People

Pearl confessed that she named her cat Cleopatra to compensate for the poor cat’s looks. “She is so ugly.” Cleopatra would help her self-esteem.

Pearl never owned a cat until a friend coerced her into adopting the old feline. Her days at the shelter were numbered for she had been there for nine months, three over the normal six month limit. “No one wants an old cat and if we don’t find her a home in the next couple of days…” Pearl’s friend pleas tugged at her heart. “But my dog is old, deaf and blind. I can’t subject her to a cat.” Her friend desperate to find a reasonable alternative to death for the black and white cat that looked like a puzzle someone tried to put back together without regard to the fit suggested Pearl give it a try.

“She has this beautiful white bib under a black chin and face. But she has this white splash on the side of her nose. Why did it end up there? Makes her look…ugly. And the white on her paws are all mismatched. Pearl seemed to need things neat and orderly and the markings on her first cat were anything but.

“Very different than a dog. I wasn’t so sure taking her in was a good idea. But she never bothered my dog. Not once. That was five years ago. She must be twenty years old.” Pearl thumped her leg when she explained she could not walk a dog any more. The hollow sound hung in the room. She confessed, “A cat is better and now she is my soul mate.”

I met Pearl at the Bourne Chamber of Commerce. Pearl, with hair the color of her name, had been assisting visitors to the Cape Cod town with their selection of family amusements while I browsed through literature and flyers promoting everything on the Cape except book stores. Once she finished advising a couple about a particular attraction assuring the young man that “you too will feel just like a kid again,” she asked me if I needed any help.

I immediately sensed she had a special energy despite her age and her size. The top of her head came level with my shoulder, making her a good candidate to be a “little old lady from Pasadena.” When she asked if I was traveling alone I told her about Phoenix and Diablo. That was when she shared her story about her ugly cat.

I wish I had my camera.

Cabbage and Kings Bookstore

There is a bookstore in Chatham called Cabbage and Kings Bookstore owned by Bess and Jack Moye. A couple of weeks ago Bess ordered three of my books. I stopped by this morning to introduce myself. Bess is recovering at home with a foot injury, so I met with Jack, a charming gentleman whose handsome face has not been lost with age.

He has lived on the cape since the mid forties. Jack sails, and once spent a bit of time racing out of Hyannis against all the Kennedys except John Jr., who was more interested in flying. We both paused in conversation, remembering the untimely loss.

Jack suggested that maybe in the fall we could have a book signing and he shared with me what I learned the hard way. On the Cape during the summer the regulars don’t go out because of the traffic. And the tourist, out and about don’t have a clue as to what events are happening. This makes the summer a tough time to do any special events.

A few years ago, George Plimpton, whom does Thanksgivings on the Cape, did a signing at the Cabbage. A large crowd of friends and relatives came seeking his autograph. Didn’t Nancy have a friend who dated George when they were at Purdue? Small world. And getting smaller apparently for I am having a hard time getting 1000 people to buy my book.

Rabbits in South Dennis

The Hyannis Farmers Market in Harwich must have been invisible. I could not find it. And I stubbornly wasn’t going to ask anyone. After all, while every little town and hamlet on the Cape has a “Main Street,” how hard can it be to find a farmers market on Main? Apparently as hard as finding a 1000 pound Tuna in the Cape Cod Canal or a rabbit out of a hat?

So I decided to go to the beach, except I discovered upon arrival that it cost $15. Knowing I would not stay but a hour or two, I elected to take a short hike along a tidal flat, but not before checking out a state camping ground, where I was told I could return to tomorrow to see if I could get a campsite.

I almost stepped on two baby bunnies while I picked my way along the path covered with poison ivy. I have never had poison ivy, and know that as much time as I have spent in the woods during my lifetime, I have been exposed to it. Nevertheless, since the day was going kind-of crappy, I thought it was wise not to plow through it.


More rejection from a book store. This one, from a store in Beaufort. I looked at the southern list of bookstores today. It is looking bleak. Next week I should start trying to arrange the south part of my tour.

I was invited to two farmers markets. My luck they are on the same day! So I will chose to be in New Bedford this Saturday, as the other one is in Falmouth and my luck on the Cape has been slim.

Have plans to make nine phone calls and visit two bookstores tomorrow before heading west to prepare to leave Cape Cod ahead of the weekend traffic.

RV'cape

RV Resorts – not the camping life expected. A densely populated, highly compacted RV’cape of American and Boston Redsox flags, petunias, clothes lines filled with ubiquitous beach towels, cheap patio furniture on concrete slabs covered with pine needles, mutli-colored plastic lanterns strung between scrub oaks and pines, and speed bumps every fifty feet. Reminds me of Santa Cruz, except the after age of the residents in this, let’s be honest "trailer park" is fourteen. Kids with their big helmets cocked on the back of their little heads are everywhere.

Sigh. I am afraid I am going to make a long list of book stores with little interest in my book.

I have retreated to my concrete pad, weathered gray picnic table, the sounds of the wind in the pine needles above me and a tantrum throwing baby across the street. Rejection from the Hyannis Farmer’s Market, a non-existing Chatham market and no word from the Cape Cod Times or the Cape Codder. Maybe, I’ll lounge by the pool tomorrow after I try to crash the Hyannis Farmers Market. Will they arrest me? Now the headlines might stir interest in The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

Duct Tape

The roosters had not even begun to stir when I sent out emails to various farmer markets on the Cape to see if I could promote my book. After a quick shower, I registered for another night and then broke camp – putting everything away so it would not go flying around The Rig while I go flying around corners. I had identified five book stores in Sandwich and Mashpee and I planned to visit each one to convince them to buy one of my books.

The first identified book store was located in an outlet mall and had books on sale for 80% off. I decided against approaching them with my book. It was 9:30 am; they were not open and sitting in the parking lot with my “Author on Board" banner plastered to the side of the RV wasn’t going to drum up business either. The next two stores I visited were not open either. Since the Cape is crazy on summer weekends, I wondered if the locals close down and rest on Monday.


To kill an hour I visited the Sandwich Marina and the Cape Cod Canal Visitors Center where I learned a few facts about the canal and the bridges link the mainland with the “island” of Cape Cod. It was a financial disaster for New York financier August Belmont and thanks to a Great Depression it got “rebuilt” by the US government. Not much was happening at the Visitors Center unless I wanted to partake in a scavenger hunt which was open to adults as well as kids. I passed on finding the answers to a series of questions about the canal’s history as I knew I had to “get to work”.

I returned to Retlok’s Book Store. Located in a shabby caulk-white building I could almost smell the musty used books locked behind the closed doors. The book store wasn’t on my list anyway, but it was a book store and my mission was “book stores”.

A short distance down the road was Sandwich Bookstore, another used book store. I thought maybe I could sell a few of my books that took the worst of the dump when they fell out of the cabinet when I got lost in Boston. I could write a name in a book, turn a few pages dog-earred and scuff the cover. Maybe I could sell them at cost.

The store owner was in the middle of a conversation with a customer about the weight of a box of books, something I know a little about, since I personally carried 27 of them down into my parents’ basement. I said a box of forty books about this size, holding up my book, weighed 36 pounds. It broke the ice but resulted in no sale. I did get directions to the library (which was closed on Monday’s) and a suggestion to visit Titcomb’s Bookshop, which was already on my morning hit list. However, the owner asked me if I was a Christian, something I had not been asked in a while. With confidence I said yes, and this time felt sure I knew the answer to why.

After leaving the library I headed the wrong way on 6A, zipping past the Sandwich Bookstore again. Lately, I have noticed that my sense of direction has turned for the worst, which I find a little annoying and disconcerting. I really need a navigator on this trip.

At Titcomb’s the RV bottomed out causing me to cringe. No damage but the sound is awful, especially when it wasn’t expected. Elizabeth, the buyer was helpful and we chatted about the Peace Corps. I suggested that perhaps the local book club might have an interest. Wel,l they are kind of booked up until October. She would like to take my book, but unless there was something in the paper, she did not expect much local interest. She gave me the name of a reporter who might be interested in my RV adventures and who reviews books.

A few more miles down the road was Mary’s Bookstore with a nicely paved driveway, but not a single car out front. This did not look promising, but it was still an opportunity to present myself. Spirit the yellow tabby kept on a leash greeted me as I stepped under the door’s overhang. In the dimly light room, there was not a soul. A few seconds later Mary came out from the back. I modestly launched into my pitch. And she said she would take two books. I think I must have looked surprise and caught myself thinking, ‘really?’ I needed to get another book from the camper

As I walked back to The Rig, I discovered Diablo sitting behind the steering wheel. Shit. How did she get through the barrier I had installed to keep the cats out of the cab? What gave me a heart attack however, was the fact that the windows in the cab were half way open, more than enough for her to jump through. Where is Phoenix? I spotted her in The Rig. I rolled up the windows, left Diablo in the cab and finished my transaction, including a photo of Mary and her cat, Spirit.

One more bookstore was on tap. It was in Mashpee about 9 miles down the road. It was a bigger store located in a very busy shopping market. The only place I could find to park was a couple blocks away in the back end of the market, near a clump of woods and a row of blue trash dumpsters.

No sales here either, but I asked if I could contact their book clubs. Yes clubs. There must have been at least twenty each with their own recommending reads. Of course they would not give out this information, but offered to take mine. I only had the book, no info flyer or press kit with me.

I started to head back to the camper, but took note of the grocery store and stopped in to buy a few apples, blueberries, and a cantaloupe. Honest, I am trying to eat wisely, even if I could not resist the bag of Cape Cod Chips. It is hard to eat a sandwich without chips. Feels naked.

I returned to The Rig and immediately saw that the screen to the window was wide open. Diablo was gone! I could see Phoenix was considering the leap out the window. My heart sank and tears immediately filled my eyes. I turned to the woods, where looking for a brown cat against the floor of dead pine needles would prove as fruitless as finding Waldo before a six year old could.

I looked under The Rig. No Diablo. Desperately I called out her name, and in my mind went out a plea to God.

Meow. I turned to see her coming out from under The Rig. I wanted to rush to grab her, but I let her come to me. Thank God (and I did), I have a cat that comes when called. (Phoenix is another story.)

Tonight, I have taped the screens shut with duct tape. If I have to break in, I’ll cut the damn things.

Bourne - On The Shores of Cape Cod Canal

Bourne Scenic Campground is located on The Cape Cod Canal. This morning I spun my bike into the wind coming from the waters on Cape Cod Bay and cruised back to the campground on the same breezes that pushed me along. A 14 miles ride. Numerous water craft cut the waters in the canal which were surprisingly turbulent. I watched the sailboats motor through the canal and felt a long distance between the time I once sailed and now. I can’t get over how much I think I want to sail again. I better get to Kansas fast, to let this feeling die.

I worked most of the afternoon on a plan for the week that will result in some cash sales. At least, I hope. The biggest event is the Hyannis Farmers Market on Wednesday. Tomorrow I will wind around Sandwich, Mashpee and Osterville introducing myself to bookstores and libraries.

I managed without any effort except by the advertising banners on the RV sell two books to seasonal residents of the campground. Pete saw my Author On Board sign and went on line to look up this author. Sort of impressed with my excursions, he came over after I finished my bike ride and asked if he could buy a book. Then he told Karen and Steve, a couple across the street, about me, and they asked to buy a book. Word of mouth advertising.

This covered one night’s camping fees. I’ll have to sell a lot more books or start staying in WalMart parking lots, an idea that is having less and less appeal. The amenities of the campgrounds are nice, but not necessary. However, there is a security in them. Maybe as I grow more accustomed to being on the road, or poorer, which may come first, I’ll turn to the parking lots of America.

I have enjoyed the beautiful, comfortable weather. Good thing the weather broke too, as air conditioners or heaters are allowed in this park. Is that weird or what?

A comment about road rotaries.

“The history of the modern roundabout, and in particular its evolution from the old traffic circles and rotaries built in the first half of the 20th century, explains to a large degree its current status in the United States, and particularly the negative perception of roundabouts held by many traffic engineers and the general public.” If this particular sentence piqued your interest, then go to Alaska Roundabouts for the history of this weird traffic management system prevalent in the northeast and obviously Alaska, where most of us think dog-sleds are the common mode of transportation.

The reason I bring this up is because at the ends of the two bridges that span the Cape Cod Canal are roundabouts or rotaries. On the summer weekends these are nothing more than parking lots with curves. Yesterday, I spent two hours sitting in traffic as I moved less than six miles from the north end of the Canal to the south end. I managed to keep my cool, worried about the cats overheating and thankfully the campsite was worth it. Road Tip: stay away from this stretch of road during summer weekends! Plan ahead if coming to the Cape. Thursdays would be good.

phoenix and diablo

phoenix and diablo

Traveling with these two cats is driving me crazy.

It is the Other Reason!

I received an email from a new fan today and wanted to share it because it helped me put things back into prespective. No sales-depressing. But read on...

Hi Valerie.
You'll never guess where I first ran across your name that piqued my interest, so came to your web site and read everything. On the webpage "Roaming Times". I had been throwing around the idea to myself for several months of taking to the road; but being 60 years old and never having done such a thing before, was surfing the web for websites of where I might find other like minded women whom I might join up with; or at least talk to about it. I have no desire (at least at this point and time in my life) to "hook up" with another "man"; but not sure of being entirely "alone" out on the road either. Anyway, I have read all your web site--your blog is really good--wish I was there with you--my question is--will you have your book in hardback again soon? I want a signed copy-- but I'd rather have a hardback. The book sounds good. Take care out there, and be safe. I envy you. God Bless. Linda

Dear Linda,
Thanks for contacting me. I am excited about being out here on the road, but there are times when I wished I had someone with me. Take today as an example. Trying to navigate through and around Boston, while watching traffic and figuring out where the heck I was going was not fun.

If you don't mind, I am going to include your email on my blog because I am on a radio show on Sunday mornings for the purpose of sharing my experiences and encouraging women to get out on the road of life, sort of speak. We depend on men to provide a comforting sense of security (that is not a bad thing), but when they are not in our lives, for whatever the reason, we should not feel limited by that. In other words - get out there.

Yeah, I sound bold and confident, but there are times I am a wimp. I can feel insecure and wonder if this is all worth it. But then, I get an email like yours and say...now that is what it is all about—encouraging others to take themselves out of their comfort zones and experience something new, rewarding and exciting. And you meet cool people too.

So, hit the road? I say, if you have the desire, put the fears aside, make your plans and go for it. I wish you all the best. Thanks for reading my blog. I hope you continue to find it enjoyable, funny and informative. Don’t forget to tune into Camping in the Zone with Raymond Brody on Sunday mornings 8 am eastern. I don’t know if I am on this week, but it is always a good show to listen to.

And may God Bless You.

Lost In Boston

Later I found out where I made the mistake. I had crossed over the Tobin Bridge (three bucks) and saw a sign for 1A, the very same road I had followed south from Gloucester. My intent was to follow 16 west and avoid going through downtown Boston. I did not know where the Big Dig exactly is, but I thought it would be wise to avoid it even if Gov Mitt had recently given it the thumbs up.

Except, I landed somewhere near the Boston Airport and Winthrop on 145. I did not know where I was, or how to get out of Boston. So I pulled over, peed (always a good idea to work on an empty bladder) and sighed at the pile of books on the floor in the RV. They had all tumbled out of the cabinets over the table while I wormed my way from some dark tunnel near Logan Airport. Crap. Let’s not spoil the inventory. Even if I can’t sell it, let’s keep it looking good for the yard sale.

“God if ever I needed a Shepherd, it is now.” I pulled away from the curb and there was a sign for 1A North. It wasn’t exactly where I wanted to go, but since I was about as far south as I wanted to go on this little peninsula, it worked. But how I got from where I was back to 1, I didn’t know. After all,l I traveled over this huge Bridge, yet immediately I found myself back on the very same bridge headed in the very same direction I needed to go—south on 93. I don’t know how it happened.

The toll booth lady recognized me. "Weren’t you just here?"

"I got lost", almost noticing a crack in my voice.

"Do you know where you are going now?"

"Yes, I-93. I sort of lost it." Again I handed her three dollars and asked for a receipt.

She advised, "okay, just stay in the left lane."

Thank you, Lord. I know where I am going, but I need your help.

Cosmic Muffin: Over and Out

FYI:Darrell Martinie ended each of his Boston radio broadcasts with the same message:“It is a wise person who rules the stars, a fool who is ruled by them. Over and out.” The beloved astrologer, known to listeners as the “Cosmic Muffin” who spiced the airwaves with his predictions for more than 30 years and served as the Bay State’s official astrologer, died last week after a three-year battle with cancer.

The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin had nothing to do with Mr. Martinie. My deepest condolences to his family and friends.

Sweatshirt and Socks

Amy Levendusky and Jess Werner arrived about 9:30. It was so good to see Amy. For those who don’t know, I dedicated the book to Amy and Michael Jordon. She looked a little thinner, but happy. She is visiting family and friends for six weeks before returning to The Federated States of Micronesia where she is a third year Peace Corps Volunteer. She has extended for another six months. We caught up on the lives of other people, shared photos and discussed the finer points of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. She and her mom read the book while relaxing at their camp in Wisconsin. Each had a copy. They read and then discussed the book. Amy and Jess said they learned a lot about me from the book and did not realize I was that serious about the captain.


Dropped the bike off the back of The Rig and rode into Gloucester this afternoon. It is a seven mile one-way ride on tricky roads—hills and blind curves. Most people were going slow and patiently waited behind me if a car was coming head on. It was a good work out and thankfully the heat broke. Nevertheless, I still came home wet and after sitting around in a damp t-shirt I was freeeezin’. While I wasn’t crazy about the extreme heat of the week, I hate being cold worse than being hot. Cold hurts.


Not one to quit too soon, I returned to the place of yesterday’s crime (Bookends) where Barbara Goveny was kind enough to let me hang around to sell another book or two. No dice, but it was cooler and I enjoyed listening to the music of a talented brother and sister duo. Who they are? Don’t know. But they entertained a crowd for a good hour or more with music from the Beatles, Eagles, Everly Brothers, Creedence Clearwater and more classics. No Village People. Little kids can be cute, but these kids were talented. You had to love the girl on the drums, who also sang along with her brother.

For the record: Barbara Goveny: Owner, Bookends, Gloucester, MA




Tomorrow, I break camp and move down the coast. Where will I sell the next copy of my book?

105 Degrees

It was not official, but The Cape Ann Bank’s time and temperature registered 105 degrees at 3 p.m. yesterday. Only those who had no good reason to be out were. It wasn’t nearly as hot this morning, but it was brutal sitting in the sun for three hours during my book signing at Bookends. Attendance at the Sidewalk Bizarre was about a quarter of what it normally draws. Since the store front faced east, the sun beat down with little mercy offered in a puff of a breeze. At 10:40 a.m. I sold my first book and did not sell another until twenty minutes before the end of my three hour tour of duty. Lesson learned: bring sun screen to a book signing?

While there were a number of people who mentioned they had just read something about the book, few could recall where. I loved watching them put the pieces together as they remembered the newspaper article in the Gloucester Daily Times, and then embarrassed when they finally put me with the book, they would laugh.

I took a bus into town, waiting ten minutes in the early morning sun that rose over the salt water marshes (this explains the mosquitoes) across the street from the Cape Ann Campground. The air was still, as if it too waited for the sun to heat it before it would move. Immediately, I was under a relentless attack of deer flies—those big green-headed monsters with a vicious bite. I swished a bandana through the air to deter the flies from landing on my exposed flesh. Any skin was game including my face. My lucky to show up at a book signing with a huge red insect bite on my cheek. Before the bus came I killed three, but got a nasty bite on my ankle.

Although the bizarre did not officially begin until 10 AM, most vendors were already set up on Main Street which was closed to traffic. I stopped in at a deli to get a bottle of water before I walked to Bookends. Barbara Govney, the owner, was already set up for the sale, displaying books for a dollar on the table where I was to sell and sign mine.

Books such as the Unofficial Biography of Arnold Schwarzenegger, a novel called Planets, and a book about the myth of the Dallas Cowboys and their legendary coach Tom Landry were enough to depress me. There was a time that someone wrote these books fully believing these subjects would make great reading. Now, sixteen years later for the person who wrote the Tom Landry book anyway, his book is being sold for a dollar (he’ll get no royalty check) next to The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin for $18.99. It made me think that just last year on this day I was on day thirteen of my thirty-day cruise across the Pacific contemplating the roundness of the earth, and feeding the captain pudding. Little did I realize I would be in Gloucester selling a book I wrote. Well, trying to sell a book I wrote. It is depressing.

I walked down to the harbor before the signing. Here was the beginning of the sea. I missed it. A few days ago, Dad asked me what I liked about Shep, the captain of the Cosmic Muffin. Now a more definitive answer stirred inside me and it had little to do with the captain. Yet, he was of the sea. I remembered sitting on the Muffin moored in Pohnpei. The quiet, solitude of the harbor, isolated from land, a self-imposed solitude and a refuge from my Peace Corps life floated back to me this morning. It was the wrong thing that I loved. The stillness of the air, with a hint of raw stall salt stirred these memories. I loved being on the boat. It had potential.

My peace is greater now, but I confess there still lingers a feeling of something lost, or maybe still undiscovered. Of something I once knew. I miss the sea.

I am asked if I would sail again. My answer is yes. Sick, sick, sick.

By 3 p.m. a front stretched over the land and a breeze ushered in a refreshing new mass of air from Canada. Relief. The bank’s thermometer read 84. I returned to the campsite, the smell of burnt wood and two hungry cats. It took ten minutes to peel my underwear off my soaked butt.

Now let’s get some work done. I am going to go broke selling six books in six weeks.

Stinking Hot and Mosquito Bit

Holy Smokes. I took a short walk down hill to the campground store to inquire about taking a bus into town tomorrow morning. It was so hot that if I had a kayak I could have floated down the river of my own sweat. I’ll be one of the last people to complain about the heat, but it is so stinking hot a menopausal hot flash brings relief. The heat has me holding out in the camper with the napping cats, spending the day killing time by reading the paper and surfing the web. I feel like the trip is starting off badly because I can’t move without torturing the cats.

However, Diablo doesn’t seem to mind the heat. She spent an hour outside roaming the forest undergrowth, stirring up mosquitoes which have feasted on my thighs to the point I could not qualify to donate blood for the next 52 days—I gave my pint this afternoon. Diablo lounged under the camper, seemingly undisturbed by the fact that she was on a leash. I painted my toenails, tried to concentrate on a crossword and killed a couple of deerflies that tried to take an additional pound of flesh out of me. When I attempted to ring her back inside she protested.

The air has settled around the campground holding the stale smell of old camp fires ashes, dumpsters and a dead snake found on the road with its mouth wide open as if gasping for its last cool breath of air. Apparently, it did not find it and it keeled over in its tracks, sort of speak (I guess snakes can’t keel over).

I rode my bike to the beach and came back drenched. The beach is only a mile away.
Book selling is on my mind, but I am making no effort to find a venue to sell. I feel guilty about this, after all this is what the tour is all about.

Gloucester

Author Sails into town for Sidewalk Bazaar: A nice little article on the front page of the Gloucester Daily Times by Danielle Clark announced my arrival into town, the book signing and the sidewalk bazaar.

America’s Oldest Seaport. Perfect Storm Port. Or how about the place of excessive heat and humidity, temperatures in the upper nineties? Sure the rest of the northeast is suffering beneath this oppressive wave of heat. I would love to poke about town, spend sometime down at the harbor, take in the few tourist treats-like whale watching- but I can not park the camper in the sun for a few hours. The cats would fry their brains out.

When I returned to the Cape Ann Campground after delivering eleven books to Bookends, Phoenix was panting. Fortunately, I am tucked between trees at the top of the hill, so it is a few hundredths of a degree cooler here. I hooked up the electricity and cranked the air on. Although the cats had fresh water neither seemed interested in drinking. At noon they were sleeping in the cool air of the RV.

Tomorrow after my book signing, I may tromp around town, as it will be a few degrees cooler. I’ll leave the camper at the Cape Ann Campground and take a taxi into town. It is an expensive way to get into town, but I won’t have to worry about the heat stoking out two cats.

I should be out hustling my book. I dropped in at the Book Store and was greeted as if I was an annoying author who was pestering for a booksale. Thank you. Too hot. I can show up in a book store looking like something the cat dragged in... So, I am spending the afternoon blogging. Stay cool.

Over the Mountain

After months of thinking, conspiring, planning and a bit of dreaming, I am on the road. I am traveling solo, but not alone, as I wander down the road under God’s grace. The last bits of advice from mom and dad issued, good-byes and thank yous said, last minute care packages from mom (a bag of groceries she took out of the cupboards that included extra crunchy peanut butter, a can of tuna, rubber gloves for cleaning out the waste system and a couple more dish towels—like I am going to be washing dishes) packed, a few photos taken of me and the RV and I was on my way at 10 am headed for the east coast. If I stayed much longer, mom would have managed to smuggle a few more things onboard (I have four knives), dad would have fretted a little more and I, as my sail captain use to do before he set sail, would “wig-out.”

The trip did not launch uneventfully. A mouse slipped out from underneath the RV when I pulled out into the road for photos. Great. What the hell did it chew up? Moments earlier, both cats had slipped out the door and escaped The Rig. They were not in pursuit of the mouse. Fortunately, they did not wander far; Diablo was distracted by the grass and Phoenix hunched beneath the axle, just out of my reach as if taunting me. Neither cat was too pleased with the motion of their new abode, especially Phoenix, but she settled in before we hit Vermont, only occasionally emitting a painfully loud meow.

My first call to home came after being on the road for about an hour. In Cambridge there is a trestle with an eleven foot clearance. I had no idea what the RV clears. I stopped to call my dad before attempted the approach. He seemed to think it was twelve feet. Sooo, under I went, with room to spare. Dad advised me, however, not to pull through the drive-in at McDonalds. Check.

The engine light came on as I summitted the Green Mountains, sinking my heart that I had blown the engine (283 books and four knives weigh quite a bit). Visions of sweltering in the heat along side the road for hours while I waited for a tow truck swarmed into my head. I pulled over, peed in the toilet, fed the cats, ate a fruit cocktail, pondered the situation, and decided nothing was wrong with the engine. I cranked it up. The light went out and did not come back on until Milford, NH. I checked the oil. Smelled around for something peculiar and surmised the engine light was faulty, not the engine. Maybe the guys in the shop messed up the light when they worked on the manifold. Tonight after talking with mom she said the light always did that. Boy, what a relief. All that praying for nothing! Well, not exactly, because there was nothing wrong, just like I prayed for.

Tonight, I am staying with Jessica Werner and her family. Jess and I were in the Peace Corps together in Micronesia. Her mom, Susan prepared a great meal—chicken Caesar salad and corn on the cob—set outside on the back porch where we enjoyed the cooler air of the evening. Good conversations. Watched the moon set. Day one.

The Night Before

Everything is packed. Bike is loaded. Cats have been onboard for the last four days, acclimating to their new home on wheels.

This morning I was on Campers Corner – Let’s Go Camping Show with Raymond Brody. Mom and Dad listened to it on the web since the radio show is out of Nashville and Knoxville. Ray read my email that I had sent him.

Since returning to Knoxville in January, I have been listening to your Sunday morning show on WNOX, and I have enjoyed your enthusiasm for camping. Now I am about to go on my first RV trip—a four month long trip the east and Gulf coasts. I am nervous about it as I am going alone.

Your radio show keeps inspiring me. Each week I listen to you talk to people who share your energy and passion about RV camping. I want to share my stories, inspiring baby-boom era women who may be considering the idea of RVing, but need a little encouragement.

I am an author, promoting my first print-on-demand book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. In June, I am headed out in my parents’ cruiser, a twenty year old Toyota Sunrader.

I like to propose that I while I am on my RV trip, I call your show every week or two to share an adventure or interesting RV experience with your female listeners that will inspire them to get out there with that Let’s Go Camping spirit. And yes, I would like to promote my book too, which is about sailing across the Pacific in a 40 sailboat—just me and the captain (yes, I am more nervous about the RV trip than the voyage, and I had never done anything like that before, either).

And tonight….I can’t believe I am doing this. When I was eighteen I decided to ride my bike across country instead of going to college or getting a job. My parents’ supported this venture, although I know my grandmother was horrified at the thought of her oldest granddaughter riding her bike down the road. She must have thought my mother was crazy to let me go.

I never made it, but for a couple of weeks I peddled my butt off across Vermont, down into Massachusetts. Not being to geographically aware of western Mass, I naively picked the route over the Berkshires where the highest mountain, Mt Greylock, is located. It would not have been any easier if I had stuck to Vermont.

The first night I checked into a little bed and breakfast. Cost me four dollars. I pulled four one dollar bills from my hip pocket and handed them to the keeper. They were as limp as a dish rag after Thanksgiving dinner. The next day I made the summit, pushing my bike up the road. At the top was a tavern where I ordered a coke and a hot dog. Famished, thirsty and looking very much like I shoved a boulder up a mountain, one of the local patrons offered to buy the snack for me. I said yes. Everyone in there thought I was running away from home, as I liked more like fourteen than eighteen.

I believe if I had too, I could still ride my bike to the coast, although I am hardly eighteen. Forty-four years later, the RV makes a lot more sense.

Only God know what lies ahead of me during the next four months. I pray to be safe and bold.

Sam's Dog House

There is a little hot dog shack located on Route 22A in Hampton, NY. If you are far from home and need a place to feel welcomed and part of the community stop by the little enterprise with a huge sense of hospitality. For the next three Tuesday nights, take in what is nothing more than the community coming together to entertain and amuse itself. It is called open mic night at Sam’s Dog House – Sam Jam. Grab a coke and ice cream cone or order a hot dog or two and then walk outback to have a little fun. Calvin a precocious eight year old will kick the event off, but the hostess and owner of this happy little place is Mary Holland. Young artists like Mike and Keegan will kick out the tunes and for good measure share their own original music. The audience comes and goes and if you are lucky so will the passing thunder showers that drift in from time to time. It is summer time in upstate.

The village of Hampton is not found on Long Island. This is not the Hamptons. Look further north, near the Vermont border. Next week, on August 5, the whole community has dedicated the day to raising money for the local fire department. Stop in, sponsor a duck in the duck race and have a good time.

Mary read from my book The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin at last week’s Sam Jam. It sounded great to me, experiencing the book for the first time through someone else.

RV Boot Camp

For the past couple of days my dad has walked me through the secret workings of the RV, known as The Rig. He has shown me how to turn on the gas for the stove, oven, hot water heater and refrigerator. Without blowing up The Rig, my father or me, I lit the pilot lights to the oven and water heater. I cranked up the gas-powered generator, which can be used to power everything in the RV except the air conditioner- a luxury not found onboard the Cosmic Muffin.

I drove The Rig up to Moreau State Park where we did a dry run “dump”. The holding tanks were empty, but dad walked me through the steps. Remember to dump the black water before the gray, which flushes out the sewage from the toilet. It is important to watch the gauges that indicate the levels of fresh water, black and gray water and battery power. Of course, if I am plugged into electricity at a campground, life is sweet. But I am not planning to spend too many nights in campgrounds.

We fixed a few leaks around the camper’s sleeper, dabbed glue in a few places, tighten a couple of screws and replaced a fire extinguisher with a 1986 date. I vacuumed rat poison—left over from winterizing, but not enough to deter the varmints from chewing the heck out of electric wires which put the RV in the shop for three weeks and thus the need for RV Boot Camp—out of all the nooks and crannies and gave all the cabinets a good cleaning.

For twenty months after my dad’s retirement from “The Saratogian” where he was a printer, my parents traveled from NY to California, from Alaska to Mexico and most places between. It was a time I claimed that my parents ran away from home. They planned their trek over North America so they were in a near perpetual spring. They were campground hosts in Davidson River, NC, got scammed in Wyoming, rafted rivers in Alaska, wintered in Mexico and met people from all over. Holly, mom’s sheltie accompanied them throughout the trip. She even kept the Federalles out of The Rig when she started barking, making them think twice before “inspecting” the RV at the border. Sometimes it seems like mom and dad just finished their trip, but in reality it was twenty years ago. Each year, they have used The Rig less and less as they have grown older and older.

As I unloaded all the pots and pans, other kitchen utensils, old maps and campground guides from the 90’s collected by my mom and dad over the years, that I realized that the likelihood of my mom ever going on another RV trip long or short is remote. Dad, 82, is still in good health, but is slowing down. Mom, 78, in poor health and in a great deal of pain due to a bad back is not physically able to get into the camper unless she crawls in on her hands and knees.

Most items I removed from the camper would not be repacked. I am traveling as a minimalist (except for my computers, printer, office supplies and 286 paperback copies of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin). I don’t plan to bake muffins, brew coffee, or cook meals beyond opening a can of something and pouring it in to a sauce pan, or boiling a pot of water for pasta. I have backpacked with one pocketknife; I don’t see much use for a slicing, a paring, a carving, or a bread and butter knife much less a cleaver, unless Jack Nicholson is stalking around outside. Nevertheless, I will have an ice pick with me. Why? Mom says you never know. I might get into an ice storm and have to hack my way out. If that happens I am driving to an airport and going to Hawaii.

I stood in the basement looking at my parent’s stuff and felt a sense of sadness. I was preparing for my four month tour in their RV when I was hit with the sinking realization that they will not RV again. Indeed the sadness was due to knowing that they have fond memories of their trips—long and short—and now neither are as active and capable as they once were. May I carry on where they left off.

Dad shared some words of wisdom. We had just finished turning on the water heater pilot light when he said I was a fast learner. I laughed, thinking of another man who tried to teach me things onboard his boat, but failed. I told dad this and he responded that some people teach like they don’t want you to learn. Yes, I think he was right. Then dad gave me his tool kit.

I graduated from RV Boot Camp, but just like after graduating from high school, there is still a lot to experience first hand. It is time to fly.

For the Record

Signing books at the Cambridge Farmers Market. Photo credit to John Carlson.

Revolutionary War

The day did not look too promising. A thick gray cloud cover spitting rain and dropping tails of fog into the Hudson Valley clung to the eastern sky. I crossed over the Champlain Canal and the Hudson River in Schuylerville, New York, where the Battle of Saratoga is considered by most American historians to have been the turning point of the American Revolutionary War as well as one of the most decisive battles in history judging from its consequences. The defeat and capture of a British army in the Saratoga campaign by American forces secured the northern American states from attacks out of Canada as well as preventing New England from being isolated and defeated in detail. It also convinced the rulers of France (and later Spain) that it was worth extending a significant measure of their military, political, and diplomatic support to the rebel American colonies.

However, if you live in Shelby, South Carolina, you would argue that this is the place of the Historic Turning Point of the Revolutionary War, 1780. The Battle of Kings Mountain, which took place on October 7, 1780, is considered the turning point for the Americans in the South. Frontiersmen from the Carolinas, Tennessee, and Virginia gathered to defeat Lord Cornwallis and end the British advance into North Carolina. The Loyalists and English Army were forced to retreat back to Charleston, ultimately to lose the war.

Since I am from New York, I will stick with the Yankee point of view.

I was on my way to the Cambridge Farmers Market. There I sold four books, an astonishing feat for a non-book event. My reception was positive, noticed by the other vendors near my display. I have been told that for a no named author I can expect to sell about four books per signing, if lucky. I ain’t lucky. I am blessed. God also kept the rains away, but it was chilly enough that I had to try real hard not to shiver in front of my local patrons. I hate freezing. I kept eyeing the coffee being sold two booths over from me, but had no idea where I could pee, so I refrained from seeking its warmth.

One lady spied my display set up under a tent borrowed from Paul Gowen, local artist. She made a quick fly by and then returned to take an even quicker sneak peek at my photo album. She looked a little agitated and left. Moments later she circled back around and picked up my book. I read somewhere that when a customer has a book in hand and is reading, do not speak, let them read. I stood patiently and she spoke. She told me she lived with a guy for twenty-seven years. One day he up and sold everything she had, bought a boat and left without a word. Whoa. She checked out the photos again. This sort of looks like him she continued. She put the book back down, said something to the effect that I was crazy for sailing and walked off. Bad memories.

A guitarist, Gary Moon http://www.garymoontunes.com/ who sounded just like James Taylor, but maybe a little better, asked me how many miles per book do I get in my RV. I think it is 45 pages per gallon of gas and the RV gets 17 miles per gallon. You do the math.

Several people asked if my book was available at the local bookstore. The bookstore was located right behind the market, so all I had to do was jump over two sets of railroad tracked and walk around the corner of the building. The sidewalk in front of the building which also housed a lawyer’s office was a replica of the board sidewalks in the Wild West.

Margaret Waterson, one of the two owners of Battenkill Books, an independent bookstore, happened to be in the store with some visiting friends. It wasn’t officially opened, nevertheless, she welcomed me into the store and asked me for a copy of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. I wasn’t expecting to sell it to her, but she offered. Except, I did not know how much to sell it for; I have not sold any books to a book seller, yet. She explained several options including consignment, but said that the normal price she paid for books from the distributor was 40% off of retail. It sounded good to me. So I now have my book available in a bookstore. YES.

The encounter was also valuable as I had another book seller email me wanting to know how to order books. Ordering wasn’t the problem; I just did not know what the industry practices were.
I could have skipped all the way home. Instead, under clearing skies, I drove north along the Hudson River enjoying the lush greenness of the valley’s corn fields. The air was clean, free of the oppressive humidity that had permeated the air for several weeks. A change was coming. A turning point perhaps?

For the Record

I sold my first book (non-internet sales) in person to a Linda Barber, who had me autograph the book to Robert. She did not tell me her name, but her cousin Serena, an artist also from Whitehall told me her name. Serena wants me to go to Tuesday Night Open Mike "Sam Jam" at Sam's Dog House, Route 22A, Hampton, NY.

Other The Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin buyers at the Whitehall Farmers Market were George Armstrong and Michelle.

When I get back to Hawaii, I am going to take a snap of Mike and Sandra Braham. Mike bought the VERY first book.

By the way, check out Serena Kovalosky's work at www.kovalosky.com.