. Poor Peter excused himself from the car to head into the bushes, since there were no facilities in sight. Paul and I waited for a few moments, and then we heard a frantic rustle. Peter came running toward the car yelling, "Let's get outta here!"

Once he was in the car, he launched into a highly animated account of what had happened. Apparently, as soon as he had positioned himself sans trousers, he found himself looking up at a rattlesnake coiled on a rock directly in front of him. Time was of the essence, and Peter felt that a hasty retreat would be well advised.  Besides, we'd find another place down the road, wouldn't we?

Spooked by Bluewater, we headed farther down the road and arrived in Gallup, New Mexico, at about sunset. Within minutes we located a McDonald's (we seemed to be developing a knack for this). Rushing in, we placed our usual orders, which came on egg buns instead of the classic white buns we were used to in Tennessee. But no matter, because the food tasted great, and there were no reptiles in sight. After dinner, we drove on through the rest of Gallup, where we noticed groups of heavily inebriated Native American men standing on the street corners -- big, strong guys with seemingly nothing to do and no place to go. It was eerie and sad at the same time.

As night fell, we headed on, since by then we had no accommodation plans.  We passed Petrified Forest National Park but could see nothing, since we were totally enveloped in darkness. Along the way, we began to see ominous road construction warning signs reading "DANGER AHEAD". The first sign was not disturbing, but as we proceeded, the signs became larger and more threatening. We began to be a bit nervous about what might lie ahead.

After a few minutes, we reached the dreaded site. Arizona road construction crews had been hard at work patching a small slice of the pavement in the right lane, an area no more than a few feet long by a foot or two wide. In retrospect, we thanked the state for taking the time and effort to provide warnings. We had thought that the road was about to drop off into space.

Soon, we reached Holbrook, Arizona. This looked like a good place to crash, and fortunately, there was a KOA campground within sight. We had found a home for the night, so we pulled into the campground and positioned ourselves on one of the outside lanes. Even though it was 10:15 PM, we still had to set up camp. Paul and I, being 20 and drained from the day's 880-mile drive, popped out a couple of tall Coors beers which we had purchased earlier in the day. We handed Peter a soft drink and began to pitch the tent.

In a word, we had not adequately prepared for the tent setup. As we clattered among the various poles, trying to make sense of it all, the New York couple across from us emerged from their RV and set up lawn chairs just to watch us. It must have been entertaining -- three guys from Tennessee, two of whom seemed somewhat tipsy, who without some divine intervention would soon be sleeping under the stars for want of structural knowledge.

Peter was by now road weary, and seeing the KOA swimming pool, became excited at the thought of a refreshing swim. But upon further investigation, we realized that the surface of the water was quite dirty. It looked as if many previous campers had not dusted themselves off prior to taking the plunge. The pool was perhaps not a good idea for us.

Eventually, with the tent up and reasonably stable, we settled in for the night. All was well until some time later when Peter sat up and stated, "I can't park the tent. I can't park the tent!" He appeared to be frantic, but he also appeared to be talking in his sleep. Paul then assured me that this was normal, and that we might be further entertained by Peter throughout the trip. This would come to pass.

•••••

Morning dawned, and we were ready to hit the road again. We hoped to make L.A. by evening. As I rolled back the tent door, I was startled to find that I was looking out onto a vast desert. Apparently, the KOA had been plopped down in the middle of, literally, nowhere. No wonder we had heard coyotes calling during the night! We packed up the Pinto and headed out, stopping for breakfast at Winslow, Arizona (the same town mentioned by the Eagles in "Take It Easy").

After a decent breakfast at what appeared to be a locally popular restaurant, we picked up some post cards to send back home (this was before email), but we were saddened to find that the proprietor of the neighboring Motel 6 would not let us use his pen to write the cards. He was adamant about it. Apparently, pen theft was a serious crime in this part of the country.

In Arizona, there were many makeshift billboards along the side of the interstate advertising Indian jewelry. In 1975, turquoise jewelry was quite popular, and the locals were keenly aware of market demand. But we truly had to stop and laugh for a moment when we saw one eager effort which read simply "Indian Jewry." If only my friends in Chicago could see this, I thought.

No trip to Arizona is complete without a visit to the Grand Canyon. Stopping for a rest at Flagstaff, we prepared ourselves for the hike up Highway 89 to the "big hole in the ground". As we headed up 89, we came across numerous Native American women selling jewelry by the side of the road. Perhaps this was what the signs had been referring to. Spreads of beautiful beaded necklaces graced sheets which had been laid out on the sand, while makeshift sheet canopies protected the merchants from the noon desert heat.

The Grand Canyon itself was a spectacular sight, and to add to the ambiance, we pulled out cans of Vienna sausages and packages of crackers. As we feasted, we looked out over the magnificent vistas before us, but after an hour or so, we decided it was time to head down the road. Returning down to I-40, we resumed what by now had become a trek through the desert. We refueled at a Whiting Brothers gas station where a thermometer read 114 degrees in the shade, and we noticed that all the men standing outside the station had dark brown, leathery skin.

We stopped at Needles, California, for dinner. Needles is one of the hottest cities in the United States. If you'll watch the weather reports on TV, you'll see that Needles quite often takes the prize for highest daily temperature, and they are not joking. Dinner was at Sambo's, a restaurant which has since disappeared from the American dining scene. As we sat in the comfortable surroundings of the restaurant, bathed in extreme air conditioning, we pondered what lay ahead of us, for we still had to get across California by the end of the evening.

•••••

Driving west out of Needles took us across the Mojave Desert, certainly one of nature's most mysterious places. Occasionally, we would spot a house nestled back away from the road against the sand hills. But we never saw any people. At about 9:00 PM, we pulled into Barstow for gas, and I took over driving from Paul.

All was going well until about 45 minutes later. Now, recall that I was driving my friend's Pinto with a stick shift, and that, being at Northwestern in Chicago for nine months each year without an automobile, I did not drive on a regular basis, plus all our family's cars were automatic.  You get the picture.

While descending a steep, curvy downhill grade on I-15 toward San Bernardino, I suddenly noticed a pair of headlights closing in on me. I could not pull into the left lane, because other drivers were already occupying every available slot. When I next looked in the mirror, I could see the name "Mack" on the truck's radiator, as well as every fly and mosquito which he had picked up between Needles and Barstow. The driver was barreling down on me at around 80 miles per hour (the speed limit in those days was 55, and 80 was very fast to be driving at the time).

I was truly without an escape path, since it was pitch black and we were in the process of careening, albeit in an orderly fashion, down the grade. My palms started to sweat. And then, as suddenly as it began, the truck slowed down and fell back. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that he had been pulled over by a California State Trooper. I breathed a sigh of relief.

It was not long before I handed the wheel back over to Paul, and he took us in. A large dark blue sign spanned what was by now the "freeway" -- it read simply "Los Angeles", and displayed a city seal on each side. As we hauled on down I-10, we saw our exit sign up ahead. We were staying with Paul and Peter's aunt, uncle, and cousins in Alhambra, an L.A. suburb just a bit south of Pasadena. We located their house without much trouble and headed up to the door, tired but no worse for the wear. The family greeted us with open arms. We had arrived.

to be continued...

A Night in Bethlehem, Etc.

I told a story to a friend a few days ago that I feel is worth repeating. I don't recall exactly how we got on the topic, but every time I think back on this particular adventure, I realize how bad situations can offer up revelations.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, 1994, our family headed north from Charlotte in our 1990 two-tone Isuzu Trooper to spend the holiday with my wife's family in Boston. This was a drive we had made many times before from Atlanta, and the drive from Charlotte was of course shorter, but it still took almost two days each way. Headed up on that first night, we made it as far as Piscataway, New Jersey.

A few days earlier, knowing we were headed north, my New Yorker friend Scott had suggested a route that took us up the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, where we could get a great view of Lower Manhattan. Bright and early Sunday morning, we left our hotel in Piscataway, stopping along the way at a Dunkin' Donuts in a rather rough part of Perth Amboy for coffee and donuts to go. Sarah, nine years old and curious about what things looked like at street level in New Jersey, went into the shop with me and was completely taken by the accents of the patrons and the staff. A fellow customer joked with us about how you knew the neighborhood was getting pretty bad, because the change cup next to the register was labeled "Do Not Steal". He looked more than a little dodgy himself.

Emerging unscathed with some new Jersey phrases, we snarfed down a dozen donuts and some highly sugared coffee while driving the BQE and gazing at the city across the East River. I liked how the well-traveled road descended at times below street level into a sort of narrow corridor, only to emerge back into the light and life of Brooklyn. The twists and turns of the road eventually led us to I-95, where we headed north into New England and on to Boston.

The week in Boston was restful and energizing, and on Saturday morning, we pointed the Trooper back home and headed south. I drove from Boston, down through Connecticut, New York and New Jersey, traversing the crowded lanes of the Garden State Parkway, and finally heading west on I-78, eventually stopping at the New Jersey-Pennsylvania state line to switch drivers. The sky was overcast, and as soon as we crossed into Pennsylvania, it began to snow. Visibility was limited, and due to the hilly terrain in the area, the roads were slick. Karen, who grew up and learned to drive in New England, was used to driving in bad weather and consequently kept her speed to about 15-20 miles per hour.

Suddenly, I saw Karen look in the rear view mirror and say something, then I heard a loud crunch on our left rear bumper. We pulled to the right, but the driver who had hit us sped off ahead. It was too snowy to get his license number, but at that point, that was not our primary concern. Sarah was crying, Hannah was speechless, and somehow, Karen maintained her cool. We pulled off the road, put on the flashers, and got out to check the damage. From all indications, the only thing we could see was a bent rear bumper and a kinked tailpipe. We felt lucky, but also totally unable to drive as far as Harrisburg, which was our intended destination. And soon, it was pitch dark. We were unfamiliar with this particular stretch of road, since we generally took another route when traveling through Pennsylvania. A sign up ahead said that it was only a few miles to Bethlehem, so we decided to stop there for the night.

Neither Karen nor I had ever been to Bethlehem, so she drove while I navigated us into town. This was before Garmin, TomTom, and phone map apps, so I followed as best I could on the trusty Rand-McNally Road Atlas. We could see the shadows of the steel mills as we plied our way among unfamiliar streets, and there were no people around anywhere. The scene was nothing short of spooky, but fortunately, within a few minutes, we found our hotel, breathing a sigh of relief as we stepped out of the car and into the hotel lobby.

What we saw caused our hearts to skip a beat. The hotel was fully decked out for Christmas and was hosting a nativity scene decorating contest. All along the entry corridor, a series of creches were displayed. The hotel desk clerk directed us to our room, and we hauled up our suitcases, then returned down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. We all went into chill mode, then decided that the next morning, we would try to find a body shop to assess the damage. It was a good night of sleep.

The next morning, as we packed the car, I noticed that my portable CD player was missing. Not being familiar with the area, and having recently experienced a theft from the Trooper back in Charlotte, I spoke to the hotel clerk about the loss, and he summoned the Bethlehem Police to file a theft report. I wasn't really sure if this was necessary, but within minutes, a sharply dressed young police officer appeared and took down our information. Once that was out of the way, we headed to the nearest body shop. Remember, it was Sunday morning.

We pulled into the parking lot of the body shop, into one of the last available spaces. The owner, a jolly, fortysomething fellow, took a good look at the damage to the Trooper, then disappeared inside and returned with a crowbar. He carefully bent the tailpipe back into shape, and when I asked how much we owed him, he said, "Nothing, sir...I see you guys are from North Carolina. Just have a safe trip home." We thanked him, wended our way back out of Bethlehem, and then continued west on I-78.

The drive was getting better. The kids were so patient as we passed through one town after another on I-78, then on I-81, and by the time we got to northwest Virginia, everyone was hungry, so we pulled into a McDonald's and filled up. As we headed back out to the expressway, I could feel that something wasn't quite right with the Trooper; it was a little hard to get enough acceleration to get back up to speed on the road, but I attributed this to whatever might have happened the night before. At any rate, we would have the Trooper checked out once we returned to Charlotte.

The party wasn't over. As we drove down the road, I tried changing gears (the Trooper had a stick shift) and noticed that the clutch was slipping. Karen remembered that we had been down I-81 the previous summer on a family vacation, and she thought she remembered that we were coming upon a sizable town that we had passed through then. Sure enough, within a few miles, we reached Harrisonburg, Virginia, and as we approached, we spotted an Isuzu dealer off to the left. We pulled the Trooper into a Comfort Inn and planned our next move.

Evening was falling, and once we had parked the Trooper at the hotel, it wouldn't budge. We took our luggage up to the room and called a towing company. A little after dark, the tow truck arrived, and our driver, a pleasant young woman, hooked up the truck and got us the two blocks or so to the dealer. We paid her, thanked her, and headed across the street to a Red Lobster, where the restaurant manager, hearing our plight, offered us free appetizers and wine. We had a relaxing dinner and a restful night, and the next morning, we walked down to the Isuzu dealer.

At the dealership, two members of the service staff took pity on us and put us at the front of the service schedule. We needed a new clutch, and the work would take at least a day to complete, so we rented a car and drove up to the New Market Civil War battlefield, thinking that maybe we could all use a little history lesson to change gears. It was a beautiful day, and for a moment, we forgot all about the Trooper and our delay getting home. That evening, we toured around Harrisonburg, checked out the campus of James Madison University and discovered that we were actually in a fairly large town, and a friendly one at that.

The next day, the Trooper was ready, and after we paid and got our keys, I asked if I could speak to the owner of the dealership; I wanted to thank him for the superior service that we had received. When I walked into his large, paneled office, I introduced myself and told him about the two service advisors who had been so kind to us. I mentioned that I knew the holidays were around the corner, and I hoped that they would be recognized. He told me he'd make sure they got a little something special.

The rest of the trip home to Charlotte was, thankfully, uneventful, and when we got home, people were curious about what had happened and what it felt like to break down "in the middle of nowhere". All I could think was that in actuality, we had rediscovered something special, and that was that there are so many caring people in the world. You sometimes do not expect to find them, and they might not be in places that you'd even consider looking. But they are there, and maybe the adventure that started that night in Bethlehem was one of those things that was just supposed to happen.

By the way, our next SUV had automatic transmission.

Just Call Me Road Food of the Morning

Like many of us, I enjoy a good road trip now and then.  The destination doesn't always matter, because getting there can be fun -- sometimes there are challenges, but generally, a voyage is a nice change of pace.  Something about propelling oneself across the network of highways to another place, under one's own steam (and a few tanks of $3.99 per gallon gas), is gratifying.  Of course, one delightful element of travel is so-called "road food", assortments of edibles that we probably wouldn't indulge in at home, but which, given the freedom of the road, we eagerly consume on the way to and from our destinations.  Besides, calories don't count as much when you're traveling, because you're burning them off as you...oh, wait...never mind.

But today, I'd like to focus on one particular type of road food: the "free breakfast" included with hotel stays these days.  This concept is eminently likable, if only for the fact that it's so easy...you can show up down in the dining room, completely unannounced, in whatever you'd like to wear.  Personally, I always try to look somewhat respectable (and I'll provide an example later in this post why this is sometimes a good idea), although I've noticed that not everyone follows this same line of thinking.

By the way, we all know that this breakfast isn't really free, but there's no one standing there to take your money at the time, so it feels like you're actually getting away with something, which I think makes us all feel somewhat dashing and ready to face the new day.

I have observed that at hotels across America, there are several common denominators which constitute the typical hotel free breakfast.  See if you spot anything you recognize here:

• Six-ounce containers of fruit-flavored yogurt in an ice bowl - The yogurt can only be provided in six-ounce containers, and it must be strawberry, peach, or blueberry -- nothing else is acceptable.  The two favorite brands are Yoplait and Dannon.
• Two orange juice spigots - Although other kinds of juice are often provided, there are generally two spigots for OJ, owing to its relative popularity in the juice world.
• Coffee in the dining room, but also in the lobby -- You're never really sure where to get your coffee, but it doesn't matter, and I've noticed that those tiny cups fit quite nicely into the minute BMW cup holders.  Getting my coffee in the lobby makes me feel quite daring.
• Fruit that is not really ready for prime time -- As my friend Tanya (who also provided this post's picture) says, "inedible bananas" are the rule here.  The fruit is often highly polished, which makes you wonder where it's been.
• Instant oatmeal, a.k.a. "glue" -- Oatmeal is pretty safe, but face it, it doesn't make you feel daring or dashing.
• Generic cereal -- From looking at the cereal offerings, one would surmise that Froot Loops and Raisin Bran are the two largest selling cereals in America.
• Make-your-own waffle machines -- The MYOWM is is probably the greatest invention since the light bulb, as long as you're careful.  Once, in a grand faux pas, I almost set the Boone, NC, La Quinta on fire by forgetting to flip the waffle thingie after I put the batter in.
• Prepackaged sausage biscuits -- Now, you may say "gross", but let me tell you, for those of us who are Southerners, these things can be our saving grace when we're traversing uncharted waters in other parts of the country.
• Donuts/danish -- I believe there is one supplier for donuts and danish across the United States.  I have seen exactly the same cheese danish from Massachusetts to Florida.  I believe the frosting pattern was identical, which makes me wonder if it was actually the same danish.
• High concentrations of styrofoam -- The amount of styrofoam in the typical hotel breakfast bar pushes the envelope for safe limits set by the EPA.
• Tongs with everything -- If you stood at the breakfast bar long enough, a hotel employee would emerge from one of those secret doors (where do those go?) and put a set of tongs around your neck.

This all being said, I have to admit that I have had some nice experiences in breakfast bars.  On one occasion, while traveling with our daughter up to Boone for her freshman year move-in weekend, our reservations at the La Quinta were lost, but we were able to procure a room at the nearby Fairfield Inn.  I went down to breakfast the following morning, and the dining room was mobbed, but fortunately, I managed to get a seat.  

Shortly after I'd started sipping my "lobby coffee", a nice lady about twenty years my senior asked if she and her husband could join me, since the place was so crowded.  They were a charming couple, and while we were talking, I asked them their names and then suddenly realized that her husband had been chancellor of Northwestern University during my years there.  Small world, I thought, and wow, was I ever glad I didn't wear an old t-shirt...he would have thought I had not made the best of my education.

So, with that being said, I hope your next road trip includes a morning of pleasant refueling at one of these uniquely American oases and that you will have the chance to bask in the plethora of entertainment options offered therein.

Bon voyage, everyone!  Oh, and don't forget the antacid.

Contraband

Back in the 1950's, my family experienced a significant life event which is now commonplace but in those days was not an everyday occurrence -- one of the kids moved across the country.  My uncle, a young Methodist minister, had been serving for some time as a "circuit rider" in three small churches around Black River Falls, Wisconsin.  (This practice was de rigueur in those days, particularly in areas with small towns and few pastors.)  I don't know the exact circumstances, but at some point, my aunt and uncle got the opportunity to move to California.  Since my aunt was a native of Bakersfield (home of country music legend Buck Owens), I believe this was probably a good opportunity to get closer to her family.  Given that my uncle had grown up in Tennessee, I guess you might say he already had a head start on the rest of the family when it came to relocation.

Before too long, my grandmother and grandfather decided to follow suit.  I mean, after all, what was a simple move from Tennessee to California?  It wasn't really that far, especially in a car with no air conditioning at a time when flat tires were commonplace.  My grandmother, a wonderful storyteller, related their story to me, and it's always been one of my favorite family tales, because it truly exhibits a sense of complete disregard for stated rules, and let's face it, there's a certain amount of enjoyment in that for all of us.

It seems that the moving trip west for Grandma and Grandaddy along Route 66 was going well until they reached the border of New Mexico and Arizona...that's when everything went a bit sour.  When you travel west, you are stopped at the NM-AZ border to make sure you are not bringing in fruit, because it can introduce unwanted insects into the local ecosystems, which are heavily dependent on agriculture.  A border guard, doing his duty by checking this car with Tennessee license plates, innocently asked them what they were carrying.

My grandfather, a stern man of German heritage with an engaging Southern accent, replied, "Nothin'."  But this was not to be the end of it.  The border guard continued his line of questioning.

"Well, sir, I guess we'll need to see what's in the trunk of your car."

Not to be taken lightly, my grandfather barked back, "I ain't opening it up."

At this point, my grandmother became somewhat nervous...after all, this was an officer of the law.  Seeing a big rug that they had tied to the top of the car, she somehow could predict what was coming next.

"Well then, sir, if you won't open the trunk, you'll have to tell me what that thing is up on top of your roof."

It would suffice to say that my grandfather, a reasonable man in his way, felt that some line had been crossed, and he wasn't having any of it.  He took one more look at the officer and with a grave face, and every ounce a Tennessean, he replied, "It's mah STILL."

At that point, the border guard gave up and let them pass.  I don't know anything about the rest of the move, and Grandma didn't seem to recall all that clearly either, but I don't think that really matters.  The important thing was that Grandma and Grandaddy were allowed to pass into Arizona and on to California, and soon, they became settlers of the New West.  After a few short months of acclimation, they located some Southern food, and all was well.

A Savannah Story

Despite having lived in Atlanta since 1982, except for two years in Charlotte, it was not until 2005 that we finally ventured over to Savannah as a family.  Savannah is a great town, full of color and character.  A good rule of thumb is that if you like Charleston, you'll probably like Savannah.  Anyway, we'd thought about going for years, so we finally made it down and booked ourselves into the Marshall House on East Broughton Street.  My friend Jenny had stayed there not long before as part of a wedding party, and since Jenny has very good taste, I figured this would be a great place to land, and indeed, it was.

Lafayette Square, Savannah

Savannah is dripping with history.  For those of you not familiar with the city, it is nice to know a little background.  Savannah was founded in 1733 by Colonel James Oglethorpe, and it was the first state capital of Georgia.  Today, it is a thriving seaport, and its downtown area is comprised primarily of a historic district containing 22 squares, originally designed as spaces for public military exercises, but today used as leafy oases through which to stroll or simply to sit and relax.  When you enter Savannah from the west on I-16, you are immediately deposited at the intersection of Liberty and Montgomery Streets, and right away, you feel as if you have entered "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil", the 1994 mystery novel set in Savannah.  Live oak trees span overhead, and beautifully restored historic homes face each other along stately streets.  It's something like waking up in a dream.  But as beautiful as Savannah is, this particular blog post revolves not around the area itself, but rather around one of its residents.

Gallery Espresso

On a sunny morning during our visit, while the girls were still asleep in the hotel room, I decided to venture out for a morning walk.  Most days, when I go walking, I shoot for 3.1 miles, a standard 5K walk, and in Savannah, achieving that is no problem whatsoever; in fact, just strolling from square to square, you will be surprised at how much ground you cover, since there's something to see or some shop to wander into on almost every corner.  As I made my way back to the hotel, I spotted an interesting looking coffee shop named Gallery Espresso, which fronted prominently on Bull Street, one of the major thoroughfares in the historic district.  I pulled off my headphones, got in line, ordered up a nice morning latte, and then took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs next to a low table along the front windows, where I proceeded to peruse a book about the Civil War.  It all seemed so perfect -- sitting in Savannah, reading a book about the War, and sipping a flavorful latte.

Within a few minutes, I was joined by an elderly matron dressed in a rich pink pantsuit adorned with silver sequin appliques, who was holding in her arms an obviously well cared-for miniature dachshund.  She asked if she could join me at my table, and I responded that I would be delighted if she did.  (After all, we were in the genteel South.)

Now, it is important to the story to understand that Gallery Espresso, like a Parisian cafe, welcomes with open arms both customers and their dogs.  There is no canine discrimination here.  And truly, the little dachshund appeared to be quite at home.  I started the conversation by complimenting the lady on her adorable dog, and I mentioned that my aunt and uncle had raised miniature dachshunds in California in the mid-Sixties.  This led to some pleasant back-and-forth about the nature of the breed, previous dogs owned by each of us, and so on.  When I asked the dog's name, she replied in her undeniably Savannah accent, "Well, her name is Miss Eloise."

Within a few minutes, my companion's cappuccino was served, and as she took her first sip, she said, "I give her coffee every mornin', and she seems to like it...I don't think it hurts her," and then proceeded to place a spoon of cappuccino froth to the dog's lips.  This was met with a sense of tremendous gratitude from Miss Eloise, who obviously had imbibed caffeine-containing beverages on numerous occasions.

We continued chatting, and after a time, my new found friend remarked, "You know, the really nice thing about Miss Eloise is that she is not afraid of otha' dogs...watch this."  At that moment, she turned Miss Eloise to face a very large dog which was standing in the coffee line with its owner, a dog which was probably eight times the size of Eloise.  When the little diva caught sight of the larger dog, her ears immediately perked up, and she turned full attention to the massive new four-legged patron.  But after only a moment, she completely lost interest in the giant newcomer, smoothed down her ears, and then turned back to her owner, waiting patiently for the next sip of cappuccino.  At that point, my drinking companion casually reiterated, "See what I mean?  She is simply not afraid of otha' dogs."

Along River Street at sunset

At that point, I felt as if I had seen a little of the true Savannah, the city of legend.  I polished off the remainder of my latte, excused myself and took leave of Miss Eloise and my new friend, but in truth, I could have stayed at Gallery Espresso for a bit longer.  I could only imagine what kinds of experiences Miss Eloise might have in a typical day.  Would she dine with society ladies at tables set with antique crystal and china?  Would she go for a pedicure at precisely 4:00 PM, after the crowds had thinned?  Or would she stroll proudly past those waiting in line at The Lady and Sons restaurant, as if to say, "Excuse me everyone, but I am a local"?  So many questions, so little time, and we were only there for a weekend.

I resolved to return to Savannah soon and often.  I'm still trying to make good on that promise, but when I do, I plan to make Gallery Espresso one of my first stops.  I can only hope that I will again be greeted by Miss Eloise and her genteel owner...that would make for the perfect day.