Making Friends on Mabel St.

It's late Friday afternoon on Feb. 22. We turned the corner onto Mabel St and parked in the driveway of our mid-town rental a few minutes ahead of Ralph. I felt relieved he wasn't waiting for us, ready to hand us the keys and give us his 50-cent tour. I wanted to savor that smidgen of quiet time, marking the end of our 6 days on the road.  The three of us were poking around the front yard--surveying the damage the prickly pear and brittlebush sustained during last week's winter weather--when the green vintage Cadillac slid to a stop in front of the house. Ralph had arrived. In the process of extracting his long legs from behind the wheel and unfolding them into an upright position, he thrust a foil-covered plate of still-warm chocolate chip cookies at us. "Welcome to Tucson!" he boomed. The words were only slightly garbled by the cold, thumb-sized stump of a cigar snugged into the corner of his mouth.

Ralph is our Houston-based landlord's ex-father-in-law. . . and our local contact during the month we'll be living in this quaint, colorful, vintage-1940s house. As we stood with him on the porch waiting for him to unlock the door, I couldn't help staring. At 79, his skin is a fried and sun-spotted testament to what decades of devil-take-the-high-road desert life does to what started as the soft, white skin of a child with (what I'm assuming is his) Northern European heritage. I marveled at the various hues of brown leathery skin stretched taut over his lean bare shins. (Note to self: find a Walgreen's and stock up on spf 65.) Despite his being a walking warning about sun-damage, Ralph is a gracious, warm, old-school Tucsonian. We were well-welcomed. I'd love sitting down with him over a couple martinis and getting his scoop on life.

Like Ralph, our charming, vintage-1940s bungalow has its own stories to tell. If only these walls could talk, as they say. I instantly fell in love with the colorful tile and polished hardwood floors, the mosaic trim around the doorways and on the stair risers, the pumpkin-colored stucco fireplace surround, the Mexican dinnerware stacked neatly in the open kitchen cupboard and the wide louvered windows that open to the enclosed brick patio in back. If it weren't for the seamless wi-fi, the quite-adequate stereo system, and the traffic noises wafting from the busy arterial a couple blocks to the south--it would be easy to pretend we've time traveled back to post WW-II days, when this venerable old neighborhood was young and in its heyday.

It wasn't until an hour or so later that we realized the kitchen had no microwave---which proved an easy fix in Gale's hands, with a quick trip to Lowe's. After a pleasant welcoming dinner at the apartment of our friends Janice and Doug--who are building a new home just a few blocks away--it felt good to come "home," brew a cup of tea in the new machine, and settle into bed to read. We spent most of the next day unpacking, exploring the local dog-friendly open-spaces, and grocery shopping.

It wasn't until we returned home from Safeway late Saturday evening and had toted a dozen grocery bags into the house, that we discovered the broken glass scattered over the sink, floor and toilet seat in our master bath. In our absence, something had shattered the window with deliberate force. Upon our inspection of the narrow side yard outside, we found a 3" rock that had obviously been "imported." It was not part of the native landscape. Given the height and closeness of our fencing and the neighbors', how anyone so inclined could've accomplished such a feat still baffles us. Not to mention WHY. There had been no entry, and no other damage done. Our landlord felt terrible when we called to report the incident. The window was fixed by Monday noon, but our fairy-tale honeymoon with our little house was beginning to fade.

It wasn't until after dinner the next evening that we loaded the dishwasher for its first run. We'd settled in front of the TV to watch a Tony Hillerman movie when G's phone rang. He went back into the kitchen to answer it and stood gaping at the water streaming out from under our charming (vintage 1940s?) Maytag. The steady flow was flooding the kitchen tile and encroaching onto the living room hardwood by the time we stopped the run and dashed to the linen cupboard to grab an armload of bath towels. Landlord had a repairman at the house by 10 the next morning. $250 later-- out of his pocket-- he observed with some chagrin that we'd gotten off to a "rocky start." A rocky and wet start, to be more precise, I thought.

Having weathered the storms of entry, we are still here-- a week later. Gale found a neglected hummingbird feeder in the yard. He washed and filled it, and re-hung it in the vintage 1940s mesquite tree out back. Friends of all feathers are coming to sample his elixir. . . hummers, wrens, flickers and woodpeckers. Charlie's making new 4-legged friends every day in the park, and I'm making friends with the gas range and unfamiliar lay-out of the kitchen. (The old Maytag is purring like a kitten, working on the dinner dishes as I type.) We're more at home here each day. I'm feeling an extra fondness for the place, now-- like you feel for a friend you've weathered a few storms with and come out clearer and more sure of yourselves on the other side.

The Road to Tucson

Welcome to the latest thrilling episodes of The Longs Away From Home. This is our fledgling trip as so-called snowbirds. . . fleeing to what we hope to be 4 weeks of much more sun and at least 30 more degrees of ambient warmth than what's happening back at our roost on Edgewood Drive in Vancouver. 

Our route took us rather unremarkably across eastern Oregon, through southern Idaho, and into Utah. Lots of roadside snow along the way, frigid but mostly clear nights, and comfortable temps during the days. Then we followed the western flank of the Wasatch to Salt Lake City. Say what you will about hardline Mormons (and I'll pile-on with gusto if you get me started--including their general dearth of respect for out-of-state drivers in rush hour traffic). But they have nevertheless built a drop-dead beautiful city. The 3 of us did a quick spin in crisp afternoon sun around Temple Square (and through the Deseret Bookstore) before hitting the trail again, south towards Kanab. Encountered our first seriously white driving conditions Thursday morning, after crossing the border into northern AZ. We were lucky enough to fall into line behind a steady, diligent snowplow on our way across the high, flat stretch of Hwy 89A to Jacob Lake (elev about 8000 ft.)

We've tented on the Kaibab plateau bordering the north rim of the Grand Canyon several times, but this was our first winter experience there. I've always loved the power of the place. It felt like Home the first time I set foot among its high-country juniper, ponderosa and aspen nearly 20 years ago. It's one of those places I know I will always return to-- one way or another. Granted, I'm no world pilgrim, but I've discovered few other places on the planet where--just being there--I feel such peace and a sense of re-creation seeping into my bones. And there was fresh wonder, this time, in seeing the forest in its frigid state, covered in its white winter quilt. On the inevitable "other hand," as the road became icier and the swirling snow thicker, it was good to know we had a warm room waiting for us at the Arroyo Robles (dog-friendly) Best Western in Sedona.

Sedona--our last overnight before Tucson--is another place, and another story. Most folks know that the town is squeezed in among some of the most amazing towers of red-rock on earth. From what I could take-in at a glance, the culture of this small mecca of materialism is shaped by both New Age and old age (aka retired folks) influences. The magnificent natural formations looming over the town seem truly ablaze with crimson, cinnamon and/or gold, depending on the sun's angle and strength. (While Charlie and I were still snoozing, Gale arose extra-early the morning we were there to trek to a vista near the airport and score some awesome sunrise photos.) Sedona was founded in the 19th century, but the "discovery" of energy vortices in the 1980s turned this once-modest settlement into the bustling, highly-commercialized "spiritual cauldron" it is today, as our trusty guidebook refers to it. Indeed, folks attest to feeling strongly energized--in positive, healing ways-- after meditating among the giant rocks or atop certain sun-drenched mesas. I, however, became strangely queasy and lightheaded within a few hours of arriving in town. I felt weak, shaky, and borderline nauseated until we were a half-hour out of town Friday morning. Some sort of weird reverse-action energy playing tricks on my spiritual self? Probably just something quirky about the $18 caesar salad I had for dinner.

Next-up: Settling into Tucson!

Montana Meandering

On the road again, after 3 deliciously sedentary months hanging out on Edgewood Drive. These past few days, Gale and I (and the dogonmylap) have been here in Bigfork, Montana. During recent weeks, a happy triad of events conspired to pull us east across smoky central Washington and the upper reaches of Idaho's panhandle, to pause a peaceful while here on the northeast shoulder of enormous Flathead Lake.

The germ of the trip was a mid-summer chat with our long-time friends Bob & Suzanne about where we might roadtrip together. Next, we received a wedding invitation from one of Gale's dear cousins. Her first-born was to be married on the banks of the Swan River, just outside the town of Bigfork, on September 29. From there, the plot continued to thicken.

One afternoon in early July, I grabbed the phone and called one of my cousins. Howard and I had been out of touch for years, and I wasn't even sure the old number I had would still work. He picked up. It was his 75th birthday, I quickly learned. Almost as quickly, I managed to pass off my aberrant, out-of-the-blue phonecall as--of course--a Happy Birthday bugle. And thereby hangs the third inspiration for our Montana journey. We're heading through Missoula and Butte on Thursday for a rendezvous with him. He's lived his entire life in Southwest Montana, in the same Rocky Mountain foothills where my Mom herded cattle and tended the turkey flock on her grandmother's ranch, while his mother baked the bread and cooked 3-squares-a-day for the outdoor hands. We share some of the same roots, but his run particularly deep in this fertile ground.

As I type, Suzanne, Bob and Gale are off in the touristy section of town, browsing galleries, checking the reduced prices on properties displayed in real estate office windows, and sniffing-out anything chocolate. I and the dogonmylap stayed "home" (in the lovely condo Gale found for us on-line last month), to stare at the open laptop staring back at us. Re-kindling this blog has been feeling like a chore up until now. . . one I didn't want to tackle in the flurry of getting from one spot on the map to the next and soaking-up the warmth of this "unusually dry" Montana autumn. It feels good to be back. Back in territory that runs deep in my history. . . and back here on this page.

Home at Last

We were all happy to be home, this time last week.

Some minor jetlag the first couple days made it easy for Gale and me to start leaning towards bed around sunset. Being able and willing to rise a couple hours earlier than normal is a good summer habit. What would Mr Franklin say? Something about healthy, wealthy and wise? We do feel a smidgen healthier and maybe even wiser for what I suspect will be a short-lived practice. . . but the "wealthy" part is eclipsed by our current American Express and Visa statements.

I once again actually have a dogonmylap, as I type this. Charlie survived his extended stay at Susie's Country Inn admirably. Susie says he experienced some withdrawal symptoms at first, from not having a receptive lap available to him on-demand, but all indicators suggest he was treated kindly, attentively, and according to our--- OK, my--- detailed instructions. Once he started taking advantage of his networking opps during his several daily playtimes with the other guests, he reportedly snapped out of his funk.

To our relief, though, he did recognize us when he saw us waiting for him in the lobby on pick-up day, and he appeared to be glad to see us. Who knew he could do cartwheels and mid-air somersaults like that? And that was while we were still in the parking lot, trying to corral him for the ride home. So far, we've noticed only two bad habits he's picked up at "camp."  He barks for our attention, now. . . as opposed to sitting politely and gazing at us until we notice him. And country-western is his new music-of-choice on the radio. Could be worse.

Word from the Rocky Point Blueberry Farm, back on the right-hand coast, is that the crop on those well-tied and neatly-netted berries is ripening, at last. Their u-pick season begins tomorrow! Our two bushes here in the backyard are a bit behind, given that Rocky Point is a few latitude degrees further down the globe and few temperature degrees further up the thermometer. But I'm keeping my eye on our robins as they keep their beady eyes on our berries. No need to advertise to them when the u-pick season begins.

Regardless of this schizy NW weather, the jungle of weeds out back that were pretty-much under control when we left, the laundry, and the deficit of stamina and strength we're both feeling with our re-entry visits to the gym, it is wonderful to be back in the comfort and peace of our own home. I am by no means the passenger who barks for the flight attendant's attention or the guest who demands Josh Turner or Reba on the radio, when others around me might prefer Yoyo Ma. But neither am I a smiley-faced, hunky-dorey traveler. I almost always enjoy my destinations, and this trip was certainly no exception. But on this trip--on several fronts--"getting there" was nowhere near "half the fun." Who came up with that fetid drop of "wisdom," anyway? Certainly not Mr. Franklin.

Next post, at the risk of branding myself a boring, backyard chauveinist slug, I'll belabor what's not to like about traveling. 

City Highlights

The Big Apple, the Asphalt Jungle, the City that Never Sleeps, the Melting Pot. Huddled masses and teeming shores. It's all been said about NYC. We were only there for a scant 24 hours, but it was enough time to get a surface sense of the place. It's aMAZing.

It's a city of hyperbole: over the top glitz and excess. The best of everything---food and fashion, art and architecture, cult and culture.

It's a city of extremes: From the ethereal to the visceral. From the silly to the sublime. From the Midnight Cowboys to the Holly Golightlies. From the anonymous waves of blank-faces expertly side-stepping you on the street to the no-apologies rubbing-of-elbows (and other body parts) on the subway.

It's a city of contradictions: Neon versus  shadow. Wealth versus squalor. Breath-taking, drop-your-jaw beauty from a distance versus turn-your-stomach grime and spittle at your feet. Spotless, freshly-pressed Brooks Bros suit versus torn t-shirt and paint-stained jeans, side-by-side at the corner of 42nd St and MadisonAve, waiting for the light to change.

In our short time there, several negative stereotypes were neatly dispelled. For one, NYC residents are not mean or particularly cranky. They may be busy, worried, or hungry. They have bad days like we all do. But without exception, each person we had occasion to speak with was polite, helpful, and even friendly sometimes.

Highlights of our first visit: Enjoying a wonderful dinner with friends in their vintage Brooklyn red-brick row-house, complete with stoop. (Think the cover of  "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.") Walking west across the Brooklyn Bridge as lower Manhattan revels in the morning sun. Lunch at Grand Central. A surprise performance by two talented, acrobatic, break-dancing young men in the aisle during a 3-minute subway ride. Getting lost in the marble corridors of the 101-year-old New York Public Library and then finally emerging into the vast and glorious expanse of its famous reading room.

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tolerate the place for more than a couple days at a time--I'm too accustomed to the wide-open, quiet spaces of home (and this peaceful R.I. blueberry farm). But we will return, now that we've learned a few ropes. Some must-see items on our next visit(s) include many of the usual things: the Museum of Natural History, MOMA, the Smithsonian, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the infamous sidewalk in front of The Dakota, Rupert's Hello Deli, and the diner where Harry had that famously informative lunch with Sally. Then there's Broadway. . . . . . . . but we may have to start buying lottery tickets before we do that trip.

This may be the last post this trip until we're home. Thanks to all of you who were able and willing to add comments--- I know several of you tried but were confounded by this quirky Googly program.

Happy Father's Day, everyone!

Brave New Worlds

The Congregational Church began in 1592, when a few independent thinkers decided to defy Henry VIII and divorce themselves from the Church of England. I've gathered they were a feisty, foolhardy lot, since in those days the only way to successfully form your own church was to get the heck out of England. They tried Holland for a while, but a small band of them eventually chose a piece of southern Massachusetts coastline as their safe haven. They named their earliest settlement Plymouth. We know them now as The Pilgrims.

In 1641, about 20 years after the Mayflower's voyage, Rev. Samuel Newman shepherded a group of Congregationalists from Weymouth, England across the pond to join Plymouth Colony. A couple years later, they headed inland into the wilderness, and purchased about 8 sq miles from Massasoit, the local native chief, in what's now East Providence, RI.

Newman's band named their new settlement Rehoboth, and, of course, they established a church there in 1643. Among Rev. Newman's followers were widow Elizabeth Browne Walker and her 15-yr-old son, Philip---my 7th great grandfather. Philip became an upstanding member of his community, and when he died in 1679, he was buried in a tract of land adjacent to the church.

Tuesday, we walked that historic cemetery, searching for Philip's grave, which Joe located after a diligent search. His grave has two markers-- the original crudely-chiseled one that was unearthed by a plow in the 1870s, and a more elaborate memorial headstone (behind the original in the photo)  that was erected when the old one came to light. Running my hand over that 333-yr-old slab of granite gave me pause, to say the least.
 
We also traipsed among various Bowens and Ides and Kents, looking for the graves of Philip's son Samuel, his grandson Peter, and his great-grandson Moses. (We knew they were all there b/c findagrave.com says they are!) When I came upon Moses, my 4th great g'father, I stood for a moment in front of his headstone and pondered the wonders of the 80 years he lived, from 1726 to 1806. He witnessed and fully supported the Revolution, and his younger brother Lt. Aaron Walker (whose grave lay a few feet away) was a militiaman killed at the Boston Siege in October 1775. That winter, in January of '76, Moses and his wife added a 13th child to their brood and they named the infant after his Uncle Aaron. This younger Aaron-- my 4th grt g'father-- was the first of my line of Walkers to eventually relocate further west. He settled in Iowa and fathered Sarah, who would become my mother's paternal great grandmother.

In their fledgling days as a separatist group in the early 1600s, the Congregationalists were radical thinkers. Their  way of worshiping emphasized the right and responsibility of each properly organized congregation to determine its own affairs, without having to submit these decisions to the judgment of any higher human authority, such as popes and kings. They championed such fringey notions as abolition, women's suffrage, and a strange idea they called "universal salvation." They founded many of our more progressive Northeastern universities and colleges, including Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, Bowdoin, Middlebury and Amherst. Later, as they drifted into our present-day Midwest, they established Carleton, Grinnel and Oberlin.

I have been aware of these deep roots of mine for only about two years. My mother died in 2006 with no clue of her remarkable heritage. It's one thing to know that "my people" were among the first Europeans to brave this New World--- come hell, high water, or native resistance to their increasing and multiplying. (There are probably several million of us today who claim that distinction.) It's yet another to know that-- not being a church-going sort myself-- the Pilgrims were in many ways "my kind of people." I share with them a love for academic freedom and social justice. And maybe it's thanks to their actually doing something proactive for themselves in the face of some serious religious persecution that I tend to root for the brow-beaten and the underdog today.

Tomorrow Gale and I are hopping the bus to NewYork City! Just for a quick overnight, and dinner with an old college friend of G's. Wish us luck in our first visit to the Big Apple, especially regarding our attempts to navigate the subway system from Penn Station to Brooklyn. Our own brave new world.

Up Close and Personal

Most folks know a blueberry bush when they see one. But few get to know the creature as intimately as I have this past week. Been spending hours a day in their company, wrangling branches that have sprawled across the aisles between rows, positioning small clusters of immature berries so they get optimal sun exposure, and generally tidying-up. Bush-by-bush, branch-by-branch. High overhead, low to the ground. Berkeley, Bluecrop, Nelson, Blue Ray. Regardless of the particular cultivar, such in-your-face familiarity with a plant breeds a fondness for it that follows you home, back up the path to dinner.

Sounds crazy, and maybe it's more to-do with working in the hot sun and having plenty of time out there to think your own thoughts, but I've discovered some sensual pleasures in the art of tying a bush. I didn't notice the scent of the leaves for a while. But plunging your face into a thicket of new growth awakens you to the rich musky essence of the plant. Dangling clumps of berries tickle your ears. And all around there is the stillness of being alone with the bushes-- even though Gale or Rhonda may be working the other end of the aisle, just a row or two to the east.

If vacation may be defined as a change-of-pace break from routines, this is it.  I am forced to move slowly and methodically.
I strategically eyeball each connecting point for a support before pulling an appropriate length of twine from my pocket and snipping it with my scissors. Then I loop and knot, lift and stretch, then loop and knot on the receiving branch, while watching out for tender new shoots and fragile fruit  that can easily be crushed beneath the twine when I pull it tight. Such mindful work forces uncharacteristic patience in me--- a steady, one-step-at-a-time approach to a task that I rarely permit myself at home. When it's break time or the end of the workday, the meditative state I've slipped into is interrupted when Joe clangs the cast iron bell at the shed and calls us in.

Today we're heading into Providence to visit a few ancestors interred in the historic Newman Cemetery. Several generations of Walkers are of Pilgrim origin, dating to the mid-1600s. So far, I'm only acquainted with them via ancestry.com, so I'm looking forward to a more tangible connection. In addition to being weavers, deacons, poets, constables and soldiers, they were all stewards of the land they settled. Methinks they grew blueberries.