Day Six: Truro and Baddeck

August 13, 2016

The day dawned beautiful and clear, the air cooler, the humidity low.  We left the hotel around 8:30.  Paul and Ruth Hershberger did the devotional as we drove.  Persevering during difficult times was the subject and they shared their personal stories about times that were impossible to understand, talking about how God’s faithfulness came through.  I enjoy hearing people’s own stories – I always get more out of what’s being said when real life is present.

Afterward Gloria spoke about Nickle Mines, where she and her husband live, and updated us on some of the happenings in the years since the tragic shooting there.  The world moves on but the people whose lives have been forever changed by the unimaginable actions of one troubled man must continue to live with the consequences of his actions.  Forgiveness when there is no closure, no end to the difficult days, is an ongoing decision, one day at a time.

Our first stop was at the Truro Farmer’s Market where Old Colony Mennonites sell fresh vegetables displayed like artwork. There were also baked goods, as well as rum, beer, cheese and jelly. We were told by our tour guide several days ago that Nova Scotia gives much credit to rum and beer for its very existence because of the army's use of both to bribe young men into service for their country. Although I'm fairly certain this is no longer practiced, I did notice rum and beer are frequently for sale in most tourist traps we browsed. Being a fan of neither beverage, I bought a wedge of mild Swiss Gouda and a loaf of crusty beer bread.  Since this combination called for some fine wine, I snagged a jar of Merlot Wine Jelly.  We all sampled some later, on the bus, cruising on down the road. 

We tried to see the tidal bore outside of Truro but missed it by minutes.  I had no clue what a tidal bore was; I learned it was the moon’s gravitational pull causing the rising tides from the Bay of Fundy to force the Salmon River into a backward flow twice a day.  I’ve added a link to a video on utube by someone who got there in time to see it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWumonz87rA

We ate lunch at Jungle Jim’s in Truro, a place similar to Red Robin back home, without the big franchise feel.  The food was delicious and arrived quickly but, most importantly, was served by friendly people who appeared to enjoy their jobs, and did not suggest we go elsewhere.  Yes, I'm still feeling the burn from our experience several days ago.

The Lynwood Inn in Baddeck, Nova Scotia awaited our early evening arrival.  Beautifully situated overlooking a corner of the town, the water peeking through the trees beyond, the Inn also featured a restaurant with large verandas and multilevel decks on two sides.  Even though it was cool in the evening air many of us opted to eat outside, soaking in the beauty around us.  A solitary musician serenaded us during dinner, singing songs from our era. I would have described the man singing as "an older man" until I realized he was our age. (When did we get old?) Hence all the songs he sang being familiar to us. Paul couldn't help himself: he was singing along between bites. After stuffing myself with pan-fried haddock, I joined several others for a walk to a small ice-cream establishment a few blocks away.

I turned in early; too much food and a poor night’s sleep last night and I was ready for bed before the sun was completely gone.  Paul left in search of a card game with his Rook cards in one hand and his score pad in the other.  I was sound asleep long before he came back, moaning about his severe trouncing.

Day Five: The Titanic, The Citadel, and The Whales.

August 12, 2016

Today we toured the city of Halifax.  I learned many things I did not know this morning.  Allen, our tour guide instructed us that we are never to call the kilt he was wearing a skirt.  "Because," he said, "if you call it a skirt you will be kilt."

Did you know that of the 1500 people lost when the Titanic went down only 338 bodies were ever recovered?  Of those, 209 are buried in Halifax, in three separate cemeteries, according to their assumed religious persuasions.  Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, segregated even in death.  I wonder what they did if they found themselves in the same place on the other side.

Allen, told us about the recovery mission.  “There was no rescue,” he informed us.  “The water temperature was so frigid, people did not drown.  They died of hypothermia.” According to him, the movie depicting Leonardo DiCaprio clinging to a piece of floating debris, his lifeless, frozen body eventually pried loose by the woman he loved to sink to the bottom, was probably fairly accurate. I found it interesting that the grass in front of the grave of a man marked as J. Dawson was completely worn off from people who believe that he and the fictional Jack in the movie are one and the same, although they have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.

 Although Halifax is six hundred miles from where the disaster occurred, it was from there that crews went out to find and bring back as many as they could.  Only those kept afloat by their life jackets were found; once anyone had sunk to the bottom they were far too deeply submerged for anyone to bring them home. There was only one exception: a child estimated at two years old, found floating alone, with no life jacket, was brought back by the sea-hardened sailors who found him. The crew of the Mackay Bennett, were so moved they paid for a funeral and a special gravestone for the unidentified, unclaimed child.  To this day people leave coins, stuffed animals, and other signs of their visit at the grave. The little boy was not identified until 2011 when DNA proved his true age at nineteen months, and his name was added to the stone.

We saw the large cylindrical marker engraved with names of people killed in “The Halifax Explosion.”  In December of 1917 two ships collided in Halifax Harbor. One ship moved on from the minor impact; the other caught fire.  The Mont-Blanc was loaded with munitions, unknown to the residents watching the burning ship floundering in the water mere feet from their homes.  The Explosion that rocked the town killed 1700 people, injured 9000 more and damaged or destroyed 12,000 buildings.  It was the largest man-made explosion prior to the atomic bomb.

We spent time at the Public Gardens, a place of beauty filled with plants from every country the British conquered.  As Allen reminded us, “The sun never sets on the British Empire.”  And back in the day in an effort to show the people back home the unique botanical treasures from their latest conquests, foliage was brought back and planted.  On a side note: the hydrangeas here are a beautiful deep blue, most likely from the highly acidic soil.

Allen took us next to the Citadel, a star-shaped masonry fort built in 1828 but not completed until 28 years later.  We watched the firing of the canon, repeated every day at noon.  Allen told us about the G7 Summit held nearby in 1995 with President Bill Clinton and other world leaders present.  No one thought to mention the canon-firing tradition to those attending.  When the explosion rocked the area they thought they were under attack. There’s probably something wrong with me that I found that humorous.

Allen pointed out the area between the Citadel walls and the harbor, now filled with tall buildings, roadways, and bustling city life. Once it was home to four thousand soldiers and their tents, each of them given a gallon of beer every day to motivate their service to their country.  "That’s a Canadian gallon," Allen pointed out to us, "which is almost forty ounces more than a U.S. gallon. It’s a good thing the Citadel was never attacked,” since most likely the soldiers would have been too inebriated to launch a proper defense.  

Prisoners of war were confined inside the citadel, in tiny cells without attention paid to their comfort, religion, or personal preferences. One could say they were treated like. . .well. . .like the enemy. Novel idea.

We watched the changing of the guard and discussed possibilities for getting the expressionless, motionless, humorless guard standing stiff-backed at attention, to lose his composure, even just for a second or two.  In the end we took pity and restrained ourselves.  Being an obnoxious tourist is fun but even we have our limits.

Then it was off to eat lunch and do some whale watching.  The seafood here is amazing.  Probably because it was swimming in the ocean a few hours ago.    Eating it beside that ocean makes it taste all the better.  Paul decided to forego the boat ride since he’s been known to succumb to seasickness in the past.  Two and a half hours is a long time when one is losing one's lunch over the side.  So he stayed behind, ate ice-cream, and went to visit the Titanic Museum nearby. He reported his satisfaction to us later.

We were fortunate in our search for marine life.  We saw several whales, along with seals and porpoises. And there was a small island with nothing but a small house, an old lighthouse, and, according to our talkative boat guide, a plague of garter snakes.

Our cruise was pleasant in spite of the rain that eventually caught up with us and in spite of the annoying and very loud tour guide who came with the boat. (I wished Allen and his kilt would have been on board instead.) Even so, I learned plenty from him as well.  The crew pulled in a lobster trap which yielded several large specimens.  The one I got to hold was guessed to be fourteen years old because he weighed in at over two pounds and they grow at a rate of one pound every two years. They all had to be returned to the water though, since the season doesn’t begin until November.

We opted to return to the hotel early and fend for ourselves for supper.  Everyone who was so inclined gathered later to play cards.  I decided to do laundry and some writing.  And I have a maple donut that needs eating.

Day Four: The Fundy Rose and Peggy's Cove

August 11, 2016

Today we entered Canada.  It was painless which is always a relief.  I have many stories to tell of border crossings, several of them not-so-pleasant. It’s always disheartening when the border guards are narcissistic egomaniacs intent on demonstrating their importance.  The two working this morning were polite and business-like and wished us a good day when they passed us through.

We arrived in St. John, New Brunswick and boarded our ferry, the Fundy Rose which would take us to Digby, Nova Scotia.  We remained on the bus until safely boarded, along with several tractor trailer rigs, a number of motorcycles, many cars, and some walkers too.  The ferry was well equipped for comfort.  We rode the elevator to the upper levels where the air was easier to breathe than the fume-filled holds.  

TV screens with comfortable reclining chairs lined the walls in one area, tables with an easy view out large windows were plentiful.  High speed wifi was available at no charge.  Several restaurants-snack bars offered a wide variety of food and a Starbucks supplied the caffeine.

Heavy fog hindered visibility but we took our purchased meals outside and ate at tables on the decks, watching the churning wake plume out behind us.   Paul and Sam exchanged sea-sick stories while we ate and I was glad I had purchased Dramamine just in case.  Several people spotted whales. I found a lovely corner to work on my writing which I found an altogether pleasant way to pass the time.

After driving back onto solid ground in Digby we saw clear skies again.  Gentle hills, large chicken houses and rolling grain fields surrounded picturesque barns and neatly maintained farmhouses.  We drove up the coast and I saw names on road signs from books I had practically memorized in my early teens.  Anne Shirley’s Halifax lay ahead and I reminded myself she was fictional because she seemed like an old friend to me.  The ocean appeared in our windows, disappeared, then reappeared again, reminding me we were on an island hemmed in by the mighty Atlantic.

We arrived in Peggy’s Cove in the evening, just in time to enjoy the breathtaking scenery surrounding the lighthouse named after Peggy and her cove.  Tourists scrambled over the huge glacial deposit rocks, like ants they were, frantically snapping pictures like I, myself, was doing.  The sun was setting and we were fortunate that the mists enshrouding us earlier had cleared away leaving nothing but beauty behind.

The Sou’Wester Restaurant, built in 1967 and still run by descendants of the original owner, provided us with more mouth-watering seafood.  My thick and hearty chowder was completely satisfying and everyone else at the table shared similar sentiments regarding their own steaming platters. My place mat was printed with local history:  Peggy's Cove has 35 year-round residents.  In 1998 Swissair flight 111 crashed in the ocean, here.  All were lost.  The lighthouse was built in 1868 and was a large house with a light on top; the keeper and his family lived in the house.  During WWll it was used by the Royal Canadian Navy as a radio station.  The present lighthouse, built in 1916, was manned until it became fully automated the year I was born.  A long, long time ago.  For such a small, picturesque fishing village, there is a lot of history here and a lot of well-deserved pride in it from the locals. 

After dinner we wandered back out to the shoreline from whence the tourists had mostly cleared out.  Several of us voiced our pleasure at their disappearance, completely ignoring the fact that we ourselves arrived on a tour bus.  I snapped photos until my phone battery gave up the ghost, finally clambering aboard our bus in time for departure to our hotel.

We reached Halifax well after dark had fallen.  We were a mostly silent and weary group with only a rowdy few at the back breaking out in laughter now and then at some joke or other the rest of us couldn’t hear.  A few of us talked with each other about the day, one or two were reading or dozing.  Others were checking in with family on Facebook or texting. I looked around the bus and realized there was nowhere else I’d rather be at that moment. 

Everyone was ready for a good night’s sleep and happy to see the hotel come into view.  Within minutes of unloading, everyone disappeared like the ants at the lighthouse. There would be no card-playing tonight.

  

Day Three: Lobsters, Condoms, and More Strange Phenomena

August 10^th, 2016

Paul was all trash talk last night at the Longhorn. There were card games to be played, rematches to win, and scores to settle. But when we got back to our hotel with our bellies full, he fell into bed without ever looking at a deck of cards, sleep hard upon him.  I suspect everyone else did the same thing.  I sat up writing until close to midnight without ever hearing a peep from anyone.

We left the hotel around 7:30 this morning.  Our first adventure of the day was at the Oceanarium of Bar Harbor, Maine where we learned all about Lobster Love.  Did you know that there are condoms involved?  True. Story.  (Ok, so I was informed later, on the bus, the tour guide had said “condos” but I like my version better.  And I still think that might be what he said.)

Our first tour guide was an old man with looked as if he had spent his life on the high seas.   His worn blue jeans were held up with red suspenders, his wiry frame lean, his face wrinkled and weathered. His stage was a lobster boat that had been brought inside and he showed us traps, buoys, bait bags, and sundry other tools of the trade.

After learning that it takes five to seven years for a lobster to be large enough to make it to the dinner table legally, I, for one, will show more appreciation for their sacrifice.  I learned a lot of things at the lobster hatchery.  Each lobster sheds its shell many, many times.  Then he or she eats it.  During the days following the shedding the lobster is soft and easily crushed.  No one will eat them in this gelatinous state so they are returned to the water if they are caught. They are also thrown back if they’re too small.  If they are mothers they are returned as well.  The largest lobster our tour guide had heard of weighed in at over 40 lbs.  Consider that the crustacean on your dinner plate weighs in at about 2 or 3 lbs, after seven years of growth.  How old must the really large ones be?!  I'm happy to report I no longer need to feel sorry for the poor lobsters headed for the boiling pot.  There was a study done to see how much they suffer.  It turns out they are virtually brainless, therefore there is no pain.  Of course this is all according to the study.  No one has actually asked the lobsters.

So where do the condoms enter the picture, you wonder?  Well, I’m glad you asked.  At the hatchery the mother lobsters have ten to twenty thousand, or maybe even one-hundred thousand, eggs attached to their undersides, after a year of carrying them INSIDE.  The pin-head size babies finally emerge and proceed to grow and shed, grow and shed. Unfortunately, when they become mobile they tend to eat their siblings.  By placing them in condom shaped tubes they are protected from each other’s penchant for cannibalism.  When they are still so tiny they are barely visiable they are released into the ocean to fend for themselves.  Surrounded by predators on every side many of them do not survive more than a few seconds.  And some grow to over 40 lbs. So think about all of that the next time you dunk a forkful of succulent, flakey, white meat into a dish of melted butter.

In another room, another tour guide, this time the female version of the first one, told us more incredible tales, this time about sea cucumbers, star fish, and other bizarre creatures of the sea.  Moving at 

the staggering rate of a foot or so an hour, the cucumber, looking for all the world like a, well, a cucumber, has the uncanny ability to disengage and expel its stomach and intestines when threatened by a predator.  This shocking maneuver will, hopefully, distract whatever is in pursuit by providing it with an appetizer while allowing the cucumber time to escape.  It then re-grows another stomach and/or intestines for use in the future.

Before leaving the gift shop I bought a hand woven bracelet with a note that said, “Prayerfully made by the old man in the museum.”  It was the note that sold me.

Our next stop was Bar Harbor.  It’s a beautiful setting albeit totally commercialized.  Playing tourist is fun though, for awhile.  And we did it well.  Paul enjoyed his first lobster roll and I slurped down the best cup of clam chowder I’ve ever eaten.  We found a few more things on our scavenger hunt list and then it was back on the bus for a foray up Cadillac Mountain.

 A steady rain and thick fog dissuaded any of us from actually disembarking at the top of the mountain but at least we can say we were there. Our next attempt to see beautiful scenery was also less than successful. 

Acadia National Park is billed as “Maine’s most famous spot,” but what the park planners failed to do was ensure the arched stone bridge leading into the park was high enough for tour buses to actually get there.  We were an inch too tall.  As in you can’t be just “a little pregnant” or just “mostly dead,” The Princess Bride notwithstanding, being just a little too tall is still too tall. Nonetheless there was

plenty of beauty to be enjoyed during our climb up several flights of rock stairs to the park information center. 

We got slightly lost in searching for another route in, which was entertaining.  For everyone except the driver. Turning around with a full-size motor coach involves more maneuvering than doing a quick u-turn with a car.  The mere inches that separated us from curbs, guard rails, motorists, and signs would give me heart palpitations.  Dave and JR handle it with the calmness of a couple of . . . cucumbers.  They have done this more than a few times, I suspect.

Our journey to the hotel was a slow, tedious affair with traffic stretched out in front of us as far as the eye could see.  It reminded me of back home in Berlin on the Charm Days/Antique Festival weekend.  At least on the bus there are plenty of people to talk to.  I felt sorry for the driver again, though.  We had just pulled in when a white van with Ohio plates parked nearby, an Amish man clearly visible in the passenger’s seat.  They unloaded a bunch more of the same and a discussion ensued among us as to where their origin might be as indicated by the women’s various styles of headgear.  It seems they hailed from Fredericksburg, about 5 miles from my hometown.  How could we narrow it down that closely from seeing what they were wearing?  Well, we couldn’t.  We simply asked them where they were from.

We ate supper at The Governor’s. It was a small family-style restaurant whose staff not only didn’t suggest we try another restaurant, they handled the sudden appearance of almost forty people with calm efficiency.  We were all seated at various tables in short order. Service was good and served with a smile. Paul ordered a piece of apple pie in a box which he kept carefully concealed.  (Scavenger Hunt)  The waitress took it in stride; if she thought we all belonged in an insane asylum she hid it well.

My team suffered another appalling loss at the card tables before we turned in for the night.  That’s okay.  There are more nights ahead.  Victory awaits.

Day Two: Restrooms, Restaurants, and Other Strange Phenomena

August 9, 2016

My neck muscles continued to be pleased after a good night’s sleep.  We were on the bus by 7:15, leaving  Cheektowaga, New York toward our destination for tonight: South Portland, Maine.

Cal and Shirl spoke briefly before we left, sharing memories of Shirl’s mother and the verse, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. . .” for our daily meditation.  It is good to be with people who love the Lord, who encourage us in our faith, even on holiday!  Like the icing on the cake or the cherry on a sundae.

Another wonderful benefit of traveling on a bus filled with friends one rarely sees is that driving time is a great opportunity to catch up on each other’s lives.  And since everyone on the bus is a grandparent, all the grandmothers can share photos of their grandchildren with reckless abandon, bragging on the awesomeness of the offspring of their offspring with a shamelessness of political proportions.  As it is with shared loves, we all enjoy seeing and hearing about these wonderful creatures who call us Nana, Grandma, Grammy, Oma, Granny, or whatever moniker our clan uses.  We, none of us, need to fear the eye-rolling, long-suffering patience of those too young to experience or understand the perfection of our youngest descendants.  Fortunately the use of smart phones enables us to travel without twenty-pound photo albums in tow.

By 8:30 I had spilled a large amount of coffee on my jeans.  Thankful I didn’t pick the white ones this morning, I sopped up my saturated pant leg as best I could and resigned myself to feeling a bit clammy until it air-dried.  At least the aroma of coffee permeating the air was enjoyable.

After two hours we stopped at a truck stop and I was proud of my will-power, passing up the Mini McDonalds within.  Back on the road, the snacks started making their rounds, passed from one seat to the next.  Home-made treats, candy, mustard pretzels and the like.  I left my will power back at the truck stop it seems.  Should the Zombie Apocalypse strike while we are on this trip, starvation will not be an issue.

The scavenger hunt list was handed out yesterday.  So far I have checked off my list a fire hydrant, a sea gull, a Burger King, and a one-hundred dollar bill.  Paul shouted out randomly that he had just seen the woman truck driver on his list and amazingly she had a beard!!  Groans mingled with guffaws ensued.  I have a feeling neither of us stand much chance of winning this contest.

Standing in line at restrooms is an inevitable part of the journey when traveling with a large group of people, all of whom have to attend to the same bodily functions.  The jokes regarding which bathroom to use are frequent, in light of the recent rulings to allow “gender-confused” humans to use whichever suits their fancy.  Since the men’s line is always shorter, or altogether nonexistent, I may loosen my own standards should the urgency become critical.  At least all the instructions are in English and we have no self-cleaning potties along our travel path.  Let me explain.

Several weeks ago Paul and I were enjoying Sunday dinner at a cousin’s house.  Her daughter-in-law relayed a story that has had me laughing at random ever since.  It seems she, along with her husband were traveling on islands off the coast of France where they have self-cleaning facilities. With signs, presumably detailing instructions on toilet usage posted in French, they were quite useless to my non-French-speaking family. Many of these futuristic facilities require payment and certain procedures need to be followed as well, explained thoroughly through the aforementioned signage. In. French.

“We waited in line,” my cousin’s son’s wife explained, “and when it was my turn to go, I caught the door from the person exiting and went in.  As soon as the door clicked shut, the self-cleaning commenced.”  Presumably, the instructions, (did I mention they were in French?) explained that one should NEVER enter the room until after first allowing the door to completely shut, the scrub-down to complete, and THEN one could enter a now-pristine public toilet stall, ready for whatever needed to be accomplished during one’s turn in the space.  Amidst our gales of laughter, she described her own shrieking and panic as the car-wash-like spraying action soaked her, her backpack, her shoes, and everything else in the room, with sanitizing spray.

Gasping for air and wiping my eyes, I told her I’d never heard anything so awesome in my whole life. 

“Oh, it gets better,” her daughter told us drily.  Unsure how that would be possible we listened while the story continued.

“Well, when I was done,” her mother explained, “I could not figure out how to flush the toilet.  I looked everywhere but there was no handle, no button, no sign, nothing.”  Well, except the French instructions of course.  “So I stuck my head out the door, where the line of people were still waiting, and I called my husband to the door.  ‘I can’t figure out how to flush!’ I told him under my breath, so he came inside to help me.  As soon as I heard the door click shut, and heard my husband yell, 'NO!', I realized what we had done.  Again.”

More shrieking ensued but this time it was all of us sitting around the table, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. 

“When we walked out of that door the whole line applauded,” she finished. “We slogged around squishing in our shoes the rest of the day and it was two or three more days before we could laugh about it.  I thought, at least we’ll never see these people again.  Several days later we were waiting in line again with a bunch of strangers and I complained that I was getting tired of paying to go to the bathroom.  The lady behind me looked amused and said, ‘at least this one isn’t self-cleaning.’” 

We all erupted again and I vowed to watch out for self-cleaning toilets in non-English-speaking countries.  I needn't have concerned myself.  The next roadside rest consisted of a row of port-a-johns. No cleaning in evidence, automatic or otherwise.

We traveled a good part of the day through heavy traffic and arrived at the Portland Lighthouse around 7pm.  After a short stop for photo ops we loaded back on the bus for the short ride to our hotel.  We checked into our rooms then set off on the short walk to a restaurant of our choice. A small number of our party went to a Ruby Tuesday's nearby where we were met with a rather unusual hostess.  She told us we'd be better off going to the Longhorn across the parking lot.  Looking around the nearly empty restaurant we assured her she could split up our group however she wished.  She repeated her suggestion that we try the Longhorn.  Well, you don't have to tell me more than twice. Off to the Longhorn we marched where their enthusiastic welcome for our tired and hungry group restored my belief that capitalism is a system with great merit.

Day One: Unwind

August 8, 2016

Paul and I have both been working long hours the past few months.  Fifty and sixty hour weeks are taxing after awhile.  So we’ve been anticipating our summer vacation in a big way.  And today’s the day.

Several years ago we were privileged to be invited along with friends on their annual family bus trip to the Canadian Rockies.  We must not have been too obnoxious because they invited us again, this time to Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island.  Such was our state of eagerness to be away from all our daily stresses that we arrived at the bus almost an hour and a half early.  I had told Paul I’d be ready by 7:30 so we could make the ten-minute drive to the bus from our house in plenty of time for our 9:00 AM departure.  At 7:26 he was sitting in the vehicle with the motor running.  “Why are you rushing me?!” I asked him, a mite testy. 

“I’m not rushing you.”  He sounded amazed that I would feel rushed simply because he was burning fuel in the driveway.  I made a mental note to tell him I‘d be ready a half hour later than I actually intended to be the next time we planned a vacation.  When we pulled into the tour company’s office no one was there and everything was still locked up securely. 

Paul walked over to talk to the carpenters working on an office remodel. To kill time I zipped over to nearby Mrs. Yoder’s Restaurant in Mt. Hope and bought a home-made, still warm, cinnamon roll to go.  After weeks of running at high speed from the wee hours until falling into bed at night, all on a steady diet of donuts and coffee, I find that one cannot simply turn off the adrenaline nor the sugar cravings at will.  Baby steps.  I’ll try to eat better the rest of the day.  But first, breakfast.

The weather was beautiful.  Not too hot.  Not too cold.  Seeing friends we’d made two years ago board the bus again this morning brought back a host of good memories.  The bus was winding its way through the Holmes County hills while I finished up some work-related lose ends on my phone before I settled in for my morning nap.  Bliss, I tell you.  My neck muscles started to feel almost relaxed.

In due course we reached the 80/90 turnpike and Junior pulled to the side of the road to put the EZ Pass ID on the dashboard, which reminded me of a story someone told me several years ago when I was on a trip to Iowa.

It seems one of my traveling companions, Marilyn, was with a friend on a prior vacation, a young lady unfamiliar with the convenience and requirements of EZ Pass.  Mistakenly entering the wrong lane they found themselves handing money to an unoccupied booth in the EZ Pass lane. “You can’t stop here!” Marilyn emphatically informed her friend who was behind the wheel. “There’s a big rig bearing down on us and they don’t stop for these!  We have to go! Now!”

Not knowing what to do the panic-stricken driver hurled her money through the open window and sped out of the way of the rapidly approaching truck.  It must have worked since she never received any notice from the highway department informing her of the error of her ways.  Or maybe whoever reviews the videos searching for thieving motorists is still laughing. 

We ate lunch at a Chick-Filet, outside, a warm breeze further loosening up my neck muscles.  I walked to the McDonalds next door for a coffee to go and got one for Paul too.  They must have thought I qualified for the senior discount or else they have really cheap coffee.  Whatever, it was good. I had resisted the fries and bread for lunch, sticking with chicken strips and a chocolate shake.  I’ve heard that chocolate is good for you.  And then it was back on the bus and time for my afternoon nap. 

We ate dinner at a nondescript local dive called Danny’s. Nondescript on the outside, anyway.  Inside, the smells of made-with-real-food cuisine welcomed us in. What to order was a dilemma but I handled it with the experience of many years to back me up.  Autumn Chicken Pasta won the day.  It was a garlic-infused chicken, bacon, sun-dried tomato, asparagus, farfalle pasta wonder.  Never mind that I was a veritable cloud of garlic the rest of the evening.  My palate was pleased.

Back at the hotel a hot game of Hand and Foot commenced.  Yes, my team lost.  But even that did not affect my neck muscles negatively.  And there’s always a rematch to look forward to.

Unplugged

A month ago my daughter decided to take some time disconnected from Facebook.  I've known for a long while it would be a good exercise for me to unplug but have resisted following through.  Kind of like my resistance to working out on a regular basis.  Or any basis.  But after she told me how beneficial it's been to tune out the social chatter for a time, I've decided to do it too.  So beginning tomorrow morning I'm not going to be on Facebook until March 1st.  Yes, I know.  I picked the shortest possible month.  Baby steps.

I was confused yesterday, thinking it was the last day of the month.  I thought today was the beginning of my social media fast.  I found it disconcerting, the level of relief I felt when I realized I had another twenty-four hours before I had to disconnect. It's not that I sit staring at my computer all day or have my smart phone in front of my face for hours at a time.  But I do check in during my coffee breaks. Okay, so I drink a lot of coffee.  

It's going to be a challenge for me, these next 29 days.  I have a large family and many people I count among my friends.  They are scattered all over the globe.  Facebook has made it easy to stay in touch. I've followed along with an historic revolution in Ukraine through friends who live in the middle of it all. I've had on-line conversations late in the night with a niece in Laos.  A niece I rarely saw when she lived in the states.  I'm getting to know cousins out west I've only met once or twice in my life.  I've reconnected with family I'd lost touch with for decades.  The same can be said for friends from grade-school to college.  It's amazing, really.  Not so long ago when people left their homes and moved to new territories, they knew it was unlikely they would ever again see the people they left behind.  We no longer live with that as a distinct possibility.  

I have so enjoyed learning to know formerly casual acquaintances better through Facebook.  Their personalities come through in ways they probably don't suspect.  Some of them make me laugh, the belly kind.  Others make me giggle.  Or maybe just smile.  There are those who inspire, every day. Some have a deep concern  and love for our country, and it shows with their thoughtful and provocative political commentaries.  The medical people post the best gallows humor.  Food pictures are always enjoyed and sometimes imitated.  Pet lovers share the joy their animals give them.  Nature enthusiasts allow me along on their adventures: hiking, biking, birding and motorcycling.  I've learned about the plight of monarch butterflies through Facebook and have taken to raising a few myself in the summertime, much to the delight of my grandchildren.

There are a few things I won't miss:

• Status updates that imply some great drama is unfolding but without offering any clue as to what it might be. I guess since you don't want to tell me up front, I don't really want to know anyway.
• Expressing your undying love for a different person every few weeks.  Do you ever go back and review what you've written?
• People who "unfriend" anyone who expresses an opinion they do not agree with.  Great way to keep your mind slammed shut and forever small.
• Endless memes. (Especially the ones with misspelled words.)  I want to be your Facebook friend so I can share my life with you and have you share yours with me.  Yes, I have passed along memes I enjoy.  I also post family photos, funny things that have happened to us, inspiring moments in our lives, and memorable times we enjoy.  Recap:  I'm not saying don't share memes that speak to you.  I'm saying, along with them, share your own life with the rest of us.
• Stalkers.  People who skulk around on everyone's page but never let anyone know they've been there.  I don't want to be watched.  I want to be interacted with.
• Passive aggressive stabs with thinly-veiled references to perceived wrongs as in, "Why can't people just tell you to your face when they're upset rather than talk behind your back?"  Umm, yeah, kinda like what you just did, right there.  
• Hateful political "stuff."  I do love honest, even heated, debates with mutual respect from all sides.

Now that I got all of that off my chest, let me address a comment I've often heard about social media.  "Everyone's life looks perfect on Facebook and we all know that's just not real."  Well, frankly, I'd really rather you didn't post all of your skeletons on a fairly public forum seen by all your 450 friends.  Seriously, do any of us have 450 intimate friends?  Friends close enough to share our deepest, darkest secrets?  I think not.  And those few people who do share everything?  Well, it's like a train wreck you can't look away from.  Everyone feels bad, is red-faced, and wishing it would stop, but very few of us can quit staring. I'm referring to knock-down drag-out verbal battles that bring personal drama to a whole new level.Thankfully, I don't have anyone on my friend-list who does this.  But I've heard a few horror stories from others.

I'm rather glad that most of us put our best foot forward on social media.  Seeing cute photos of your grandkids makes me smile.  Hearing about all the people you hate, does not.  Flipping through your vacation photographs lets me enjoy the trip vicariously.  Reading your humorous take on something that went awry makes me laugh. Yes, Out. Loud.  Hateful rants about people, groups, or cultures - well, that's when it's hard not to hit that "unfriend" button.  But I rarely do it.  Because I really do believe you have the right to your opinion, even if I'd like to slap you good.

Again let me clarify.  I'm not talking about the people who ask us all to pray for them because a loved one is sick or some such legitimate need. I'm not referring to those friends who are traveling a very rough road and allow us the privilege of walking along side, as best we can. Social media is a great way to get a large community of people banded together quickly.  In fact I will continue, during my off-line month, to check in on several private groups I am a part of because there are ongoing concerns I care very much about.

I was surprised at Paul's reaction when I told him I'll be disconnected for four weeks.  He has always declared that he "has no time for Facebook."  With a notably superior attitude, might I add.  As if all of us lesser humans, unencumbered by the lofty commitments of the truly important, can waste our time with foolishness if we must. "How will we know what's happening?" he now asked me, actual concern showing on his furrowed brow.  And then it was I realized he has been counting on me to share anything deemed newsworthy with him.  Local news, political opinions, deaths, births, weddings, graduations, notable achievements. The enormity of my undertaking gave us both pause.

It's left me feeling ambivalent about tomorrow.  A little dread because I'll be left out of most things media.  A little anticipation because I'll be left out of most things media.  Maybe I'll get a few of these books read that are laying around my office collecting dust.  Maybe I could write a letter or two, like I used to.  You know, the old-fashioned way.  With envelopes and stamps and everything.  

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not pining for "the good old days."  I think social media, used well, is a wonderful thing.  I enjoy technology and am constantly amazed by the gizmos we use so casually now, things that didn't even exist in our imaginations a few short years ago.  And even though I'm thinking this month, unplugged, will be good for me, I'm already looking forward to reading through all the notifications on my first day back.  

So, a very Happy Birthday to all you February babies out there and a hearty congratulations to everyone having an anniversary! I wonder if anyone will even notice I'm gone.