Just Deserts

My story for today tells of a time when I probably got exactly what I deserved. Like many people, I always thought the phrase was ‘just desserts’… meaning that, when it was all said and done, I got a dessert that fit with the rest of the meal. However, the Phrase Finder web site set me straight. A desert is a dry desolate area and if you took a group of people to such a place for a day of fun and frolic, you might have more than a few people desert you. Thus, a person’s ‘just deserts’ implies that a person has been left alone in a dry desolate area – exactly what he or she deserved.

With that out of the way, let’s go back in time to 1984. Perhaps Big Brother was looking over my shoulder and shaking his head on the day I left work early so I could watch the Olympic Torch pass near my home in Roswell, Georgia.

Because traffic was blocked on the road to my home, I had to pull into a shopping center parking lot. I then joined the throngs of people anxiously awaiting the once-in-a-lifetime event.

We waited. And we waited. Then, we waited some more. The runners must have stopped for a long lunch; they were more than an hour behind schedule.

Finally, in the distance, we could see a police car followed by the news media vehicles. The excitement built to a crescendo as the torch bearer finally came into view.

The world class marathon runner I expected to see turned out to be a pudgy preteen who was walking. A more athletic looking man was walking beside the boy and seemed to be urging him to move faster. The boy seemed oblivious.

Needless to say I was extremely disappointed and angry. This was obviously the son of some fat-cat who paid off somebody so his darling little spoiled brat could be part of the Olympic games. The kid should have been home playing video games. (I think Atari was around back then.)

A few days later I was at a social function and began a tirade about the experience. I was soon interrupted by a friend who explained that the boy was one of several special needs children who were representing their school. Yes, a fat-cat did make the donation, but, No, the child I saw was not related to the donor.

After I got my foot out of my mouth, I apologized for my ignorance. I felt terrible at the time, and it still bothers me that I was so judgmental without trying to learn the whole story.

Now, fast forward a few months. It is still 1984, and the Olympic Games are about to begin in Los Angeles. The torch is making its final approach and passing through Atascadero, California. My family and I are there visiting my brother and his family.

Once again I find myself in the midst of a crowd of anxious onlookers. This time, the torch is on time and being carried by a man who has obviously run in many long distance races.

One major difference this time around is that I have my camera with me and I manage to get some terrific shots of the man and the torch. Life is good and the photos will look great in the album we’ll eventually put together.

Let’s fast forward a week or so. We are now near Vernal, Utah and visiting the Dinosaur National Monument. I took a few pictures and looked at the indicator to see how many more shots I had left on the roll of film. The indicator showed that I’d already taken forty-two.

The roll of film was supposed to be for thirty-six. Rather than take any more chances – this roll had pictures of my nieces and nephew as well as the Olympic torch runner – I pressed the rewind button. Nothing happened.

I guessed that the film had pulled out of the canister and feared that if I opened the case, the film would be ruined. I asked a guide if there was a dark place I could go to remove and try to save my roll of film.

The guide did more than find me a dark place, she took me to the dark room used by the palaeontologists. When I opened the camera, the film was in the canister. I must have rewound it and forgot to remove it. At least that is what I hoped happened.

A couple of weeks later, we were back home in Georgia and I’d dropped off my fifteen or twenty rolls of film. When I picked them up, the truth finally became clear. The roll of film in question was never properly loaded. The entire roll was blank.

Now the 1984 Olympic Games experience is nothing more than the memories in my head. And the picture that is most clear in my mind is that of a pudgy preteen walking through Roswell with the torch.

I think I learned my lesson, but that image is a constant reminder to not jump to conclusions.

A Memorable Trip for a Teenager

I believe it was the Fall of 1957 when our older brothers – the twins – took Lewis (Doug) and I on a wonderful sports-fan weekend to Syracuse, New York. I would’ve been thirteen years old at the time.

As I recall, we left Pittsburgh on a Friday morning and checked into a ‘real’ hotel late that afternoon. Up until that day, I had never even stayed at a motel. There are two things I remember most about that hotel.

First was the door to the room. I have no idea what the door was called. I’d call it a ‘valet’ door. It was extremely thick because it was basically a small closet that fit inside the door. That ‘closet’ could be opened from either side. If a guest at the hotel had a suit or shirts to be cleaned or laundered, he or she would place the garments in the door and turn a lever causing a signal to be exposed on the outside of the door.

During the night, hotel employees would pass through the halls looking for the signals. When one was spotted, they would open the door, remove the garments, and take them to the hotel’s laundry. They would later return and put the clean garments back in the door.

I hope I explained that well enough, because it is something that is no longer seen… even in the fanciest hotels. A guest can still have garments cleaned, but other methods for pick-up and delivery are used.

The other thing I recall about that hotel was my breakfast. I had never eaten breakfast at a restaurant and had no idea what to order. So I asked for oatmeal.

The hot cereal was served in an oval shaped stainless steal bowl with a lid. I was then given real cream to put on my hot cereal. I knew what cream was because I always tried to be the first to get to the freshly delivered milk on cold winter mornings. I sometimes won!

Besides the hotel, the weekend was filled with firsts for me. On Friday night, we went to see the Cincinnati Royals play the Syracuse Nationals in a National Basketball Association game.

The two players that stood out in my mind that night were Sihugo Green who had played his college ball at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, and Larry Costello who was probably the last professional basketball player who made a living off the two-hand set shot.

On Saturday we went to watch the University of Pittsburgh play the University of Syracuse in a football game.

While that was the basic premise for the trip, I remember little of that game. Jim Brown may have played against Pitt, but my memory is a total blank when it comes to that game. Perhaps all the excitement had finally got up with me and I was in la-la land.

In any case, it was a wonderful trip and once again indicates what wonderful brothers I have.

Earliest Trips to New Jersey Shore

Because my father was raised in South Jersey and still had family living in that area, most of our annual vacations were taken at the shore.

I can vaguely remember riding in the old Chevrolet. As I recall, it was a green car that looked something like the one in this photo.

Gone by 1949 but not forgotten

I always thought that car was a 1943, but while looking for a photo I discovered that Chevy didn’t make any consumer cars that year. They were too busy building military vehicles.

In any case, you’ll note the car had a large back seat area. It was large enough (and I was small enough) that I could lie on the floor and use the middle hump as a pillow. My older brother had the luxury of lying on the shelf by the rear window. (Back then, seat belts in cars were non-existent.)

I vividly recall looking up and out the windows and watching the utility poles flash by as we ’sped’ down the road.

In those early days, we were only able to speed between Irwin, Pennsylvania and Carlisle, Pennsylvania – a distance of about one hundred and sixty miles. In the late 1940’s, the total distance we traveled was more than four hundred miles and much of it was on the old U.S. highways that went through dozens of small towns.

Many of those old highways were three lanes that required drivers to be extremely careful when passing. That middle lane – used by motorists going in both directions – resulted in many head-on collisions.

We usually began our vacations late on a Friday night. Dad would come home from work and sleep for a few hours while mom packed the car. Then, around midnight, we’d start on the long journey. We lived about forty or fifty miles from Irwin and it was mostly city driving. The Penn-Lincoln Parkway did not exist and there were lots of traffic lights.

From Irwin, we’d sail along the ‘new’ turnpike that had opened for traffic in 1940. When we got to Carlisle, we’d return to the U.S. highways and continue our eastward trek.

As I recall, we sometimes avoided Philadelphia by passing through Wilmington, Delaware. If we did go through Philly, we’d cross over the Ben Franklin Bridge.

By eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, we’d be greeted by Uncle Lewis and Aunt Nellie. I’m sure dad was exhausted, but Lewis and I were ready to go crabbing and fishing.

In 1951, the Pennsylvania Turnpike was opened from the Ohio line to Philadelphia. That cut an hour or two off the trip and also made it possible for us to stop at a Howard Johnson’s for more than gasoline.

Coincidentally, a song that sticks in my head because I heard it so much during our travels between Pittsburgh and South Jersey was also recorded in 1951.

Les Paul and Mary Ford were popular recording artists of the time. Several years later, they divorced, but Les Paul continued playing guitar and began designing his own line of guitars. I’m sure my step-son, the rock star, has heard of Les Paul guitars… but he might be left wondering who the guy in that video is.

Getting back to our vacation journeys… the Walt Whitman Bridge opened in 1957 making the trip even easier. Then, in 1965, the Atlantic City Expressway opened.

Today that trip that took at least eleven hours in 1948 can be accomplished in under seven.

Many people have come to take the Interstate Highway System for granted… as though it has always been there. For the younger generations, that is absolutely true – it has always been there!

But those of us who remember being stuck behind trucks and buses winding their way along two-lane U.S. highways cannot thank President Eisenhower enough for pushing the idea through congress.

However, let me let you in on a secret.

If you are not in any big hurry to get from one city to the next, get off that Interstate and follow the old U.S. highways. In many cases, you’ll find the road surface to be in much better condition. It has been resurfaced and doesn’t carry the heavy burden of trucks, buses, and cars.

If you like looking at old buildings (many, unfortunately, abandoned) along with farms and forests, you’ll find the travel much more interesting.

Just keep the secret to yourself. We don’t want everybody to get off the Interstates. Smelling the roses won’t be so sweet if you’re stuck in a traffic jam.

Deja vu

In 1984, I dragged my family on a cross country tour. In six weeks, we covered almost ten thousand miles, visited twenty-nine states, and saw two oceans.

I was forty years old at the time and thought I’d seen just about everything one could imagine. But when we arrived in Vernal, Utah, my mind went into another sphere.

To begin with, I saw Reddy Kilowatt.

The one and only! Watt a lot of jobs he does!

I hadn’t seen the logo of the electric companies in years, and yet there he was – standing proudly in front of the local power company.

Things got even more interesting when we decided to visit the Vernal Dinosaur Museum. Walking around and looking at the displays gave me the strangest feelings – I’d been there before! And yet, it was my first visit to that part of our country.

Finally, I looked down and noticed a small brass plate attached to each display counter. It read, “Donated by the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

These were many of the same display cases I looked at when I was a grade school student on my annual feed-trip to the museum. The only things that were missing were the basement cafeteria and milk in the one-pint glass bottles.

I asked one of the employees to explain why the museum in Pittsburgh had donated so much to a museum in such a small town as Vernal, Utah.

The answer was quite simple. Andrew Carnegie had hired a team of archeologists to go out and find dinosaur bones. That team found them in the area of Dinosaur National Monument… just outside Vernal, and sent them all back to Pittsburgh.

An escapee in Pittsburgh

Carnegie then selected the best specimens to be placed in the museum in Pittsburgh. He sold the rest to museums throughout the world.

Eventually, the people from Utah had had enough and insisted some of the bones should stay where they were found. To repay the state of Utah, the museum in Pittsburgh sent the display cases, along with many artifacts from around the world, to Vernal to provide them with a ‘world-class’ museum of their own.

If you’ve ever visited Dinosaur National Monument, you know that today, every effort is made to leave the bones where they are found.

I want to thank the author of a dinosaur website who calls himself Dinoguy for reminding me of my visit to Vernal. If you’ve ever been interested in being part of a ‘dig’, this is the guy you need to talk to.

Pretend No More – Hawaii it is!

This is not Puerto Rico

The other day I had to use a picture of Puerto Rico because I couldn’t find our pictures of Hawaii. Well, as all husbands should know, if you ask the bride, nine times out of ten she’ll know where whatever it is you’re looking for can be found… even if it’s exactly where you left it.

As I went through the photos to pick some to use, I was reminded of how the trip came about.

Lu’s sister and brother-in-law thought it would be a good idea for us to take a vacation together. We all agreed to look into going to Hawaii. Lu and I had the advantage of knowing Jim and Kathy Voerg, the owners of the Uniglobe Love to Travel agency in Cumming, Georgia.

Jim and Kathy did a marvelous job of creating our itinerary. We spent a few days in Honolulu – enough to see the Arizona monument, the Polynesian Cultural Center, and a few other tourist sites on Oahu. Then we flew to Kauai where we stayed at a beautiful ground level condo.

A perfect place to sit and watch the world go by

From where I was standing to take this photo, I could turn around and take the next picture.

The ocean was a very short stroll from our door

After a week of vegetating on Kauai, we flew to Maui for our last five days on the islands.

I should point out that we did a few things on Kauai besides sitting in the hot tub, pool, beach, and our veranda. We also took a helicopter tour of the island – Lu loved it, I kissed the ground upon our return – and a boat (they called it a yacht) ride.

Every day is beautiful in Hawaii

On Maui, we took another boat ride to an area where we were able to snorkel among sea turtles and other sea creatures.

One of the highlights was attending the Old Lahaina Luau. Unbeknownst to us, tickets to that particular luau are very hard to come by unless you buy them far in advance of your trip. When I called to get them, I was put on a waiting list. An hour before the start of the dinner and show, we got the call. Tickets were available and we could go!

The dancing was just as good as the food

I don’t recall what it cost to spend two weeks in paradise. I do know that before we left Georgia, we considered the trip to be a ‘once in a lifetime’ event. Ever since our return, we’ve been trying to figure out how to go there again.

Jim and Kathy saved us a ton of money by booking us in ‘time-share’ condos where we could cook many of our own meals, do our own laundry, and buy beverages at the grocery store rather than a hotel lounge.

The helicopter and boat rides were purchased at half-price on the condition we listen to the sales pitch. It wasn’t easy saying “No” to owning a week at one of those condo units, but we managed to do so.

Needless to say, I doubt very much we could have made the arrangements ourselves. I use various travel web sites on a pretty regular basis, but when I’m planning a ‘once in a lifetime’ trip, I want the professionals handling it for me.

With the economy the way it is, fewer people are traveling. That makes this the perfect time to take that trip. Go for it!

Now, if I can find the pictures of Ireland, I’ll tell you a few things about that trip.

Vacations

Sunrise at Ocean City, New Jersey

My earliest memories of vacations involved our annual pilgrimage to South Jersey. Although my father was born in Philadelphia, he grew up in Northfield, New Jersey. Northfield is on the edge of the salt marshes and lies between Pleasantville and Linwood. Linwood, by the way, was once known as Leedsville.

I vaguely remember lying on the floor of our 1943 Chevy and using the hump in the middle as my pillow. I’d watch through the window and try to count the telephone poles as they whizzed past. Either I was very small, or they made cars much wider in those days.

Since getting involved in genealogy about ten years ago, I’ve discovered we had many relatives in the area (hence the town of Leedsville), but the only people we visited were my father’s brother, Lewis B. Leeds, and his sisters-in-law, Josie and Mary Crowley. We also visited one of Dad’s old friends, Lew Lake. I’ve since learned that Mr. Lake was also a cousin. Sometimes I have a feeling I’m related to most of the old families of South Jersey.

We always told people we were vacationing in Atlantic City (back in its original heyday), but, in truth, we only went there once during our typical two week stay. Most of our days were spent fishing and crabbing. For a number of years, Uncle Lewis owned a small cabin cruiser, The Sea Urchin, that he kept docked at the Hackney Boat Yard on Scull’s Bay. That boat become our vacation cottage. We never moved the boat… I doubt if the engine even ran; but we loved being able to crawl out of bed and start fishing and crabbing before we even ate breakfast.

Needless to say, we ate a ton of seafood during our vacation, and what we couldn’t consume was given to our relatives to freeze.

One of the minor things I remember from those trips was the small store at the end of Uncle Lewis’ street. Today it would be called a ‘convenience’ store; back then, it was simply called a corner store. They sold milk and bread and a few other grocery items. They probably earned most of their income from selling tobacco products, newspapers and magazines, and candy.

The first thing I bought when I entered that store every year was a package of Charms. I never saw Charms sold in Pittsburgh. Charms were similar to Life Savers, but the pieces were square instead of round and they had no hole. The flavors were very similar to the original Life Savers. Come to think of it, I don’t recall that corner store selling Life Savers. Perhaps it was a regional thing like scrapple, Birch Beer, and cheesecake pie.

I’ve visited South Jersey twice in the last several years and could not find cheesecake pie. If you know where I might find this delicacy, let me know. I’m sure the mere sight of one would bring back a flood of memories.

On our way back to Pittsburgh, we’d always stop and buy a large basket of freshly picked cantaloupes. They were the best melons I’ve ever eaten.

I just remembered… we have some cantaloupe in the refrigerator. Although it’s not nearly as good as the ones from South Jersey, I think I’ll go have some… right now. See you tomorrow!

Oops! I almost forgot to say that the beautiful picture at the top of this post was taken by my lovely bride while I was still trying to fix myself a cup of coffee.

I’m a Traveling Man

Ricky Nelson had a hit with “Travelin’ Man” in 1961. I was in my last years of high school and have no doubt Ricky’s song influenced me. Since then I’ve seen a large percentage of our country and several foreign lands. For a poor kid growing up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I’d say I’ve done pretty well.

Prior to my high school graduation, I’d been to Ohio, West Virginia, Maryland, New York, Delaware, and New Jersey. Since then, I’ve been to every state at least once and many states multiple times.

A few years back, at a meeting, everyone was asked to stand, state his or her name, and tell the group something interesting we had done. I used my travels as part of my introduction. Almost immediately I was asked, “Which state did you like best?”

Now that’s a difficult question to answer. Every state has its own pros and cons. There are so many factors I’d have to consider before I could give a definitive answer. For example, if I said that New Jersey is one of my favorite places and I hope to return there soon, many people would question my wisdom. For whatever reason, comedians like to take shots at New Jersey and, over the years, it has gotten a bad name. But my experiences tell me a different story.

Most of my visits to the Garden State have been to the South Jersey shore. I’ve experienced the beautiful beaches and boardwalks, caught my own seafood dinners, and eaten the freshly picked produce. I’ve also traveled to the northern part of the state and spent time in Peapack and Somerset. Those two towns are in a rural setting that would come as a surprise to those whose definition of New Jersey begins and ends in Newark.

I’m sure many people would expect me to list Hawaii as one of my favorites and they’d be correct. However, I see Hawaii as a place to visit; I would not want to live there. I’ve been to three of the islands and have had rental cars. It doesn’t take long to drive all over an island. My wanderlust goes insane in such confined areas. I’m one of the fools who believe an Interstate highway should lead to other states.

I like the laid-back atmosphere and exotic foods of California, but I’ve found similar attributes in Idaho. Rocky Mountain oysters are seldom found in West Virginia or Vermont. Speaking of Vermont, while Burlington, Vermont is one of my favorite cities, I’d rather travel to Burlington, New Jersey.

Did you notice I returned to New Jersey? It’s in my blood. My father was raised in New Jersey and a whole slew of my ancestors spent their lives there. Thomas Leeds and his sons, William, Daniel, and Thomas landed in the Burlington area around 1677. So my visits to the state always include genealogical research.

I like Florida, but only in the winter. It gets too hot in the summer. If I had my druthers, I’d spend summers in Maine or northern Michigan. I’d probably add North Dakota and Minnesota to the list of places to go in the summer, but my visits there have been limited. Perhaps that’s why I have trouble listing my favorite places; I don’t want to be unfair to the states I’ve seldom visited.

I know that Rochester, Minnesota is not the best place to be in the winter. IBM used to send me there frequently. On one visit in February, the outside temperature was minus forty degrees Fahrenheit… with the wind chill factor, it felt like sixty-five or seventy below. I love snow, but if it’s too cold to go outside to enjoy it, it’s only nice to look at through the frost encrusted window. It might as well be the white sandy beaches of Florida when the temperature and humidity force me to stay in the air-conditioned comfort of a hotel room.

I’ve spent a good deal of time in Connecticut, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana, Oklahoma, and Illinois. The bulk of that time was spent working, but I usually found time to take side trips and enjoyed visiting Hartford, San Antonio, Hot Springs, Hot Coffee and Soso, Lake Charles, Ardmore, and Elgin.

About a year and a half ago my bride and I took a two week trip to London and Paris. We got a great deal though a travel agent we found at www.travelzoo.com but got eaten alive by the foreign exchange rates. Until the dollar gets stronger, I think we’ll confine our travels to the good old USA. Believe it or not, there are still many places I’ve yet to see.

A partial list includes Yellowstone National Park, Jackson Hole, Albuquerque for their hot air balloon festival, and the Pony Express museum in St. Joseph, Missouri. Beyond that, I’d have to look up the various festivals and try to attend the ones I find most interesting.

I’m a traveling man and writing this post has me chomping at the bit to hit the road. With the price of gasoline continuing to soar, I’m glad one of our cars is a Toyota Yaris that’s been averaging better than forty miles per gallon. See you on down the road!

By the way, I’ve been asked to contribute to a web site for golfers. I couldn’t begin to describe myself as even a hacker. I haven’t swung a golf club (not counting a putter at a miniature golf course) in decades, but I do have some interesting stories from my younger days. My stories should begin appearing there soon. Check them out at http://www.stracka.com/.

Behold Chugwater!

Mom never beheld Chugwater, Wyoming. If she had, I’m sure she simply would’ve said, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” My mother took pride in her open mind and freely used numerous mottoes to encourage me to develop an open mind of my own. As a result, she prepared me well for the Chugwater episode. Actually, she did a marvelous job preparing me for any new experience that life on earth might put in my path.

Mom was seldom negative about anything. Instead, she’d repeat one of her mottoes. “‘Everyone to his own taste,’ said the old lady who kissed the cow,” has always been my favorite.

Years later when my first wife, four children, and I spent a night in Chugwater, my open mind came in handy – as did another of Mom’s mottoes: “Getting there can be half the fun.”

Chugwater had not been on the original itinerary of our trip. In fact, we’d never heard of Chugwater until we spent a night in Arlington, Wyoming. In Arlington, we discovered that the following day was the finale of the Frontier Days Rodeo in Cheyenne. We also learned there was a KOA – Kampground of America – about 50 miles north of Cheyenne in a town called Chugwater.

We’d never seen a rodeo of any sort, much less the “Daddy of Them All.” Thus, we altered our plans. It was an excellent decision. We thoroughly enjoyed the show and as near as we could figure, the score wound up in a tie: Cowboys 2 – Bulls 2. That’s how many of each were carried off the field of play.

After the rodeo, we headed north on Interstate-25. It was late afternoon and we had plenty of time to find the campground, set up, and cook a nice dinner.

About 30 miles north of Cheyenne, we encountered a torrential downpour. We’d driven through rain nearly every day of our trip and thus, took it in stride. It wasn’t until we reached the Chugwater exit that we recognized the potential problem. The directions in the KOA directory – which we hadn’t read until then – told us to take the first dirt road on the right. The campground was located 14 miles down that road.

I should mention that the Chugwater KOA had an additional name. It was also known as the Diamond Dude Ranch. This is a significant detail in that we saw a large billboard advertising the Diamond Dude Ranch. The sign included an arrow directing us to the dirt road. It was almost too easy! Soon we would be setting up our camping trailer and enjoying a campfire as we recounted the day’s activities.

I’d be remiss if I called that dirt road anything other than an extremely long mud puddle. It gave hydroplaning a new meaning as I looked in my mirrors and watched my trailer slue from side to side. The trailer seemed to be trying to pass my van. The only thing that saved me from further misadventure was my years of driving through the ice and snow of Pennsylvania winters. I knew I had to maintain a constant speed to avoid getting hopelessly bogged down.

What bothered me more than the mud was the absence of signs. I fully expected to see signs telling us we were getting closer to our destination. Unfortunately, the only indication I had was my own odometer. But due to the spinning of my wheels, I wasn’t sure I could trust it.

For the first ten miles, there was nothing! No signs, no houses – nothing! Eventually, we came to an abandoned car, followed shortly by an abandoned house. Finally, we found a farmhouse that appeared to be occupied. My odometer now indicated we had traveled 15 miles. It was time to ask for help.

It took a while to find the farmer and I knew I was in trouble when he answered my question with a question of his own. “Are you coming from Cheyenne or Chugwater?”

I’d taken the wrong dirt road. I was now headed back to Cheyenne. “If it makes you feel any better,” the farmer yelled as I turned around, “the other dirt road is better.”

After a second exciting run through the gauntlet of mud, we learned that the farmer was telling the truth. The other dirt road was much better. Although there were still no signs telling us we were getting closer, 14 miles later we arrived at the campground.

We soon discovered that the “Daddy of them all” rodeos had taken a toll on the campground. The camp store had been virtually cleaned out by campers attending the rodeo, and the laundry and shower facilities were filthy. That combination of negatives greatly displeased my former wife who had convinced herself – based on our difficulties finding it – that the Diamond Dude Ranch would be our best camping experience ever. She grew even angrier at my lack of interest in her complaints, but I had problems of my own.

Sloshing through the mud had resulted in a thick layer of mud and pebbles on the front of the trailer and almost as much on the underside of the van. I spent more than an hour washing off the mess.

The sun was beginning to set as we finished a meal of hot dogs and chicken soup. My ex-wife, filled with anger and disappointment, immediately went to bed. My children and I finished cleaning up and sat down to relax. None of us had the energy to build a campfire and, as it turns out, we were glad we didn’t. When darkness fell, we witnessed the most beautiful display imaginable. The stars were brighter and more numerous than I’ve ever seen. We sat for hours in awe of the splendor of the universe. Chugwater was well worth the effort.

We tried to wake my children’s mother, but she wasn’t interested. She had made up her mind that Chugwater was a disaster and she couldn’t wait to leave. My own mother’s words came back to me. “Everyone to his own taste.” We let the woman sleep.

The next morning as we were leaving, we took a better look at the Diamond Dude Ranch billboard and discovered our mistake. What we’d perceived to be an arrow was, in fact, a diamond. From our vantage point at the end of the exit ramp, a telephone pole in front of the sign covered half the diamond, and made it look like an arrow.

It’s interesting how perceptions can be altered by such minor details. It’s also interesting, and a shame, how great expectations can cause us to miss some of life’s most precious moments. I’m glad my mother, and her clichés, did such an excellent job of teaching me to keep an open mind.

I still have no desire to kiss a cow, but I’d loved to spend a few more nights in Chugwater, Wyoming.

Family Fun(?) in North Georgia

In the early 1980’s I took my three sons camping at Cloudland Canyon State Park. We set up our tent as soon as we arrived and immediately set off on the first of many hikes we took that weekend. When we returned to start getting our dinner ready we discovered that some folks in a pop-up camping trailer had selected a site near us. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a trailer, so I watched to see what was involved in setting one up.

I have to admit to an ulterior motive. My first wife hated the thoughts of camping. There was no way she would ever consider spending a night in a sleeping bag on the ground. However, a bedroom on wheels just might get her out of the Holiday Inn long enough to enjoy the great outdoors.

The set-up took a middle-aged couple less then fifteen minutes. The final thing the couple did was plug into the electricity. They then disappeared into the trailer, turned on the air conditioning and the television. After that, the only times we saw them come out was to take a walk to the bathhouse.

I couldn’t help wondering why they didn’t just set the thing up in their own driveway, but I was smitten with the idea. A trailer like that could help me convince my boys’ mother to join us on our frequent weekend outings. More importantly, it would allow me to make a life-long dream come true. From the time I was a teenager I’d dreamt of taking a trip across the United States. We could never afford such a trip if we stayed in hotels and ate at restaurants, but staying at campgrounds and cooking our own meals would greatly reduce the costs. My dream was suddenly within reach.

For the next several months I went from one RV dealer to the next and collected a mountain of brochures. Alas, my dream was in jeopardy. While pop-up trailers were the least expensive recreational vehicles, they were still far beyond my budget. Then it dawned on me: my trailer didn’t have to be new. A used one would work just as well. I began combing through the want ads.

In May of 1982, I found my perfect cabin-on-wheels. It was a 1976 Venture that appeared to be in perfect condition. It supposedly slept eight. Of course, if eight people slept in it, they’d have to be very small, or extremely close friends.

Since my family consisted of two adults and four children, sleeping arrangements wouldn’t be a problem. My wife and I could share one queen-sized bed while our oldest son could sleep on the other. The next oldest boy could use the bench that converted into a single bed, and the youngest boy and his three-year-old sister could share the dining table that converted into a double bed. The coast-to-coast vacation was coming closer to reality.

I had a trailer hitch installed on my van, cleaned the trailer inside and out, and began making preparations for our maiden voyage. I knew I had to ease my wife into camping and decided that a weekend at Cloudland Canyon would be the perfect initiation for her. She enjoyed nature trails and scenic views. How quickly I’d forgotten the cardiac cliffs of Cloudland.

It was mid-June when we finally found a free weekend. The temperature at home was in the nineties. My trailer didn’t have air conditioning, but I assured everyone that it would be at least 10 degrees cooler in the mountains. To make everyone happy, I packed two electric fans… just in case.

When we arrived at the campground I estimated the temperature back home to be in the low hundreds. How else could I explain the low nineties at Cloudland? Unfortunately, we weren’t the only fools to leave the air-conditioned comfort of home, and the only available sites remaining were in an open, treeless field. Undaunted, I picked a nice level spot and parked. I unhitched the trailer and began cranking up the roof. The roof was about halfway up when I heard a sharp crack and one corner of the roof sagged. A cable had snapped.

With no idea what I could accomplish, I crawled under the trailer to inspect the damage. The gravel dug into my back as I followed the cables and discovered the break. The cable was hopelessly broken and there was no way I could fix it. Not even duct tape could save me.

By the time I got back to my feet, I was soaked with perspiration. My wife suggested we close the trailer and go home. I would hear none of that.

The trailer was equipped with an awning. I figured we could do without the awning. The poles could be used to support the roof – if I could get the roof to go up the rest of the way. I crawled inside with the poles and had my oldest son turn the crank as I lifted the impaired corner with my back. My plan worked. We got the roof up and secured with the awning poles. I was now dripping wet. The temperature back home had to be well over a hundred. I headed for a nice cool shower while my sons set up the rest of our site.

I returned from the bathhouse in time to hear the familiar “When are we going to eat?” Since I’d promised my wife I’d do all the cooking, I was soon grilling burgers over a charcoal fire. The benefits of my shower were quickly lost.

We didn’t have a campfire that night. We probably could’ve roasted marshmallows on the gravel.

The Venture had zippered sides, which allowed us to open everything and let air flow through the screens. This caused even more problems. In the first place, the air wasn’t flowing anywhere except where it was being pushed by our fans. The fans pushed it, but didn’t cool it. Secondly, my wife was more than a bit modest and didn’t like the idea of sleeping where everyone could see her. Thus, she slept in her clothes.

The entire weekend continued in this manner. We did hike to the base of the waterfalls early the next morning – before the sun rose too high in the sky. But crawling back to the surface left us all sweaty and exhausted. The heat of the afternoon seemed worse than the day before. I can’t imagine how hot it must’ve been in the lowlands of Georgia.

I hate to admit it, but the highlight of the weekend was leaving. We were all glad to ride in the air-conditioned van and even happier to walk back into our air-conditioned home. The maiden voyage of the Venture had been a total disaster. The only positive was my wife’s failure to say, “Never again!”

For many, a weekend like that would’ve resulted in a “For Sale” sign being hung on the trailer. But I wasn’t about to give up my dream. I analyzed the disastrous experience and determined that the problem had nothing to do with the heat. Perhaps I was suffering from heat exhaustion or sunstroke, but I decided that the major problem was the lack of friends sharing the adventure.

Many of my favorite camping trips had been taken with a large group and I knew a few families who also owned trailers and enjoyed camping. Thus, I enlisted them to help me provide a memorable experience for my wife.

Continuing with my habit of forgetting the negative aspects of anything, I planned our next outing… for July.

This time we went to Red Top Mountain, which was much closer, but far from ten degrees cooler. In fact, the temperature never dipped below one hundred the entire weekend. To make matters worse, our camping buddies insisted you couldn’t go camping without having a campfire. Thus, we spent our evenings sitting around a blazing fire. Actually, we all sat on one side of the blazing fire… with four box fans running at high speed behind us.

Miraculously, my wife still didn’t say “Never again!” Perhaps she recognized she was outnumbered. Our children and I loved our camping experiences. The old adage of “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” obviously was on our side.

In 1984 we took my dream trip. We passed through twenty-nine states while pulling that trailer almost ten thousand miles. During that trip we lost a tire, lost a license plate, and lost the brakes on the trailer. We also experienced some interesting dirt roads (see “Behold Chugwater”) and encountered many other difficulties during our six weeks on the road.

To me, the trip is just a wonderful memory now. I’ve since sold the trailer to a young family of five, and they seem to get as much pleasure from it as my children and I did. My first wife and I are now divorced. Things went downhill after I started talking about Trip II.

Finding Festivals

In 1956, Gogi Grant had a hit song called, “The Wayward Wind”. I was a mere lad of twelve at the time, but the words of that song have hung with me ever since. “For he was born the next of kin, the next of kin to the wayward wind.” That’s a great way to describe someone who loves to travel.

At twelve, I lived in Pennsylvania and had been to Delaware, New Jersey, and Ohio. Delaware really doesn’t count because we only drove through it to get to New Jersey. I was still a far cry from being called a world traveler. Since then, as far as the United States are concerned, I’ve more than made up for my humble beginnings. I’ve been to every state in the union at least once and I’d love to go back and revisit most of them.

During my many trips I’ve learned one very important fact. If you do some advanced planning, there’s much more to traveling than simply going from one city to another.

I first discovered this in early July 1958 when my mother, aunt, and I took a Greyhound bus to Canton, Ohio. Our eventual destination was a farming community between Wooster and Orrville. Bill Lax, the husband of one of my mother’s long-time friends, had passed away and we were going to attend his funeral.

Uncle Bill, as I knew him, had a dairy farm and employed an Amish man to help him with the chores. The Amish community obviously considered Bill Lax to be a good friend. They had quite a number of people attend the service and contributed mightily to the meal that was served following the burial. I’d never tasted such a wonderful variety of fresh food. In fact, it was the only time I’ve ever had freshly churned butter.

And this was just the beginning. My mother and aunt had planned to spend a few days with the widow. I got shipped out and spent a couple of nights with some “cousins” in Wooster. These people had fourteen children, so my being there was hardly noticed.

The first morning was the Fourth of July. We started the day with a nice hearty breakfast and then headed for the local park. There was a carnival in town and we spent the day enjoying the various amusements, and eating cotton candy, corn dogs, and ice cream. That evening was one of the best fire works displays I’ve ever seen.

By the time we boarded the bus to head back to Pittsburgh I was wondering what other elderly relatives might soon die so I could attend another wonderful festival!

This may or may not have been the origin of my wanderlust, but it was definitely a key ingredient. Our family vacations to New Jersey always included a stroll on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City. Maybe I always equated traveling with some sort of carnival atmosphere.

As I travel around the country, I recognize two things. First, I prefer to drive because I don’t want to miss anything interesting along the way. (Bus drivers seldom listen when you ask them to pull over so you can check out the quaint little gift shop.) Second, I do whatever I can to learn about festivals, fairs, or anything else of interest that might be occurring near my destination, or along the way.

Thus far in my life I’ve attended a Bicentennial + 2 celebration in Linesville, Pennsylvania (the town leaders failed to notice the anniversary until two years after the fact), a seafood festival in Bradenton, Florida, and the Frontier Days Rodeo in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I’ve seen arts and crafts festivals in more than twenty states. I’ve witnessed wild horse races, turtle races, sack races, and human wheelbarrow races. I’ve eaten corn dogs and funnel cakes from Atlantic City, New Jersey to Portland, Oregon. I’ve seen block-long kites flying over Ocean City, Maryland. I’ve smelled the livestock at country fairs and plotted with a vegetarian niece to sneak back into the fair grounds and release all those animals. (Fortunately she fell asleep before I had to keep my promise.)

Locally, I’ve been to the Gwinnett County Fair, the Cumming Country Fair (one of the best!) the Gold Rush Days in Dahlonega, Oktoberfest in Helen, the Georgia Mountain Fair in Hiawassee, and several smaller events in places like Talking Rock, Alpharetta, and Roswell. This year I’m looking forward to the Heritage Sandy Springs festival as well as the Mountain Moonshine Festival in Dawsonville and the Apple Festival in Ellijay.

In addition to all of that, my bride and I are headed for Puerto Rico in the fall and I’m already trying to locate a fiesta on the island so we can witness an Hispanic celebration.

Unfortunately, I’m told I can’t drive to Puerto Rico. Those big jets don’t have whistles like the old locomotives, but the “Wailing sound of the outward bound” still “makes me a slave to my wandering ways.” Maybe I can rent a boat. Are there any other islands between here and there?