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

From the Strawberry Garden; June, 1946.

“Key management;” this becomes important in our modern lives as we acquire multiple house, many vehicles and businesses. Security is an issue like never before. We have keys of all shapes and sizes, remote electronic keys and keypunch pads. For me, it brings up a memory of simpler times.

The house I grew up in was Circa 1930’s. A front porch spanned the front of the house with 5 steps providing access to the space that fed the over-active imaginations of pre-schoolers shared by my friends and myself. The porch held a round metal table, classic metal rocking chairs that actually bounced, and a classic cushioned glider complete with a loud squeak when moved. A thick, sweet-smelling honeysuckle vine hugged the glider, bringing the promise of spring.


The floors inside were dotted with heating ducts covered with lacey metal covers, a parlor with an upright piano, a stair case complete with “sliding” banister and a musty smelling, walled-in back-staircase and the back door also sported a small porch with its 5 steps. Heavy skeleton keys opened the doors and the water heater groaned into action at the push of a black button.

My dad had converted the large octopus coal-style furnace to gas sometime in the mid 1940’s. Therefore, the former “coal room” was transformed into my playroom; to enjoy my dollhouse, a miniature china tea set, my older brother’s old trucks or ride my tricycle around the large furnace and have plenty of smooth floor to roller skate in the winter.

My mother reigned over the gardens, one forming long and narrow strip between our driveway and the Little family’s driveway. She prized her peonies, strawberry plants and rhododendrons growing in that space. I remember “helping” plant, water and weed.

Of course, the pinnacle event came when the strawberries were ready to pick. They glistened red with dew, almost reaching out to your hand to help you guide their way into your cereal bowl. I was only 4, but I remember the joy of running out the back door, clad in PJ’s, sporting bare feet and stumbling over the stones in the driveway, enduring whatever pain was inflicted by the gravel to reach the dew-covered strawberries. That chubby little girl is me, a bit younger than 4.

Is it possible that the strawberries of memory were sweeter tasting than today’s berries or is it sweeter in memory? Unequivocally, the berries were well tuned with the vintage 1946 corn flakes. I wonder if corn flakes have changed at all in the 60 or so years—perhaps they are the same or now more fully whole grain, full of supplements and nutritionally geared to keep up with the times. (To see a of the history of corn flakes, go to; http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/kelloggcf.htm)

One misty, cool morning looms in my memory. My dad must have been away on tour with the RPO. Mom was in her housecoat. I was pajama clad as above and bare foot. We scooted outside to pick berries. The back door slammed shut, locked and stood solidly closed. I remember innumerable occurrences of being locked out, but later in the day, fully clad and less “desperate.”

To get back in, we always had recourse; two neighbors with skeleton keys that matched our door. We ran next door to the Little’s, fearing awakening them. Then we remembered their two-week trip to the Mountains. Perhaps that meant the Adirondacks or the Catskills.

The Shubener’s, also owned the “right key” but lived 3 doors away. I am sure my mother was highly embarrassed that anyone see her in her housecoat, but I am sure we both traipsed to their door—no answer, no one home. It felt like hours to me, but our problem became smaler when a neighbor in the apartment house across the street saw us looking forlorn. Perhaps we were sitting on the front steps, chins in hands. He returned to his apartment and emerged again holding a huge “jailer” ring of skeleton keys. Success, one of the keys worked and opened our door.


I don’t have the memory, but I am sure my mother showered our neighbor/savior with dew-clad strawberries and excessive thanks. We now added another source in impending peril, a large ring of heavy, gray metal skeleton keys. It just takes patience to find the right one to open our door.

Stolen moments, shared delights

“What will I find if I go north out of your driveway I asked my sister-in-law, Sandy? You will find a great old barn that would be wonderful to photograph,” was her quick reply. The Vermont day offered heavy clusters of cloud, moving swiftly in the winds. The light was stunningly gray textured by a steady mist. In Vermont the light can change in a blink.

It was the Thanksgiving holiday. The weather had turned from the incredible “spring-like” autumn that the whole northeast had enjoyed to the crisp and invigorating cold we expect at this season of he year.

We were momentarily caught up on cooking, so I expressed a desire to shoot photos of this barn. My niece Minda decided to join me. She is a nature lover and dedicated student who spends her days researching the effects of carbon traces in the woods and their effect on climate change, (Minda taught me that this term is more inclusive than the popular term Global Warming used by the general population) We bundled up against the 24ºF temperature, grabbed our cameras and were on our way, indeed turning left out of the driveway. This is a bit tricky as the road to the left is uphill and on a curve. Extra care is a necessity.

I eased the car onto the road and safely uphill as we kept our eyes out for the barn about a half-mile away on the right. We came upon it quickly; it is set back from the road, hidden by a hill. The driveway is covered with stark white, marble gravel so indigenous to this area, used on numerous driveways, walking paths and road shoulders.

The light was still flat, gray and the air misty and cold. No one was around to ask permission to walk on the property to shoot our photos. We took a deep breath and decided to”go for it.” I parked the Prius at the end of the long and very straight driveway. We walked up the hill toward the barn to shoot photos. At that very moment, as if on a mysterious cue, the sun broke through the clouds casting a wash of beautiful yellow Vermont light and painting patterns of light in the clouds. We both blinked in disbelief sharing the moment of good luck and amazement. This magical light would certainly enhance our photos -- if it lasted.

The barn is old, rustic and huge. It had a sloped roof and several “rooms” filled with machinery, layers of debris, shelving, artifacts of years of use and storage. The trucks parked inside were licensed for active service. A small sign stuck in the earth advertised landscaping services. A house was seen buried in the distant woods separated from the barn by a large meadow dotted by huge, round bales of hay and a Jaguar (of the car variety) parked adjacent to the bales. Minda and I set off to shoot our images, sharing our ideas and discussing what we saw—the textures in the woods, trees clinging to the walls, debris laying around and the cold infecting our fingers.

The sun was still dancing in and out of the cloud layers, playing its little game with us, lighting our images. A fence lined the driveway up to the barn, but did not block us from entering the grassy field in front of the barn. We shot more photos and conjectured about the owners and the history of this place before heading back down the driveway toward the car. How amazed we were that as we approached the car, the heavy cloud layer returned, the light turned back into the gray haze and the air held a heavy mist that tickled our noses and froze our fingers even more. We drove back to the house, ready for some hot tea, and to delve back into helping to prepare the fabulous Thanksgiving feast that Sandy had planned.

I had a magic hour to share with Minda. Time flies too quickly to pass up a few shared moments, made special by surprises along the road, sunlight as a magical happenstance and our shared love of photography.

Message in a Minute,
Ann Carol Goldberg