from townhouse to nomad house

December 29th, 2009, we have thrust ourselves upon the snowy highways heading into our other life, on the road again.  What a feeling of freedom, adventure and anticipation.  Our motor home (Gee-2) survived the Mid-Atlantic snowstorm in Covesville, (near Charlottesville) Virginia, on our son’s farm.  It is a Polar-Bear of a rig, hearty and ready to go, like the rest of us who have lived so long in the north country. It started up immediately, allowing us to stay aboard the first night upon arrival.

Our son Dan, daughter-in-law, Malena and Ali and Corey spent a cozy week under 2 1/2 feet of snow.  They put on skis, snowshoes, boots, and big smiles to care for the chickens, dogs and cats and visited neighbors.  They live in a Hollow on the Blue Ridge, a community of friendly and loving neighbors. 

It is so exciting to be on the brink of our Winter 2010 trek. The process of leaving our Rochester life is always one of “letting go” of the most recent get-togethers and experiences.  Our thoughts still linger on life as we have left it, friends and  family members, the joys and sorrows we have shared in the past weeks.  How wonderful to live in this electronic era to be able to stay in touch in so many ways and share the lives of all of you as we share our travels with you.

So many thoughts rush into my head as we look forward to the months ahead, including a special trip to Havana, Cuba, visiting family in Florida and Los Angeles and catching up with friends strung out across the country.  How lucky we are to have choices, to be able to seek adventure and to enjoy such wonderful family members and friends. 

Outside my window, I face my kid’s house—they are inside engaging in a session of home schooling, staying warm by the wood burning stove. 

Outside my window I see the forest behind the house, encased in fog and mist, beautiful and speaking to the unusual wintery weather that has come their way.  A lovely send-off to the weeks ahead as we continue on the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ann Carol Goldberg

Return

When I can, I make the choice never to follow the same route. I don't even like to return from someplace the same way. My preference is to visit different places than the places I have already seen. After all, there is so much to see or experience in this world. My philosophy is to take the road less traveled, the route that is unexplored.

Then again, I do allow myself to break that rule; after all, I am only human. Again this year, my husband and I, on our winter motor home trek westward returned to a favorite spot in the Imperial Valley Desert criss-crossing the California/Arizona borders. In that world, nothing is formal. One just parks the rig “snug up” against the Imperial Dam reservoir, a place of shifting sands, changing winds and daily fluctuations in water level.

This refuge offers us two weeks of solitude. There are no hook ups or complications other than those of choice. This place offers hiking, kayaking, biking, endless opportunities for exploration and adventure, little light pollution and new friendships. The winds this year were relentless. The sands blew, the water level in the reservoir by our rig fell to a new low and stayed that way for several days. Our kayak remained near the rig, high and dry awaiting the water's return. The mud dried and cracked and sand accumulated everywhere.



And sand there was; inside the motor home, on the windowsills, thin coatings on the mirrors, counter tops, and the dashboard. On the exterior, sand coated the sides, the windshield and windows, the surfaces of the electric coils that connects to the tow vehicle. The car and bike were coated too. The sand layers can be erased, but the events of this year's desert dwelling will be embedded in my mind forever. This year we did hit the “jackpot.”

I am a great believer in Kismet, or beshert or fate, whatever word works best for you. Somehow, people are there at the right time filling in the spaces. It is almost as if these people are “planted' in the right place by some outside force, even when you think you are the only one in that place. Often on a hike or in a strange town, someone appears at the moment you face a fork in the trail or turn in the road and they provide the guidance to set you on track. It seems to work both ways, that we are there to help others at their right moment. Corny or not, it occurs often enough to keep me believing it is so.

This year, the fluctuating sands and low water brought new adventures on the trails and as the layers of sand accumulated we added new friendships that helped enrich our stay. The backgrounds of these people were as varied as the grains of sand. We shared our adventures nightly around a campfire or just sharing drinks and salsa or nuts.

These folks come from the all over the states, Canada and overseas. Some travel full time, some with pets aboard, some keep their older rigs or have the newest in the industry. As on the trail, we learn so much from each other and are never at the loss for words. The best thing is that after our two weeks are up, we can stay in touch via email or Facebook and perhaps meet again the next year.

It was fun to walk on the dried river bed and hike in areas that are not exposed when the water is high. After several days, the water did return to a high level. The kayak was put to use and we hiked to the distant mountains finding trails, seeking old mines, seeing the wildflowers in early bloom. We encountered a couple on that trail with whom we could share our discoveries and learn about their success rock hounding for Turquoise and other gems.

The two weeks fly on by. We drive the rig up the sloping road with some regret, headed for another desert, more new friendships and the constantly shifting sands. Return we will to repeat our quest for adventure and discovery in the ever changing desert.

Out My Left Window

Point of view is everything. In RV terminology, the left side of the rig is street side, where traffic flows. The right side is curb side, entrance and exit; the “portal” to adventure.

The street side houses the hookups, electric, water, sewer and stuff that makes the mobile unit into a stationary home. Once the rig is hooked up, the left side is neglected unless there is some work to do or items to retrieve from the basement storage. This side though is curb side for your neighbor, becoming a sort of “pecking order” for each rig in the row. Each of us is vulnerable to the awareness of the curb side neighbor. Just being on board, observing the left neighbor becomes a default and unintentional act of voyeurism.


It brings to my mind the tale of living in a glass house open to scrutiny all around. Living in a “stick” house (homes without wheels) offers more privacy with more interior living space. In a motor home, windows prevail, exterior movement and sound is “in your face.” Sure, you can pull down your shades or dismiss what is going on next door. I have never observed anything earth shattering such as physical abuse, extreme quarreling, murder. But, it is hard to completely shut out every activity. Sounds of motorcycles revving up cannot be ignored, sounds of children's voices cannot be ignored, sounds of exuberant conversation cannot be ignored nor can movement of any extraordinary kind.

What I have most often observed are Rvers in their daily routine just as our curb side neighbors observe us. Most commonly, I see folks arrive and set up their rigs, pack their car for a day of adventure, mount their bikes, take off on a hike, pack a picnic, unload groceries, prepare to do laundry, play with their pets, entertain visitors and grandkids. I observe people happily pursuing life on the road. A few stand out in my memory.

In a Texas State Park, we pulled in next to a vintage Air Stream trailer, the gleaming aluminum variety revered by so many. The couple appeared to be spunky but quite senior. They sat outdoors in two lawn chairs, next to two curious items, a pet leash and an empty lawn chair. Later, a cat slept in the sun tied onto the leash. It hardly moved, why the leash, you may ask?

Then we observed the gentleman helping an elderly woman down the trailer steps into the third lawn chair. We did meet these charming people, English folk by background, and heard their story. They were en route from a a trip across country and a month in Mexico to join their family in reunion in San Diego. The cat was 27 years old. The elderly “mum” 104 and going strong. (The couple in their 80's). Ironically, we encountered them the next winter. The cat had died but “mum” was still going, but sadly not nearly as well as the year before. Aren't' people amazing?

A couple from Quebec (according to their license plate) were outside speaking loudly and excitedly in their beautiful French, of which I know not a word beyond the tourist talk variety. They seemed to be awaiting someone's arrival. Soon, another French speaking man arrived. The neighbors wife and this man sat at a table directly under the window where I write and edit photos. They each began to work on needlepoint projects the size of blankets or coverlets. The husband retreated indoors. Soon the TV screen began to flicker.

The conversation under my window was exuberant and animated as they worked. Outdoors, the needlepoint workers each hunched over their work maintaining a constant and animated Gallic chatter, presumably about their needlepoint projects. I have no other information about their work or their relationship. They were still at the table working when I returned to the rig 3 hours later, the husband probably napping in front of the TV.

There are endless stories I could relate about people under my window, caretakers for spouses in wheelchairs, parents of a disabled child and the simpler more common examples of RV living. More can be seen from the window, breathtaking views of desert, mountains, rivers, oceans, creeks and reservoirs, threatening storm clouds approaching the campsite, days on end of rain, snow in areas of unexpected accumulation, the Blue Angel Jets on a fly over, helicopters dousing the land with buckets of water.

Life out of my left window takes on an aura of voyeurism, mystery and romance. But, the best part of this style of living is exiting the coach on the curb side and pursuing your own dreams.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Facing Facebook

Facebook is like being invited to a “come as you are party”. It starts with an invitation to join and after that anything goes. It is astounding how rapidly it has grown from a young person's social network to a complex and multi-purpose “social” networking site.

Writing on the public wall redefines the term Graffiti. You choose your level of vulnerability when writing on the wall; will you be open and frank, highly vulnerable or low key? It seems that anything goes. Language isn't important, grammar has become insignificant. Social networking is already cliché and banal and has many outlets including various other social outlets, blogging,
texting, twittering and whatever else is being “invented” at this moment.
Personal profiles, photos, videos and décor for your Facebook page are standard and setting standards.

What I am writing here is certainly not news or even enlightening unless you are truly a Facebook novice. I favor and welcome progress and development in communication and high technology. It is just astonishing that there are no rules to protect our use of language; grammar and spelling.

Web texting has become the new wave of writing, the new prose and poetry. Many a teacher has complained about the decline in student writing in essays and homework, the decline in creative writing skill. Perhaps work in this style will become the future classics in the manner of highly regarded writers such as e. e. Cummings and John Steinbeck and all the other pioneers who brought change in literature and communication in the last century.

Facebook is huge with so many layers and complexities. It goes well beyond a simple way to check up on friends. By clicking into specialty sites, you can sign on to foster the release imprisoned Chinese journalists, offer sympathy to celebrity families suffering loss, donate in aid of disaster victims, help elect a president. You can hunt for a job, find classifieds, join causes or send virtual gifts to anyone you choose. Messages can be to one individual, group, to friends or to complete stranger.

Once invited to “come as you are” you are free to fit in as you “see fit.” How many hours will you rack up facing Facebook while it faces you right back. At the age of 16, I was invited to a “come as you are” party. I was caught dressed up returning home from a date. Nowadays, I prefer my jeans and T-top, I get “caught up” spending too much time on my Facebook Page. Through Facebook and like going on a date, the quest for “getting to know” you never ends.

Some images from my Facebook page;

Excuse Me If I Shiver

Excuse me if I s-s-s-stutter a bit. My teeth are chattering and it is hard to control my speech. I’ve just returned from a full day of errands. This is satisfying in itself, getting through the to do list, but first, I had a doctor’s appointment. I felt a bit light headed and hungry from fasting all night before a clinical test.

They finally called my name and ushered me into the examination room after sitting almost 1/2 hour in the COLD waiting room,
The instruction was to undress and wait lying prone on the table wrapped in a thin paper robe, desperate to keep warm,

The medical test was administered and then, still wearing the paper excuse for a robe, I had to carry my belongings into another examination room to see the doc. She appeared after another eternal wait, prone in the COLD room. The next step was to dress and venture back into the waiting area only to stand in line at the cashier while the two people in line ahead of me had to solve insurance problems—teeth still chattering, I was still shivering in the COLD dry air conditioning.

As I approached the exit, an LED readout on the thermostat by the door glared at me—“AC 62F. “

The next stop was the blood-drawing clinic, doctor’s order in hand. I sat in the COLD waiting room one more time and then was called into the blood-drawing room. The technician took the blood, and thankfully, I could stay dressed this time. I felt as if my blood sample was below 70F and I was beginning to turn blue. Back into line I went to check out of the clinic, hugging my sweater around me . I headed for the exit to find my car.

Ah, what heaven it was to step into the fresh, hot, withering air, 90F at 9:30 AM and bright sunshine. I wanted to stay there for an hour to defrost, but I was free and determined to do my errands. I had to pick up my photographs from the framer. As I opened their door, I could feel the frigid air spill out of the doorway. I had to drop off a form at the library. Not knowing where to go, I was directed on a wild goose chase in the chilly air-conditioned building until someone rescued me and headed me to the correct office. Then back into the sun for a brief and delightful respite. I climbed back into my car, windows open, air conditioning off and drove to the next stop.

This destination, a big box to pick up books for my grandsons and then onto another big box for supplies for our up and coming RV trip. Next stop, to the grocery/pharmacy to drop off my doctor’s prescription, grocery shop and then pick up the meds. Grocery stores in my opinion win hands down as the coldest of COLD places; no question about it. It felt like a dry 55 degrees F.

Yes, I understand that the majority of you are complaining loudly about the heat wave. You are hot; you are sweating, maybe loosing your temper, feeling dehydrated. You crave those blasting gusts of wind from air conditioning vents experienced in most facilities, offices and stores. I appeal to office managers and building maintenance staff, not all of us are made to tolerate such temperatures. It feels like abuse. I can understand and would welcome cool along with everyone else, but frigid, intolerable blowing air? There is something wrong here.

I am not alone. I have heard many office workers and retail clerks complain that it is much too COLD. Yet, they stay on the job and never request or give up asking for a little movement of the thermostat knob to raise the temperature to a livable level. So many people I know speak with a hoarse voice or rasping whisper, sneezing and coughing and complaining of a summer cold, of skin that is freezing to the touch, fingers and toes that feel numb as if just off the ski slopes or suffering the icy blasts of a winter storm.

Have you read the latest report that the more upscale the store, the colder the temperature in the store? Please explain that theory to me someone. Please tell me why we are so addicted in this country to blasts of cold air, when moderate air would be comfortable and so much healthier?

I wish to start a grass-roots effort fighting AC Extreme. If not for your own comfort, then for the environment. Millions of dollars would be saved, millions of watts of energy, vast amounts of hydro power, fuel, and more would be saved or spared by regulating our air conditioning. Let’s warm it up a little bit, stop shivering and enjoy summer. Fall will be here in the shake of a political curb sign.


Whenever I encounter a sister-sufferer in the dairy aisle of a supermarket, Hallmark lane in a pharmacy or in some office somewhere standing stiffly, hugging herself and rubbing her chilled arms, I just want to give her a hug, and shout out loud in grand chorus; I have company, I am not alone in this quest. I have found male sufferers as well. Have mercy on us shivering souls and give the thermostat button a tweak upward past freezing. Save medical bills, save the environment and diminish the amount of used Kleenex tissue thrown into the land fill. Thanks for listening, I have stopped shivering for the moment.

The Fire On The Mountain

The fire on the mountain rose in two pillars of white smoke. Our family had gathered for a winter reunion. There we stood on the dry grass in my son and daughter-in-law’s Virginia farmyard watching the smoke. The persistent drought was on all of our minds; is there a chance that the wildfire could blow our way? How did the fire start and how far away is the fire?

A truck roared up the driveway. It was marked Covesville Fire Department and driven by the fire chief. He requested permission to open the gate adjacent to Dan’s farm and drive up the road toward the fire area. The men in our group joined the chief to lend a hand. A dozen volunteers appeared in their pickups with their blue lights flashing. The driveway was jammed with their vehicles and anxious men standing and staring at the fire deciding what to do next.


All of us were wary. Could the fire be a threat to the farm? Would we have to evacuate? My son and daughter in law kept cool heads and discussed the possibility with the fire fighters. We had plenty of food and water to take and we could stay in town if necessary. The firefighters assured us that we were not in imminent danger.

My wonderful daughters in law, Malena and Miriam and I needed to grocery shop for there were five young appetites to fill. An opening was granted so we could drive down the farm road to the highway into Charlottesville to stock up. Until now, the road had been plugged with firefighters vehicles wending their way up to Hungry Town Hollow. We could see the smoke from Highway 29. There seemed to be two sizeable hillocks between the fire and the farm.

The location of the fire was remote and difficult to reach. Several the firefighters planned to hike to the fire to keep watch for the rest of the day and through out the frigid night. We did not envy them and did offer hot drinks and food. They were well stocked and prepared for this vigil. The cause of the fire was never relayed to us. One of our neighbors thought he had heard a loud noise and saw people walking on the ridge just before the smoke appeared. But this was most likely unrelated and coincidental, being the last day of deer hunting season.

We returned from town two hours later. The pillars of smoke had not grown in size and seemed to be contained. The trucks were gone; having dispensed the hardy firewatchers to their place for the mountain watch.

Life on the mountain farm is adventuresome. In a period of two days, we experienced the wild fire, fallen trees blocking the single road and icy driving conditions with a neighbor’s car going over the edge, incredibly with no injury or damage to the car. I am awaiting my first sighting of fox, bear or mountain lion; I will have to be very patient.

Ann Carol Goldberg