Kinston, NC

From RV.com: Nearly one in 12 U.S. vehicle-owning households now owns an RV. That's nearly 7 million households–an increase of 7.8 percent during 1998-2001, according to the study. I won’t dispute that, but last night only four RVs were in this little jewel of a campsite sitting on the banks of the Neuse River in Eastern Carolina. I found a good thing. The question is do I keep it a secret or share it? Located on the sleepy banks of the Neuse the campground offers eight sites with water, electric and sewer and a small shower house situated on 55 acres featuring hiking trails, a nature center, planetarium, health and science museum. All this for a staggering price of $10.00 a night. Should I tell the world?

Come to the Neuseway Nature Center and Planetarium, Health and Science Museum and Campground of Kinston, North Carolina. By the way the museum, planetarium and the nature center are FREE. 403 W. Caswell Street, Kinston, NC 28501. 252-939-3302. Can't find a website.

I stopped in Wilson, NC for gas and wondered where I was going to spend the night. It took all day to travel across North Carolina through a corridor of color, a trip I have made a hundred times in my Jeep. The majestic mountains gave way to the Piedmont’s gentle rolling hills. In Raleigh I picked up 264 and began to wander into the coastal plains.

I use to live here, but I could not remember any campgrounds in the area. So after I filled the RV up with fuel, I checked the internet for campgrounds. When a campground in Kinston popped up I paused. Kinston? Really?

My memories of Kinston: a hot and humid, economically depressed town sitting in the middle of tobacco and cotton fields. Summer starts in March where blistering waves of heat dance on the distance horizons over the flat lands. Humidity hangs in the air as still as the Spanish moss hanging off the cypress long the Neuse. Water oaks and hickories cluster around old farmhouses, little islands in a sea of tobacco and cotton. In the deepest part of summer, nothing moves here except the fast ball of a young pitcher with the Kinston Indians trying to make it to The Show.

Kinston is the home of my best friend, Barbara Smith who grew up eating cucumber slices between two pieces of white bread bathed in mayo. I am not talking high-society finger sandwiches. I’m talking dirt roads where grasshoppers the size of hotdogs buzzed in the tall roadside grasses.
Walking down the road is a little girl with bare feet, stringy blonde hair, wearing a cotton dress and eating a bag of peanuts poured into bottle of Coke. For a Yankee, this was signature South.

It was after 5 pm when I pulled into the parking lot for the Nature Center. It was closed, but Bobby, the only paid employee was waiting for me to arrive. He checked me in, showed me the showers and told me how the Center was flooded in 1999 when Hurricane Floyd ran up the coast. (I sold my house in Greenville two weeks before the flood.) I took note of the electrical outlets placed on poles about six feet high. I doubt if I’d hang around the campground if the Neuse was in flood stage.

Next door, I met a couple who have been RVing full time (living out of their RV) for six years. They sold their farmhouse in Connecticut, told their kids to come get their stuff and took off in a motor home with two cats and two dogs. Presently, they have one cat and one dog, both adapting well to road life in a 36 foot Fleetwood complete with a couple of slides. Summers are spent traveling the country visiting Civil War sites and participating in reenactments. Winters are spent in Florida in a community of snowbirds from all over the US and Canada. Each winter sixty of them flock together to catch up and socialize.

I glanced up at their big RV and then looked over at my little SunRader. I wondered if I could live such a life. I have gone over 4000 miles, and have been on and off the road since July 29. Few things have gone as planned and my book tour fell apart. It doesn’t seem to matter to me. It has been a good experience; I am living my life with no regrets about setting out on the road. I’ve seen places I have never been, visited places where I have had good memories and met a bunch of nice people in bookstores, farmers markets, campgrounds, grocery stores, gas stations and restaurants.

I enjoy the evenings spent quietly writing in the confines of the RV. The rest of the world disappears behind the curtains as darkness settles around the little vehicle. With Diablo usually at my feet and Phoenix perched on the bed, I sit at the table writing in the warm glow of the RV’s lights. The only intrusion from the outside world is from the radio playing sappy love songs, generally Delilah’s radio show. I am alone, and comfortable.

Take The Tour

Someone told me about a trip to they took to Siberia. In one remote fishing village they found the people were proud and friendly. The residents insisted on showing the tourists whom arrived aboard a plush cruise ship their aquarium. The aquarium turned out to be a maze of metal tanks with fish cut out of cardboard. No real fish. The town was too poor to have a real aquarium, yet someone in town took the initiative to construct the attraction, which turned out to be more educational than first appeared.

At the Nature Center in Kinston there is a modest collection of stuffed and live animals found in the Carolina habitat. And there is a glass aquarium along with a very verbal cockatiel, a couple of huge diamondback rattlesnakes, a cute little owl and a couple of skates swimming in a shallow pool. Outside there is an elephant near the rock climbing wall.

In the planetarium, the young guide memorized the lines of his monologue which he delivered in a monotone drone. He showed us the North Star, the Big and Little Dippers, told the Native American legend of how the bear’s tail became short and explained the fuel system in the Saturn 5 rockets. He probably was born twenty years after we walked on the moon and all he knew about the moon program was what he saw in the movie Apollo 13, from which he showed a clip. It was free and it rained all day.

Plan B

Some times you just got to punt. I waited a week for the electrician and his little helper apprentice. After accessing my situation his diagnosis entailed buying new light box housing for the fans—the transformer, the light and ceiling fan switches. Now where do you suppose you can get these things that come with a Life Time Guarantee? After all, Life Time Guarantee means forever. So where do you buy things to replace things that don't wear out, or break or fall apart or stop working? Not Lowes; not Home Depot. You got to contact Hunter directly.

I don’t know whose life ran out, but when it did, the guarantee on my fans was no longer valid. And if it was, I did not embrace the idea of calling a phone number that wasn’t even a 1-800 number. Facing a self-imposed deadline to get out of Dodge (sold two books while in Dodge) this morning, I decided to remove the two five-bladed ceiling fans and replace them with two $7.95 ceiling lights.

It is a tricky operation to install and remove large ceiling fans. It is not a solo operation, but I managed to get the two fans down without dropping the things on my head or falling off the ladder. The light installation was fairly easy except for navigating the ceiling screws through the lights’ insulation so I could attach the fixture to the plate secured to the electrical box. When I finished the last light I was so pleased and relieved. I could have bowed down and kissed the ground, except I was straddled atop of the ladder. I bowed my head and praised the Lord for His help.

Once all my tools were packed and the disasmebled fans toted to the trash, I informed Phoenix and Diablo to buckle up as we were headed east. It was 12:10 pm. I had not gone to the bank, yet. I was late for nothing. So much for Plan A.

The skies cleared, revealing Carolina Blue and the late afternoon golden rays spilled over the multicolored blanket draped over the Smoky Mountains. The foliage is at its autumn’s peak—brilliant reds, rich oranges and deep yellows set the coniferous greens apart. Beneath the clear skies it will be cold in the mountains tonight. A great night for star-gazing and dreaming.

Bear season opens this week in the Carolinas. A wise person would stay out of the woods.

The Sterling Hill Mine: a piece of the past

In a shallow Precambrian sea from zinc-bearing hydrothermal vents, a zinc carbonate oozed from the depths of the earth to morph into a mineral rich family known as the "ites." That is willemite, franklinite and zincite. Now if you were a seventh grade kid and had trouble remembering this stuff for a science test, think of it as a family of Ites, husband Franklin, his wife Wille and their first son Zinc.

The assemblage of these minerals in a very old seabed in northern New Jersey is quite unique, as no other place on earth contains as many minerals. The main reason for this occurrence rests on two factors over a very long period of time- about 1.2 billion years: temperatures as high as 760 degrees Centigrade and pressure equivalent to 5000 atmospheres. At this point it doesn’t matter if you convert the temperature to the all familiar Fahrenheit, because it is adequate to say it was hot as hell. And as for the pressure, let’s say it was more than what the contestants bear on Dancing with the Stars when the vote announcement is interrupted for a commercial break.

What we get is the richest mineral deposits in the world. There are over 4600 minerals in the world and more than 360 are found in the south Wallkill Valley of Northern New Jersey near Franklin (oooh, name sound familiar?) and Ogdensburg. This alone could put the area on the map of any serious rock hound, but consider that 32 of the minerals found here are found no other place in the world, a bunch more are very rare and 89 of the minerals are fluorescent. It is a world-renown bonanza for mineral collectors.

Okay, that is about all the geological history I can muster. In the days of yore, many of these minerals were carried out in the pockets of miners and when the rock hounds showed up on Friday afternoon the miners sold their pocket of rocks for a six pack of beer. And the rock hounds walked off with minerals that today carry “Big Buck” price tags. (In rock hound lingo big buck means a thousand.)

My grandfather was a miner and if he carried rocks out of the Sterling Hill Mine in his pockets or lunch pail, I don’t know.

Bonafacio immigrated to the United States of America for the opportunity to work in the mines of Colorado. He got diverted to New Jersey.

In Mexico a miner worked all day in the mines, hauling dirt, debris and hopefully ore to the surface in a wheelbarrow. If he came to the surface with a load but, had no ore his labor below in the dark, damp and dangerous tunnels was not compensated.

He came alone, leaving my grandmother and my infant father in Mexico. They would later travel by train to live in the company town of Ogdensburg in a small square house on the street known as Mexico or Bridge Street.

Mining had been going on in this area since the 1700’s, but the New Jersey Zinc Mine took over the operations in 1852 and continuously blasted more than 33 miles of tunnel beneath the surface until 1986 when a dispute between the town and the mine over taxes led to the company’s decision to abandon the mine, all its equipment and assets, and shut the place down leaving an estimated 600,000 tons of ore behind. The short-sightedness of the town caused property taxes to rocket and ended a long proud tradition of mining which played a key role in the defense of America during WWII.

Fortunately, some local visionaries realized the significance and value in rescuing the old mine from demolition and subsequent development. They bought it and today the Sterling Hill Mine Museum preserves the story and the history of the mine. The tunnels are flooded so the shafts, the equipment, the ghosts and the legends are entombed in a watery grave. The places my grandfather once toiled are hidden forever.

I had an opportunity to enter the adit, the mine’s entrance. It is open to the public for tours as it remains above the water. I felt some special connection to my past when I entered the mine, and visited the change room where the miners showered and hung their dirty work clothes in baskets at the end of their shifts. I felt proud to be where my grandfather once worked, but shivered at the thought of his labor in the place that produced 22 million tons of zinc. I have no doubt he would be proud of the fact that the mine is now a museum.

Sources of Information: Mining for America: The Franklin-Sterling Hill, NJ Zinc Mines by William Truran and A Mile Deep and Black as Pitch: An Oral History of the Franklin and Sterling Hill Mines by Carrie Papa.

Visit the Sterling Hill Mine Website


Twin Tunnels:

Also known as the Backward Tunnel built in 1871 over the Wallkill. Supposedly it was built backwards because the water side is larger than the road side. I loved this tunnel as a kid. We'd close our eyes when dad drove his car through and we would try to guess by the sound when we came out the other side.

It Take Five Minutes

Are you kidding me? I heard a radio announcer say the other day that keeping a blog takes no time at all. He claimed it took five minutes, yet he confessed he only made weekly entries. Then he read one of his entries. He was off to Disney World with his wife and kids, and thanked several people who made it possible. Okay.

I must be doing something wrong. I thanked Raymond Brody the other day for making my RV trip a bit easier and it took me two days to write that entry.

I have been distracted for the last five days. I had not planned to return to Knoxville this week so this was an unexpected turn of events. Since everything else about this trip has been a series of fateful events, I accept the surprises and don’t get upset when the realities of life catch up to my fantasy lifestyle. I accept it as my tuition for living my life in the manner I choose. I have the freedom to travel and write, but it comes at a small price of the inconveniences of being responsible for a few things. When I step back and review the details, I gratefully thank the Lord for the opportunities He has given me. I can afford to graciously pay the price when duty calls.

I am a landlord, a debt-free landlord. All rental income is at my disposal. I am a landlord with an investment in rental property and I expect to capitalize on the dual dimensions of my real estate: rental income and property appreciation.
Therefore, I maintain my property by reinvesting in maintenance and expect my tenants to respect the property.

I have good tenants and like good employees to any employer, that makes all the difference. However, I have had error in my judgment in selecting a couple of tenants and I paid for my error. I don’t have stories like the time one of the tenants repaired his motorcycle in the living room and proceeded to ride it up the flight of stairs to the second floor. True story, but fortunately, not mine.

I lost two tenants this month and decided to protect my investment by returning to Knoxville to assure the apartments were in good order and to secure new tenants. Managing rental property long distance is a challenge, but I have done this for twenty years, so I know nothing but the hardship of long distance management. I am an idiot.

For the past few days I have cleaned walls, touched up paint, and tackled minor electrical and plumbing problems. I have no vast wealth of knowledge about these things, but I can read and I can problem solve. Most of my skill comes from days of pondering the problem and reading reference materials and then slowly applying my book knowledge to the issue, such as when I remodeled one of the kitchens this past winter. Most of the time this works, especially if I do a bit of praying. I’m serious. And when things work out, I praise the Lord for giving me the talent.

I probably was a bit over confident when I tackled a minor electrical problem. I had two Hunter ceiling fans with lights. Both lights and fans were operational, but the pull chain switches to the fans were broken and neither could be turned off. I have made these repairs in the past, so I climbed the ladder and wiped out my electrician tools. Snip, snip, strip a few wire ends, reconnect and back into business. After replacing the pull chain switch I now have two ceiling fans that don’t work and two lights that also don’t work. The good news is that whatever mistake I made on one I duplicated on the other, so once I figure out the problem, I can fix both.

So this has taken me forty-five minutes to write and I have not proofed anything, nor have I taken any photos, cropped them, uploaded the photos or the text to the blog so, I think the five minute theory is nothing more than a passing comment to an uniformed audience.

Meanwhile, I am living out of the RV. Unlike when I can run around town in my Jeep taking the back streets, I must carefully plan my routes as not all streets are accessible due to the low clearance on the RV’s rear end. My trips to the hardware stores are planned to reduce the number of times I have to cross town. Therefore, I multi-task my projects, something I hate because I like to stay with one problem until I get it worked out. In the past I have frequented Home Depot enough times that the contractors as well as the store employees thought I worked there. Now maybe I think I should just park the RV at Home Depot and get a job there.

In the end, I rented out one of the two apartments and hope by Friday to have the other rented and have the electrical problem fixed (even if I have to call an electrician). I have little nicks and cuts on my hands and they are all dried out. My hands hardly look like those of a writer--more like a boxer. I have bruises on my ribs from crawling under the bathroom sink to replace the lever in the pipe. I banged my leg on the oven door when I was cleaning it and took three chunks of skin out of my shin. Ouch. And while working on the ceiling fans I got into the light’s insulation and suffered a day of pin-prickling torture when fibers dropped on me from head to toe. Yes, it is time to get back on the road. RVing is less hazardous.

Was this more interesting than letting you know about an upcoming trip to Disney World? Probably not. It took two hours to write this, another half hour to get photos done, uploaded and document proofed and look up links.

Security Blankets

Fall is kicking in, but winter is licking its chops to get here. I plan to drop south quickly after a brief “I was in the neighborhood” visit to Knoxville. There is less competition for camping sites, at least in Virginia. I am sure the conditions will change as I head further south. A convoy of Fleetwood Bouncers nearly blew me off the road as they passed by me in the Shenandoah Valley. Their Pennsylvania tags looked to be Florida bound. They will arrive tomorrow. Me? I plan on taking three days.

I listened to Camping in the Zone this morning. Raymond Brody’s lead topic on his radio show was about the cold weather. I was relieved to learn that the pipes, the toilet, the shower and other water features in the camper will not freeze with just one night of cold weather. However, while the RV might not freeze, that doesn’t mean I won’t. Anything below seventy is freezing. Fortunately, I have a heater in the RV. Set on low it kept the bite out of the air last night and Diablo did sleep under the covers curled up in the crook of my arm. (She is no fool. She knew where it is warm.)

Here is my confession. Starting out on this four month road trip, I had no RV experience. Going alone made me a little nervous, but my spirit of adventure always gets the best of me. Being alone was not going to stop me, even if I was a bit concerned. It was not until this morning that I realized I had a couple extra security blankets.

The first blanket is the camaraderie of those who RV. Many people notice my little and old RV. Or they notice the cats. It is not uncommon to strike up conversations with anyone in the campground regardless where you meet: camp store, adjacent campsite, front entrance, bathroom…

The other sense of security comes from Raymond. Whether I am talking on the air with Raymond, or just listening to him on the radio (or the internet in my case), I have felt that if I got into a real pickle, I could call his store in Nashville or Knoxville and get a good bit of advice and if needed a shot of confidence. Fortunately, I have not had any major issues with the RV or my confidence. Yes, the engine light came on hours after I began the trip (Mom reassured me that it had done this for years) and there was a few weeks of stinky hot water (Dad and I took care of that) and I was concerned about freezing pipes (Raymond addressed that this morning). I knew I could always call Dad and I have Good Sam’s emergency road service for the extreme cases. But knowing there are other RVers out there and a special person like Raymond who has a wealth of expertise to share, I have confidently motored down the road seeking the next place to sell a book or two. I am hardly alone.

Thanks Raymond.

Hawaii: Aloha. Praying you are all safe.

Quilt Highway

Not Buffalo

It is presently 47 degrees. The heater is on and I am hoping I can coax Diablo under the covers. It is suppose to go down to 27 degrees tonight. A two-cat night.

It is fall not winter.

Buffalo, New York got clobbered. I took this photo last winter. Dad is plowing the driveway. Need you ask why I don't want to live in upstate New York. Burrrr.... I am dreaming of someplace warm.

Cracker Barrel

I saw her walking across the dining room in Cracker Barrel. She looked all of 110; small, frail, and suffering from osteoporosis. She walked with a cane; each step could not have been more than a fourth of what once had been her active stride. A flashback hit me. I had been nearing the summit of an 18,000 foot peak in Nepal. Exhausted, starved for oxygen and cussing up a storm, each step I took was a forced effort and about half of my normal stride. Unfortunately, feeling the effects of the high altitude my attitude did not match the woman’s, who seemed determined, independent and appreciative of the opportunity to share a meal with a friend who had already made her way to the table. She could have been a daughter and she looked 90. Again I wondered if I should be so lucky to live so long. If so and I could only move that fast, will my brain constructively use the time to think of great things? In other words, if it takes one minute to physically do something and later the same task takes four times as long, does the mind fill that space? I concluded it does. Since I have been traveling in an RV it takes me a hell of a lot longer to travel from point A to point B. I am very aware of how long it takes me. Thankfully, I am not pushed to be anywhere and I use a bit of the time to converse with my Lord.

The waitress returned to my table and before presenting the bill for the Friday night catfish special, she asked if she could bring anything else to me. I said, “Yes, there is one thing you could do. You see those two ladies over there? I would like to buy them their dinner.” My waitress was shocked. “Do you know them?”

I did not have a clue as to who they were. That made it all the more baffling to my waitress and I can’t really say what prompted me to do it. I told her that she was not to inform the two that I was buying, but discreetly bring their bill to me.

Before I left she told me that she had had a really bad day, but my gesture toward the two ladies had turned her day around. “You are an angel.” I hardly think so. Her reaction and renewed spirit was unexpected and that made me smile.

Two Thirteen and Krispy Krème

Lewes, Delaware. That is pronounced Lewis, not Lou’s.

In Lewes, I stopped in to see a childhood, neighborhood friend, Gayle Parker. I had not seen her since I got married. So how many years ago was that? Gayle and I were in kindergarten together. I was not the most outgoing kid in class, but she was as shy as a sand crab. The little girl with curly blonde hair never said a word, volunteered an answer, spoke only when spoken too, did not read out loud and tried the patience of a teacher who did not know what to do for the terribly shy and withdrawn little girl except to shake her in the hallway and make her cry. Gayle’s mom happened to be in the school when that happened and the teacher nearly lost her job over the incident. After that, she left Gayle alone, but Gayle continued to zone out to the point that even when the recess bell rang and we all tumbled out the door, Gayle sat in her chair unaware that the bell had even rung.

Somehow, Gayle and I became friends. I suspect mostly because she did not live too far away (about a mile up the mountain towards Greenfield Center which was a lot closer than any other girls in my class. There were only five.), and because she had horses. I always wanted a horse and she had one named Pony Boy.

There was a field behind her house and we would go into the field and surrounding woods to play. We were both tomboys and enjoyed climbing rocks, trees and fallen logs. One day, I was crossing a huge fallen log that spanned a small gully. I fell and cracked my head wide open on a rock. I never started crying until I saw the blood running down my face. As bad as it bled, I could not have been too hurt, for I ran like hell down to her house. Panic-city. I got my first set of stitches at my hairline in the middle of my head.

We reminisced about our childhoods, our siblings and our families and caught up on what we had been doing for the last thirty years. She remembered details I could not such as the name of our second grade teacher—Mrs. Bright and the name of Robin Stroup’s first husband—Lindsey Waterhouse. Gayle was a big Elvis fan and I asked if she still was. Not really. Yeah, the music was good, and it lasts forever, but there was a place for it and it was in our past.

Gayle showed me around Lewes, Rehobath and Dewey. We popped in unannounced on three bookstores, (Browse-About Books told me they would consider ordering it if it was available through Barker and Taylor. It is.) to see if they might have interest carrying my book. It was a long shot, but one never knows until one asks. Did not have much luck.

It was good seeing her.

I have not bought gas since Jersey where it was as low as 1.95 at a crazy gas station named Wawa. I finally checked one out.

Great coffee, clean restrooms, and polite staff. As I headed south into Maryland gas price rose, but I suspected the price would be lower once I crossed over to Virginia. Yes, two-thirteen and I saw a Krispy Krème, which would be against the law to patronize if you were from the Boston area, where every 5000 people have their own Dunkin Donut.


First time to Virginia: another memory

I wish I could more, as the memories are so precious. We came to Chincoteague driving through the farmlands of Delaware where I remember a sign, “Corn so fresh their ears still wiggle.” It was late July and we came to see the pony round-up and swim.

Mom and dad took us to Virginia to camp at Tom’s Cove in tents. The vampire mosquitoes almost killed us. The heat almost fried us. The rain almost drowned us. But I remember we had a good time. We saw the ponies swim the channel from Assateague to Chincoteague. We went swimming in the ocean and Robin got stung by a jellyfish. We fished off the campground pier with slimy squid. We watched the movie, Misty. And we slept in our sleeping bags despite the heat because the mosquitoes were so vicious.

I wish could remember more. What did mom cook for dinner? What did she think of the pony swim? What did she tell me? What did she like about the trip? How did she feel about the weather? Did she have a good time?

As I sat on the beaches of Assateague Island on this warm mid-October afternoon, I thought of these things and missed her. What I could not do in New Jersey, or Connecticut, I did in Virginia. I let a sadness began to wrap its arms around me and hold me to until I gave in to the loss. I missed her.


Self portrait

A Voyage

After I finished the Sunday morning (yes, I know it is Tuesday) radio program, Camping in the Zone with Raymond Brody, I took a shower, once again admiring the superb design of the shower room. A big challenge for a campground owner is to keep the shower area clean, dry and pleasant to use. A way to keep water out of what should be a dry change area seems limited due to the lack of some serious contemplation of a critical camping issue, particularly for women. It is difficult to keep the floor dry when the rooms are not properly designed. It doesn’t seem like this would be a difficult to solve. After all, most household bathrooms solve this problem with a bathmat outside the bathtub, but this is an impractical solution to the campground shower.

Maybe my quest to find the perfect campground shower is due to a personal quirk. I hate stepping on a wet floor or mat with bare feet. My toes curl repulsed by the feel of a wet surface that is “suppose to be dry”. Before I step out of the tub I dry my feet to keep the mat and floor dry.

How to make a campground shower acceptable? Quite simply, keep water in the shower area and the change area stays dry. Here are some suggestions.

1. Aim the shower head away from the doorway. Most heads face the door or are on the side to the opening. Even with a shower curtain (there is another issue) water will get into the change area because…
   
2. Put the shower curtain behind the door way, not in the door way. This way when the curtain is drawn, the door is completely covered.
   
3. Use cloth shower curtains, not vinyl and fit it to size. Cloth will dry and can be washed. Vinyl tears, mildews and can get so brittle and stiff. After a while, it is like putting up a board to keep water out.
   
4. Make a tall step into the shower area. Okay doesn’t work for the disabled individual, but for all others…
   
5. Despite the growing number of fat people (did I just insult more people?), keep the doorway narrow.
   
6. Have a drain for each individual shower. None of this common drain stuff which means water has to run somewhere.

How to take a shower to the next level:

1. Have plenty of hooks, towel bars (a true rarity) and shelves. It is scientifically impossible to hang a clean set of clothes, dirty clothes and a towel on one hook. Einstein would agree.
   
2. Provide a place inside the shower to put shampoo, soap bottle and razor. Usually a small soap dish is sloped so steeply a gecko could not manage to stay on the surface let alone a bar of soap. And once soap hits the floor in a public shower – forget about it. (Why don’t people use liquid soap?)
   
3. Have plenty of overhead space and lighting. Overhead space for ventilation and lighting so cleaning people can see what they are cleaning.
   
4. Building material should be tile with dark grout. Cement so sucks. It is cold, clammy, and feels creepy when wet.
   
5. Hang real mirrors not shiny metal mirrors which is like looking at your reflection on a tin can.
   
6. Plenty of instantaneous hot water on cold mornings.
   
7. Space Heaters. The ultimate after Labor Day above the Mason-Dixon Line.
   

Leaks
Raymond warned me to be sure to get those leaks fixed, but he wasn’t confident that silicone would do the trick. I picked the old dried out caulk from around the top of the window and then applied a nice bead of silicone across the top. This was a tricky operation as I did not have a ladder and I certainly am not tall enough to reach the top of the window. Fortunately, I was able to drive the RV next to a log pole where a water faucet was attached and was able to stand on the six inch platform. Probably not the safest way to gain the height needed, but it did the trick even if I had to relocate the RV twice because I could not reach the entire length of the window.

Then I crawled up on the roof and sealed the vent with silicone. Since the RV is twenty years old the old caulk is dry and brittle. I flicked away the loose stuff and applied the silicone, but I told dad that I think we should remove all the old caulk and put new. Will see if this does the job, if not I’ll headed to Home Depot.

Cape May Ferry

I boarded the Cape May Ferry to Lewes, Delaware. It was a short 70-minute ride on the Delaware, a fast moving ferry that can carry 100 cars and 800 people. This was so not the Micro Glory, the passenger supply ship that floats between the islands of Micronesia.

I was directed to parked the RV in the middle of the ship. Once I secured the Rig I went topside to check out the ship. The upper decks had a restaurant, gift shop, two bars and lounge. Plenty of seating with red velour covered cushions lined the areas near the clean windows. Smaller tables for four filled the center of the dining room area. Satellite TV featured an Eagles football game. I bought a pretzel and found a window seat.

Nothing about the trip was like the Micro Glory, a rusty tub of a boat that carries pigs, chickens, gasoline, building supplies, rice, copra and people from the main island of Pohnpei to the outer islands in the Western Pacific. Outside of the few dignitaries who secure the eight cabins onboard where five or more people might be crammed into a room that accommodates two, everyone else stakes out deck space with their grass mats and buckets of white rice and cooked breadfruit or bananas. The entire voyage is spent sleeping, socializing and lounging on the decks void of chairs except for any carried onboard by the passengers. The passengers share a minimal number of unisex bathrooms, stark rusty metal rooms with nothing more than the head and sink. By the end of the trip all the toilet paper is gone, the floors are soaked with water, and the toilets cease working. This is standard ocean travel; this is how it is done and this is how it is.

Back on the Delaware, I found a bench on the top deck, clean, white and no one else sitting on it. It was in the sun and I laid down to rest in the warm sun. I never fell asleep, but drifted in that state of in between – aware I was on the Delaware, feeling the sea, listening to the drone of the engines and thinking about the Western Pacific, a place I once was. Honest to God, I miss being on the ocean. Sick, sick, sick…

Ocean City, New Jersey

Fred Miller said that I picked some bad weather for my visit to Ocean City, commenting on the high flood tides, the gale force winds and the spitting rain. "Well, actually compared to yesterday, this weather is kind f nice," I replied. As much as the wind is blowing like stink, at least it is not cold-59 degrees.

The forecast is to be nicer tomorrow and since I plan a voyage across on the Cape May Ferry to Lewes, Delaware on the ferry, I decided to wait one more day. It is only a 70 minute ride, but it could be a long trip if it is rough. Considering the surf today, I thought I would stay on land. Later I was told the ferry might not have even run today due to the high surf.

I sold two books before I got out of the campground this morning. George, a friendly and likeable host who made me feel very welcomed, wanted to buy The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. He also had been in the Peace Corps serving in Peru. He told me that next time he sees me he expects me to know a bit more Spanish, as learning the language will open a hold new preceptive to others and the world, something George believes, I would appreciate. (Yes, George but languages and knots are hard things for me to learn.) He is fluent in Spanish and French. The other book was sold to Vicky who happened to be in the campground store when I was explaining the background of the book to George. She exclaimed that she wanted one too. I signed both books and took their pictures.

I have enjoyed my stay at the Frontier Campground, just fifteen minutes south of Ocean City on Rt 50. On October 9th they close for the season. It has been nearly deserted, it is heavily wooded, quiet (except for the acorns that keep dropping on the RV-pop, pop, pop...) and here I have found the nearly perfect campgound bathroom/shower facilities. More about this later.
High tides and lots of rain closed some of the roads and bridges to the island, but George advised me to take the 34th Street Bridge. Several of the roads on the island were also flooded. Nevertheless, the Fall Block Party and Indian Summer Weekend was on. Rain or shine.

The last time I attended a street party was in Gloucester, MA. Remember? It was 105 degrees. I sold two books, almost fainted in the heat and met another author by the name of Joe Orlando who has written The Fisherman's Son. Ocean City's festival was a bit cooler and I wasn't trying to sell books at the local bookstore, Sun Rose. However, Fred Miller local author and town historian was. He has written three books on Ocean City, his latest is Ocean City, 1950-1980. I introduced myself and we chatted about our books and exchanged cards. If you would like a copy of Fred's book, you can contact him at ochistory at aol.com. (I wrote the address like that so those creepy spammers can't pick up the address.

Tomorrow, I'll head south again, along the shore. Where I go and where I end up is anyone's guess.

41 Bridge Street: a memory

The names are not too original, but they accurately provide a description of the streets. Bridge Street, a short dead end with a narrow one lane bridge. Plant Street has the plant, what use to be the offices and change room for the miners. The Sterling Parkway however pushes the creativity of the best of marketing firm. The roughly paved road is not any longer than a tenth of a mile in length and wraps through what use to be the back side of the mine’s parking lot. Two of the three building on the Parkway are low income rental units with what looks like a Toys-R-Us explosion in the back yard—a scattering of tricycles, blocks, doll houses, baseball bats, basketballs…. Across the hardly traveled road is a weedy field with stately large oaks, a place that was once a well kept park in front of the old Sterling Hill Zinc Mine. It was on Bridge Street that my grandfather and grandmother Perez raised three boys, Manuel, Joseph (Pep) and Ralph (Babe). The house was a modest, square box with three bedrooms and a kitchen that surrounded a small living and dining room. The bathroom was an outhouse. For migrant workers from Mexico the street was home and became known as Mexico. For me, it was a small house on a crowded street of similar houses, with tiny front yards and nothing but the space for a driveway between each building. The neighborhood spoke Spanish and the place in northern New Jersey seemed as foreign and as far away as Mexico itself when I was a little kid..


As a kid I had a sense for my heritage, even if I never did learn to speak my father’s native tongue. In those days, the goal of parents who had babies born after The War was to provide a better life for your children through education. For my parents, especially my dad, better meant English, so he never taught us and I never heard him speak it unless he was talking to his mother or father. Despite never learning the language I was proud of the fact that my grandparents came from Mexico and equally thankful. Years later when I visited the border town of Tijuana, I was never so happy to get my ass back into the US and appreciative the fact that my grandfather was willing to leave his home in order to make a better life for his family.

My parents took my brother, sister and me to New Jersey to spend a couple of weeks each summer with our grandparents. As a very little kid I learned I had two grandparents. I did not know why, not realizing each one of my parent’s had a set of parents. I remember thinking of them as Big Grandma and Little Grandma, a designation derived from their heights. Big Grandma was a disciplinarian, but little Grandma could not be understood due to her broken English. Both grandmothers were scary enough to encourage me to attempt to build an airplane to fly home. I never got past assembling my building materials: a metal table for wings, an enamel wash pan for the fuselage, a wire clothes line and a few clothes pins somehow would make the engine.

There were times I had to comfort my little sister who was eighteen months younger, that soon we would be going home—counting the days on the calendar that hung in our grandparent’s bedroom.

There were strange things in the house. Even though the house had indoor plumbing when I was a kid, there was a chamber pot under the bed. Fear and apprehension faded as I grew older I learned to behave and became more familiar with the broken language spoken on Bridge Street, a more realistic approach to adapting to summers in New Jersey than building an airplane.

I learned a lot of things on Bridge Street. On the front porch I debated the very real possibilities that Santa Claus did exist. My older brother argued for his existence with a neighborhood boy who had concrete proof that the fat man was bogus. His proof: he stayed up all night and saw his parents distribute toys under the tree. I am sure my brother Mike, who was six years older, knew damn well that eight reindeer could not fly pulling a sleigh so a character named Saint Nick could climb down chimney after chimney with a sack full of toys. Yet for the sake of his two little sisters, one teetering on finding the truth and the other still clutching to the myth like Linus to his blanket, he defended his position. My older brother!

Mike didn’t always look after his two little sisters. When the boys came to pitch pennies on the back yard concrete slab, he would victoriously capture our pennies along with the older boys. Once we lost our pennies Robin and I could not play and we had to scram. That was until it became known that my little sister was gifted with an unusual amount of strength and could beat up boys twice as old as she was. Giving Robin her respect was done out of admiration and fear. No self-respecting boy wanted to tangle with and lose to a little girl. The older boys might have tolerated us hanging around them, but that didn’t mean that had to play with us.

Down the road from the house were sand hills, as big as any found in the Sahara Desert. I don’t know why there was so much sand and what role it played in the mine, but I do know that Bridge Street was once called Dump Street. The mining waste was once dumped along the sides of the street and later company housing was built on it to house the labor force from Mexico.

Going to the sand pits was a treat. When we had permission, we went to play King of the Hill, or just spent the morning trudging up the mounds of sand to “glaciate” back down.

If we were not in the sand hills, we were playing in the creek under the bridge. The boys caught and tormented snapping turtles the size of basketballs and more cantankerous than any truck driver without his dinner. A more mundane afternoon was spent fishing for nothing, roller skating down the street (metal wheels against asphalt left our legs tingling at the end of the day) and waiting for the ice cream truck. When we heard in the distance the musical bells, we would beg grandma for a nickel so that we could buy a Fudgesicle. If we had been more enterprising we had saved our allowances for this occasion. However, what we hadn’t lost in pitching pennies was spent on a raft rental when we took the once a year trip to Sandy Hook on the Atlantic Ocean.

It was in New Jersey that I fell in love with I Love Lucy. Ricky Ricardo was like my dad and Lucy was like my mom – a marriage of mixed cultures. We did not have a TV back home, so watching Soupy Sales, American Bandstand and Bonanza at my grandparent’s house was a treat. I saw my first color TV in New Jersey. The peacock was awesome!

I went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. In the back seat of my uncle’s car I listened to Santa Claus reports from the radar stations in the frozen north. I saw chickens lay eggs behind the next door neighbor’s house and learned to stay away from a plant called itch weed. We collected comets—melted iron ore—from the driveway and gathered fool’s gold from the stream. And in the evening, grandma served hot fresh tortillas and tamales—back then few gringos knew about these things. We slathered the home made tortillas with real butter (Mom used nothing but oleo) and laughed as we ate holes in the flat bread. My uncle taught us Spanish during those meals.

These memories floated around me as delicately as a milkweed drifts in the wind on an autumn afternoon. I walked down Bridge Street and the present melted into the past. I heard a distant laughter of kids playing down the street, neighbors mowing their lawns, men working on their cars. The sounds of the community, Spanish and English mixed in the air. The whistle of the mine, signaling the end of the work day shrilled from high above the town. I was here now and I was there forty years ago.

My aunt and uncle were not expecting me, so they were both surprised to see me walking down Bridge Street just like my grandfather had done at the end of the day, coming home from the mine.

Black Bear and Rhinos

Data compiled by the NJ Fish and Game Wildlife Department in 1997 said there were between 450 and 550 black bears in New Jersey.

Before I left Ogdensburg a huge male black bear sauntered through the back yard just a couple of feet from the sliding glass door. I’ve seen bear before, but not while sitting in a dining room eating breakfast.

Reminded me of the time I saw a black rhino stroll through the compound in Southern Nepal. He was from here to my nose, close enough that the staff nearly choked on my breakfast when they saw me standing there in complete stupid awe. At first, I thought it was one of those Disney animated animals. Wide-eyed the wait staff assured me it was real and I was dangerously too close.

The Rhino walked up to me as I casually made my way to the dining hall unaware of the fact that Rhinos might be walking around the swimming pool.

It was hard to believe I was watching a full grown black bear in the very same yard where I use to play with the rest of the neighborhood kids. I think the Fish and Game Wildlife Department needs a new census. Can't be too many young children playing on the street and no one leaves their dogs outside.

Book Tour Continues

Let’s not forget this is a Book Tour. Uncle Ralph arranged a presentation and book signing at a retirement community, Franciscan Oaks in Denville – one with a solid economic base. With short notice but intense PR over two days, I managed to get about 20 people in the audience. These were the people who were not taking afternoon naps, playing cards, going to medical appointments and had some degree of interest.

It was the first time since being on the road, I had access to a projector. The visuals helped make a stronger discussion and presentation of my Peace Corps experience, the boat sail and my book. I sold three books. But during the three days I was with my aunt and uncle I sold six books.

Ocean City, NJ was to have a bizarre starting today. Stores put their wares out on the sidewalks and after-the-end-of-the-season tourists get to suck these deals up. Bathing suits are 70% off, t-shirts for a dollar, flip-flops and salt-water taffy are buy one get one free. I was looking for a sweatshirt and found Boardwalk Embroidery that would embroider it for free. I looked for a stock figure eight, something to match the book cover's knot, but could not find a sewing pattern for one. I settled for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

The boardwalk was deserted. The storm blew in from the sea sending waves to bite at the empty shoreline. Just a few shops were open. With a hot pumpkin spice latte to warm my hands and soul, I walked the wet planks ducking beneath the store overhangs as I waited for the embroidery to be finished.

When I returned we discussed the book and my publisher. It turned out the owner’s mother writes and wants to publish one of her books. I recommended BookSurge. Before I left I sold another copy, almost paying for my sweatshirt.

I came to the ocean to grieve. Well, the wind blew so hard my eyes watered anyway. Rain and wind pounded the RV, rocking the small vehicle as the gusts rushed up the side street. Go south, Valerie Perez, south. It was a good day for writing, and staying warm and dry inside the Rig with two sleeping cats.

I discovered while I sealed the leak in the front window (no more wet sheets) one of the side windows sprung a leak and so did the ceiling vent. It has been raining hard and long. There are flood watches out for the coastal communities. I nearly had to find a boat to make it to the campground restroom. On the next sunny day I’ll seal the windows with silicone.

Camping in the ZONE

Hey, get up Sunday morning and tune into Camping in the Zone with Raymond Brody. I'll be speaking with Raymond about what I have been doing this week. Catch me between 8 and 9 am Eastern Time on WNOX or The Zone.

Red Light

The Wallkill River in Ogdensburg, New Jersey

The emotion surprised me. I sat at the intersection of Country Road 517 and State Road 23. Sussex County, New Jersey. A right hand turn would take me toward the town of Sussex, where my mother’s parents once lived in a house surrounded by the rolling hills and farmland of northwest New Jersey. There use to be more cows in this part f New Jersey than people. At least I was told that when I was growing up and spent summers with both sets of grandparents.

To the left, was Ogdensburg, my father’s hometown. My intentions were to visit my father’s youngest brother, Ralph and his wife Eileen. They live in the same house where my paternal grandparents lived, the place where my father was a boy, a teen and a man. As I waited for the light to turn, a memory caught my heart.

There is nothing rational about grief. For a moment, I wanted to tell my grandparents, my mother’s parents, that my mom had died. Of course, neither of her parents is alive and in my heart I know they know their daughter has passed away. Yet, I wanted to tell them. I wanted to go to their graveside and let them know that their daughter was missing from my life. I also wanted to tell them what a good mom she had been. What a good wife she was too.

Green light. I turned the RV toward Ogdensburg and choked back the emotion. The farmlands would wait. I was headed toward the mining town, home of Sterling Hills Zinc Mine.

Drive By New York City

Since it was on the way, I stopped in New Haven to say hello to Jill, Beth and Oliver at Atticus Book Store and Cafe. Oliver was there, Beth was out and Jill had moved on to other employment opportunities. A spoke with Oliver, told him how impressed my dad was with him. He passed on his best wishes to Dad and wished me well as I headed south in the RV.

It is hard to make a connection with a book store and then after that happens the staff turns over. Just keep plugging away.

My challenge for the day was not to get lost or tied up in traffic as I neared New York City. After reviewing my options I decided to skirt the City in a big loop by following I287.

There are places I have never been despite a certain unexplained fascination they hold in my head. Under the Tappan-zee Bridge and the Palisades Park are two such places.

I have driven over the Bridge, a 16013 foot long bridge with a 1212 foot cantilever span, yet I have not taken the time to stop and poke around the shores of the southern Hudson River and the town of Nyack or stopped along the road to view the long ribbon of metal that seemingly floats across the water. And today although I have once again crossed the Bridge and admired the rise of terrain on the western shores, I kept bearing down 287W, with no intentions of stopping. Why? In part to keep the intrigue alive and well as to preserve a piece of make-believe memory I conjured up as a kid. The other reason was I was absorbed in traffic going much faster than my four-cylinder RV which chugged up the rolling hills of lower New York.

Totally unrelated and further south was a place called Palisades Park. I have never ridden the Ferris wheel at Palisades Park. Maybe the music has something to do with this fascination because…

You'll never know how great a kiss can feel

When you stop at the top of a Ferris wheel
When I fell in love down at Palisades Park.


As I crossed the bridge I a stole of peak of the skyline sitting in a light blue haze. Up river I saw a sail boat under motor making its way north as once Henry Hudson and the Half Moon did, except old Henry did not have a motor. The last time I crossed the span was years before 911. It was dark and I can’t recall why I was in this part of the state.

There was still a lot of greenery in the hills. I pushed south into New Jersey and picked up 23 north toward the northwestern part of the state. Traffic was heavy, the RV moved slowly but steadily through the tight hills toward Ogdensburg, my father’s hometown since arriving in the United States 81 years ago. He was two. Small wonder as to why his Spanish is a bit rusty. Even my uncle who also grew up bi-lingual is afraid to open his mouth and speak Spanish. The new immigrants—legal or not—wonder what kind of Spanish is he speaking.

Book Signing

I went back to Bank Square Books to discuss and sign the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and sold two books while I was there. That meant out of the twelve I sent to the store I sold five, left four autographed copies and took three back home with me. This independent bookstore is located on a bend and intersection of the main thoroughfare of Mystic, just an oyster’s toss from the drawbridge over the River. It’s a good location and on a raining day in early fall it had nice afternoon traffic—tourist and locals. Early in the signing I had a good number of people come by and listen to my stories. By 4 PM the store was quite. It wasn’t until 5 PM that the activity picked up again, but by then I was scheduled to head back to RV land.

Kate from Pokai Bay, Hawaii who was at the presentation in Saratoga Springs stopped in to say hello and chat. Kate owns and rents out a house in the Mystic area, but is originally from Saratoga.

I asked her why she came to the signing in Saratoga. It was a couple of things that piqued her interest. The article in the Saratogian spoke about my RV trip and that I sailed from Hawaii. Those common connections drew her in. I need to find more single RV’ing women (I have yet to meet another). She is going to a reunion in a couple of weeks and will take my book to show a few old friends. Go Blue Streaks!

Although she is a few years older than me, we tried to see if we had any come friends in Saratoga. We could not come up with any, but she mentioned she lived on State Street. I tried to remember a high school friend who also lived on State Street. I could not come up with it until now – Wendy Guckemus. I had not thought of her for years.

We talked about the changes in Saratoga, such as the invasion of downstate transplants. A few old family friends tried to send cards of condolences to dad, but did not have his correct address. There was a time when the envelop could have said Manuel Perez in either Saratoga, Gansevoort or Kings Station and the letter would have made it to the little mailbox at the bottom of the hill (in those days the mailman did not deliver letters to the end of the driveway). In those days there was only one Perez in the phone book. The name was found right next to Pepper’s Turkey Farm and around Thanksgiving we would occasionally get phone calls for turkeys. Now there are at least a dozen Perez’s listed (no relations to any of them) and Pepper’s went out of business years ago. (Herding flocks of them across Rt. 9 might have been part of the business model problem.)

Rain has stopped although there is thunder in the distance. A chill is falling on the campground. At sunset, a low fog crept out of the woods to lie on the tent grounds vacated by a Boy Scout Troop. This morning they broke camp in the pouring rain. I sat in bed looking out the RV cab window as the boys took down their green pup tents. I imagined all that wet gear smelling like campfire smoke. A shivered ran through me and I sunk deeper into my bed. RV camping isn’t that bad after all.

Tomorrow, I begin the journey south. First stop, New Jersey after I figure out how to avoid NYC.