Gray is the Color of Lonely Street

It happened the other day, I tuned into a local Texas country and western music station on my way to the Laundromat (a part of the RV life style) and bounced down the road to Elvis singing about  “lonely street” in the song Heartbreak Hotel.

Remember his crooning “I found a new place to dwell, its down at the end of lonely street, at heartbreak hotel.”  Perhaps it’s the December time of year.  Within the last week or so I have had several long conversations with strangers; widows and widowers, divorcee’s, a woman, lonely, though living with her husband in a campground filled with people. Lonely men, lonely woman, we encounter people’s stories so often in campgrounds and count our blessings.  People open up, tell more than they may have wanted. It just pours out of them.  They are friendly but the nuances of their loneliness are hard to miss, their eyes often cast with a longing stare.

One widower stands out in my memory.  He had traveled with his wife and supported her as her Alzheimer's condition progressed for several years.  How hard it was when she passed, but he found solace in continuing what they had done for years.  He showed us a sort of shrine that he has kept in her memory in the kitchen of the RV.

One man told us of his divorce with uncertainty in his expression, as if he did not quite yet believe it. He wanted to travel, she was tired of life in a trailer, so they each went in their own directions. He got the truck and trailer, but she “is costing me lots and lots of money,” he complained.  He volunteers (work camps) in campgrounds and lost no time in expressing his pride that day in having scrubbed and cleaned the bathrooms.  No need to feel sorry for him, his other duties get him out and about the campground, doing repairs, ground work and other chores he enjoys.  “Best of all”, he says, “I get to meet and greet people like you, from all walks of life who give me some reprieve from the loneliness.”

A woman decried her loneliness to me, seemingly opening up her inner soul to a stranger, even though she and her husband are together work-camping in Texas all winter long.  Her husband goes off daily doing his work and she stays home trying to keep busy, not choosing to work-camp and wishing they’d resume their travels.  “Forget staying put year after year in the same place,” she complained, “I still want to see the country.”

It is possible to be lonely, even among other people.  We reach out to folks when we can. “Come in for a drink, join us for a walk, sit with us and share stories. “ We count our blessings, of course, that we have our health, great energy and a quest for adventure.  None of us knows how long we have or what status we may face down the road.  But facing Elvis’s lonely street gives pause for introspection. 

How true it is that there is strength to be gained through other people by reaching out for human contact.  Perhaps that is the power behind the urge to open up to strangers;  receiving human kindness may be the pathway to turn down the next road away from lonely street. 

Ann Carol Goldberg

Seeking “Gems”

What place did you like most on your travels?--the most common question we hear referring to our motor home cross country treks.  Answers are hard to come by.  Picking one place  is impossible but we now have one more to add to the list; The Liberty Opry in Liberty, Texas, a top notch country music house tucked into a corner of Texas.  Visit www.libertyopry.com if you’d like to see pictures or the performance schedule.  For you map lovers, Liberty is located north and slightly east of Houston and 45 minutes south of Livingston, (another corner of Texas where Paul and I frequently hang out in an Escapee membership campground.)

The ad for Liberty Opry appeared in the campground brochure.  As great fans of country, western and folk music, we called. They generally perform every Saturday night at 7:00 but for New Year’s Eve (2010-1) they featured a Friday night 4 hour long show . We reserved two tickets (would you believe at only $11.00 per person) and drove the 45 minutes to Liberty.  The theatre is located on the town square and was built in 1938 as a movie house. It was converted many years later into a performance hall with classic stage and theatre seating. Next to the theatre is a large hall serving as a cafe, sales counter for CD’s and such and collection center for local food banks. (I wish we had known to bring canned food to donate).

We had good seats, in row G and settled in to be entertained. Our row mate was a lovely woman, native to Liberty.  She told us about the history of the Opry and we knew we were in for a real treat!!

The people of Liberty and in our experience, all of Texas are friendly and helpful to strangers.  As we drove through Liberty, there seemed to be more retail shops , businesses and malls per 8500 residents than one would expect. They must love to shop and even have a Walmart.  I believe that every one of those business advertises in the playbill and lends their support to the theatre.

THE SHOW features a “resident” country swing-style band of talented and professional musicians who love what they do and are glad to have a venue in which to perform. The bill featured 3 performers for the New Year’s Eve show+ plus the master of ceremony and his comedy side kick “Booger Lee,”  The performers were Donna B, the Ebony Cowgirl and wonderful singer, Jabbo Cannon Liberty native and cousin of our row mate, raised in the Gospel tradition and Heath Spencer Philip, the “energizing bunny” Elvis/60’s style rocker and over-the-top performer. There were two intermissions where we could mingle with the performers, people watch and talk to other attendees.

The hardest part of listening to the show was staying in my seat.  I habitually bounce and react to upbeat rhythm be it classical, rock and roll, country or folk; I can’t sit still. How many times I came close to grabbing Paul and dancing in the aisle. I could have--should have I am sure but, not knowing the “protocol” for this theatre, did not want to be first. (no one else did either).  Shucks, I have regrets, I love to dance.

We heard the likes of Ring of Fire, One of These Days, All I Have to Do is Dream, 15 Tons, Nadine, Unchained Melody, Jailhouse Rock, Stagger Lee (you get the era) and finished at midnight with the audience standing to AULD LANG SYNE.  The 4 hours melted away. The locals stayed for the after show buffet, racing into line even after they were asked to let the musicians eat first.

Paul and I chose to head on home, setting the GPS for the campground and singing and reliving the show.  We were even greeted by a fireworks display on the way.  Liberty Opry is another addition to that list of what constitutes “Americana”.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Nomad by Choice; Musings part 1

The summer passed the colorful leaves on the ground.  My husband Paul and I missed the opportunity for our usual summer RV trek for many reasons that seemed big at the time.  With happy endings to those stories, we once more chose the nomadic life and are on the road again in our rubber wheel-based home.

People ask where we are going this year.  Not intending to be glib the answer is where ever the winds, temptations, people we know, events that lure us in or “whispers in our ears” take us.  What a privilege this free choice.  It is to be cherished.  Nomads are defined in the dictionary as drifters, gadabouts, gypsies, knockabouts, meanderers, vagabonds and wanderers.  We fit all categories.

Letting go of our city life for life on the road is always challenging and the other way around as well.  We certainly anticipate both segments of our life as they come, but love the phase we are in at the present.  Oops, bear with me; An ear worm that just burrowed into in my head from Finian’s Rainbow:

When I'm not near the girl (town, back road, hike) I love,
I love the girl (town, back road, hike) I'm near.

Two thoughts occur to me:  first, that the idea of being “On the Road” has a long history with many colorful characters, and second, that “choice” is the key.  Going without choice connotes dire circumstances and another long history of  people labeled as  refugees, deportees, exiled, homeless=desperate and another whole subject for dissertation.

Grateful to have choice, I ponder those who have gone before me filling bookshelves, photo and film collections , archives and wish lists with the allure of travel less planned.  The legacy of stories  telling of past great explorers, pioneers, gold diggers, traveling salesman, hobos, and more lived nomadic lives enriching world history with the wonders of their adventures:

Typed on an 120-foot roll of teletype paper he called a scroll,  Jack Kerouac re-wrote and revised his earlier versions of  On The Road; an “autobiographic novel based on his 1947 road trip” published in 1957 by Viking Press.  He covered many miles, befriended many celebs and discovered countless treasures.

 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Road)

John Steinbeck wrote Travels with Charley in 1960, “a travelogue of his road trip with his poodle Charley.  “Steinbeck bemoans his lost youth and roots, while dispensing both criticism and praise for America. According to Steinbeck's son Thom, Steinbeck went on the trip because he knew he was dying and wanted to see the country one last time.”  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Steinbeck

Inspired by Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, Charles Kuralt persuaded CBS to let him try his idea to go on the road for 3 months.  The result, he broadcast for many years, wore out 6 motor homes, took back roads and received many awards for his popular program. appearing as a segment on The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite.

So, I too lead a glorious nomadic life, inspired by the past, free to follow a whim, seeking adventure, safe, healthy and free. Unlike the refugee, I am unshackled by politics, strife or deprivation.  Off my husband and I go once again, our wheels under us, our eyes on the road, anticipating the next stop somewhere else.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Inferno; Musings: part 2

Early one morning, lazing in bed against the 20F outside, the grim (Grimm) fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel (Engelbert Humperdinck’s opera version, replete with gingerbread children, night time in the forest and a witch/cum/chef who roasts children in the oven after fattening them up) edged its way into my brain.  I was left with an ear worm stuck in my head; Over and over, I sing “Now I lay me down to sleep, Fourteen angels watch do keep. Two my head are guarding……” until all 14 are accounted for”:  I have learned that the libretto was written by Humberdinck’s sister and is a variation on an old children’s prayer.

I began to wonder if indeed, the witch would fit in the oven as Gretel gruffly shoved her inside.  Ahh, the wonder and haunting grace of Fairy Tales.  Images of many variations on oven came to mind that a fictional witch of an era long gone might possess.  Perhaps it was wood fired, stone or clay or a coal fired contraption.  Most likely not a metal model with a hinged door as we think of today.

The gas propelled oven on our motor home has been retired as it is a bit scary to light.  When I am not stir frying, making soup in a pot, stewing, or assigning Paul to fire up the grill, I use our micro/convection oven, rendering our gas fired oven obsolete; unwanted but not unloved.  It has been re-assigned as a storage vessel for our cache of almonds, walnuts, cashews, peanuts, pecans or popcorn, bread, coffee beans or whatever we can “stuff” into its black interior, complete with two racks and plenty of space.  It does have a front loading door and everything fits neatly inside.

Back to the saga of Gretel punishing the witch. I asked myself, other than our new storage space—former gas-fired oven, “Why my sudden musings on ovens?”  Our son and daughter in law recently had a monster in their house.  It was in the form of their oven, an electric version that took on a life.  One day, it would not turn off.  In fact this evil critter got hotter and hotter, threatening to bake the delectable offering (my daughter in law is a great cook) to a fair-the-well, until she bravely pulled the plug putting the monster out of its misery and if not saving dinner, they were spared a flaming disaster.  They now proudly own a brand new gas range top oven, an item long on their wish list and now in their kitchen; an obedient servant.

Ovens of course, have a history evolving from simple wood fires, into stone masonry wood burning ovens and fire places with accommodation for large iron pots and all of the configurations of ovens, gas and electric in our contemporary lives.  Ovens at times, have been called upon to do horrendous evil. During the holocaust, severely distorted human minds turned the oven in to an evil HELL-on-earth aimed at killing millions of innocent people.

Continuing on the note into Hell, I recently re-read Dante’s Inferno with fiery (and sometimes frosty) visions of  eternity in hellish conditions from the imagination of  Dante Alighieri, where Dante the character is led to pursue the true pathway of life, exploring the nature of sin on a trip though Hell.  Here, oven roasting goes to new extremes. See the URL for more. http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/inferno/canalysis.html

How many desperate  and ill-prepared immigrants/refugees have perished in the extreme weather conditions encountered in desert crossings (nature’s ovens) as they seek to better their lives?

On a more pleasant note, my grandson built a unique and artful stone wood fired pizza oven as his high school senior project.  What an undertaking it was and what wonderful pizza, pretzels and breads he has produced.  He used “Where the Wild Things Are” motif as a topper.  What fun.

If you have stayed with me this far, here is an strange musing on a form of oven; roasted turkey in a garbage pail. Learn more on the following URL….http://allrecipes.com//Recipe/garbage-can-turkey/Detail.aspx

The recipe calls for these items and Ingredients

• aluminum foil
• 15 inch wooden stake
• 1 (12 pound) whole turkey, neck and giblets removed
• new 15 gallon metal garbage can with lid

If you try this method, let me know how it turns out please.  As a vegetarian, I wonder if Tofurky would work just as well. I leave you now with the ear worm counting guardian angels ringing in my ear and wish you all Bon Appetite.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Pileated Woodpeckers show off

On an early morning walk home from the gym, a sudden movement caught our eyes.  One large bird and then two flew across our paths, crossed over the avenue and explored their way from tree to tree.  One bird halted and began pecking a hole in a dead tree.  The other flew on, beyond our view.  They were a pair of Pileated Woodpeckers.  How excited we were. 

The Pileated Woodpecker is approximately 15 inches in length and is one of the largest woodpeckers found in North America.  It has a black body with a red crest and white stripes on its neck and black and white stripes on its face.  Males and females are similar, but males sport a red forehead and females, a gray to yellowish brown forehead.  You may learn more about this glorious woodpecker, hear its call, see photos, learn about its diet, habitat and habits at http://www.nhptv.org/natureworks/pileatedwoodpecker.htm

We have encountered this red-headed bird on hikes away from home.  After 19 years of living in this neighborhood, this is the first time we have spotted this bird right outside our doorway.  One wonders why.

Coincidentally or not, since early summer 2010, there have been frequent sightings of large wild turkeys and deer in the neighborhood.  This is made strange only because this is an urban area of large rectangular blocks, homes, businesses and factories and wily traffic on the our main thoroughfare.  The nearest wooded area is a couple of miles away intersected by a busy, sunken expressway.  It is frightening to realize how dangerous driving could be here upon  encountering this unexpected wildlife on the road.

I am a true believer in climate change.  How often we realize the need to take care of our great Home and understand that change does happen and better prepare to take action to protect our resources and environment. 

Recent controversies are also fascinating surrounding expert climatologists being caught up in alleged fraud and fibs about the current condition of our planet and meddling with encroaching warnings about dire changes that can be happening within our lifetime only for their own selfish means to their ends or lack of careful scientific research skills.

I am also a strong foe of out-of-control urban and suburban sprawl and the diminishing habitats to support nature’s wild things.  These destructive practices remain out of control with no end in sight.

The summer has melded into fall and I have not enjoyed a second sighting of the woodpecker, only deer and wild turkey.  Out for a walk on a recent October day another sighting caught my eye.  White Irises in full bloom were glowing in the early morning sunlight.  Perhaps there is a species of late blooming Irises.  If so, they are unknown to me, but they were a treat to the eye.  Nature is always changing and rearranging.  Keeping our eyes peeled and our senses sharp, for whatever the reason or cause, nature’s surprises are revealed to us when least expected. 

Ann Carol Goldberg

Nosegay

Dateline Rochester, NY; 10/10/10;

Autumn in our town holds many surprises. That October Sunday offered just that, perfect weather, leaves in burning color and some time on our hands. Both of us had just celebrated our 50th High School reunion within two weeks time including concurrent visits from college friends woven into those eventful weekends. A hike in the woods was in order and I had clipped an article describing several area hikes with waterfalls that were new to us.

Throwing a proverbial thumb tack at the clipping, we selected a location near Phelps, NY called Ontario Pathways. The parking lot was empty upon our arrival. Finishing our picnic of cheese, crackers, hummus and apples we looked up to see another 3-4 cars pull into the lot. A good sign in my mind, that the hike held some promise.

Technorati Tags: vandalized sign should read Ontario Parkways

We donned our hiking boots but chose to leave our hiking sticks behind, learning that the trail was level and straight, built on an old Railroad line. Another couple had just started to hike, also finding the newspaper article of interest. Putting our heads together, we discerned that we were following Fulton Creek and anticipated the 2 waterfalls as promised, more rough water rapids perhaps, but treacherous in a kayak as described in the article.

The rapids were indeed .03 miles down the trail according to the carved sign hanging on a tree near a side trail leading us directly along the shore of the creek. We took our time on the trail, enjoying the warm sun, the luscious sound of the water lapping over the rapids, the sweet-smelling air, blessed with time on our hands.

Technorati Tags: one half rapids,one half waterfall

Satiated with our visit to the rough water, we returned to the main trail not expecting more adventure. There was movement in the distance. We both realized simultaneously what it was approaching, making our noses twitch and the adrenaline run. A full-grown skunk loped with a limp and a swagger toward us. We had no place to go accept to stay on the path. The skunk showed a bit of interest in us and gave us some definite pause.

Technorati Tags: not the picture of a healthy skunk,he limped and staggered

Technorati Tags: the return trip

We feared the eau de skunk, but in keeping with the animal’s difficulty with locomotion, we worried more about the possibility of having encountered a Rabid creature. Our responses stood divided between staying frozen in place and shooting photos. We survived but had conjured up images of gallons of tomato juice, the alleged antidote to skunk stink.

The critter continued its way along the path continuing away from us. We continued in the opposite direction, taking in more sights and sounds, crossing old bridges and traversing an island. We approached Griffith Road and chose it as our turning point, joking about seeing our little critter once again on the return trip.

As if on cue, once again, there was movement in the distance. Our black and white loping interloper headed our way. We did the same dance, maintained the same head images eliciting a flow of adrenaline and took more photos. The critter sniffed and hauntingly continued on its way, perhaps in pain but clearly in charge of its territory, the trail, just the same.

The parking lot was full of cars as we approached, but there was no one around to share the tale of the critter encounter or revel in the beauty of the sights and the day. We drove home into the coming sunset, happy, at peace and hoping that our little creature was not in pain and would survive to continue to keep watch on the Ontario Pathway and the splendor of the autumn array.

Ann Carol Goldberg

I Walked in the Sunshine

I walked in the sunshine into the garden. The day was warm and sunny, a rare kind of spring day in upstate New York. Even in the sunshine, my spirits were low, a usual state after listening to the day's news filled with trouble and turmoil in this crazy world of ours. My spirits lifted immediately upon hearing the birdsong conversations and watching butterflies waft in and out of the butterfly bush. While swatting away tiny bugs in the air I stepped carefully to avoid crushing ants on the walkway. I breathed deeply while sniffing the strong scent of the periwinkle colored Rhododendrons blooming after the long winter months.

Is it folklore or reality that achieving purple and blue toned blossoms on Rhododendron plants is a matter of loving attention and care, along with fertilizing the soil with coffee grounds and lots of water. A former neighbor used to perform these rites, but she moved away several years ago and I doubt anyone else has followed suit (adding coffee grounds to the soil). Perhaps it is some quirk of nature that the current blossoms still retain this color. I will not complain, they are beautiful.

Periwinkle is an illusive shade. It crosses from blue-tones to purple tones and may be deemed an indecisive or nondescript color by some critics I suppose. I first remember learning the name periwinkle as a child. My beloved Grandmother Rose Caplan loved to sew. How delighted she was to have her granddaughter wear her creations. How delighted my mother was to have a mother who would sew beautiful garments.

The jumper she made for me was of periwinkle dyed cotton. It was a cotton verging on linen, both coarse and with a bit of softness at the same time. The top, being a jumper, had no sleeves and tapered to a fitted waist and a flared skirt. The front near the neckline was laced together with a shoelace of the same color and ended in two small spools of thread, one sunny yellow and the other Japanese red. I still remember how sad I was when I outgrew the jumper and it became a “hand me down” to Mary Jane, a younger friend, always the next in line for my outgrown clothing.

I sat down on the wooden bench in the center of the garden, somehow transported back to reality from my reverie into my childhood. I breathed deeply, saddened by the news reports from Iran and more specifically the absurd January arrest of Roxana Saberi, the 32 year old journalist jailed on charges of espionage. My thoughts were with her wondering how one can survive in such a harsh land, the homeland of her father.

There is a beautiful photo of Roxana, her head wrapped in a Muslim woman's headscarf or hijab, the color so close to the periwinkle jumper of my childhood and to the flowers in the garden. Paralleling my freedom to walk into my garden, this vignette popped into my head of Roxana's “walk” to her cell with an 8 year sentence weighing on her shoulders;

Hardly aware of the perpetrator(s) I was pushed harshly into a cell, the door clanged shut behind me. I lay stunned where I fell on the bare, gruff, cold and broken cement floor trying to gather the strength to look up or even to stand up and assess my surroundings. The scent of filth, urine, vomit, the dankness and slightly damp warmth of electric heat from the bare bulb of despair surrounded me. I finally found the strength to pull myself up to sit on the edge of the iron cot. I finally found the strength to open my eyes and assess my surroundings. I found the strength to take a deep breath. I will fight this, I will have faith, I will begin a hunger strike, I will take action and believe that people out there care.

In my cell, I heard no birdsong, I felt no sun, no butterflies wafted about, no tiny bugs teased my head, no ants crawled on the ground, only a few beetles and other crawling things hid among the dust and dirt. I believe I sat in a reverie for hours, for days. I must have had some sustenance, some contact with my jailers, but I could not relate any stories of this to anyone who may have asked. I long to walk in the sunshine.

I awoke from this reverie in the garden, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun and smelling the sweet floral fragrances. I returned to my townhouse , free and with the glow of the sunshine warming my hair.

I continued to dwell on Roxana's fate hoping that the international effort to help her, her parents presence in Iran and the grace of all of the gods prayed to would help her become free. We did, after all, have a bond in the beautiful periwinkle color that sways indecisively between blues and purples, the pleasant shades of hope.

As we were soon to learn, diligence paid off. Roxana's sentence was commuted to 2 years and then to freedom. She has returned to the US after living in Iran for 6 years. She is speaking to groups and has defied the will of the superpowers of Iran; a woman, a professional, and one who was such a powerful threat to the will of the demigods of that nation.

After some months, I would soon learn on NPR that Roxana would be free. My spirits soared.

Postscript; Roxana Saberi has written of her experiences in a book entitled Between Two Worlds, My Life and Captivity in Iran.

Ann Carol Goldberg