I recently returned from New Mexico where I had volunteered for a job at the Gila Wilderness. The job did not work out so I came home. Some friends have told me that they are sorry that I wasted my time going all that distance.
It was bitter cold in Deming, New Mexico where I stopped for gas and coffee. An old guy came walking by. His had a pack and layers of cheap sweaters and jackets. A little dog followed him. I asked him if he could use a five and he told me about being used to the cold and how he had his dog for twelve years, far longer than any of his three wives. He explained that his dog was a wild dog, as evidenced by a total lack of dew claws. He said goodbye, God blessing me with a grimy handshake.
The weather worsened as I went north toward higher country and finally came to a hill that I could not climb with my two wheel drive. I backed to a place where I could turn around and drove back to a lodge that was closed for the season. I could hear talking and laughing so I knocked and asked if I could get a room. They opened a room for me, even though they were closed.
A guy was playing guitar in the dining room so I asked to join him. We played for a couple of hours as I joined a reunion of friends and family of the lodge owners. They invited me to their family New Years Eve Party that night. The family and nearby friends, mostly aging hippies made me welcome. Three of us played guitar and I danced with the young ladies. Firewords, menudo, and a lot of laughter. The next day the road cleared enough to go to the Wilderness.
Two days later I was on the road home. Not one regret.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Vision Quest
During our high school days we sought wild and remote places for our rites of passage, disguised as camping trips. We packed the necessities; beanie wienies,, potted meat, corned beef hash, etc. Much smoke was called for, so we bought cheap cigars which we smoked until our tongues were blistered. We drank a horrible alcohol ladened concoction called Champale. The name says it all. We always set up beside a stream in which we skinny dipped, occasionally lining up as God made us to wave at rare passersby. At night our transistors picked up clear channel AM stations from far cities playing old rock and roll.
The center of it all was a huge fire around which we philosophized through the night into the early morning hours, talking about girls, cars, our futures, and girls. We marveled at the seriousness and lack of energy of our respective parents, especially since we had life so clearly figured out.
Every so often we would all stop talking and listen.
The center of it all was a huge fire around which we philosophized through the night into the early morning hours, talking about girls, cars, our futures, and girls. We marveled at the seriousness and lack of energy of our respective parents, especially since we had life so clearly figured out.
Every so often we would all stop talking and listen.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Gifts
Some years ago I was in Inverness, Scotland. A policeman recommended a nice B&B on the banks of a beautiful river. The first night I went into town and stopped in an old hotel to listen to a folk group play a few. A very tall young man walked toward the corner where I sat. He wore the type of beard that starts just below the eyes, covering most of the facial features, except for a scar that went from an eyebrow, through his mustache, then down his chin. We talked between songs, his thick brogue and my grits accent making that somewhat difficult.His scar came from an IRA bomb in Belfast, where he served with the British army. We traded war stories and he sang along with the band on a couple of songs. When the last bus was due, he said with that wonderful burr, "I'll miss you, lad."
The next morning at breakfast, I asked the proprietor about hitchhiking to Culloden Moor. Another customer overheard my question and said he was going to a boat and engine show in that direction. He had recently moved from Australia to reopen a small shipyard. We toured that sad battlefield, then rode to Loch Ness and the nearby trade show. He talked of his move and his family. He was so proud of his children, especially his Downe's Syndrome son, whose picture he showed me. After wishing me a good trip and dropping me at the B&B, he went on his way.
In those two days, traveling alone. so very far from home, two total strangers gave me the gifts of their kindness, a bit of their lives, and a small story to keep and share for as long as I live.
The next morning at breakfast, I asked the proprietor about hitchhiking to Culloden Moor. Another customer overheard my question and said he was going to a boat and engine show in that direction. He had recently moved from Australia to reopen a small shipyard. We toured that sad battlefield, then rode to Loch Ness and the nearby trade show. He talked of his move and his family. He was so proud of his children, especially his Downe's Syndrome son, whose picture he showed me. After wishing me a good trip and dropping me at the B&B, he went on his way.
In those two days, traveling alone. so very far from home, two total strangers gave me the gifts of their kindness, a bit of their lives, and a small story to keep and share for as long as I live.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Communion
I walked a silent path this Sunday morning. None of the other walkers asked where I was last Sunday or if I had been walking another path. No one criticized any other trail as being too fundamental or too worldly.
Some walkers were solitary. Others walked as couples, some holding hands, and the make up of the couples didn't matter.
And so I took communion; without rule or restriction, without barrier, conduit or interpreter.
Some walkers were solitary. Others walked as couples, some holding hands, and the make up of the couples didn't matter.
And so I took communion; without rule or restriction, without barrier, conduit or interpreter.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Priscilla's Neckless
I’m not a particularly handsome man so when she fell for me I was more than surprised. Priscilla was beautiful, a honey blonde with green almond shaped eyes, with a slight tilt. Her cheek bones were perfectly sculpted. She was beautiful and I should have fallen in love with her forever, except for one thing.
Priscilla had no neck. I don’t mean that she had a short neck. She had no neck. Her chin was constantly chapped from rubbing on her chest. Her ear lobes touched her shoulders. When she turned her head she had to look up at a forty five degree angle. I never knew whether she had a collar bone.
Now, I am a tolerant man and possibly I could have overlooked this imperfection in, for example, a bald woman, or one of large proportions, but I could not bear this flaw in my otherwise perfect goddess. My eyes and thoughts kept returning to that one imperfection, as they would to a mustache on the Mona Lisa or a plaid jock strap on the David.
It all came to a head on her birthday when I thoughtlessly purchased a cameo suspended from a rather short gold chain. It is difficult to describe the painful conclusion to that evening. She looked up at me, something she shouldn’t have been able to do, and told me to leave. I turned once to see her strange silhouette running down the empty street.
I didn’t see her for five years; five years during which great strides were made in vertebrae transplants. Her chance at normalcy came when a donor, a former center for the Boston Celtics, died in a crash. We tried to rekindle that old feeling, even tried to neck, but it just wasn’t the same.
The evening came when she again told me to go, then bent down to kiss the top of my head.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
The Lipham Store
She owns and runs the Lipham clothing store in downtown Talapoosa, Georgia. The store takes up three store fronts of former businesses. A Red Goose Shoes sign, common when I was a child, caught my eye. We went in and experienced that near forgotten smell of leather, cloth, and oiled floors.
She owns and runs the Lipham clothing store in downtown Talapoosa, Georgia. Her grandfather started the store in 1895. Her father first brought her to the store as an infant, in a box. At age two, she had the job of bringing string to her Dad in those days before paper or plastic bags. She is now 86.
The prices are surprisingly low, but many of her older suppliers are out of business or headed that way, due to overseas competition and super store dominance. Her store has two qualities that can't be matched in any superstore or mall; vast experience and personal service. She knows, for instance, that a farmer's overalls have to be larger in the waist and shorter in the legs than his regular pants. She will check to see if she can find odd sizes and call the customer to let them know the outcome. She knows the families. She knows history.
If you get down that way, do yourself a favor and go to Talapoosa, and buy a shirt or two from a vanishing piece of American history.
She owns and runs the Lipham clothing store in downtown Talapoosa, Georgia. Her grandfather started the store in 1895. Her father first brought her to the store as an infant, in a box. At age two, she had the job of bringing string to her Dad in those days before paper or plastic bags. She is now 86.
The prices are surprisingly low, but many of her older suppliers are out of business or headed that way, due to overseas competition and super store dominance. Her store has two qualities that can't be matched in any superstore or mall; vast experience and personal service. She knows, for instance, that a farmer's overalls have to be larger in the waist and shorter in the legs than his regular pants. She will check to see if she can find odd sizes and call the customer to let them know the outcome. She knows the families. She knows history.
If you get down that way, do yourself a favor and go to Talapoosa, and buy a shirt or two from a vanishing piece of American history.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The Felsenmeer 10/29/2011
It is one of those fall days, the first cold windy day after a relatively warm string of autumn days. The air is clear and the wind gusty. Leaves are falling and swirling.
On a similar day in Germany, some years ago, we drove into the Odenwald to an area called the Felsenmeer, the sea of rocks, an area where an ancient continental glacier had once deposited tons of rocks in giant piles and rows where hardwood forests would eventually grow among the stones.
Our first daughter, almost two at the time, was enchanted by the combinations of colors; lichen, leaves, granite and trees. As we walked the trails she became most uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, she began to dance with the blowing, falling leaves. Round and round, as a child will do with her arms stretched out to catch the colors and her blonde curls bouncing on her head. Sometimes I believe in magic. Sometimes I believe in enchantment.
A day like this always brings this memory back to me.
On a similar day in Germany, some years ago, we drove into the Odenwald to an area called the Felsenmeer, the sea of rocks, an area where an ancient continental glacier had once deposited tons of rocks in giant piles and rows where hardwood forests would eventually grow among the stones.
Our first daughter, almost two at the time, was enchanted by the combinations of colors; lichen, leaves, granite and trees. As we walked the trails she became most uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, she began to dance with the blowing, falling leaves. Round and round, as a child will do with her arms stretched out to catch the colors and her blonde curls bouncing on her head. Sometimes I believe in magic. Sometimes I believe in enchantment.
A day like this always brings this memory back to me.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Old Man at Meteetse
Cody, WY 9/26/2011
I saw him at the small Meteetse museum, an old man just passing his days. He asked where I was from and proceeded to tell me that his uncle had worked at a cotton mill in Atlanta, and that his mother had once flown there, and she had told him that she could hardly see the tips of the wings on the plane, they were so long, and that he didn't see any reason to fly, except for emergencies. He wanted to be on the ground.
Several days later, we again stopped at Meteese, having braved a rugged road to nearby Kirwin, an abandoned mining town. We went into the only bar/cafe in the tiny town to get a bite to eat.
The old fellow was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer. While we were waiting for a table he asked where I was from. I reminded him of our previous meeting, and the uncle he had mentioned. He said he had worked on many of the surrounding ranches over the years, including the Legendary Pitchfork Ranch. He began to talk of his family. He and his sister had lived in the house where they had been born and raised. She had passed several years ago. All of his family are now dead. He is the last of that line.
Just think of the history he has witnessed. I wonder how many stories he has to tell.
I saw him at the small Meteetse museum, an old man just passing his days. He asked where I was from and proceeded to tell me that his uncle had worked at a cotton mill in Atlanta, and that his mother had once flown there, and she had told him that she could hardly see the tips of the wings on the plane, they were so long, and that he didn't see any reason to fly, except for emergencies. He wanted to be on the ground.
Several days later, we again stopped at Meteese, having braved a rugged road to nearby Kirwin, an abandoned mining town. We went into the only bar/cafe in the tiny town to get a bite to eat.
The old fellow was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer. While we were waiting for a table he asked where I was from. I reminded him of our previous meeting, and the uncle he had mentioned. He said he had worked on many of the surrounding ranches over the years, including the Legendary Pitchfork Ranch. He began to talk of his family. He and his sister had lived in the house where they had been born and raised. She had passed several years ago. All of his family are now dead. He is the last of that line.
Just think of the history he has witnessed. I wonder how many stories he has to tell.
The Quiet Rebel
Cody, WY, 9/26/2011
Mike drove down from Big Sky to explore the Cody area with us. We all had some time to talk and catch up. He and I had worked together last year and had become friends. A bit unusual since Mike is 25 and I am 63, his father's age. But Mike doesn't accept limits without thought.
As a student in high school and college, Mike was gregarious. He is till ready for a party or a concert, but his several months working in Yellowstone and Big Sky, and exploring other places in the west taught him to value solitude.He has borrowed from a friend the idea that loneliness is the sorry state of being alone, while solitude is the glory of being alone. He is a very skilled night photographer and goes on lone hikes high into the Tetons, or far into the Utah desert to capture incredible images. This choice of lifestyle is not a temporary stopping place for him, it is his life.
His computer gave up the ghost so Mike is using the opportunity to research for a novel he is working on. No easy task since the subject will be alternate realities and perceptions. So his journey continues. It seems to me that his is the type of journey that requires quite a bit of courage.
Mike drove down from Big Sky to explore the Cody area with us. We all had some time to talk and catch up. He and I had worked together last year and had become friends. A bit unusual since Mike is 25 and I am 63, his father's age. But Mike doesn't accept limits without thought.
As a student in high school and college, Mike was gregarious. He is till ready for a party or a concert, but his several months working in Yellowstone and Big Sky, and exploring other places in the west taught him to value solitude.He has borrowed from a friend the idea that loneliness is the sorry state of being alone, while solitude is the glory of being alone. He is a very skilled night photographer and goes on lone hikes high into the Tetons, or far into the Utah desert to capture incredible images. This choice of lifestyle is not a temporary stopping place for him, it is his life.
His computer gave up the ghost so Mike is using the opportunity to research for a novel he is working on. No easy task since the subject will be alternate realities and perceptions. So his journey continues. It seems to me that his is the type of journey that requires quite a bit of courage.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Top Secret
Cody, WY, 9/21/2011
During the Vietnam War, I was a part of a secret communications operation based on the legendary Indian Code Talkers of World War II. The idea was to use soldiers from north Georgia, east Tennessee, and western Carolinas as radio operators. North Vietnamese intelligence operatives, many speaking excellent English, would not be able to understand a dialect that had never been adequately archived and recorded.
I wrote down one exchange that occurred in January, 1969. The following is an edited transcript and interpretation:
Orange 1, Orange 1, Howz yo momma?
Gud, gud, an yers?
(Security verification)
Hole bunch them lil sumbitches in the war. Yall come on ova chere.
(We are under attack.)
Git som dem gud ole boyz. Wil opin can of whup ass.
(Request reinforcements and artillery support.)
The operation failed due to a lack of communication between the radio operators and the officers they reported to, usually 2nd lieutenants, and recent college graduates. These young men usually spoke only fraternity, so if the first sentence of a conversation did not include the words "naked" and "beer", they lost interest.
So, to all veterans of the aforementioned code talkers, "I slute chall!"
During the Vietnam War, I was a part of a secret communications operation based on the legendary Indian Code Talkers of World War II. The idea was to use soldiers from north Georgia, east Tennessee, and western Carolinas as radio operators. North Vietnamese intelligence operatives, many speaking excellent English, would not be able to understand a dialect that had never been adequately archived and recorded.
I wrote down one exchange that occurred in January, 1969. The following is an edited transcript and interpretation:
Orange 1, Orange 1, Howz yo momma?
Gud, gud, an yers?
(Security verification)
Hole bunch them lil sumbitches in the war. Yall come on ova chere.
(We are under attack.)
Git som dem gud ole boyz. Wil opin can of whup ass.
(Request reinforcements and artillery support.)
The operation failed due to a lack of communication between the radio operators and the officers they reported to, usually 2nd lieutenants, and recent college graduates. These young men usually spoke only fraternity, so if the first sentence of a conversation did not include the words "naked" and "beer", they lost interest.
So, to all veterans of the aforementioned code talkers, "I slute chall!"
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Maria
Cody, WY 9/20/2011
Near Old Faithful in a cold dismal rain, a woman asked if we were going to Mammoth. Gale told her we could give her a ride to Old Faithful and that a shuttle might be available. The shuttles had shut down for the season the week before so Maria said she would just catch a ride on the loop road. Against her protestations we took her to Mammoth and made a new friend on the way.
Maria is 60+ years old, from Madrid, Spain and has been traveling around North America. She has been through Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, Grand Canyon, and after Yellowstone, she will catch a plane out of Jackson Hole on her way home. She travels by bus when she can and where there are no buses, she asks for rides. She spoke of 9 mile glacier hikes and constantly mentioned the kindness of people she had met.
So, we met a very brave lady, very optimistic, and we have an invitation to visit Madrid.
Near Old Faithful in a cold dismal rain, a woman asked if we were going to Mammoth. Gale told her we could give her a ride to Old Faithful and that a shuttle might be available. The shuttles had shut down for the season the week before so Maria said she would just catch a ride on the loop road. Against her protestations we took her to Mammoth and made a new friend on the way.
Maria is 60+ years old, from Madrid, Spain and has been traveling around North America. She has been through Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, Grand Canyon, and after Yellowstone, she will catch a plane out of Jackson Hole on her way home. She travels by bus when she can and where there are no buses, she asks for rides. She spoke of 9 mile glacier hikes and constantly mentioned the kindness of people she had met.
So, we met a very brave lady, very optimistic, and we have an invitation to visit Madrid.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
What I Learned at Baptist Church Camp
Cody, WY, 9/18/2011
I learned that a metal trashcan full of wire coat hangers, flung down a narrow hall at midnight made a terrible din, and that such an act would have repercussions other than obnoxious sounds.
I learned that prayer and meditation hour was, for a twelve year old boy, something like the eternity they often mentioned in nightly lessons. It was also a perfect time to take a canoe out on the lake, filled with all the other paddles of the other boats, so no one could come and force us to pray and meditate.
I learned that boys and girls were to be separated into two large groups, so that a girl named Carol would only be seen from afar. There would be no long anticipated walks, hand in hand, on sylvan paths, so the only reason I went to church camp was moot.
I learned that a metal trashcan full of wire coat hangers, flung down a narrow hall at midnight made a terrible din, and that such an act would have repercussions other than obnoxious sounds.
I learned that prayer and meditation hour was, for a twelve year old boy, something like the eternity they often mentioned in nightly lessons. It was also a perfect time to take a canoe out on the lake, filled with all the other paddles of the other boats, so no one could come and force us to pray and meditate.
I learned that boys and girls were to be separated into two large groups, so that a girl named Carol would only be seen from afar. There would be no long anticipated walks, hand in hand, on sylvan paths, so the only reason I went to church camp was moot.
Friday, September 16, 2011
I Don't Know, What Do You Want to Do?
Cody, WY, 9/16/2011
Picture it. Night. Summer, 1964. A '62 Ford Falcon station wagon, lights off, creeps up a small rise. Two shadowy figures lie prone in the luggage rack on the roof. When the vehicle reaches the top of the rise, high beams illuminate the garbage dump and thousands of large rats run in all directions. Simultaneously, the marksmen begin shooting their semi automatic .22 rifles. One, two,....maybe a dozen rodents bite the....garbage.
The wagon slowly backs down the rise and the snipers reload. Quiet descends over the Cartersville garbage dump. They wait. Not too long. Rats don't wear watches. The process is repeated.
Small town Saturday night. No dates.
Picture it. Night. Summer, 1964. A '62 Ford Falcon station wagon, lights off, creeps up a small rise. Two shadowy figures lie prone in the luggage rack on the roof. When the vehicle reaches the top of the rise, high beams illuminate the garbage dump and thousands of large rats run in all directions. Simultaneously, the marksmen begin shooting their semi automatic .22 rifles. One, two,....maybe a dozen rodents bite the....garbage.
The wagon slowly backs down the rise and the snipers reload. Quiet descends over the Cartersville garbage dump. They wait. Not too long. Rats don't wear watches. The process is repeated.
Small town Saturday night. No dates.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Characters
Cody. WY, 9/13/2011
We had breakfast at a small coffee shop on Sheridan Ave. The young lady who waited on us is a college student who participates in barrel racing and goat roping. We got this information from an old guy, about my age, who then began to tell us about his wife's rock garden. Apparently she loves shapes and colors of unusual rocks. Each story led to another, sometimes by mysterious paths. He also makes jigsaw puzzles. One of his latest creations is made from a rodeo poster featuring some of the kids who work at the coffee house.
Later, at an outfitter store, we met a man whose last name is White Bird. He rebuilds Airstreams and has owned eight of them. He has walked across the US twice.
The owner of a clothing and tack shop makes custom saddles. His wife sews wall tents for hunters. The young man that waited on us also participates in the rodeo, as a bull rider. He said that he has had two concussions from football but has never been injured riding bulls.
Everyone has stories. God grant me the patience and wisdom to listen.
We had breakfast at a small coffee shop on Sheridan Ave. The young lady who waited on us is a college student who participates in barrel racing and goat roping. We got this information from an old guy, about my age, who then began to tell us about his wife's rock garden. Apparently she loves shapes and colors of unusual rocks. Each story led to another, sometimes by mysterious paths. He also makes jigsaw puzzles. One of his latest creations is made from a rodeo poster featuring some of the kids who work at the coffee house.
Later, at an outfitter store, we met a man whose last name is White Bird. He rebuilds Airstreams and has owned eight of them. He has walked across the US twice.
The owner of a clothing and tack shop makes custom saddles. His wife sews wall tents for hunters. The young man that waited on us also participates in the rodeo, as a bull rider. He said that he has had two concussions from football but has never been injured riding bulls.
Everyone has stories. God grant me the patience and wisdom to listen.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Tapestry
9/11/2011 Cody, WY
Today is such a sad day of remembrance and it is difficult to tie this anniversary to what I am writing.
We went to a rodeo last night where the competitors were college students from some of these western states. I really enjoyed the pageantry, the swagger, skills and tradition. There are some things about the rodeo that I don't like, but then again, I don't make the rules.
There are a lot of things that should be changed, but some would have us all living in a homogenized society of their rules.What a monochrome society we would live in if there were no rodeos, no NASCAR, no old guys driving their Harleys across the country.
Today is such a sad day of remembrance and it is difficult to tie this anniversary to what I am writing.
We went to a rodeo last night where the competitors were college students from some of these western states. I really enjoyed the pageantry, the swagger, skills and tradition. There are some things about the rodeo that I don't like, but then again, I don't make the rules.
There are a lot of things that should be changed, but some would have us all living in a homogenized society of their rules.What a monochrome society we would live in if there were no rodeos, no NASCAR, no old guys driving their Harleys across the country.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
An Injustice
We visited the site of the Japanese American Internment camp at Heart Mountain yesterday. Today, some houses and ranches can be seen from the site, but it is easy to imagine the barren desolation that must have greeted the internees as they got off a train, in the middle of nowhere, so far from their homes.
The barracks hosed several families, each with a small area to live in, with little privacy. These barracks were each built in about an hour, of # 3 green wood, that shrank, leaving spaces between the outer boards, letting in the Wyoming winters. Tar paper was nailed over the outside to help keep the wind out.
There were schools, movie theaters, a hospital, library and other amenities. One particularly poignant story tells of the first student body president of the high school, later to join the army and die in France for his country, that was treating his family as the enemy.
The internees worked on irrigation projects and farmed near the camp. Several young men served in the US military.
The government spent millions on these camps at a time when every resource was needed for the war effort.
I don't believe in collective guilt and I don't buy into the current movement in the US of my country, always wrong, but I do believe in the study of history and learning from history. The most important lesson should not be self righteous judgement so common in hind sight. We are all prisoners of our times. The most important lesson, in my opinion, is to know that most of us would have approved of the camps at that time, and that makes me question my own integrity.
The barracks hosed several families, each with a small area to live in, with little privacy. These barracks were each built in about an hour, of # 3 green wood, that shrank, leaving spaces between the outer boards, letting in the Wyoming winters. Tar paper was nailed over the outside to help keep the wind out.
There were schools, movie theaters, a hospital, library and other amenities. One particularly poignant story tells of the first student body president of the high school, later to join the army and die in France for his country, that was treating his family as the enemy.
The internees worked on irrigation projects and farmed near the camp. Several young men served in the US military.
The government spent millions on these camps at a time when every resource was needed for the war effort.
I don't believe in collective guilt and I don't buy into the current movement in the US of my country, always wrong, but I do believe in the study of history and learning from history. The most important lesson should not be self righteous judgement so common in hind sight. We are all prisoners of our times. The most important lesson, in my opinion, is to know that most of us would have approved of the camps at that time, and that makes me question my own integrity.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Town Sounds
Cody, WY 9/5/2011
I grew up in a small town, one block from a textile mill where many of our neighbors worked. Some of my earliest memories are the sounds of the neighborhood; the light early morning traffic,(especially the swish swish sound of tires on wet pavement), the opening, lunch and closing whistles at the mill. Later on I became aware of the sounds of a wider world; the cheers from the high school football games on fall Friday nights and the constant train whistles, the tracks a block away.
We are visiting a western town, population 8000+, where the sounds have become an important part of our visit. The courthouse clock strikes the hours and half hours, concerts in the park can be heard, and Friday nights, we hear the cheers from the high school. Some mornings I hear the hooves of mule deer as they move through the lawns of this town.
The distinctive sound of Cody occurs late in the evening as some of the locals reenact a gunfight on a blocked off street at the Irma Hotel. We look forward to it every day.
I grew up in a small town, one block from a textile mill where many of our neighbors worked. Some of my earliest memories are the sounds of the neighborhood; the light early morning traffic,(especially the swish swish sound of tires on wet pavement), the opening, lunch and closing whistles at the mill. Later on I became aware of the sounds of a wider world; the cheers from the high school football games on fall Friday nights and the constant train whistles, the tracks a block away.
We are visiting a western town, population 8000+, where the sounds have become an important part of our visit. The courthouse clock strikes the hours and half hours, concerts in the park can be heard, and Friday nights, we hear the cheers from the high school. Some mornings I hear the hooves of mule deer as they move through the lawns of this town.
The distinctive sound of Cody occurs late in the evening as some of the locals reenact a gunfight on a blocked off street at the Irma Hotel. We look forward to it every day.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Endless Road
Cody, WY, 9/4/2011
Our first night in Cody, we stayed in a small 1960's era downtown hotel much favored by bikers, usually of the Gold Wing/Harley set.
At breakfast we had a conversation with two couples, my age or a bit older, who had ridden their bikes from Maine. They had gone through part of Canada and the only complaint was the hot weather in North Dakota. When asked if they pulled a trailer, one of the ladies told me that they only had saddle bags, and once you had some warm weather gear and a rain suit, the rest was just gravy.
Old age rapidly approaches and by some measurements, it has arrived, but some choose, and are lucky enough to be able to choose to be "willin' to be movin'." Those folks continue to have new stories to tell.
Our first night in Cody, we stayed in a small 1960's era downtown hotel much favored by bikers, usually of the Gold Wing/Harley set.
At breakfast we had a conversation with two couples, my age or a bit older, who had ridden their bikes from Maine. They had gone through part of Canada and the only complaint was the hot weather in North Dakota. When asked if they pulled a trailer, one of the ladies told me that they only had saddle bags, and once you had some warm weather gear and a rain suit, the rest was just gravy.
Old age rapidly approaches and by some measurements, it has arrived, but some choose, and are lucky enough to be able to choose to be "willin' to be movin'." Those folks continue to have new stories to tell.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Road Trip
8/31/2011, Cody, Wyoming
One of my greatest and most exhausting pleasures is driving from Georgia to Wyoming and Montana. A little more than half way across Missouri, the land begins to look more western. The population is less dense. The rivers appear less tamed, with high limestone bluffs and wilder currents bordered by cottonwoods. Place and stream names may be American, Indian, or French, from the days before the Purchase. The sky grows larger and when I top a rise on the highway I feel as though there is no higher elevation on earth.
Radio stations play country music, grain and hog prices, concerns about neighbors and various versions of Tell and Sell, featuring hunting dogs and John Deere equipment. Rough looking characters hold the door open and service station attendants are well spoken and polite.
The far mountains beckon. The beauty is indescribable and vistas are endless.
One of my greatest and most exhausting pleasures is driving from Georgia to Wyoming and Montana. A little more than half way across Missouri, the land begins to look more western. The population is less dense. The rivers appear less tamed, with high limestone bluffs and wilder currents bordered by cottonwoods. Place and stream names may be American, Indian, or French, from the days before the Purchase. The sky grows larger and when I top a rise on the highway I feel as though there is no higher elevation on earth.
Radio stations play country music, grain and hog prices, concerns about neighbors and various versions of Tell and Sell, featuring hunting dogs and John Deere equipment. Rough looking characters hold the door open and service station attendants are well spoken and polite.
The far mountains beckon. The beauty is indescribable and vistas are endless.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Just a Sick Baby
I was teaching on a US base in Okinawa when our first daughter was born. Gale was and is a natural with all children, but I didn't have a clue about relating to this new person, so small and delicate, suddenly in my care. When the baby was about four months old, she suddenly learned to smile and stole my heart. Soon we were on a plane to Taipei for a vacation. Her first plane ride.
We transferred to Germany and more flights would follow. She would fly across the Pacific and then the Atlantic before her first birthday.
In our German apartment it was Gale, me, and this magical little elf who kept us laughing. She was the center of our lives. When she was sick, we had no grandparents to give advice and take night shift watch. When she ran a fever she would move all over the bed, probably dreaming her baby dreams. We would make a pallet on the floor so she wouldn't fall off her bed. One of us would stay with her.
One really bad night as she and I slept on the floor, I heard her whimper. She had crawled into the drapes and was lost. I called her name and said, "Come to Daddy," and she crawled as fast as her chubby legs would carry her and curled up beside me.
I've been to quite a few places and had some wonderful experiences, but one of the most memorable, one which I keep in my heart is a night in Germany when my baby slept nestled under my arm.
We transferred to Germany and more flights would follow. She would fly across the Pacific and then the Atlantic before her first birthday.
In our German apartment it was Gale, me, and this magical little elf who kept us laughing. She was the center of our lives. When she was sick, we had no grandparents to give advice and take night shift watch. When she ran a fever she would move all over the bed, probably dreaming her baby dreams. We would make a pallet on the floor so she wouldn't fall off her bed. One of us would stay with her.
One really bad night as she and I slept on the floor, I heard her whimper. She had crawled into the drapes and was lost. I called her name and said, "Come to Daddy," and she crawled as fast as her chubby legs would carry her and curled up beside me.
I've been to quite a few places and had some wonderful experiences, but one of the most memorable, one which I keep in my heart is a night in Germany when my baby slept nestled under my arm.
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