Until Next Time

Our last day at the beach is always filled with too much work. The rental must be vacuumed, the dishes washed, the trash emptied, and horror of horrors, the refrigerators cleaned. Try as we might to make food supplies diminish as departure time approaches, we always seem to end up with ice-chests full of half-eaten leftovers, overripe fruit, and soggy cheese.

How is it that our vehicles are all packed to the gills for a one-week vacation?  I mean, people used to be lucky if they owned two sets of clothes.  Paul and I have three suitcases between us, two storage boxes filled with games and other things we “might wish we had along,” various totes with beach towels, suntan lotions, pool toys, and of course, all the electronic equipment one has to have to survive these days.  I determined when slamming down the rear hatch while trying to keep things from falling out, that NEXT TIME I really MUST do better at this packing thing, as in not preparing for the apocalypse.

We had barely made it out of the driveway when I noticed the rear door indicator light was on."Stop!” I say to Paul and he dutifully pulls to the side of the road.  I go to the back and warily open the door, catching things as they propel outward.

“The ice-chest is covering one of the latches!” I yell toward the driver’s seat.

“What?” I hear a muffled voice coming from Paul's direction.  “I can’t hear a thing you’re saying.”

It’s not like we’re driving a fifty foot bus or anything.  It’s just that we have everything packed in so tightly the sound can’t even break through.  Paul comes around the rear as I am ripping things out and readjusting, hoping the occupants of the houses lining the street do not take this moment to look out their windows.

After yanking, rearranging, re-stuffing and re-closing the door, we were on our way again, the annoying door light off.

We had made it out the door by 8:00 AM, only thirty minutes later than Paul’s departure goal.  I’m not sure why there must be a goal for everything, even leaving our vacation house, but Paul is nothing if not goal-oriented.  And competitive.  We must beat the crowds exiting the Outer Banks lest we become ensnared in a traffic jam.  Because then the arrival time goal at our next destination would be in jeopardy. 

Everyone else in our group had already left, some during the wee hours, some just a few minutes ahead of us.  Several of us have those nifty stalker apps on our phones so we can keep track of travel progress.  Kinda fun and kinda creepy all at the same time.

Looking back over the week I will have to say it was definitely memorable.  Some good, some not so good.  But all-in-all, a successful vacation; happiness is not the absence of complications but the attitudes of those involved. Refusing to let screaming toddlers, poopy diapers, squabbling ten-year-olds, and irritable adults dissipate our joy is a choice.

At the end of the day, those same children are the ones who make everything worthwhile when they wrap their small, sticky arms around your neck and tell you they love you.  Seeing their eyes light up when they see the ocean for the first time makes all the sand in their bathing suits not such a big deal.  Hearing them giggle when they are playing together makes up for the times when they are all fighting over the same toy. And tucking them in at night leaves everyone more appreciative of the peace and quiet than they could ever be if it were that way all the time.  We all agreed, though, that skipping a year or two might be a good idea.  Give the little savages some time to become civilized. Or at least learn to sleep all night.

We head back to my niece’s house for the night, this time with both ten-year-old in tow.  Along with a rack of ribs from Goombay’s for Glenn and some chocolate for Sheri.  My brother John, his wife Ruby (Sheri's parents) will be there for supper as will another niece, Gail.  As I've mentioned before, I have relatives tucked in every place worth visiting and one of the best things about our beach vacation is ending it with family along the way. Seeing Glenn attack those ribs will hold a vicarious enjoyment right up there with taking The Littles to the beach and the generous bag of special home-made beef jerky he usually sends home with us would be worth an extra hundred miles on the road any day.

The Dunes

The Sand Dunes in Kitty Hawk are well worth the time and effort.  Every trip to these parts we spend one evening climbing to the top of the gigantic sand hills.  In 1900 Orville and Wilbur Wright used the dunes in their flight experiments.  The picked this area because of the near-constant breezes and soft sand landings.  The Wright Brothers Memorial nearby is also a worthwhile destination.  Paul took our two ten-year-old granddaughters there one morning and they gave it rave reviews.  

The dunes are a favorite spot for hang-gliders now, swooping down and back up again on the wind currents that rush through the valleys stretching between the tall plateaus. 

Climbing to the tallest point we can see the narrow strip of land that makes up the outer banks, bordered by water on both sides, the Atlantic to the east and the sound to the west. Rows of beach houses, weather beaten and holding vigil along the sea, are visible from our perch high atop the surrounding towns.  I can’t understand why the sand doesn’t simply blow out to sea.  What keeps it moored to this spot, a shifting landscape that has changed every year for hundreds of years?

After the sun sets we hike back down, stopping for frozen custard at our favorite ice-cream hangout en route back to the house.  Black raspberry and key lime cheesecake were the flavors of the day, both of them lip-smacking good. 

Our time here is moving along too fast. But I must stop and remember what happened fourteen years ago.  We were on another vacation in the northernmost part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Fishing from a pontoon on a remote lake, we did not learn about the Trade Center falling until we were off the lake and back into our house.  We watched TV in horror, along with the rest of the country, as the collapse was shone again and again.  It was one of those moments when everyone can remember exactly where they were when it happened. And it is our duty to never forget.

Hogfest

Someone commented on my Facebook page, under pictures of our beach vacation, that she would like to be with us because we always have so much fun. We do have fun. But I'll be the first to admit that Facebook only shows the edited version of life.  It doesn't show the meltdowns, the mess, the not-so-admirable qualities all families have. Unless, of course, you're a person who likes to air drama on social media.

What makes our family different than some is not that we lack drama; it's the value we place on the relationships within our messed up family unit.  There may be yelling, disagreements, annoyances, irritations, and general mayhem, but at the end of the day, and the vacation, we're still family and we're not going to let anyone out of that familial contract easily.  Sorry people.  You're stuck with me and I'm stuck with you.

So if you still want to join us after that perfection disclaimer, feel free.  In fact, our group includes several people to whom we are not related except by a history of true friendship.  These ties are sometimes stronger than blood; there's no sense of genetic obligation.  Instead, there is the knowledge that someone's got your back through thick and thin, by choice.

This is day four of our week at the OBX.  Everyone is getting crispy. Some of us are red-skinned and some of us are hot-tempered.  It's time for some comfort food.  It's time for our traditional Hogfest Night.

Hogfest started years ago during our stay at the beach one fourth of July week.  Our rental house was fronting the beach road, the Atlantic mere steps across the highway. A smaller side road ran along the empty lot that skirted the house to the left and it became the source of great entertainment for us.

Filled with sparse weeds, the sandy soil looked more stable than it was. Parking spaces were quickly used up at the beach access across the road and car after car attempted to park in the empty lot.  The fun happened when they tried to pull out. Invariably they sank deeply into the sand and then the rocking back and forth, digging with sand shovels, and swearing at the futility of such endeavors, commenced.  Watching the vain attempts of hapless tourists trying to extricate their buried cars was an unending source of amusement for us, perched on our third floor balcony.  Yes, I know.  We should have empathized more but after the fifteenth car, hilarity took over.

Because it was a holiday, people descended en mass to see the fireworks on the beach across from our house.  Rather than fight the long lines at area restaurants and reluctant to miss all the fun happening at our feet, we decided to send forth several of our party to hunt, gather and bring back sustenance for our evening meal.  One went to Sooey's for big racks of ribs.  One went to KFC for buckets of Original Recipe with all the trimmings.  Another tracked down fresh seafood: shrimp, fish, scallops and crab. When the hunters returned with the spoils we piled it on a long table on the deck.  We ate our fill and continued to observe the action across the way, general merriment ensuing at the expense of the motorists below us. One elderly gentleman, inebriated and not blessed with any common sense, was trying unsuccessfully to shove his sandals under the rear tires of his Jaguar, hoping for some traction. Several of our group took pity and went to help him.

And so our Hogfest began.  We have long since outgrown that particular rental and the empty lot is now filled with two new houses.  We no longer come in July, having found the smaller crowds after Labor Day much more to our liking.  But we still send out the hunter-gatherers to bring back the spoils one night during beach week and tonight was that night.  It's time for some fun, food, and merriment again. 

The ribs are a must. Fresh shrimp and KFC are standard fare.  Tonight Chinese deliciousness and New York style pizza found their way back as well.  We all felt less punchy after the smorgasbord before us was depleted.  Great-tasting, hot food not only comforts, it makes us too tired to get our dander up.  Life is good.

Musings, Kites, and Griswald Moments

I woke up early and decided this would be a good day to walk the beach down to the pier.  Taking my my cup of coffee with me, I left behind a mostly sleeping household and moved across the road and down the shore.  Finishing my coffee while I contemplated the grey clouds obscuring the sunrise, I stowed the empty cup along a sand fence to pick up on my way back.  Finally I make it up in time to see the sunrise and I pick a day when it will be totally hidden behind clouds.  It was still worth it though. The waves breaking close to the shore projected the same violence as always, fascinating me with the knowledge they’d been doing this same thing for thousands of years.  Both soothing and terrifying, they mesmerized me; so beautiful and so deadly.

I headed to the pier off in the distance, passing by houses we'd rented in the past.  We’ve had to find bigger places to fill the needs of our growing family but there are so many memories here, jogged in my mind as I walked along. The first time I came alone, joining friends from Virginia.  Then Paul and the kids came with me.  Now it’s our children and their children and several friends as well. 

I passed one house that we stayed in during a dark time in our lives.  Seeing it brought back some of the hard years we’ve been through and I thanked God for rescuing my son and daughter from potentially tragic influences in their lives.  I passed another and remembered how He had saved me as well from making critical, life-altering decisions.  How much our lives can change with seemingly insignificant choices! I thought about how small my circle was the first few times I came here and how it has expanded with the passage of time.  I felt overwhelmed with gratitude at how God's hand has been evident in good times and bad; He's always there but only as present as we permit Him to be.

I came back to the house wondering why I don't rise early every day for some introspection and reflection.  Maybe it's a habit I should start.

As a child, my attempts at kite-flying met with no success. Fortunately, the aerodynamics in kite design have vastly improved from those available back in the stone age when I was a kid.  And the wind that is usually present on the Atlantic seaboard is much more conducive to liftoff than the faint breeze that sometimes touched down on my childhood farm in Ohio.

I had purchased several kites in Kitty Hawk on previous visits to the outer banks and later in the evening I took my favorite, easiest-to-fly kite over to the beach to show the grandkids what it can do.  The stiff breeze immediately did its job and I unwound the string, letting the bright colors snap into the air high above our heads.  The Littles were enthralled and wanted to hold the handle, attached to the string.  I kept a tight hold higher up the line while they clung tightly to the plastic at the end.  Handing the whole works over to my son-in-law I watched as he handed the line to his two-year-old son.

“I’d hang on to that!” I called out to him, just as my little grandson let go and the kite seized its freedom, taking off down the beach with my son-in-law, Jim, racing along behind. Fortunately, without the tension on the line, the kite swooped toward the ground, inland, away from the water.  After he retrieved it we soon had it aloft again, this time with an adult keeping it in hand.

My daughter Jaimee’ is the photographer in the family.  She possesses an actual camera and a knack for good staging with our often uncooperative bunch. One especially humid and overcast evening, before sundown, she herded us all to the beach for a family photo. Grouping us all together she had one of our friends on hand to snap the shots that would hopefully end up on our Christmas card come holiday time.

It all went fine until she tried to get the individual family shots and then things went rapidly downhill.  It was so humid her camera steamed up, showing shadowy shapes in a cloud of grey.  While this may have hidden our flaws quite nicely, it did make us rather hard to identify.  We resorted back to rapid firing with our phones, trying to beat the deterioration of the Littles.  In short order we all went from smiles and cooperation to rebellion and chaos in the ranks; what started out Hallmark ended decidedly Griswald.  I sometimes wonder if we are more of a mess than other families or just not as successful at hiding it.

The Roger

Everyone spent our first full day ocean-side recovering from travel time. Foraging through the food we brought along for breakfast was better than the prospect of loading up all the Littles and hauling them to a public eatery; that was far too overwhelming a prospect for anyone in the household.

In spite of gloomy forecasts the weather was lovely and we could see the Atlantic waves from the front balconies of the house.  Marlene, Aaron, Jaimee' and Jim took their families to the beach by 6:30 in the morning; the payoff was a beautiful sunrise.  Yes, when one has babies, one no longer sleeps in until mid-morning. Since I'm not a morning person and not the keeper of small children, I rose when I felt like it and enjoyed the sunrise when it was posted on facebook.  Getting older has its perks.

After a relaxing day, the evening was perfect for a walk. I had asked Paul at least three times what his supper plans might be. He was so engrossed in a card game with several of the others he never heard me.  I finally decided to stroll over to the Jolly Roger, one of our favorite places to eat. I met Aaron and Marlene walking back, having just finished their meal with one-year-old Hannah in tow.

"How was it?" I asked

Marlene's expression was resigned.  "When Hannah was on all fours on the table and panting like a dog I said it's time to go."

I couldn't hold back my laugh. That behavior in someone as cute as Hannah would likely only cause smiles from other patrons, although her mother didn't look at all amused. Sometimes it really is fun being old and past the responsibility of managing infants and toddlers in public places. Paul finally finished his card game and discovered I was gone so he walked over to join me.

Memories of other trips always greet me in this place.  My favorite coffee cup back home is from here, a gift from my daughter Jaimee'.  When I enjoy my morning libation from that cup, I get a twinge of vacation vibe and it sweetens real life a bit.  The food is great and the unique atmosphere fits here, by the seaside.  Christmas ornaments hang from the ceiling, year round.  Old movie posters line the walls.  Nautical memorabilia is crammed in every corner and a life-size pirate statue waits inside the door.

This is the first time I see no sign of the woman who was always on hand seating people and taking charge of all things; she looked ancient way back the first time I was ever here.  She never seemed to age any further though, on all my subsequent trips.  I wondered where she might be but I didn't ask.  Maybe I don't really want to know.  Some essential part of the atmosphere seemed lacking without her.

After another delicious meal we walked back to the house for an evening of games, hot-tub and pool time, and more unwinding from real life.

One of the reasons our group has successfully vacationed together is that no one is forced to participate in activities they'd rather forgo. Several of us enjoy fishing before the sun is up. No, I am not one of them.  I enjoy reading on the beach and baking in the sun.  I seem to be alone in this much of the time but that's alright with me.  There's something soothing about losing oneself in a good book in front of waves crashing onto the shore.  Paul prefers hanging around the house, playing guitar or meting out punishment to various victims in a card game. The kids love the pool and the adults love the hot tub.  And we all love the seafood.

Conclusions and Beginnings

I seldom blog unless I'm traveling.  I mean, who wants to hear about me doing the laundry, vacuuming the house, or one of the countless other menial and repetitive chores that make up the mundane?  I find it amusing when I hear people complain that a movie based on "real life" was given liberal doses of added drama.  Seriously, real life is often boring and no one wants to read a litany of its lesser exciting moments.  But I rabbit trail.

When we arrived home from our trip west I meant to finish things off with a neat conclusion but never seemed to find the time to do it.  Just because daily tasks are dull doesn't mean they don't take time.  Now, however, we are starting out on another road trip so I will finish my saga of a month ago before beginning the next chapter.

My cousin and her husband decided to spend a few days in Ohio with us before returning to their home in Florida.  After all, Holmes County is the largest tourist attraction in the state, so why not enjoy it?  And since we seldom take the time to partake of local attractions, having out-of-state guests gave us the perfect excuse to sample some local flavor.

I thought they might enjoy the musical Half Stitched from the book of the same name by Wanda Brunstetter and performances were daily at The Carlisle, an inn fifteen minutes from our house.  I bought tickets for three of us, since Paul had other things he needed to do, and off we went.  And we did enjoy it.  We laughed, we cried, we laughed again.  

Paul had a few ideas for the next day.  He took Wade to Warther's Carvings in Sugarcreek, a place filled with amazing carvings, mostly of trains. Warther's is also the maker of sharp, long-lasting knives, several of which I've used for years.  In the evening we all, along with a few friends, went to the Amish Country Theater for some side-splitting entertainment. The local talent was impressive and we were wiping tears again, this time from laughing.

To finish our vacation we all went to our mutual friends, Dave and Irene's, house for slices of fresh-made pies and raucous conversation.  What a great three weeks it has been!  

And now on to the next adventure.

Paul and I have been bringing the kids to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for years.  Back when we first started we had a twelve-year-old and a ten-year-old.  We came with a group of friends, some married, some single, none with kids except us.  We all brought our Harleys and spent our days and nights eating seafood, crisping at the beach, and riding the bikes late at night to whatever local ice-cream shop struck our fancy.

This year has been a bit different.  Our kids are married now.  There are ten adults and seven children, five of them three and under.  There are no Harleys involved.  There are, however, three pack-n-plays, four portable high chairs, five baby monitors, a sea of sippy cups, bales of diapers, and, most importantly, ear plugs for Paul.  We were all forewarned the dynamic would be a little altered from other years.

Paul and I volunteered to take two grandkids with us on the trek down.  Our plan was to snag the ten-year-olds, both of whom are fairly low-maintenance.  Fate intervened and one of them was delayed a day due to the death of a paternal great-grandmother.  So we had one three-year-old and one of the aforementioned ten-year-olds.  Happily, the toddler we had in tow is a great traveler.  I didn't even need to dig out the video player until shortly before we were at our destination.

One of our traditions on this vacation is a stop mid-way with my niece and her family in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. At one time our kids spent the night there too but we have become such a big crew that out of love for my niece, only Paul and I claim the privilege now.  All the others drive the twelve hours straight through.

Sheri and her husband Glenn live on a beautiful farm, a place with all the freedoms that kids love. Our ten-year-old had a great time riding a four-wheeler with Sheri's two girls who took her to see the new kittens and the campsites by the river.  Glenn showed Paul all the damage done to the cornfield by the local bears. I tried not to freak out at all the bear-attack scenarios running through my mind with dusk approaching, as we stood on the bank of the Shenandoah River that cut through the farm. None of my wild imaginings became reality and we had a lovely time.  We will swing by again on our way home.

We left Virginia early in the morning and arrived in Kill Devil Hills, NC soon after noon.  By early evening our whole crew had arrived. Praise God above, all the babies did surprisingly well traveling. Now for six days in the same house.  That could prove interesting. 

Bates Motel

We had a lot of miles to cover so right after breakfast we piled in the van and turned east.  Not wanting a repeat of last night, when our lodging situation had turned somewhat desperate, I started looking for a place as soon as we knew where we would be stopping for the day.  After my now-familiar routine of internet searches, reading customer reviews, checking prices and looking at photos, I found a place near, but not in, Chicago.

The Manor had great reviews.  All except one.  I’ve learned over time that when there is only one negative review and it’s so over-the-top bad, it’s probably just a nasty customer trying to get some payback for an imagined injustice, so I didn’t let it worry me.  The positive reviews said The Manor had been renovated and the state governor had stayed there.  There were even rumors that Van Halen had spent time enjoying the unique and wonderful atmosphere they offered their guests.

I called and spoke to Justin whose phone presence was lovely.  He laughed when I asked if it was true that Van Halen had stayed there.  “How do these rumors start?” he said, his modesty reaching me through the phone.

I said I’d read an article on the renovations.  “That must have been my Dad.” He told me. When I told him I’d read some great reviews he said, “We can’t please everyone but we try.”

We pulled up around 6pm.  The old car by the front with two flat tires should have been the first clue.  Wade and Paul went to the lobby while Barbara and I waited in the van.  Neither of us had noticed the aforementioned dilapidated vehicle.  When the guys got back we unloaded the suitcases and headed to our rooms.

The glass entry doors looked like they had never met a bottle of Windex.  Maybe the multitudes of happy guests who stayed last night left all the prints, I thought feeling a nervous twinge.  Behind those doors a cloud of smells assaulted me.  Stale cigar smoke mixed with ancient and fresh cigarette smoke left an almost visible odor.  Justin had assured me the upstairs where our rooms were located were non-smoking so I knew all would be well when we were through the lobby and up the stairs.

Looking at the gold, olive, and yellow striped wall-paper that was most certainly put up in the 70s, and ugly when it was new, I decided the downstairs was not only smoking territory but had been bypassed in the Great Renovation I’d read about.  We trundled our luggage up the steps, trying to ignore the hideous and worn carpet.  The doors looked like shiny wood-grain Formica.  I didn’t know anything like Formica-covered entry doors exist but I’m here to bear witness, they do.  At least the lock was fairly modern, opening with a key-card.

We walked into more green, gold, and olive décor.  Well, décor is too positive an implication to describe what we saw.  Bedspreads in night-mare prints of blues and browns (clashing with all the other colors in the room) covered two slightly sagging beds.  I tentatively lifted the bedding to inspect the mattress per my daughter’s instructions before we began our journey.  (She has educated herself on bed bug detection methods to be used during her own travels.) Both mattress and box springs were firmly encased in zippered plastic sheaths.  To cover what, I shuddered to contemplate.

Our room had a door leading to an adjoining room. . . all the edges of which were firmly sealed with grey duct tape.  I. Kid. You. Not.  An unpleasant smell permeated the air. I turned on the wall lights between the beds but nothing happened.  After trying wall switches to no avail I jiggled the cord leading into the wall outlet.   With a disturbing electrical-static-popping sound, the lights came on.

The imitation brass fixtures were covered with grime.  Kind of like a greasy kitchen hood that hasn’t been cleaned in too long.  The sofa would remain un-sat-upon, at least by me.

“Let’s check the bathroom,” Paul, the stout of heart, said.

My first impression was that it was much better than the bedroom.  Bright blue and white, none of that nasty brownish gold and olive.  Paul opened one of the slivers of hotel soap which crumbled in his hand.  He opened the second one.  Same thing.  The sink  was unremarkable but the cabinet that housed it was fronted with with, yes, Formica, and had swollen at its top, waterlogged and most assuredly teaming with the bacteria of a host of former guests.  Probably the governor and Van Halen's too.

“I’m so sorry!” I told the others.  “It sounded so good on-line!”

“It’s okay,” they all tried to reassure me.  “We’ll be fine!”

When Wade saw the look on my face he suggested we check ourselves out and find another place.  “It’s our last night in a hotel for this trip,” he said.  “We don’t want you to have a bad experience at the end of our trip.  Let’s go downtown and splurge on a really nice place.”  I looked past him down the hall and wondered how easy it would be to score some crack in the middle of the night.  Probably be pretty easy in broad daylight, actually, I decided. 

“We can’t,” I groaned.  Everything else is booked by now. 

“Then we can drive down the road until we find something.”

I felt like a spoiled baby.  I mean people are starving to death in other countries.  People are actually suffering, for real, and I can’t stay in a motel with ugly bedspreads?!! 

“I’ll be fine.” I insisted.  So the guys left to wash the van.

I pulled out my laptop and put it on the Formica desktop.  Formica plays a big part in this place.  I have nothing against Formica but this stuff was shiny, faded, brown, old, and altogether the ugliest stuff that ever covered a surface.  Dirt and grime were everywhere and I brushed it away with my hand.  The gold table lamp beside my laptop was covered with fingerprints.  My eyes caught the microwave in my side vision.  Layers of dust extended out the sides, kind of like under a refrigerator that hasn’t been moved in months.

I snapped. That little microwave was the last straw.  Even missionaries in the foreign field didn’t have to face crud under the microwave.  I called Paul and told him I just can’t do it.  I told him to come back after they wash the van and I’ll work on finding another place to stay.  And I tried but the promised high speed internet wouldn’t connect.  BIG SURPRISE.

Paul and Wade were back in less than five minutes, van unwashed.  The man behind the counter gave them their money back without argument or surprise.  All three of my travel companions expressed their own relief to be away from that place post-haste.

My only regret is that I took no pictures.  There is no way to prove the truth of my saga, other than my word.  And the word of my fellow-travelers.

Back on the road again, and feeling like I had been given a new lease on life, I was back on the phone.  It seemed all of Chicago was filled to the brim.  A dragster racing event had drawn visitors to the area from parts abroad.  As we drove further from the city and without any success in our search we learned a concert involving a rapper I’d never heard of was bringing in people by the score.  An hour further I was told there was no vacancy due to a “big reunion.”  This hit my funny bone for some reason.

“Help me Jesus!” I half pled, half whined.  I opened yet another search for yet another town along our route, further into Indiana whose line we had recently crossed.  The first hotel that showed up was a Best Western.  I thought why not? And hit enter.  They had two king-bed rooms left.  I took them both.

That hotel was the nicest Best Western I’d ever been in.  It was right up there with the Hilton Garden Inn in Denver. A courtyard surrounded by four floors of rooms overlooked the indoor putt-putt course, corn hole, shuffle board, swimming pool, tables for two and more. Unique in its décor, a killer restaurant with amazing prime rib, friendly and helpful staff, odor free rooms, down pillows, and yes, beautiful white fluffy bedspreads.  I was up until after 1am, reveling in the Amazing Escape I’d just experienced.

Thank-you Jesus!  Do I hear an AMEN.

Wall Drug and Whittler's Lady

We slept in today.  Or I should say I slept in.  Paul was up hours before one should be up during one's vacation.  He had his breakfast, unimpressive, according to his report, and was sitting in our room trying to be patient with me. 

I finally made it to the breakfast room of the hotel at 9:07 only to learn that when they say breakfast is over at 9:00 they are dead serious.  Everything, even the oatmeal packets, had been whisked away to an undisclosed location.  There was a box of factory-made chocolate muffins, semi-hidden in a box, that someone had forgotten to put away but my stomach flopped over at the thought of forcing one of those unappetizing creations into my mouth before so much as a cup of coffee. My lifetime in Amish Country has spoiled me. Paul assured me I hadn’t missed much, even when the hotel's version of "full breakfast" was laid out.

Keystone is a demonstration of American tourism run amok.  Trying to replicate an old western town, its two blocks are filled with one souvenir shop after another, all proclaiming themselves the best place to buy t-shirts, local jewelry made in China, and rocks from the carvings at Rushmore.  I found it all somewhat repulsive as I rushed to join the throngs of travelers, contributing a sizable sum for my own bag of memories.  

I have a compulsive need to bring back things for the grandkids.  I can’t seem to stop myself.  What three-year-old doesn’t need an artificial coonskin cap and a fake Stetson?  When you have a grandson who loves hats and you’re a granny who loves seeing him wear them, well, pull out the wallet and plunk down the money.  And that’s just one; there are six more grandchildren who dissolve my powers of reasoning beyond Paul’s ability to control.  His face turned pale as he followed me around the store and I silently wished he’d go wait in the car. 

We finally hit the road after the others managed to get me out of the shops and into the van.  I was just finished rearranging all the goods and storing them away when someone said, “Hey, let’s go to Wall Drugs; we’re going right past!”

I groaned inwardly, knowing what fresh temptations were about to present themselves.  Wall Drug is 76,000 square feet of tourism delight, of much better quality than the store I’d just left in Keystone.  In 1931 in a struggling South Dakota town of only 326 people the store was purchased by Ted and Dorothy Hustead using a $3,000.00 legacy and a newly acquired pharmacy license. I was doing a little research and found www.walldrug,com with a very interesting article by the owners.  Check it out if you want some inspiration on following your dreams and doing what you think God has called you to do.

What started out as a tiny drugstore in the middle of the prairies is now a major attraction off of I 90. Along with a spray park area, jack-a-lope photo spot, stuffed buffalo, and numerous life-size cowboy sculptures, there are countless other unique things to see and do for adults, kids and adult kids.

We ate lunch there (I highly recommend the hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes, all of it smothered in gravy).  The coffee is still only five cents a cup and very good.  By the time we finally decided to drive east toward our next goal of Elkhart, Indiana, the sun was well past its zenith and my wallet was a little lighter still.

Toward evening, in what has become a daily routine, Wade suggested we get on our phones and find a hotel.  Sioux Falls and all surrounding areas seemed to be fully booked in any place we could afford even when we exceeded our budget quite generously.  I asked at several places what was going on and always got the same answers.  “No idea” or “We’re usually pretty busy this time of year.”  The number of required stars in my search engine continued to decrease along with the slimming possibility of sleeping somewhere other than the van.  With four adults well past the age of finding a night in a vehicle a fine adventure, our standards were lowering themselves with each passing mile.

Now, with no intent to slander the people of eastern South Dakota or western Minnesota, there doesn’t seem to be any attraction around to draw the number of overnight visitors required to fill every hotel and motel to capacity. I expanded my search area as we crept across the map. 

Wade spotted a few Bed and Breakfasts on his GPS.  I felt an internal dread at the thought of sleeping in the house of total strangers but after the last hotel we’d pulled into (and right back out of without ever getting out of the vehicle), I started making more phone calls.  The first B & B was full.  The second didn’t answer.  The third said she only had one room left.  Since it was already 9:30 pm she thought it possible some of her people might not show up and she offered to track them down and let me know if they were no-shows.  

A few minutes later my phone rang.  “We’re both in luck!” she said.  “They aren’t coming so I have two rooms.” Yvonne, the very nice proprietor, directed us to a Minnesota speck of a town called Truman, out in the middle of flat nothingness and ten miles from the interstate.

Her pleasant voice on the phone along with glowing reviews online reassured me we weren’t headed for the Bates Motel.  It turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience.  Whittler’s Lady B & B – who wouldn't want to check out something with that name?  Yvonne and her husband Lowell greeted us at the door with warmth and smiles, even though it was approaching 10:00 pm by the time we drove up.  We didn't see until morning that the charming house's exterior was a delightful dark shade of purple that worked perfectly.  A baby grand piano graced the sitting room and an antique barber’s chair bore the distinction of being “the most comfortable seat in the house.”  The dining room table was already set for our breakfast, minus the food of course.

The establishment’s name came from the Lowell's whittling hobby.  He showed us several pieces, both interesting, and well-done.  His sense of humor showed through.  The “chainsaw” was a carved handle like that of any common chainsaw but without the metal blade.  Instead it wooden chain dangled from its center. The “quarter-pounder” was an apparatus approximately eight inches long with a tiny carved mallet fixed to it.  When tapping the far end with a finger the mallet rose and fell, hitting a twenty-five cent piece, glued to the wooden base.

A stairway led to our cozy rooms; an antique dress form decked out in beautiful ivory lace greeted us silently from the landing midway.  Every room was inviting and filled with unique furnishings, Victorian mostly, fitting well with the woodwork and style of the house.  After we freshened up a bit from our road weary day, our hosts offered us wine and popcorn in “the breezeway” and we all spent a little time swapping our stories before turning in.


The next morning we met for breakfast at the lovely dining room table.  Another guest, a young lady, eight weeks pregnant and needing a break from her toddler, joined us.  Pastry puffs stuffed with scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese sauce appeared on our plates and disappeared rather quickly from thereon. Fresh fruit, hot coffee and cold juice completed the best breakfast I'd had since leaving home.

I might have to try this Bed and Breakfast thing again sometime.

Crazy Horse and Rushmore

There are places every American should see at least once.  We paid two of them a visit today. 

Crazy Horse is a work in progress.  Started in 1948 by the late Polish sculpture Korczak Ziolkowski, (I dare you to try to say that ten times really fast), the project continues with several of his ten children leading the way.  The monument was commissioned by Henry Standing Bear, a Lakota elder, on land considered sacred by some Oglala Lakota. Privately held, the project uses no government money but relies on contributions and sales from the gift shop, on-site restaurant and tours.

Ambitious plans for a Native American university are in place and accredited college courses were offered with the first students graduating in 2010.  We toured the log cabin built by Ziolkowski decades ago.  His ten children were born and raised there and educated in a school house he brought in, along with a teacher.  The place even had its own tiny post office back in the day.

In the cultural center, reading accounts of the Indians native to the area, their heroism, suffering, and loss are remembered; I was moved.  A quote by Nez Perce Chief Joseph in 1881, his people virtually exterminated by the US government, haunted me:

“They will teach us to quarrel about God, as Catholics and Protestants do.  We do not want to do that.  We may quarrel with men about the things on earth but we never quarrel about the Great Spirit. We do not want to learn that.”  

The native peoples of this country have seen many an injustice; our United States have been procured at great price.  Too great, I sometimes think.  Sheltered in our modern and comfortable cocoons, it is vital we learn accurate history.  To honor the warriors of all races who have given us the freedoms we enjoy as our due, with little thought for what it cost.  In researching the project I came across one commentator, stunning in his stupidity, who labeled Crazy Horse an "insurgent" and undeserving of honor because he was "not an American."  Wow.  I would explain why I think those comments are idiotic but I do not believe any of my acquaintances (to which the readership of this blog is most likely limited) are asinine enough to need an explanation.

Supper in the restaurant while looking out massive windows at the face of Chief Crazy Horse memorialized on the mountain, was, appropriately, buffalo stew with fried bread.  Delicious.

We left for Mt. Rushmore hoping to take in the evening festivities there.  Only seventeen miles away we had time to check-in at our hotel in Keystone, SD before continuing another mile and a half to Rushmore.  As dusk fell two thousand people gathered to hear and see a presentation on the men whose faces are carved into the massive granite face of the mountain, high above the outdoor amphitheater. 

Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt (Theodore), their contributions to the “great experiment” that is our country, were remembered using their own speeches and writings.  Quotes uttered two hundred years ago were chillingly prophetic in their concern for our liberty and the potential loss there-of.  They warned of future leaders they feared would try to profit from the people or remove their freedoms.  The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, and the Bill of Rights were all carefully crafted in an attempt to insure our continuing freedoms, gained through great sacrifice.  Yet all of them knew the grave risks that would threaten those freedoms in the future, risks that would result from the insatiable need of a few to control the many.

I was encouraged to see the seats filled with fellow Americans wanting to learn how our nation came to be.  At the end of the program all veterans or those with family members who are, or have, served were asked to come to the front to assist with lowering the flag for the night. Ceremoniously folded, the Stars and Stripes were carefully stored away by several of the many servicemen and women who had gone forward. The complete silence throughout the amphitheater was broken as those stretching across the stage told their name, time served, and their branch of the military.  Even though this took some time, most of the 2000 people filling the bleachers remained in place.  After all introductions were complete a heartfelt standing ovation followed without any prompting by those in charge.

It's pretty easy to look back, hindsight being what it is, and recognize the brilliance of the country's founding fathers.  What is often forgotten is their courage and bravery in the face of incredibly poor odds.  Had their endeavors failed they would all have been tried for treason and executed.  And our flag would not have fifty stars on it.  This country would have, most likely, been severed into numerous territories held by various other nations to whom we would be paying homage and taxes. It would require complicated border crossings making our coast to coast travels much more difficult, less enjoyable, and maybe impossible altogether.  Commerce would be stifled, headaches would abound.  Even though the USA is increasingly less than perfect, it's still the greatest experiment in liberty and individual potential that has ever existed on this planet.  In my humble opinion, at least.

Banff and Glacier, July 7, 2015

We left Calgary late this morning after sleeping in, for once.  Both Paul and Wade are early risers.  Barbara and I, not so much.  But even the husbands slept in after the very awesome and very late show at the Stampede last night. 

After breakfast we meandered our way toward Banff.  For anyone not sure what meandering means, well, imagine yourself a dandelion seed drifting whichever way the breeze blows.  We drove through the park trying to soak up all the snow-capped mountains, streams, waterfalls, and beauty our senses could absorb. Originally the plan was to cross back into the states around noon. One cannot "do" Banff before lunch.  At least not if one wants to pause now and then in appreciation of the Creator's handiwork.  And we saw a bear!  A grizzly moseying its way across an open field.  It's the black dot in the photo.  I promise.

It was after 8:30 pm before we finally made it to the states, entering at the Roosville border crossing into Montana.  Our re-entry took about thirty seconds and did not involve the loss of any food supplies.  We were almost out of gas but it meant a great deal to the menfolk to save a few dimes on fuel. I think it’s the modern day equivalent to the caveman’s need to kill the biggest musk ox.  By the time we found a town with an open gas station, even Paul was getting nervous.

We were all pretty tired so decided to stay in the first sign of civilization after the border, a small collection of buildings, two hotels of suspect quality, the aforementioned gas station with an adjoining Subway and a diner purported to have “the best breakfast around.”  The hotel was older than I am and had a big sign that said to check-in at the Subway.  There were no hairdryers or coffeemakers, but it was clean and that’s the one essential.  Second to cleanliness by the merest fraction is the bedding. Those nasty old bedspreads that are shiny on one side and snag your fingers on the other make me shiver. 

The husbands have taken to mocking my obsession with nice bedding.  At one hotel Paul walked into our room and with deep emotion announced, “These are the nicest bedspreads I’ve ever seen.”

“You making fun of me?”  I asked.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation or apology.

After unloading suitcases we pulled our tiny tables onto the deserted upper balcony fronting our rooms and ate Subway sandwiches and chips.  Fortunately we pulled in just before closing or we would have had to make do with snacks from the van.  Sitting there at dusk in Big Sky Country, mountains barely visible in the distance I was happy to be back in the USA and content with my lot. 

Breakfast at the little restaurant the next morning was everything we’d been told it would be.  Our waitress had probably been there since the beginning.  She was like Flo without the beehive. The menu was entertaining as well.  The Dolly Parton special: two slices English muffin with an over-easy egg on each. What’s not to love?

After breakfast the meandering continued.  Glacier Park is irresistible whenever we are within a hundred miles of it.  We convinced Wade and Barbara to drive the Going To The Sun Road and, as always, it was breathtaking.  Especially when an oncoming dually (or something equivalent) with over-sized side mirrors tries to crowd you off the road. With majestic peaks on every side, sheer cliffs around every corner, weeping rocks with no visible sign of their water source, and cascading waterfalls of snow melt, the drive is worth the risk.  And I'm not aware that any motorists have actually gone over the side but then I'm not certain they haven't.  Probably better not to know.

We drove all the way through the park, exiting in St. Mary, the invisible town.  Route 89 was the curviest road we'd encountered thus far.  Besides concentrating on keeping lunch down one also has to watch for cows.  Yes, cows.  There are even signs warning motorists, with pictures and everything.  Hitting a deer is no fun; I’ve done it. Several times.  Hitting a cow is much worse I’ve been told.  Comparable to hitting a brick wall.  Fortunately there was no grass growing in the road so the cows we saw were grazing out of our path.

After the worst of the curves, which seemed to go on for a very long time, we came to what looked like the literal end of the road in the middle of nowhere.  A highway worker was holding up a stop sign.  Closer inspection revealed a dirt path and when we were waved through we bumped along for quite some time, a long line of cars, trucks and one poor biker in our wake.  Eventually we hit pavement again.  We repeated this scenario later, further down the road.  And out here when you’re stopped for road construction it’s not uncommon to wait for twenty minutes before the flagger gives you permission to move forward.  At one place we pulled bags out of the back, found our stash of wine, cheese and crackers, and had ourselves a little picnic while we waited.

Eventually we found our way back to roads that allowed for speeds higher than 35 and we rode them into Bozeman for the night.  It was the first hotel with a “Motorcycle Wash” provided sign.  Great idea, I thought.

It was high time to do some laundry and I was up until 1AM waiting for our clothes to dry.  One poor lady was still a long way from done when I stumbled off bed.  I believe I will be intentionally thankful for my own washer and dryer when I’m back home; things I take for granted until I am toting around bags of dirty underthings wishing for a river and a washboard.

Calgary

July 5, 2015

Today we reluctantly left Bonner’s Ferry and headed for Alberta.  Our border crossing was interesting.  I can think of few less-likely criminals than the four of us but we were told to pull over and our luggage was removed and inspected while we waited inside the building.  Our four innocent and beautiful apples were confiscated.  My cousin Lydia and her husband had crossed a few hours earlier and lost their apples as well.  Maybe there’s an applesauce cannery behind the grey walls of the cold customs building.  The officers, while polite, were lacking in any displays of good humor.

Relieved to finally be waved on through we spent another day traveling majestic landscapes that defy description, pulling into Calgary by late afternoon.  We met up with Lydia and John and the six of us went downtown which we’d heard was the place to be for dinner.  We ate at James Joyce Irish Pub.  It was unique and museum quality in its memorabilia, much of it Guinness related.  

We learned about the Guinness family from John who has spent some time in Ireland.  It seems there was a woman whose husband was in a duel in which both men died.  Left a widow with two children and disowned by her husband’s family she was contemplating suicide.  She was ready to leap from a bridge to her death when a poor ploughboy passed by cheerfully whistling as he went.  Ploughboys were at the very bottom of the social ladder and the woman was amazed that someone so disadvantaged could be so happy.  “If a man in that lowly state can be happy, how can I be so distraught and ready to give up?”  she thought. She decided to live.

Eventually the woman married a man from the wealthy Guinness beer family.  One day she was visiting a church when the congregation sang the song that the poor ploughboy had whistled.  It changed her and she became a woman of kindness and prayer.  The great potato famine had hit Ireland and the woman persuaded the Guinness family to use their wealth to feed thousands.  In her line of descendants, through her influence and prayers there came numerous men of God who changed the lives of future generations.  Many Irish lives were saved through the Guinness family’s generosity and compassion during the famine.  All because a young man living in poverty was filled with joy in the midst of his meager circumstances, whistling while totally unaware anyone was listening.  It made us all reflect a bit, it did.  I should add that I wrote the story as best my questionable memory can recall and cannot vouch for its accuracy.  For anyone interested see A Guinness with a Difference: The Story of the Whistling Ploughboy of Ecclefechan by Derick Bingham

The next day we met for breakfast and made our plans.  Some of us went to the Calgary Stampede bull-riding events and some of us (Barbara and I) hung out at the hotel until late afternoon. 

We eventually walked to the train station and met the others at the Calgary Tower for dinner at the revolving restaurant high above the city.  Fun.  Pricey, but fun.  And the food was good too. 

After dinner we all took the train to the Stampede where we had tickets for the evening show.  Chuck wagon races started things off.  After two hours of watching horses and wagons careening around a half-mile track at speeds reaching forty mph a big John Deere tractor pulled a huge stage across the track and in fifteen minutes it was ready for the performers.  What followed left us all amazed. Another two hours, this time filled with singing, dancing, acrobatics, and stunts, and ending with an incredible fireworks display.  The tickets that had seemed so expensive before we arrived seemed much less so by the time the show was over.  A chilly rain fell throughout the evening but the show went on without a hitch.  Fortunately our section of seats were under the overhang and we stayed cozy and dry.  

To say we were impressed was an understatement.  I saw a side of Canada I had never seen before and a people proud of their country and their heritage.

Idaho, Bonner's Ferry

It takes a long time to get from town to town out here.  But it’s never boring; the scenery is almost beyond our ability to appreciate.

We reached Bonner’s Ferry shortly before 6pm on June 30th.  That’s 9pm Ohio time.  I’m still not quite acclimated so it feels like Ohio to my not-so-young body.  We’re staying at The Log Inn, same place as last time we were here.  The Pine trees surrounding the property are mature trees now, not the saplings we left behind a decade ago.  A beautiful place, I was glad to see the charming little tables on the porch that stretched from one end of the building to the other.  When we were here eleven years ago one of my favorite things was sitting on that porch to read.

The day after we arrived I got a text from one of my sisters, on her way from West Virginia by train with three of my other siblings along with an assortment of spouses and adult children.  They had debarked in Libby, Montana, she told me, and there was only one available rental car in the whole town.  A car too small to hold the nine people in their party.  They had reserved it before their arrival and, as is still the way in some small towns, it was left at the station for them, with the keys hidden inside the gas tank access.  I was thinking if anyone tried to steal fuel they would find a bonus vehicle theirs for the taking, but then what do I know. 

Since there was no way they could all pack in for an hour-long trip to Bonner’s Ferry, five of the travelers stayed in a small hotel in Libby for the night.   When they went to check out the next day no one was around to take their money except the maid.  After repeated and unsuccessful attempts to figure out the credit card machine she said, “I’d go wake up the owner but he’s probably still sleeping.”  It was approaching noon. Taking pity on her and not wanting to wait until “the owner” decided to rise and shine they paid cash. Wade and Paul had agreed to drive over with the van and deliver them to Bonner’s Ferry and so they did.

It’s been more than a week since we arrived in Bonner’s Ferry and time really does fly when you’re having fun.  In spite of the unusually hot weather with temps in the high 90s our time with family at the Byler Reunion was filled with the making of many new memories.  Family gathered from the northern-most point of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, from southern Florida, and from many points in between.  They came by plane, train, automobile, and motor home.  The Arizona crew came on motorcycles.  The Shaw Islanders hitched a ride by ferry. Since we seldom see each other save at these once-every-three-years reunions there was plenty of catching-up to do.

Idaho is one of my favorite places. Our cousins who live there own a secluded campground set deep into the woods with a backdrop of Canadian mountains.  Rustic cabins and a clean shower-house were available for those of us okay with primitive lodging.  Camper sites and a large pavilion with giant fire pit and kitchen were nestled among the trees.  Hidden in the woods a zip-line reached across a ravine so filled with giant pines I never did see how far I would have fallen had something let loose.  I only slammed my foot into a tree once so it was well worth the ride.  Also hidden to the casual observer was an amphitheater, set into a natural hillside and surrounded by more pines. A covered stage at the bottom was a perfect setting for nightly gatherings filled with music and family stories. 

On the first day of the reunion the festivities got off to a good start with a home-cooked supper followed by two days of music in the amphitheater, thrills on the zip-line, carriage rides around the grounds (my cousin James brought a matched team of snow-white horses hitched to a carriage,) food, food and more food, and general gaiety all around.

But the most fun of all was catching up with my cousins from all over the continent.  Well, technically, even beyond.  One of them lives on an island off the coast of British Columbia.  And someone was there from Chile as well.  With over seventy first-cousins, just on my mother’s side, it’s not uncommon to need introductions to the descendants that continue to expand the genealogical tree. I think I could name all the actual first cousins.  Maybe. But not all the spouses and children, grand-children, and yes, great-grandchildren.  I remember back in the day when I was a kid, when all my aunts and uncles were there.  Reminding me of my mortality, one by one, each of them has passed on with only three spouses still remaining.  Only one was there this year, the other two not able to travel the great distances required.

After the reunion was officially over, several of us stayed a few days more.  One of my cousin’s sons, Jevon, rounded up four-wheelers for a trek up one of the local mountains.  I opted to stay behind since the 100 degree heat wasn’t as appealing as my air-conditioned hotel room. Paul, Wade, John, Jevon and Jevon’s wife Priscilla left after breakfast on Saturday.  They said they’d be back by noon but it was well after 2pm.

As they told it, Wade lost his glasses on the way up when a branch slapped them off his face.  Not stopping to look for them they made their way to the top where an old gold mine yielded up a small nugget for Paul, fool’s gold as it turned out.  On the way back down Wade stopped to search for the missing eye-glasses and miracle of miracles, found them.  “I had a little talk with the Lord,” Wade told me, “and I tried to remember how I reacted when the branch hit me.”  Reliving his movements and retracing his steps he looked down and there they were, by the side of the trail waiting to be picked up. God is good.

Further along down the trail, Wade passed a stick jutting into his path and heard a sudden “whoosh” of air.  His front left tire was flat.  It appeared undamaged except for the now missing valve stem. Jevon and John had sped off long ago, leaving Paul and Wade in the dust. Paul soon noticed that Wade was no longer behind him so he turned back (as is the rule for activities of this sort – riders are responsible for the person behind them).  He found Wade with his deflated tire parked along the trail.

After waiting for the others to come back but with no signs of anyone coming up the trail, Paul set out to look for them. With turn-offs along the trail and concerned he would lose his way he finally turned back, before he was hopelessly lost.  Jevon did come back to search for them and rode the crippled four-wheeler down, standing to one side and taking the weight off the flat tire.  He delivered Paul, John, and Wade back to the hotel, dirty and tired but glad they did it.  For my part, I was okay with just hearing about it.

Our Arizona cousins had rented a house at Twin Rivers campground about seven miles out of Bonner’s Ferry.  How anyone managed to get their campers down that narrow gravel road covered with dust and loose gravel, numerous switchbacks and sheer drop-offs is beyond my understanding.  It was hair-raising enough in the van.  Sheer cliffs surrounded the camp, which was invisible from the main road.  Once at the bottom we found the only house, a lovely place at the far edge of the camp, situated along a lake and surrounded by mountain ranges.  A train meandered past on the far side of the water and a bear appeared for a moment below the tree line before disappearing into the woods again; we sat on the deck and tried to soak it all in.

These particular cousins had owned a restaurant near Phoenix for years and it showed.  A picnic table was spread with appetizers.  Mouthwatering ribs were barbecuing on the grill.  There was corn on the cob, garlic mashed potatoes, and salad.  We had brought pies from a local grocery store.  We ate, we talked, we told stories, we ate, we watched videos taken while zip lining, and we ate some more.  Even though it was Independence Day we opted out of fireworks in town.  Eventually we forced ourselves to say our goodbyes and left.