From last Thursday through this Thursday, I saw my sister Jeanie, and her partner, Bob, every day. Today after rain, sleet and snow, she was at her house. We were here. Both of us accomplished something; we had warm companionship; electricity. The comforts of home.

But I miss her. Miss them. I am full of our conversations. Of looking into her clear brown eyes and Bob's blue ones as we speak. I'm still marveling, so many years later, about these people—my sisters and brother—that I met in childhood. And I am grateful to Andre for bringing me to family, and being with us.

Our mother's birthday was 3 days ago. In certain ways, I long to communicate with her more as years pass since her death. When we were young, she let us know that all four of us "were planned". She was an only child, and although her stories of time spent with her many cousins sounded full and fun to us, she said she was lonely. She determined that she would have more than one child. Give us sisters or brothers. She did both. From the cocoon of my life, my family, I thank her—but never enough—for giving me these gifts: my sister, my sister, my brother.

I've known two rivers in my life, the Arkansas and the Deerfield. Relationships based on proximity.

My whole life in Tulsa was lived in a house on a street five blocks up from busy Riverside Drive, which paralleled the Arkansas. Riverside Drive was our most traveled route to downtown—or out of town. The river was a constant visual presence in our lives. As we approached it, the lights of the oil refineries, and the electric company with its eternal gas flare, glittered on its far banks.

The Arkansas River of my eighteen years in Tulsa was more sandbar than water. And it smelled like sewage. My ususal kid-response to shallow water was a longing to wade in it. Which almost never happened. The idea of getting in the Arkansas was more frightening than anything. To do that involved walking out on a sandbar, and the story was that you never knew where there was quicksand. Besides, our only access point would be from Riverside Drive, which was less than inviting. So we looked as we drove by. It was, after all, our river. When we encountered the Arkansas on vacations in other states, it felt like seeing a familiar and newly monumental friend.

Sometimes the river made water back up through the drain in our basement laundry room floor, causing enough of a mess to be a small emergency. Although there was a chance of it spreading to the closet and bedroom next to it, that never happened.

Once the river approached us by way of the streets. First there was an intense period of sandbagging, then the river rose and traveled until it was only two blocks away. For a while everyone was out, then the river returned to its banks. Soon it was mostly sandbar again. But we were left with the odd memory of men floating on the streets in boats, and the community feeling of all kinds of people gathered at river's edge on Riverside Drive, sandbagging.

After I left Tulsa, the river was cleaned up, the old railroad bridge became a pedestrian walkway, and people would run and walk and bicycle on new pathways between the river and Riverside Drive. The banks of the Arkansas became a miles-long park, the river a destination for the annual raft race. Once, I too walked across the Arkansas River, with Dad.

Wednesday afternoon we stopped for the night at an RV park in North Little Rock; we were happy to realize that we could park facing a river. This large fenced in parking lot ended with a grassy area, where an old iron railroad bridge rose to cross the river. To our right highway US 30 arched over it, followed by another old bridge that had been converted into a pedestrian and bicycle bridge leading to the River Market, surrounded by the city. Central sections of the railroad and pedestrian bridges were now permanently raised for barges and other river traffic.

Something stirred in me when I realized that the river flowing past us was the Arkansas. Hello, old friend. Connector.

The RV park was sparsely populated; we could see downtown and hear highway noise but were buffered by open land, the river flowing by, and a thick concrete barrier surrounding the RV park and a larger area of public parking and access. We had arrived safely, the GPS had been our trusted ally, the sun was shining, the temperature was in the high sixties! The following day we would be in Fayetteville where we had an appointment with Toyota to fix the Rav, and I would go with Jeanie and Bob to a performance honoring Gregory Hines with a "cornucopia" of tap dancing! Everything felt good.

The owner of the park rolled up in his golf cart and we began to talk. Andre was excited about the railroad bridge and was told that, at the end of the bridge on the other side of the river, was the Clinton Library. As part of an agreement with the town, he went on to say, the Clinton Library promised to convert that bridge into a pedestrian walkway. It was yet to be done.

I walked around the park, trying to see the Library—a smallish glassy-light building that seemed to be on piers. For only a moment, I experienced that so-near-yet-so-far! emotion that strikes me at times on our trips. Here was the Clinton Library! In a telephoto shot I could even see the current exhibit banner on the front of the building, but no way would I walk through the doors.

Somehow, under the spell of the day and the river and North Little Rock, that missed opportunity barely touched me. In a strange way, it was enough to be so close. I walked rapidly around the rain-puddled parking lot, looking at the other RVs, breathing deeply, taking pictures, thinking of Bill Clinton and his large life. The depth and breadth of his achievements could be debated, but not the expansiveness of his life. Because of him, the sparkling building across the river existed to hold his history; he had offices in Harlem, NY; lasting reverberations in Washington, D.C. A presence felt around the world. And we were in Arkansas, where he grew from a boy to a man of power.

As I approached the old bridge that could have empowered me to walk across the Arkansas River to the Clinton Library, I looked up at it and was forced to contemplate another person's achievement. I could see that bravery was required. Foresight. Strength and skill. Some could say that, as with Clinton at times, recklessness was also involved. Plus an ardent call to action that comes from the heart. At the top of the railroad bridge, glowing yellow, painted in strong block letters, was one word: Zoe. Reinforced in the same color and style by the phrase: I heart(heart symbol) ZOE.

Two people left their mark by the river. One known world-wide. One anonymous. I wanted to know the stories of both.

A road trip list poem:
Motor Homes in a Florida RV Park

Residency
Adventurer
Cedar Creek
Rockwood
Everest
Georgetown
Airstream
Mobile Suites
Designer
Coachmen
Bon Voyage
Dutchmen
Open Range
Overland
Discovery
Grand Junction
Challenger
Diplomat
Komfort
Monaco
Journey
Eagle
Revolution
Kountry Aire
Sandpiper
Arctic Fox
Montana
Bounder

We all know there's fantasy attached to anything on wheels. And what's in a name—the name attached to the home on wheels? Everything! High hopes, dreams, a dash of snobbery, some humor. (Nothing is but saying makes it so?)

We are traveling in a Bounder. The logo is a cartoon of a kangaroo in motion—boing—boing—boing—sporting a goofy smile. As far as I'm concerned this image is appropriate for us, and any moving parts above or near our wheels. If you've followed our travels in the past, you'll remember that our journeys are fraught with malfunctions. Boing. Boing. Boing. Leave with no hot water. Find out the cause. Replace the defective part. Voila. Hot water.

So, we drive along, contemplating the ecstasies of hot water. Boing. Boing. Boing. But there is now the niggling problem of the water pump. Not working. When we are in an RV park, we can hook up to their water and it flows through our system. On the road, or roughing it for the night, we need the pump for drinking, washing. Flushing! Upsetting, especially for Andre who is prepared for almost everything but must eradicate unforseen problems. This time, it means looking up the part in a catalogue he has on hand, and on line (if he's lucky), phoning ahead to see if the part is available in Little Rock, removing the offending mechanism to be damn sure the part is the right one, finding the supplier. Intermittent rest for this camper. Boing. Boing. Boing.

I'll even admit that there is some reward for roughing it. Something closer to "camping". Which soothes the guilt I carry for traveling in luxury (no granite countertops or chandeliers, though) when a tent and outhouse should be enough.

When we began this trip we were drinking bottled water from home because of a residue of sweet (potable) antifreeze in our water; we managed quite well.

Without the hot water, I washed dishes like they do in some countries where there is only cold water: I used lots of dish soap and rinsed with cold! There was the microwave or stove for real hot water. But toothbrushing was painful, even for Amazons of adjustment.

Then there was last night.

We left finally-warm Florida. Andre found a route that cut 100 miles off the trip to Fayetteville. We had plenty of hot water. Food. Fond memories. No house water pump.

We crossed from Alabama into Mississippi. Made it through an anxious GPS engendered muddle in Mobile. We got gas and headed for the Dry Creek Water Park & Campground. Again, we followed the GPS in conjunction with a map, and things looked good as we wound further and further into the country. Until "she" announced that we'd reached our destination and all we saw were homes, fields, cows and trees.

I called the campground, was told—well—no time here for anger about misleading instructions. We retraced our path, then followed his directions and reassuring signage, many more miles deep into the lovely Mississippi countryside. We arrived just before dark, headed for some deeply desired respite.

But before we backed into our small lonely site at wood's edge, Andre had to detach the car. Boing. Boing. Boing.

It wouldn't start. No matter what. Jumping. Again and again. Towing and trying to pop the clutch with me frazzled at the wheel.

Somehow, he unhooked it, pushed it off the road, and backed the motor home into our site not far from the car. We had power, cold and hot water, a cozy meal, beautiful silence, a frightening apocalyptic dvd with doomed animals running out from the burning woods similar to those surrounding us—and no cell service. And yes, in the movie the angelic "aliens" did take the children from the flame-wrapped earth to safety. The only survivors.

Yet we slept peacefully. I awoke and began to play with positive thinking. Andre planned to start the car in the morning when the sun rose. Surely, it was a problem with the battery terminals. A defunct charger. I began grateful thanks to whomever for the miracle that would occur. I imagined the car starting. I returned to imagining the car starting when my fantasies took a dark turn. I gave thanks again. My body tried its usual anxious display, and I chided it.

I cleaned up after breakfast. Prepared to roll. Walked the dogs. I couldn't help but notice that despite all his efforts, the car was not starting. My rich fantasies again strayed to the dark side. As Andre had mentioned last night, our other option was to back the motor home into position near the car, then push the car from the grass to the road, and into place, where Andre would attach the towbar to the motor home.

Usually, this involves driving the car in small increments, watching for the pull-forward/back-up hand signals from Andre as he holds the tow bar in the other hand above the hitch ball, waiting for the perfect placement.

Today, I gave sincere and joyful thanks for the miracle of the hook-up, which went smoothly due to Andre's brute strength, imagination, determination—and all the invisible help he received.

Tonight, we're staying next to the highway that smacked us like the clickety clack of train tracks all the way from Mt. Olive to Coldwater, M-ISS-ISS-I-PPI. Andre has us hooked up. He's made some calls. We have fully functioning wi-fi. CNN and Law and Order. We'll head for Little Rock and the replacement pump tomorrow. It's time for me to stop this rambling, and make dinner. For now, we're so in the moment. Happy Campers.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

While I ponder life since Florida, I am—with a small burst of melancholy—putting up my last photos of Florida. There is a lingering combination of unrest and pleasure connec
ted to invading the lives of strangers (to me, not Andre), sharing some personal history and good times, and then exiting—quite possibly forever. With the faces for which one felt a growing affection still clear in mind. No, heart. Yet the miles bring us closer to Jeanie and Bob. A full heart traveling busy highways. Thank you, Michael and Yvonne.

Saturday morning.

No, we did not attend the Emerald RV Park Pancake Breakfast from 8:30-9:30 in the pavilion. In a flash of brilliant adaptation to key ingredients and motor home cooking, I used some of the bread we brought with us from the Hungry Ghost in Northampton to make Torn French Toast. Ah, you might say, sounds like bread pudding to me.

But no. I am not fond of the motor home oven. The lighting of it. The uncertainty. Or in this case, the waiting. So I am for now, a stovetop cook. I left my flour at home.

And the bread: in preparation for the trip, I bought and froze some favorite loaves. We moved them in a cardboard box from our freezer to our auxiliary trip freezer—the back of the Rav. This was adequate until we arrived in Florida, where I have to admit that although it is chilly, it is warmer than we have experienced for weeks.

Though we eat a slice of toast with our righteous, almost daily bowl of oatmeal, there is bread that must be eaten or lost. Thus, French toast. But this artisan bread is dense, crusty, and full of holes; deep penetration by the egg-milk soak is lengthy if not impossible. Which inspired creativity with little regard for aesthetic presentation—a not-uncommon adaptation of motor home living. I rapidly tore the bread, shook it in the egg-milk, let it sit awhile, and finally poured the mass into my smallish hot buttered round iron griddle. I alternately poked pieces delicately or mashed the lumpy mound forcefully into a single-layered oozing giant cake, knowing all along that when it came time to turn it, my golden Torn French Toast round would disintegrate.

Still, in these creative endeavors, although the vision might not fully materialize, there is great joy in the initial idea. And joy in the maple syrup on the plate. And a little surge of satisfaction to see Phu-Phu—who has a great enthusiasm for pork, chicken, steak, and dog biscuits—eagerly consuming the 4 pieces of torn toast I gave him when our own plates were clean.

All of this is a distraction from the fact that we are in Florida. It is raining hard. (In fact, this is the storm that is predicted to move up to Massachusetts, bringing snow on Sunday.) The little tree outside my window is swaying continuously. There is a constant ssshh and battering of water on metal over our heads. And the palms are blowing and blowing. The motor home is not affected by the high winds. But there is a steady drip from the skylight above the toilet. The usual rhythm of dogs being walked at intervals has ceased. I know the management is expecting all of this rain and wind to stop in time for the Dog Parade on Sunday at 1pm.

As for Samual Dogg and Puppy Phu-Phu—I doubt that they will be participating. From what I overheard in the office yesterday afternoon, it sounds a little clique-ish. The woman behind the desk was saying to a woman volunteering to help that everyone gets a prize. Great.

But then, when she mentioned one of the awards—Dog Most Likely To Pee On A Tire—both ladies simultaneously named a resident dog and chuckled. I could see then that Sam and Phu-Phu didn't have a chance for any meaningful recognition. Sure, it all makes sense. We are strangers here. Short-timers. Not admitted, committed Snowbirds. So they can't begin to know the creative talents of our "little fur-bearers." That's just how things work in this arena.

And we'll get over it. We're leaving Tuesday morning, heading North-east toward Fayetteville, Arkansas. Back into winter.

Owassa, Alabama sunset
























Freezing in Navarre, Florida








Emerald Cove RV Park, Navarre, Florida















Sunny, Chilly—No Snow!















Wishful Thinking












Thursday Sunrise
















Thursday—Sunrise, Waves

We arrived in Navarre, Florida Tuesday morning, where temperatures rose to 65, and I walked on the sand, with small wavelets from the bay nearby. Twice. There are small palm trees. And Andre's wonderful old friends. I met them for the first time last night—dinner at their place. Adding to the surreal atmosphere of travel displacement including acreage of parked motorhomes and folks near our age walking their dogs among them, is the morning news on CNN of the Haiti earthquake. There are no words for that.

Today is about a few errands and resting, then dinner again with our friends. She mentioned making apple pie. And a vacation-caught fish which I don't recognize. As far as these things go, I am in an eagerly accepting mode.



As we drove from LaGrange, Georgia to Owassa, Alabama—and beyond, perhaps—we passed over these named bodies of water. I felt I owe it to you and to the deciders of Georgia and Alabama, to name them. With great heartfelt gratitude.

Ossipippa River

Chattahoochie River

Milly Creek

Sepulga River

Blackwater River

Amen.

Happy (last edge of your) Birthday, PB!

Interactive. I've been thinking about that the last few days as we've crossed bridges with water underneath. Sizable or small bodies of water, with no signs—nameless to the traveler. That frustrates me. I am not a student of geography. Nor do I study the territory ahead while traveling. I might know a few of the great rivers and their locations, surely not the smaller local creeks and waterways.

When I approach the water, I am then ready to know and contemplate its name. If it has one, I desire at that point to be informed of it. This is an admission that my stance in relation to some aspects of life is just to take things as they come. Truly.

I am imagining the collective eye-rolling now of those who know or have branded me as a worrier, as someone who's always thinking ahead and not necessarily in a light-hearted way. But when it comes to organizing my experiences, in many realms, I follow, encounter, learn. Spontaneously.

That could be traceable to having a very intelligent, curious, capable older sister. It was through her that I had many of my first interactions with life. I also left it to her to know street names, types of birds, good books, music, food from around the world, which aunt was married previously—I could go on and on. Following that model, I have gone my merry way.

But I am not without my own inner direction at times. The un-signed bridges I have encountered on this trip are revealing this to me, through an empty feeling that comes from crossing a bridge of not-knowing.

My memories of childhood in Oklahoma were full of bridge crossings: over rivers, creeks, parts of lakes, and dry, cracked dirt. The bridges might have been wooden and rumbly, frighteningly rusted or rotted, silvery and new, restful pale green—but they seemed to have one thing in common: a sign to the right on either end, which named the body of water.

But in many places on this trip, they're just not there. Were they once, but disappeared due to budget restraints, like rest stops? Or did someone decide for whatever reason to withold that information. Had I better maps, I might have been driven to study them now. I do know that depriving us of these names eats away at the great romance that is the flow of water. Water that stops us and shapes us to the point that we must bridge it. Water that starts in one spot, merges or ends far far away, or trickles briefly and disappears. To know the name elicits dreams, fantasies, a few seconds of interest, or perhaps contributes to one's understanding of the grand scheme of things.

When we traveled as children, we talked, argued, sang, played highway games, slept, held our sleeping younger brothers or sisters. We looked out the window.

In our family, the approach of a bridge generated excitement. Someone might call out the name of the water below. It might be a familiar frequently crossed bridge, a new one on a rare vacation, or a little wooden one hidden in the dusty Oklahoma country where our dad grew up. It didn't matter. Sometimes a famous river would be encountered for the first time, and it felt that in seeing it, we had all won something.

The root of our excitement about the bridges themselves was planted early in our lives by Dad.

Once we were on a bridge, committed, no turning back, he would say "Hope this bridge doesn't fall in before we get across." His delivery would vary over the years—sometimes laconic, sometimes urgent, to get it out before we were across—but always, the words and the idea made us shiver. The nature of this interaction between Dad, bridges, and us rested on the fact that very occasionally, he would forget to recite "Hope this bridge doesn't fall in before we get across." Thus we were in dual suspense until the last creak or rumble of the wheels on the bridge was heard: Would we make it across? Would Dad "say it"? We always made it, and sometimes he didn't say it. And that's when we would shout finally, triumphantly: "He didn't say IT!!!"

Ah, interactive. Our lives now are full of self-conscious interactivity. Everywhere our phones (mobile devices) and computers and dvd players take us. The kids in the car are interacting with something they're holding, or watching on a screen on the back seat, or each other (after all, we're still human in this 21st century). And I know this is sounding suspiciously good-old-days. But I had some of those old days. Some of them were good, and are a part of me.

And I 'm thinking that maybe the bridge signage deciders decided that it just doesn't matter anymore that we, just now, can learn the name of the water we're crossing. The name that holds stories, time, miles, mystery. And so this is the way it is? We have no signs; let them Google it...

Haute Cuisine meets Truck Stop

Tuesday afternoon was the first time I thought about a camera at all. My trigger finger twitched uncontrollably when the waitress placed Andre's “strawberry shortcake” on the table with a flourish.

We ventured into the Dupont, PA Petro Iron Skillet restaurant for pie. I ordered lemon meringue, fully expecting what was placed before me. He ordered the “strawberry shortcake”. With whipped cream. And ice cream. I knew that the whipped cream would be whipped topping, that the strawberries would be limp, most probably in bright red sauce. And that the shortcake would be factory made. Experience and disappointment have led to lowered expectations—and powerful intuition—in this arena.

But even I was unprepared for what materialized before us. A magnificent Texas-sized construction, on a canvas of white ironstone. The whipped topping crowned 2 dips of ice cream on which had been lavished brilliant red strawberry topping. Beneath it all, a foundation of 3 thick poundcake slices, each slightly overlapping the next. Drawn onto the rim of the plate with a perfectly even precision that would make any pre-computer graphic artist jealous, were beautifully spaced lines of chocolate syrup.

If there had been a seductive menu photograph of Iron Skillet Strawberry Shortcake, I guarantee that what arrived at the table would have far surpassed it. But please, be assured, I'm not talking about taste. Even now, I wish I knew the identity of the artist. As it is, I am left with this lingering feeling of awe, and the desire to share this experience with others. Which is why I sit at my laptop this Friday evening, clumsily drawing with my mouse-finger.

Tuesday Night:
Only 30 hours gone. And even now, my feelings have outdistanced the 177 miles we've traveled.

Over the years I’ve found that in times of transition, being in a supermarket can unleash strong emotions. I’m especially susceptible when someone has left me at home—alone—or when I’ve left home. In the Sixties, days after my young husband turned himself over to the U. S. Air Force before dawn on December 26, I found myself crying in front of the cottage cheese in the Ft. Worth grocery store where we’d shopped together.

It’s always been hard for me to leave home, despite the envisioned rewards ahead or my eagerness to be gone. And I love my friends, my bed, my car, my Massachusetts towns, my habits. The hot water and warm fire. Even my small corner in the kitchen whose only window is the little tv. Leaving for long involves a tumultuous whirlwind of foresight, fantasy, physical effort, emotion, anxiety, anticipation and supportive contact. Accompanied by heightened awareness of the mutual reliance among family and friends. The push-pull of known and unknown.

We left miraculously around 2pm on Monday afternoon. After an hour’s drive, we found a prime spot in the freshly plowed mall parking lot in Dalton. While Andre rested, I kept my vow to myself and took a walk—not to Walmart—but to the more distant Price Chopper. I had planned and gathered food for months from my favorite providers, had help carrying it to the motor home, and successfully found a place for it all. Now I had come to Price Chopper for milk & lettuce only. As I walked, the bitter wind drew tears from behind my trifocals and seared my legs. I fumbled my way into the store feeling dazed but self-righteous.

Warming and trying to focus, I was almost overcome with a burst of desolation near the produce, just feet from the door. Resplendent, spacious, hypnotic with color, activity and light, the store was full of shoppers. I knew that although most of us were isolated by the intense process of selection, I was also a stranger in the community.

A second and stronger wave of homesickness struck me as a convivial mother-daughter team passed me in the leafy greens. While I, unmoored, wandered past tomatoes, crackers, cheeses on sale 2 for $5, strawberries, meats and shampoos, I pictured all the shoppers arriving home in the descending darkness.

My familiar oppression moved with me through the aisles. I knew that I was casually, correctly observing myself, knew that these feelings would pass. Submerge, again. That superconsciousness of all left behind. That fear of the unknown. That struggle to stay afloat despite the reasonable or inexplicable pinpricks of emotion. That intense longing. That deep wrench at the gut that is part of the pattern of me. That ineffable feeling elicited by the beauty of brightly lit windows patterning the snow all around, or the sea of sparkling city lights beyond my spot on the highway: yes, I left. I am launched into the unknown. I am alone here, whether for moments or months or forever. Poignantly aware that others are Home.

All of this—strange suffering for a person who has for years been driven repeatedly to leave home, hop in the car, and drive away for hours. For whatever reasons.

I headed to the check-out island, distracted by my decision to respond to a bargain: 8 oz of Cabot cheese for $2.50 and wondering if I—without a Price Chopper Club Card—would qualify for that deal. I explained my predicament to the cashier, making it clear that I did not intend to pay the marked $3.89. She responded efficiently—perhaps sensing my fragile condition, perhaps to avoid further anxious pestering—by calling out a name, adding Visitor. A small woman immediately came to the register, rapidly punched in some numbers, turned and walked away. My cashier continued to ring me out, then leaned across the counter pointing to my receipt, showing me that I had been admitted to the Club, had saved on the cheese and the half-gallon of milk. I went back out into the cold, aimed for the motor home, Andre and the dogs, warmed by the kindness of that cashier on a busy night.


Epilogue

Walking back from dinner we were in good spirits. Then our bedtime preparations revealed that the hot water and dvd player weren’t working; earlier, there'd been some question about the heat. The fridge seemed okay. We settled into our cozy bed, but not for long. Though he was exhausted, Andre decided that he wanted the security of electricity, at least for heat. We could drive to his son’s and daughter-in-law’s home an hour away in Ghent, NY. He jumped out of bed, called Michael, found that he was in the city, but that Kate and granddaughter Annabelle were at home. It was a tense drive in the darkness. Finally a familiar silo silhouette appeared ahead. We passed it, turned right, and soon, left, onto their dark street. The house came into view, glittering with light. As we drove up the long driveway, the windows shone bright on the snow. The Christmas wreath was still on the door that Kate, smiling, opened to us. We were safe, embraced, and in the morning would see Annabelle, almost two. Annabelle, who smiled, reached for my hand, pulled me with her to point delicately at her new red drum set, her books, her soft gray cat. And beautiful Kate, who sent us on our way after waffles and sausage, with homemade jams and a joy of eggs from her chickens. Dozens of the most beautiful eggs I've ever seen. Large and medium-sized tan, creamy, pale green and blue-green. And tiny small ones, all delicate and perfectly formed, like Annabelle.