Corona With The Cousins

At the Pregnancy Clinics Fundraiser, Sarasota

Less than two months ago I had heard very little about a novel coronavirus from a place over 7,000 miles away, as the crow flies.  We got rid of network TV years ago, so I get my news online, and only when I have the time and emotional fortitude to endure it.

Paul took a flight to Florida nine days before I headed south in our SUV.  He was involved in some music events at the end of February and I was still up to my neck in work, trying to get things ready for a six-week absence.  Besides, he prefers flying and I like traveling in a vehicle that allows me to open windows when I want.  The airlines frown on that, it seems.

When I booked Paul’s flight I was thrilled to find a one-way ticket for less than a hundred dollars.  A mere six weeks later the price was $28.00.  During prime spring break season, no less.  Who could have imagined that people eating bats in Wuhan, China could send the cost of air travel from Cleveland to Sarasota plummeting?

When I pulled into our vacation rental I was tired but anticipating a six-week sabbatical filled with fun times with friends and family, eating in our favorite restaurants, playing competitive card games, spending Sunday mornings at our Florida church, and of course reading books for  hours on the beach.  The first week that’s how it went. 

Three days after I arrived I joined five of my cousins for a fundraising dinner supporting the Sarasota Community Pregnancy Clinics, something I had the privilege of attending during a previous stay.  Cousin Dan volunteers regularly at the clinics and Paul has helped a few times with small building projects. It was an inspiring evening hearing an obstetrician share his journey from performing over a thousand abortions to becoming a health care provider who recognizes that the unborn are alive and need protection.  He choked up when he told us about the death of his daughter over thirty years ago and how this tragedy began to open his eyes to the value of every living person.

I looked around the table I shared with my beloved cousins, our small group representing vastly different areas of the country.  Three from still-frigid Ohio, one from balmy Florida, and one from an Island off the coast of Washington state, all the way across the country.  I drank in the moment, treasuring what was sure to be a rare thing, the six of us together enjoying a fabulous meal, catching up on life events, and uniting in a cause we all care deeply about.

I have well over a hundred cousins, some of them I’ve never met.  Most of my father’s family is still a very conservative sect of Amish.  So when my parents left the church they lost touch with most of the family from that side of the tree.  My father was the youngest in his family, born six years after his last sibling.  I am the youngest in my family, also born six years after my youngest brother and over twenty years after my oldest one.  To this day, I only know one cousin from the paternal side of the family.  Knowing Cousin Ezra and his family, I feel certain I have missed out by not knowing them all!  Unfortunately, many of them died of old age before I realized they even existed.

The cousins I hang out with the most and whenever possible are from my mother’s side.  Unlike my father she was one of the oldest of her siblings.  Even so, with me being so far behind all my brothers and sisters (eleven of us), I wasn’t friends with my cousins growing up.  I was that annoying little kid that got in everyone’s way, especially among my siblings, so while I knew my cousins, I didn’t spend much time with them.  Except for one or two I rarely saw, they were friends of my older siblings. Fortunately, when one reaches adulthood, a few years younger or older is meaningless and I’ve found friendships in my family tree that I value as among the biggest blessings in my life.

Cousins at Wade and Barbara's

That evening, sitting around that table, none of us suspected what was coming.  And a few days later, we met again at a local restaurant, joined by Paul and three more family members who live in Sarasota year round.  There were ten of us sitting around a large table, surrounded by other diners on all sides.  We filled up at the salad bar, returning for hot food at the steaming warmers, heaped with chicken, fish, roast beef, mashed potatoes and vegetables in wide variety. Standing in line to fill our plates, we were close enough to the many other patrons to brush up against each other, something that might never feel safe again. Finishing with ice-cream at yet another food station, we left for the home of one of my Florida cousins for more visiting and a heated game of cards.  Yes, our card games get pretty hot.  Any game involving Paul usually leads to yelling and a constant review of the rules.  It usually ends up with all of us against him. If he notices he doesn’t seem to mind.

We had no idea that a short week later we would be wondering if Kay’s flight to Arizona to visit her daughter, or Lydia’s and Esther’s flights back to Ohio would still be available.  We did not imagine that the restaurant we were in would change from filled and bustling to empty and silent, preparing food for take-out only.  We hadn’t heard the term social distancing used in every other sentence nor imagined that our evening’s activities would soon be frowned upon and then prohibited.  When we hugged each other hello and goodbye, we didn’t dream that soon we would be conditioned to believe we were threatening someone’s life by such a simple, normal, automatic, interaction. We were a group of ten, maxed out in the brave new world in which we found ourselves a few short days later.

My take-away today is a familiar cliché (and I don’t like clichés but sometimes they are the only thing that fits): don’t take for granted a single minute with the people you love.  I’ve heard this said many times but it never really registered.  When contemplating making every minute count I was thinking in case someone had an accident on their way home or some other such personal and unlikely tragedy.   The whole world coming to a screeching halt was only something that happened in the movies and not something I thought possible in real life.

Now, sitting here in quarantine, I am so thankful for those moments together.  I believe we will see each other again, if not on this planet, then certainly somewhere better.  But remembering those evenings a few weeks ago, well, it gives me more than the warm fuzzies, although I feel those too.  Yes, it gives me much more than that; it clarifies what’s important to me.  It’s not toilet paper or eating out or winning at cards. And these irreplaceable memories are the fuel that keeps me from putting other people at risk because I’m frustrated or impatient.

Philippians 1:3 I thank my God every time I remember you.

Corona: A Journey to Discovering Ourselves

Masks by Jaimee'

One thing I’ve learned from COVID-19.  Whatever you were before it started, a skeptic, a conspiracy theorist, a comedian, a survivalist, a hoarder, fearful, bold, compassionate, generous, serving, creative, helpless, sensitive, in denial, judgmental, spiritual,  whatever you were, those traits have become enhanced, strengthened, exaggerated even.  I’ve learned a few things about myself along the way, as well as about some other people.

I learned that humor is my way of dealing with anxiety and the unknown.  Some of the best memes ever have come out of this time of uncertainty (thank-you to those creative minds that put them together.)  I also learned that my sense of humor is offensive to some people.  Sorry, but we all need to deal with this in our own way.  If you don’t like my Facebook wall, scroll on by or snooze me for thirty days.  I’ve been snoozing people left and right and it’s so refreshing.  What I need right now are encouraging, uplifting, funny posts.  The Henny Penny brigade gives me the urge to run and crawl in a hole.  So I’ve been making good use of the Facebook 30-day SNOOZE option and now I’m back to seeing pictures of spring flowers, complaints about the weather and seasonal allergies, prayer requests, praise reports from those on the front lines of the COVID battle and spiritual messages from my church friends.  The kind of posts that make me want to be a better person and live another day.

If anyone had asked me two months ago what I think might be cleared out first at the grocery stores, toilet paper would have been close to the bottom of the list.  Milk, eggs, flour, sugar, fresh produce, and chocolate, the things one needs to survive the apocalypse, these I would have expected to disappear.  As well as guns and ammo of course.  And some playing cards.  Definitely playing cards.  But toilet paper???  I found this whole debacle highly amusing.  But while frantic shoppers with clean-derriere priorities wiped the shelves clean of tissue (pun intended) the rest of us had access to actual necessities like cereal, canned soups and the aforementioned chocolate for a few days longer.

I’ve been moved by the compassion and serving spirits so many people have shown.  A “Giving Table” set up outside a local church has been regularly stocked with grocery items, free to whoever needs them. “Blessing Boxes” have sprung up around town, filled and emptied anonymously.  Packaged breakfasts and lunches for kids that depended on them when schools were still open have been produced en masse by coffee shops, churches, and community centers.  One local church made hundreds of free freezer meals for those in need.

photo by T Koser

Ladies throughout the community have been sewing face masks, some of them at their own expense and at no charge, for area hospitals, nursing homes, and individuals.  I admit I rather burned with anger at Facebook posts saying homemade masks are worthless.  I raged to myself, and to Paul of course, about how I wonder what all the critics are doing to help in this war. Then I remembered that delightful SNOOZE button!  Since the patterns used are straight from a hospital and they are happy to accept the masks, I hardly think they are worthless. Kudos to all the seamstresses working hours a day for no other reason than to do their bit.  My daughter Jaimee' has made hundreds of them and she likened it to rolling bandages back in the days of the great World Wars.  Not only is she helping provide needed supplies, she is finding it therapeutic during the long days of self-isolation to be doing something.

Christina delivering groceries

My sister-in-law found her mission in feeding the housebound.  She is, at the time of this writing, grocery shopping for three family members, all under in-house quarantine, of which I am one.  Her infectious laughter when she describes her scavenger hunt for everything on all our lists is a morale booster, along with her cheerful willingness to run errands any of us might find necessary. 

While I cope with humor, and the occasional rant, I’m not one to bury my head in the sand.  I try to stay abreast of what’s happening out there “among the English” as we say in our family.  But I watch or read online at a time of my choosing, girding my loins for the latest assault on normalcy.  Afterward it’s time to research all the information.  Way too much information.  What’s true?  What’s political?  (Because rarely the twain shall meet.)  Which “miracle drug” is being touted today?  Which conspiracy theory has the gullible freaking out this week?  And where does reality lie in all of it? 

Which brings me to the only sure way to find peace in these turbulent days: faith in a living God.  Faith in a power much greater than any mere mortal can achieve on his or her own.  When it’s difficult, and sometimes impossible, to know what is true about current events, some things we can be sure of.  God never changes and He is not caught off guard by a virus or our reactions to it.  Jesus died for us and rose from the dead so we can live without fear.  And He can be trusted.  Finally, there is nothing I can do to make Him love me more or love me less – all I have to do is accept it and choose to follow Him. 

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
    will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
 I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,
    my God, in whom I trust.”

Psalm 91:1-2

Branson Day Five

World record class polar bear
bagged by a Mrs Somebody.

We checked out of our hotel and turned east toward home soon after 8:00.  Our first stop was the Bass Pro Shops in Springfield, Missouri.  They “welcome fishermen and other liars” and we spent several hours feeling welcome indeed. 

We had tickets to tour the Wonders of Wildlife museum in the store’s upper level and WOW! Animals from all over the world display some of the most creative taxidermy skills ever seen anywhere.  Its founder, Johnny Morris refuses to tell how much it cost but suffice it to say, it wasn’t cheap.  The scenic displays are authentic to the animals’ native habitat, animals ranging in size from groundhogs to elephants.  There’s an aquarium with live specimens as well but we were limited on time and were not able to tour there.

Bass Pro not only sells every conceivable wish-list item for hunters and fishermen, it has an excellent smorgasbord restaurant with delicious cuisine served in an atmosphere appealing to both five star palates and nature loving adventurers.  A massive wood bar stretched across one side of the spacious expanse of dining room,  inviting tables laid out with silverware wrapped in linen napkins.  The glass wall behind the bar had fish swimming in the clear water, blue lights filling the space with a marina ambiance.  It was beautiful and a memorable dining experience.

We barely made it back to the bus on time, those of that ate there. It was hard to leave. A bus full of people with full bellies are inclined to nap. Anna Mae seized the opportunity and painted Cal and Paul’s nails pink.  Neither one of them even stirred.  Paul said when he woke up, still slightly disoriented; he was freaked out because he thought it was someone else’s hand.  They both left the polish in place, receiving all the ribbing with good humor.

Several hours later we stopped at an endangered wolf center close to St. Louis in Eureka, Missouri.  We saw grey wolves, red wolves, foxes, and even some African painted dogs.  Our guide told us there are more people on our bus than there are red wolves living in the wild.  Because the goal is to repopulate the dwindling populations, the staff at the center does not interact with the wolves, trying to keep them as untamed as possible.  The farmers are getting the blame for the dwindling population but it’s a tricky challenge to achieve a fair balance between man and beast. Wolves harm livestock, farmers harm wolves.  Extinction is tragic, people need to eat.  Research continues to work toward a beneficial outcome for all.

Several of us were morbidly fascinated with a crew of men trying to cut down a very large tree at the preserve.  The challenge was to have things fall the right way (isn’t this usually the challenge when cutting down a tree?!) so they were progressing very slowly.  I’m not sure these guys were very proficient at what they were doing.  One of them was using a chainsaw too small for the size of the tree trunk.  He was high up on a lift hacking and sawing and resting while his comrades on the ground shouted advice.  When we left they had secured ropes to the section he was cutting as it leaned ominously his direction.  The rope was wrapped behind a tree down below and off to the side.  What was even more concerning was that one of the men down below had wrapped a section of rope around himself, ready to pull as needed. In my mind’s eye I saw a puny little human catapulting into the horizon as that huge chunk of tree trunk hurtled toward earth.  Or scenes far worse.  I was glad and only slightly regretful when our tour guide told us it was time to move on.

We stopped near St Louis in Fenton for a fast food supper and to meet Fanny, a passenger we had dropped on our way to Branson.  She had stopped to visit her daughter and was catching a ride back with us.  After we had all stuffed ourselves full of questionable McDonalds fare, Dave got on the bus with boxes of warm Krispy Kreme donuts and most of us discovered we could cram in a bit more.

We arrived at our hotel around 8:30 PM.  Paul was leaving with the Illinois crowd for the weekend; they live fifteen minutes from the hotel.  He is meeting up with John Schmid to help with a show they are a part of this weekend.  Before they all departed we spent an hour or two in the hotel breakfast room for some heated card games to finish off our time together.  Paul and I probably won’t see them again until Florida this winter.  I’m counting the days already.

Branson Day Four

We woke up to heavy rain that showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.  Discussion in the breakfast room at the hotel led to the conclusion that delaying our departure for Silver Dollar City would be prudent.  So an hour or two later than planned we boarded the bus and hoped for the best since it was still raining steadily. 

We detoured to Walmart to raid their supply of umbrellas and rain ponchos and left for the amusement park armed and ready for whatever Mother Nature decided to send our way.  When we exited the bus a short time later at Silver Dollar City, it looked fairly deserted except for our parade of umbrellas, looking like beautiful blooms all in a row. One lady remarked how cool that the umbrellas all matched.  I told her we had cleaned out Walmart, thereby dashing any illusion of planned poetry in motion.

I’ve been to Cedar Point more than once, back home in Ohio, so I figured this would probably be much the same.  I was wrong.  It was beautiful.  Built to resemble an old frontier town the park was situated on a hilly wooded spot and all the buildings were rustic and weathered.  The trees provided shade and a lovely backdrop for the souvenir shops, food booths, old-time photo stalls, and comedy and music shows.  We ate lunch at a quaint looking sandwich place and the food was good.

We hit southern gospel week so there were musicians and singers galore, holding their audiences with all the skill and enthusiasm they could muster.  Paul insisted he would not waste time on anyone using canned music so we bypassed more than one stage in his search for the real deal.  His persistence paid off.  He found a large indoor stage with a hawker out front calling out to passersby, encouraging them to come in.  The group High Road was about to start their show.  They had real instruments, a mandolin, a guitar, a keyboard, a violin, an upright bass, and three girls from Nashville.  They played with great skill and a style not unlike Alison Krauss.  Paul was thrilled and I was not unhappy, so it was a success.

The rain had pretty much let up so we boarded the little train that circled the park and were treated to one of the worst comedy routines I’ve ever seen, along the way.  It was so bad it was almost funny.  But not quite.  After that was over it was time for some ice-cream and a funnel cake.

Several of us were trying to find our way back to the bus and I vaguely remembered Anna Mae, our fearless tour guide, telling us that we would have to go through two gift shops to exit the park.  We successfully wended our way past all the stuff we didn’t need and resisted the rather weak urge to buy anything.  Finally exiting outside the last building we saw the bus a mere fifty feet away so we walked toward it, ready to get off our feet and relax for a bit.

I thought it rather odd that all those there ahead of us were waving enthusiastically in our direction, shouting something that wasn’t quite registering in my brain.  We kept walking and the waving picked up steam.  It was nice they were happy to see us but really, we hadn’t been apart long enough to justify such enthusiasm.  Then I realized the park employee standing in front of a near-by tram was also talking to us, telling us to “Stop!” and go back from whence we came.  “You can’t go this way!” he/she/it said sternly.  I suspect his/her/its name was Pat because telling which gender was giving us orders was impossible.  I looked at Pat in unbelief because the bus was now a mere twenty-five feet away with no traffic anywhere in sight.

“You could get hit by a car coming this way!” Pat said, answering my look of incredulity.

This seemed ridiculous to me and I heard myself saying, “But that would make things so much more exciting.”  I was doubtful that sarcasm was a language Pat spoke but the stern face dissolved into a laugh and that made it easier to follow the silly rules. If we were annoyed at having to retrace our steps for no good reason, I couldn't imagine how annoying it must be to be Pat, repeating the same instructions over and over. We were directed to the "correct" way to exit which involved returning from where we had just been, circling around barriers, following a painted crosswalk, and stopping traffic in two directions, to finally return back to the bus that had only been a few feet from us when we were brought to a halt and told the error of our ways.  I can’t even make this stuff up.

Not two minutes later, several more of our group arrived only to repeat the whole procedure we had just been through: stopped by Pat mere feet from the bus, redirected back around, stopping traffic at the crosswalk, and finally making it to the bus.  I decided whoever came up with that plan is surely now residing in Washington with a job high up the political ladder.  It did give us all something to laugh about though.  How dull would life be without the ridiculous to keep us entertained?

After a couple of hours back at the hotel, we left for our evening meal at the Grand Country Buffet, and grand it was.  The food was hot and good.  The hostess was welcoming.  And all went off without a hitch, at least until the cherry cobbler.

That cobbler was good. Warm and chewy and delicious.  I felt an ominous shift in my errant tooth so I quickly made certain to chew only on the other side of my mouth, something I’ve been trying to do ever since that pesky crown came loose a few days ago.  I continued to enjoy the cobbler and ice-cream, licking my lips and swallowing each delicious morsel.  Along with my stupid tooth.  I suddenly realized I had nothing left where it had been except a gaping crater. Feeling panicky, I felt all around inside my mouth with my still sticky tongue and I found nothing. NOTHING.  Except that gaping crater.

How is it possible to swallow a crown without ever feeling a thing??!!  After I got over my initial shock I was almost relieved.  I was so tired of worrying about it and now it was gone with nothing to be done except be thankful that it didn’t hurt and that it wasn’t a front tooth.  It will, however, cost a pretty penny when I finally get back to the dentist.  And I have had to put up with many suggestions I’ve received on retrieving it. And the answer is NO.

The evening’s entertainment was the Baldknobbers, a popular music and comedy show in the heart of Branson’s many tourist attractions.  It did not disappoint.  Really good music. Some equally good comedy.  Although the fun of watching some of the people from the bus laughing uncontrollably was more entertaining than the entertainment itself.  After the show, Shane, the main man on stage, got on the bus, thanked us for coming and generally made us feel special.

 It was almost 11:00 PM by the time we got back to the hotel.  I was still wired and not ready to sleep so I walked across the street to an ice-cream parlor that looked like a step back in time.  My two scoops were plenty for Paul and I both so I took it back to our room and we shared it on our balcony. 

What a fun day!

Branson, Day Three

We were given the option this morning to stay at the hotel and relax until 11:00 or go shopping in town until it was time to leave for our first attraction.  Not being a shopper, I opted to stay at the hotel.  I wanted the time to reinsert my errant tooth using the bonding cement I bought at Walmart.  And I didn’t feel like doing anything anyway because I’d  been awake for hours, after hearing some sad news from home.

I woke around 5:00 and unwisely did a quick look at Facebook on my phone.  If I have trouble sleeping, this often helps.  In fact, I’m lucky that I haven’t accidentally posted a picture of my cheek plastered against the screen with drool, from those times when I’ve fallen asleep in mid-browse.  No danger of dozing off today though.  One of the first posts I saw described a raging fire at the Walnut Creek Flea Market back home.  Located directly across the road from the thrift store where I work, the flea market is a major tourist attraction in Holmes County and knowing it was in flames was a shock sufficient to drive all thoughts of sleep away.

So I stayed behind while most of the others climbed aboard the bus and left for the shopping district.  The men, I found out when they returned, had decided to check out another car museum and Paul enthusiastically told me about the full city block-size building holding all the various and sundry vehicles.  I was pretty relieved I had stayed at the hotel.  I mean, I enjoy looking at a beautiful classic as much as anyone but I’m not all that interested, nor do I comprehend, all the finer details of how they were built. So I was glad I had stayed behind- until I heard  what the ladies had been up to.

It seems they went to a store modeled after the old “Five and Dimes” that were prevalent in my childhood.  And they all, or most of them, came away the proud owners of little rubber kazoo pigs, chickens, dinosaurs and the like.  They surprised everyone on the bus with their version of Mary Had A Little Lamb and, while they should probably keep their day jobs, the song was actually recognizable.  Indeed, the noises those things made were at once funny, obnoxious, irritating, hilarious, and uncannily like a crying, moaning, whining child.  After some of us were in tears and others were threatening physical harm to whomever brought forth the next moan from the little rubber toys, they were finally tucked away in shopping bags, only to be brought out again at random the rest of the day.  Someone asked one of the ladies if she was giving hers to the grandkids when she gets home.

“Absolutely not!” she said with great feeling.  “How would I ever be able to teach them that making this kind of noise is inappropriate if I gave them something like this?!”  I guess what happens on the  

bus stays on the bus.

At 11:00 we loaded up and after a short devotional by David Lee we were off to the next adventure.  Today it was Dogwood Canyon, straddling the nearby Missouri/Arkansas boarder.  With 10,000 acres of beautiful scenery, trout streams, water falls and of course, dogwoods, it was an idyllic place that captured us from the first moment in. We were served a lovely picnic lunch with delicious food and cloth napkins. We saw Elk and buffalo closeup. We rode trams on our guided tour, crossing water, climbing hills, maneuvering switchbacks and tried to drink it all in.  We were headed back to the entrance when we saw a fisherman pull in a very large trout that drew cheers and congratulations from all of us.

The original owner of the land still subsidizes it with his own money, although our guide said the park is trying to reach financial independence.  All the buildings have been carefully designed to fit the surroundings using huge limestone rocks and timber frame construction.  A covered bridge suspended over one of the many waterways was built by Amish craftsmen from Seymour, Missouri, a place where some of my family had lived for many years and I wondered if they knew each other.  The bridge was a work of art, as was virtually everything in the park.  A tree house, built by Treehouse Masters from the TV show of the same name, had obviously been designed by someone who gave careful thought to every detail.  From the fishing rod door knobs to the huge antler chandelier to the gently curved-bough rails running up the spiral stairs, each unique piece stayed true to the forest in which it lived.

We had just enough time to go back to the hotel for a bit of a fresh-up before heading over to the Dixie Stampede, or Dolly Parton’s Stampede, as it is now named.  That was a new experience for me.  I had been to the Calgary Stampede a few years ago but this was totally different in that it was inside and we were served a huge dinner while the show was in full swing.

The pre-show was on a small stage in the center of seating, rising in tiers on all sides.  The bar on the main level, beside the stage, was open for business, and everyone sat on stools with a small ledge in front, like their own little bar on which to set their drinks. Three brothers playing blue grass did their best to entertain us, and succeeded well. Then the dinner bell rang and we were all directed to the main event.

Surrounding the arena on three sides were long rows of wooden counter tops with stools to sit on. On the fourth side was a gigantic screen behind faux rock outcroppings and trees.  The scenery changed throughout the evening and gave one the impression they were by turns in the desert, at the ocean, or in the mountains.  Live buffalo and longhorn steers were herded through to do their parts of the show, trick riders brought forth applause, and interjections of comedy kept us laughing.  The master of ceremonies manipulated us all with considerable skill and had us screaming and cheering for various sides of rigged competitions.  All in good fun and fun we had.  

Through it all our waiters rushed about serving us food from large, steaming trays and refilling our glasses with sweet tea and water.  The chickens were hot and juicy, the sides of potatoes and corn on the cob were done to a turn and I was sure I’d have no room for dessert, whatever it was.  But when our waiter placed a warm, flakey apple turnover on my plate, it somehow disappeared without a trace.

I waddled onto the bus with the others and even played cards when we got back to the hotel.  And I won!  Will wonders never cease.

Branson, Day Two

I woke up with the alarm and felt around in my mouth, thankful my crown was firmly in place.

We left the hotel shortly after 8:00 and arrived at our first stop two hours later.

I had never heard of the Mitchell Car Company but they had produced some beautiful automobiles at the same time as Henry Ford rolled out his first one.  There are only 150 in existence anymore and the tiny town of Booneville boasts a museum housing some of the finest.  Booneville boasts very little else, I suspect. Beautiful flowers with some of the largest begonias I've ever seen were all around the parking lot but there were virtually no signs of life anywhere except inside the privately owned building that held the polished and fully functioning cars from over one hundred years ago.  The owner, a great, great, great (not sure how many greats) grandson of the original Mitchell, was enthusiastic as he explained things to us and asked that we not touch anything because our oily hands would leave smudges. He said it better than that but we understood exactly what he meant.  I kept my hands in my pockets lest I succumb to temptation.

While the town seemed abandoned in the sweltering, oppressive heat, the museum in which we were almost the only visitors, had at least six or seven tour guides who were as proud of the history displayed within as was the owner who greeted us on our arrival. They were all friendly and helpful but quick to remind those of us who were in danger of forgetting the “don’t touch” order.  We seized the chance to take our group photo since we had plenty of people who could snap a few with our phones and the tour guides willingly complied.  With minimal confusion, all forty-seven of us managed to get into the picture and look fairly good doing it.

Next stop was for a box lunch at another museum just minutes away.  It was lovely and, more importantly, air-conditioned, and the lunches were tasty and fresh.  More history was all around us as we ate at tables set up in the middle of displays of American Indians (Sacagawea), various explorers, and several random skeletons, posed on chairs and rowing the life-size sailing vessel taking up the middle of the room. I’m not sure where they fit in; maybe to remind us how dangerous the trek west had been.

Then it was off to Warm Springs Ranch, the Budweiser Clydesdale horse farm where those majestic equestrian delights are bred, trained, and finally sent on the road to wow audiences throughout the United States and Canada.

We toured the barns where the pregnant mares are housed in horse luxury.  Each foal will be born at 150-175 pounds and their mothers’ labor pains will only last five to thirty-five minutes.  Seems a little unfair.  It took me about twelve hours to birth a seven-pounder.

These huge horses are an average of 18 hands high, which for those of us unfamiliar with horse-speak is six feet at the withers.  If you don’t know what withers are, well, I refer you to Google.  An adult weighs in at an incredible 1900 to 2600 pounds.  When they passed around the enormous horse shoes we were all duly impressed.  We saw protective mothers with their babies, proud stallions, pregnant ladies-in-waiting, and older geldings used for training adolescents.  All of them were beautiful with grooming multiple times a day, clean, sweet-smelling wood shavings bedding their stalls, exercise corrals, and general pampering all around.

Only someone living under a rock, or maybe just without a TV, has not seen the amazing Clydesdale commercials.  They bring me to tears.  Besides the tear-inducing commercials, the team also goes on tour, always ten horses, eight on the team and two for spares.  It takes three tractor trailers and a van with seven handlers to do the one hundred annual shows during the three hundred days they are on the road.  Two of those traveling with the team are drivers.  With seventy-five pounds of weight pressing on their fingers from the reins used to control the team, it stands to reason they need to change off every now and then.

Brief mention was also made of their mascot Dalmatians, five or six of them currently on tour with the team.  They live with the horses in perfect harmony from birth to old age, a veritable canine utopia.

The heat was stifling, even with multiple five-foot fans spinning throughout the barns, and  more than a few of us were happy to accept the free ice-cold Buds handed out at the end of the tour.

Several hours further down the highway we stopped at Lambert’s Café for supper.  It wasn’t just supper.  It was a fun experience.  The walls were covered with old license plates and memorabilia and the kids who made up the wait staff were all dressed in white shirts, red suspenders and red bow ties.  There was much frivolity and the dinner rolls were thrown.  Sometimes from quite a distance.  All that was required to get one was to raise both hands, prepare to catch, and wait for your hot, delicious roll to come sailing through the air. A minute later a girl followed with sorghum molasses in a paint can, ladling it onto the rolls, as much as you like.

Enthusiastic hawkers strolled around with carts laden with hot cinnamon rolls, calling out to the patrons, encouraging them to partake. Servers came through with “pass-arounds,” side dishes like fried okra, black-eyed peas, baked beans, and fried potatoes.  The drinks came in quart-size mugs, the place mats were brown paper towels off the roll, and all the young people taking our orders, bringing our food in over-sized frying pans that served as plates, and refilling our drinks (I’m not sure anyone actually managed to empty theirs even once) seemed to be having a jolly good time. And we did as well.

Groaning with the weight of our intake, we boarded the bus and looked forward to our hotel where we will stay for the next three days.  I might manage to stay awake for a card game or two yet.

As of this writing we are lost, thanks to an errant GPS with a wicked sense of humor.   It’s all good though. I haven’t lost anymore crowns.

PS.

Safe and Sound in our lovely hotel room in the heart of Branson's tourist district after some incredible maneuvering by Noah The Magnificent.  We even have our own balcony.  I am quite content.

Branson, Day One

We left the Pioneer Trails main office at 6:00 this morning, the bus  almost full.  Today was mostly a driving day.  We stopped in Belleville, Ohio for breakfast at Der Dutchman.  Our next stop was in New Haven, IN to pick up the World’s Best Tour Guide, Anna Mae, along with Cal and Shirl, two of our usual group.

Early afternoon found us in Mooresville, IN where we stopped briefly for lunch at one of the two available fast options and then it was on to Chesterville, IL for six more of our partners in crime.  As the bus rolled down the highway, we saw the familiar and very large cross that reminds all who pass of what Jesus did for us. We played catch-up with people we hadn't seen in a long time. And we settled into our seats anticipating the next few days of making new memories.  Other than napping, reading, visiting, listening to the ladies holding court and laughing hysterically at the back of the bus, it was mostly an uneventful day.  Until evening.

Never say, or even think, that you need something to happen so you have fodder for your writing.  Or at least not when you are on a trip. Better to write about the gently rolling hills moving past the bus windows, or describe the open-mouth and gentle snores of your neighbor across the aisle as they sleep   Maybe even snap a picture or two for Facebook so all their friends can enjoy it too.  But wishing for something out of the ordinary is asking for trouble.

We pulled into our hotel in St. Louis around 6:00 and everyone checked in, then headed for supper, either to the BBQ place next door or to the breakfast room off the hotel lobby where a free meal was offered.                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 I stuck a piece of gum in my mouth and gave it a few good chews. A few seconds in and I was holding a crown from one of my teeth in my hand, wrapped in the aforementioned gum, all minty fresh.  Now let me just say that my paranoia of all things dental knows no bounds.  Traumatized as a child by a psychotic and ruthless specimen more suited to the torture of war criminals than to the extraction of children’s teeth, I have suffered dread of the dentist over and above most other irrational fears, save that of spiders and small spaces. My current dentist, a man who, thankfully,- treats me like I’m two, has slowly managed to win my trust and I no longer suffer insomnia the night before my semiannual appointments.  But when I found that little crown in the palm of my hand I felt the old panic and braced myself for the terrible pain I was sure would hit my senses any moment.  I realize to the sane, well-adjusted person, this is all over the top but the reason a fear is called irrational is that it is. . . well. . .irrational.

I called my dentist who was three states away trying to enjoy his well-deserved weekend and I left a message. And then I checked with the all-knowing Google as to what one does when one’s teeth fall out on vacation.  How I ever functioned without Google I do not know.

When the word got out among my compassionate and caring traveling companions I was promptly offered all kinds of advice, from Gorilla glue to Elmer’s.  I decided to follow Google’s directions. And bless Paul, he helped by surveying the crowd to see if anyone had any of that denture adhesive along. Surely on a bus trip full of seniors, someone had to have some Polident.  And yes indeed, someone did.  And he was willing to share.

If you’ve never tried to stick a rear left tooth, covered in bright pink glue, back into your mouth in the correct position, you really should give it a go sometime. Just make sure when you do that your spouse is at your elbow dispensing valuable advice like, “You have to turn it more on your finger so the angle’s right!” and “Make sure you don’t drop it down the drain!” and a whole bunch of other similar directions.

By some miracle I finally managed to secure it in what I was pretty sure was the right spot and it only felt slightly like I had a lump under it.  I found the card players in the dining room, supper long over and cleaned up, so Paul raided the frozen meals the hotel had for sale and the macaroni and cheese was surprisingly good.  When the caring and compassionate friends I mentioned earlier described the lengths they were willing to go to help me reattach my molar, I was plenty relieved it was already done.  Flashlights and hammers were mentioned with alarming enthusiasm. 

My dentist called and reassured me I’d done the right thing but he was rather adamant that I need to remove the crown before bedtime lest I swallow it in the night.  After a satisfying game of cards, which I lost as usual, I went back to our room and tried my best to get that crazy tooth out of my mouth but to no avail.  I finally gave up, asked the Good Lord to help me not to swallow it, and collapsed in bed.