Gentle dusk in the park

Morning mist

By the highway to Rockport; the gulf is so close out my window

In Rockport. Tree drama.

JD's. Texas shrimp. Massachusetts cod. Windy day.

Ambience in the Longhorn State

Waiting for the fried fish.

Oh so worth it! I must have eaten one third already.
Living it up in the newly publicized "stroke belt", the land of fried fish.

A few hours of entertainment. Solo, of course. Antiques, not so many. Glass? Lots.

Windy, windy. Those wind chimes never stop. Imagine entering this trailer in an electric wheelchair.

Name that tree. Please. These branches are thrusting out horizontally from the trunk.

My favorite Taqueria. I come for the art. The crispy chips, queso, etc. etc. are incidental. Abundant fresh cilantro.

Okay. So it's clear that another reason for not writing is the huge work of editing. Life here is slow-mo, yet it seems my days are filled with small events of great but not-so-interesting import. The sun came up! It is getting warm! It is raining, and cool; the palm trees are blowing in a strong wind. I found a real Mexican restaurant and can transfer my lunch addiction: sneak-off-and-eat-Indian food, to sneak-off-and-eat-Mexican.

Early on I did the laundry, so deliciously near to our spot, and there were enough washers and driers available. Better still, I met Ronda from Missouri, who has been coming here for years. She was friendly, and in our extended conversation kindly filled me in on elements of life at Portobelo and beyond. Big news was the huge hailstorm experienced the week before we arrived. With tornado or tornadic winds. At 3am. With no warning. Her hometown friend came in and said when the storm came, she had to get up out of bed and put on some underpants. When she suggested her husband do the same, he didn't share her concern. Obviously she had the same fantasies experiencing the storm that I had hearing about it. Among them, having no basement or shelter to run to; having knowledge of what happens to motor and mobile homes in big winds; imagining oneself being sucked out of one's bed and home to be found later stark naked. All of us laughingly agreed that underpants in that situation would be essential. Whether or not they were clean was unimportant. Thus I began my stay here having bonded with these women in my heart.

I can report disappointment at finding that the give-one-take-one bookshelves at the laundromat are filled with romance novels. However, that opens the door to my sneaking books onto the shelves that are either rabble-rousingly new age—2013, a book of prognostication, essays about events that might occur in 2012 which I took from another take-one shelf last year in Elephant Butte, NM.—or obscure but literary delights like Bookends, written by 2 lovely old women who spent their lives together collecting rare books.

I was thrilled that after several days 2013 disappeared; likewise Bookends, which I put out a few days later. Heartening.

Tuesdays there's country music by the residents from 7-9. Sundays, jamming from 2-4. The highlight on that day was talking to Bonnie, who at 74 is sparkling, and totally alive after a list of horrible health problems that could have killed her several times but didn't. Although this conversation stressfully lengthened my list of unknown-til-now bodily malfunctions, the miracles of her survival and personality were uplifting. A few minutes of experiencing her spirit, our eyes meeting, being real, laughing—that'll do me.


We've eaten, driven, ferried and survived, walked the half-mile road around the inner RV village. One observation about this area, heavily fifth-wheeled (a kind of truck-pulled RV), there are huge numbers of pick-ups. Plenty are diesels, and big-assed too.

Once, rain sounded on our roof all day and into the dark. After dinner it stopped, or gentled, and I stepped out to take a walk, I loved the clouds moving perpendicular to the road, and had to get out my camera and let the light work inside the shutter.

As a travel blogger, it feels strange to have been in Aransas Pass for over a week without writing a word. Maybe because I don't quite know what I am doing here, with these words and images.

I was stimulated by motion and now we've stopped. And the world is new in a different way as we live here among palm and gnarly wide-spreading short trees and explore and experience a share of warmth and sun while our friends at home are overwhelmed with cold and snow.

Driving through Houston in the rain was an ordeal. Margaret's friend who lives there told her to tell me to expect rain. She was right. It was harrowing to be speeding along, at times in 6 lanes of traffic with poor visibility, and exciting to witness the spread of the city. There were glimmers of seeing the expressway system as art. That appreciation dimmed as we saw an accident on the opposite side of the road, with flashing lights, ambulances, fire engines, responders in yellow, and a long line of traffic building up behind the emergency cessation of motion. This happened 2 more times as we wound through the city!

Finally we exited from the highway past the city centers, and pulled into safe haven—a Walmart. But, due to town regulations, we had to get on the highway again and travel a few miles down the road to another Walmart. The next morning, after a peaceful night despite sirens and train whistles, we set off in fair weather to Portobelo RV & Mobil Home Park at Aransas Pass. And here we are.

From Poplarville, Mississippi to our Crowley, Louisiana Walmart overnight. Photos out the front window, and out the side. We drove over miles of piles—highways above bayous and swamps. Through Layfayette, everywhere signs of oil in Baton Rouge, passed by a Sunbrella truck (manufacturer of the awning fabric that King Awning has used for years). The Gator Country signs brought Margaret's Southern childhood to mind—one of her favored creatures. Water above, water below. And then rest, at Walmart. The following day, the drive through Houston. Rain predicted. The last overnight before arriving at Aransas Pass, Texas.

Out the kitchen window, late afternoon.

In Mississippi, Along the Way to Aransas Pass, Texas...

Arriving at Haas-Cienda "Ranch", where the Poplarville flag flies with the stars and stripes, at half-mast for Tucson.

Mostly permanent tenants around a huge grassy common

I travel to town. Camellia, Home Health & Hospice.

The road back to the Ranch

Home. Good neighbors.

Taking a walk.

This grass fascinates me.

We drive from I-59 to 12, just above Slidell. So near to New Orleans. But we pass by.

In Poplarville, I talked for awhile with the woman who owned the used bookstore. She was born in Lafayette, LA, and her accent was rich round and rolling. She had to open the bookstore when her husband, who had worked in the oil business, became paralyzed from the chest down by a rare disease. He has good days and bad, and as a veteran receives health care from the VA. He was unable to get the power chair he needs, and yearly seems to be downgraded to a level where he qualifies for less care although his needs increase.

She told me we should go to New Orleans. In the daytime only. Then she began to tell how her family—aunts, uncles, cousins—were affected by Katrina. They had lived in a neighborhood forever. Their barbeque was in front of their home, and the neighbors would come by and put their meat on, and they'd all hang out. True community. Before Katrina, that kind of story was already rare in any part of the country. But they were living it and then it was gone. Her elderly relatives want to go back to the same neighborhood, but everything is gone. They left with the shirts on their backs. And they all scattered, so they can't even get in touch because they don't know where everyone went. That kind of story is familiar. Talking to Aloha brought it close.

Because of the oil spill, businesses have failed in Poplarville, too. People are trying to hang on. So many people, like Aloha's husband, were employed by the oil industry. We touched on the irony of an industry sustaining life and destroying it. When I felt I had to leave her shop, we hugged, then kept talking and embraced again. Her warmth, and sharing her story gave me a memorable connection to the town that had drawn me when I read the booklet about it as we overnighted at the Mississippi Welcome Center. As I sat at the table in the motor home, looking over the magazine, seeing ads and homecoming queens, Chamber of Commerce business members and maps, I knew that I'd never see the town, or its neighbor, Picayune.

But fate changed our trajectory, and we ended up in Poplarville, at the Ranch, with two relaxing days there, where I got to shop, interact—and taste homemade beignets, a sugared fried dough I'd heard about as a New Orleans temptation.

I have to admit that New Orleans had been growing to mythical proportions in my mind, the fear factor relative in size to LA. Yet I wanted to see it for myself. The old touristy New Orleans, attractive and intimidating enough. And the disappeared and ravaged New Orleans area. I was most afraid to see that. I wanted to see that. I didn't.