Winter Wonderland

Friday, 12th April 2013

Map: Burlington, Vermont to Quebec City---231 miles

As forecasted, Burlington was an island of relative mildness overnight.  Most of the precipitation fell as rain, and what little of otherwise did not stick.  It was a nice way to start the day, driving past the pedestrian activities of students of all ages bundled against the cold.  Many of the old mansions along South Willard Street have fantastically reused office space for both Champlain College and the University of Vermont.

We crossed over the Winooski River into Winooski, duly noting the old mills and the falls, and continued north out of town---opposite a steady line of commuters coming into work.  The landscape promptly turned white and US 7 occasionally slushy but never treacherous.  The scenery and little towns were a diversion from the prospect of the possibility of worse weather.

Taylor Park, St. Albans Vermont

Light sleet and snow started falling at Swanton, where we filled up on cheaper American gas before crossing the border into Canada.  We proceeding onto Interstate 89, having no other way to cross the border in that vicinity---besides, our previous experience has shown us to avoid the smaller crossings when larger ones are nearby.  Californians wandering into back road border crossings are regarded with suspicion.  The last time we attempted such with an Interstate crossing nearby we were held aside for over half an hour with no explanation.  I suppose they wanted to read all the snarky op-ed features I wrote twenty years ago before they'd let us through.

The Interstate was empty, and only one kiosk was open---fortunately staffed by a woman.  We find women handle the apparently official post 9/11 rude interrogation better than men.  They politely ask questions and never insult us with a variation of you drove all across America to spend three days in Quebec?  Or why are you driving there---everyone goes here.  Within three minutes she was satisfied we were legitimate if not normal tourists and let us through.

At St. Pierre du Veronne we went east on Quebec 202 through Bedford and Dunham---and then getting lost in Cowansville for our want of going into the heart of towns instead of around them.  It was snowing quite heavily now, which pretty much obscured any sense of direction, and Patsy's GPS is particularly negligent in Canada.  I pecked at her screen until I found the sweet spot where she could lead us east to Brome Lake.  This is a bit of a climb, and the snow was sticking in shady spots.  Fortunately it was well-driven over and thus a hard surface, so it posed no problems.

Lac Brome, Quebec

Lac Brome is an interesting little year around resort town, a nice mixture of old cottages and fancy vacation homes.  The lake still had a nearly solid surface of ice---the breath of Spring was still well to the south.

We now headed north by northeast on Quebec 243, dropping down through Waterloo and Lawrence and leaving the worst of the weather behind.  The landscape opened up to farmland rolling down and northwest to the Fleuve St- Laurent.  Eventually the overcast rose high enough to expose very far views across the river and to the mountains low on the horizon west of Trois Rivieres.

Quebec 116 took us directly to the cross-river suburbs of Quebec City.  Along the way, we drove over the Richelieu River on an ancient truss bridge and through the quaint town of Richmond, passed through the generic modern city of Victoriaville and the strangely remote village of Lyster.  Strange in that the traffic was effectively shuttled off west to the freeway (Route Transcanadienne) near Victoriaville, leaving us on a remote highway through a largely one street town strung out for a mile or so.  Geographically we were within thirty miles of bustling cities, but it felt like Lyster was in one of the most forgotten sections of northern Quebec.  Farms had given away to a patchwork of soggy pastures and stunted forests under again-lowering gray skies.

Suburbia was just a short way out from Saint-Redempteur, where we joined the Trans-Canadienne to cross the Riviere Chaudiere.  The river falls just south of the freeway, and it was near flood stage, making for a roaring beige wall of water.  We then joined the Autoroute Robert-Cliche and crossed the St-Laurent on the Pont Pierre Laporte into Quebec City.

Once on Boulevard Laurier, we were glad we didn't choose one of the dreary hotels in this typically sterile postwar Canadian business district.  There are advantages to being cheap---but only if one copies down the right address.  Or any address.  My husband did not.  We only had what was supposed to be cross streets---except one did not cross the other and perhaps did not even exist in that part of town.  So there was a lot of fuming and heated conversation to warm us up, with plenty of ventilation caused by the passenger door opening and my husband wandering off to ask for directions.  People claimed to know of the street, but were vague about its exact location.  After cruising up and down Boulevard Rene Levesque a couple of times I was turning around to try again when my husband cried out there, there!  Not the street we were looking for, but the hotel itself---its door canopy a green beacon on a gray day.

Auberge Maison Roy is not a hotel for large Americans.  One enters a small front hall, where guest's shoes greet you like the United Nations.  Then there's the small lobby/office to pass by the scrutiny of the proprietresses, then small stairs to squeeze by your temporary neighbors, and finally a small room with twin beds---where we could play horny college dorm mates.  I mean where twin beds allowed me a small desk to write at.  You get the picture.  Small attached bath, sans ventilation.  Sixty bucks.  Although the price suggests big city voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir, Masion Roy is a clean and comfortable small hotel.

The view from our room at Auberge Masion Roy

"Just like Paris," my husband sighed over the room, flinging back the curtains on its one big amenity: a large window looking out over the residential district.  Snow was just starting to fall.

The proprietress suggested that we keep Patsy parked in their driveway and get a three day bus pass.  I chose not to ask my husband how much that cost, but with the proprietress's warning about the parking police, it seemed the best and least expensive way to avoid unpleasant situations---especially with the snow starting to fall.  Besides, the last time we wandered into Old Quebec, my husband kept driving far beyond any unofficial or outsider's car was supposed to go---fording through tourists along a narrow cobblestone street until it came to a dead end.

We dressed for the weather.  To avoid being a near match, my husband kept his newsboy cap on, but I was Way Out West from head to toe: cowboy boots, oiled Sou'wester and a heavy felt hat that started smelling like a wet dog as the snowflakes melted on it.  My husband got more notice, though---if only for his age.  Everyone on the crowded bus was exceptionally courteous, always offering their seat to any new boarder that appeared older.  My husband preferred hanging on to a pole, being too short for one of the straps I swung around on.

"You handled that very well," he praised as we disembarked at Parc de l'Esplanade.  "I was afraid you'd get all uptight.  You'll be fine in Paris."

"I have been on public transportation before," I replied coolly.  "I rode the Washington DC subway alone at fifteen." 

Of course, not speaking the language with any intelligence was my major drawback.  Unable to understand what was going on around me, I just sorta zoned out and thought of 1920s Brooklyn strap hangers snapping gum and reading the latest tabloid sensation until some poor old lady shrilly exclaimed excuse-moi, excuse-moi! so I'd get out of her way before the bus launched off again.

On Rue St. Jean

Instead of walking into Old Town, we walked west onto Rue St. Jean---Quebec City's nominally gay neighborhood.  Although it's home to the provinces' oldest outwardly gay establishments, it never developed into a flaming gay ghetto.  There's a few bars and a bathhouse with hotel en attachement, but the street scene is merely metropolitan.  Being hungry, a gay little cafe would have been nice, but we had to fish for whatever the street had to offer.

My husband nabbed a young straight couple on the sidewalk, speaking to the handsome man in French, of course.  The woman, taller than he and almost as tall as me in boot heels, looked me over with pleasant appraisal and asked in perfectly unaccented English: "So, where are you from?"

"California," I grinned.  "We've been driving cross country, through the South and East."

"Oh, how wonderful!"  I wasn't sure what she thought was particularly wonderful, the road trip or being from California---which is very much larger than life to the Quebecois.

Her man suggested a creperie a block or two down Rue St. Jean, and she approved it.  However, my man's French is getting quite archaic, and he later admitted he wasn't quite registering the name.  It mattered not, for some idle window shopping brought us together again with the couple and she leaned down to point out the sign to my husband.  I too leaned down, and she smiled over at me: "See?" 
  
Crêperie-bistro Le Billig is a small eatery with a few tables and a nook kitchen.  The waiter, in rapid parlance, asked if we had reservations---but it was no problem, he had one table available.  He then suggested that we could hang our outerwear on the pegs next to the door, but it took a moment for it to sink into my husband's brain and he in turn to instruct me.  Once the waiter realized I spoke only English, he offered me an English menu, which I declined, and thereafter he went back and forth between French and English---always in rapid fire.

The crepes are huge and excellent, come with a side salad of the freshest greens and the prices are reasonable.  We started off by sharing a bowl of 'green soup'---pea soup with other greens pureed into it, which was delicious and very much an appetizer.  I ordered cider, to which he mused a dry one would be good with my crepe---and brought it to me in, curiously, a wide coffee cup.  The cider possessed interesting herbal notes, which unfortunately reminded me of Bactine.  Not that I didn't enjoy it, it just was an amusing idea that I couldn't get off my palate.  Having a big enough serving to get a buzz would have made it even more amusing.

After mincing back to the bus stop. St. John's Gate, Old Quebec.

The snow was starting to stick as we left Le Billig.  We continued walking up Rue St. Jean until it became relatively uninteresting at Rue Turnbull, and then returned down the south side of the street back to Parc de l'Esplanade---I mincing along like an Asian princess to avoid falling on my ass.  Here we passed a bakery somewhere mid block, its window full of dark and milk chocolate Easter bunnies at fifty percent off.  What a sad and delicious display, so we ventured inside to buy a couple of the smaller ones.  As the woman selected and weighed them, I gazed at all the pastries in the cases, as well as some wonderful looking pot pies and other savories---so otherworldly compared to most American bakeries.  The woman and my husband discussed the coinage, the bunnies were bought and enjoyed back at our room at Maison Roy.  Such delectable, melting hollow chocolate bunnies.

374 Miles to Tibet

Thursday, 11th April 2013

Map: Bordentown, New Jersey to Burlington, Vermont---375 miles

A cold front broke the heat of the preceding day, bringing a thunderstorm overnight and a cool, gray fragrant morning.  We avoided Trenton by driving the I-295 beltway, which so skirted the city that we were left with no impression of it.

Peeking into a Princeton, New Jersey garden.

US 206 took us north through Lawrenceville and Princeton, both towns very much in the New England manner, with narrow streets and beautiful old homes.  Princeton is especially twee, the homes large and often placed well back from the road.  Spring was especially present in their accompanying old gardens.

It was much more a modern suburban view through Belle Meade and Somerville---still interesting in its mix of rural farms, housing tracts and shopping malls.  Unlike the rest of America, there seems to be no planning for the increasing volume of surface street traffic; the roads remain narrow and without shoulders.  Only the crossroads receive any real attention due to high volumes of traffic crossing each other and stores.  Being mid-morning, the traffic was light and the driving easy.

Sri Venkateswara Hindu Temple, Bridgewater New Jersey.

There's a stretch of US 206 that becomes a modern, wide boulevard in Bridgewater.  Just beyond the Aventis Pharmaceuticals plant we came upon this tasty wedding cake: the Sri Venkateswara Hindu Temple.  Not only did it demand to be photographed, it held a sort of aura of anticipation.  A sign listed a rapid progression from the recent past to the near future---when landscaping is supposed to be installed.  I hope it's exotic as possible and complimentary to the temple.  On Google there are many praises for their cafeteria---and not unexpectedly, a retort, saying one goes to temple to be with God, not a cafeteria tray.
  
The siting of the temple was also a strange forbearance of how the day would evolve...

At Chester, a local tourist shopping destination, we decided it was time for Dairy Queen---but found it strangely closed well past its posted opening hour.  The better alternative of local ice cream down the block was met with a chortling generator at the door: fire in an upstairs apartment had made the building uninhabitable, and they were trying to salvage the ice cream.  Hey, just give us a spoon!

So the quest for ice cream was on.  Patsy lead us astray in Flanders for a Dairy Queen in Mt. Olive Township---only to find a local eatery had superseded DQ in the last ten years.  At least the detour was interesting.

Just outside of downtown Stanhope we passed the very pretty Lake Musconetcong surrounded by old once vacation homes.  A few miles up US 206 in Byram Township there's Cranberry and Panther Lakes, along with several others beyond view.  The granite outcroppings and broadleaf forest complete a very picturesque setting, so it's no wonder that this was a premier vacation destination served by the Lackawanna Railroad a hundred plus years ago.

After jogging through downtown Newton, we finally came upon a vintage Dairy Queen---where we indulged in the Blizzard Flavor of the Month: Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzel.  The middle-aged woman behind the counter must have been new, as she wanted it to be just right: Chocolate or Vanilla ice cream?  No one had ever asked us before, although on rare occasions we'd be handed a Blizzard made with chocolate ice cream, and it was always way too much of a good thing.

"It has peanut butter syrup in it, is that okay?"

We nodded.  This was becoming quite a process, but she did produce a perfect product---not too sweet, with a nice salty/crunchy note from the pretzels.

"Do you do senior discounts?" was my husband's usual question.  One would think we'd have a free day from all the discounts he requested on this trip.

"Um, let me check."  She went back into the kitchen and then returned.  "Yes, we do---but be sure to ask, because not all the girls know that we do."  Meaning her.

Since this vintage DQ had no indoor seating, we leaned against the south wall of the building---sharing the Blizzard while watching others eat their nasty food in their cars.  The weather had chilled considerably as we headed north, but the south wall provided a warm spot to eat ice cream.

North of Newton we veered off onto New Jersey 94, which brought us over the New York border to the rather chic if not rather sparse year around resort of Warwick.  We continued on towards Newburg on the Hudson River when I realized I or we or someone had made a grave error.  Within seconds it wouldn't matter who did it.

My husband was consulting the map, and I poking a finger at it as I kept one eye on the road.

"Here.  Burlington, Vermont," I snapped.

My husband squinted at the atlas, flipping between pages.  "Burlington is way up here."

It is his job to make motel reservations, which we were now doing just a day in advance to avoid driving into weather problems.  I must have said Burlington.  Shit.  Burlington, Bennington---let's call the whole thing off.  He had shown me the online map accompanying the reservation, but it was too focused on the motel for me to notice my mistake.  Yeah, whatever.  Thanks.

Now of thoroughly foul mind, I handed the wheel over to him and he drove us into Newburg---which was also thoroughly foul, slummy and larded with unsynchronized signals.

"Forget Poughkeepsie," I ordered as I studied the atlas. "We've done it more than once anyway.  Cross the Hudson here on I-84 and head for the Teutonic Parkway."

I always call the Taconic State Parkway the Teutonic because who the hell knows what Taconic means anyway?  Of course once one starts saying Teutonic they recall Joan Crawford in blonde braids doing a jig in a beer garden with Fred Astaire in Dancing Lady---and a mental breakdown is imminent.

Okay, okay.  Deep breath.  Let's focus on the God-given graces of the Taconic State Parkway, 104 miles of graceful if not lumpy hills and curves---which so happened to be about the same as the extra miles we'd now have to drive to reach Burlington, Vermont.  Actually, these were graces designed by landscape architect Gilmore Clarke to offer an atheistically pleasing yet timely road trip through the eastern Hudson Valley.  The parkway bond, a pet project of then governor Franklin D. Roosevelt, was passed in 1925, and construction began in 1931 at Valhalla as an extension of the Bronx River Parkway.  In a radio speech during the opening of this first segment, Roosevelt envisioned the parkway reaching all the way to the Canadian border, but the Taconic was considered finished when it finally reached the Berkshire Connector of the New York State Thruway in 1963.

We drove the last 64 northerly miles of the Taconic State Parkway, starting on a segment that was completed in 1935.  Ten more miles were opened to Highway 55 in time for now President Roosevelt to drive the Taconic to the 1939 New York World's Fair.  World War II halted construction, but another twenty mile segment was completed in 1949.  All of these segments balance beauty with speed, the narrow dual lanes and lack of shoulders heightening the illusion of the latter.  The views, even on an ever increasingly dreary day, are quite spectacular.  The post 1949 segments reflect advancing views on highway engineering and are somewhat less engaging to drive---more akin to a modern Interstate.

Of course I'm not going to pay a toll when there are more interesting alternatives, so we exited just before the Thruway at Chatham, moving onto 295 and headed east to 22.  This highway travels north through narrow valleys dotted with often forlorn farmhouses and quaint if not comatose little towns.  At Berlin Patsy's yellow snowflake came on---meaning it was 37 degrees outside, a full thirty degrees cooler than it was when we started in Bordentown that morning.  Spring had receded in the same fashion, now noted only occasionally by the earliest bulbs.

Highway 22 zig zags through charming Hosick Falls, once home and burial place for folk painter Grandma Moses.  I was going to suggest she was the Thomas Kinkade of her day, but aside of her comparable celebrity her brand of sentimentality was based on experience, not fantasy.  Both artists thrived in their era of war and social change---Grandma Moses's celebrity kicking off just as Europe went to war in 1939 and peaking during the McCarthy era.

We were now just 15 miles due east of Bennington, Vermont---but still 117 miles south of Burlington.  I had resigned to our fate, being too tired to do otherwise.  Besides, the radio was suggesting we were doing a good thing---heading as far north as possible, ahead of the snow.  The scenery was winter barren but pleasant; even the crocus had disappeared.  With a good highway ahead of us and few towns to slow for, we could make the trip in about two and and quarter hours.  Driving into a sleety squall lengthen the drive to two and half hours.

Once we passed through the squall, the skies lifted to high winter overcast, with golden breaks to the west behind the Adirondacks.  North of Shoreham, Vermont the scenery became expansive, with farmlands rolling down to the southern end of Lake Champlain and rolling back up to the snow covered mountains.  It's very pretty country, a place to stop and explore sometime---when it's warmer.

We were listening to Magic 590, WROW---its high fidelity signal traveling clearly through the cold atmosphere from Albany, New York.   It's one of those stations that try to please everyone by playing most anything from 1950 to 1980, although I imagine folks hardly older than myself don't appreciate being bundled into their parents or even their grandparents generation.  I'm merely amused, and in this case appreciated that WROW actually has local people behind the mikes regularly giving out real traffic and weather.

A song came on from my extreme youth---one that, on the surface, inexplicably moves me.  For casual purposes I can explain this away with the fact that I did not have television from the age of six to fourteen, so the radio and the popular story-telling songs of the 1970s had an indelible impact on me---but as I grow older I understand the impact was more about a subliminal precociousness, if there are such things.  In that I'm referring to situations lost and forgotten---adult themes in the need of replaying, resorting and restoring to proper context.  It feels like a delicious sort of mourning.

Now, as I write, I have to go back and research the song because my memory of music is like a child's---based on rhythm and emotion, not titles and artists.  My connection to music remains so after forty years; my mental jukebox buttons are always in need of a cipher.

Perhaps the song was I Go Crazy.  The title is suitable enough, and right now I can't spend more time researching.  I can't spend more time in the nauseous space I arrive at via an analytical approach.  As we drive along I'm not ten or even twenty but merely a man advancing in age, and for the moment, open.  A now-dead friend has dropped in for a visit.  Friendships evolve so much after death, after convention drops away---and here he is, just dropping in for a loving moment---a reminder not to resist the moment.  I feel his curls and his skin and then he is gone.

Ah, but resist I must, for I've been trained well.  Now we were turning into the G.G.T Tibet Inn of Burlington and I was wondering what the hell my husband has got us into now.  He had been pronouncing Tibet as Tibbet, so I had no idea we were going to spend the night in some third world shrine.  However, the Tibet Inn turned out to be a clean, comfortable and ordinary if not dated motel run by friendly Tibetians in exile.  Their explanation of the curious G.G. T.: "Gangjong Gesar Tsang is a name for the Tibetan homeland. Its meaning is roughly “land of the snows,” and it is used by Tibetans to mean their spiritual and emotional home, rather than the political nation of Tibet, Phoe."  More interesting things can be found out about Tibetians in Vermont at G.G.T. Tibet Inn, and I was very glad to help them.

I Love To Ride A Ferry

Wednesday, 10th April 2013

Map: Rehoboth Beach, Delaware to Bordertown, New Jersey via the Cape May Ferry---126 miles

When days promise to be warm and travel distances are unusually reasonable, my husband and I like to take a walk in the morning.  This day he donned his best summer frock and brought along his chain of paper doll men to remind himself of past triumphs before hitting the boardwalk to duly note the sun rising over the Atlantic.

The wind was still blowing off shore, making a walk through the neighborhoods more interesting.  Fragrant Chinese magnolias were in full bloom, and giant fish leaped out of the busy surface of Lake Greer for their breakfast.  Feral cats wandered around, looking for their own breakfasts---one canned buffet being conveniently placed on top of a car hood.

Back at the Royal Rose Bed & Breakfast, we had quiche on

Chinese magnolia.  Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

the sun porch and then I finished a blog entry at the same table, since there was no desk in our room.  I had started the entry during the wee hours, sitting on the floor and placing my laptop on top of our thermoelectric cooler.  The other guests at the inn made their appearance---a middle aged straight couple from the DC area.  We had parked next to their Prius V, so there was much discussion about that, and then he settled into his Washington Post crossword puzzle.

"Depression era shantytown," he read to his wife.  One could imagine this was their usual morning conversation.  "Hoover...."

"Hooverville," I piped, although surely she would have said so only a second or two later.

"Ah, another crossword puzzle player," he said.

"Nope," I replied.  "Just know my history."

Greer Lake.  Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

I finished writing just as it was becoming uncomfortably hot on the sun porch.  My husband had packed Patsy, so it was time to hit the road to Lewes (pronounced Lewis---well, I didn't know...) to meet up with the Cape May Ferry.  Having no interest in driving through Philadelphia and having never seen the south coast of Jersey, I thought it would make a nice excursion.  We arrived at the dock with perfect timing, as we were soon heading out onto the open water, minus $52.  That was considerably more than I expected to pay for the trip, but I failed to note online that $32 was simply for the car---as a car would take itself for a joy ride on a ferry---while there's an additional ten dollar charge for each car passenger.  But hey, it's really a bargain because there's about ten minutes of duty-free shopping in the on board gift shop.

Cross currents on Delware Bay.  Cape May Ferry.

It was a perfect day to ride a ferry, and we stood up front, Titanic style, the wind playing sexily over our bodies.  This was the first time I had been on the practically open sea, and I took the lunging over the cross currents like a sailor---or at least like a drunken one when I tried to walk.

I had noticed a peculiarly coiffed old who looked just like a geriatric version of Guy Fieri of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives---his gray hair heavily processed into silver white spikes over the top of his head.  Apparently he thought my husband's mustache made them one of the same, so he wandered over for a chat.

"So where are you from?" he asked after my husband mentioned some of our travels.

"California."

"Oh!  Hey, Mary...!"  But his woman had wandered off.  "Now where did she go now?  My Mary, she's from California.  Turlock."

Apparently he thought it was terribly important for three Californians to meet, as he went off looking for her---returning with a typically attired dyed middle aged tourist displaying a slightly harassed attitude, as if to say Joe, I've got shopping to do.

"At least your not from Southern California," she sniffed upon hearing of our hometown.  "I don't know why they just split the state into two."

"I was born in Southern California," I said.  "Third generation."

"Oh."

I smiled and shrugged.

"The last time I was in Southern California was to go to Disneyland---in 1961."

"Those were better times to go there," I replied sincerely.

She went on about her hatred of Southern California, unable to see that Turlock has become pretty much like Southern California sprawl in the last twenty years.  This geopolitical game has become so dated and transparent during the rampant growth of central and even parts of northern California in the last thirty years.  It always comes down to water, even if the Bay Area sucks their vast majority of water from the same Delta---a frightfully fragile, highly adulterated ecosystem that could collapse whenever the Hayward Fault decides to whip out one of its perennial 7.0 earthquakes.  Mother Nature will have the last laugh at the expense of all of us.

"I mean, whenever they mention the weather in California, it's always about Los Angeles," she continued, as if the city was an attention whore, climbing out of a sports car sans panties.

Fortunately the captain called out the duty-free shopping, and we were left alone again to muse about travel.  At the mention of New Brunswick, Joe became quiet---displaying an introspective look.

"You ought to go to the Twin Towers site," he said softly.  "I live a forty minute ferry ride across from there.  When I saw what was happening on television, I walked down to the docks to see what I could do to help.  I was given a clipboard and told to get the names and addresses of the people coming off the boats so it could be assessed how best to get them on their way home."

"There was this woman," he continued after a pause.  "It took me a long time just to get her name and address, she was in such shock.  Finally she told me she was from New Brunswick, and I could send her along to get transportation.  Naturally she stuck in my mind, so a few days later I looked on the Internet to see if I could find out more about her.  There was a big article about her experience in the St. Johns, New Brunswick paper---that as she had ran out of the lobby of the World Trade Center part of a body had fallen on her."

Joe stared out over the water, seeing the day all over again.  I could feel a political diatribe beneath it all, but fortunately he kept the moment in a quiet, human prospective.

We were now approaching New Jersey, and the refreshing wind slackened---making me realize I had already been out in the sun way too long.  I moved to a bench in the shade of the captain's quarters and watched Mary return and leave again---my husband reach out and touch Joe's arm.  I knew exactly what had happened then---that the discussion had turned to today's political scene, and my husband had made a gesture of I hear you, but I disagree.

"Actually," my husband later reported, "I said you sound just like my brother."

That gesture went a long way.  Joe eventually admitted that some people do need all those social services.

Interestingly, Mary had departed again with you're not going to go off on politics again, are you?

As we came into the docks at Cape May, New Jersey, a school of dolphins dutifully frolicked off by the lighthouse.

I was surprised and interested to find Cape May so ungentrified.  Little postwar box houses still run down right down to the narrow shore along Delaware Bay, rarely replaced with McMansions.  It felt like going back in time, with nothing but little stores and little restaurants and little houses waiting for summer.  Towards Villas and Middle Township the postwar houses thin out and are mixed with farms, some featuring old two story houses as tall and slender as chimneys.  I wish I could see inside one, as the houses can't be more than twenty feet square and the stairs must be more like ladders.

Dennis and Corbin City can stand in for vintage New England, with large rectangular houses and doorsteps almost on the narrow pavement.  Pines and sloughs make the area very scenic and deceptively rural, despite the proximity to Atlantic City.  Although I had chosen the route carefully, I was surprised by the beauty and calmness of the area as we drove along with Patsy's windows down.

However, the rural atmosphere does have its drawbacks when it's in the upper 80s and one's looking for a Dairy Queen, let alone a frozen custard.  There just didn't seem to be much going on, and I wondered where the residents wandered off to shop and dine.  I was feeling the effects of sun exposure, so in desperation from heat and thirst, we stopped at a McDonald's in May's Landing. We decided to try their much ballyhooed McWraps.  The presentation is novel, if not wasteful: a tall box envelope one tears back on the perforation to reveal your meal.  The ingredients are surprisingly fresh and tasty, especially the mixed baby greens---but then they ruin it all by pouring on their chemical-flavored sauce, a bow to economy and efficiency.  At $3.99, McWraps aren't cheap fast food, and the lack of variety and disharmonious mix of fresh and chemical makes it no real competition to Subway, their ever more formidable foe.  Perhaps the happy result will be Subway offering fresh baby greens for their sandwiches.

Naturally we passed a prosperous frozen custard stand a scant five miles away in Egg City Harbor...

Now satiated by chemicals and cooled by Patsy's refrigeration, we drove northeast on Highway 563 through Jersey's pine barrens.  As the name implies, it isn't particularly interesting country---but compared to the alternative of tollways and suburban sprawl it is a pleasant short cut if one needs to head due north.

Flowering weeping cherry trees.  Bordertown Fire Department.

At Pemberton, we turned onto US 206---where infamously bad Jersey drivers preferred my ass over the left lane.  There was too much to see to pay them much attention, though---from funky old motels to this pairing of lovely, large weeping cherry trees at the Bordertown fire department.

After settling into our Days Inn equipped with a supersized Dunkin Donuts, we drove off to meet my baby sitter of some forty years ago for dinner.  She's a Lesbian, just so you know it's contagious...  While not quite the far out forty year reunion---I had reconnected with her for awhile in my twenties---there was a lot catching up to do.  It was nice to see her happier and well established in the East after a series of SoCal misfortunes some twenty years ago.

"You look about the same," she said upon our meeting.  "Only grayer."

At least she didn't say gayer...

Down By The Sea

Tuesday, 9th April 2013

Map: Tarsboro, North Carolina to Rehoboth Beach, Delware: 342 miles

Leaving the window open all night in our motel room exposed us to just enough humidity to remind us we were in the South.  Thick yet benign while the temperatures hovered in the sixties, it would lay low as the day warmed, becoming a stultifying blue gray glare.

For now, it provided a golden atmosphere as the old fashioned crossroads signage pointed out the way through a few plots of tobacco midst the cotton stubble and swamp cypress.  What wasn't old fashioned was the fact that North Carolina Highways 11/42 avoided what few towns there were at all costs, causing me to occasionally jerk the wheel and fling Patsy down a side road at the last moment.  This is how we discovered Aulander, a nice little town full of interesting old houses and a narrow Main Street barely three blocks long. Folks were out for a walk or just sitting on their porches, waiting to see what the day would bring.  My husband would wave, and they'd wave back.

Near Woodville, North Carolina

Ahoskie is big and bold enough to give a shout out along the highway, so I made a more graceful departure to visit it.  Soon I found myself in a lineup of cars on South Academy Street, stopping for some sort of police check.  I automatically pulled out my wallet, expecting to be turned away because of some sort of police action would be keeping everyone but residents from the area.

"What's the problem?" I asked as I flipped out my license.

"No problem," replied the short policeman,  "Just checking that driver's have their licenses."

He was such a handsome African American that I considered making a problem.  "Oh," I said, taking my wallet he handed back and trying not to stare too much.

"Have a good day now," he said---but I had already distractedly touched the accelerator, and his pleasantness was left in Patsy's wake.  Oh, how terribly rude of me.

$95,000---Winton, North Carolina

In Winton, on the Chowan River and the very top of the Albemarle Sound, you can buy this four bedroom, two bath Southern Victorian for $95,000---which means if this block home was for sale, it would probably command something like $35,000.  The garbage can was the neighbor's...

Now I had to stop this detouring into small towns because we had a lunch date with our great nephew in Newport News.  I had not planned the most direct route from Winton to the Newport News area, and then there would be unexpected construction and the forgotten fact that Virginia has the worst road signage in the United States.  The most sensible thing would have been to take US 13 directly to Suffolk, but I had thought detouring around the Great Dismal Swamp would be scenic.  It's not.  The swamps way back on 11/42 as one crosses the Roanoke River south of Woodville provide plenty of that kind of scenery.

Not on the market---but surely considerably less.  Winton, NC.

"Are you sick of us yet?" my husband asked as we finally arrived at the Mexican restaurant that was our chosen meeting spot.  He was referring to the umpteen times he had called in the last hour.  Our nephew, standing there in his gray Army fatigues, just smiled and gave us hugs---too polite to tell us our lives would be much easier if we just got an iPhone.

Although we had been anticipating this lunch meeting, as we sat down we realized that the last time we had any sort of conversation with him was when he was fifteen---well, okay, maybe twenty.  That he had been a good kid then, already sitting down to talk to the adults---at least for a minute, suggested we wouldn't have too hard of a time making conversation with him at the ripe old age of thirty.  After some small talk about our travels, we settled into relationships and---when reminded of his uncle's counseling profession---a lot about that field, which he's interested in after completing his army career.  Since being a captain is akin to being a life manager, he's already gained a lot of insight into the field of therapy.  Our nephew also has a broad physical/emotional appeal---one that would allow a man to spill his guts without feeling especially ashamed about it, or appeal to the bullshitter who will only arrive at the truth after moving through the maze of machismo.  My husband told him to let him know when he was ready to discuss his education options, and he seemed happy to have someone to bounce ideas off when the time comes.

Unc and great nephew.

We crossed the James River again, this time at its mouth and via yet another underwater tunnel, as it appears Chesapeake Bay is shallow and its bottoms unsuitable for supporting tall bridges.  Along Norfolk's Ocean View Boulevard there was no view except for the thousands of houses vying for the view.  Then it was onto the the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel for the hefty toll of $12, but one gets a free cup of soup with the receipt if they buy lunch at the restaurant out on the bay at the tunnel entrance.  Actually the toll is pretty reasonable, considering that the bridge and tunnel totals out at twenty miles long.

It takes some getting used to, this Atlantic Ocean always hiding behind dunes, or in rare glimpses giving the uneasy impression of being sightly higher than the road you're traveling over.  No matter for us, as we were making time on US 13, and if I wasn't napping I was listening to rather wacky WMBG 740 out of Willamsburg, playing anything from obscure 1950s country western to some light disco.

I was duly aware that Ocean City, Maryland is less than classy---but I wasn't prepared for a place that makes Laughlin, Nevada look classy.  The huge, ugly hotels, the small ugly motels---the shops and restaurants that replicate themselves every few miles to cater to the hordes.  The place is as colorful as the 1970s, as if it was a set for a never ending caftan clad cameo bore-fest called Ocean City.  I was thankful it was off-season, or this ghost metropolis would have been pure hell.

Eventually we arrived at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---our destination for the day.  The time and temperature on their fire department announced it was 90 degrees, but Patsy was more discreet, never saying it was above 88.  It felt like---well, just very unpleasant---not that the old folks seemed to mind one bit.  Our gay little bed and breakfast had yet to place the air conditioner in our window, but the two ceiling fans proved satisfactory.

"When's the last time you've been in Rehoboth?" asked our chipper, middle age host(ess).

"Never," replied my husband.

"Thirty years ago," I said.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---with the kitsch removed.

"Oh," he said, sucking in air between his teeth.  I got the impression that thirty years ago was a worse impression to overcome than never.

Not that it mattered much to me.  I have little memory of it, being but fifteen at the time and dank cold March weather pretty much shrank my recall to a bag of salt water taffy.  Although Rehoboth is certainly nicer than Ocean City, I could tell my husband was disappointed by its lack in quaint appeal.

Even if it was hot, it was still off season and a lot of the restaurants were closed---at least during the week.  We walked the boardwalk, but the breeze was hot off the land and hardly refreshing.  Eventually we found that Fins Fish House on Rehoboth Avenue was still in happy hour mode, so we bellied up to share fish and chips and a tall light one.  The bartender was equal to the beer---at least we liked to think so.

"Another one?" he asked as I put down my empty bottle.

"No, thank you.  This one had the desired effect."

He chuckled and in my condition I actually thought I  had amused him.

Walking back to our room, we passed Double Dippers---an ice cream parlor we thought was closed, but apparently it was only closed during the dinner hour.

"Hello, boyz,"called the chubby middle aged man from behind the counter.  He called the woman sitting at a table in the corner 'ladies'---although it was fairly clear they were lezzies of a certain age.  We had found the gay hot spot of Rehoboth Beach.

My husband had his favorite, Rum Raisin---which is very rarely found on the West Coast, and I had Coconut Almond Chocolate Chip.  I eavesdropped as we sat with our cones, listening to the chubby one talk to an athletic middle aged male couple about having opened a second shop somewhere in Florida for winter income.

"We have a lot of repeat customers already, so we're doing well."

I wondered if he called out hello boyz there, too.

Balmy Daze

Monday, 8th April 2013
 
Map: Simpsonville, South Carolina to Tarboro, North Carolina---310 miles

We sat at the kitchen table for a couple of hours that morning, drinking coffee and visiting with the in-laws.  I've become quite proficient with their family stories after fifteen years---enough to occasionally comment or remark when some variation thereof comes up. I enjoy listening to them because they resonate with me more than my own era, and unlike my own family the perspective is male.

That morning the brothers we naming off all the neighbors but forgot their mother's Bendix bursting a frothy load of wash out onto the floor.  Instead they went down into the basement to discuss the change from shoveling coal into furnace to installing an oil burner and where they were allowed to play down there and what section was off limits to them: their father's workshop.

Once my husband expressed surprise that I had no real interest in inheriting my birth home.  Unlike most Americans, it's still in the family after fifty years.  It's not so much the memories housed in it---memories that when given consideration are generally unpleasant, but by the mere fact that a circa 1960 tract home is a boring rectangle of many rooms squeezed into a modest square footage.  There were four floor plans in the tract I grew up in and twice as many expressions worn on their facade.  Ours was vaguely Southern, with some brick oozing mortar and three wrought iron filigree pillars that the kids quickly bent out of shape by climbing.  The neighbor's house was more assuredly Japanese, complete with courtyard entry.  It is my favorite floor plan, and it was also available as an improbable but thankfully vague Colonial.  Tonga and Bavarian Ranch were the other two major themes.  Their entertainment value fell far shorter on the inside.  I recall being most fascinated by the multicolor splatter on white asphalt tile under the avocado green shag carpet in the bathroom.  The colors were aqua, coral, pea soup green and black.

I studied Google maps thoroughly that morning and made some notes, so we had no problem leaving Simpsonville on the secondary highways.  By the time we reached Spartanburg we were traveling on old US 29, which we followed right into Charlotte.  Between Cowpens and Gaffney US 29 is called the Old Georgia Highway, and it's very similar to the Old Cornelia Highway we drove on the proceeding Saturday.  Up past Blacksburg, Crowders Mountain started peeking up over the horizon, an unexpected and beautifully rugged peak poking through the forest canopy.  In the towns the Chinese magnolias were in fragrant bloom, the daffodils were laying down to rest and Confederate violets dotted the lawns.

The radio station of the day was WOLI-AM Spartanburg---for at least as far as 3600 watts can carry in hill country.  Very recently reformatted as an 'adult standards' station, it is actually a descendant of the first radio station in South Carolina, WSPA, which began broadcasting in 1930.

Charlotte, North Carolina (Google Images)

We drove into downtown Charlotte at noon---another surprisingly easy surface street drive, although in all I didn't find the street scape as interesting as Memphis.  An exception was the 1947 Dairy Queen on Wilkinson Boulevard (US 29), complete with a giant Eskimo couple on top enjoying their cones with the curl on top.  These were a variation on the postwar Eskimo girl trademark Dairy Queen used into the late 1950s, before they switched to the saccharine cartoon Dutch boy and girl. We did not stop and partake, having shared a Subway breakfast flat bread sandwich in Cowpens.

By the time we were traveling east on North Carolina Highway 49 we had all the windows down, enjoying the balmy day that would occasionally turn stale and muggy, depending on a dip in the highway or sunblasted road cut.  At Asheboro 49 joins again with our old friend, US 64---although I can't recommend this section because one has to deal with the chafing outskirts of Raleigh.  I wish I had tried North Carolina Highway 42 directly from Asheboro , but my original intention to visit a nursery outside of Raleigh had been dropped without readjusting our route.

The drive became enjoyable again once we reached Highway 42 in Clayton.  The landscape flattened out and became mostly farmland---fields turned under for the winter or left to cotton stubble.  Little old cemeteries, so common in the Carolinas, dotted the roadside or sat squarely in the middle of a stubblefield.

Patsy was once again mute in helping us find a Roadfood recommendation in Wilson, so I had to park at McDonald's and dredge up a WiFi connection on my laptop.  It turned out Parker's was on the south side of town at an old highway crossroads, a long low building built for crowds.  Since we were a bit early and it was Monday night hardly anyone was there, so we found the waiters standing at attention.  It seemed waiters were the tradition and preferred since they also bussed and were expected to carry heavy loads.  They were of all descents: Latin, African American and Caucasian---pretty much matching the clientele.

Parker's menu was short and simple and cheap.  I got the small barbecue plate, my husband ordered the small combination plate---both at under five dollars each.  Each came with hush puppies, corn sticks and slaw for the table---plus a choice of two sides for the plate.  I chose green beans and french fries.  The green beans were cooked far longer than modern standards dictate, but still retained a green color, good texture and a savory, sour flavor.  The slaw was a vivid yellow, with a pickled flavor so far off from Martha's in Corinth that it seemed to me more like sauerkraut.  The vinegar notes continued with the shredded pork itself---it was becoming a somewhat monotonous meal.  My husband was far luckier with his piece of fried chicken---it was excellent.  If we ever return to Parker's, we'd order the chicken and fish and shrimp---the latter two coming out of the kitchen looking just as delicious as the chicken.

We had the windows down again for the last 26 miles to Tarboro via Hwy 42.  The air, the light---everything was soft, warm and beautiful.  The day's sunlight rose again from the damp earth as a fragrant heat---green as grass, with an occasional whiff of Chinese magnolia.   Once at our motel room I opened the screenless window and ran the heat pump underneath it on fan only, blowing the outdoors in all night long.

"There's a Dairy Queen at the Shell station next door," my husband grinned.

I raised my eyebrows---normally he wouldn't eat something like that after the kind of dinner we had.  But he must have known he was in for a good time, for he came back with even a bigger grin.

"The Latin boys working there liked me," he said---handing me a large cup with a medium one inside of it.  "They kept asking me if I wanted more stuff, so they had to put it in a larger cup.  No extra charge."

My husband dipped his spoon in for another bite, evidently very pleased with himself.

Spring Is Busting Out All Over

Greenville, South Carolina

Sunday, 7th April 20013

I had time to write Sunday morning, with the in laws going to church and all.  He runs one of the cameras that records the service and so leaves earlier to set up, while she stays behind to make sure she looks her best before leaving.

Upon their return early in the afternoon, we all drove into downtown Greenville.  I had no real expectations either way of the city, but even entering it on I-185 was impressive---with the freeway in scale with the surroundings and beautifully landscaped.  The urban forest, though largely bare or just bursting into bloom, gave a sense of history and permanence lacking in the exurbs.  The core of the city has just the right balance of old and new, height and breadth.  There is no sense of history lost.

Most impressive were the crowds strolling the streets.  I've never seen so many people walking hand in hand, but it was a perfectly balmy day---with a stiff breeze blowing at exactly the same temperature.  Love was in the air.

We bumped into a friend of theirs from the senior center---a tiny Russian who was on the way to open her gallery.  Although her gallery was home to a number of artists from amateur to impressive, most of the space was given to her tremendously prolific output.  Although her vivid and urbane style was not to my taste, she displayed good composition.  I favored her sketchy watercolors over her scratchy acrylics.

"Oh, those are my more traditional works," she replied offhandedly.  They obviously didn't interest her much, and I wondered if they were nothing more than her ideas to later reproduce in acrylics.  She has lived all over the world, and her street scenes reflected this.  Her watercolors were of the type expertly slapped out and sold on the Champs d'Elysee.

As my husband and I pursued her gallery, the in-laws stayed close to their friend, who they had not seen in some time.  It turned out her husband had been critically ill, and now it would be months before he could leave the hospital.  There was a lot of catching up to do.

"When he regained consciousness, they started asking him all sorts of questions to ascertain his mental abilities," she said once we finished our rounds.  "When they asked him who the president was, his blood pressure went sky high---so they knew he understood that question!"

There were guffaws between the three of them and wan smiles from us.  My brother-in-law winked at me and announced:  "Careful, there are a couple of liberals among us."

My husband protested because he often can't leave well enough alone when it comes to his brother.  He offered a lame dissertation about neither being liberal or conservative when they damn well knew we're liberal.  His message was that he didn't appreciate being boxed in and didn't have any real fondness for any politician.  I agree, as I'm only impressed by an exhibition of intelligence and diplomacy over party rhetoric and philosophy---and needless to say I've rarely been impressed.  Nothing gets done if one changes their politicians as regularly as their underwear---and if you want change, you need to start at home by doing something positive and a bit out of your comfort zone.  And by positive, I don't mean mounting a counter-attack...

Anyway, my husband later remarked to me about this occasion in that he was pleased that his brother had introduced me as his partner.  I was pleased that he was pleased, but there didn't seem to be any alternative other than introducing me as his love child...

Sitting in a barbecue restaurant---where I should have ordered the barbecue instead of the barbecue salad, I duly mused to myself that my in-laws weren't seeing the same things out the window as I did.  There was a lesbian couple and their three children, the two men---the one man. Of course none of them were holding hands. Sitting close to the plate glass, I was at eye level to what gay men like to look at most, and indeed it looked like spring was busting out all over Greenville.

On the streets I walked behind the other three.  Being a head taller than them made sight seeing a breeze, and I could stay out of the way of other pedestrians if I took up the rear.  So naturally I saw first to see what my husband had to turn back to point out to me: a man holding his girlfriend's hand across the corner from us.  He was built like a brick shit house, wore skintight trousers and his penis was pointing to ten o'clock and the object of his affection.

"Look," he said, too loudly.

"Shhh," I hissed.  Like I wouldn't notice that.  Not that we don't share such observations, especially on days most conducive to hand holding.

"What?" asked my brother-in-law.

I suddenly had an interest in the heavens above and my husband darted back to the curb as an avoidance maneuver.

"What?" he asked again, fortunately not to me.  Perhaps he was just once more playing the instigator.

My husband finally muttered something to his brother---obviously picturesque enough to receive an icy oh in reply.

We wandered through the Mast General Store, a Greenville fixture since 1883.  Past the large outfitting department up front one finds local foods, kitchenware and once-penny candy.  Walnettos and hard ginger candy were my favorites---the latter a complexity of mild heat, spice and a pronounced floral scent on the breath.  Horehound is to be avoided in the future.

Eventually we ended up on the river, walking midst a happy juxtaposition of the man-made and natural.  Multiple spots for lingering and lounging or listening to concerts make the parkway most inviting, and the suspended arc that is Liberty Bridge is a favorite spot to hang out and watch the water slip over the limestone shoals in the river below.  Since the water level was low, many people were tempted by the forbidden act of walking out onto the shoals---gingerly moving about on the slippery, wet surfaces.

"I could live here," I murmured to my husband beside me on the back seat.  It would only be a day before we'd be reminded of the wretched humidity, but in this moment---this hand-holding day of growth and diversity---a little brick bungalow in some downtown Greenville neighborhood literally felt good.

The Roundabout Way

Saturday, 6th April 2013


Map: Norcross, Georgia to Simpsonville, South Carolina---172 miles

Driving from Norcross to Gainsville is a study in the problems of driving the Interstates.  They can even be beautiful once one gets out into the exurbs, such as Buford---but then the smooth, climbing roll becomes bland, the endless forest with sky scraping billboards as quotations boring.  The need for speed become paramount, and motorists comply.  Of course we also covered our first 36 miles in as many minutes, avoiding the frantic stop and go of suburban Atlanta and having a true context to thoroughly enjoy the next 25 miles to Cornelia.

Old Cornelia Highway is a 1930s joy to drive---fast enough to feel like you're getting places, but rolling and banking enough for motoring pleasure.  Once above Lula the highway climbs out of the ravines and rides the ridges, offering farther vistas that occasionally reach the Smoky Mountains.  Along the way are plenty of old houses to add interest, and most of all, endless roadside service buildings---most built unusually substantial.  Many of the smallest buildings were still built of brick, quaint as cottages, though now mostly unused.  The trashy aspects of the South are largely absent.

This is still an important railroad corridor, and Lula has an annual Railroad Days every May.  There's a real sense of transportation history around there, with the rumbling train adjacent and the remains of our past highway culture.  Going a bit astray in Cornelia, we stopped at the old train station to study Patsy's GPS.  Downtown was tidy but rather empty.

From here the old highway is Georgia 13/Dicks Hill Parkway, arcing around its namesake and dropping into Toccoa---a city decimated by the fact that furniture manufacturing has moved to China.  Even the Dairy Queen was boarded up, much to our dismay.  Somehow both the Lincoln and Cadillac dealers remained open, slumming like debutantes.  East of town we passed one shuttered factory after another, although some small family businesses remained---such as So-and-So and Son Spindles and Table Legs.

Butia capita, courtesy of Google Images.

East of Toccoa we were traveling on a combine of two Georgia highways and old US 123---which became merely US 123 after crossing the South Carolina border.  The first thing I noticed there was the appearance of exotic plants---mostly the very hardy Mediterranean fan palm, but also a Butia capitata, the Pindo Palm.  While the Argentinian native is still hardier than most palms, it's considerably less hardy than the Mediterranean, being damaged by temperatures in the mid-teens and likely killed at around 10 degrees.  Perhaps the area around Westminster is what gardeners and climatologists call a 'banana belt'.  The palm is also known as the Jelly Palm for a popular South American product made from its fruit, which is intensely flavored like banana, pineapple and apricot---one flavor predominating, depending on the soil conditions.  The Butia is rare in California, mainly because it grows very slowly under any conditions.

Fruit cluster on B. capita (Google)

The scenery degenerates to strip malls at Seneca, where we stopped and substituted our ice cream craving with a Hardee's "real" chocolate shake---Dairy Queens being a rarity in South Carolina.

We drove on through prettier-from-the-highway Clemson, home of the University and the South Carolina Botanical Gardens, and then tried to make our way to my in-laws in Simpsonville over lesser highways.  We were jinxed on many levels, the first being that this atlas page was impossibly small in scale and so lacking details, such as county road numbers.  Patsy's GPS also shrugs at the Carolinas, and it doesn't help she was built before their street was.

"You're supposed to get you're GPS updated!" barked my brother-in-law over my husband's cell phone.  We had the same 'discussion' when we visited several years ago.

Since they never wander about the back roads, they had no clue where we were.  I had done well by traveling South Carolina 88 then 8 then 418 to Fountain Springs, but then my personal GPS/memory failed me and I turned to the right instead of the left and we wandered far off and around towards Woodruff.  The lack of horizon under the dull blue metallic skies really throws off my usually infallible sense of direction, but I knew I was circling in appropriately.  At least the scenery was pleasant and traffic almost non-existent.  A gaggle of Ford Model As passed us in the opposite direction.

I finally landed in the eastern outskirts of Simpsonville, me a basket of crabbiness from the loud debate going over the cell phone---and then the four of us finally figured out we were quite close to their house.  I was most annoyed with myself for not studying Google maps before we left that morning.

Patsy offered a consolation prize of 56.7 MPG---she was really making up for her previous days of lackluster performance.  The curse of systems rebooting was off her.

Family Affairs

Friday, 5th April 2013

Atlanta, Georgia

Now don't get all excited.  If you think I'm going to spill the beans here, you'll only be disappointed.  You're just going to have to wait for my book Everybody's Dead Now, Vol. 4---to be published posthumously.

Dreary weather was cast aside for springtime.  Flowering pear petals were floating in the breeze as we went for a lunch date with an ex-cousin I hadn't seen in some twenty five years.  That is, a cousin's ex.  We had reconnected through that Pandora's Box known as Facebook---she blackmailing me with fat childhood photos and I scraping for hush money payments.  Naturally I came prepared with plenty of brugmansia cuttings in all colors as well as a fragrant Petunia axillaris and a double lilac, which will likely lead a very unhappy Southern Lifestyle---but hey, something must be sacrificed.

We lunched at a very loud burrito joint---we would discover on this trip that it seems the South serves more of them than grits these days.  We maintained a conversation in spite of the music.

"You must have inherited your green thumb from your grandma," she said.  "You two were very close."

"Yes, we were," I replied---but the interior conversation was more complicated.  I ended up knowing and seeing too much.  It was a much simpler relationship when I was child, when it all revolved around flowers, buttermilk waffles and her chow mein dinners for my birthday.

"I always thought you'd take care of me," she said straight to my twenty-something face.

I burst out laughing---and I cringe at that recollection.  But hers was a passive-aggressive act, presented in front of other family members who were taking care of her the best they could.  I responded in kind.

"I have a life to lead," I replied airily.  Meaning this was a new age, where gay men aren't always nice and stay home with their mothers, or grandmothers.  I had a sex life---I mean relationships to pursue.  Never mind that I spent most of my twenties as a born-again virgin.

The music turned from grating to funky, and I strutted out of the restaurant---much to her amusement. It was good to hear her laugh as I remember it.

For some reason my husband went around the opposite end of the restaurant to Patsy Prius, so I had a moment alone with her.

"He yeeaahs in agreement just like she did---it's almost like being married to Grandma!"

The next visit was with my dear elderly auntie down off Caldwell Park---'elderly' being a family joke ever since a long-ago doctor once reported to her children that she was 'elderly' at the tender age of sixty-something.  This remembrance was only the first step going into family overdrive, which peaks at just below hysteria.  That's the way Grandma liked it---everyone practically wetting their pants (figuratively or otherwise), having fun, fun, fun.

"Can we throw our panties in your washer?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she drawled in her fifty-year-old Southern accent.  "You wrote and asked about that.  Well, I guess so."

She took me the laundry room and adjusted the dial for me, since her washer is about as old as she is and tends to start washing in spite of one's instruction.

"Put it on scalding; our panties have been on the road for a long time."

"Oh gawd," she groaned.  "Do you want me to throw some Hexol in there, too?"

We sat and visited with aunt and uncle, drinking wine and eating brie and crackers---I conscious of the next impending date.

"I guess I better call Sally at work and see where we supposed to be next," I mused.

"Oh, I can tell you all about that," replied Auntie.  "We're ordering pizza and everyone is coming here to see you."

"My, what a surprise---and to think I left my tiara at home!"

"So you can visit without all that restaurant noise.  Isn't that nice?"

Well, yes---and no.  Because one isn't going to have the same type of visiting with parental units hanging on every word.  When I was asked for a run down of Western cousin relations, I quickly got into a pinch.

"But Momma," protested a cousin, "I know what he means.  You don't ask for something else when someone brings you a gift."

So that form of visiting was dropped for family stories---which, being the family historian, I'm highly proficient at.  I'd toss one out, Auntie would elaborate and then I'd interject another story, just to see if I got a different version or new information in response.  It's sorta like playing poker---if I knew how to play poker.  This is the only game I'm good at---this storytelling, where the truth squeaks out between gales of laughter.  This time I got Auntie to admit great grandfather had a mean sense of humor.

While Auntie received but another Petunia axillaris, I brought a family heirloom for the eldest cousin: our great-grandfather's mantel clock with his and my cousin's name on its face.  It just seemed more appropriate that he have it instead of me, and then there was the happy coincidence that he'd be soon celebrating his sixtieth birthday. The lesser gift for anyone at hand was an assortment of Grandma's Fostoria, which may be still sitting behind Auntie's couch.  I'm not a sentimental person, and since the latter-day Fostoria had only vague memories of birthdays and afternoon guests attached to them I didn't want anymore.  They may divide it as they please, or sell it---as I did the pedestal cake stand to pay for a road trip before I met my husband.  After all, I'll be inheriting a lot more down the road.

In the eye of this social storm was the newlyweds, my second cousin and her husband.  Poised and slightly incredulous, they reminded me of myself and my husband when I'm not 'on' or the center of attention.  It's easy to imagine them going home and exchanging observations: Did you hear what so-and-so said? or Couldn't he butch it up a bit more?---but of course they haven't seen my back hair.  I think they may be brave enough to visit our Rancho Notorious.  I hope so; I'd like to hear more of his mellifluous voice and have a quiet conversation with her.

"I'd like to do a family reunion," sighed Sally, "but the very idea makes me tired.  I was thinking of renting a big beach house in Ventura---what do you think?"

"I think y'all should treat it like a vacation, and let everyone know far in advance when you'll be in town---and then just see what happens.  Our social arbitrator is gone, you know---I don't think we have the same drawing power as she did."

It was an evening of new girlfriends and old boyfriends, raised voices and impromptu exits---all heavily outweighed by obligatory laughter.  We'll see if we ever manage it on the grand scale as Grandma did some twenty-five years ago.