Tag Archives: Gay RVing

The Cracker Barrel Confession

Forgive me Father for I have sinned…

Dave and I ate breakfast at Cracker Barrel this morning. And despite this restaurant chain’s questionable social justice record, I enjoyed my pecan sticky bun French toast every bit as much as Dave enjoyed playing the Golf Tee Game.

I still occasionally give in to a craving for Cracker Barrel even though I haven’t eaten at a Chick-Fil-A since the anti-gay tweets from its faux Christian founder came to light. After all, who could resist this wide-eyed unicorn in the Cracker Barrel gift shop?

A BRIEF ASIDE:

Quick multiple choice quiz Dan Cathy: WWJD? If Jesus had millions of dollars to give away would he:

A: Give those dollars to organizations working to keep gay people from marrying the person they love?

B: Use them to help the sick and the poor?

The confession doesn’t stop there I’m afraid. I also bought Christmas ornaments at Hobby Lobby. And we regularly go to Walmart. (Every Walmart has an RV section—very handy when you run out of the special toilet paper.)

But while I can’t promise to let go of these bad habits cold turkey, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to step up my efforts to support local businesses and those that pay their employees a fair wage, as well as those businesses who embrace diversity. Those that really do understand the meaning of the question: WWJD?

Beyond American Gothic: Part 2

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Dave checks out Grant Wood’s tiny studio.

Grant Wood is perhaps my home state of Iowa’s most renowned artist, but until last summer I really knew little more about him than that he painted American Gothic. That all changed when, on a trip to the small town library near our campground I spotted something quite unexpected: Full frontal nudity.

Okay, that was cheap—but true. The library had an extensive collection of Wood’s lithographs including “Sultry Night” which depicts a naked farmer cooling off at the horse trough.

Wood designed this window for the door of his studio. There is a pointer that can be dialed around to show if he’s home—and taking a bath, or having a party.

I’m just back from a Christmas trip home and had a chance to add to what I learned on that earlier visit (which you can read about HERE) with a tour of the studio in Cedar Rapids where Wood painted many of his most noted works.

The studio was in a converted hayloft above a stable that once housed horses used to pull hearses for the adjoining funeral home. Once mechanization came along the stable wasn’t needed anymore and as it happened, the funeral home’s owner was one of Wood’s patrons, and offered him the space in 1924. He lived there (for a while along with his mother and sister) for over a decade.

Wood created these collages which he gave to friends using found materials from around his studio located on a back alley—and thus named them “Lilies of the Alley.”

Wood designed built-in furniture for the space (he was, I now know, also a noted local interior decorator), and even included a small stage for performances of the local community theater company—which he founded. He was also a sculptor, and designed jewelry—as well a huge stained glass window for a local public building.

He was multi-talented, witty, and reportedly gave great parties. So not so surprising then that a number researchers have come to the conclusion that he was probably gay.

Mugs and Memories

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So I said, somewhat self-importantly, to Dave, “My vision for living large in a small footprint means that we won’t have a lot of stuff, but absolutely everything we do have has to be something we really love.”

And I’d pretty much pre-determined that we’d achieve that grand vision (at least in the Fabulous Fifth Wheel’s kitchen) with a quick trip to IKEA when we got to our stop in Houston.

We did make that trip. There is über contemporary new flatware in a drawer and a set of knives in a very cool knife holder that now graces the counter. But the dishes we decided we loved the most came with us—a discontinued pattern from Dansk that we found at our friend Ray’s yard sale. Ray used to be a manager at Commander’s Palace, so his cast-off dinnerware is fabulous by anyone else’s standards. The cobalt blue glass bowls we found to go with those dishes are from Walmart.

And then there are the mugs. Some pretty, some not. Some handmade, some not. What unites them as a collection is that each has a story that made them worthy of the journey.

There’s the left-handed mug I bought from Joe Polotzola, a retired radiology tech turned potter and healthy cooking guru. Drop by his little studio in Amite, Louisiana, and while you’re admiring his beautiful pottery he’s likely to offer you something he’s just steamed up in one of his hand thrown steamers. (Fun fact: Dave is left-handed, while his identical twin is right-handed. Such twins, it turns out, are actually genetic mirror images, a lesson I learned when I presented him with the mug. So it clearly had to come along.)

Then there’s the 30-something year-old Astroworld mug that my kids bought for me on a trip there in its heyday. It’s personalized with my name above a drawing of the Tazmanian Devil cartoon character. I’m not sure if they intended to make a statement there. That was the summer I’d planned another trip for us all to Disneyworld, and was dismayed when I got a lukewarm response to the announcement. Turns out that there just weren’t enough really scary rides at Disneyworld to suit them and so Astroworld it was, where we stayed until the park closed one evening while they rode the same rollercoaster over and over again. I was a little nauseous just watching. And the lesson I carried away is that Disneyworld is really for adults—the kids are just an excuse.

And then there is this mug from which I’m drinking my morning coffee as I write this, a gift from my lifelong friend Terry with whom I grew up in Iowa. We’ve been friends since grade school, but we’ve both spent most of our adult lives far from home—Louisiana for me, Mexico City for him. This mug was his tongue-in-cheek reminder of the roots from whence we both came. Roots from a place that excels at growing them deep and strong. Roots that have served us both well.

Foto Friday

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I’ve decided to fill in (while I’m pondering my pithier posts) with a few favorite photos from along the way. This one of Dave in giant wooden shoes was taken in Pella, Iowa, which was founded by a Dutch minister who’d been banned from preaching his version of the Good Word in the Netherlands. Fun fact: Long before he wore cowboy boots, Wyatt Earp also (probably) wore wooden shoes here in the town where he grew up.

Finding Family

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During our stay at Jones Pond Campground in western New York, the Fabulous Fifth Wheel sat at the edge of a meadow where we could look out at a garden a short walk away. It was the most beautiful spot in the campground.

A long path lined with cheerful Black-eyed Susans leads to a gazebo. Inside resting on a wicker table there’s a binder. Inside the binder is page after page, filled with poems, pictures and remembrances dedicated to a loved one who has passed.

This is the campground’s memorial garden.

And particularly today, as we celebrate our 22^nd anniversary together, it is a vivid reminder of how fortunate Dave and I are. We have a life filled with family and friends who love and support us just as we are. Not everyone is so lucky.

Each of the campgrounds we’ve visited so far is very much a community. Each has a large contingent of seasonal campers who spend every weekend at the campground, sometimes the entire summer, and camping neighbors become fast friends.

The difference for some gay campers, is that in many cases those friends also become a “chosen” family to replace one that has turned away from them.

For us this campground was a beautiful, welcoming stop along our journey. For others it’s a beautiful, welcoming refuge from a world that isn’t always.

A Photog’s Eye on Western New York

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Taking a cue from Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbs fame) I long ago abandoned belief in linear time. So you won’t necessarily see it reflected in this blog. During the point in our journey that we were in western New York, we had the good fortune to be near Rochester where our friend (and former B&B guest) Rob Boger and his partner Kevin Richardson live. Rob was kind enough to serve as our local guide for many of our excursions—and just happens to be an astonishingly talented amateur photographer as well. Here a a few of his terrific shots from our exploration together.

Our first excursion with Rob was to Letchworth State Park, just a few miles from our campground. Rob’s shot here of one of several waterfalls that plunge into this massive canyon makes it clear why this place is called the Grand Canyon of the east.

We also had the good fortune to be nearby when the New York State Balloon Fest filled the skies over Danville, New York. This is my favorite of Rob’s shots during the “glow” that took place on the first evening of the fest.

Our tour of Rochester with Rob included (of course) the George Eastman estate (and the adjoining International Museum of Photography). Just when I thought I was over touring the fabulous homes of rich people, I was riveted by the story that unfolded here of this brilliant man who made photography accessible to everyone. This was his conservatory.

The other highlight of our Rochester Tour was ARTISANWorks, a 40,000 square foot renovated factory building, home to half a million wildly eclectic works of art, including this key covered eagle.

We weren’t with Rob when he spotted this field of sunflowers on the way home from our last lunch together. But it was too cool not to include.

A Halloween Treat

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When we visited our friends Bruce and John last week, their postcard-perfect town of Lambertville, New Jersey was already fully festooned for Halloween. One local artist’s front yard in particular took ghoulish decor to an entirely new level. Bruce captured it all in a panorama shot that he was kind enough to share. Get thee to a good sized screen and enjoy.

Our Day at the Supreme Court

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Some of our merry band of family and friends.

Okay, so there was a moment earlier this month when my faith waivered. Could it be that God really does like Pat Robertson better than me? Could it be that the great something out there somewhere really does listen to that scumbag’s prayers?

If you’ve been following along, you know that Dave and I took advantage of my home state of Iowa’s long legacy of of social justice and were married there this summer. But since it was the Supreme Court’s landmark decision that gave that marriage some real practical benefits for us after 22 years together, and since we were headed to D. C. anyway to see daughter Meredith, we decided that we wanted a ceremony in front of the Supreme Court building as well.

It was to be another small affair, just a few local friends, my daughters and some of Dave’s family members who wanted to celebrate with us but couldn’t join us in Iowa.

What fun it would be. The family would fly in, we’d tour the Smithsonian and the monuments, then we’d all taxi over to the Supreme Court for a brief, informal, (but no less meaningful) ceremony—followed by a gathering back at Meredith’s nearby home.

(Imagine foreboding music here.)

And then the government shut down (I won’t assign blame, that’s for another discussion) and the remnants of Tropical Storm Karen decided to stall off of the North Carolina coast—pumping one rainy day after another into the DC area.

Dave was so upset I feared he’d have a stroke before we could make it to week’s end. The delightful celebration we’d envisioned seemed to have been washed away by a disapproving diety.

Oh me of little faith.

As it turned out—there was plenty for the family to do when they arrived. The fascinating Federal Reserve was open just down the street from the family’s hotel (they make money, so I guess they’re not dependent on congress.) Arlington Cemetery was of course open, and perhaps a somewhat rainy day is the best time to appreciate this tribute to those who’ve served.

The National Cathedral was open as well, which despite its name, receives no government funding. “If you’ve ever doubted the separation of church and state,” quipped the tour guide, “Please note that we’re open.”

While I may question some folk’s conclusions about the culprit for the National Park closures, I must admit we benefitted from the “storming” of the monuments on that Sunday and the removal of the barricades.

When the day of the celebration arrived the forecast still included a 40% chance of rain. It drizzled all morning as we made final preparations for that night, moving things inside from the planned courtyard party.

And then the rains stopped.

We grabbed our umbrellas just in case, and cabs to the Supreme Court building. The guards smiled as are small group gathered near their guardhouse. A couple of Japanese tourists stepped right up and joined our merry band with their cameras.

And our dear friend and Unitarian minister Charlie commenced to marry us…again.

Faith restored. Off to the party.

A Fond Look Back at Galveston

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Just down the road from Galveston is the Butler Longhorn Museum that tells the story of these remarkable creatures. Dave hanging here for a second with The Duke.

A flawlessly framed beach view from the elegant lobby of historic Hotel Galvez.

I’m not an amusement park guy, but Pleasure Pier was a delight just to look at from the seawall at night. This photo is courtesy of the Galveston tourism folks.

And at the Lone Star Flight Museum, this is the bomber referenced in the story.

There are more than 20,000 historic structures in Galveston that have survived the hurricanes that pummeled the island over the years. A bit about why in the story.

It was spring when we were in Galveston and the cemetery hadn’t yet been mowed. From a little neglect..something beautiful.

This month I had the chance to share one of the early adventures in our trek with the readers of Country Roads Magazine. I made the case for why one would choose Galveston as a beach destination over the prettier beaches on the Florida panhandle. Here’s one of the arguments from my story:

“…while lots of beach resorts offer aerial views of the waters below from parasails, but how many offer you a birds-eye view from a vintage WWII bomber?”

You can read the others HERE.

And here are some of my favorite pix from that visit that didn’t make the online edition.

Sensational Saugatuck

This was my favorite view of the harbor.

This was my last drive in the early morning light into Saugatuck. Down the winding road through Campit, the campground that was our home for the month…shafts of fog-filtered light dappling the lovingly tended seasonal campsites, my favorite of which had vintage trailers surrounded by landscaping worthy of full time homes. Past the Hambone Café where over the course of the last month I suspect I ate dozens of blueberry pancakes, topped with house-made blueberry sauce. Past a string of u-pick it farms from which the blueberries for those pancakes came and where now the peaches are ready for plucking. Past the flea market where we scored a tiny rattan elephant to accompany us on our journey. The perfect souvenir from this stop. Past rows and rows of towering blue spruce that make me feel like it’s always Christmas here.

We had the stunningly designed outdoor patio at Zing all to ourselves the morning I had this amazing Dutch pancake.

Past the restaurant Zing, where we’d have their patio all to ourselves on Saturday morning for a brunch, because as our server observed “Nobody in Saugatuck gets up before noon.” On past the turn for Douglas, Saugatuck’s twin village where we’d hang in the town park drinking cider from the local mill and listening to bands at the Thursday night town social. And where we’d pick up our mail. After our first visit the postal workers knew who we were and made us feel like locals. Then across the bridge over the Kalamazoo river covered in mist from the morning chill. (Yes my southern peeps, it’s chilly here on August mornings.) Past the most beautiful farmer’s market I’ve ever visited, where every booth was an art installation created from local produce and where I bought my first Armenian cucumber.

Even the public bathroom was part of Saugatuck’s art colony vibe.

The streets of downtown are lined with shops and restaurants housed in bright bungalows.

I’ve been to lots of farmer’s markets and never seen Armenian cucumbers before.

It wasn’t until that last morning that I finally saw the historic chain ferry inching its way across the harbor.

Past the harbor boardwalk lined with the boats of the beautiful people, and finally to my favorite morning hangout, a coffee shop that roasts its own beans and bakes its own scones. It’s hard to imagine how our next stop could be as magical as this one.

But somehow, I suspect it will.