Ice Storm

Tree limbs cracked like rifle shots. Crashing branches took out roofs, houses, cars, other trees, bird and squirrel nests and of course, power lines.

By 1:30 PM I was starving and ready for a bowl of cabbage soup. The main road, between Glens Falls and Saratoga was clear, but heavy with traffic diverted from the Northway were trees heavy with ice splintered and fell across the interstate bringing the southbound traffic to a stand still. Dad and I had ventured out into the crystallized landscape to buy gas for the generator. We hooked it up after the power went out mid-morning when the half inch coating of ice began to bring down tree limbs and power lines. We had lights, the furnace, refrigerator and water pump. The only ting we couldn’t run was the stove and range, but heck, when you got a microwave…

I was ten in 1963 when upstate New York fell into a deep freeze that gripped many communities for days if not weeks. Without power we relocated our sleeping quarters to the living room where the fireplace became the focal point of family life much like in the days when French and English settlers were still convincing the Indians to take sides with unknown foreign nations.

We stoked the fire with wood gathered from the surrounding woods or donated from the Skidmore College’s camp located about a half mile down the road. Borrowing a neighbor’s toboggan, Mike, Robin and I dragged the loaded sled over a road still covered with snow and ice. We melted snow for water so we could cook, drink and flush the toilet. To this day the bathroom floor in my parent’s house remains cold regardless of the time of year—haunted by the cold that seeped into the house during those days without power.

We survived playing games; scrabble, monopoly and domino brought the family together at the card table where candles provided a dim light. We told stories, shared experiences of the day or listened to Mom read to us. We didn’t miss TV, as we did not have one. And we went to bed safely, securely each night wondering when the power would come back on. I never remembered being cold except when I went to the bathroom.

Other families in the neighborhood were not so lucky. One evening while Mom and Dad were out shopping, a red glow lit the sky to the north. Robin and I knelt on the couch and gazed out the picture window at the eerie light shimmering on the night sky, knowing it was a fire, but not knowing what was burning. Mike left the house to investigate and came back to report that the Helenek’s house was on fire.

Mom told me to write about these experience, but I never did.

Buy the Numbers

I have been tracking my Amazon Ranking every since The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin was published back in early July. I don’t remember the exact numbers (the numbers are only worth remembering when they jump from seventeen to number one on the best seller list). My numbers were more in the 1,234,567 or so range. The ranking hovered there all summer long.

It had been a while since I last looked at the numbers. Last week, I checked them and discovered I broke the Million Mark—994 thousand and change. I was impressed, but since I have yet to see a royalty check I wasn’t too excited. I checked today I had reached less than half a million. Some one is buying my book. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I was curious to see what kind of internet coverage I had, so I did a search on Metacrawler. (I don’t use Google unless I am looking for aerial photos of al-Qaeda terrorist training camps.) The usual suspects came up(my website, yahoo, authors den, blogging authors, author zone, gloucestertimes, etc..). Then I found a listing for Latitude38, a prominent west coast sail magazine.

I discovered back in December they had a list of suggested gifts for that “hard to buy for” sailor on your Christmas list (everyone has one—a sailor that is, not a Christmas list). Low and behold there was my book with the website www.valerieperez.com.

I sent the following email to their editors.

I wish to thank you for mentioning my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, on your “All I Want for Christmas” wish list (December 4). I appreciate the mention. It must be why my book has rocketed to 430, 981 on Amazon’s book ranking. Took a long time to break the million mark. Maybe best sellers like You: On A Diet: The Owner's Manual for Waist Management by Mehmet C. Oz, Michael F. Roizen can inspire only so many dreams, while the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin can inspire a few more.

Keep up the good work and have a great sailing year.

Valerie Perez
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin


Now don’t go rushing out to buy my book on Amazon.com. Okay, go ahead, but be aware that The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is available on my website for $25.00 which includes tax and shipping. Yes, it is cheaper to get it at Amazon, but you can only get a personalized autographed copy from me. Hell, I’ll even toss in a good looking bookmarker!

Last Photo

Dad usually makes a point of shooting a photo or two whenever I’m about to hit the road. His "one for the road". In July the morning I left on the book tour for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin he got out the little instamatic camera to take a photo of me in front of the RV. As we headed out the door he took a photo of Mom and me. Of all the photos Dad took on the roll, many of flowers found in his flower beds and hanging pots, this was the only one that wasn’t focused. It was the last photo of me with Mom, taken on the last day I would ever see her as my Mom.

Last night I sat on the bed holding an old photo of Mom and her two sisters. I don't know how old she was in the studio photo. It captured her youth, her dreams, her promised future...an innocent time for the three young girls captured in black and white.

Photos never reveal what is ahead. They hold moments paused as a memory. In the photo of Mom and her sisters I will never know what memories mom had of that time. In the photo of Mom with her daughter, I know she had a lot of faith and confidence in my summer's adventure.

Cheap PR

If I put my mind to it I could sell a few more books.

I got so irritated at a Al Roney, a local talk radio host on WGY for going on and on about man caves, the place to where a man can retreat, to gather his three thoughts and be female-free to scratch his ass, belch in peace and hang with his buds.

Geez. Isn’t this a term found in John Gray's book Men are from Mars, Women are for Venus? I haven’t got a copy readily available so I can’t check that, but man cave is hardly a new term or concept. Does the term "den" ring a bell?

A week ago Al talked about this subject and today he spent nearly his entire three-hour show fielding suggestions from the audience for a term that could be used mano a mano (okay that isn’t exactly the correct usage of the term, but Al's search came up with some lame terms such as Man-atorium and I felt compeled to follow suit) in public. Al's dilemma was that if he saw a man buying a mini-size refrigerator how could he ask if the refrigerator was for the man cave, and not get clobbered. I say mind your own business. The mini-refrigerator could be for his daughter’s dorm room.

I wrote Al two emails. My first one suggested the Man Hole. In my second email I wrote...

Al-
Good Lord, you are still talking about it? I have had breakfast, took a shower, read the paper, checked my email, did the crossword, organized my taxes and you are still talking about the man cave. Okay, I analyzed why this irked me so much and have a confession.

I had a boyfriend whose man cave was his 40 foot sailboat. He sailed blue water and made the huge mistake of asking me to sail with him from Hawaii to California. Thirty days trapped in his man space, I tried to create my own space within his man cave. A woman cave inside the man cave. Well, I got off the boat in California, was congratulated by his family for surviving the ordeal and went back to Hawaii. That was the end of the relationship. Still gives me the shivers.

Valerie Perez
PS- I wrote a book about it.
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin

Al wrote back: That's a great story! Well to hear - not experience. I'm just as surprised to be talking about it as you are.

He mentioned my email on the air. This afternoon I got a book order from one of his listeners. Click on http://www.wgy.com/pages/onair_roney.html if you want to see the whole list, add your own suggestion and vote on a universal, safe name for the man cave.

Well, at least he was not talking politics.

Taxes

I have begun to compile the information needed to file my income (or lack there of) taxes. The opposite of income is outgo, and that is what I have to report to the IRS. Between the publishing of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, and the promotional book tour down the east coast (Someone asked if there will be a west coast tour and I responded not until Santa Cruz slides into the Pacific Ocean.) being a published author has left me without a shirt. In other words, I lost my shirt.

I am not glum about this. It was totally anticipated and expected. One now might say that was a self-fulfilling prophesy. My response to this is that I had a very realistic picture of the book business and knew what to expect—writing and publishing is easy; selling is hard. I tell any who asks what I do for a living that I am an unknown author.

I have managed to put all the receipts on the table but can’t muster the enthusiasm for sorting and adding all the expenses or even tallying the actual number of books sold and given away.

Instead, I tackled the business of Kenai Properties, my apartment building where I house four tenants who faithfully pay rent for the privilege of residing in one of my units. After a kitchen remodel, new porch roof and repairs, and other miscellaneous upkeep including grass seed for a lawn that died in June when for five weeks I couldn’t get it to rain after I fixed the roof this enterprise too shows a loss. I usually don’t tell people I am a landlord. It is not as cool as being an author, but is more lucrative.

So just how do I afford my life-style—the vagabond lifestyle where I live out of a box and carry my toiletries in a bucket, don’t own a home, or a twelve-place setting of fine china, but instead own free and clear a seventeen year old Jeep with 308,000 miles, keep a 20 by 20 storage unit containing a sixteen foot sea kayak, ice-climbing boots, all the camping gear needed for an expedition to just about any place in the world (warm or cold) and an antique pharmacy ice-box? Thank God for the stock market, plant closings and debt-free living. If I could figure out a way to get my health, auto and property insurance paid for…

Woolly Bear

They are fuzzy fat caterpillars with 13 segments to their bodies. Typically, the bands at the ends of the caterpillar are black, and the one in the middle is reddish-brown or orange, giving the woolly bear its distinctive striped appearance. The most familiar caterpillar of 11000 moths in North America is the subject of a myth that suggests the wider the middle reddish-brown band is the milder the winter. An average of 5-6 segments means the winter will be mild. Apparently this little forecaster, the larval form of Pyrrharctia isabella, the Isabella tiger moth, is 80% accurate in determining the severity of the winter.

Myth or not, I was running the other day and almost stepped on a woolly bear as it made its way across the road. I stopped to ask the little guy where he was going. After all, it is January. This time of the year they should be tucked away under bark and leaves patiently waiting for spring when they emerge to spin a cocoon.

I picked the little guy up and put him in the leaves along the side of the road, taking note of the very wide band around his body.

Yesterday it reached 71 degrees in Albany.

A Request

There hasn’t been a Christmas in Bethlehem that there wasn’t snow clinging to the pine bows. The silence of the wood prints its own Christmas card in my soul and for a few days I tolerate if not relish the cold bite of the north country, but this year Robin and I went on our pilgrimage to the Rock’s Tree Farm under a low hanging ceiling of fog as dense as Jennifer’s oatmeal. Instead of plowing through drifts we slogged around muddy ruts and admired the undisturbed rain drops clinging to the top bows, residue from the previous night rain.

When the temperatures are above freezing the time it takes to find the perfect tree diminishes considerably. In need of some exercise and knowing that unless we made a thorough search of the spread of trees planted between moss covered rock walls and outcroppings we wouldn't do justice to any tree we found, we covered the upper and lower fields reminiscing about previous ventures to The Rocks. No story tops the minus fifty-seven degrees, with strong winds riding over the hill crests that carried us long faster than either of us wished. Robin accused me of pushing her and I charged her of running away from me. We still laugh about that, and got one of the most beautiful trees ever.

On Christmas Day we did not open presents until late that evening-after dinner, after dessert and after dishes. We might have been avoiding an empty joy of exchanging gifts without mom, but we had done the same thing the year before.

We got up late, had breakfast and while Dad and Darryl went off to see the remains of the Man in the Mountain Jennifer, Robin and I went for a walk. Along the way I collected three dollars worth of returnable beer cans. The cloud cover lifted and gave us a spectacular view of Mount Washington, covered with snow gleaming in the sunlight. It looked out of place behind the lower darker foot hills. How warm was it? Jennifer found a four leaf clover. On Christmas Day! That has to mean something.

When we returned to the cabin sitting above Otter Pond, Darryl and Dad were still out. The three of us opened our stockings, each missing Mom, yet determined to share the day as if she was still with us. In the past Mom had always been Santa Claus. Our stocking might be as old as we are, but we still hang them anticipating a special magic to come in the night to fill them.

Last year “Santa” forgot the shopping bag of presents—a small collection of Avon products, chocolate coins covered in gold foil, oranges and one dollar bills—left behind in New York, the bag never made it into the sleigh. The elf error never fazed Mom. Foraging into her purse she came up with band aids, safety pins, used tubes of hand lotion and other notions to put into our stockings. After all, we were not bad.

This was when I missed Mom most. The stockings were her signature. But during the night her daughters put those things their mother would have into the empty stockings—the oranges, the chocolate coins, the Avon creams and lotions. Some gifts still had their price tags; it was a habit Santa had. Mom was with us.

Robin’s venison racks were fantastic—moist, tender and without a gamey taste expected of wild deer. Cooked to a medium if not medium rare, it melted under a knife and certainly did so in the mouth. There wasn’t any apple pie, but Jennifer baked enough cookies to serve a division of soldiers so Darryl trooped out for vanilla ice cream and found a quart at an opened gas station. After we finished munchin' we opened our gifts.

Jennifer wrote the family a beautiful little poem that touched us all, leaving Dad in tears. We all missed her, each in our own way, yet we celebrated Christmas as she would have wanted us to do and as we all wanted to.

Before leaving the house on Tuesday, I crawled behind the couch, searched under the baseboard registers and peeked under the bed in a last ditch attempt to find my missing $1800 watch. It remains lost. Could it be in the back seat of Mike’s car?

Yikes

What ever it is that compels a person to jump into 42 degree water has yet to find its way into my bloodstream, but I was enticed into paying the five dollar entry fee and signing a waver relinquishing all my God-given rights so I could get a cool t-shirt. By the time I managed to worm my way through the Polartec-clad line to the signup station about 800 others also had waved their rights to sue if they suffered any injury or heart attack. Many with the intentions of plunging into the glacial waters had stripped down to their alabaster skin tones—not a pretty sight—ready to turn as red as Maine lobsters at a New England clam bake. Upon the final note of the Star Spangle Banner the young, the old, the drunk, the hung over, the fat and the fit raced to the clear waters like lemmings. The senseless dove head first, swimming toward the kayakers who were ready to resuscitate any who suffered cardiac arrest. As quick as these polar bears entered they retreated to find towels, blankets, hats, mittens and other warm attire left on the beach. They did not find too much sympathy from the spectators who shivered under gray skies.

The t-shirt was extra large and this doesn’t break a New Year’s resolution.

My Resolutions

The Not’s

1. Snickering about global warming
2. Over throw the government of some small country – mainly Micronesia - and declare myself queen.
3. Declare a Christian-crusade on Muslims every time they declare Jihad on a Christian.
4. Adopt another cat.
5. Either buy more than ten new t-shirts, or a sailboat.

The Do’s

1. Pitch The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin to Oprah
2. Sell 700 more books
3. Write the first draft of Beyond the Sail (Working title)
4. Learn to sail
5. Drink more milk

Under Consideration but Waffling on the Commitment

1. Get a job

On the last evening of 2006, instead of partying and ringing in the New Year under a sea of confetti, which I never do anyway, I was surfing the internet researching life in Hong Kong and updating my resume. Geez. Now I should REALLY be depressed.

Near The End

Three things can cause a writer to stop writing: there is nothing else to express, there is so much to write about the writer can’t find the beginning or in my case, the writer's scared.

Technically, there is no such thing as a catch-up blog, a capsule of events for the past four weeks. Blogs were intended to be “hey world, this is what I did today.” Everyone and every cause has a blog because there is an innate need to assume some importance, if not to someone you know at least to some unknown individual who accidentally stumbles across the ramblings while surfing the web for something important, and while doing so found you. Even that obscure connection can make you and your daily activities seem important.

So for the sake of not catching up on the events since December 8th I’ll say that when dad said the snow felt good under his feet as we walked Broadway in Saratoga Springs, I let it pass. But fifteen minutes later when he said it again I had to pause in my pace and tell him I thought white warm sand on a beach would feel even better. Yeah, the snow felt fine.

I am depressed.

Red Ball Express

The 30th Division of the First Army swept across France. The young infantry soldier had been separated from his division after being hospitalized. When he was ready to return to his unit he was accidentally reassigned to the wrong division. In the confusion of war during a time when an infantryman’s life expectancy was a matter of days, if he was damn lucky, the soldier had trouble catching up to his proper unit. The circumstances most likely saved his life, but also gave him an opportunity to go to Paris on the Red Ball Express, “a mostly colored unit moving supplies to the front.” That was 1944.

From the 10026 foot summit of Haleakalā after watching the sun rise over a low cloud bank, Dad met two young men from southern California who had just climbed to the volcano from sea level. They congratulated themselves on their accent—a bush whack of sorts using nothing but a map and compass. Looking at the relief map in the Visitor’s Center, the two planned their next route with high fives and “Dude, it is a straight line from here.” referring to their destination, a trek across the crater and descent into Kaupo.

Dad and I looked at each other. When I was in my early twenties I hike the crater trail and came out the far side near Hana. That took two days, and I had not climbed the mountain the day before. A few years later, Dad and Mom also hiked it and took three days.

On the drive back down the mountain, Dad reflected on the duo’s adventure. “They were foolish to climb that mountain like that.”

“Dad, when you went to Paris, you were foolish. These two kids are not at any risk of getting shot by a sniper or end up AWOL.” Dad laughed in agreement. That was today.

1177

One thousand one hundred and seventy-seven souls rest beneath the clear waters of Pearl Harbor. Sixty-five years ago, they perished onboard the Arizona which lies below the Memorial. I stared into the water at the outline of the battleship corrosion slowly melting the thick haul. Two tropical fish idly searched for food. It was the event that changed my father’s life as it did every single person in the United States on that day December 7, 1941.

In the darkened theater we watched a brief video of the attack. It was impossible to keep tears from falling. Few spoke on the boat ride to the white building that seemed to hover above the blue waters. I could not comprehend the brave, heroic acts of many young men in the midst of chaos and confusion spawned by the surprise attack that Sunday morning. How could I ever thank the men who paid for my freedom with their lives? By paying silent respect to their resting place. By remembering, never forgetting. I wondered how we can so easily place 9/11 in a distant place, the event removed from our present threat.

I spotted a young man who wore a ball cap with the campaign of Iraq. I asked him if he served in Iraq. He said yes. I shook his hand and thanked him for his service. Freedom is not free and the greatest achievements of our nation occurred because young men went to war to fight.

At lunch we shared a table with a gentleman from San Francisco who had toured the Missouri that morning. He suggested we take the guided tour, as he had an excellent guide who had served as the steward for the captain. I don’t think we had any intention of taking a guided tour, but when I was asked at the gate if we liked to have a guide I said, “Only if our guide is the gentleman who served onboard.” Turned out that gentleman happened to be standing there. Of course they wanted to know how we knew of Toby.

Toby greeted Dad as a special guest once he learned that Dad had been a World War II prisoner of war. Dad’s celebrity status got us into a couple of places that only few get to see (Dad got to sit on the captain's bed.) Since Dad knows someone who served onboard the Missouri when Japan surrendered, Toby gave Dad his card since Dad's friend has some Missouri memorabilia.

Toby was full of stories about being onboard the great battleship. If you ever get to Honolulu and decide to take a tour of the Missouri, ask for Toby. It will be a memorable expereince.

Antibiotics

One of the worst things that can happen to you before going on vacation is catching a cold. Despite downing enough Airborne to ward invading cold bugs picked up somewhere between Houston, TX and Worcester, MA (but not in either one of those places) the germs managed to latch on me after first attacking on Dad.

It wasn’t a bad cold. It did not turn into one of those scratchy, itchy, sneezy, runny messes. But it did manifest itself into a sinus infection that left the right side of my face feeling like I got clobbered by a baseball bat. It hurt to smile, to chew, or sleep. After one long painful night in Maui, I decided to seek medical attention.

The antibiotic side-effect is that skin becomes sun-sensitive. The good thing is that this will guarantee a beautiful sunny day in a tropical paradise. Sure enough on the far side of Maui at the foot of Haleakalā in Hana the sun lit up the blue surf that crashed against the black lava shore.

I did not die of exposure and my face feels so much better.

Dad, reluctant to go swimming for the first week in Hawaii due to his cold, finally took a dip in the `Ohe`o Gulch, formally known as The Seven Sacred Pools.

Soggy

I have got to get another blog entry posted. After all, I have been in Hawaii for seven days and not written a thing. (That's a bad habit for a writer.) This afternoon I am on the road to Hana and will spend two nights there. I doubt I will have an internet connection at the cabins so posting won’t happen until I return. I should have some good snaps and stories.

So that you don’t envy me too much…I was given a Jeep Wrangler to drive from Alamo. It only took getting into the vehicle decide that I would return it the next day. The drive to my aunt and uncle’s place in Lahiana, confirmed I would return it, because I didn’t feel safe driving it. My field of view was blocked by the side mirrors—being too short. If I needed to be convinced further, the next day after a torrential rain, there was an inch of water in the passenger foot well in the front and back seat. Dad had to sit in the back seat behind me with his feet up. Don’t think I have seen that much water in a car since I left the top down on my MG Midget twenty years ago. Alamo exchanged the Jeep for an Impala.

I expected rain for the entire trip. It is that time of year in Hawaii. But it is warm.

Returning from Kahului the sky looked as if a frustrated painter couldn't decide on either the texture or the shade of blue.

It Is All In The Wrists

It isn’t the recipe. It is the technique.

Mom’s Pie Crust
The Ingredients

• 2 Cups all purpose flour


• 2/3 cups shortening


• ¼ cup plus 2 tsp chilled water

The Technique

Sift flour and then measure 2 cups. Cut shortening into flour using two knifes. The shortening should be about the size of peas and small lima beans (more peas than lima beans). Keep it cold so keep your fingers off. Put mixture into refrigerator to chill. By the tablespoon, add chilled water. Don’t use frozen water like I did. I dropped a few slivers of ice in the dough. It doesn’t help. Gather gently into a ball using a fork. Keep hands off dough. Your body temperature isn't good for the shortening. Divide into two, making two balls. Okay, you can use your hands at this point, but the less man-handling the more flaky the crust and that is what this is all about.

Before rolling ball make a small indentation with thumb into the ball of dough. Why? I am not sure, but those are Mom’s instructions and you don’t mess with perfection. I think it helps rolling the dough out in round shape.

Do all this dough rolling (not rolling in the dough) on a floured pastry cloth and roll the dough in one direction from the center to the outside. Rotate the pastry cloth if needed to get a round crust 2 inches larger than the top of the pie pan. Fold in half and lift into pan.

The Pie Filling
Cut enough Macintosh or Macoun apples to fill the pie plate with a “heap in the middle” (a cooking term yet to be defined by professionals on FoodTV). Peel and cut into eighths. Coat apples with the following mixture.

• ¾ cup sugar


• 1 tsp cinnamon


• 2 Tablespoons flour

Put coated apples into pie plate and then take 2 tablespoons of butter and dot the apples. (A secret ingredient.)

Cover with the other half ball of dough (rolled out of course).

Now trimming, tucking and folding the top and the bottom crusts together to make a pretty little wavy edge along the rim of the pie is a technique I never mastered. It will be one of those lost arts.

Cut a few bird feet in the crust, sprinkle with cinnamon and place in a preheated oven at 450 degrees for 15-20 minutes. Then turn the oven down to 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until apples are soft and pie bubbles over and makes a mess out of the bottom of the oven. Of course, I know how to avoid that, but some things should be kept a secret.

Cool on rack and enjoy with cheese, as Mr. Grey (Mom once taught Faith Grey how to make apple pie) use to do or make it ala mode as first introduced to the world in Cambridge, NY.

Leftovers for The Road

Jennifer: Butter?

Robin: Didn’t mom ever make you a sandwich?

Jennifer: Yes. Peanut butter and jelly with butter on the bread. It was gross.

Valerie: Mom always made sandwiches with butter. A turkey sandwich with butter. I don’t even think she made them with mayo. Just butter. Actually it wasn’t butter. It was margarine.

Jennifer: She never used mayo. It was Miracle Whip.

Valerie: Butter was a mom thing.

Robin: Put butter on both sides. Light.

Jennifer: Both sides?

Robin: Not the outside. We are not grilling it. On both pieces. With mustard between the slices of turkey so the bread doesn’t get soggy.

Valerie: That’s why mom made sandwiches with butter. The bread wouldn’t get soggy when packed in a brown bag for school.

Jennifer: Here is your sandwich for the road. With the carcass.

Robin: I get the carcass. I got the prize.

Apple Pie

The ten day weather forecast for Worcester, MA includes tonight’s low of 37 degrees with a 30% chance of rain. Ten days from now, on December 1st (can you believe that?) the prediction is for a high of 42 degrees with a 20% chance of rain. Since I’ll be in Honolulu on Monday I won’t give much care to the weather in the northeast. By the way it is suppose to be 83 there on Monday.

The tradition for Thanksgiving has been to gather at Jennifer and Darryl’s house in Worcester where we complain that the thermostat set at 54 degrees at night and 60 during the day. The sport is to see how many times Dad will try to turn the heat up and how many time Jennifer will yell at him for doing so. I always bring sweatpants, a down jacket, a heavy blanket or sleeping bag and plenty of tea bags for hot drinks.

Dad and I took on the task of shopping for tomorrow’s dinner while Darryl and Jennifer went off to work. Jennifer expected the stores to be swamped with people navigating carts through the isles. With list in hand and a mission to be accomplished, I attacked the spree as efficiently as possible. I entered unfamiliar territory in the Worcester’s Price Chopper but, still made quick time of the list. Dad was surprised how quickly I shopped. I’m not a shopper so no sense dawdling over the turnips. For years he shopped with Mom who slowly and methodically made her way through the store, rarely back tracking and avoiding going one extra painful step.

I asked a stock clerk where the lard was. Yes, lard—the poison my Micronesian host mother would fry my pancakes, fish, bacon, and everything else in. It makes a wickedly flakey pie crust. I am surprised the package doesn’t come with a coupon offer—mail in the end labels from three packages of lard, with $9.95 and receive a free stent. Takes four to six weeks so don’t have your heart attack before then.

I thought I got everything on the list until Jennifer asked me to the whip the heavy cream (more heart disease) for the frozen fruit salad. The afternoon’s trip to the store was a little different. Totally dark outside, a stream of car red tail lights illuminating the street ahead of me and a less than friendly feel inside the store where harried shoppers who just gotten off from work stood in line with carts (or buggies as they are called in the South) overflowing with frozen turkeys (are they going to thaw in time?), store bought pies (that is a crime) and soft drinks. In the express lane I patiently stood with my 16 ounces of heavy whipping cream and a single serving size of yogurt—my snack for tomorrow.

Dad went to bed early. He is fending off a cold with Airborne. Mark and Cindi are still a few hours from Worcester after surviving an hour crossing over the George Washington Bridge in NYC. Robin won’t venture down from the north country of New Hampshire until tomorrow morning. Jennifer and Darryl are at a prayer meeting. Mike and Margie are visiting their newborn grandson—their first and Dad’s first great grandson.

Nothing much different about this pre-holiday eve, except the huge emptiness of not having Mom here. I’m going to bake apple pie tomorrow. It was her signature.

So Close

If I had to testify as to my whereabouts for the last several weeks, I might have a little trouble remembering. As I settled into my seat on the flight from Houston to Philadelphia, I wondered where I had been last Sunday. It was Harrisburg (I think), but that seemed so long ago. The Sunday before, I was in Knoxville. Before that, I was on the Outer Banks. Or was I… My trip was winding up, the summer months gone. I caught a glimpse of a small pile of leaves dancing in the wind near the corner of the garage. Their brilliant color turned brown. The memories are already fading.

It took three days to drive to New York—a trip I can make in fourteen hours and I have done it in one day. But then maybe it should have taken me four.

“Do you know the speed limit through town?”

“Yes sir. It is thirty.” I was reluctant to roll down my window. It was cold outside.

“I got you on radar going forty-seven."

That seemed highly unlikely. The RV nearly has to be pushed to get fifty-five. It needs a stiff tail wind to get sixty and a good long downhill with tail wind to reach sixty-five. While forty five was possible through the town of Walden, NY it would have been a stretch. It would have scared the hell out of me. And I had no motive for speed. After all, I was working on day three.

This route gave me a break from the stress of the highway drive where I was constantly pushing the RV to maintain a speed to avoid a semi tractor trailer running through the rear end and joining me in the cab. For eighteen miles I could relax and enjoy the back roads where apple trees and corn fields run west to the Gunks, a fold of rocks renown for good climbing routes. It was Sunday afternoon, and although the rain had ceased, the countryside held the first tale of winter – a damp dreariness carried by a chilling wind. But it wasn’t snowing and I was grateful.

“It doesn't seem likely,” I replied handing the officer my license and registration. I didn’t challenge him, but let him know that I doubted his claim. Okay, I wasn’t going thirty. I could give him thirty seven, but not seventeen miles over the speed limit.

Officer Wood had been in the Air Force, stationed in Knoxville. He wanted to get back there. In the end he sited me for not having proof of insurance and obstructing the view of the license plate with my bike cover. How ironic. On my last day after driving 6000 miles over four months and now I get a warning for these violations. I was grateful he did not write a ticket for speeding.

In Saratoga, I saw hundreds of ducks flying over Loughberry Lake. It was a sight I would have shared with Mom when I got home. At the bottom of the hill near Danda’s, I pulled the RV over and let the emotion once again sweep over me. For three days a renewed sadness haunted me. This would be my first time to come home and Mom would not be there. I listened to Snook Kill rush through the culvert under the road. Focused on the sound, I wiped the last tear on my sleeve and started up the hill toward home.

Flamingos in Houston

I love mornings when the air is crisp, the skies are clear blue, and the city’s traffic has yet to drown the song of the solo bird singing its song from on top a telephone poll. I might not sell many books, but the morning was perfect for sitting curbside with a good friend. Morning waxed to midday, she knitted a pray shawl and I struck up an interesting conversation with a gentleman who had bought shrimp from Mexican fisherman in international waters for a dollar a pound and shipped garlic to the US/Mexican border only to find them infested with nematodes.

Thanks to the generosity of Half Price Books in Houston I had such an opportunity and I sold one more book. I can’t mention the purchaser's name because he is being sued by the Mexican government. He does have one of those nice Irish names and it ain't Bill O'Reilly.

She parked her late model Mercedes in front of Half Price Books. When she got out wearing a modest house coat, Nancy tried to entice the driver to purchased my book. (The modest house coat would have prevented me from attempting this - forget the car.) She listened to Nancy’s tale about Valerie Perez’s journey across the ocean in the Cosmic Muffin. When Nancy paused, the lady remarked, “My, what beautiful teeth you have.” It was a perfect sale’s deflection. Like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, Nancy should have said, “Better to eat you with if you don’t buy a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin", but threatening a customer is never a good idea.

And that was my last appearance in Houston for 2006.

No Harm No Foul

Considering the propensity for lawsuits it is no surprise that airline attendants no longer provide aspirin for passengers. After all, the staff is highly trained to get passengers out of a burning airplane when it crash lands in the middle of a jungle and the wreckage dangles upside down from the tangled growth of choking vines filled with poisonous snakes (I have no affiliation with the movie Snakes on a Plane), but is not qualified to dispense two aspirin for a headache. The fear of being sued far exceeds any common sense. With a pounding head pain I sat next to the jet engines feeling the drone throb through my head until my semi-consciousness was interrupted by a commercial.

The flight attendent made a pitch for a Signature VISA. Apparently, the airline has paired up with a large bank from the same home town to offer a credit card enticing the general public to apply and borrow more money to qualify for 25,000 free miles (this means a free round trip ticket). It is good business and hardly viewed as irresponsible. Consider that most people live pay check to pay check, have no budget, the average family already carries $8000 in credit card debt and the number one issue couples fight and divorce is money.

So, here is your VISA application, but I’m sorry I can’t give you an aspirin.

In Houston

Ouch. I have been busy.

Everything is big in Texas and they are the friendliest people on earth. That is unless your son is on the opposing football team. The fact that they are all Texans makes them all kin, but a little family rivalry at a Friday night foot ball maintains a pecking order.

I arrived to a balmy 82 degrees and a huge welcome from Nancy Killeen, my Peace Corps buddy from Micronesia. She had arranged a book signing at River Oaks Books Store in Houston on Wednesday. We slid through the door at 4:30 pm, and were greeted by that same friendly Texan warmth I have found nearly everywhere for the past two days. Small wonder why the Katrina evacuees don’t return to New Orleans. (Frank and Shannon Carmello, Nancy's daughter and son-in-law, are moving to New Orleans and everyone asks them why? I view it as a land opportunity in the midst of policital constipation, swarms of mosquitoes and high crime, not unlike living in a Third-World country.)

Before I even had a chance to sit down, I sold a book to Bill, who managed not to escape my little pitch for my prose. Within two minutes he bought a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

4:30 to 6 pm is not the best time to have a book signing, but I was honored to be able to sign at this famous little bookstore in a rather posh area inside the I610 loop around the city. Somewhere close by former President George Bush lurked. I was hoping he might pop in, but making special arrangements with the secret service would have overwhelmed me.

Anyway, the cozy bookstore offered comfortable seats, punch and cookies, and a relaxed atmosphere. Unfortunately, streams of book buyers were not lined up out the door and around the corner. Nevertheless, Mike Jones and Jean of the River Oaks Bookstore played perfect host and hostess and with native Houstonian Grace and Nancy seated in the front of the store we chatted about the character of my captain, the lack of my seafaring skills, the crazy motives of boarding the boat in the first place and life upon the blue ocean. Before I knew it was 6 pm and Grace could not leave the store without an autographed copy.

Four months of selling my book and I can’t say what a typical book signing event is like. I hope there isn’t one. I do know for the small time author such as myself, these events are not about selling books. They are about talking, sharing stories, meeting fascinating people and having fun. It all happened at River Oaks Book Store 3270 Westheimer, Houston, TX 713-520-0061.

Photo: Nancy Killeen, Jean, Valerie Perez and Grace

Being American

Veteran’s Day

I ain’t no Democrat. Probably not a true Republican either and ‘cause the Libertarians won’t take a position on the security of my country I am not feeling very good about the current state of politics in the United States.

I voted. I sent the only freshman Republican to the Senate.

The trouble with being an American today is you choose a side. It once was you took a stand. When you take a side, someone loses. Why isn’t there one direction for America and the candidates run on a platform to take America in that common direction? Instead, we have two different directions and the platform is how much mud can one party stick on the other. Our enemy sees our weakness.

I followed Virginia’s route 11 for a few miles after the Interstate 81 backed up due to an accident. America is still out there in heart and principal. In historic Middletown they celebrated and honored Americans who had served their country by having a fun walk. In the center of town the street was lined with the American Flags waving in the wind that swept across the Shenandoah Valley. Under a warm November morning sky, I drove slowly through town pretending I was my own little parade. I’m a veteran. It is my day. I waved to an old man on the street corner. He smiled.

Thank God for Good Weather

I-81 Travel Plaza arrives an hour after I called Good Sams.



Jeff removes dually rear. It is the inside tire, of course.
The rear wheel is parked inches from a very dead and dried up unidentifiable animal carcass.

Exposed hub. Note-refrigerator wires have been yanked out by the flapping rubber. Shit, Shit, Shit.
Putting the muscles to the rubber . While no cars or trucks are whizzing by in the photo, believe me they are zipping by us.


This rubber met the road and lost.
Two hours and two hundred dollars later...and he kept my copy of the USAToday crossword puzzle.

And you thought you had a bad day.

Buzz Time

Michelle Brown with an E as she introduced herself was the newly designated Community Relations Manager and she was doing her best to make the most of a night that seemed to have caught her by surprise as much as the new job did. She attended to each of the five authors—no wait… one wrote the forward and stood in for the author who was in Thailand and the other was the subject of a short book about a young solider during the Korean War facing fear—like a mother duck to her ducklings. Nevertheless, we all had our five minutes of fame, I sold two books maintaining my one book an hour average sale.

The highlight was that Raymond Brody’s mom and dad stopped in to meet me. If you don’t know Raymond, then you have not been paying attention on Sunday mornings when Camping in the Zone discusses the ins and out of hitting the road in an RV. (If you want to know how to winterize your investment, tune that dial in at 8 AM Eastern.) Buzz introduced himself and I recognized his voice from the radio. We talked about when the next book is due out (after I write it). Itis about my RV trip and he would be interested in selling the book at trade shows. He showed me photos of his grandkids, Ethan and Camille (he didn't have any of Raymond), and he promised to send me photos of the Terra-cotta soldiers in China.

What do you call a person who attends a book signing, is the last to leave and doesn’t even buy a book? After I excused myself, I drove back to Bean Station. Ahead of me rose a waxing orange moon. For the next hour I watched it slowly lift off the horizon, growing smaller and whiter in its path across the sky. Early this morning before I left for New York, the moon hung in the western sky a pale lopsided light.

Photo: Valerie Perez

The Mystery

The other day I was driving behind a small white car with the license plate LVNWGOD. I quickly deciphered the personalized message - Living with God. Or maybe it was something else. Could it be Love New God? Not satisfied with that message I tried to come up with another meaning for the seven letters. In the middle of my thoughts I missed the fact that the little car had stopped to make a left hand turn. Whoa. I managed to brake and stop avoiding the accident. Living with God. Yes, that definitely was the message. I was and so was the person in the car.

I received notice this morning that a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is available through Revaluation Books located in Exeter, DEV, United Kingdom. How this came to be is a mystery to me. Why someone would buy my book for $41.68 US is a bigger mystery.

Tonight you can buy my book at Barnes and Noble in Knoxville. This may be the only time you can buy my book at this or any Barnes and Noble store. Not anticipating a huge demand for my book, I dropped three boxes into my storage unit so I won’t carry 111 extra pounds back to New York. In the vacated space in the RV I put a pile of warm clothes since I am anticipating chopping down a Christmas tree in subzero temperatures - a task that will last three hours on Christmas Eve when Robin and I will finally find the right tree moments before sundown which is about 3:30 in Northern New Hampshire. It will be in the back forty and we will have to drag it a half mile back to the car. The wind will be blowing like stink. But dang, it will be the best tree ever!

If I remember to grab a very sharp saw before begin my three day drive north…

End of the Day

The warm glow of the RV lights. Lazy cats. A phone conversation with Dad. Blog entries. And sweet dreams.

Tune It In

Once again it is time to get up early. You have had a week under the fall time change. Dark at 6 PM, but daylight around 6 AM. So get up and listen Sunday morning to Camping in the Zone with Raymond Brody. I'll be chatting with Raymond about my latest ecapades in the RV. Catch me between 8 and 9 am Eastern Time on WNOX or The Zone. Okay, no groaning unless you live in Hawaii.

Davidson River: Alone

There are always two ways to look at things. It was a free camp site with electricity, security cameras, bright lights and an alarm system. There was a huge “campground” store known as Food Lion, a CVS drug store and restaurant just across the way. Now there were no facilities, such as a bathroom or shower, but like I said, I could view this as a free site.

The other way to look at my situation was I paid $390 for the site and the fuel pump was free. Either way, it was a deal after one long cold day in the mountains.

It has been an all day ordeal starting at 25 degrees this morning (who cares what time it is when it is that cold). It was hard to believe I slept all night; even went to bed with the chickens.

The key to staying warm is not to go to bed cold. When you do half the night is spent getting warm and the other half is spent keeping warm. Wedged between two cats I was toasty. I let the hot flashes sweep through me and praised the Lord for their arrival.

When Diablo perched on the pillow I used to ward off the cold near the window it was still dark outside. My best guess was 2 am, but there was no light from the waxing gibbous moon which had been filtering through the curtains. It had to be later. I fumbled for the flashlight, finding the metal battery cylinder cold enough to adhere my tongue if I had accidentally been drooling. The bright beam pieced the darkness. It was 5:45 am. Sunrise would cast its rays in the valley of Davidson River in about a half an hour.

I was in no hurry to scramble out of bed, unlike two days ago when I got up in time to catch the sunrise and warmer breezes come over the Atlantic. I fixed a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of tea and crawled under the covers bringing the hot pot in which I boiled the water to bed with me. Not much sense wasting the heat as it cooled on the stove. The pan offered a bit of heaven tucked in my sweatshirt. Diablo slipped back underneath my sleeping bag contently purring in the crook of my arm. Phoenix plopped on my chest redefining physics by turning a nine pound cat into what felt like nineteen pounds of feline.

My plan was to poke around the Pisgah National Forest. With my trip winding up, I wanted to spend a little time in the area where Mom and Dad served as campground hosts for the Davidson River Campground in 1988. North Carolina was a special place to Mom. It was also the place where Mom and Dad took the Sunrader on its maiden voyage twenty years ago. Last week I followed the coast of the Outer Banks as they had done; now I was trying to retrace their path in the mountains in North Carolina.

I wanted the opportunity to spend a couple of days visiting the place where over 1509 waterfalls cascade over the countryside. A place where Mom once picked blueberries and made a pie for me in the RV when I came to visit them at the campground. When their summer duties were over they received a letter of appreciation from the US Forest Service. Mom and Dad framed that letter and proudly displayed it in the RV where it still hangs on the refrigerator.

Shortly after leaving the Ranger Station, the RV coughed, hesitating slightly. Thinking the engine was just cold, I headed north on 276 deeper into the National Forest toward The Cradle of Forestry. But the hesitation grew more frequent. Being cautious I turned around, but soon lost all acceleration and coasted to a stop on a curvy mountain road.

Cell service has not found the nooks and crannies of the mountains. I was dead and stranded along side a clear cold stream full of trout the same size as a two cats. Here I threw away my backcountry survival skills and did not stay put. I am capable of running four miles, so I locked up the RV, told the cats to hold the fort and trotted off down the road with my useless cell phone, my Good Sam Card and the RV’s license plate number. The RV wasn’t totally off the road and I feared two cars meeting on the curve would have to suck their guts in to pass safely.

I flagged two Wildlife Guys down and they gave me a ride to the Ranger Station. Three hours later the tow truck showed up. I am not very good when I lose control of a situation. Waiting on the tow truck and not able to get back to the RV because I would lose communication with my “rescuers”, I worried about the cats. I feared someone would break in, and steal my camera and computer. Then having no regard for my property they would let the cats out. For three hours I paced the visitor center reading about trail etiquette, how leaves turn colors, and when bear hunting season is over – sometime in December.

My guardian angel in a wrecker from Fates (honest, that was the name) finally showed up along with a North Carolina State Trooper. It was close to 2 pm when we arrived at the garage. I settled down on the overstuffed couch in the waiting area, got on line, and tried my best not to get too engrossed in the family dramas played out on afternoon TV: the Guiding Light, Judge Judy and finally the news.

Heith said they would do their best to get me back on the road before they closed. If not, I could plug in to the shop and spend the night. Another hard freeze was expected. I did not want to spend another night without electricity.
I have camped in the mountains of Nepal on nights so cold frost forms on the outside of the sleeping bag. I had to be careful to lay down my goose down jacket so the frost would coat only the outside. And when the sun finally broke over the highest peaks in the world, the sunlight forced me out of the tent as the frost clinging to the ceiling began to melt sending a cascade of water down on me. But during those adventures cold temperatures are expected and I have the gear to meet the challenge. However, I have come to expect my accommodations in the RV to be more comfortable. After all, it is an RV, not backpacking across the Himalayas.

There is a shop in Horseshoe, NC on 280 north of Brevard called Waycaster Tire and Auto Service. The Toyota Dealer in Hendersonville would not touch the RV, despite having a Toyota chassis, but they recommended these guys to Good Sam. Roger Waycaster is the owner.

Repairs were done and I was set to be on my way, but Heith said he could not let me go out into the cold for the night so he offered to plug the RV in just outside one of the service bays. I had called a campground nearby, but discovered they closed October 31st for the season. Since the sun was setting, I accepted Heith’s offer.

If you are ever in the Brevard, NC area with a troubled vehicle or in need of a set of new tires give the friendly, courteous and compassionate staff a call. 828-801-7023. It is located at 4180 Haywood Road at the intersection of Hwy 280 & 191.


Before I left, I autographed a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and gave it to the guys at the shop. Well done guys, well done.

Sell'em!!

I haven’t written a word in the last three days. Blame it on the fact that I haven’t had a strong internet connection so I could not have made a blog entry, but that is a lame excuse. The truth of the matter is I am a little scared. In fourteen days from now I’ll fly to Houston for my last scheduled book signing at River Oaks Book Store, a rather upscale store in an upscale shopping area and I’ll find myself spending an hour and a half in the middle of the afternoon hoping someone will show up. If I am lucky four gray-haired ladies with twenty dollars to spare will accidentally drop in and one might buy The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin after I tell her my story because she’ll be more impressed with my escapades than the book itself. At the end of the afternoon, I’ll thank my host Mike Jones, collect $11.34 for a book I bought for $5.60 and won’t even think about the financial loss because it is too much to bear. Later, I’ll spend that much on the tip for dinner with Nancy, my friend from the Peace Corps. While I am hardly in the same league as Bill O’Reilly and won’t even pretend to be, he’ll get 850 people to show up for a book signing for his new book Culture Warrior. After four months, I still have 850 books to sell.

I did sell two books on the beach yesterday. It was kind of cool to walk down the beach and see someone reading a copy of my book. Eight hundred forty-eight more to go.

But I won't sit here tonight thinking, “Shit, I should have never published this book.” I won’t sit here and regret the fact that I spent the better part of the year working on writing, marketing and promoting my first book. I knew it would be hard. And it was. But I did it. Only thing I’ll never be able to say is, “I should have written a book.”

So what am I scare of? How will I keep 20 boxes of books stored in my parent’s basement from getting that “smells like a basement” smell?

Oh-oh, I know. Sell’em!!

Continue

Lord, I have been blessed with an opportunity to not only to do your work, but to recognize that you have given me gifts to be able do your work. Forgive me for forgetting this. When I forget and feel that this entire road trip has been a failure, I will receive an email from someone I don’t know who has been quietly following my journey reading my blog. Unknowingly I shared a bit of me, a story, or a place I visited with someone who has laughed, or was moved in some way through my pictures or words.

I don’t expect to change the world, or influence thousands, or inspire a following in the name of some cause. Nor do I expect to make much of a living at writing. But some where deep inside me I believe this is what I am suppose to do. And if someone experiences a world that otherwise would have been unknown, then I have done what I was suppose to do.

Lord, help me remember that. Bless those who remind me of this.

July 29, 1967

Seventy columns run east, another seventy run west. Silence.

Etched into the black polished surface, the columns begin with a single line. John H. Anderson is the first name. The columns end with with a single line. Jessie C. Alba. Silence.

Bob Kohler was aboard with USS Forrestal July 29, 1967. I was on school’s summer vacation. I was going to be in the eighth grade.

Bob Kohler knew 134 names on the Wall. I knew none. Silence.

How is it that I grew up during the Vietnam War and served in the US Army during the Vietnam Era and I don’t know anyone on the Wall?

The Moving Wall came to Coinjock, NC. Bob Kohler belongs to the VFW in Coinjock. We met on the grass in front of the Wall where he told me about the USS Forrestal.

A fire resulting from a punctured fuel tank killed 134 U.S. crewmen aboard the USS Forrestal in the Gulf of Tonkin, in the worst naval accident since World War II. John McCain, a pilot, was getting ready to launch when flames surrounded his aircraft. He narrowly escaped. Hell. Fire onboard a ship. No where to go.

Leaving The Island

Last night’s deluge left the narrow, sandy streets of Ocracoke underwater and the RV surrounded by a shallow lake. I tip-toed on the high spots avoiding the floating dog poop, unplugged the electricity and headed out early under promising skies. My first stop was for a flock of ducks swimming across the Back Road. After enjoying latte and the morning paper in the comforts of an over stuff couch at the Coffee Shack, the day started to shape up. Ahead of me was a two hour ferry ride across Pamlico Sound to Cedar Island. Destination Beaufort – pronounced bow (as in bow-tie) ford – otherwise one might think you were asking for directions to South Carolina where it is pronounced as one might expect.

Before getting in line for the ferry, I took a quick trip to the beach to see a still angry surf take a chunk out of the shore line. On my return to town, I once again ran into a Harley Club, this time visiting the Lighthouse.
I was tempted to sleep on the ferry. The night’s rain pounded on the RV and the forty mile an hour gusts rocked my little home. But I had no fear of the captain falling overboard. Thunderstorms were in the forecast, but they never materialized. Instead of napping, I read a newspaper catching up on the news which featured Democrat verse Republican strategies. I amused myself with the crossword, suduko and The Jumble.

In Beaufort I stopped in at the visitor’s center for information on campsites. Two gentlemen companions were buying china in the gift store that is a part of the center. I patiently waited for the clerk to find a box for the blue and white piece when the one gentleman sitting behind me asked if he could ask me a question. I did not have the faintest idea what he might ask, but the first thing that came into my head which I said out loud, “You want to know why my hair is so messy?”

Actually he wanted to know if that was a natural curl I was sporting. Of course it is, accentuated by the fact that this morning I did not wash it, or even brush it, but slapped a ball cap on until noon, and then let the strong breezes on the ferry blow it all around. He complimented my hair saying if it wasn’t natural he wanted to know who set the perm. His friend engaged in the conversation informing me that he was a hair dresser.

“Was that really the question you wanted to ask me?” He said it was. I thanked him, saying he made my day. Now if I could only find a camp site.

Back tracked nine miles to Coastal Riverside Campground in Otway, NC. The RV is parked next to the South River, overlooking the west where the last traces of daylight sit. Red washes the low horizon, a harsh contrast to the black waters in the tidal marshes. Higher in the sky hangs a first quarter moon. The winds have died down, but has left a whispered hush in the oak leaves above the RV. Now this is camping.

Meehonkey

“You from New York?”

I had not opened my mouth, so my accent did not give me away. I was wearing a Saratoga Springs Race Course ball cap, but after accessing my accuser’s accent I concluded he would have not known any race tracks outside of Bristol or Talladega.

An hour earlier I had been at the ferry terminal making reservations for tomorrow’s crossing to Cedar Island. There I gave out information about my vehicle’s registration. Maybe he overhead my conversation, but the place had been deserted when I spoke to the ranger. He joked about me stealing the RV from my dad and that there was an APB issued for the missing RV. I offered him a dollar to keep my identity under raps. Later I visited the museum and I indicated I was from Tennessee when I signed the register.

My accuser was sitting on the railing outside the kite shop in Ocracoke. His accent was definitely southern and definitely from somewhere in Eastern Carolina. “I saw your tag in the campground. Saw you come in.” His tone seemed like he had an unresolved issue with my Yankee ancestors, but maybe I misread it, lost in the accent. Was he an O’cocker, a local?

He fiddled around with one of the kites hanging on the porch of the store. “Leaving tomorrow?” he asked. I had my eye on the lighthouse across the bay when I walked across the porch looking for a potential photo. Now my mind quickly shifted gears. Had he followed me from the campground? I walked to the ferry terminal, the museum and was slowly killing the afternoon waiting for the approaching storm.

“Yes, on the noon ferry,” I volunteered and hoped it was early enough to suit him. “We are on the 9 o’clock, headed back home. Did you like it here?” Okay, so he was being friendly and I was being paranoid. The half dozen kids milling around inside the kite store must have been his. I had to ask him where he was from.

“Over near Raleigh.” I knew it was an eastern Carolina accent.

The O’cockers have an accent, borne out of isolation. The only way to the island is by ferry - either a forty minute ride from Hatteras or a two and a half hour ride across the Pamlico Sound. Despite the infiltration of summer tourists that is as thick as the clouds of mosquitoes that swarm these barrier islands, the seven hundred locals manage to retain their trademark speech patterns. The men retain a stronger accent as they work in fishing or crabbing, and have less contact with the dingbatters (non-residents) than the local women who find employment in tourism and therefore converse more with tourists. That is the story I heard anyway. I began to wonder if there was TV and radio out on the island.

The Ocracoke dialect known as Ocracoke Brogue finds its unique character in pronunciation, grammar and vocabulary. Here is a small sample:

Being a dingbatter, I thought I was being mommucked by an O’cocker. It was slick cam when I took the ferry, otherwise I might have been quamish. The low clouds are a token of a storm. My two cats are no match for The Russian Rats or a even the fictitious wampus cat. Water fire is not something you drink, but is a light which appears on the surface of the water, probably caused by swamp gas or fire water.

Locals talk fast and pronounce fish as feeish and fire is figher.

Meehonkey is a game of hide and seek.

Bound to Happen

Worst Campground Ever

I have passed a few dumps this week while on The Outer Banks, but I finally stumbled into what I hoped to be the better of the two private campgrounds in Ocracoke. The third choice was the National Park, dry camping for $20. I have done it before, could do it again, but it is suppose to gust to 40 mph tonight and thought I would freeze to death in the sand dunes, my worst fear in life. I selected Teeter’s, what I hoped would be the better of the two (neither are listed in Frommer’s Best Campgrounds in America) and took refuge in my RV under threatening skies. Thank God for broadband wireless internet connections, electricity, curtains and my own bathroom. I could drive and ferry back to Hatteras Village, but would have to backtrack in the early morning.

I’ve learned a few lessons while RV camping, most of them this week:

1. If you automatically cringe when you go over a speed bump, you are going too fast. If there are no speed bumps and you are still gripping the steering wheel like a life perserver, maybe the road is in bad need of grading and could be a sign of what lies ahead.


2. If dogs are not leashed in a campground, you better watch where you walk, be prepared to clean up after someone else’s animal (less you step in it) and leave the cats inside. And most likely, forego the showers.



3. If Halloween decorations look brand new and are juxtaposed to faded Christmas décor which includes a deflated Snowman, it is not a RV campground. It is an RV Park.



4. Avoid RV parks if possible. Park is more closely defined with the verb park, not the noun park, as in National Park. The verb park means the sites are littered with “campers” that have been parked since Aero Steams first went into production. The permanence of the campers redefines them as trailers. This is not to be confused with travel trailers because these things haven’t traveled since Lewis and Clark returned from the northwest.



5. Barking dogs are just a bad sign altogether.



6. Know the ferry schedule so you can get off the island when you want to get off the island.



7. If you don’t get a receipt for payment, don’t be surprised when you return and find your campsite taken. Be suspicious when you don't get a car pass, their is no fence, security gate and it is difficult to determine where the "check in" office is.



8. “We only take cash” is a red flag.



9. Expect trouble with the neighbors who have a fence around their site and it runs around your electric pole. Okay, so they don’t unplug it in the middle of the night, but their dogs will chew the hell out of it. Again, the dogs.



10. Wetsuits hanging on the railing, surfboard scattered about and young men with frazzled (sand and salt) hair taking too much notice as you drive by...not a good thing.



11. People yelling at each other, also not a good sign.

First available ferry leaves at noon tomorrow. I’ll be on it.

Well, hell I am here, lets see what this place has to offer before it starts to pour.

Time In Between

It has been over a year since I have stood outside to look at the night sky.

12: 37 a.m.

Orion rose in the east just over the dunes. It was too darn cold for me to venture over the sand swept landscape to get a better view, get away from the lights in the campground. I put a sweatshirt on and stood shivering outside the RV in my pajamas. I was careful not to venture too far away from the RV, afraid I would have to spend the rest of the night pulling sand burrs out of my socks. Directly overhead the Milky Way’s cloudy haze faintly stained the midnight sky. I could not find Ursa Major or Ursa Minor, but I think I saw Draco, the dragon twists its snake like body past Ursa Minor. Maybe it was too late to see the long tail bears.

The wind is suppose to die down tonight. Maybe, I’ll venture beyond the concrete RV pad after midnight to see more sky.

Find your night time sky at Learn What’s Up.

Somewhere East of Edenton

A couple of months ago I would have cringed at this campsite, a open space facing directly into the afternoon sun, the nearest shade tree two football fields away. Temperatures never made it over 60 and the wind chill has got the bite of the Chinook. I am delighted to take advantage of the power of the sun. All the curtains are drawn open but, the windows are shut against the wind that has rocked the RV all day. My two cats are lounging in the sunshine seeking the comforts of Rah, the sun god. Phoenix is snoring; Diablo just let out a long sigh after giving herself a good bath. Inland they are expecting frost, but on the coast, it will drop into the forties. It won’t be the temperature that is cold, but the wind.

Sold one book to my cousin and gave another away to the Edenton, NC Public Library. I have to be the first author who has ever personally donated a book to the library. The assistant told me that the librarian is vacationing in Italy, but that she would call me when she returns. Yeah right, I skeptically think, but then again…

I spent the better part of yesterday trying to remember the names of some of the employees who worked at the TRW Automotive plant in Greenville. Known throughout the company as one of the best employee involvement facilities, we even made the cover of the annual stock report one year. Alas, the good employee management practices didn’t guarantee employment for the employees, but they should have walked away from the plant with a set of team skills any employer in town could appreciate and use. At least, that is what I use to tell them when we were working hard to develop a team-based approach to work. Now I was sitting in the abandoned parking lot, with an RV full of unsold books, looking at three naked flagpoles, a yard that needs moving and wondering who they were and where did they go.

I couldn’t help think of one employee who never had to worry about his future. Dale Leary was a bright young man who knew how to work hard, and played even a little bit harder. He was eager for promotions, so he volunteered for shift overtime, worked on the toughest and dirtiest machines and finally he became an A operator. As an A operator, he was assigned to the Acme Screw Machines, a machine that takes years to master. Dale was fortunate for he became friends with an older employee who worked on these machines in the automotive supplier plants in Detroit. Harold knew these machines like he once knew the rebellious yearnings of a youth. He took Dale under his wing, and showed him how to fine tune the delicate machines. Dale learned, listened and grew.

I first met Dale when he was coming up on his one year employment anniversary. He was eligible to enroll in the company’s 401k and sat in the enrollment meeting with me. The sleepy eyed kid with his blonde hair hanging down over his collar made an impression on me. I remembered his name, one of nearly 250 I would soon learn as the new HR Manager for the plant. Dale was surprised that I remembered his name when we talked later on the shop floor. There was just something about his polite manner and smile that did not seem to set right with his reputation for wild Saturday nights. He hated weekend overtime, as it interfered with his weekend activities. Finally he lost his license for drinking and driving. Once his partying was curtailed, he buckled down to focus on his employment.

Harold and Dale became a solid team. Dale was more prone to adopting the team concepts than Harold. Harold also intuitively ran his machines, and balked at charting statistical process control charts, the “new way” to manufacturing. Dale helped his mentor with plotting the charts; Harold showed his apprentice his trade like a father teaches a son to fish, where skill and lore all became the same.

I transferred to another plant, but came back to Greenville one Thanksgiving when I read in the local paper that Dale had been stabbed to death on a county road. I attended the funeral. Details about the crime were few but rumors were many. I never learned what happened. I don’t know if anyone did.

I find myself thinking of him every once in a while. It is strange how the mind will hold a name and memory. When I became the manufacturing manager, Dale challenged my management one Thursday after we announced overtime. We were out on the shop floor. He said I didn’t care if the employees had to work the weekends or not. Overtime didn’t wreck my weekend. I never forgot his remark, mainly because he accused me of not caring. For some reason, I always did care about him. Rest in Peace, Dale Leary.