My friends at Country Roads Magazine asked me to write about some of my favorite places discovered as we wander about. Here’s that story.
As chance would have it, our RV park for an overnight stop was just down the road from Mesilla, New Mexico. Once the Confederate capital of the Arizona Territory, today it’s an arts community filled with very cool adobe homes.
I asked my friend and former boss, Country Roads Magazine publisher James Fox-Smith, for a bit of help making a whacky idea for The Fabulous Fifth Wheel come true. His valiant efforts on our behalf seem to have raised an eyebrow or two. http://www.countryroadsmag.com/featured/blogs/editorial-reflections/kudzu-appreciation-society
I’ve never considered myself a beach person. Lying on hot sand, no matter how crystalline white it may be, acquiring the golden glow of future melanoma, hasn’t been appealing since high school. (I still recall the summer in high school when I was briefly unemployed and acquired an actual tan. That was also the year I put “Summer Blond” in my hair to lighten it. And it began falling out. Quite coincidentally I’m sure.)
But now I’ve fallen in love with Cannon Beach on Oregon’s pacific shore. Hard packed sand you can walk for miles in search of starfish. The sand is brown, not the brilliant white we know from the Florida panhandle, but has a surprising range of nuanced color as it interacts with the sun and the sea.
Huge rocks shrouded in mist. Cliff top views. Surfers. Children. Dogs.
Something to awaken every sense.
But the pictures tell the story better than I can.
Just down the road from our current campground is the tiny Iowa farm town of Oxford—population 821. It hasn’t changed much since I was a kid growing up nearby and we’d come to the rodeo held outside town every year.
With one exception— a few years ago a new restaurant popped up in one of the pretty historic brick buildings along the couple of streets that comprise downtown. A restaurant run by a couple flooded out of New Orleans by Katrina.
And so last night we had a big family gathering at Augusta, ten of us in all, gathered around mismatched tables with pretty table clothes, surrounded by walls covered in a mixture of New Orleans mementos and the work of local artists. I had shrimp and a grit cake on the side as good as any I’ve ever had in New Orleans. Rosemary may not be one of the “holy trinity” of Creole spices, but after these shrimp I’m convinced a “holy quad” is in order. Great gumbo too, and red beans that also departed a bit from the way they’re traditionally spiced, but nonetheless delicious.
In a bit of cross-cultural irony, displayed on the wall was a newspaper article reporting that Augusta’s “tenderloin,” as the iconic Midwestern fried pork sandwich is known, had been voted the best in Iowa by the pork producer’s association.
There too, right next to beer taps where it belongs, was one of our old New Orleans neighbor Dr. Bob’s signature “Be Nice or Leave” signs.
Our bead throwing buddies Johnny and Robert were sporting some spectacular float finery.
This past weekend was all about parades here on our return visit to New Orleans.
I’m not sure why, but it was worth standing in the pouring rain Sunday waiting for the float to pass on which our friends were riding, so that we could be singled out to be thrown those REALLY NICE beads. (I’m special! I’m special!) We so need to feel special.
Yes, I will always treasure my hand-embroidered Princess Leila ornament, caught during a Close Encounter with the Krewe of Chewbacchus Saturday night, one of several new parades to emerge in recent years from our old Marigny-Bywater neighborhood. What could be more fun than a rolling Star Wars convention? (It also brought back memories of an equally fun Star Trek parade earlier in our adventures.)
And then there was the ‘tit Rex parade. Well that’s not really the name anymore. Because now the “e” has been replaced with a schwa.
Thanks to the schwa, this tiny parade continues to roll.
Just in case you haven’t yet made the acquaintance of this symbol used to denote the vague multipurpose vowel sound found in words like “fudge,” “the,” and the last syllable of “sofa” —it looks like an upside-down “e.” I Googled how to create the schwa symbol using my laptop and here’s what I found:
Never mind. I’ll just spell it out.
So why you might ask, did they go to the extraordinary typesetting effort to make the substitution? Well who knew that a bunch of artsy hipsters walking through the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood pulling miniature floats behind them would be perceived as a threat by the landed gentry that comprise most of the old-school Krewe of Rex.
To be fair, it was all very genteel. The old Rexters were afraid that if they let one entity use the name unchallenged, there’d be a flood of copycats and they’d lose control of their branding. Sort of like Kleenex I guess. And after a conversation about various options, a solution was chosen.
Schwa to the rescue.
One of my favorites. When I passed by the creator of this float had engaged a young admirer in a fascinating discussion about homonyms.
This parade may rival Krewe du Vieux when it comes to bawdy political satire.
A favorite new addition to my vocabulary.
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.
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 22nd 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.
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.
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.
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.