As many of you know, my son, G3, has been active in the Boy Scouts for the last several years. He has worked incredibly hard doing service projects, taking on leadership roles, and completing all the required merit badges. This is one of those times that I really wish my Dad were still alive because he would be incredibly proud of G3—just like Kati and I are. Earning the rank of Eagle is a goal that was inspired by my father. It was Dad who first got G3 excited about scouting, and he had looked forward to so many milestones in G3’s scouting life, but unfortunately, COVID killed him before he could be a part of them. If Dad were still alive, he’d be taking an active role in helping G3 with this project. But alas, fate is not always kind.
Many Scouts choose to do their Eagle Projects in their church, school, or town. G3, however, was driven by presidential history. Considering this is an election year, his timing couldn’t be better. Traveling around the country and learning history from National Parks and State Parks is an interest that my parents sparked in me and I’m glad I was able to pass that passion on to my son. I am happy to know that G3 appreciates all the traveling we have done and the history he has learned.
In order to complete his Eagle Project, G3 needs to buy materials. Please consider donating so that he can accomplish his goal. Below is G3’s brief description of his project. I have also included the GoFundMe link at the bottom of the page. Thank you for your help.
“My name is Gary Jaeger. I am a Boy Scout with Troop 84. I’m currently working on my Eagle Service Project, which is motivated by my interest in Presidential history. It will consist of refurbishing the well at the Grover Cleveland Birthplace in Caldwell. It will also include designing and installing two interpretive signs. This project is very dear to me, not just because it is my Eagle Project, but because it is part of an ongoing seven year project of mine.
When I was seven, my mother took me to the Grover Cleveland Birthplace (Caldwell, NJ) so I wouldn’t be a distraction to my other parent who was preparing for finals in graduate school. While there, I’m sure I learned about Grover Cleveland’s life and what he did when he was the president, but the thing that really stuck with me was his childhood games. The caretaker, Sharon, was very good at getting me excited about the history. A very interesting twist of fate is that she is the beneficiary who I am working with currently. A full circle. We stayed more than an hour, and I had enjoyed it so much, I said I wanted to visit all the presidents’ houses. As a result, for my last several summer vacations and some long weekends, we have traveled around the country so that I could learn more about the men who have governed our country. So far, I have visited the houses of 35 of the 45 presidents. (Biden is the 46th president, but only 45 men have held the office. Cleveland was the 22nd and 24th president since he served two non-consecutive terms.)
Now I want to return to the house that sparked my passion for Presidential history to give back to the historical community for all it has given me.”
Kramer looked a little more comfortable in our absence last night. He slept for a while on our bed, and this morning, he was playing the way he usually does—doing his zoomies and chasing his tail. Still, we intend to get him a friend.
Thank you to my cousin, Kerry, for offering up an idea on how we could spend this dreary icky rainy day. I did not know there was a branch of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Virginia near Dulles airport until she told me about it. Since the forecast for today was all rain and Kati was adamant about staying dry, we headed to the museum and I’m glad we did. We arrived shortly after they opened and just in time for a tour. I love tours. Otherwise, museums overwhelm me because I hate to read. Okay, I heard that collective gasp. It contradicts everything you know about me. But it’s true. I love to read books because I can be in motion and they are laid out in a way that I can just relax and let my brain take over. Reading at museums is different. The information is sprawled out and the exhibits are large and my attention span—or lack thereof—defeats me every time. Tours are so much better. They are interactive, they offer stories instead of dry facts, and you have the option asking questions—my favorite part.
Kati has a new rule for me because, apparently, I embarrass her. In order to be able to write a thorough account of what I learn, I need to take notes, which in this glorious age of technology means tapping away on my phone. The perception—Kati says—when I am on my phone is that I am being rude and not paying attention, when in reality I am hyper focused. I actually pay better attention while taking notes because I fall completely into school mode. To avoid Kati being embarrassed, she has requested that I announce to the tour guide the fact that I am a studious blogger and teacher which is why I may appear distracted and disinterested.
In the late 1800, Samuel Langley was the secretary of the Smithsonian Institute and he had a penchant for making model airplanes. Nineteen ninety eight saw the United States at war with Spain. Hoping to get an advantage, the army approached Langley and asked if he would be able to make his model planes big enough to fly with a human pilot. Langley set to work trying to do as the army requested. It took him five years, but he finally developed a plane that he felt was ready to be tested. Twice—once on October 7, 1903 and again on December 8–he attempted to fly the plane. Twice it crashed into the river. He never had an opportunity to make a third attempt because roughly ten days after his second failed attempt, he was upstaged by two brothers in North Carolina.
Two summers ago, we visited Kitty Hawk because G3 wanted to see where the Wright Brothers succeeded in achieving flight. (The bonus of that trip was discovering the beauty of the Outer Banks.) While there, the tour guide praised the Wright brothers, hailing them as American heroes. And they were—to an extent. But there are more than one side to every story. Today, we learned how the Wright Brothers obstructed the advancement of technology in pursuit of the good old dollar. Having gotten an airplane to fly, the got a patent from the Government. This gave them exclusive rights to manufacture planes in America. Every time someone else tried to make a plane, the Wright brothers sued.
Meanwhile, in Europe, technological advancement soared and England, France, and Germany surpassed America. Enter World War I. When America entered the war in 1917, we had pilots, but virtually no planes. Our pilots had to fly British and French planes. This information infuriated Kati. How could the Wright Brothers selfishness make us so vulnerable? Well, I agree with her frustration, but Is that not the American way? You can’t villainize the Wright Brothers without criticizing American corporate greed on the whole. You can’t be angry at the brothers for wanting to make money when that’s what capitalism is all about? But yes, putting the needs of individuals and corporations first, absolutely, without a doubt is not in best interests of Americans as a whole. Look no further than the greed of pharmaceutical companies as a shining example. But I digress.
“What is Mach speed?” The tour guide asked. Most of us knew it referenced the speed of sound, but we could not elucidate on that simple response. The tour guide filled us in. The term was named after an Austrian physicist Ernst Mach who studied and experimented with shock waves. The speed of sound is roughly 75O miles an hour or mach 1.
On display in the museum was the Enola Gay which was piloted by Samuel Tibbets. If the name sounds familiar, it should. It was the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I always thought it was an odd name for a plane, but I learned today that it was named after the pilot’s mother. The bomb was dropped at 8:15 AM and it took 45 seconds to fall. By then, the plane was already nine miles away.
There are several Nazi and Japanese planes at the museum, a testament to American eagerness to steal technology from the enemy. During the war, Americans recovered downed enemy planes with the intention of taking the plane home to be studied and analyzed. And the Germans especially were testing out some rather advanced ideas. By late 1943, the Germans knew they were losing. As a result, they increased their own efforts to produce better planes, often rushing them from the lab into production.
The Discovery shuttle was in the museum. It was the craft responsible for putting the Hubble telescope into space. The new Artemis program in NASA has revived efforts to put Americans on the moon. Artemis III is projected to put 4 astronauts on the moon in either 2028 or 2029.
A12 planes were an upgrade from the U2 planes used to spy on the USSR during the Cold War. The air force envied them and wanted something similar so they developed the SR71 planes, which were better known as Blackbird planes. They were made from titanium which is mined almost exclusively in what was the USSR. To make planes to spy against our enemy and to be ready to fight our enemy we needed to buy raw materials from said enemy. To achieve this, the CIA set up many fake companies and each company purchased a small amount of titanium. Collectively, the companies purchased enough to satisfy military needs and the USSR never found out.
Those are the historical highlights of the tour. The information I could follow and comprehend. I am sorry to report that I was not as diligent about my notes regarding the science behind flight. I just don’t have enough background knowledge and understanding to anchor my attention and extract the relevant facts. But it’s probably better that way because I have rambled way too much. Hopefully, you aren’t too bored.
After the tour, Kati continued her kitten research while G3 and I walked around. I know he really enjoyed the museum because he took more pictures than he ever had before. But he was mostly interested in the historical planes. The modern ones didn’t quite draw his attention.
By the time we left, Kati and G3 were famished. We went to the Burger Shack which was only a few miles away. I very much liked the falafel burger and Kati said her burger was one of the tastiest she’s ever had. G3 ate his but didn’t seem as enthralled. Before leaving, he and I got chocolate shakes that were also really good.
The rain stopped briefly, so when we finished eating we detoured to Great Falls Park, also recommended by my cousin. Considering all the rain that had fallen, the river was swollen and the falls were gorgeous. The water rushed over the falls and was both majestic and powerful as it beat against the rocks and churned against itself. Kati opted to stay in the car and G3 came with me but seemed unenthused—we’ve seen dozens of waterfalls in our travels—but I was happy for the stop, the brief time outside. If only we had more time and the weather wasn’t calling for more rain, a longer hike would have made the day even better. But I got to see the falls so I am grateful for that.
We are now driving home. Kati is nibbling on red licorice. It apparently contains some sort of magic substance—perhaps sugar—that keeps her awake when she drives. And G3 is sound asleep in the back. Now I will set my writing aside and read some before it gets too dark. I’m reading Hijab Butch Blues. It’s the next book my Sapphic book club is set to discuss. I can’t believe how much I am enjoying it. I have read a fair amount of memoirs and this is by far one of the best. The writing is superb—engaging and entertaining. And I am enjoying this journey into a world where queerness intersects with Islam. My knowledge of Islam is sadly lacking, and the memoir enables me to see beyond the stereotypes. The stories from the Quran the author shares are familiar, thought they do differ in some details from the Bible stories I grew up with. If you like memoirs, I highly recommend it.
When we got home, Kramer was hiding under our bed, but it didn’t take him long to come out. I think he is happy we are home.
Kramer is so lonely at home it’s breaking my heart. We set up a camera in our bedroom. Last night, he kept going into our room, looking for us, staring sadly at our bed, and then leaving only to return minutes later as if we might magically appear. I feel so bad for him. We need to get another cat so he isn’t all alone when we go away.
Every year at Christmas time, my father used to take me and G3 into Manhattan and one of the stops on our itinerary was St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Mom would have a wad of singles so G3 could light numerous candles—arguably his favorite thing to do in church. Today, G3 wanted to visit the National Cathedral. The nearest metro stop was a mile and a half away. You all know I love to walk, so not a problem for me. However, the idea of walking a mile and a half, simply to see a big church, did not appeal to Kati. She opted to sit at Panera and do some research to find Kramer a buddy. Apparently, cats are like potato chips and you can’t have just one.
G3 and I walk fast so we made excellent time. We got there for the 11:15 tour, but they only had one ticket available. I turned on the charm and managed to talk the ticket agent into selling me two tickets. Yay, me!
The Cathedral is Episcopalian and it wasn’t completed until 1990. I have no recollection of ever visiting before, so I am apt to say that when I came here with my parents (circa 1987) that we didn’t see it. But I will have to confirm with Mom next time I talk to her. While the Cathedral wasn’t completed until the latter part of the last century, work began in the first decade. In 1907, Teddy Roosevelt and his friends ceremoniously broke ground.
It was built in the gothic style from limestone quarried in Indiana. All gothic cathedrals have four common features. I remember learning this back in Sacred Heart, sometime in middle school, but the only feature that stands out in my memory is the flying buttresses. I remember them because my moronic teacher told us that the parish church had them. When I told my mother she got a good laugh. She still laughs when she thinks about it. Anyway. the four features common to gothic architecture are: flying buttresses (which push the weight of the structure inwards), vaulted ceilings and pointed arches (both of which redistribute weight), and finally, the presence of many stained glass windows. The windows were gorgeous, a beautiful blend of blues, reds, yellows, and greens. Sadly, it was cloudy so we couldn’t fully appreciate them.
One giant stained glass window at the back of the church, a brilliant starburst, has 10,000 one inch pieces of glass. The space window holds a moon rock which the astronauts brought back from the moon landing. There used to be a stain glass window of Stonewall Jackson and one of Robert E. Lee. They have been removed for political reasons and replaced with windows demonstrating the importance of protest in American democracy.
The tour guide made a huge deal about the statues of Washington and Lincoln, going on about how vitally important religion was to both men, and therefore, to the nation as a whole. Lincoln especially, because the first book he learned to read was the Bible (probably because it was the only book in his home) and because he allegedly used Bible stories as a way to relate to and connect with jurors. I wonder how much of that bit of her tour has been rewritten in an attempt to persuade tourists that we are inarguably a Christian nation, a nation that values the Bible as much as the Constitution.
Hanging from the ceiling in the nave are flags representing the states and territories that comprise our nation. Woodrow Wilson is the only president buried in the Cathedral. However, Senator John McCain, Madeline Albright, Colin Powell, and Sandra Day O’Conner all had their funerals there. After Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered, his parents sought a safe place to inter his ashes. His ashes are in the Cathedral, along with Helen Keller’s and Anne Sullivan’s.
Like all cathedrals, there are many small chapels. The memorial chapel is a place to remember men and women killed in action. There is a stone cross in the chapel made of stone from the Pentagon following the 9/11 attack. The kneeling cushions in one section of the cathedral contain the names of famous Americans. The Cathedral teamed up with the Smithsonian to generate a list of names. Reading them, you realize how insignificant women were for much of our history. How we were ignored and cut from the narrative. I am certain the same can be said for non-white people. In total, I counted only thirteen women’s names—but I counted quickly because G3 was loudly rolling his eyes, so I might have missed a few.
One of the gargoyles on one of the towers is sculpted to look like Darth Vader. G3 said he could see it, but my old eyes couldn’t. We went upstairs predominantly to see the view, but the clouds killed it. Before we left, G3 lit two candles: one for Nona and one for Grandpa.
After our tour and wandering around a bit on our own, we walked back to Panera for lunch and to pick up Kati. Our next stop was the National Museum of the American Indian. By the time we emerged from the Metro it was raining rather heavily. There was no avoiding getting wet on our walk to the museum. But it was only water and it wasn’t cold, so no big deal. Our visit to that particular museum was brief since we went specifically for G3 to satisfy a requirement for the Indian Lore merit badge. Plus, it was rather boring. As G3 said, “We’ve been to so many Native American historical sites, there’s not much new here.” He was right. One of the exhibits we went to was about the Battle of Little Bighorn. The pictures in the exhibit were of things we saw in person three summers ago. If my dad were here he’d call me a snob, maybe he’d be right. Maybe we just travel too much.
G3 really wanted to go to the National Museum of Natural History next. Since it was still raining and Kati didn’t want to get any more wet, she stayed behind. The walk was about fifteen minutes—enough to saturate me. G3 didn’t get too wet because he was the smart one who brought a rain jacket. On the way, we could see the Capitol building in the distance. I pointed it out and G3 commented, “That’s where the insurrection happened.” Yep, that’s where our democracy almost died at the hands of Trump. How is it, exactly, that he’s eligible to run again when his minions are in jail?
When G3 was three, his grandparents took him into Manhattan to go to the Natural History museum there. He absolutely loved it. It was by far one of the best days in his young life. The dinosaurs were his favorite. He enjoyed the trip so much that a year or two before Dad died, G3 asked to go back. Dad never said no to him and so we revisited the museum. Perhaps that’s why he wanted to go to the museum here. He remembered how much fun he had in NY. But he is quite a bit older now and nothing is as enjoyable without dad. He and I walked around the museum together, but I’m not sure how much he liked it. He raced through, glancing at exhibits, but not really seeing anything. The dinosaurs appeared to be anticlimactic. I’m just happy I didn’t have to pay to get in.
For dinner, we went back into the Old Town of Alexandria. I really like that city and I was disappointed that the rain persisted because I had been hoping for a leisurely walk through the city. Oh well, I am no stranger to disappointment. We ate at the Hard Times Cafe. If you ever find yourself in or near Alexandria when you are hungry you must stop. They had the second best nachos we’ve ever had. (The best G3 and I had were in Hot Springs, Arkansas.) And the chili and corn bread were mighty tasty. While we ate, my family made fun of the way I enthusiastically call our cat. They told me I sounded scary and just frightened him. I disagree because he never runs away when I call him. They also made fun of me for having terrible taste in cat names. I feel so unloved.
It’s close to bed time and Kramer has resumed his search for us. He walks into our room, looks around, stares longingly at our bed and then leaves only to come back. Poor little guy is so lonely. He does need a four legged friend.
This year our spring breaks aligned which meant we got to escape New Jersey for a few days. The problem—where to go? We have gone away so much and taken G3 to so many places that figuring out where to go was a challenge. According to G3, it was my fault, “This is your fault because you hate staying home and always need to go somewhere.” I guess there are worst things to be blamed for. I suggested that we go back to someplace we’d already been and either explore something different while there or see something G3 might not remember so well. And that is how we settled on Washington, D.C. Last time, we did not get a chance to cross the Potomac to visit Arlington National Cemetery.
This morning we left early. It’s our first time leaving Kramer (our kitten) home alone so we’ve been plagued with anxiety worrying about him. However, we have trusted friends looking out for him and making sure he eats. The drive south was rainy—mostly downpour—but it miraculously stopped raining minutes before we got to the cemetery.
Our first stop was the gift shop—G3’s favorite place at any site—where I bought G3 a souvenir patch and tickets for the tram. There are some memories from my childhood that are much sharper, much clearer than others. My visit with my parents, when I was roughly G3’s age, is one of those memories. I distinctly remember sitting on the tram next to my father while he explained to me that Arlington Cemetery is on the grounds of Robert E. Lee’s plantation. At the time, he was sympathetic to the fact that Lee lost his home and that it had become a place to bury the dead.
While I remember being at Kennedy’s grave with my parents and seeing the eternal flame, my memory did not do it justice. I remembered it being grander than it is, the flame being bigger. What I learned today is that eight months before JFK was killed, he paid a surprise visit to the cemetery. While there, he commented, “I could stay here forever.” Because of that, after his assassination, his wife decided to have him interred there instead of in the family plot in Brookline, Massachusetts.
Standing at the Tomb of the Unknown soldier, I could almost see my younger self standing with Dad as he explained the significance of the tomb. There were the remains of four unknown soldiers in the tomb—one from each of the World Wars, one from Korea, and one from Vietnam. Now, there are only three. Scientific use of DNA permitted the soldier from Vietnam to be identified in 1998. His family removed his remains to Missouri. While I remembered watching the changing of the guard, again my memory was faulty since it provided only a vague recollection of what occurred. It is a simple yet solemn ceremony. G3 said it was cool to see. In teenager speak, I think that means he found it interesting and worth seeing.
The Arlington House was our last stop. The House is often referred to as Lee’s house, but that is a misnomer. The house and plantation belonged to his wife. She owned the property and adamantly refused to allow Lee to interfere with the finances or any other business regarding her estate.
The house was originally built by George Washington Parke Custis, Martha Washington’s grandson. It was built as a shrine to his step grandfather and in some ways was the very first Washington monument. He even collected artifacts that once belonged to Washington to display in the house. When he died, his daughter, Mary, inherited the house. She was married to Robert W. Lee. (Their eldest son was named George Washington Custis Lee.) So let’s pause for a moment to reflect on the fact that Robert E. Lee married into Washington’s family and then went on to support the fracture of the nation Washington helped build. Fascinating! This is why I need to teach history, because when I return to school I am definitely discussing this with my classes even though I’m supposed to be an English teacher. But this is more exciting than grammar or anything else I am required to teach.
When the south seceded from the union, Lincoln’s advisor asked Lee to lead the defense of the capital. After all, Lee was a graduate of the prestigious West Point and had a successful military career that included fighting in the Mexican American war. Of course his services would be sought by the Union. However, Lee replied that he could never raise his sword against his native state. (It may be important to note that in the 1860’s state allegiance meant a great more than it does today.) Privately, he was against secession and believed it would lead to a devastating and protracted war. He was not wrong. Unable to fight against Virginia, he resigned from the US military. Two days later, he and his family left Arlington House.
The house abandoned, the Union Army moved in, claiming it as their headquarters. Th Union Quartermaster, Montgomery Meigs and General Lee had been friends, but when Lee resigned and took the commission to lead the Confederate Army, Meigs considered him a traitor. Perhaps his decisions as Quartermaster were motivated by revenge. When local cemeteries became overrun with Union dead, Meigs opened Lee’s (or rather his wife’s) property for burial. The real slap to the Lees came when he opted to bury Union officers in Mary’s beloved garden. This was a tactical move made to prevent the Lees from wanting to return. It worked. Mary Lee returned once after the war but wouldn’t even get out of her carriage once she saw what her home had become.
Lee’s son eventually sued the US government to get his family home restored to him. He claimed that the law that enabled the Union to confiscate it was unconstitutional. The Supreme Court agreed with him. But, the fact that the home was now a cemetery meant that instead of returning the property to the Lee family the government paid Lee’s son (the equivalent of about 4 million dollars today, according to the ranger) for the former plantation. Taking the deal, he (Lee’s son) surrendered the deed to the Secretary of War, who happened to be Lincoln’s son.
Due to his traitorous acts, Lee lost his rights as a US citizen. He might have been tried and hanged as a traitor except for amnesty granted to him at Appomattox by Grant. Two months after surrendering, Lee requested a presidential pardon. Had Lincoln not been assassination it might have been granted. Johnson, however, denied his request.
G3 has become a typical teenager. My very presence is irksome to him and everything I say and do embarrasses him. I talk too loud. I say too much. I don’t know how to act invisible.
For dinner, G3 requested that we get pub food. We found an Irish pub in Alexandria—where we are staying—and decided to go there. Kati hated her food. The meat and potato pie reminded her of Sweeney Todd’s meat pies and at one point she thought she saw a toenail on her food. Needless to say, she could not finish it. G3 thought his French dip was too salty, but I enjoyed my crab cake.
After dinner, we took a ghost tour in Alexandria. I very much enjoyed the walk. The old city has a very historic feel and the skinny houses reminded me of Baltimore and Philadelphia. Some are made of brick, others have siding—different colors on different houses. We didn’t see any ghosts or orbs, but the history was interesting. The city was founded in 1749 as a tobacco port. Scottish immigrants brought with them the superstition of burying dead cats in the walls of buildings to keep ghosts away. Yes, cat corpses have been found in some old houses.
George Washington was a surveyor of the city. During the War of 1812 the city surrendered immediately. They didn’t even attempt to put up a fight. The city’s location was enviable during the Civil War. The Union secured it for themselves and turned many buildings into hospitals. Still, hundreds of soldiers died in the streets waiting for a hospital bed. Some accounts claim that blood ran ankle deep in the streets.
Spite buildings were common. They were built to piss off one’s neighbors. For example, the Presbyterian church didn’t like the Catholic church, so the Presbyterians build a building as close as possible to the Catholic Church, blocking most of the stain glass windows. Another spite house was built in an alley and is the skinniest house in North America.
I miss you most this time of the year. The weather is getting cooler, and every time I see a pumpkin or leaves strewn across the grass I think of you. Facebook continuously reminds me of of your absence with memories of happier times—celebrating Nonna’s birthday, pumpkin picking, and apple picking. Sure I miss you a great deal in the summer. Summers we also spent much of our time with you. But now we go away in the summer. I try to spend as much time as possible traveling and exploring new places. The bonus of going away is that I’m distracted from all the memories, all the missing. The fall is different. I’m stuck in New Jersey, at a job that is rough, and I have too much time to remember what life used to be like. I miss being able to run away to Long Island. I miss being able to see you. And as always, I miss being able to call you up to tell you about G3’s successes.
Last Monday was the Welcome Back Court of Honor for Boy Scouts. You would have been super proud of G3. He ranked up to Life, got the patches for the eight Eagle required merit badges that he earned over the summer, and he officially took over as the new ASPL (Assistant Senior Patrol Leader). Now he needs to start working on his Eagle project. He wants to be able to do it this year, but wanting it isn’t enough. Every time I tell him to start talking to the Boy Scout leaders and do some research, he gets made at me, telling me I’m pushing too hard. So I stopped. Hopefully, he’ll find the motivation to do start doing what needs to be done. If you were here, I’m sure he’d be talking to you about it, and you’d be able to motivate him in ways that I can’t.
This weekend we drove out to Pittsburgh so G3 could compete at Fall Nationals. (I am no longer doing Taekwondo. I wish I could tell you why, but there are too many fragile egos involved and so that no one takes it out on G3, I will refrain from going into detail. However, it might be best because an opportunity has presented itself for an excursion for me and G3 in the summer of 2025, and since I’m only a teacher, I wouldn’t have been able to afford both teakwood and the trip. And you know I enjoy traveling and seeing new places more than anything else.) G3 did very well. He placed first in forms and first in weapons. He didn’t place in combat which disappointed him a little, but it just means he needs to work harder and practice more. As for sparring, he chose not to compete. He doesn’t want to get hurt and he doesn’t enjoy it that much.
After the tournament, we went out and had a fantastic time. Over the course of several tournaments we’ve become friends with the parents of one of the boys in G3’s ring. They live in Pittsburgh so a few months back we made plans to go out together. They recommended Coop De Ville, a fun place not far from the convention center where G3 competed. The food was good and the games were even better. We all seemed to love playing pinball. I hadn’t played in years and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. We also played a couple of rounds of duck pin bowling which was fun. I had never played before and I definitely need more practice. But even though I didn’t do all that well, I had a good time. G3 and his friend—the boy in his ring—finished out the night with a few games of pool. G3 had never played before and was happy that he finally had the opportunity.
I miss you! I know if you were here, you’d have gone out to Pittsburgh to watch and cheer G3 on. How is it that I can miss your absence as something you never had the chance to do when you were alive?
This weekend I went camping with the Boy Scouts. The cloud that haunts me, follows me wherever I seem to go, manifested as a rainstorm, washing us out and cutting our trip short. It was supposed to be a two night trip, but with the abundance of rain in the forecast, the leaders made the decision on Friday night that we would only camp one, and then we’d head back home after our hike on Saturday.
We left at 5 o’clock on Friday night in hopes of getting to the campground on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware Water Gap before the sunset. Setting up camp would have been so much easier with a few lingering rays of sunlight. But we didn’t make it. We parked just as darkness settle around us. The scouts, however, were prepared with headlights and flashlights and have set up camp so many times they were able to put up their dining flies and tents with little difficulty. I too have set up a tent frequently enough that the limited light didn’t impede me. I got to bed relatively early, and slept decently. It was chilly, but not cold. I really do need a new sleeping bag and should probably buy one before I attempt another Boy Scout trip. The inside lining is torn. Over the years it has served me well, but it’s old and no longer as warm as it once was.
In the morning, the first raindrop—yes, that’s how sensitive my hearing is—falling on my tent woke me up. The second I heard it, I sat up and immediately started packing. I was in a race against the rain, wanting to get my tent packed up before it got saturated. My experience kicked into gear. I stuffed my sleeping bag into its sack, rolled my sleeping pad, and packed my rucksack in less than five minutes. It took another two to get my clothes and shoes on and then I broke down the tent. I moved quickly and when I started to roll the tent, G3 saw me and ran over to help. Before the rain developed into more than a drizzle, I had brought everything—only slightly damp—to the car. I was the first adult up and ready. One of the Assistant Scoutmasters even commented to me about my speed and efficiency.
We cooked breakfast in the rain. It was the best camping breakfast I’ve ever had—a boiled omelet. I know, it sounds gross, but I promise it wasn’t. I put veggies and sausage and cheese into a ziplock bag. I then cracked two eggs into the bag and mixed everything up before dropping the bag into a pot of boiling water. The omelet cooked until it was fluffy. Surprisingly, it was better than some omelets I’ve eaten in restaurants. I’d totally be up for doing that again on a future trip.
After breakfast, we hung out at the campsite so that some of the scouts could work on requirements they needed in order to rank up. I kept busy chatting with the other adults and working with several of the older scouts on various citizenship merit badges. It proved to be a great use of time, especially since some of those scouts needed to earn their badges in order to rank up next month.
In the afternoon, we drove over to Bushkill Falls to take a two mile hike. By then the rain was coming down heavily. Even with rain gear, we were all drenched to the skin five minutes into our hike. The falls were pretty, but it was hard to fully enjoy them when we were wet and cold. If the weather had cooperated, it would have been an extremely pleasurable hike. As it was, most of the scouts raced around the trail wanting to be done. Some of the younger ones struggled under the weight of their day packs. The rain seemed to have squashed their spirits and their energy which made walking more challenging. But everyone did finish, even those that needed a bit of help.
Calling an early end to the weekend was a wise decision. The scouts would never have been able to dry off and warm up if they had to return to the campground to spend another night in the tent. Even with the heat on in the car I was shivering so much that I couldn’t wait to take a hot shower. As for G3, I’m really glad we came home. By the time we sat down to eat dinner, he was sniffling and his sinuses were very congested. He went to bed early—at 9:30—and slept until 2:00 in the afternoon. His body really needed the rest.
Again, I wish I could call you up and talk about the trip. It was miserable yet fun at the same time, and I suspect—after years of camping with the Boy Scouts yourself—you’d completely understand what I mean. Sometimes I think I miss you most during Boy Scouts events. Perhaps its because I’m most strongly reminded of what we’re all missing now that you are no longer alive.
As for Mom, she was transferred out of the hospital into a rehab facility. The doctor won’t let her go home because the house in which she lives has three floors. In order to use the bathroom, she needs to use the stairs, and after her fall, stairs are not a good idea. Besides, her injuries are so great that she wouldn’t really be able to take care of herself. Today, a friend of hers from church went to visit. She brought Mom some treats and stayed to talk for three hours. Mom was really happy. She enjoyed—and needed—the company.
However, Mom is not really satisfied with the care she is getting. They seem to neglect her frequently. When she calls for help, since she’s not supposed to move by herself, they make her wait—sometimes for more than an hour—which when you need to use the bathroom is awful. The physical therapy she is getting doesn’t seem very intensive; she says it’s too easy. She’s not quite sure what the purpose is. And perhaps worst of all—because you know how much she enjoys eating—the food is terrible. She is hoping she won’t have to stay there for more than another too weeks.
For more than a year, I had been wanting to take the Introduction to Outdoor Leader Skills course so that I could complete my Assistant Scoutmaster Training for Boy Scouts, but G3’s schedule has been so busy I hadn’t been able to escape for a weekend to do it. Last weekend, however, I had nothing planned, so I registered for it. It is a two day, one night, camping event. The organizers of the training sent out a packing list, and I followed it religiously. It said I needed a watch and compass, both of which I didn’t own, so I ordered them. After all, the Boy Scout motto is, “Be Prepared.” The program also required me to have a uniform, which I don’t own, and since I registered last minute, I didn’t even have time to go shopping. Therefore, I borrowed my son’s. Serendipitously, we bought him a new one last month and Kati had not yet had time to transfer his patches onto it. I figured a patchless uniform was better than nothing. The very last line of the list said cell phones were not allowed and that we needed to leave them behind. It seemed to make some sense. Phones could enable us to cheat, and so I didn’t question it. I needed the phone’s GPS to get me to the campsite, but once there, I figured it was easy enough to leave it in the glove compartment of my car. But first, I told Kati and my mother that I would be phoneless all weekend. If they called me, I wouldn’t be able to respond until sometime on Sunday afternoon.
As luck would have it, another parent from the Troop–the father of one of G3’s friends–was also taking the course, so we carpooled. Since we had to be at the campground at seven AM on Saturday morning, I picked him up at six, we grabbed some coffee, and then got on the road. We arrived four minutes early, but the volunteers running the program didn’t get there until 7:30. By the time we finally checked in–making sure all our paperwork was in order–it was nearing 8:30. At that point, they divided us into three patrols–or groups. We named our patrol the Green Goats and from the start the five of us seemed to get along well enough–that says a lot, since you know how difficult it is for me to get along with others.
I didn’t really know what to expect from the weekend. I’ve camped a great deal and back before G3 was born I did a fair amount of backpacking. But I knew there were gaps in my knowledge and I was happy to fill them. Our first class of the day was knots and lashings. It’s a good thing we weren’t getting graded or I might have failed. I tried really hard, but I still couldn’t get a single knot tied correctly on my first attempt. Unfortunately, we were only at each station for ten minutes, not nearly enough for me to get comfortable with any of the knots or lashings. I wish I had more time, because repetition would have made a difference. I needed to be able to sit and repeat the steps multiple times in order to reach a level of comfort.
Next, we moved on to the best techniques to use when teaching Scouts how to use wood tools–hatches and saws. That was followed up by a tutorial on how to cook using a Dutch oven. What I liked best about that was we got to practice the skills we learned when we cooked dinner. Our patrol had to make a chicken stew/casserole thing using a Dutch oven and coals. We also needed to make a pineapple upside down cake. The food came out okay. I’m not a fan of chicken–I ate it to be less difficult–nor do I care for cake. But it was all edible and we didn’t burn any of it.
The nature walk was fun, because you know how much I like to walk, but we didn’t learn all that much. The guide pointed out deer tracks in the mud and he identified the leaves of several trees. Of the ones he drew out attention to, poison ivy was the most valuable. That’s the one you want to make sure you can identify so that you can educate scouts to be sure they don’t end up with an evil itchy rash.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed doing the ridiculous skits around the campfire. Previously, I have always thought they were silly and on every scout camping trip I dreaded them, but being forced into performing them gave me a different perspective. I laughed more than I had in awhile which felt really good.
Day two started early. I was up just before dawn and I broke down my tent by seven o’clock. Breakfast was bland–oatmeal cookies and hard boiled eggs. But ever since I went hiking in Peru, many years ago, hard boiled eggs have been one of my favorite camping/backpacking foods. Apparently, I was the only one in my patrol who liked them so I had more than enough to fill me up. After we ate, we had an introductory orienteering lesson. It’s the lesson I was most looking forward to, because I finally learned how to properly use a compass. Sure, there is still a great deal I do not know–there’s only so much that can be crammed into a one hour session–but at least I won’t feel silly packing a compass for weekend outings when the packing list suggests I do so.
Following orienteering was a discussion about packing for a backpacking trip. As you know, before G3 was born, I lived to go backpacking. Therefore, much of the discussion covered things I already knew. My experiences, though different from the presenter’s, are extensive enough that I feel confident in my packing ability. However, technology has advanced since I last packed a rucksack and took off exploring, so I appreciated the upgraded ideas. For instance, instead of packing my clothes in individual ziplock bags–which is great for compartmentalizing, which you know I love to do, but also imperative if you want to keep your things dry in the rain–I am now going to buy lightweight dry bags to use, predominantly because they are more environmental than plastic.
It turned out my friend and I were the only ones who left our phones in the car on Saturday. At one point or another, everyone else had taken their phones out to take pictures, check email, or send text messages. Since I was the only one who either read or followed the directions, it seemed silly not to make a trip to my car to get my phone. While I had told everyone–specifically Kati and Mom–that I would be completely cut off, I had a gut feeling that not having my phone was a bad idea. Sure enough, on Sunday morning, just as we were getting ready for our orienteering lesson, Mom called. She was in the hospital. The night before, she had been volunteering at church and she fell down the dark stairs. Other parishioners found her and called an ambulance. The fall resulted in a broken collar bone, a broken shoulde rblade, and multiple broken ribs, one of which pierced her lung. Miraculously, she did not break a hip, but the knee she had replaced last year blew up, and she is not sure if it sustained any damage in the fall.
Since it had happened the night before and she was already admitted into the hospital, I finished my training–there were only a couple of hours remaining. However, once it was done, I drove my friend home, stopped at my house to shower, and then drove into New York. The absolute last thing I felt like doing was sitting in traffic–and there is always traffic–but I wanted to get eyes on Mom to see how bad she looked, and I needed to bring her a phone charger since her battery was nearly dead. She didn’t look too bad, the hospital staff made her comfortable, but she couldn’t move.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, yesterday was your wedding anniversary–the fourth one Mom had without you. Spending it alone in the hospital had to have been even more depressing. I wish she lived closer, because then I’d be able to stop in to visit every day. With her in New York and me having to work in New Jersey, going to visit, even a half hour, would take no less than five hours, most of which would be sitting in traffic. And the next several weekends are busy with things I have committed to for Boy Scouts and Taekwondo. I have practically begged her to move closer to me so that I could take care of her in situations such as this, but she wants to stay in New York where she has developed a circle of friends. I understand her need for friends, but then when something like this happens, I can’t be there. Since she can’t be home alone with all of her injuries, they are transferring her to a rehab center. Again, if she lived closer, I’d be able to stop in every day to get her food, do her laundry, and run any other errands she might need. But I can’t afford to quit my job or take too much time off.
However, I have to take a day off tomorrow. Mom needs clothes, and no one else can get them for her. I have to go to her house, pack her suitcase, and bring it to her since she doesn’t know when she will be able to go home. My brother doesn’t want to help me convince her to move to New Jersey. He thinks it’s best for her to stay where her friends are. But it’s easy for him because he lives further away. He’s not the one sitting in traffic, every time something happens to Mom.
Anyway, I wish you were here. If you were, she probably wouldn’t have fallen because she wouldn’t have been at church. And if you were here, I’d have been able to call you up to talk about my Boy Scout training. I would have enjoyed that a great deal, and I suspect you would have enjoyed hearing about it.
Mom took me and G3 on a mini-vacation—one last hurrah before we must return to work and school. Initially, we wanted to go the the Outer Banks, but between moving and mom’s concern regarding possible hurricanes, we felt the need to change our plans. I knew Mom wanted to go to the beach, and G3 did a bit of research and found out that Franklin Pierce’s house was in Southern New Hampshire, so I suggested that we go to Portsmouth for a few days. So that we could get an early start on Sunday morning, G3 and I drove to Mom’s on Saturday afternoon.
On Sunday, we woke up early and were in the car by 6:45. G3 was tired and slept most of the way. Since neither Mom nor I were hungry, I drove straight to Hillsboro, New Hampshire. When we arrived we stopped in a diner for breakfast. The food was good—typical diner food—but nothing special. G3 ate a huge breakfast. He had french toast and biscuits and gravy. Lately, his stomach is a bottomless pit.
Mom enjoyed the tour of Pierce’s house. I think you would have enjoyed it as well. Franklin moved into the house when he was a baby. The house in which he was born is now located somewhere beneath Pierce Lake. Franklin’s father, Benjamin, built the house in 1804. Benjamin had a rough childhood. His father died when he was young. When his mother remarried, her new husband didn’t want to raise another man’s son. His mother sent him to live with his uncle in Massachusetts. Since his uncle didn’t want him either, he took him in reluctantly and used him as a farm hand. As a seventeen year old, he was working in the field when he heard the call to arms. It was the battle of Lexington and Concord. He raced off to join the fight, but he didn’t get there in time. It didn’t deter him completely. He still joined the Continental Army and fought at Bunker Hill. It always bothered him that he was not educated. Despite being practically illiterate, he still served two terms as Governor of New Hampshire.
Pierce is one of the forgotten presidents. He’s rarely, if ever, mentioned in schools. I would wager that many Americans have never heard of him. He is ranked by many historians as one of America’s worse Presidents. He served only one term in the early 1850s. Since the states were on the verge of war, it was a tumultuous time to be president. Pierce may have been a northerner, but he was also a democrat. According to the tour guide, he thought slavery was reprehensible. However, he deemed it a moral issue, and he claimed the Constitution was not a moral document, its purpose was not to provide a moral compass. Anti-abolitionists irked him. He deemed them a serious threat to the union. Pushing the issue of slavery too far, he felt would result in a serious fracture which he desperately wanted to avoid. One of the most memorable pieces of legislation he signed was the Kansas-Nebraska Act which essentially overturned the Missouri Compromise and led to Bleeding Kansas.
Franklin’s presidency began in tragedy. He married late—for that time period. He and his wife were both thirty-years-old. They had three sons. The first died hours after his birth. The second died at four from typhoid The third child, Bennie, was eleven-years-old two months before the inauguration when he and his parents were traveling home by train from Massachusetts. The train got into an accident and Bennie died. His parents watched as the back of his skull was torn off. His mother never recovered emotionally. I can’t blame her. It would have destroyed me too. She wore black for the rest of her life. The white house was in mourning for two years.
Even though his presidency was shrouded in personal pain, Pierce was the first president to celebrate Christmas at the White House and the first to have a tree. Rufus King was Pierce’s Vice President and the only Vice President not to be sworn-in in the United States. He was living in Cuba because he had TB. A special act of Congress allowed him to be sworn in there. Sadly, he died a month later. Jefferson Davis served as Pierce’s Secretary of War. Less than a decade later, he’d be President of the Confederacy.
Following our tour, we headed over to Portsmouth and went directly to the John Paul Jones house. John Paul Jones was a naval captain in the Continental Navy. He never owned the house, nor did he live there long. He was merely a boarder while waiting to take command of a ship being built in Portsmouth Shipyard.
Jones was born in Scotland. He did not come from money, so at a young age he decided to go to sea. For two years, he worked on ships involved in the slave trade. He found it distasteful. Next, he worked in the West Indies. Luck shone down on him when the master and first mate of his ship died of a fever. Their deaths made him a master. However, playing well with others was never his strength. To prevent a mutiny, he killed a mutinous crew member. To avoid a trial, he fled to Virginia where he altered his name, tacking on Jones.
When the Revolutionary War broke out he enlisted in hopes of gaining glory and making some money. He was a smart tactician and defeated the HMS Serapis. At the time, England’s navy was the best in the world. Jones was also the only person who attacked England on her home soil. Unfortunately, for Jones, after the war the US Navy disbanded for several years. Still wanting a life of high seas adventures, he joined the Russian navy. His time there ended in scandal when he was accused of raping a young girl.
In 1892, Washington and his Secretary of State, Jefferson granted Jones US citizenship and appointed him as the American Consul in Algeria. Sadly, by the time news reached Paris, where he had been living, he was dead. That probably would have been the end of his story and the end of our memory of him had it not been for Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt held him up as a hero of the navy and had his ambassador to France locate his grave. It took years, but eventually his body was found an reinterred in Annapolis, Maryland.
What I found most interesting—and I think you would have also—the treaty ending the Russo-Japanese War was negotiated and signed in Portsmouth. When you took us to Teddy Roosevelt’s house back when G3 first got interested in Presidents, we learned that Roosevelt was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for brokering the peace, but that was it. No details accompanied that information. There was an entire room at the John Paul Jones museum dedicated to the Russo-Japanese peace treaty. The war, which ended in 1905, was in some ways the first modern war; the first war to use the telegraph, telephone, machine guns and barbed wire. The conflict lasted eighteen months and was fought in Korea and China. When Roosevelt convinced them to talk, they wanted a neutral location and, initially, suggested Washington, D.C. But Washington, in the summer, is uncomfortably hot. Since New Hampshire wanted to boost tourism, they suggested Portsmouth.
After leaving the John Paul Jones House, we checked into the hotel and the went out for dinner. The woman at the hotel recommended a Mexican place across the border in Maine. G3 loves Mexican food—correction, he loves queso—so we went there. But while Mom and I really liked the queso—we thought it was better than any queso we’ve had before—G3 didn’t like it. It was melted and stringy, not simply a dipping sauce.
Back in Portsmouth, we took a stroll through downtown. Mom had ice cream and G3 got fudge; I was too full from dinner for dessert. Reading the signs hanging from the lampposts, we learned that this year Portsmouth is celebrating its 400th anniversary.
On Monday, we finally got to the ocean. My brother recommended that we take a day trip up to Ogunquit, Maine. He said it was reminiscent of Provincetown in Cape Cod. We took his advice and we were glad we did. It was lovely and we had a fantastic time. We arrived early—you know me, vacation is not a time to sleep in—and we took a walk along Marginal Way which runs along the coast. It was pretty. You would have loved it. The smell of salt, the crash of the waves, the breeze on our faces. I need to live by the sea. It would bring me a great deal of happiness. If only I could find an agent who would fall in love with my writing.
We ate a filling breakfast. Mom and G3 had Belgium waffles and I had eggs Florentine. Then we headed over to the beach to go swimming. It was windy and chilly and the water was cold, but the sun was out. Still, G3 and I went swimming. We had to go swimming. Only one week of summer remains, there was no way I wasn’t going in. G3 had fun on his boogie board until the cold got to him. Mom didn’t go in the water, but I think she enjoyed being at the beach. We tried to play frisbee, but the wind made it difficult.
After a day in the water we were famished. Mom took me out for an early birthday dinner. Since we were in Maine there was only one thing to eat—lobster. We headed over to Perkins Cove and ate at The Lobster Shack. We reminisced about the last time you took me out for lobster in Mattituck. As always, you grumbled, all in jest, about how slowly I ate when it came to lobster. But it’s so good, how can I not savor it. G3 also remembered how I broke two nut crackers trying to crack open the claws. The shell was far more brittle this evening and I didn’t need the nut cracker at all. When we finished eating we strolled through the Cove and wandered into several gift shops. G3 found a sweatshirt he liked and he wanted to get matching ones. But they didn’t have my size. I got him the sweatshirt anyway. In another store, I found another sweatshirt that I like more and Mom bought it for me. They are different colors, different designs, but they both say “Maine.”
Tuesday, I had planned for us to go to a state park in New Hampshire to go swimming, but my brother spoke highly of Portland, and Mom wanted to go there, so we did. None of us were enthralled, but I think we may have had a different opinion if we walked around the city. Mom wanted to walk the Back Cove trail, but after ten minutes, she was ready to turn around. It wasn’t that exciting.
So, we headed over to Cape Elizabeth to see Portland Head Lighthouse. The coast was really pretty. We walked along the Cliff Walk for awhile until Mom was ready to turn around. She commented several time how gorgeous it was. You would have enjoyed the walk as well. G3, however, grumbled and complained that he’s seen so many lighthouses that it was boring. He’s complained a great deal on this trip. He only wants to do what he wants and has no patience for anyone else and their desires.
We did get to the ocean at Higgins Beach in Scarborough. The water was cold, but G3 and I went swimming. G3 had a fantastic time boogie boarding. Despite the cold, he was in the water for almost two hours.
For dinner, Mom took us the the Lobster Cove, a seafood restaurant in York, Maine. G3 had clam strips. Mom and I had lobster rolls. It was a first for both of us. Mom said she had been wanting to try one for years, but wanted to eat it first in Maine because she thought it would be more authentic. We both enjoyed them. But, after dinner, I did some research and learned that it is likely the lobster roll was ‘invented’ in Connecticut. When I told Mom, she was very disappointed. She could have had one years ago—during one of the many times you and she went out to eat—in Long Island.
Wednesday, our last day, we got up early and headed to Lowell National Historical Park in Massachusetts for a brief visit. Lowell was built to be an industrial city. In the early 1800s, it was a textile mill and factory. Women worked long, tedious hours running the machines that wove cloth. They were paid poorly, and if they made even the slightest mistakes their bosses docked their pay. The mill girls lived in tight quarters, dormitories, where they slept two to a bed. When conditions got so bad that the woman petitioned for better pay and less hours, of course, the factory responded by hiring immigrants instead—immigrants who were willing to work for less, desperate for a chance to make it in America.
Interestingly, as the mill production increased, it raised the demand for cotton. So while northerners were screaming about the ills of slavery and creating abolition societies, they were also, in buying the cotton, supporting the institution of slavery. That’s something the history text books often leave out or gloss over in their push to paint the north as being better—more moral. And yeah, the mills paid their workers, but they paid them so poorly, one could argue they were slave wages. Poor treatment, poor hours, little pay. The bottom line, as always in a capitalistic society, is not morality or treating works fairly, it’s about the bosses, the employers making the most money they can while spending as little as possible, and not caring who they hurt or slight in the process.
After leaving Lowell, we stopped in Connecticut so Mom could visit her niece. I then battled the bridges—traffic is always horrific—going into the city to drop Mom home, where we ate a quick dinner, and I battled the bridges back into New Jersey. I think Mom enjoyed the vacation—I know I did. She was happy to get away for a few days.
Sadly, this marks the end of my summer. I return to work on Tuesday.
Last week, while G3 was at camp, we moved. We bought a house we don’t love—one that needs more work than we can afford—because our landlord ended our lease and gave us only a very small window to get out. The fact that Kati and I work in school districts far from each other, combined with the fact that we wanted to get G3 in a better school, seriously limited our options. As a result, we were only looking in Bridgewater and Raritan. Initially, we had hoped that in the Spring we would see more houses going on the market. We were disappointed. The ones we saw were either out of our price range or in a serious state of disrepair. I didn’t want to move to Raritan. My preference was Bridgewater—although they feed into the same middle school and high school. Raritan is small and cramped and so close to the Raritan River that the houses often flood. After my last experience, with the neighbor from hell who blasted her music at all hours and her kids who had raging parties that ran all night, the last thing I wanted was to live in close proximity to people. But as you know, I almost never get my wish. The Universe just doesn’t like me to be happy.
In early June, a Cape Cod house in Raritan went on the market. Out of desperation, we put a bid on it, even though it was small and we didn’t like it. Our bid was ridiculously high to ensure that we got the house. I figured, if nothing else, it would buy us time. When I asked the realtor at what point we’d still be able to back out, she told me after the inspection. Well, the signing of the initial paperwork coincided with Kati’s father’s death. Without a clear head, and without showing it to me, she signed the first document committing us to a downpayment of $50,000. By the time the inspection rolled around, it was too late to back out. If we did, we’d lose all that money. But the inspection was a disaster. There was so much wrong with house—from sewage seeping out of the pipes, to fractured floor joists, to faulty electrical wiring—that we no longer wanted it. There was no way we could afford—especially after overpaying for the house—to fix everything that was wrong.
So, Kati contacted our lawyer. She flat out told him we didn’t want the house, that we needed someone to advocate for us to get us out of it, but he refused to help us. He only wanted to push the sale through, even though we told him we didn’t want it to go through. Kati’s sister-in-law tried to help us get out of the deal. Calling on prior experience, she drafted a letter to the sellers, demanding that all the safety and health issues be fixed if they wanted the sale to go through. Surprisingly, the sellers agreed to meet all our demands. But they didn’t. It turned our our realtor paid for many of the repairs, despite us telling her we didn’t want the house. That if our demands weren’t met we could legally back out and get our money back. She was supposed to be working for us, but even when we told her we changed our minds, we wanted out, she pushed and pushed and pushed, freely spending her own money to ensure that the sale when through. When Kati received word that the problems were all addressed, she was appalled at what she found. The work that was done was shoddy, and some of our demands were clearly not met. Again, she approached the realtor and lawyer insisting that they help us back out in a way that would enable us to recoup our downpayment. She drafted another letter, stating that she needed the buyer to pay us enough money to cover the costs of things that still needed to be fixed. They agreed to pay only a percentage. To ensure that the sale when through, both realtors—the seller’s and ours—paid the difference. I have never dealt with anyone who was so unethical.
As a result, we got stuck with a house that’s way too small. It has a backyard the size of a postage stamp and neighbors who are too damn close. This week, I had planned to paint G3’s room and my study, the two upstairs rooms. But when I started removing nails and other fixtures from the walls, the walls started peeling. Larges chunks at a time. Plus, paint had been applied to the doors which had previously been varnished, so the paint was pealing off. We promised G3 that his room would look really nice. But making his room nice requires more skill and knowledge than I have. Also, with school starting back up, I don’t have much time. Therefore, we will have to hire a professional with money we don’t have. The main floor of the house had recently been renovated. The primary bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom are nice. How do you renovate your own living space, yet allow your children to live in rooms that are crumbling? If it were me, I’d make sure G3’s space was the best it could be before taking care of my own space. Our new neighbors said that if we had met the previous owners, we wouldn’t be surprised. That sort of behavior totally jived with their personalities.
We would also—with money we don’t have—like to convert the three-season room into a dining room. I have no interest in a three-season room. If the weather is nice, I want to be outside. If it isn’t, then I can write or read in my study. The three-season room—in my opinion—is a waste of space. Besides, the house has a small kitchen and no dining room, which means we would have to squeeze a table into the kitchen. That isn’t appealing considering family dinners are important to me.
The neighbors to our left are nice. We like them. They sent us a welcome to the neighborhood gift and we’ve chatted with them a few times. The neighbor to our right I dislike greatly. He periodically goes outside to his garage and blasts his music. I do not understand why people feel the need to play their music so loud. If other people wanted to be listening to it, they’d be playing their own. But at least, so far, he never stays out long.
In all honesty, nothing would have been as good, or as acceptable, as the house on Walnut Street that we all fell in love with. We should have known then that our realtor wasn’t good. We told her we wanted it, and she said she had been in the business long enough that she could get it for us. She didn’t. If we had thrown the same amount of money at that house as we ended up throwing at this one, it would have been ours—and it would have been worth it. We envisioned ourselves in it. We put only good thoughts out into the Universe and we still didn’t get it. This house, the one we are in, we envisioned getting out of it, finding something else, and moving there instead. But alas, it’s where we ended up.
If you were here, you’d probably say the house was cute and you’d tell me to find something appealing about it. The best I can say is that G3 is in a better school district—not the best, but better. Hopefully, this year, and in high school, he will get a good education. I can also hear the cicadas at night, and you know how much I love listening to them, especially when I’m going to sleep.
This week was rough. I found myself missing you more than I have since you died. When I signed G3 up for summer camp, Mom suggested that we—she and I—spend a few days out in Mattituck. She thought it would be nice to visit all our favorite places and spend some time at the beach you used to love. In theory, it sounded like a great idea. In reality, all it did was remind of us of what we no longer have. I think the emptiness and the missing outweighed everything else. Staying at a hotel in a place I once called home was extremely difficult.
Wednesday morning I woke up really early, I drove to Queens and picked up Mom. We stopped at Baiting Hollow Scout Camp because G3 needed a phone charger so that he could use his phone to do research for some of the Merit Badges he was working on. He also asked me to drop off a second towel. Next, I took Mom to Tanger Mall to do some shopping. We spent several hours in the stores and she did buy some new clothes. I brought a book along and did some reading while she shopped to hold the boredom at bay. It was while sitting on a bench that I got a rejection email from an agent that had initially asked to look at my entire manuscript. It was an agent I really wanted, and after three months of her having the manuscript, I started to feel a little optimistic that maybe, finally, someone would say yes. But even when I think optimistically, the universe still poops on me. The dark gray cloud hovering over me simply won’t let any luck reach me. The agent essentially said my writing was good and she liked the story, but she didn’t know how she would “position it to break out in the crowded market.” What does that even mean? If the writing is good and the story is good, why isn’t that enough? What more does an agent want? Should I just give up? Needless to say, the rejection felt like gut punch. I don’t know what more I can do? How do I convince someone that my book should be chosen over someone else’s? I’m feeling more than a little discouraged. And to make things worse, that wasn’t enough pain to satisfy the universe because it was soon followed by another rejection. This one from an independent press who said my travel memoir wasn’t as interesting as it could have been. Ouch! By the time Mom finished shopping I just wanted to cry, but I still had to drive out to Mattituck. And then we got there, and there was no house to go to, no you to visit, and I did cry. I went into the bathroom of the motel to change into my bathing suit and the tears fell hot and fresh because at that moment the world felt incredibly cold and cruel.
The following day was gray, cloudy, and cool—a metaphor for my life. We went to the beach because what else were we going to do? Mom had done her shopping the day before so there really wasn’t anything else to occupy our time. If G3 wasn’t at camp, we probably would have gone to Greenport, but it seemed like a long trek to make just to find ourselves somewhere else the missing would have been too acute. Every store, every step, every restaurant would have been a reminder of places you used to take us. And it was hard enough just being in Mattituck. Since it was too cold and breezy to swim, we sat on the beach and read. I finished Little House in the Big Woods. After having visited Laura Ingalls Wilder’s homes this summer, I decided I was going to reread all of her books. And I kept reminding myself that she didn’t publish her first book until she was 65. But I don’t want to wait that long. It’s hard to keep writing when you feel so disheartened. I wish you were in a place where you could pull a few strings or get in the ear of a an agent. Next, I started reading ‘Salem’s Lot. G3 finished it on our road trip and he asked me to read it, so I am. Mom said that you read it years ago and that it was your favorite Stephen King novel, though I don’t think you read many of them. For dinner, we went to the Chinese Restaurant you used to really enjoy. The owner walked in while we were eating and he gave me and Mom hugs. He remembered us and was happy to see us. After we ate, we discovered that the movie theater closed. It is now some sort of event venue that has live wresting and smash paint—whatever that is. I was disappointed—it’s where I had my first job. And I know you would have been devastated because you loved going to the movies, especially with G3.
We picked G3 up at camp late in the afternoon on Friday. He said he ended up having a good time and he was excited because he earned four merit badges: Lifesaving, Communication, Citizenship in Community, and Personal Fitness. All four are required for Eagle and now he has only one more that he needs to earn before he can focus his energy on planning an Eagle project. I wish you could have lived long enough to be part of his Eagle journey. I’m sure you would have had fun talking to him as he planned his project. You probably even would have had some really good ideas to help him along the way. It still seems so unfair that you were stolen from him way too soon.
Saturday was a little breezy, but otherwise, it was a gorgeous day. We we went in the water, but none of us could really seem to get passed the emptiness of you not being there. We did our best to have fun and enjoy being there, but the missing made it really hard. We all read in an attempt to keep our minds anchored in the present. G3 has started Carrie—his fourth Stephen King book this summer. He kept pausing in his own reading to ask me what part of ‘Salem’s Lot I was up to. And when we weren’t talking about King, we were reminiscing about you—the way you and I used to toss G3 back and forth in the water when he was a toddler, the way you always had your wallet out and ready when the ice-cream man came because G3 would sprint out of the water and head to right the truck, the way you bundled up to stay warm on chilly afternoons. Our minds were a collage of memories.
For dinner, Mom took us out to one of the restaurants the two of you would visit often. G3 wanted nachos as an appetizer—that seems to be his favorite—and we shared them. For an entree, G3 ordered steak, and he cleared his plate, except of course for the asparagus. Maybe someday he’ll grow to like it like you did. After we ate, G3 wanted to head over to the sound to watch the sunset. It was four years ago that he made the same request to you. It was one of the last summer nights we all spent together in Mattituck—and the picture I took of you and G3 was one of the ones I shared repeatedly after you died. When the sun sank into the water, G3 and Mom wanted to drive by the house. I didn’t want to go—but the two of them were insistent. Giving in and taking them was a huge mistake. As we turned down your former block, G3 said, “I used to be so happy when we got here early in the morning. I couldn’t wait to see Grandpa.” And it was true. I remember his excitement as if it were yesterday. The way he’d wiggle in the back seat, eager to get out and hug his grandparents.The house was no longer your house. It was totally renovated and completely unrecognizable. There is new siding. The screened-in porch was completely enclosed and windows stood where there were once screens. The driveway, which had been on the left side of the house, had been dug up and grass had been planted over where it once was. The new driveway, made of stones, is now to the right of the house, and I think they tore up trees to make room for it. Most devastating was that Mom’s garden, which she had tended so lovingly for thirty years, was torn up and grass and bushes planted in its place. I think Mom cried when she saw it. I know I did. It’s one thing to know the house is no longer ours, but to know that it no longer exists as we knew it was an awful revelation. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I couldn’t. I just kept envisioning the house—the way it was when we lived there together, and how it’s been ‘destroyed.’ It used to be my happy place—and now I don’t have one.
Our last morning there, G3 wanted to go back to the sound and walk along the beach by the inlet. During COVID, when I homeschooled him in Long Island, we used to walk there all the time. It’s what kept us sane and from feeling suffocated. G3 sat alone by the edge of the water, and I wondered what he was thinking, what memories were flitting through his mind. But I new better than to ask. The question would prompted a curt response. “Nothing,” he would have said. “I’m not thinking about anything.” I let him sit for as long as he needed, and when he was ready, we went back to the bay for once last swim.
I took G3 to Baiting Hollow this morning so he could attend the Trail to Eagle Camp. I picked up Mom and she came along to keep me company and to see G3 off. It was a hard morning—filled with intense moments of missing you. It’s the first time I drove to Long Island since Mom sold the house. It’s weird—sort of pavlovian, I suppose. I know you’re dead, but while driving on the LIE I had flashes of near excitement, as if looking forward to seeing you, but then my brain would adjust and remember that’s all in the past. G3 asked if we could please have breakfast at the diner in Riverhead. He only ever ate there with you, before you took him to the Mets’ games. Of course, I said yes. As soon as we walked in, he pointed to a table and said, “That’s where I sat with Grandpa.” While he was looking at the menu, he told me that he ordered Canadian bacon when he was with you but he didn’t like it. I asked him what you said and he smiled, “I told you so.” I chuckled because I could see you smirking and nodding as you said it.
After we ate, we still had more than an hour before check-in at camp, so I took Mom to Tanger Mall to buy new shoes. While there, I walked over to the food court to use the bathroom. En route, I remembered all the times G3 would sit on the kiddie rides and you would pump quarters into them while Mom and I shopped for him. He loved those rides and you loved making him happy. I had to stop to wipe the tears from my eyes.
And camp, oh man, that was hard. The last two times G3 attended summer camp at Baiting Hollow you dropped him off. I just went along for the ride, and both times you were radiating excitement. One might have though you were the one attending instead of your grandson. Four years ago, when we took him to sleep away camp for the first time—it was to be your last summer, only we didn’t know it—as we were checking him in, you noticed a group of much oder scouts checking in at another location. You asked the counselor if it was a different camp, and he explained that the Trail to Eagle Camp took place during the same week. It was for Boy Scouts who were tracking to attain the rank of Eagle. Boys who were motivated and wanted to focus on earning a few of the required merit badges. You looked at G3 and promised him that if he was ever serious about becoming an Eagle Scout that you’d you send him to that camp. Mom kept your promise for you. She paid for his camp, because she knew how much it meant to you and because she wanted G3 to have fun. Oh how we all wished you had been there with us today.
G3 was extremely anxious and he looked nervous. It’s not easy going anywhere all by yourself, not knowing anyone else. All the the other boys seemed to know someone. But G3 was the only one from his Troop attending the camp. He might have been the only one not from Long Island. As the other boys started to gather, G3 stood off by himself. He asked me not to leave right away, and so I lingered until the scouts went off to take their swim tests. I wasn’t worried about G3 taking it. He’s passed so many times that’s it just a formality at this point. If you had been there, I’m sure you’d have been able to put G3 at ease. You would have known what to say to make him feel more comfortable, less anxious about not knowing a soul.
Shortly after we left, G3 texted me to say that he was the youngest, smallest, and shortest scout there. That had been his concern all along, that he would be the youngest. Most scouts don’t aim to get Eagle until the later years in high school. G3 is only going into eighth grade. However, he is already Star, and to attend the camp you only need to be First Class. His text also said that he was bored and sad because he didn’t know anyone. I texted back, telling him to give it some time. Once the counselors broke the boys up into groups for merit badges it might get better. Being in small groups, working on specific activities, might force the scouts to be more social. In his response he sounded doubtful. Mom texted him also to tell him he wasn’t alone, that you were there with him. I’m sure you are. I’m just not sure if he can feel it. A few hours later he texted again to say that he talked to some of the boys so it was better. That made me feel better as well.
Besides too much driving, today was a Presidential Finale. We ended our trip with a detour to see the houses of some Ohio Presidents. We arrived at Rutgers B. Hayes’ house when it opened—an hour before the first tour. So we had time to explore the museum first.
Spiegel Grove was build by Rutherford B. Hayes’ uncle, Sardis Birchard. Spiegel means ‘mirror’ in German. After heavy rains, puddles would form on the property that looked like mirrors, hence Birchard naming it Speigel Grove. He had no children and Hayes’ father died of Typhus before he was born, so Birchard was like a father to Hayes.
Hayes fought in the Civil War. His wife worked as a nurse on the battlefields. She was the first First Lady to have a college degree. The couple had eight children, only one of whom was a girl, and three children died very young.
Hayes ran for President in 1876, and his was the first seriously contested election. When the polls closed on election night, Tilden had won the popular vote. However, to win, he needed 185 electoral votes and he only had 184. Election results in Florida, Louisiana, and South Carolina were in dispute. But more egregious problems had occurred. As the Republican party feared, the South did not play fair. African-Americans were prevented from voting, in some areas there were more votes than voters, and Hayes had been left off the ballot in some towns. It took practically until inauguration day to declare Hayes the winner.
Hayes was the first president in the White House to have a phone. HIs first call was with Alexander Graham Bell. He was also the first to have the Easter Egg Roll at the White House.
The Hayes second son, Webb, joined the military after his father left office. He loved collecting things, especially weapons, and he collected them all over the world. He brought weapons home from the Boxer Rebellion in China and the Philippine Insurrection. Many of the weapons were on display in the museum. Would you like to guess what G3’s favorite part was? Hayes also was a collector and an avid reader. When he died, he had over 10,000 books. (Kerry you would have loved his library as much as I did.)
Also in the museum was a replica of the Resolute Desk. It was the desk that Queen Victoria gave to President Hayes. The original was made from the timbers of the H.M.S. Resolute and it is in the Oval office. Most of the presidents who took office after Hayes have used it. It played a key role in the movie National Treasure, which G3 was obsessed with when he was little. If we had never seen the movie, the Resolute Desk would have meant nothing to either of us.
From Fremont we drove two hours to Mentor to see James A. Garfield’s house. I knew very little about Garfield. He’s one of the forgotten presidents. No one ever mentions him, not even the school textbooks, probably because he was shot four months into his term and died two months later from his wounds. He ran in 1880 and followed Hayes as president. He only lived in the house we saw for four years before moving to Washington, and it was much smaller when he last saw it. His wife made major renovations after he died.
Garfield and his wife had seven children. Like the Hayes, they only had one girl. The eldest son and the youngest died very young. Garfield fought in the Civil War and was given the rank Major General after fighting heroically at the Battle of Chickamauga. That stood out for G3 since we went to that battlefield last summer after he had read the short story by Ambrose Bierce. Garfield was still serving in the Army when he was elected to Congress. He hesitated to resign so that he could be seated in Congress. Before doing so, he sought Lincoln’s advice. Lincoln told him he would be more useful to him in Washington. In Congress, he was able to give advice regarding the war based on his experience.
He ran a front porch campaign. In the summer and fall of 1880, 17,000 people came to his house to listen to him give speeches from his from porch. HIs mother—who lived with him—was the first president’s mother to see her son inaugurated. And his first act as president was to kiss his mother. I can’t imagine that made his wife too happy. The last letter he ever wrote was to his mother. After Garfield died, his wife continued to take care of her.
On July 2, 1881, Charles Guiteau shot Garfield. After giving a couple of speeches during the campaign in favor of Garfield, he thought he was entitled to a job. This was, after all, the hight of the patronage system. Garfield, who wanted to reform government and give jobs to those who deserved them, refused to see Guiteau. Angry, Guiteau bought gun that would look good in a museum and practiced using it. While he got off two shots—one in the arm and another that broke a rib and lodged in his abdomen—neither were initially deadly. For two and half months Garfield suffered as an infection took root and slowly got worse. While he was bedridden, he wanted to escape the heat of Washington. He always loved the sea and wanted to be near the cool ocean air. Eventually, the doctors agreed that he could be moved to Long Branch, NJ. And that is where he died on September 19. Today, doctors would have easily been able to treat his wounds and he probably would not have died. According to the guide, Regan’s injuries were worse.
I had wanted to get G3 to McKinley’s house in time for a tour, but I was also very much overdue—mile wise—for an oil change. Sadly, by the time my oil change was done, we couldn’t get to McKinley’s house for a tour, but even if I hadn’t gotten the oil change, I probably wouldn’t have gotten there early enough anyway. However, I still took G3 to the house—it’s only a replica anyway—and we peered inside the window. G3 said that was enough for him to count the house as having been visited. That means he has now seen 32 Presidents’ houses. He only has thirteen more to go. I had no idea that when I first took him to Grover Cleveland’s house—oh so many years ago—that I was embarking on such an incredible journey. But it’s been fun—and educational. Hopefully, I can get G3 to the remaining thirteen in the next few years.
And while we’re talking numbers, after this trip he has been to 41 states. Only nine more to go.
The drive home felt eternal. Pennsylvania, at night, in the dark, is endless, especially with so many trucks on the road. But I told Kati I’d be home Wednesday night and I walked in the door at 11:40. We were on the road for 19 days. We hit five states and I drove 5,181 miles. It’s now time for bed.
Last night was the first time the temperature was comfortable in our tent. I had to tuck myself inside my sleeping bag to stay warm. When we woke up this morning, it was 63°. If only had been like this the entire trip the both of us would have slept so much better.
We visited Elephant Rocks State Park this morning. We got there at 7:51, nine minutes before the gates opened. The weather, the temperature were perfect today. It’s the type of weather you can hike all day. The last thing I want to be doing is heading home and spending much of the day in the car. But at least we got to spend some time with the Elephant Rocks first, even though they were somewhat anti-climatic. We were hoping to see rocks that really looked like elephants. Allegedly, the boulders resemble elephants lined up head to tail, as if in a parade. I suppose if you really twist your imagination, you can get them to look like elephants, but mostly they look like huge boulders. We walked the trail around the rocks, which is short, only a mile. And then we climbed on the rocks for awhile before getting back into the car. G3‘s favorite part of the visit was climbing the rocks.
Next, was a long drive through rural Illinois. I had no idea they grew so much corn. For many long miles there was nothing to see but farms. Our destination was right across the Wabash river in Vincennes, a quaint historic city in Indiana. Grouseland was President William Henry Harrison’s home when he was Governor of Indiana Territory. He named it Grouseland because of all the grouse that used to wander around on the property. Plus grouse and asparagus was his favorite meal. It was the first house in Indiana built from bricks.
When we told the tour guide we were from New York and New Jersey she told us that Harrison had ties to that area via his wife. Anna was born in Morristown, New Jersey. Her mother died when she very young. Her father couldn’t take care of her so he dressed as a Redcoat and smuggled her across British lines during the Revolutionary War. He delivered her to her grandparents in Long Island and they raised her.
Harrison was born in Virginia. He was the last American president to have been born a British subject. His father signed the Declaration of Independence. Harrison went to school to be a doctor. It was his father’s ambition for him. However, his father died before he could finish school, and without funding to continue, he dropped out and joined the military.
At 25 he became Governor of the Indiana Territory. President Jefferson told him he needed to tend to the “Indian Problem.” At the time Tecumseh, the Shawnee warrior, was the biggest threat since he was trying to put together a confederacy of Native American tribes. Harrison met with him right outside Grouseland and tried to get him to sign a treaty. Tecumseh refused. They met again on the battlefield at Tippecanoe. While casualties were equal on both sides, the Americans claim victory because they drove the Natives out of Indiana. This victory would come back in the election of 1840 with the slogan of “Tippecanoe and Tyler too.” Harrison and Tecumseh would fight once more in the Battle of the Thames in Canada during the War of 1812. Harrison drove off the British and defeated Tecumseh’s Confederacy. Tecumseh was killed in the battle.
William Henry Harrison gave the longest inaugural speech of any president, he also served the shortest amount of time—32 days. He was sworn in on March 4, 1841 and on April 4th he became the first president to die in office. For years, it was believed that he died of pneumonia contracted on inauguration day after standing outside in the freezing air without a jacket. Now, science believes he died from drinking water contaminated by sewage. His wife never officially served as First Lady. She was sick when he moved to Washington. She intended to join him when she got better, but he died before she got there. Still, she was the oldest First Lady until Joe Biden was elected and Jill Biden served as First Lady.
As I was driving to Grouseland, I noticed a sign for George Rogers Clark National Historical Park. So of course, once we finished the tour, I had to check it out. I never heard of George Rogers Clark, and therefore, I couldn’t resist the urge to learn something new. We got there a half hour before they closed so my time was extremely limited which severely cut down on how much I could learn. But some knowledge is always preferable to no knowledge.
During the Revolutionary War in 1779, Clark and his men defeated the British who served under Lieutenant Governor Henry Hamilton. Clark captured Vincennes and greatly weakened British influence in the Northwest Territory. He is known as “The Conqueror of the Old Northwest.” He hated the Native Americans and executed the Native American prisoners who had sided with the British. After his campaign, native raids did not occur as frequently. However, Native Americans fought against Americans who invaded their territory until the end of Black Hawks War in 1832. While I had no idea who Clark was. I am very familiar with his younger brother—the guy who accompanied Lewis on an excursion out west.
I would have loved to have spent more time in Vincennes. Not only did it appear to have a certain charm, there was a great deal more history to explore since it was the capital of the Indiana Territory. But Kati is not please that I am away and she wants me home tomorrow—a day earlier than I planned to be home to get G3 ready for camp—in order to help with moving. So instead of lingering there for the night as planned, I pushed on until I got to Ohio.
Since the park is a National Scenic Riverways and the Ozarks are known for their lakes and rivers, I wanted to get G3 on the water for a day. There is no white water rafting this time of year so we opted for a kayaking trip instead. I didn’t know which company was best so I randomly chose one online. The person I spoke to on the phone was friendly and suggested the eight mile float/paddle down the Jacks Fork River. We went with it because it was the shortest excursion and G3 didn’t want anything too long.
I had an extremely pleasant time on the river. We were the only ones who had signed up for the 9:00 o’clock time slot. I was surprised considering it’s still summer, but the guy who drove us to the starting point said we’re at the very end of the season. Out here school starts soon. On the water, we passed only one group of people. Otherwise, we were all alone—us and the turtles. And wow, were there a lot of turtles. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many many before. They were all hanging out on logs jutting out of the river. If we got too close we spooked them and the slipped into the water to escape our curiosity.
The current moves at a slow gentle pace. I thought we’d paddle most of the way and we did do some paddling, but there were also stretches where we drifted, floating along on the current. Of course we reminisced about Dad and how he always enjoyed the drifting part—and gazing at the scenery—most. The scenery today was pretty, though G3 thought it was redundant—trees, trees, and more trees. Most of what we drifted through was National Park so there was absolutely no development. It was also quiet—oh so quiet. Only the birds and cicadas provided a sound track for our excursion. I thoroughly enjoyed the peacefulness of it. I need more of that in my life. Being on the water, away from people, and noise. Pure happiness! G3 had fun for about the first half, then he was bored and couldn’t wait for the journey to end. He was happy to return. I was not.
The water was chilly. I had expected G3 to want to stop periodically to go swimming, but he didn’t. Today, of all days on this trip, was the coolest. While we were on the water it didn’t get out of the 70s. Plus the sky was covered the entire time with clouds. G3 was disappointed. He commented that today was the one day he wanted it to be hot. There were a few places where the water looked somewhat deep, but mostly it was shallow. The kayaks scraped bottom a few times. The river had an aquamarine tint—I assume from the springs that feed into it—and it was incredibly clear. Even in the deeper places we could see the bottom and the fish swimming below us. G3’s favorite part of the trip was when we hit the Class I whitewater ripples. He enjoyed the jolt of speed and navigating around fallen trees and hanging branches.
My memory on Facebook was a comment about kayaking with Dad and G3 ten years ago. How fitting. Those are sweet memories. Dad used to bring the boats to our favorite beach in Peconic. He and I would then take them into the inlet and G3 would sit on my lap—he was only a toddler, way too little to paddle on his own. The first year we took him in the kayak he wasn’t yet potty trained, and when he wore his bathing suit, he didn’t wear a diaper. On those early trips he always peed on me. He laughed about it then. Today, when I reminisced about it he was not happy with me. I miss days at the beach with Dad. I think G3 does as well.
We finished kayaking around 1:30 and went to lunch. After we ate, I asked G3 if he wanting go back to Rocky Falls to go swimming. He said no, so I headed back toward the campground. I asked him what he wanted to do and he said he was really tired and needed a nap. So he’s in the tent. It took him about thirty seconds, from the time he laid down, to fall asleep. I always thought children were supposed to exhaust their parents, not the other way around. While he sleeps, I’ll have a little time to read. The campground isn’t deserted, but the sites around me are empty. It’s quiet—the loud people are probably sleeping off their hangovers. There is a cool breeze. I will enjoy this time outside reading since the next two days will involve far too much driving.
I am not good about sitting still for long periods of time. I never have been. There is a trail behind the campground that runs along the river. I decided to take a walk. G3 was still tired and not up for it so he stayed behind. I was only gone an hour. I felt guilty leaving him behind, but I didn’t want to force him to walk, especially if he’s not quite feeling up to physical activity.
We went to Subway for dinner. The woman behind the counter was friendly. She called me ma’am and then apologized and asked me what my pronouns were. She said she didn’t want to offend me. I was taken aback because we’re in rural Missouri and I didn’t expect to find such sensitivity here. She then asked her co worker to change the music—they were listening to rap music—because it wasn’t child friendly. I told her she didn’t need to change it for us because G3 listens to Eminem in the car. That got her excited. Apparently, she is a huge Eminem fan. She even showed us the E tattooed on her hand because she loves his music so much. Why just the E, I don’t know. I wanted to ask what happened to the other letters, but I was afraid it would sound too obnoxious or sarcastic.
Pumpkin is the campground’s pet. She is a turkey. G3 and I have seen her walking around the last few nights. Tonight, as the campground hosts were making their rounds they stopped to chat. They told me she has lived here the last three years. When the last campers left last summer, she chased after them not wanting them to go. During the winter months, the rangers come to check on her and spend some time with her so she doesn’t get lonely. Her first year here, there were two turkeys. But only she came back.
G3 recovered enough to play frisbee with me for awhile. When it got dark he wanted a fire so we made one. He sat with me for awhile telling me how much he does not want to go back to school. He’s afraid the new school won’t be much better than the previous school. He’s afraid it will be boring, especially history. I’m afraid he’s right. Learning from a textbook is quit dull compared to learning it at the places where it actually unfolded. It would be nice to think that maybe this year his teachers will actually be able to meet him where he is instead of bringing him down. We’ll see. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe luck will penetrate the dark clouds rumbling overhead.
He is now back in the tent sleeping while I am still sitting at the fire. Once I finish here I’ll get back to the Shinning. I’m about half way through.
We started the day with a short hike along the Slough Trail to Big Springs. It is the largest spring in Missouri, and one of the largest in the world. It is a beautiful, aquamarine color due to all the minerals in the water. Pictures do not do it justice. On the trail I got stung by a hornet or wasp. It got stuck in the sleeve of my tee shirt and stung me thee times—which is how I know it wasn’t a bee—before I could remove it. My arm swelled and turned a nasty shade of red. It still hurts, and it’s still red, but the swelling has gone down.
G3 was up for a cave tour, and since the park is known for its caves we headed up to Round Spring Cave. En route we came across as tortoise crossing the road. I swerved to make sure I didn’t kill him. I then pulled over and carried him across to the other side in hopes that he would avoid getting squashed by someone else. It’s something Dad always did. He was conscious of saving the tortoises he encountered in the middle of the road. I have many memories of him doing so in Long Island.
The cave tour was spectacular. The guide was amazing and the cave formations were beautiful. The guide was informative and G3 kept her engaged with his curiosity and questions. He was very observant, pointing out things in the cave and asking for explanations of what they were or how they came to be. The guide was impressed by his knowledge and inquisitiveness.
There are 7,000 caves in Missouri and 400 of them are in this park—along with 300 springs that will someday, when the water runs dry, also become caves. The Round Spring Cave was discovered in 1863 by a Union Civil War surgeon. For a period, it was privately owned and offered commercial tours. Then it became a state park until the 1970s when it fell under the National Park jurisdiction. Part of the cave is a biological preserve. It is closed to tourists and the animals—specifically bats and salamanders—are studied by scientists. Sadly, white nose syndrome—which has up to a 95% mortality rate amongst some species—has decimated the bat population. We saw several salamanders on the cave walls and in the streams but no bats There were piles of guano—bat poop. Scientists tested the guano in one pile and found that bats were present in the cave 7000 years ago. When they do make a cave home, they roost in places where there are no stalactites because that indicates a dry section of the cave.
As we walked through the cave we could hear and feel water dripping from the roof. It has produced hundreds of stunning stalagmites and stalactites. These formations grow, on average, a quarter of an inch every 100 years in the midwest. Some of them are a shinny white that looks almost like ice. It’s not. The caves are rich in calcite and in certain areas, where the calcite concentration is higher than other minerals, the formations resemble snow or crystals. A greater presence of iron will turn them various shades of yellow, orange, or brown depending on the level of the concentration.
The skeleton of a female short face cave bear was found in the cave. It had been curled up as if it had been hibernating when it died. Cave bears became extinct during the last ice age. Also in the cave were claw marks that evidence indicates belong to the same species. On bear paws, between the claws, are scent glands. When bears scratch, sometimes it is intentional in order to mark the territory with their scent. Inside a cave it is completely dark. Bears can’t see. But if they leave a trail of their scent, they can find their way out.
When the tour was over, we went to Alley Spring because the Visitor Center there has a gift shop. It might have been the worst National Park gift shop we’ve ever been to. They hardly had anything. G3 wanted to get matching hats, but the only color we liked was sold out. The other two were ugly. Even the shirts weren’t great. But G3 wanted us to get shirts, especially since we couldn’t get hats. I liked one design. G3 liked the other one, so we went with his preference. I was just happy he wanted something that matched me.
At Alley Springs, I wanted to hike the overlook trail. It was only a mile and a half, but G3 had no interest. He wanted to sit in the shade and read instead, so he took one of the camping chairs out of the trunk and set it under a tree. He’s reading Misery and not liking it as much as he liked the other two King novels he has read. The hike was peaceful. It was hot, so few people were out. The spring, like the one we saw this morning, was a pretty aquamarine color. Beside it is a red mill that used to grind wheat. There is also a historic one room school house near the mill. A ranger was inside to welcome visitors and answer questions. But she was aloof, and seemed to have no interest in talking or discussing the school. I made a comment about the students just learning three subjects—the three Rs—and she argued with me saying they learned more than that. So I pointed to the interpretation sign right outside, the one I read before entering, and told her she was giving information contrary to the sign. She shrugged and said, “Oh.” Most of the rangers here—the guy who ran the program last night and the tour guide were the exceptions—have no personality. I’ve never encountered so many rangers at a park who so blatantly either dislike their jobs or possibly just hate people.
G3 and I had not showered or swam since the hot springs and we have been sweating profusely. Getting in the water today was imperative. Therefore, we drove over to Rock Falls to go swimming. The falls were disappointing. They weren’t much more than a gentle stream rolling over the rocks. I’m sure it’s amazing after a heavy rain, but it’s been relatively dry. The water was pleasant—a perfect temperature—and it felt cleaner than the lake at Chickasaw. G3 had fun climbing up the rocks and exploring.
We got back to the campsite after dark and since the heat wasn’t as bad as it has been I started a small fire. We brought wood from home—really dry wood that burns nicely, wood I took from Mattituck when Mom sold the house. It seems silly to bring it back home, especially since it would just be more for us to move. As I pulled into our site we realized G3 never put the chair back into the car. I had brought the old camping chairs because they are slightly smaller than the newer ones, and since we don’t need the old ones anymore, the plan had been for me to leave them behind at the end of the trip. It’s a good thing or I’d have been angry that G3 forgot to put it back into the trunk. But without a chair he didn’t enjoy the fire as much because he had to sit on the ground with the bugs.
Quiet hours started an hour ago. Of course there is one large group that is being loud. I don’t understand why people are so rude.
We turned north this morning to make our way back home. On the way, we stopped at a gas station in some small mountain town in rural Arkansas so I could get a cup of coffee. I brought it to the counter and the woman smiled and said, “You’re good.” Puzzled, I insisted, “But I have to pay.” She shook her head, “No, have a great day.”
I had wanted to visit the Ozarks for awhile now. It’s the main reason—when I realized we’d have less than three weeks between the World Championship and G3’s Boy Scout Camp—that I planned our trip around Missouri. What I didn’t realize, until about a week ago, was that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s final home was in the Ozark Mountains. It was the house—or rather houses—in which she penned her classic children’s books. Getting to her house required a two hour detour from my original route. Did I take it? Of course I did. Seeing where she lived on the Prairie, that was one thing—my childhood dream. Seeing where she wrote, well, as a writer, that was something entirely different.
Laura—her middle name was Elizabeth, how did I not know that?—lived in DeSmet, South Dakota until July 1894. That’s when she, Almanzo, and seven year old Rose moved to Mansfield, Missouri. They had $100 to their name, which they used to purchase 40 acres of land in order to start a dairy, fruit and poultry farm. Laura named it Rocky Ridge Farm.
Rose was a writer before her mother. She was a journalist for the San Francisco Bulletin. After World War I, she lived in Europe where she wrote articles and short stories for a living. In the 1920s, she returned to Missouri. At the time, she was the second highest paid author in America. (G3 had to Google who was the highest and his search yielded F. Scott Fitzgerald.) She thought her parents had worked hard their entire lives and felt they deserved a comfortable retirement. Therefore, she built them a modern house made of stone—called The Rock House. It even had electricity—quite a step up from that Little House on the Prairie. Even though it was a lovely thoughtful gesture, neither Laura nor Almamzo wanted a new house. They were content in the farm house.
In the Rock House—which I love, especially the gorgeous view from the front—Laura wrote her first four books, the first of which was published in 1932 when Laura was 65. It was, however, not her first foray into the world of writing. Between 1911 and 1923 she was a staff writer for The Missouri Ruralist. Her ability to write so descriptively is attributed to her long ago promise to Mary,after Mary went blind, that she would be her eyes and describe everything to her.
When her parents moved into the modern house, Rose settled into the farm house to write novels. Young Pioneers was her most successful novel, but according to the tour guide, she plagiarized, copying copiously from her mother. In 1936, Rose left Missouri to go live first in NYC and then Connecticut. Her parents moved out of the Rock House and back into the farm house. That’s where Laura wrote the rest of her books. She died on February 10, 1957, three days after her 90th birthday.
Laura was born two years after the Civil War. She lived in a tiny log cabin and traveled by wagon. In her childhood, she carried water from a well, wrote on a slate in school, and read at night by candlelight. Yet, for ten years, her life overlapped with my mothers. Born in an age when the American military still had a cavalry, she lived long enough for America to develop nuclear warfare. In her lifetime, the world became a completely different place. It’s incredible to think of her having written her last book four years before my mother was born.
There is some speculation among geneticists that the family suffered from Fragile X syndrome considering no male children survived. Laura’s brother died in infancy, as did her son. And her grandson—Rose’s child—was stillborn. Mary never got married, but Laura’s younger sisters, Carrie and Grace, never had any children. Scarlet Fever may not have been the cause of Mary’s blindness. Now, there is some belief that it might have been meningitis.
G3 was as bored in Laura’s Missouri home as he was in her Independence home. He did go on both tours with me, but he had no interest in the museum—where I spent way too much time. He did, however, admit that it was really cool to see Charles’ fiddle. We were both surprised to find out how short Laura was. She was only 4’11” and Almanzo was 5’4”.
We are Camping at the Ozark National Scenic Riverway. When we arrived, G3 wanted to set up the tent by himself. I didn’t object. It gave me time to look over the map and begin thinking about what we might do tomorrow. I can already tell that two days won’t be nearly enough time to do everything. But two days is definitely better than not getting here at all.
We attended a Ranger Program this evening about Springs and Caves. In 1964, this park became the first river system protected by the National Park. It has the highest concentration of first magnitude springs in the entire world. (A first magnitude spring releases 64 million gallons, or more, of water a day.) The bedrock here is made of dolomite which formed from the calcium of prehistoric dead animals. Water enters the dolomite forming springs. Over time, the water wears away the rock and when the water vacates, it leaves behind a cave.
Quiet hours were supposed to start at ten. it is almost 11 and there are two parties going on, each blasting music. A barking dog is accompanying the music at one of the parties. There is no number to call for a ranger to come and break it up. I suspect I am going to get no sleep tonight. Tomorrow, I will have to get a number. Why are people do damn rude? If you want to have a party don’t come out into the woods. It defeats the purpose of being in nature and it totally ruins the experience for everyone else.
This morning I got up early and was hiking before 7 o’clock. G3 did not want to come, so he stayed behind at the campsite. I was a little disappointed. I enjoy hiking more when I have company. But I was not going to force him to come because then he would have been miserable and neither one of us would have had any fun. I walked the Oretel Trail. it’s convenient having the hiking trails at the campsite. This way, I didn’t have to drive to get there and leave G3 alone for a longer period of time. At such an early hour, it was really quiet on the trail, just me and the birds. There was nothing special to see. The hike was the same as yesterday, and short—only about an hour and a half. Enough to get me saturated with sweat and feel like I got some exercise. I didn’t want to be gone long because G3 was waiting for me and we had other things planned for today.
As I walked, all I could think about was how much I dread going back home—more so than any other summer. When we moved out of the condo, we were supposed to be moving forward, eventually finding ourselves in something better. This house is not much bigger than the condo—the living space might actually be smaller—and once again, I find myself trapped. It’s not where I want to be. How can you possibly be happy in a place that makes you everything but happy? I’m stuck again, and I know that’s not going to be good for my mental health. So what do I have this year to look forward to: a house I don’t want, one that makes me feel trapped, and a job where I get no respect and they won’t let me teach the subject I am mast passionate about. What do I have to look forward to that’s actually going to be good? I’d say, just being with G3 would be enough to make me happy, but he’s at that age where he wants to spend less and less time with me. And there’s my writing group, but we only meet once a month. Being on the road and traveling—learning new things, seeing different places—makes me happy. I don’t want the trip to end, because when it ends, my happiness will go with it.
I am a murderer. I killed a bird—accidentally. When we stopped for breakfast, G3 pointed out the bird corpse stuck in the front of my car. I had to yank it out with my hand. Yuck! I feel awful. This can’t be a good omen.
We visited Bill Clinton’s birth home in Hope, Arkansas. It was not terribly exciting—in fact, it was rather disappointing. There was a Ranger in the house, but the tour was self guided. There was very little information given about the house and the former president. I tried to engage the Ranger in a conversation, to extract more information, but she either didn’t know much or didn’t care to talk.
I didn’t remember ever hearing that Clinton had a brother. The one bit of information I was able to extract from the Ranger was the fact that Clinton’s brother had several run-ins with the law for selling drugs. Each time, Clinton pardoned him. That sounds like an abuse of power. I know—they all do that. But it doesn’t make it right. It must have been in the news at the time, but I have no recollection of it. All I remember regarding Clinton and drugs was Clinton’s absurd response, “I didn’t inhale.” Yeah, I was an adult when Clinton was president, but that doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t politically aware—not even a little. G3 probably knows more at 13 than I knew at 21.
Clinton was born three months after his biological father was killed in a car accident. His mother named him William Jefferson Blythe III after him. He only changed his name when his younger half-brother—-who was a decade younger— started school. He wanted them to have the same name.
Since his father was dead, Clinton and his mother moved in with her parents. For the first year of his life, he hardly saw his mother. She was in New Orleans finishing up her degree in nursing. Clinton’s grandmother taught him how to read. When he was four, his mother remarried and they moved out—first to another house in Hope, then to Hot Springs.
In the house, on the table in Clinton’s room, was a picture of him as a real young kid dressed in a cowboy outfit, complete with a cowboy hat. I did a double-take because there is a picture of my Dad around the same age dressed similarly. (They were contemporaries—Clinton was born two years earlier than Dad). I looked on my phone and social media because I wanted to see how similar they really were or if my memory was inaccurate, but I couldn’t find it. I even messaged my cousin to see if it was in her file-it wasn’t. I will have to check my computer when I get home. Anyway, both Dad and Clinton loved Hapalong Cassidy. It was a favorite show for them during their childhoods, Dad didn’t care for Clinton much. In those days he was still a Republican. So I’m not really sure why this matters. Maybe it’s just that the picture reminded me of Dad and that was enough. It also reminded me that Dad died while Clinton still lives. Life isn’t fair. It never was and never will be.i’m
Clinton remembers his grandparents being in favor of integrating the schools, and angry when the Governor shut them down in an attempt to prevent it. I guess it was fitting that he—also a former Governor of Arkansas—signed the legislation that designated Little Rock Central High School a National Historic Site. That was the only thing regarding his presidency that was present anywhere at the site.
It seems when presidents are alive—we’ve now been to the homes of two living presidents—there is less the museums are willing to say about their terms in office. Perhaps it’s because they want to avoid controversy, or maybe simply honor them quietly in their latter years.
After Clinton’s house, we returned to Hot Springs. Since it was incredibly hot—104 degrees—we stopped along the way for an ice. Once we got back we went to the Gangster Museum. We thought it might be fun to take a tour and learn about Hot Springs’ shady past. Boy were we wrong. The tour was an hour and a half and while we learned a few interesting things along the way, the tour as a whole was dreadfully boring. We were ushered into a series of rooms—each with some pictures and other cool memorabilia—to watch dull videos about different segments and aspects of the city’s history. And the guide wouldn’t even take any questions. How can you give a tour and not have time for questions. That’s my favorite part.
Starting in the 1920s and continuing for four decades, Hot Springs was a gaming paradise. Illegal gambling was so big and influential that lawmakers and police closed their eyes to it. Rich and famous people flocked to the area and it became America’s first resort. Allegedly, the Strip in Vegas was modeled on Hot Springs. Gambling continued to bring in a great deal of money until 1967 when Governor Winthrop Rockefeller finally took it down.
My mother often mentioned that John Kennedy’s father, Joe Kennedy, got his money in the bootlegging business. It always troubled her that the family was so well respected and well regarded when the patriarch was nothing more than a criminal. It is ironic, maybe even hypocritical, that a man who made his fortune flouting Federal Law should use that money to help seat his son in the White House. Anyway, Joe Kennedy and Al Capone were business partners in Hot Springs. They discovered that by using the thermal water to produce moonshine it came out as clear as water. They set up an operation at Belvedere Dairy and named their product Mountain Valley Spring Water. At the time, Mountain Valley Spring Water was a favorite of President Coolidge and Congress. To differentiate their product from the real thing, Kennedy and Capone affixed the labels upside down.
Capone wasn’t the only person of ill repute in Hot Springs. John Dillanger, Bonnie and Clyde, Alvin Karpis, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Lucky Luciano all spent time there. Many were able to hide and evade arrest with the assistance of the Hot Spring’s police. In order to travel unseen, they utilized tunnels that ran underground.
Criminals weren’t the only ones who made use of Hot Springs. It was home to the original Spring Training for baseball. I wonder if Dad knew that. Dad knew everything about baseball so he probably did, but I find it odd that he had never mentioned it. Or did he and I don’t remember? In the middle of the baseball part of the tour, I could feel tears seeping into my eyes because what I wanted to do most was pick up the phone and say, “Hey Dad, did you know…” But of course, I can’t do that anymore. Yet, I really really wanted to hear his response.
In 1886, Cap Anson from the Chicago White Stockings—now the Cubs—thought it would be a brilliant place to train because the hot spring water would be therapeutic and help get the athletes in shape. He took his team to prepare for the upcoming season and soon the other teams followed. Babe Ruth trained there as did the Negro League players. While there, the ball players also partook of the vices in town, such as gambling and drinking. Hot Springs stopped playing host to Spring Training when teams moved to states with better weather and more room.
As far back as I can remember, G3 has wanted a cane that conceals a sword. And he found it in one of the shops along the main street. Hot Springs was once home to some of Americas toughest gangsters. Where else would you find an old-school concealed weapon? I am either the coolest mom or the worst because I bought it for him. I did, however, tell him that I will keep it until he gets a bit older.
G3 has been looking for the perfect Indiana Jones type hat. And he found it in the same store as the cane. He also found about a dozen other dress hats—tops hats, fedoras, bowlers, etc.—that he really liked and wanted to own so he could start dressing up again for school. But they were all expensive and he could only afford one. He ended up going with the hat he wanted initially. I told him to make a mental note of the others and perhaps ask Santa for one—or two—when Christmas rolls around.
We are at Hot Springs National Park. This morning we got up early to hike because, well, what else do you do in a National Park. Plus, I really enjoy hiking. I wanted an early start because it’s going to be 100° again, and I wanted to hike before the heat got too oppressive. G3 was not as excited about hiking. From the moment we started, he complained. He said this was a boring national park, and there’s nothing to see that he couldn’t see at home. Part of me agrees with him. The trails here aren’t anything special, but they are in a different place, a different state—which for me is enough. I tried to explain that sometimes going to a place you don’t like isn’t bad because you were lucky enough to have been there. You still got to have that experience. How would you know if a place was good or bad if you never saw it yourself? He didn’t agree with me.
When we started out, I let him choose the trail, hoping that might make him a little more enthused—or at least feel like he had some voice. It did not. We walked part of the Hot Springs Mountain Trail, but after 40 minutes of walking, it was apparent G3 didn’t want to walk anymore. I told him we could turn around and his mood immediately improved. He became very chatty and wanted to talk about Stephen King. I walked back part of the way with him and then he went back to the campsite alone where said he was going to read. I headed off to do a little more hiking, this time along the Upper Dogwood Trail. It is already hot out, but at least the trail is shaded, and there is a slight bit of breeze to keep me from overheating.
In 1921, Congress designated Hot Springs as the nation’s 18th National Park. G3 and I seem to agree that it is the least interesting of all the national parks we have been to. Too bad Dad never got a chance to get here. He might’ve suddenly had a better opinion of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
I take it back! Dad would’ve loved it here. The reason it’s called Hot Springs Nation Park is because there are Hot Springs. However, the only way to enter the Hot Springs is to pay to go into one of the bath houses. There are two active ones, only one of which requires you to wear a bathing suit. Obviously, that’s the one I took G3 to. In the bath house, Quapuw, there were three hot pools each a different temperature: 98°, 102°, 104°. When you go to the beach, you sit on the sand until you get hot and then you go in the water to cool off. In the bathhouse, you sit in the air-conditioning until you get cold, and then you go into a hot tub. I was surprised at how long we ended up staying. I thought we’d be there an hour, maybe two, but we ended up staying more than three. We alternated between going into the hot tubs and reading. I think G3 very much enjoyed the experience, he certainly seemed to enjoy it more than hiking this morning. Yes, Dad would’ve been very happy here, too, because Dad always loved soaking in a hot tub.
People have been coming to Hot Springs to soak in the thermal water since the 1830s. The original bathhouses were simple structures, some not much more than a tent. Later, the structures developed into beautiful elaborate Victorian buildings, but they were made of wood which tended to catch fire easily and was susceptible to rot. The years between 1911 and 1939 are considered the Golden Age of Bathing. During that time, bathhouses were constructed in a mix of Spanish mission and neoclassical architecture. And some of them are impressively beautiful and grand. The Buckstaff Bathhouse is the only one still around from the Golden Age, and from what I was told, the bathhouse is run in a more traditional way—hence not the one we went to.
We popped in at the National Park Visitors Center. Once upon a time, it was the Fordyce Bathhouse, but the National Park converted it into a museum. I walked through the exhibits on all three floors in about ten minutes. G3 took much longer. I waited patiently for him on the porch. When he finished, he was mad that I was quicker than him. I admitted honestly, “I was bored.” Bathhouse history—beyond the surface—just wasn’t interesting. (I can almost hear you all gasping—me admitting something historical is…boring!) G3’s mouth fell open and his eyes bugged a bit, “But it’s from the 1920s. That’s my favorite time in American history.” I had no idea. If there was a tour or if a ranger was giving a talk, I probably would have had more interest, but just looking at display after display is dull.
Next, we walked on the touristy side of the street because G3 wanted to look in the gift shops. Tourist towns all have the same crap, they just stamp a different name on it. I was ready to be done after five minutes, but G3 had to go into each and every store.
Back at the campsite, it was too hot, again, for a fire. So we played frisbee for awhile and then cards. It is incredibly hot even now at 9:00 at night. I am laying in my tent, not moving, and I am still sweating profusely. Beads of sweat are trickling down my skin everywhere. I feel so icky, it’s like I didn’t shower—or sit in baths—at all today.
My thumbs are sore, they actually hurt from writing so much last night. I need a portable keyboard that connects to my phone because typing with just my thumbs is too tedious.
I slept decently until about 5:00, which was more than I expected. I tried to fall back to sleep, but by then there was a steady stream of traffic on the road and I couldn’t force myself to sleep through the noise. I will be tired today, but maybe I can get to sleep earlier tonight. G3 is still sound asleep. Noise doesn’t impact his ability to sleep as it does mine.
Yesterday, G3 finished Salem’s Lot. Misery—he will only read King at the moment—is only 300 pages. He was worried that he might finish it before we got home and then he would have nothing to read. I totally understand the fear. He asked me if I would please take him to the bookstore to buy a back-up book. How could I say no? I am happy he wants to read. Upon arriving, he went right for the horror section and started reading the back of several King books. After awhile he settled on Carrie and Pet Sematary.
From the bookstore, we drove to Little Rock Central High School National Historic Site. And wow! This is why I like going to multiple places that allegedly tell the same story. When people talk about how history should only be taught by telling the facts, the question that should always follow is: Which ones? Depending on which facts you reveal, which you omit, or what order you place them in can change the narrative completely. Over the years, in my travels with G3, I have come to realize that National Parks try to tell a balanced story. They attempt to give visitors all the facts, or at least facts that are important to various perspectives. The history at the National Parks no longer simply follows the narrative of the European settlers. Even if the truth depicts Americans in a negative way, they tell it. However, privately run museums—like Eisenhower’s House and museum in Kansas—tend to shift the narrative so that the person they are “selling” is depicted in the most positive light possible. They want us to love—or at least not criticize—the person whose life they have put on display.
The story we got today regarding Eisenhower’s role in integrating the schools was much different than the one we learned at his house. In this narrative, he was not the shining hero some history books—and his museum—would have you believe. I spent over an hour at the National Park taking to two rangers and then G3 and I spent a half hour walking through the museum. Eisenhower appointed Chief Justice Earl Warren to the Supreme Court as a political move. Warren was planning to run for president on the Republican ticket. To keep him out of the race, Eisenhower promised him a spot on the Supreme Court. While the Supreme Court was deliberating on Brown V. Board of Education, Eisenhower pulled Warren aside at a dinner and said, regarding Southern white, “These are not bad people. All they are concerned about is to see that their sweet little girls are not required to sit in school alongside some big black bucks.” A comment like that definitely paints Eisenhower as a racist.
I further learned that Eisenhower did not agree with the Supreme Court decision, but he said he would uphold it because his first duty was to serve the Constitution. I guess there is something to be said for him doing his job. When it came to the conflict in Little Rock, he didn’t disagree with Governor Faubus. At first, he had no desire to get involved. But the United States was embroiled in the Cold War with the Soviet Union. We were trying to prove to the world—allies and enemies—that we provided more freedom for our citizens than the Soviet Union provided for theirs. Jim Crow seemed to demonstrate a different truth. White people could claim freedom, African-Americans could not. And the Soviet Union latched on to our hypocrisy in their own propaganda.
When the National Guard refused to let Elizabeth Eckford, and the rest of the Little Rock Nine into the high school, journalists from around the country covered the story. The gas station across the street from the school had a phone the journalists used to communicate with their headquarters. From there, word of what was occurring spread at rapid speed for the 1950s. (G3 struggled to comprehend the significance of the gas station and that one phone. I guess even though he knows phones were different, the concept of news not traveling the speed of light through social media is still strange/foreign to him.) Eisenhower knew the world was watching—judging. He sent in Federal Troops because he knew it would look good on the world stage. He chose the Army’s 101 Airborne Division because they were integrated and because they had training in riot control.
What I didn’t realize, because I’ve never been great about the dates part of history, was that the integration of Little Rock high school occurred two years after a white mob killed Emmett Till. The students knew the consequences of pissing off white southerns, but they wanted to give themselves as much opportunity as possible. They are known as the Little Rock Nine, but there were originally ten students. On girl didn’t persist because her father worked for the railroad. His bosses told him if his daughter continued to try and integrate the school they would fire him. He put his daughter back into the black school, but they fired him anyway. Elizabeth Eckford had to fight her mother first. Her mother didn’t want her to be involved, but Eckford wanted to go to college and felt that the white school would increase her chances and opportunities. Once the students were finally admitted, after being escorted by the army, they were verbally, emotionally, and physically abused by the other students—all year. Yet they kept showing up for school because they wanted something better for themselves. For instance, when the African-American boys were showering the white boys would continuously flush the toilets so the showers would get too hot. They would then spread broken glass on the floor so when the boys would run out of the shower their feet would get cut.
On the first day of school in 1957, the Little Rock Nine were supposed to meet to walk into school together. They didn’t want parents to show up because they were afraid what might happen. The ranger asked G3 how I would have acted if someone didn’t want him to walk into school. G3 didn’t hesitate, he shook his head, “She’d kill someone if they tried to stop me.” He’s probably not wrong. Last minute the plans were slightly altered. Elizabeth Eckford didn’t have a phone so no one could reach her. Therefore, she arrived first. Governor Faubus had told everyone he called in the National Guard to protect the citizens. So Eckford thought they were there to protect her. It was only on her third try to get passed them that they told her they were really there to prevent her from entering.
White people feared desegregation was a communist plot intent on destroying family values. Sound familiar? It makes you think that these family values the conservatives so fiercely protect are all about hate and discrimination. At the end of the school year Faubus utilized a new state law enabling him to close any school forced to integrate. Schools remained closed for a whole year. This prompted white flight and the economy took a hit. White women were angry that their kids weren’t in school. So four women formed the Women’s Emergency Council. At first they operated in secret. They managed to call for a special election and succeeded in getting rid of the segregationist board members. The following year schools opened.
In the museum there was a rotary phone. G3 asked me to show him how to use it. It made me feel old. Really old because it was the exact same phone my grandfather had. After the museum, we walked across the street to the school. It’s a gorgeous building. We couldn’t go in since it’s still an active school, but that was okay because the action took place outside along the sidewalk.
Next, we went to ATA Taekwondo headquarters to walk through the museum. The founder, Eternal Grand Master Haeng Un Lee, met American airman Richard Reed on the Osan Air Force Base in South Korea. Reed sponsored him to emigrate to the United States to teach “Korean Karate.” It always troubled me that ATA often uses Taekwondo and Karate interchangeably. They are different styles of martial arts. Taekwondo is Korean, Karate is Japanese. Having lived in Korea, I cringe when Karate is used because the Koreans do not—or did not—like the Japanese. There was a great deal of bitterness from years of being invaded and occupied. So many times in Korea, I would visit a historical site and the plaque would read something like: “This is a replica. The original was burned by the Japanese in the year xxxx.” Koreans were fiercely proud of their own culture but would never pretend that something Japanese was their own. Today, I asked why he referred to it as “Korean Karate.” One of the masters explained—as I had suspected—that it was a marketing ploy. Americans knew Karate, but not Taekwondo.
When Reed ask the Eternal Grand Master where he wanted to go, he looked at a map and pointed to Omaha, Nebraska. Odd choice, right? Not really. Omaha is close to the geographic center of the country. Eternal Grand Master wanted to start in the center and spread out across the country. In 1969, he opened his first school under the label Midwest Karate Federation. However, while in America he developed Songahm, a new style of Taekwondo. At that point, he changed the name to American Taekwondo Association. He is the first martial artist to document the development of an entire style. In 1977, he relocated to Little Rock, Arkansas.
We also went to the H. U. Lee International Gate and Garden. The gate is a pretty traditional gate, the kind I grew familiar with in Korea. The garden had two Dol (stone) Hareubang statues from Jeju Island. Seeing them took me back to my vacation on Jejudo. (For those of you who have not read my essay about Jejudo, you can find it here: https://www.eckleburg.org/mr-kim-by-elizabeth-jaeger/)
Since it was another 100 degree day, and G3 was melting in the heat, I let him talk me into going to another movie. The Haunted Mansion was—to be blunt—stupid, but not as stupid as I expected. Surprisingly, I did laugh and enjoy parts of it.
We ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Hot Springs. I was excited to eat a cactus taco. I never had cactus before and thought it would be fun to try. Sadly, there was so much salsa and cheese on the taco I couldn’t taste the cactus. Somehow, I feel like that is a metaphor for my life. I just need to work out the details. G3’s favorite part of the meal was the chips and queso. He loves queso and he said it was the best he ever had
Kati closed on the house today. Neither of us are happy. We put in a bid out of desperation. Then our real estate agent harassed Kati to sign the contract the day her dad died. Kati, flustered and in mourning, signed without being clear headed enough to read carefully. I’ve been there. I know what grief does to the brain. Later, she realized she committed to a ridiculous down payment. After the inspection, when we learned how many things were wrong, we made it clear to our agent and lawyer that we wanted out. But instead of working for us, it was apparent that they were working for the seller. They pushed the sale through manipulating and lying to us every strip of the way. The details would make for a long essay. I may feel compelled to write it when I get home. I just wish I knew where to send it to expose the unethical behavior. Anyway, I’ve never felt so violated and taken advantage of. I don’t like living in New Jersey and having to live in a house I greatly dislike will only exacerbate my unhappiness. I don’t think I will ever have a home I love as much as I loved Mattituck.
The setting of our campsite really was peaceful. I wish we could stay but we have a time constraint. G3 needs to get back for summer camp. And I need to be able to do his laundry and he needs to pack. I slept as well as I could on rocky ground. I did wake up in the middle of the night thinking someone was shining a flashlight in my eyes, but it was the moon. It looked full, or almost full, and the light was super bright.
Without the rain fly, nothing was there to block it. I guess I didn’t mind. In a deserted campsite, miles from anything, it was preferable to being in total darkness.
I love waking up near the water. My dream house—if I am ever lucky enough to have it—would be on the water. Today we will continue east to Sequoyah cabin. When I was initially planning the trip, we were going to be getting there yesterday, but it is closed on Monday, which is why we spent an extra day in Chickasaw. It probably worked out for the best because I doubt Robbers Cave would had been as pleasurable if we had gotten there on a Sunday. The weekend crowd would have soiled the experience.
We stopped at another cafe in the middle of a tiny town. G3 ordered biscuits and gravy. The waitress asked if he wanted white gravy or brown chocolate gravy. I am sure you can guess what he went with. Years ago, when he wasn’t much older than a toddler, he complained one morning that I never let him eat chocolate for breakfast. I posted about it on facebook and David, who my brother was dating at the time, commented that biscuits and chocolate was a common southern breakfast. He even emailed me his mother’s recipe for both buttermilk biscuits and chocolate sauce. When I first made it, G3 was really excited. I still make it on occasion because who doesn’t love chocolate. So I knew biscuits and chocolate were a thing in the south, I just never encountered in a restaurant until now. Of course, I too needed to have that for breakfast. It was a nice change from hot cereal or eggs.
I was really excited about the prospect of learning about Cherokee history at Sequoyah’s cabin. G3 and I got there when they opened and we were the only ones there. It was great because we had a private tour that lasted an hour and a half. G3 was not quite as enthused. I am sure the tour doesn’t last that long on average. I just had so many questions and the tour guide seemed to enjoy telling me stories. At one point she even said to me—I don’t usually give so much information, but you seem to really be interested. Yep, that’s me, the history nerd. Kerry, if you are reading this, you would have loved the visit as much as I did.
Sequoyah is an important historical figure because he created the writings system for the Cherokee language. It isn’t an alphabet like we have. It is a syllabary—each syllable has its own character. There are a few different stories relating why he felt the need to produce a writing system. One states that he was fascinated by the Bible, this idea that stories could be seen in a book. Another states he was intrigued by missionaries teaching children how to write. A third says soldiers at war writing letters home caught his attention. Regardless of his reason, it took him 12 years—ending in 1825–to complete. An incredible accomplishment, especially since he wasn’t a linguist, or educator, or scholar. He was a blacksmith and silversmith by trade.
The first person he taught the writing system to was his young daughter. He figured if she could learn it then adults should have no problem. While he was away traveling, they wrote each other letters. The village was shocked that she could know what her father was doing while he was away. It seemed so outlandish the village accused them both of practicing witchcraft.
They then had to go before the chief to prove they were innocent. They did that by demonstrating the writing system The chief was so enthralled that he insisted Sequoyah teach everyone. By the the time Jackson issued his order of removal, Cherokees had reached a 90 percent literacy rate—higher than Americans at the time. Sadly, the percentage dropped during removal when Cherokee had more pressing matters—survival—to tend to.
Sequoyah was born in Tennessee, but he was part of an earlier wave of Cherokee who had moved out to what is now Oklahoma. Feeling suffocated by white settlers, they moved west hoping to get away from greedy white people. During the War of 1812, Sequoyah joined the cavalry. In 1814, he fought under Andrew Jackson—future enemy of the Cherokee—at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. The battle resulted in the death of 900 Creek warriors. Sequoyah died in his 80s, but no one knows where his body is. He was on a diplomatic mission to Mexico where he hoped to rekindle ties with the Cherokee who fled the United States. If possible, he hoped to convince them to return to the Cherokee nation. While in Mexico he caught Yellow Fever and died. His traveling companions put his body in a cave intending to return for it at a later date. Unfortunately, when they tried, they couldn’t find it.
The Cherokee did own slaves. It was on the Trail of Tears, recognizing the horrors of being subjugated by another group for reasons of race, that they ended the practice and offered former slaves citizenship in their nation. When the order of removal was first issued, the Cherokee appealed the order all the way up to the Supreme Court. The Supreme Court rules in their favor, declaring removal to be unconstitutional. But Jackson didn’t care. He essentially said, stop me if you dare. Needless to say, no one dared.
As a matrilineal society, women had far more rights and a much greater voice than white women. This was part of the problem in dealing with the American Government. American representatives always wanted to deal with men, have them sign their treaties, but that went against Cherokee culture. Traditionally, villages had a war chief and a peace chief both of whom had to report to/consult with a council of women. It’s important to note that in traditional Cherokee culture gender was not binary. it was much more fluid than Europeans constructed it. When DeSoto came across a Cherokee village that had biological men dressing and “acting” like women he fed the gender benders to the dogs.
In 1905, The Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Seminole, and Muskogee (Creek) held a Constitutional Convention in Muskogee. In an effort to retain some authority over their own people, they drafted a Constitution and appealed for Statehood. They would have called their state Sequoyah, in honor of the man who gave them a written voice. Congress, of course, rejected them.
The Cherokees are still protective of their culture and language. Only 3000 first speakers—men and women for whom Cherokee was their first language—are alive. They had 5000, but COVID killed 2000. These men and women are still active trying to teach the younger generation to ensure the language survives.
What G3 found most fascinating is that he can get the Cherokee alphabet on his iPhone keyboard. I thought he was playing on his phone—but when our guide mentioned that apple and android supported her language, G3 had to check it out for himself.
Our next stop was across the border in Arkansas. Fort Smith was built between 1838 and 1842 in and effort to keep the peace between the Osage, who were native to Indian Territory, and the Cherokee, who pushed—some willing and some by force— onto their land. Jackson is demonized—and rightfully so—for the Indian Removal Act, but he was not the first president to envision it. After acquiring the Louisiana Territory, Jefferson thought it would be a great idea to relocate all the tribes east of the Mississippi to “Indian Territory.” He just lumped them all together, giving no consideration to cultural differences.
During the Civil War, Natives fought on both sides. There are some who argue that Jefferson Davis was a better friend to the Natives than Lincoln. And think about it, the Confederacy was a new nation that didn’t carry the baggage of years of broken treaties. Anyway. after the war, the US didn’t care who sided with whom, they treated all the tribes like crap. No surprise, really. In September 1865, the Fort Smith Delegation met at the Fort. Delegates of 12 native nations met with President Johnson’s representatives. New treaties were issued that further cut native land and further undermined tribal authority. The US Government paid Creeks and Seminoles for their land claims and took 1.8 million acres of land. This land was given to white settlers which eventually led to Oklahoma becoming a state. Then in the 1890s the Dawes Act was forced upon the Natives which resulted in even more loss of land.
Following the Civil War, outlaws moved into Indian Territory. Two hundred deputy marshals were sent in to bring order. One of the most famous outlaws was Belle Starr. Her only conviction was for horse theft. She spent a year at the Detroit Department of Corrections. Her daughter, Pear Starr, was known for opening and operating a bordello near the river. Belle’s son became a marshal and was killed in an attempt to arrest whiskey peddlers.
Again, G3 was less than excited. He wanted to sit and read Salem’s Lot, but I didn’t bring him here so that he could spend the time doing what he can do at home. He did, however, finish the book in the car. He did, however, finish the book in the car. The one moment of excitement came when we were walking through the museum, and in a display of Civi War artifacts, G3 spotted the exact sword he bought last week. Seeing it somehow authenticated it for him and made him happy.
We are camping at Hot Springs National Park. It is the WORST campground we’ve stayed in all summer. We are near the bathroom and people keep walking through our site to get there. (When I booked the site I had a choice of only two sites and something was better than an expensive hotel.) We are near the main road and cars are passing non-stop, plus the street lamps mean there won’t be darkness. Thank god for eye masks and ear plugs
Most of the campers hav RVs, but the guy at the site next to us is in a tent. He’s on a long road trip from California. I guess after two days of G3 making friends, it was my turn. He said hi first and we got to chatting. He offered me a beer and we talked for well over an hour. He is a middle school math and science teacher—older than me—who is tired of testing and ridiculous expectations and can’t wait to retire. Years ago, his father was a scientist at Oak Ridge, Tennessee—known for its role in making the nuclear bomb. He told me that as a kid he and other kids were asked by the scientists to collect lightning bugs so they could be studied. The glow sticks kids play with today are a product of that research.
It is super late. G3 is snoring. I need to try to sleep as well.
We woke up early this morning to get on the road before it got too hot. I suppose we had reached our turnaround point and so today we began to make our way back east. After driving for nearly two hours, we stopped at a cute cafe along the side of the road. After our last experience in Kansas, my expectations were low. However, I was pleasantly surprised. G3 ordered a Philly cheese steak for breakfast. He rated it a 8.2 on a scale of 10. Not bad, considering we are in rural Oklahoma. My omelet and home fries were also good.
When I was planning this trip, I asked G3 if there was anything specific he wanted to do while on the road. He said he’d like to visit a cave. I immediately set out to look for one to visit en route. (Somehow I missed the Mark Twain cave where I got sick.) That’s how I came across Robber Cave State Park in Eastern Oklahoma—our destination for the day. I am so glad we came here. This was definitely one of our best, most enjoyable days this trip. And both G3 and I like it so much more than Chickasaw National Recreation Area. If I had known how nice it was going to be, we’d have spent one less day there and one more here. As far as state parks go, this is definitely one of the nicest I have been to. It’s no Custer or Lewis and Clark, but it still make for a great experience.
The park is called Robbers Cave because there really is a cave and between 1865 and 1890 gangs of outlaws—robbers—used to hide out in the area and rob travelers. Belle Starr was a woman who lived around here. She used to welcome the outlaws into her home. In 1889, she was murdered, but her killer was never identified. According to the guy in the nature center, Jesse James and his gang hid out in the cave. G3 thought that was cool—seeing two caves on this trip, both of which harbored Jesse James.
We have FDR to thank for the park. In 1933, when he was trying to keep men employed through various government programs, the Federal government decided to make this a state park. Much of the improvement on the land was completed by the CCC, which at this location was comprised predominantly of World War I veterans. Men in the CCC were paid not just in cash (a paycheck) but also with clothes. food, medical care, training, and opportunities in education.
Since it was another extremely hot day, and we got here when the heat was already feeling oppressive, we didn’t want to spend the day hiking—which had been my plan when I decided on the stop. However, not hiking wasn’t really an option, especially since it hadn’t quite hit 100 degrees—only 96 or 97. We first took the Rough Canyon Trail which was relatively easy. There were rocks and roots along the path wanting very much to trip me, but they didn’t. The path was also layered with small pine cones and dried pine needles. The smell was delightful and not at all what I had expected in Oklahoma.
Next we climbed up to Robber’s Cave. It was not the coolest cave we have seen, but G3 had a blast going off trail and climbing up the rocks. He was like a spider scaling the stone. A few times he went too close to the edge or climbed in places that didn’t look climbable, but he made it look easy. The rocks were pretty, as was the view from the top. The rocks formed a labyrinth and I could totally see how outlaws could hang out and hide, waiting patiently for their next victim.
After sweating in the heat, I got G3 an ice so that he could cool off. We then hit Lake Carlton. Boat rentals were cheap—only $10 and hour so when G3 asked if we could go out on the water I didn’t hesitate to say yes. He initially wanted to go kayaking, until he discovered they had paddle boards. He got really excited and asked if he could do that instead. He had done it once before, years ago, at Cub Scout camp and he enjoyed it. I had never done it, but I always wanted to try. I remember sitting at Veterans Beach in Mattituck with Dad while he watched people—completely amused—trying to maneuver on the boards. Some people—falling into the water, holding themselves as stiff as statues, crashing into things—made it look really difficult, impossible even. Dad always got a good laugh as some people fell repeatedly, unable to balance themselves even in the placid bay. Dad always said it looked like it might be boring own a board, but he too always wanted to try. COVID made sure he never had the opportunity.
G3 admitted he was looking forward to me falling. Then, when he saw I could handle the board as well as he could, he admitted that he was disappointed I didn’t fall. Sorry G3, but I have always told you that when it comes to sports I can hold my own—even in my old-age. I may not be the best at any sport, I may not have mastered any, but I am yet to find one I can’t at least do decently. Okay, I can hear Dad laughing at me. Water skiing is the exception, but I was very young when I tried—and failed. Given another opportunity, perhaps I would be able to get up. I had fun paddling around the lake. It was small so we made our way around most of it. But I’m not sure I’d be eager to do it again. I prefer kayaking.
After our hour was up, I asked G3 if he wanted to stay on the board or even go kayaking, but he wanted to swim. I went in the water with him for a bit, but when he started jumping off the dock I got out to read. There were chairs along the lake so I could sit this time. I wasn’t out long when he started playing with other boy’s again. He seemed to have fun. He played with them for over an hour. I enjoyed the quiet of the lake. The scenery was pretty and The Shining isn’t terrible. The park was practically empty all day. If it had been crowded, I am sure we wouldn’t have enjoyed it half as much.
We ate dinner in the restaurant in the park. It was not expensive and it was much easier than driving back into town. It had a rustic feel to it and the food was good. Actually, my pizza was okay, but G3 said the chicken Alfredo was the best he ever had—better even than the place he likes in Delaware. He also wanted the cheese and bacon fries. I told him he could order them if he finished his pasta and was still hungry. He polished off the Alfredo and still managed to eat a hearty portion of fires.
Our campsite is right on Lake Wayne Wallace. It was nearing sunset when we set up. Since we are leaving early tomorrow we didn’t bother with stakes. G3 suggested we leave the rain fly off as well since it’s so hot. There is no rain in the forecast so I thought it was a great idea. Although, it is so hot and there is no breeze—not even a hint—it still feels like an oven. However, the night sky was pretty. We couldn’t see the sun set, but the clouds were streaked with pink. The cicadas are as chatty here as they were in Chickasaw.
So the motor boats out on the water sound like monsters. I may not sleep tonight.
I slept surprisingly well last night on the exceptionally uncomfortable ground. There were no dogs, only the cicadas who lulled me into a deep sleep. So deep a sleep, that I had an anxiety dream about going back to work. Before summer started, I interviewed for a history position at the school where I am currently working. You’ve been reading what I write. You know how much I love history. Not only would I be much happier teaching history, imagine how incredible I’d be in the classroom, sharing with students what I’ve shared with you the last few summers. My colleagues told me I would never get the history position because English teachers are harder to come by. Administrators want to keep me where they need me, especially since there were already many English vacancies in the district. Kati seemed to agree with my colleagues. But I said, wouldn’t they want to keep me happy, because if I was happy, I would be more likely to stay. Kati said they don’t care about my happiness, the administration never does. In my dream, I definitely did not get the job. My schedule was full of English classes, classes I did not feel confident enough to teach because they were different than the ones I had taught last year. In the dream, they just seemed really wacky, but I don’t remember exactly what they were. I asked the head of the history department why she didn’t want me, and she said she just didn’t get a good feel for me in the interview. I pressed her for a better reason, but she couldn’t give me one. Again, it was just a dream, a manifestation of my anxiety, and what I want most. If I don’t get the history job, I will have to re-double my efforts to find a history job elsewhere.
In the dream, it was suddenly the first day of school and I was trying to get to work, but I couldn’t get there. Everything kept tripping me up. I couldn’t find clothes to wear. They were still packed away in boxes, and I feverishly tore them open only to find summer attire. Unable to find anything appropriate, I wore torn shorts. It was all I had. Better than going to work naked. Then I got on the road, and there was traffic. Road construction diverted traffic and I couldn’t get through to where I needed to be. Somewhere in the dream, G3 also needed to get to school, but he couldn’t get there either. He had to take a subway, which didn’t make sense because we don’t live near a subway. But the subway wasn’t running, plus he hadn’t done his homework and didn’t want to get in trouble. The two of us, somehow, ended up together, not going to school, but sitting in the car frustrated and angry. G3 was sulking and Kati called me, yelling at me for not being serious enough about teaching. That’s when I woke up.
G3 was still sleeping when I woke up, so I got out of the tent and read for a while. When G3 did wake up, I suggested a hike but he didn’t want to walk. Our stay here was supposed to be about hiking and swimming, but G3 only wants to swim. That’s fine. He took his chair down to the water and was going to read while I hiked along a trail near the campground. Like yesterday, I was mindful that G3 was by himself, so I did not hike for long. I was out for just under an hour and a half. Again, I had just the cicadas to keep me company. The Rock Creek Trail wasn’t particularly interesting or pretty, but at least I got some exercise.
When I got back to the campsite, I was so hot and sticky and sweaty, that I was ready to jump in to the water, but first we need to eat. I boiled water for breakfast. We had cream of wheat cereal, hot chocolate, and coffee. We then went swimming. It’s nice to have a rather relaxing day—in the water—to break up the driving and sightseeing.
Well that was disappointing. We signed up for a Ranger Program to learn about wildlife in the creek, but when we got there, the pavilion was empty. I initially went to the wrong place, but realized it relatively quickly. I asked G3 to look at the map, since I was driving, and he directed me to the correct place. We were only 10 minutes late. We should have easily been able to catch the program, but there weren’t even cars parked in the parking lot. I wonder if it had been canceled due to the extreme heat.
G3 said he was only slightly disappointed. Since we couldn’t do the program, we drove to a swimming area that had a rock you could jump off into the water. G3 had been wanting to do that since we got here on Friday and he saw other kids jumping. Yes, I too jumped. It was fun, but not nearly as awesome as Houghton Falls in Wisconsin. That is the ultimate jumping and swimming spot. Here it is very crowded, more so than the lake where we are camping. And the rock isn’t as high, the swim not as intense as it is in Superior. But G3 enjoyed it anyway. He must have jumped three dozen times or more. While jumping he seemed to have made a few friends. I had been reading, but when I looked up at one point, he and a group of boys had moved to the side of the stream and seemed to be hanging out. I would say playing, but at 13, G3 would reprimand me for using such a childish word. However, they did look like they were horsing around and having a good time.
We stopped at the rock for what I thought was going to be a short swim, but G3 appeared to be having so much fun, I didn’t want to call him away. I just wished I hadn’t left the chairs at the campsite. There was nowhere for me to sit in the shade, so I ended up standing for nearly three hours. I did get to read which was nice. With all the driving, I haven’t had time to read. I made up for some of it today. It just would have been more comfortable sitting.
It is Sunday night, so most of the campers have cleared out of the campground. There was hardly anyone here when we got back to the campsite, and there was nobody in the lake. It was quiet and peaceful and so I went for a swim—alone. G3 had had enough of the water by then.
We are now sitting around the dying campfire. G3 is reading, and when I finish writing, I will do the same. The place definitely feels deserted this evening. Just us—and my friends, the cicadas.
The damn dogs barked until nearly three o’clock. They started in again at 6:41 this morning. But even if they hadn’t kept me up most of the night, I would not have slept well. The ground was hard and very rocky—not even slightly comfortable.
I went hiking this morning. Actually, it was more like a nature walk.The ground was gravelly, and there was no incline at all. G3 did not want to walk. He said he wasn’t feeling well, that his stomach was bothering him. Instead of accompanying me, he set up a chair in the shade and told me that he was going to read. So as not to keep him sitting by himself for too long, I kept my walk rather shorter than I would’ve otherwise. A chorus of cicadas kept me company on the trail. I have always found them to be soothing—the louder the better—their constant chirping peaceful.
Along the trail, I came across Buffalo Springs. It was named after the buffalo that used to keep cool in the water produced by the spring. In the 1930s the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC)—one of FDR’s programs designed to help pull us out of the depression—came in to plant trees and to construct a circular stone structure that would channel the spring’s water. Today, it almost resembles a small kiddie pool, however, signs tell people to keep out. The CCC spent seven years working in the park. Along with reshaping Buffalo springs, they built pavilions, trails, waterfalls, roads, and swimming holes.
Chickasaw National Recreation Area used to be Platt National Park. in 1976, Platt National Park was combined with Arbukle Recreation Area and renamed Chickasaw. It is located on Chickasaw land.
Following my hike, we went to the Chickasaw Cultural Center. I was really excited to learn about Chickasaw culture and history. G3 was not. Once again he slipped into complaining mode. As soon as I parked he said, “I don’t want to be here.” This time, I did not give him the option of sitting it out. I thought it would be good for him to learn something as well. Apparently, that makes me a mean mom.
The Chickasaw are originally from the Southeastern United States—their original land was in Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, and Mississippi. Their trade routes spanned the entire continent, reaching up into the Great Lakes and out west to the Pacific. By the middle of the 14th century, they had an advanced society. While they were known as the Spartans of the lower Mississippi, due to their fierce fighting skills, they also produced baskets and pottery.
In the winter of 1540, the Chickasaw had their first European encounter when DeSoto brought his men into their territory on a quest for gold and silver. DeSoto was a cruel man who learned the ruthless rules of being a conquistador in Peru where he accompanied Pizarro on his conquest of the Incas. Over time he captured and enslaved many Indigenous people. When the Spanish first arrived with their iron weapons and strange attire, the Chickasaw perceived them as being otherworldly. Intrigued, they watched them closely offering them food, hides, and services. However, there offings weren’t enough. Nothing was ever enough for the Spaniards. One day DeSoto’s men looted Chickasaw food. When several Chickasaw men tried to steal it back two of the men were killed and the conquistadors cut off the third man’s hands.
When DeSoto approached the Chickasaw leadership, he made ridiculous demands in them. The Chickasaw refused to subjugate themselves, choosing instead to watch the Spaniards even more closely, studying everything about their camp and their security. DeSoto was no fool. He knew what was happening and was on alert, waiting for an ambush. Still, the Chickasaw were patient and managed to catch them by surprise. Three hundred warriors snuck into camp at night, set it on fire and killed many horses and men. Their tactic had always been to strike hard and fast and then retreat. DeSoto’s biggest liability was his arrogance. He was defeated because he didn’t think he could lose. He never made it back to Spain. He never even left North America. He died of fever in 1542. So that the Indigenous people would not know of his death, his men dropped his body into the Mississippi River. In the end, his people viewed him as a failed conquistador. It would be another 150 years before the Chickasaw encountered another group of Europeans.
We arrived at the Cultural Center in time to watch a Stomp Dance demonstration. I enjoyed it. G3 was less enthusiastic. Stomp Dances were performed around a fire in celebration. Songs were unique to the leader of each dance. And the words were a prayer offered to their creator. But when Europeans first saw the dance they thought the Chickasaw were worshiping fire. In the dance, men stomp. Women shuffle, taking smaller steps than the men. Women tie turtle shells filled with river stones to their legs so they make a rattling sound as they move. Toward the end of the demonstration, the MC asked for volunteers. I nudged G3 wanting to go up with him—volunteers had to be in pairs—but he looked at me like I was crazy. I told him Grandpa would have been the first one up on the stage and Nonna would have joined him. “But he would have looked stupid and made a fool of himself,” G3 looked incredulous. “Yep,” I smiled, “And he would have enjoyed every moment of it.”
Next we walked around the demonstration village. I learned that before battle, warriors painted their bodies red and black, the colors of conflict and death. Women sang war songs and wielded iron hatchets. They were known as singing hatchet women. How cool is that. After walking around we were hungry. We ate lunch in the cafe because I wanted to eat ethnic food. G3 had a buffalo burger. He said it tasted like beef, but it wasn’t as good as the burgers at McDonalds or Culver’s . I had Indian tacos—served on frybread instead of a tortilla. It came with grape dumplings —dough in a thick grape sauce. It was too sweet, but I’m glad I tried it. We also had a side order of banaha, a traditional corn based bread. It is cooked in corn leaves and has a consistency similar to Korean rice cakes, only they are a bit more mushy and less chewy. They do taste like corn. G3 took one bite and was done. He didn’t like it. I didn’t love it, but I suspect that might change if I ate it more frequently.
Chickasaw are a matrilineal society. They believe that spring water has healing powers. As a result, water runs through the entire cultural center. River animals were important, providing more than just food. Garfish teeth were used as tools for tattooing. Their tails made good arrow points. In the creation story, crayfish helped create the Earth. Their tails were used as spear points.
I very much would’ve liked to spend some time in the Chickasaw Museum. But G3 was complaining so much, I opted not to. I couldn’t leave him outside because it was a hundred degrees. And there was no way I was going to spend money on admission for him him so that he could complain further. I am disappointed, but at least I got to learn something and experience most of the Cultural Center.
When we got back to the campsite we went swimming. It’s crowded. Too crowded, especially since I am not a fan of most people. But G3 and I had fun in the water. We played catch with a tennis ball and shot each other with water guns. We had stopped at Walmart for supplies and found water guns for just a dollar each. It didn’t take much for G3 to talk me into buying them. It was a fun purchase and considering the excessive heat, I’m sure we’ll get lots of use out of them.
While at the “beach” two women showed up with two boys. G3 turned to me and said, “Look lesbians.” I chuckled and said they could just be friends. G3 rolled his eyes, “They’re dressed like you. Only lesbians wear men’s swimsuits.” I would have objected further, but it appeared that both boys belonged to both women.
When we had enough of the water—or rather the loud obnoxious people in the water—G3 strung his hammock by the lake and made himself comfortable to read. I pulled my chair up near him and wrote for a bit before reading. G3 gave me The Shining. I admit, it’s better than I expected it would be.
We lost the tennis ball. Actually, I think it was stolen. But we found a frisbee. After we finished eating dinner at the campsite, after the crowd had subsided, G3 and I played frisbee near the lake.
We went to a Ranger program on spiders this evening at the amphitheater in the campground. It was interesting, I just wish the kids in the audience had been better behaved. Too many kids were talking and waving flashlights in people’s eyes, and of course, parents made no effort to remove their kids or get them them to be quiet and listen. As a result, I did not get to hear as much as I would have liked and I sometimes only caught a partial explanation of something. So I’m sorry, what follows is not very thorough because my notes were lacking. One of the defining features of a spider is they have their heart and lungs in their abdomen. Horseshoe crabs are arachnids and they are related to sea scorpions. A scorpion’s tail is actually an extended abdomen. The bite of a scorpion is painful but usually not deadly. They are in this park along with black widow spiders. When black widows bite, they too cause a great deal of pain but the bite probably won’t cause death. There is, however, an anti-venom for bites—just in case you need it. Brown recluse spiders are another spider whose bites are incredibly painful. Their venom will cause pain and swelling and then all the cells around the bite will die. Most brown recluse bites take place in non flush restrooms. They like hot poopy places. Daddy long legs are not spiders—which G3 schooled us about several years ago. They have only one body segment, no silk, and they can consume food. Spiders need to liquify their food and slurp it up,
This morning we drove south and left Kansas. En route we stopped in Independence—yesterday it was Independence, Missouri; today it was Independence, Kansas—to visit The Little House on the Prairie. As many of you know, in my childhood, I was a tad bit obsessed with Little House on the Prairie. Of all the authors I have read, I consider Laura Ingalls Wilder to be the most influential to me as a writer. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that the first book of mine to earn a publishing contract is a memoir. One that closely examines a significant—soon to be historical—event.
Laura only lived in the Kansas house for a little over a year between 1869 and 1870. In the book, she was about six years old, but in real life she was younger. Her father left Wisconsin—The Little House in the Big Woods—when he heard that land in Indian Territory would soon be open for white settlement. But, he neglected to wait for it to be a sure thing. When he arrived, the land was still occupied by the Osage. Laura writes about encounters with the Osage in the her book. Her father built the tiny cabin—the one currently on the site is only a replica, the original long since lost to history—by himself.
While living there, the family all got sick with malaria. I vaguely remember reading that scene. The doctor who treated them—Dr. George Tan—was the first African-American doctor in Oklahoma and Kansas.
The original cabin was built either on or right at the edge of the Osage’s diminishing reservation. The family lived there and attempted to make a go of life on the prairie until they heard a rumor that US soldiers were going to drive the white settlers off the land. They didn’t wait, instead they packed up again and returned to Wisconsin. The year after they left, the Osage signed a treaty with the US Government selling them the remainder of their Kansas land. They then relocated to Indian Territory, now Oklahoma. Congress only paid them $1.25 an acre. White settlers started legally purchasing and settling the land the same year. But since Charles had already left, he never filed.
While at the site, I spent a good twenty minutes or longer chatting about the Ingalls family with the young woman who worked there. It’s not often—maybe never before—that I encounter someone as interested in Laura as I am. She told me Laura wrote all her manuscripts by had. Her daughter Rose had bought her a typewriter, but she rebelled against all modern technology. She didn’t even like electricity. After Laura drafted her work, Rose did the typing. Before leaving, I purchased Pioneer Girl. It’s Laura’s original manuscripts that have been annotated by scholars. My reading project for the upcoming school year will be to reread all of the Little House books. When I’m done, I will tackle Pioneer Girl.
G3 did not enjoy the stop, not even a little. In fact, he grumbled about it. But honestly, the only living person who can genuinely understand my excitement is my mother. After all, she lived through my childhood obsession. When G3 was little—maybe 5 or 6—I read him the first two books and we watched the first year of the TV series. He wasn’t enthused. So we moved on to Harry Potter which he liked much more. Today, I wanted an hour for me. And G3 complained. He was bored. And Stephen King is a much better author so why do I waste my time with Laura. I got angry at him. This trip isn’t just about him. I told him after taking him to see presidents I deserved Little House. He said that was different because I like presidents too. I told him if he didn’t stop complaining he could live on bread and water until we got home. And as for King, it wasn’t a matter of who was the better writer. It’s a matter of Laura having encapsulated an entire era of American history in her writing. G3 finally quit sulking and sat in the shade to read—Salem’s Lot, by King—while I enjoyed a few moments alone with my childhood.
We ate breakfast in a cute county kitchen restaurant that looked exactly like something you’d expect to see in rural Kansas. I had hoped/expected the food to be good. It wasn’t. My omelet and hash browns were flavorless and G3 didn’t like his french toast because it was covered in a thick layer of egg.
G3 wanted to see the Center of the Universe in Tulsa. I was so upset with him, I probably wouldn’t have taken him, except it sounded kind of cool. It is a naturally occurring sound anomaly in one tiny spot on Boston Street. When you stand in that one place any noise you make is amplified and echoes back at you. We took turns standing and clapping, like little kids who have just discovered their hands.
Toll booths in Oklahoma are weird, so much different than toll booths anywhere else I have been. Going through the booth, I read a sign saying that if you were paying cash—which I was because they don’t have EZ Pass here—that you needed a cash receipt if you were getting off at one of two exits. I pulled up to the booth and asked the woman to explain why someone would need a receipt. She explained you pay the entire fare to her, but if you get off before the end of the toll road, you got half your money refunded. I told her my exit number and she said, “Yep you need a receipt.” Sure enough, two exits later, I handed the toll person my ticket and she gave me cash.
We got to Chickasaw National Recreation Area around 4:30. I went right to the Visitor Center to pick up a map and inquire about hiking trails, places to swim, and ranger programs. We will be camping here for the next three nights. Our site is right on Lake Arbuckles and we can swim right where we are camping. How convenient. Even though it is run by the National Park Service, it is a recreation area not a park. That means it is not as scenic as parks tend to be and the lake is just a place to cool off. There is nothing special about it. But when planning a trip, I always like to hit at least one National Park in each state—and this is the main one here. Once we had our tent set up, we changed into our suits and went swimming.
The entire place—especially the campground—is overrun with people. It’s the exact opposite of what we experienced in Kansas. The cicadas are loud—some of the loudest I’ve ever heard—but the damn people are louder. I hate rude people, and all to to often campgrounds are full of them. One sight has two dogs that haven’t stopped barking since we arrived. The family at the site next to us has two teenage boys and all four of them are loud. They shout to each other even though they are not far from each other. I suspect I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
Truman’s house was closed the day it would have been most convenient to visit. Therefore, we bounced back into Independence, Missouri today.
We seem to be striking out on president house tours. After seeing Oppenheimer yesterday, we were extra excited about going to Truman’s house and learning more about him. Unfortunately, the tour once again focused exclusively on the house. Nothing about World War II. Nothing about Korea. Nothing about the Truman Doctrine or the start of the Cold War. Nothing at all about his political career prior to being president except one line on a sign about him having been a Senator.
Truman died in 1972. His wife, Bess, died in October 1982. The house is exactly the same as it was the day she died. She bequeathed the house to the US Government so the National Park Service took over upon her death. The calendar in the kitchen is still turned to October 1982. The days are crossed off up to the week after her death because the house keeper kept crossing them off until her last day.
The house was originally purchased by Bess’ grandfather in the mid-1800s and he built a couple of extensions in the following decades. The kitchen floor is linoleum that is peeling up off the ground because the Trumans didn’t want to pay for the glue needed to prevent it from curing. The wallpaper is also cheap quality. When Truman left the White House, he was living on $100 a month. Presidents didn’t collect a pension until Eisenhower enacted legislation for it, predominantly because he didn’t think it right that Truman should be strapped for cash. One woman on the tour was grating on G3. She must have asked about the history and significance of every relic in the house. BORING!
So I asked if Truman ever expressed regret for dropping the atomic bomb and killing so many civilians. The guide was not pleased with my question. In a dry flat voice he said simply, “No.” The teacher in me pressed for a better answer. He responded by saying Truman stood by his decision, justifying it by saying he saved many American lives. Japan was not going to surrender and an invasion would have resulted in thousands more American deaths. He said that Truman was not happy about sending troops to Korea because he knew it was going to result in more carnage. I would need to do some research to know if that were true.
When the tour guide said that Truman was the People’s president, G3 corrected him, saying that designation belonged to Jackson. But then G3 pivoted and asked, “If he mingled with regular people, were there ever any attempts on his life?” The guide said only one. Puerto Ricans attempted to kill him because there was some talk of revolution in Puerto Rico and the men were trying to make a name for themselves and their cause. Again, more research is required.
Truman and Bess met in Sunday school. Bess lived across the street from Truman’s aunt. One day while visiting, he volunteered to return a cake plate to Bess’s family. They spent two hours talking, and shortly thereafter, he had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner. They had one child—Margaret. For her eighth birthday, Margaret wanted an electric train set. She got a baby grand piano instead and was not happy. When she grew up, she wrote mystery novels. I wonder if her writing was good or if she snatched a publisher’s attention because her father was president. I am curious. I will have to read one of her novels when I get home.
Truman was the only 20th century president not to be college educated. He read a great deal and considered himself self taught. Allegedly, he was modest and one of the few presidents who did not develop an oversized ego in Washington. When he retired to Independence, he wanted to resume a simple life. His grandson, Clifton, didn’t even know he had been president until he started school and his first grade teacher told him.
For lunch, G3 and I had ice cream at a local ice cream shop. In Truman’s day, it was a drug store, and it was where Truman had his first job. The ice cream was ok, but nothing special. At the ice cream shop, we learned that a minor Civil War battle took place in Independence. That one isn’t in the history textbooks at all. The Confederates defeated the Union, and based on the interpretive signs I later saw throughout the city, it seems the people of Independence are proud of this Confederate part of their past.
G3 begged me to take him to the Barbie movie. The only thing on our schedule today was Truman‘s house. There was nothing else in Independence or even Kansas City that either of us had a burning desire to see or do, and considering it was 99° again, I gave in. G3 was extremely excited to watch it. I couldn’t believe that he wanted to see it that badly, but he said people are talking about it so much on line that he had to know what it was about it.
When I walked into the theater I told the guy behind the concession stand that G3 was making me take him to the movie. The guy laughed and sold me the tickets. Then, noticing G3’s Glacier National Park hat, he asked me if we liked it there. I said yes, and we ended up spending the next 10 or 15 minutes discussing national parks. He and his brother had recently been out to Utah and Colorado and had a great time hiking in and exploring the parks out there. He asked me what my favorite parks were, and after I rattled off a few, he said I had to get out to Zion with G3. I told him it’s on my list. That I would love to spend at least a few weeks in Utah. At one point, I mentioned I was a teacher and he smiled, telling me that he is in college now and is studying to be physical education teacher. I winced, saying I wouldn’t recommend the profession to anyone, but that I wished him well. I also told him that when I was in college I too worked at a movie theater one summer and that the best thing about the job was getting my dad in for free. Dad really did love that. And I realized that I never miss an opportunity to talk about Dad if I have the chance.
Possible Spoiler Alert — Though I do not mention anything specific about the plot:
At the start of the movie, about 10 minutes in, I texted Kati to say that I deserved the mother of the year award for taking G3 because I really did not want to be there. Kati texted back and said, “I think you deserve a winery, but it won’t be any fun without me.” Shortly after that text, G3 commented that in the movie it seemed that the Barbies were portrayed as a bunch of lesbians, especially since they had girls nights every night. I chuckled, and about two minutes later an Indigo Girls song played while Barbie sang along. I laughed, perhaps too loudly. Somehow, it seemed to give a bit of credence to G3’s theory.
The first half of the movie was silly and stupid. G3 and I made fun of it, but then it took a serious turn. Very surprisingly, I started to really like the movie at about the same time G3 started to seethe.
OK— Maybe A Stronger Spoiler Alert Is Needed
The movie is a metaphor, a commentary on how poorly men have treated women since forever. It was well done and I thought the message was fantastic. But I am an adult. I understand metaphor. G3 is still a child, an intelligent child, but still a kid who doesn’t comprehend metaphors as well as an adult should. He internalized it on a more surface level. For young girls, the surface message—as well as the message portrayed in the metaphor—is extremely empowering. For boys, the surface message was an attack. At least it was for G3.
As soon as the movie ended, before the credits even rolled, he stormed out of the theater. He was hurt and angry, and for a half hour as we walked around the city he ranted. I tried very hard to explain the movie from a female perspective, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought the movie was telling girls to push boys aside, cut them out of everything, to make them unimportant. He could not see that the movie was really highlighting that what he just expressed is how women are often treated by men. The point was women need autonomy and opportunity equal to that of men, but it was lost on him. So if the movie angers boys so much, puts them on the defensive, and makes them feel awful, will it in essence succeed in strengthening what it attempted to dismantle? From a certain perspective, I can see how that movie didn’t show boys why they should treat women better. It showed them why women should not be allowed to take over.
When G3 calmed down a bit I tried again, but he kept saying, “Women have equality now. No man tells you or Kati what to do.” And his lived experience is just that—two strong minded women who don’t listen to anyone and who combined do all the tasks that fathers usually do. He doesn’t see our anger and frustration when it comes navigating our way through a world that still favors men.
We returned to the campsite while there was still daylight. I took a walk along Pomona Lake, but G3 opted to stay at the campsite. When I got back, I lit a fire. It was still a billion degrees, but we’re camping and campfires are soothing. We sat far enough away that we couldn’t feel the heat. With the lake and the fire I was completely at peace—happy and serene. G3 was sad. He sat hunched in his seat and when I asked what was wrong he answered, “I feel like I’ve been canceled.” Men may not have treated women well, but is it right for a boy to feel bad just because he’s a boy? Because the men who came before thought themselves superior? I know some women and girls would say yes. But I don’t think it’s right to hold children responsible for the sins of there forebears.
I woke Gary up before the sunrise this morning. We planned on going to Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve today. The weather forecast said it’s going to be 104°, therefore, I wanted to be at the preserve and hiking before it got too hot. It was pretty drive through the endless farms as the sun was rising: giant white windmills and old rundown silos against a backdrop of pink skies.
We arrived at the Prairie just after 7 o’clock. It was 81°, but the clouds and wind kept the temperature comfortable. We walked for about an hour and a half. It wasn’t the most thrilling hike we have ever taken but we enjoyed the scenery and the quiet. No one else was on the trails, which made for a peaceful experience. We were most excited about seeing bison. They were off in the distance, too far to take pictures, but close enough to feel like we’re were indeed on a prairie. After our walk, we visited Spring Hill, the ranch house and barn that remain in the park. We have seen so many historic houses that there wasn’t much special about it.
Prairie is a French word that means meadow. Before the Europeans arrived, 1/3 of the continental United States, was tallgrass prairie. Only 4% remains. Before the White man encroached on the land, numerous Native American tribes lived on the prairie and hunted bison for everything from food to shelter. But bison weren’t the only large animals, elk and pronghorns also roamed the land. Historically, naturally occurring fires (caused by lightning) and grazing enriched the prairie grasses, ensuring a fresh, healthy supply for the animals. Since the prairie upon which the National Preserve now sits was utilized as a ranch in the late 1800s, the National Park has worked to restore the tall grass and native wildlife to the 11,000 acres that comprise the park.
From the preserve we drove to Topeka to visit the Brown V. Board of Education National Historical Park. I consider myself a reasonably well-educated person, someone who knows a decent amount of history, and yet I go to these historical sites and realize how little I actually know. The case—Brown V. Board of Education at Topeka—was an orchestrated one. The NAACP recruited 13 parents—12 mothers and 1 father willing to sue the Topeka Board of Education. No teachers were willing to sue. The Topeka African-American community found good teaches for their schools. Being a teacher was an excellent job that ensured a middle class lifestyle. It was a position of prestige and envy. Teachers feared that if schools were desegregated they would lose their jobs and not be hired by integrated schools.
Thurgood Marshall led the NAACP legal team. He had attended Howard University Law School and was a protege of the school’s dean, Charles Houston. Houston became known as the man who killed Jim Crow. Under Houston, Howard Law trained lawyers with the intent of sending them off to fight racial injustice in America. Thurgood Marshall was perhaps the most successful.
For Brown V. Board of Education, Marshall changed tactics. Instead of arguing for equality, he decided to go straight for desegregation, stating that segregation was psychologically damaging to students forced to endure it. When the case reached the Supreme Court, it was joined with 4 other similar cases—also represented by the NAACP—from around the country. In May 1954, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of desegregation and overturning Pleasy v. Feeguson. The first domino in the fight for Civil Rights had fallen. Successful, the NAACP went on to challenge other racially unjust laws.
Not surprisingly, there was a great deal of pushback against the desegregation of schools. Some states refused to comply with Federal law until Eisenhower forced them. A few districts even shut down public education together, channeling public money into private schools so white kids could still get an education. African-American students were forced to fend for themselves. Have things changed much? Yes and no, but I won’t bore you with my opinion. However, thinking about it makes me realize I might need to write an introduction—or epilogue—for my collection of essays on teaching that I am compiling into a manuscript. But I will need to do it tactfully, and tact has never been my strength.
After several days of educational activities, G3 and I thought it might be fun to spend a relaxing afternoon at the zoo. But it was 102 degrees and all the animals were sheltering inside to avoid the heat. I couldn’t blame them, but I wasn’t paying admission to see nothing. G3 suggested that we go to the movies instead. He’s been wanting to Oppenheimer. Yes, we wanted to give our brains a break so what do we do? We go to a historical movie so that we can learn even more. G3 suffered a bit of shock walking into the theater. He’s used to the nicely renovated theaters with comfortable reclining seats back home. But we are in Kansas. Kansas is not New York or New Jersey. The seats here are the old school creaky cloth seats—filthy and torn—that hurt your butt and back. G3 said he was afraid to sit because he feared he might contract a disease.
Oppenheimer was spectacular, one of the best movies I have ever seen. The script, the acting, and the directing were all phenomenal. G3 agrees with me, and he and I rarely agree on movies. There were a few scenes where I did need to cover his eyes—they weren’t appropriate for kids—which always frustrates him. I do need to see it again—or perhaps read the book—because there were some subtleties I know I missed the first time around. My only critique—I will issue a spoiler alert warning though I don’t think my critique would ruin anything—is that I thought Truman was painted as being incredibly arrogant and idiotic. Was that really his persona? Looks like I will need to go off and learn more about Harry Truman.
We got back to the campsite early. I had promised G3 a fire but it was just too damn hot—93 degrees at 8:20. But it didn’t matter. G3 had fallen asleep in the car and when I woke him up, he was too tired and groggy to stay awake. He crawled into the tent and immediately fell back to sleep. I am sitting by the water enjoying the oh so faint breeze, even though it isn’t nearly enough to keep me cool.
It was really hot last night. When I went to bed, it was still 87°. I have also never seen so many bugs or heard so many bugs banging against the tent. If Kati were here, she would have been absolutely miserable. G3 wasn’t very comfortable either with the heat. Plus he kept tossing and turning because the ground was very bumpy and he couldn’t find a spot to sleep that didn’t hurt. I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was curled up at my feet like a cat.
G3 woke up complaining and so far he has spent the whole morning complaining about everything. He complained that I gave him hot cereal for breakfast because he wanted something better. He complained that I brought dark chocolate hot chocolate, and left the milk chocolate home for Kati. He complained that I didn’t bring milk. It’s 100°. He complained that I made him eat everything in his bowl because at the campsite there was no where to throw away the uneaten food. He complained he wasn’t hungry and I forced him to eat, but he’s the one who asked for two packets of food. I hope his mood improves.
I’m really liking the Kansas highway signs. Kansas is the sunflower state. Therefore, the state highway signs have the number of the highway inside a yellow sunflower. Everything is so flat in Kansas that I’m going 70 miles an hour and I feel like I’m going three. And people are wizzing past me. The speed limit is 70 or 75 MPH depending on the road, but my car is used to the Northeast and starts shaking when I hit 65 MPH. I am loving the fact that there are many country stations here in Kansas. G3 is not nearly as enthralled, especially since the stations play the same songs over and over again.
I should’ve listen to G3 yesterday. He wanted to have ice cream for lunch, but I was trying to be the good mother and give him something more substantial to eat. If I had listened, I would not have gotten sick from food poisoning. Moral of the story, listen to your child and eat more ice cream.
We woke up at 6:00 to get an early jump on the day. I wanted to be on the road by 7:00 so we could be in Abilene where Dwight D. Eisenhower’s house opened at 9. Years ago, during G3’s Lincoln phase, when he was about 7 or 8, we went to Gettysburg. While there, we visited Eisenhower’s farm—the only house he and Mamie ever owned. The tour of the Pennsylvania house focused on Eisenhower the president. This house in Abilene focused on his childhood. Eisenhower grew up poor, on the wrong side of the tracks—literally. The section of town in which he grew up was poorer and more ethnically and racially diverse. This most likely impacted his actions as president later on.
Neither G3 nor I enjoyed this tour as much as we enjoyed other tours. The tour guide focused mostly on artifacts in the house, which never interests us as much as stories pertaining to the people who lived there. We did learned that Eisenhower’s parents purchased the house for $1000. Eisenhower had six brothers, one of whom died as an infant. It was a small house and the boys had to share a room. In order to get some privacy, Eisenhower closed himself inside a closet to read—and he read a great deal. And people think I’m weird for walking and reading.
Eisenhower was born in Denison, Texas. His father was working on the railroad. When his father was offered a job at a creamery in Kansas, he quickly seized on the opportunity to return to Kansas. In order to prepare for the job he needed to take a corresponding course. The books from the course are still in the family home. The tour guide attributed the Eisenhower boys’ success in life to seeing their father studying when they were younger. His brothers grew up to be a pharmacist, banker, lawyer, university president, and an electrical engineer.
The house had a radio. Needless to say, Ike’s mother loved listening to her son broadcast updates on World War II. In 1946, Eisenhower‘s mother won the Kansas Mother of the Year award. I suppose that’s not surprising considering her son just won the war in Europe.
While the house tour was not as informative as G3 and I would’ve liked, we did sit through a film about Eisenhower‘s life, and we did walk through the museum. I was surprised to learn that Eisenhower did not want to go into the army. His dream was to go to the Naval Academy in Annapolis. However, he received a West Point appointment instead. How different history may have turned out if he had gotten his wish.
Eisenhower was responsible for the storming of Normandy. On D-Day all the soldiers received orders directly from Eisenhower. On May 7, 1945, Alfred Jodl surrendered directly to Eisenhower. (Hitler had already committed suicide.) At the end of the war, Eisenhower witnessed the atrocities that took place in German concentration camps. He insisted that press and government representatives from both Washington and London go to the camps and document what happened. It was important to him that the world know exactly what Germany did.
Following the war, Eisenhower was first sought after by the Democrats to run for president, however, it was the Republicans who secured him a nomination. He ran against Adlai Stevenson. Stevenson won more of the popular vote than any other losing candidate in history (not sure if that is still true) but it wasn’t enough for him to claim victory. As many of you know, Eisenhower’s campaign slogan was “I like Ike.” Some people consider it to be the most successful, catchy, and well remembered political slogan of all time. I definitely think it’s better than “Make America Great,” though one could easily argue that Ike succeeded at that far better than the man who used it.
There is much we have to thank Eisenhower for. Many of the road trips we do with G3 would not be possible without Eisenhower. While in Germany, during the war, Eisenhower was impressed by the autobahn. (Germans did do something well.) As president Eisenhower wanted something similar. Therefore, he devised an interstate system that would allow us to travel across the country. Economic growth was outstanding during the Eisenhower years. There were plenty of jobs and Americans—mostly men—were paid well.
Eisenhower was also very important for civil rights. He appointed many judges who for years helped bring about change and grant more equality to African-Americans. He nominated Chief Justice Earl Warren to the Supreme Court. Warren went on the lead the Supreme Court to a 9-0 decision in Brown V. Board of Education—which desegregated schools. When the Governor of Arkansas balked at the order to desegregate and called in the National Guard to prevent it, Eisenhower called in federal troops to ensure it happened and to protect the Little Rock Nine.
When McCarthy went on his witch hunt, destroying dozens of careers by accusing people of being Communists, Eisenhower did not approve. As a result, he helped orchestrate McCarthy’s demise.
In terms of the world stage, Eisenhower is responsible for the idea that if one country fell to communism, then others would follow. This fear of the domino effect ruled American policy during the the Cold War. Although Eisenhower was opposed to communism, he did not like the idea of nuclear war. Even at the end of World War II, he did not agree with Truman‘s decision to drop the bombs on Japan.
On the tour, we met a couple from Indiana. While G3 and I go to president houses, this couple likes to travel the country to go to presidential libraries. The woman said they have only one left to visit. And because I did not write down which one they still need to see in my notes, I have no recollection of which one it was.
OMG! We stopped at Subway for lunch—in Kansas—and I have never seen people move more slowly. Coming from New York, I am used to speed. Here they were going so slow it reminded me of the Sloth scene in the movie Zootopia.
G3 really wanted to go to Nebraska. He didn’t want a gaping hole between South Dakota and Kansas. When he suggested we go to Nebraska, I initially said no, But then I thought about it consulted my National Park app. I figured if there was something worth visiting in the South-east corner we would go. There was. The Homestead National Historical Park is not far across the border. Since I couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn more history—to teach G3 more history—we turned the car north after Eisenhower‘s house. This national Park has added meaning for me because dad collected the State National Park quarters for G3 and this is the park on the Nebraska quarter.
While we were driving, I saw a historical marker for Pony Express. I was very excited to stop and read the sign. G3 made fun of me for stopping. It was just a marker—nothing more—indicating where one of the stops along the Pony Express had been. The Pony Express lasted only a year and a half—from 1860 until 1861. It ran from St. Joseph Missouri to Sacramento, California. The pony express was able to deliver mail in a third of the time that it took the stage coaches. By the end of 1861 it was no longer needed because the trans continental telegraph was able to deliver information far more quickly.
All stories have two sides. The history of the Homestead Act is no different. You can look at it from the white man’s perspective, as there being endless opportunity and free land for anyone willing to work it. Or you can look at it from the Native American perspective in which white people came in and stole land that they had lived on for centuries. Neither story is wrong, but we need to acknowledge both of them. We can’t just look at what the white man gained and ignore how we got it and who we hurt in the process.
Americans today like to believe that America was built on the ideals of independence and self-sufficiency. We think about people pushing West, claiming land, and making a go of it on their own—without help, especially from the Government. The truth is, that is just a myth. The Homestead Act was not simply about independence or being able to do things all on your own. Today, many Americans are against government assistance. They think it breeds laziness. The reality is that the Government was giving handouts all along—handouts that sometimes bred success. Without the free land doled out as a result of the Homestead Act, people would not have been able to make it on their own. They would not have had the money to purchase the land necessary to begin their own farms.
Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act in 1862. It went into affect on January 1, 1863. The very first Homestead was in Beatrice Nebraska—the current site of the National Park. Local legend claims that Daniel Freeman was at a party on December 31 when he heard about homesteading. In the morning, he woke up and immediately went to register his claim. I always associated the Homestead Act with the late 1800s. If you had asked me a week ago when the last homestead was granted by the United States government, I probably would’ve guessed somewhere in the 1890s. I would’ve been wrong. The last homestead went to Kenneth Deardorff in 1974, the year I was born. He came home from fighting the was in Vietnam and wanted a fresh start. The only land left available was in Alaska, so that’s where he went. The Supreme Court won’t let Biden pay off $10,000 of my school loan, but I would happily accept a plot of land instead. Because I’m sure that 160 acres is worth more than $10,000.
According to the Homestead Act, in order to claim 160 acres of land, one needed to build a shelter and begin farming. After five years, if they were successful, they received the title to the land. The act did not discriminate—men, women, and minorities were able to apply for a homestead. Even so, I’m sure it is no surprise that the majority of homesteaders were white men.
Many homesteads did not succeed. Success of a Homestead was not just based on how hard somebody was willing to work. Luck played a factor. Weather killed many homestead aspirations. Lack of rain was deadly to crops. Also, not everyone had the means to obtain proper equipment to farm. Despite the failures, it is believed that up to 93 million Americans are descended from homesteaders.
Perhaps the most famous homesteading family was the Ingalls. They didn’t do anything special and Charles wasn’t particularly successful, but his daughter went on to write books about their life on the frontier, books that inspired a TV series. That’s America for you—put someone on TV and they are instantly famous. Moral of the story, write a book about your dad and someday he too may be famous.
America is so good at remembering Abraham Lincoln as being the good guy who freed the slaves. But we are unable to remember the things he did that harmed other people, specifically Native Americans. When the Homestead Act went into affect, Americans were told that the land was theirs for the taking. As a result, Americans invaded the west, ignoring treaties that had been signed with Native American tribes. What followed was the loss of even more land.
Arguably, more damaging than the fact that treaties were violated is the fact that the Homestead Act inspired the Dawes Act of 1887. It was conceived by Senator Dawes from Massachusetts and signed by President Grover Cleveland. Maybe they had good intentions, however, the consequences were dire. The Dawes Act divided reservation land. Much like the Homestead Act it gave 160 acres of land to each Native American. Cunningly, the good land was set aside because after the Natives took their claims, Whites could claim the rest. The result was a loss of up to 60% a reservation land.
At the historical park, G3 and I watched a video, strolled through the museum, and then took a short walk through the prairie. The National Park is restoring the land to its original state—before homesteading. We couldn’t take a long walk because it was 86° and we were melting.
At home, most traffic lights are on a timer. Apparently, that is not the case in Nebraska. I stopped at a red light and was there for about three minutes. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the light was ever going to change, the guy behind me knocked on my window. He explained that I needed to move up closer to the stoplight, otherwise I wouldn’t trigger the sensor that would turn the light green. I apologized and he said no worries, he could see that I was not from around here.
On the drive back to the campsite, G3 was hungry and looked online for a place to eat. He found a Mexican place in the middle of nowhere. We are in Kansas. My expectations were low. But G3 wanted Mexican, so we stopped. The food was surprisingly good.
I slept well last night. I fell asleep listening to the cicadas and woke up to birds. The highway noise didn’t bother me. And the RVs were so quiet, I wouldn’t have known they were there if I hadn’t seen them. No generators, no loud people. This morning, I still don’t see anyone, only another tent camper a reasonable distance from us. I love waking up near water—even if it is brown and looks stagnant. While G3 showered I broke down the tent. Too bad we aren’t staying another day. I really like it here.
While I was in the shower, G3 bought me a cup of coffee at the coffee shop. I thought that was really sweet of him. It turns out he bought me a cup of coffee because he got himself a mocha. He thought I would be less likely to object to him drinking coffee if he got one for me too. I chuckled.
G3 doesn’t want to leave the campground. A cat recently had kittens and G3 is happily sitting on the porch of the coffee shop petting them. He wants to take one home. I don’t think Kati would object, but I am allergic to cats.
When I could finally pry G3 away from the cats we drove 15 minutes to Hannibal so that we could visit the home of one of Missouri’s most famous people. Years ago, when G3 was about four or five years old, we went camping in Connecticut. While there, I was very excited to take G3 to Mark Twain’s home. In preparation of the visit, I taught G3 a bit about Twain and even read him a couple of chapters from Tom Sawyer. However, I neglected to tell Gary that Mark Twain’s real name was Samuel Clemens. When we got to the tour of the house, the tour guide said that we were going to learn about Samuel Clemens. G3‘s face fell, “Who’s Samuel Clemens? I thought this was Mark Twain’s house.” The tour guide laughed but cleared up the confusion and G3 was happy again.
Mark Twain is Samuel Clemens’ pen name. It comes from Twain’s days as a steamboat pilot. Before modern navigation tools, to know how swallow a river was in a certain place they would drop a rope, with a weight tied at the end, into the water. The rope had knots to designate various depths. The term ‘mark’ indicated 6 feet. ‘Twain’ meant two. Therefore, the knot at ‘mark twain’ meant twelve feet which was what a steamboat needed to pass safely. Safe water. It’s an interesting pen name for a man whose writing has become so controversial.
The house in Connecticut was palatial in comparison to Twain’s boyhood home. The house here in Hannibal is tiny—and after thirty years of wanting to see it, it was a bit anti-climactic. The town was not. Tom Sawyer was based entirely on Twain’s childhood. St. Petersburg is the real life Hannibal. Becky Thatcher was Laura Hawkins. Aunt Polly was based Twain’s mother and Tom’s cousins were Twain’s siblings. If it were not for Twain, Hannibal would probably be a rundown forgotten speck on the map. As it it, it is a quaint historical tourist town. I thought we’d be there an hour or two, I was wrong. We were there all day.
The tour of the house was self guided. I don’t like self guided as much as when tours are given by a guide. Self guided requires me to read. I do that all the time. I enjoy listening to stories and having conversations with someone who knows more than I do about someone or something. I also like being able to ask questions, and I always seem to have lots of questions. Even though the tour was dry—reading quotes and information on the walls—I did learn a few things.
Twain was born in Florida, Missouri and moved to Hannibal when he was four. His parents owned six slaves but needed to sell all but one because they were poor and needed the money. Twain’s father died when he was eleven. Twain was good friends with Laura Hawkins and they remained friends throughout their lives. She was proud to be known as Becky Thatcher and even had that name—and her own—carved on her headstone. My dad always liked Becky Thatcher. I think he would have found that bit of trivia interesting. Before becoming an author, Twain worked as a typesetter, steamboat pilot, silver miner, and reporter—experience that is all evident in his writing. While Twain was raised in a slave state, in a society that saw nothing wrong with slavery, his own views changed over time as he traveled and talked to people. In 1874, he met a formally enslaved woman and listened to her story about how her kids and husband were torn from her. He wrote and published her story in the newspaper. And if you’ve read Hick Finn, you know the novel is a commentary on the evils of slavery as told from a child’s perspective—a child raised to think slavery was proper.
At the Twain museum we saw the original Normal Rockwell illustrations for Twain’s two most famous novels. In 1935, Rockwell was hired to draw pictures for an upcoming publication of the books. Before beginning the work he traveled to Hannibal to get a feel for the setting, He also sketched pictures of the cave—while sitting inside of it—in which Tom and Huck find the treasure.
When we finished all the stops on the self guided tour, we walked around town. G3 wanted visit some of the shops. Walking into Nobel Wares, he had a near religious experience. The store sold mostly swords, but also historic guns, knight’s armor, shields, Roman armor and more. The swords were historical replicas—he recognized some from forged in fire and others from what he’s learned about Samurai swords. They were also replicas of swords found in literature—a half a wall was dedicated to swords from Lord of the Rings, including Bilbo’s Sting. G3 loves weapons. He collects them. Therefore, he couldn’t resist buying a replica of a Civil War Cavalry Saber. (Thanks Mom for giving him money to use toward purchasing it.) When he asked if he could see it, the guy in the store looked at me and said, “It’s a real sword. It’s sharp.” I said it was okay because he was trained in how to handle a sword. The guy looked skeptical until I explained about G3’s involvement with Taekwondo. The moment G3 held it he was enthralled. First we visited Grant’s house, then he buys a Civil War saber. This kid definitely has a different relationship with history than most of his peers.
Before we left the campground this morning, the woman in the coffee shop told me that if we were going to visit Hannibal because I like Mark Twain, then we needed to go to the Mark Twain Cave. It was the cave Twain played in as a child and later immortalized in Tom Sawyer. She didn’t need to say more. I decided we were definitely going. We’ve been to a lot of caves but none with a connection to literature. But first, G3 and I ate lunch—he had meat tacos, I had shrimp tacos—in a local restaurant. Big mistake. I was super excited for the cave tour but half way through, I got seriously ill. The cave started to spin, my stomach felt as if I were being stabbed with a burning knife, and I needed to throw-up. The guide had to call to have me escorted out and I spent the next half hour throwing up. My guess is I had a bout of food poisoning from the shrimp. I felt bad abandoning G3, but he didn’t mind. We were the only two on the tour so while I was puking my guts out in the bathroom he had his own private tour. The tour guide was really nice. When he and G3 got back he took me into the cave again. He knew how intrigued I was and that I knew more about the cave scenes in Tom Sawyer than most tourists. I know G3 paid attention on the tour after I had left because every time the tour guide asked him to complete a story or share a fact he was able to do so. In fact, I think he enjoyed being able to teach me something.
On the tour the guide pointed out Samuel Clemens’s signature. Hundreds of people signed their names through the years but only two famous/infamous people. Now adding your own name is a Federal offense. Twain is not the only well known historical figure to walk in the cave. On September 22, 1979–and the signature has been authenticated by specialists—Jessie James wrote his name on the cave wall. He hid out in the cave 16 days before robbing a train in Independence. Being able to see his signature on the wall is not part of the tour—you need to be skinny-ish to fit through the lemon squeeze. Since it was just G3 and I, the guide took us. G3 thought it was really cool to stand where Mark Twain and Jessie James stood.
Missouri is apparently known as the cave state. There are more than 7000 caves in the state. The floor of the cave is glacial clay, a substance left behind when glaciers melt. In Twain’s day kids used to play in the cave all the time—without parental supervision. Before air conditioning, town hall meetings were held in the cave because it has a constant temperature in the 50s. The section of the cave known as “Aladdin’s Palace” was named by Twain. Injun Joe—like many of the other characters in Tom Sawyer—was based on a real guy. The real person was nice—nothing like the character and he resented Twain basing a bad person on him.
After the cave, I went another round in the bathroom. I dreaded the the long drive to Pomona State Park where we are camping for the next few nights. I feared I wouldn’t make it, but I did. We got here at sun set and had to race, again, to set the tent up before it got dark. G3 did most of the work since I was still not completely well. The campground is huge and mostly empty. There are a few RV’s but no other tent. The tents are removed so we are all alone—a little eerie. Once again we are right on the water—Pomona Lake. When I commented about how empty the place is, G3 laughed, “What did you expect. There are about three people living in all of Kansas.” An exaggeration yes, but most of what we saw was flat farm land. Few houses. Few people. Exactly what I had expected. I only hope we don’t encounter a tornado.
It’s late. I am tired. I need to go to sleep. Good night!
G3 wanted to visit the arch in St. Louis. When I travel, I don’t like to plan too much. Plans can be like prisons, locking you into something. I like the freedom of being on the road and being able to change direction and go off course if something better reveals itself. Therefore, I didn’t book tickets in advance to go to the Arch. Last night, I decided I should probably check to see if I needed advanced tickets. I do. Luckily, I was able to secure them for today. Unfortunately, the earliest time slot available was 5:00. I took what I could get and this morning, instead of heading to the Arch, we detoured to President Grant’s house. It’s the third Grant house we have visited, so G3 wasn’t as enthused as he usually is.
Grant’s parents named him Hiram Ulysses Grant. It was when he enrolled in West Point that some clerical error ensured that history would remember him as Ulysses S. Grant. White Haven, the house in St. Louis, belonged to his wife’s family. Interestingly, it was a plantation. Julia Dent’s father owned slaves. When Grant first proposed, Julia wasn’t keen on marriage. She wasn’t in love with Grant and she knew his abolitionist ideas would not appeal to her father.
After being rejected, the Army sent Grant south to fight in the Mexican—American War. He was opposed to our involvement. He believed it was an unjust war, one in which a strong country was taking advantage of a smaller, weaker one in order to obtain more land. He was not wrong. Following the war, he returned to St. Louis and proposed again. This time Julia said yes.
They married in 1848 and not long after Grant’s first child was born, he was stationed in California. He missed his family greatly. One day, he was accused of being intoxicated. He resigned from the army shortly afterward. There are conflicting reasons as to why. One account says he was forced to quit because of his drinking. Another account says he missed his family. Returning to St. Louis, he tried many different jobs, but didn’t succeed at any of them. Eventually, he moved to Illinois to work as a tanner in his father’s business. He hated it. The job repulsed him and prompted him to stop eating meat.
When The War Between States broke out he reenlisted. A series of victories made his name well known in the north and caught Lincoln’s attention. His victory at Chattanooga made way for an invasion of the South. Or course you all know Lee surrendered to him at Appomattox. Following the surrender, he let Confederate Soldiers return home with their horses.
After the War, the reunited country elected him as president. In office, he fought for racial equality. He pushed to get the 15th Amendment—which gave black men the right to vote—ratified. He gave the Federal Government power to oppose the KKK. Sadly, scandals weakened his popularity making it nearly impossible for him to continue advocating for former slaves.
When Grant left office, he and his family moved to Manhattan. It wasn’t long before he found himself impoverished after his son’s business partner made a bad investment. Unable to make good on a loan from the Vanderbilts, Grant’s son and his business partner ended up forfeiting all the family money and assets—including White Haven. Poor and dying of cancer, Grant needed to find a way to provide for his family. Mark Twain offered to help, promising to publish Grant’s memoirs if he were to write them. Grant wrote two volumes in less than a year. Days after completing them, he died. But they sold well, ensuring that his family would have some income. Today, July 23, is the 138th anniversary of Grant’s death.
How do you get your history loving mom to buy you ice cream? You do a Google search looking for food native to St. Louis. In the search, you discover that—by some accounts—Charles Menches made the first ice cream cone on this day in history—today, July 23, 1904—at the St. Louis World’s Fair. I never eat sugar cones—never. You can ask my family and they will tell you I always have my ice cream in a cup. But this afternoon, even I had to have my ice cream on a cone. We went to Cups and Cones, in a residential area of St. Louis, The ice cream was expensive, but good.
We ate the ice cream in a local park. After we ate, G3 challenged me to a game of tetherball. I prove that I am a total spaz playing the game. He laughed mercilessly at me and won each match.
On the way to the Arch, we passed the Old Courthouse. It was made famous in 1846 when Dred Scott and his wife Harriet sued for freedom. They were slaves from Virginia who had lived for nine years in Illinois and Wisconsin—a free state and territory. They initially won the case and were declared free. However, four years later, a Federal Court overturned the verdict. The Scotts’ appealed all the way to the Supreme Court where the judges ruled—not surprisingly—in favor of white supremacy. The case pissed off Northerns and abolitionists and helped bring about the Civil War.
The Arch is a monument to Lewis and Clark and Westward Expansion. (A monument to our cunning and cruelty when it came to stealing and swindling land from Native Americans and Mexicans.)To enter the Arch we needed to go through airport type security. Once in the museum. we watched a documentary on the making of the arch. If I was as interested in engineering as I am in history, I probably would have found it intriguing. But I couldn’t push through the boredom. I took a page from Kati’s playbook and took a nap.
G3 was very excited to go to the top of the arch. To get there, we had to ride up in very claustrophobic pods. We rode with a young couple from Savannah Georgia. The guy noticed G3’s Glacier hat and said he had been there years ago with his family. They used to do a lot of road trips which he loved because he got to see many states. Somehow, New Mexico came up in conversation. I mentioned that G3 hoped to go to Philmont with the Boy Scouts in a couple of years. The guy said that he was an Eagle Scout, but he had never been to Philmont. Out of curiosity, I asked him what he did as an Eagle project. He told us he made picnic tables for a wildlife preserve in Georgia.
The views from the top of the arch were amazing. G3 enjoyed being able to look down and take pictures. Of course, the St. Louis side is nicer, prettier than the Illinois side. The Mississippi River just looks icky—brown and dirty. Not very appealing at all. G3 and I reminisced about the novel Percy Jackson, which we both read years ago. In the novel, Percy Jackson gets into a fight with monsters and somehow ends up jumping off the arch and landing in the Mississippi. G3 was trying to figure out how he would’ve ended up in the water because when you look down it’s obvious that there is no way anyone would fall into the water. A fall would result in death, splattering on the grass below.
We are staying at the Meadow Campground and Coffee Shop, a quaint, privately own campground. It is about five minutes away from Mark Twain’s house. We got here just after the sunset, and we raced to put up the tent before we lost all daylight. There are mostly RVs here, but we have a tent site right on the water. It’s nice, but a little buggy. Even though it was late, G3 wanted a campfire. I happily started one, but five minutes after the wood started to burn, G3 said he was bored and disappeared into the tent. I am enjoying the solitude and the sound of the cicadas. Unfortunately, we are right beside the highway so I can also hear the cars and trucks zooming past.
Again, sorry for the typos. I am tired and can’t keep my eyes open to further proofread.
And so begins our summer 2023 road trip. Gary and I got up early this morning and we were on the road by 5 o’clock. It’s just the two of us this time. Kati stayed home to take care of things that need to be done for us to move, things that need to be done to settle her dad‘s estate, and to take a professional development class for work. We started the trip listening to Billy Joel—a tribute to dad. He often started off our vacations when I was a kid by playing Billy’s Greatest Hits. Volumes I and II take me back to sitting in the backseat of he car, excitement and anticipation bubbling in my stomach. Traveling was, and still is, my favorite activity—the time of year I am genuinely happy. The songs on Volume III remind me Dad and Mattituck. It’s been three years since Dad died and two since Mom sold the house, and still I found myself crying as I listened to a couple of the songs. The memories hit hard and fast and I wasn’t expecting the lyrics to jerk me back in time so forcefully.
G3 must not have slept much last night. He slept all through Pennsylvania, waking up only for breakfast. He also slept through much of Ohio. He did, however, become semi-alert when I put Melissa Ferrick on, and then only to vent about how awful her music is. He complained about her voice, he complained about her lyrics, and he complained about her guitar skills. I think he just hate lesbian musicians because he also always complains about the Indigo Girls. Or maybe it’s just women that don’t appeal to him because he wasn’t happy with Mary Chapin Carpenter either. Despite his displeasure with my choices, he opted to play my Korean music which completely confused me because he couldn’t possibly understand any of the words. But apparently not as understanding male singers is better than suffering through anything sung by a woman.
I didn’t want to spend the entire day driving without at least one productive stop so I took G3 to Marion, Ohio to pay a visit to Warren G. Harding—or rather Harding’s house. Years ago, Kati worked with a woman who was Harding’s grand niece. Since she is a bit of a history buff, she was always proud of that connection to a president. We arrived early for the tour so G3 and I played horseshoes—where Harding once upon a time played—and he beat me every game. He even managed to get a ringer.
When he was 25, Harding married Florence. She was five years older than he was, which was unusual for the late 1800s. Florence was also divorced. Her first husband was an alcoholic and abandoned her and their son. Florence’s father disowned her after her first marriage—he was a bit of a control freak and balked at his daughter not taking orders from him. He did take her back in when her first husband absconded, but he assumed custody of Florence’s son. When Florence married Harding, he disowned her again and refused to relinquish custody of her kid. Her son grew up to be an alcoholic, like his dad, and died young from pneumonia.
Harding supported equality for women. Not only did he vote, as a senator, in favor of women’s suffrage, when he went into politics he let his wife take over the business of running his newspaper. He was the first man elected president after the passage of the 19th Amendment. Even though evidence suggests that women voted in line with their husbands, the fact that he was pro women’s rights probably made him appealing to women voters. (Although history also has a few voices claiming that women voted for him because he was attractive. Personally, I don’t see it. But what do I know.)
Harding ran his 1920 campaign from his front porch. Instead of touring the country, he gave speeches at his house. People would take the train to Marion, walk two miles in the heat, listen to Harding speak for an hour, and then turn around and walk back to the train station. Harding was a gifted orator and he could be quite charismatic, appealing to men and women. He won both the popular vote and the electoral vote on his 55th birthday. His inaugural speech was the first to reach thousands with a microphone. He dedicated the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington. Before him, no other president insisted on a budget. When he did, he helped cut taxes by 25% by eliminating wasteful spending.
In 1923, Harding became the first US president to visit Alaska and Canada. On that tour he fell sick. His doctor originally thought it was food poisoning. It wasn’t. Though he was unaware of it, he was suffering from Congenial Heart failure—which is why he slept sitting up the last six months of his life. He took to bed at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco and died a few days later from a heart attack. According to legend, the clock in the living room of his house is haunted. It stopped at precisely the same time he died—thousands of miles away.
While he was on his goodwill tour, his Vice President, Coolidge, was vacationing at his Vermont home. Coolidge’s dad was a local judge. When word reached Coolidge that Harding was dead, his farther swore him in as President. (We learned that 4 years ago when we were visiting Coolidge’s house.)
Sadly, for years Harding’s legacy was marred by scandals. In one scandal, he was allegedly aware of money being embezzled from the Veterans. According to the tour guide, he was cleared of involvement in that scandal, and others, once his papers were discovered years later.
It was a long day of driving and since I didn’t sleep much last night—excitement to get on the road kept me up—I need to go to bed.
Sedona is incredibly beautiful. We only passed through it on our drive north to the Grand Canyon, but we were so stunned by the Red Rocks we wanted to spend more time with them. Our new ATA friends spoke favorably about the hike up Cathedral Rock so Kati suggested the hike for our morning itinerary. Oftentimes, the things we enjoy most while vacationing are the things we didn’t plan. The places we stumbled upon in one way or another. Cathedral Rock was once such place.
Once again we woke up super early—5:00–in an attempt to beat the heat. We failed. It took us longer than we hoped to get out of the hotel, and it took a little over an hour to drive to Sedona. By the time we got to the parking lot it was already 8:00. The sun was high and hot. We slathered on some sunscreen and began out ascent. It was 85 degrees. (It was 99 when we returned to the car three hours later.)
The trail was more rock scramble than a hike. But the rocks were so smooth in places it felt more like a rock slide. None of us had proper foot attire. G3 of course chose Sunday to tell us that his sneakers are falling apart. The sole is separating from the shoe at the heal. True, he said he needed new shoes before we left home, but usually his definition of needing something replaced is different than mine. How was I to know that this one time our definitions overlapped. Telling me something has a hole in it is not the same as saying something is one step away from potentially being unusable. The best we could dowas tell him to be careful. Did he listen? Not really. Despite the slippery rocks he bounded up like a mountain goat, jumping from rock to rock and never losing his balance or footing once.
The same could not be said for Kati. About a third of the way up, the rock was practically vertical. If we had boots—proper treads on our feet—it would have been easier. Kati had trouble finding purchase and she struggled to navigate a workable path forward. G3 was extremely patient with her and helped her break through her anxiety. Without his assistance, she may not have made it to the top. There were a couple of times she was splayed out on the rock and looked like she was trying to swim through the stone and a few times she slid down on her butt, but she survived. Her knees, however, may take a few days to feel normal again.
The views from the top were amazing. So worth the climb. The visibility was much better today so we could see the red rocks jutting up from the earth all around us. G3 continued to cause us a great deal of anxiety by stepping and sitting far too close to the edge. He likes dangling his feet and taking pictures. One of theses days his phone will fall to its death. Hopefully, he won’t fall after it.
We walked around Sedona and wandered into a few souvenir shops—G3’s favorite part of traveling—but everything was so bloody expensive, even G3 gave up looking at things. He really wanted a hat, but they were so overpriced, he decided to wait. Maybe he’ll find something on our next adventure. I know things are always expensive in tourist areas, but pricing definitely seemed more extreme in Sedona.
Next we went to the Native American craft market in Coconino National Forest. Our ATA friends from back home told us we absolutely had to pay them a visit because the jewelry was beautiful—especially the beaded bracelets. The market was small, only about 10 tables, each of which sold the same things. Two of the vendors were very social and engaged with us. One woman spoke about here Navajo culture and how it’s represented on the Christmas ornaments she sells. The ornaments are made from white clay and horse hair. The one I bought—they were so pretty, I had to buy one—has a vibrantly painted picture of one of the Red Rocks, a Navajo person on horseback, and a sheep. From her, we also bought G3 a bracket—that he chose—with beads made from hematite. Another vendor seemed knowledgeable about the science behind the different gemstones and crystals. He had quite a long detailed conversation with Kati about them. From him she bought herself a bracelet made with red tiger’s eye beads.
After our purchases we returned to Phoenix. G3’s shoes were so bad, they were digging into his achilles heal and causing him a great deal of discomfort. Everyday shopping was not in our plans for the day, but he desperately needed new sneakers. There was no way he was going to make it walking around the airport tomorrow. Yes, all good things must come to an end, and so we must fly back home tomorrow. And now G3 has shiny new all black Converse for the trip.
G3 and Kati wanted snacks for the plane so we went to Walmart, and what an experience that was. There was a woman hanging around in Subway—which was inside Walmart—who was either high or mentally unstable. She was walking around in circles, offering food to a dog that didn’t exist, and having a conversation with an invisible someone. She asked for ice for a soda because her friend didn’t like it warm (there was no friend) and she kept bending over to pick up invisible objects off the floor.
Then, when we walked back outside, in the parking lot was a red truck filled precariously with everything the driver—and his family—owned: suitcases, boxes, a sofa, coolers, chairs, bicycles, and a refrigerator. A Refrigerator! The possessions were piled so high and were so heavy the tires looked like they were straining under the weight. Everything was strapped down, but none of it looked secure. The entire endeavor looked like an accident begging to happen.
Back at the hotel—the same one we stayed in for the tournament—G3 went for a swim in the pool. It was 7:35 and still the temperature was 109 degrees. I am not a fan of Phoenix. I don’t like Jersey, but if moving here were my only other option, I wouldn’t take it.
We woke up early this morning in hopes of getting to the Grand Canyon before it got too hot. I didn’t want to be in Arizona a second time with my family without taking G3 to see it. I was there years ago, back when I was 21. The summer I graduated college, friends and I drove across the country, camping and exploring some of the National Parks out west. We went to the Grand Canyon on our way back east. I had spent much of my childhood wanting to see it. I watched the Brady Bunch show where they visited the Grand Canyon and I was jealous. In my head, I blew it up to this larger than life experience, the place I absolutely had to see or I’d always feel as if I missed something great. And then I got there, and it was a big hole. Sure, it was incredibly beautiful, but not the mythical place I envisioned it would be. A few years later I visited it again with my mom. As I stood at the edge, a man stumbled and nearly knocked me over—into the canyon. Mom screamed, terrified that I was going to fall to my death. I didn’t understand her fear until G3 sat at the edge of a rock overlooking the canyon and dangled his feet.
Foiled by wildfires again! We arrived in the park by 7:30. As soon as we got to the Bright Angel Trailhead we looked out over the canyon and saw…a veil of smoke. The fires seem to follow us. First, out west in Glacier, Tetons, and Yellowstone. Then into the Thousand Islands. And now here at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. The smoke wasn’t as thick as it was when we were in the Tetons, but it was enough to prevent us from having a clear vibrant view. Nor did it smell as strongly as the smoke in Canada, but a hint of burning wood was definitely in the air. Despite the smoke, we took pictures—the best one was of G3 doing a sidekick on a rock outcropping.
We hiked for about two hours—which included breaks for pictures and water, lots of water—along the Bright Angel Falls Trail. We turned around because G3’s knee was bothering him and Kati started to melt. Plus a heat advisory was going into effect at ten, warning tourists to avoid physical activity. The hike was steep but relatively easy. It’s one of the most popular in the park which was evident by the number of people we encountered. Definitely, not a hike to attempt if you are looking for peace and silence. There were a few shady spots along the way which we took advantage of when stopping to hydrate.
To get to some of the views, you need to take a shuttle. The road is closed to normal traffic—but the shuttle is free, or rather included in the price of admission. We decided to take it. It stops at multiple viewpoints and we were able to hop on and off to see as much of the canyon as possible. As the afternoon approached, the smoke thinned out a little which improved our view. We could better see the layers of red and the lines etched in the stone by water millions of year ago. After awhile, all the views started to look alike. We ended up skipping a couple of stops. Sitting in the heat, waiting to be picked up each time, made us feel as though we were roasting in an oven. There just isn’t enough shade to keep you comfortable when it’s 101 degrees. At some of the stops, G3 got too close to the edge—sitting down and draping his feet into the abyss. It made me insanely nervous. I’ve become my mother.
Uranium was once mined in the Grand Canyon. The cleanup of the resulting radioactive waste was costly. Parts of the park are closed off due to higher levels of radiation. Regular testing is done to ensure that tourists are kept safe.
We were hungry and very thirsty so we got some snacks and drinks and then drove east along the rim of the canyon, stopping periodically to take even more pictures. I’m sure I’ll end up deleting half of them when I get home. The smoky haze returned and gray clouds rolled in covering the sun. The temperature dropped into the 80s and a pleasant breeze followed which finally cooled things off. Kati stopped melting and could enjoy the views a little better. G3 wanted to go to the Desert Watch Tower and I’m glad he did. It was one of the highlights of our day.
In 1932, Fred Harvey and the Santa Fe Railroad built the Watch Tower. While it wasn’t based on any particular Native American ruin, from what I understand, it was built to pay homage to the history and cultures of the Southwest Native American tribes. We got free tickets to go inside and climb to the top. The views of the canyon were as pretty as they could be considering the smoke and clouds. But it was the Native American artwork on the walls that made the visit worthwhile. The paintings captured my attention in ways artwork at museums never do. It was the simplicity of the designs and the bold colors that intrigued me.
One of the things I like best about the ATA organization is that G3 meets kids from all over the country. Some kids he competes with enough that he looks forward to seeing them at tournaments. The boys are fierce competitors on the mat, but once they step off, they are friends and even cheer for each other. Sometimes, even the parents begin to develop friendships. This afternoon, at the Desert Watch Tower, we ran into a family we have become friendly with this last tournament season. We chatted with them for awhile and even talked about possibly getting together for dinner sometime after a tournament. It would be lovely it we can actually make it work.
As a young adult, I thought the Grand Canyon was anti-climatic. Has my opinion changed? Yes and no. Since I last visited, I’ve traveled the world, seeing amazing sites on six continents and at least 40 states. One might think it would be even less impressive than it was the first time I saw it. But now that I’m older, my perspective has changed. I was not expecting my visit to be awe inspiring and life changing. That has allowed me to better appreciate and enjoy the awesome beauty in front of me. If I took the time to rank the National Parks I have visited, in terms of which were the most scenic, Grand Canyon would definitely not be at the bottom.
For dinner, we detoured over to Flagstaff. We only drove through it—it was late and we want to get up early tomorrow so we didn’t have time to walk around—but from what little we saw, I like it much more than Phoenix. The touristy center is cute and there are trees. The landscape has greenery—more than just palm trees and cacti. Plus, the heat isn’t nearly as oppressive. The evening was actually almost cool. We went to Pizzicletta for dinner. It’s a pizza place with a brick oven and they only serve thin crust pizza. It was really good—and I’m a pizza snob. Growing up in New York with an Italian mother has made me critical of most pizza. I was surprised to find such a good pie so far from either New York or Italy. If you find yourself in Flagstaff and you like pizza, make sure you go to Pizzicletta. You won’t be disappointed in the food.
Today is Dad’s birthday. If COVID hadn’t killed him, he would have been 75. It’s hard to believe that this is the fourth summer we’ve had to spend without him. Today is one of those days where the missing doesn’t seem to get any easier—especially since G3 has had so many accomplishments this week that we can’t share with him.
Today, I kicked off my season. I was extremely disappointed in how the forms competition went. The problem with forms is you are at the mercy of the judges and some are better—more experienced and knowledgeable—than others. I was scheduled to compete at 11:30, but didn’t start until 12:00. My ring was one of the last to go, and many people—judges included—had already left to go home. As a result, they were struggling to find enough judges for the rings. The other ring in my division had two fifth degree—or higher—judges. I had two third degrees—one of whom was very good, one of whom didn’t know what he was doing. In fact, the one who know what he was doing corrected the other guy who was the center judge several times. My third judge was a level one judge, which meant she wasn’t even supposed to be judging a black belt ring—I guess they were desperate. She also—when she introduced herself—said she was a first degree. She gave me an exceptionally low score. G3 did not agree with it. Anyway, I came in fourth which was really disappointing because I honestly thought I should have done better. G3 agreed. For the amount of money competitors paid to compete at this tournament, all the rings should have had quality judges, or at the very least, judges who knew what they were doing, ones who were actually qualified. Oh well! Life is not fair.
I lost in the first round of combat to the woman who came in first. G3 said I was too aggressive. I need to play more defensively. In sparring—what I’ve come to think of as my worse event, the one I have practiced the least—I came in second place. Originally, I wasn’t even going to compete in sparring, but Kati talked me into it. I’m glad she did or I would have left empty handed. As for the match I lost, G3 scolded me on that one as well. Again, I need to learn how to be more patient. Hold back, wait for my competitor to come to me. There is a great deal I need to work on and practice for the upcoming tournaments. It would also help if I were more flexible and could get my leg up higher—but that’s just genetics. Sadly, I didn’t get the stretchy gene—G3 got that from my brother. I will take the summer off, then return to the mat to practice harder come September.
After I competed we got in the car and drove north. We are here for the tournament but figured we would extend our stay for a couple of days to see, explore, and experience a little more of Arizona. En route, we saw a sign for Salt Mine Winery. There have been no presidents’ houses or battlefields, but after four days of competition in which Kati played the role of supportive spectator it only seemed fair that she get a winery. The tasting room was like sitting in someone’s living room with local art on the walls. The wine was good. Not the best we’ve ever had, but definitely better than the other Arizona winery we stopped at when we arrived.
When we got backed on the road we detoured onto the Red Rock Scenic Byway. The friends we ate dinner with on Thursday had recommended the detour and we’re glad they did. The scenery was gorgeous. We stopped periodically at the overlooks to take pictures of the vibrant red rocks. The red rock buttes are made from basalt, sandstone, and limestone. The bright crimson color is caused by ferrous oxide mixing with the sandstone. They look chiseled, sculpted, and I suppose they were. Millions of years ago, Sedona was covered in water. What is desert now, was sea back then. Once upon a time, the buttes were islands. They were sculpted first by water and then by wind—centuries of erosion creating the beautiful monoliths we see today. They reminded us of the Badlands in South Dakota.
We stopped in Sedona for dinner. It’s a cute town with the buttes in the distance and touristy souvenir shops lining the main road. We then continued north to Williams. It is much cooler here. It’s hot, but not oppressively so. After checking into our hotel, we strolled along Route 66 and wandered through the souvenir shops. Sometimes I wonder how some of these stores stay open—they all sell the same stuff and so much of it isn’t worth what the stores charge. While we were out, we got G3 an ice—which he opted for instead of ice cream.
I am now in bed. My left ankle hurts (irritated old injury), my left shoulder hurts (pulled muscle from moving boxes that we are packing), my thumb is throbbing (I sprained it sparring) and my hamstrings, and glutes are very sore from today. It’s like my body is trying to tell me something.
There is no rest, no downtime between seasons. This morning we woke up early so that G3 could compete one more time before he takes the rest of the summer off. I think it’s important to take a break, to give your body time to maybe not rest but do something different. And of course take some time to travel, go somewhere new, explore a different place, learn a little more history, and perhaps do some hiking and swimming.
G3 aged up into a new division—13 and 14 year olds—today. There were nearly 100 boys in his division Staging was at 9:30. That’s when all the boys line up according to height and they break them up into groups of 16. But rarely do things run on time at tournaments. ATA stands for American Taekwondo Association. However, we joke that it means All Times Approximate. G3 didn’t end up staging until 10:30 and by the time they finished it was nearly 11. He was given a ring assignment and told he would be competing at 1:30. (But that could be later.) Since we had time to spare and since we didn’t want G3 to be hungry while competing, we went out for pizza. We still got back in time for him to digest and warm up.
The start time was 1:30 and it actually started close enough—around 1:45. G3 did very well. He came in first place in forms and second place in weapons. He lost his second match in combat sparring and he was very disappointed. He didn’t medal in sparring either. That didn’t disappoint him as much considering sparring is his least favorite event. In the 13 and 14 year old ring the boys spar much more aggressively and seem to hit much harder. Needless to say, it’s my least favorite event to watch because I don’t want G3 to get hurt.
By the time we left the venue it was 4:30. Too late to do much but way too early to head back to the hotel. G3 wanted Culver’s for dinner. Since he medaled we let him have his way. We’ve all been wanting to see the new Indiana Jones movie—despite the bad reviews—so instead of going to bed early, we detoured to the movie theater.
SPOILER ALERT:
That was quite possibly one of the absolute worst movies I have ever seen. I struggled to stay awake through most of it because it was extremely slow moving, utterly ridiculous, and boring. But it was the traveling through time, the arriving at the siege of Syracuse that was completely absurd. Indiana Jones has never been realistic, but time travel is a crossed line I just can’t get behind. I do not recommend the movie, although G3 strongly disagrees with me. He thinks it was one of the better Indiana Jones movies. Of course this is just one more instance where I wish I could call Dad up and have a conversation. He loved the Indiana Jones movies and I wonder what his opinion would have been regarding this one. He certainly did have a better ability than I to suspend belief when it came to movies so maybe he wouldn’t have found it quit as farcical as I did. Would he have agreed with me or G3? My guess is he would have fallen somewhere in between.
A year and a half ago, we would not pay for G3 to compete in combat sparring. He wasn’t good. If he scored a few points in one match it was a lot but never enough to win. He was always eliminated in the first round—often within the first thirty seconds. When we switched schools, his new instructors put more emphasis on combat. After four months of training with them, they encouraged us sign G3 up to combat spar at a B tournament. We were reluctant.
They insisted that he was fast, that he had trained well, that he was ready to compete. To humor them—because we didn’t think they were right—we signed him up. Well, they were right. He was ready because he took third place. A huge accomplishment at the time. Six months later, we were pleasantly shocked when he won at Fall Nationals. Being ranked in the top ten in the world and winning the District Championship were also incredible—totally unexpected—highlights of the year.
Today, he completed in the World Championship. He won his first two matches—he even beat the boy who was ranked number 1. However, he lost the third round match 10-9. He then went on the fight for third and lost. He just missed the podium—again. He was incredibly disappointed. Being forth in the world is still impressive, but the kid is like me. He’s seeing where he fell short instead of focusing on how far he has come. Last year, if you told me he was going to qualify, I wouldn’t have believed you. Come September, he’ll just have to train harder.
Sparring is G3’s weakest event. He doesn’t enjoy it as much as he enjoys the other events. This year he was asked to be on the sparring team and said yes, provided he was the alternate. He was called on a few times to compete, but he was happy to focus predominantly on his individual performances. When the team qualified for the World Championship, one of the starting sparers was unable to fly out to Phoenix. In order for the team to compete, they asked G3 if he would fill in. He said yes…and so here we are.
The team sparring competition was over very quickly. They lost their first match by one point.
It was nearly five o’clock when we got back to the hotel. Too late to do much. But way to early to go to the bed. I took advantage of the down time to read by the pool. It was quiet and peaceful, but so damn hot—in the shade—that just sitting still I sweated profusely. G3 took a swim. It’s so hot in the sun that the water was barely refreshing. He said today was much less fun than yesterday. I agree. Not only did today’s competition end in disappointment for him, we also didn’t have friends to hang out with.
Today ended the 2022-2023 season. Tomorrow is the first tournament of the 2023-2024 season. We are going to bed early so that G3 is well rested to compete again.
This morning we work up early so that we could watch two of our instructors test. One was testing for his fourth degree belt. Another was midterming—a step on her way to earning her fifth degree belt. They both did very well.
While I was in the Convention Center bathroom this morning washing my hands—it was early so I was the only one in there—a woman walked in, looked at my back, and said, “Oh, I must be in the wrong room.” I looked up at the mirror and rolled my eyes, but I didn’t say anything. It’s happened so many times, I am honestly more surprised when someone doesn’t made a stupid, naive, or judgmental comment. I let her walk out of the room, stare at the sign for a long moment, and reassure herself that she can read. When she walked back in, I smiled sweetly and stretched my shirt tight across my chest so that she could clearly see her blunder.
Today was G3’s first day of competing. It was his second time here at the World Championship and he made it to the podium. He took third place in forms. He was incredibly nervous but he worked through his nerves and did well. We are incredibly proud of him.
As for weapons, he drew the short stick. He went first—the absolute worst possible position. Competitors who go in the first three spots rarely win. Judges tend to score them lower since they need to leave room for those who follow. Unfortunately, he just missed the podium, finishing fourth. Still, it was a strong finish for the season.
We had plans to go out with another ATA family—the family we sat with last night at the Masters Ceremony—for dinner. Since the competition was over way before then we bumped it up to a late lunch. We had planned to get together to celebrate G3 and A who both recently earned their red/black Level I instructor collars. The both of them crushed the test—especially the forms component. We enjoyed each other’s company so much that we lingered chatting long after our food was finished. Not quite ready to part ways, we went out for ice cream and again continued to talk well after we had eaten our dessert. When we finally left the ice cream place, we lingered outside. We only broke up the party to return to the hotel when we realized how late it was and that G3 has to wake up even earlier tomorrow to complete again.
II woke up at 4:30 this morning so that I could go hiking before the heat got too extreme. Still, it was 88 degrees when I got into the car. I nudged G3 before I left to see if he wanted to come with me, but he was tired and opted to sleep. A wise decision considering he has to compete tomorrow. But if he qualifies again and we find ourselves back in Phoenix, I am definitely taking him up Camelback Mountain. It was the most enjoyable rock scramble I’ve ever done and G3 loves rock scrambles even more than I do.
The scenery was pretty. The reddish brown rocks, dotted with cacti and other greenery, against the blazing bright blue sky, streaked with wispy clouds. I was drenched with sweat when I reached the summit, but a cool breeze blew taking a serious edge off the heat. It was quiet up at the top, removed as I was from the city. Peaceful. Sitting in a shaded, breezy spot it was the most comfortable I’ve been since landing in Phoenix.
Whenever I drive a rental car or a car that isn’t mine, I am suddenly 17 again and driving my dad’s car out to Long Island for the first time. It was spring break and Dad had to work, but Mom and I wanted to get some yard work done for the Mattituck house. Dad told me I had to stay only in the right lane and I couldn’t go so much as one mile and hour above the speed limit. I held my hands at exactly 10 and 2 and I was rattling with nerves the entire drive. That was me this morning as I drove to and from Camelback Mountain in the brand new rental car.
While I was hiking, Kati was at the hotel fielding calls and e-mails regarding quite possibly our biggest blunder. Last month, our landlord said we needed to be out of the house by mid-July. We were already actively looking to move—predominantly to get G3 into a better school district. Once we got word that we had to move immediately, we put an aggressive offer on a house we didn’t love, but one that was in the district we wanted. We won the bid, put down a deposit, and the after the inspection—after we realized how many things were falling apart in the house and that the sellers lied on the Seller’s Disclosure—we decided we didn’t want the house. We didn’t want to overpay just to inherit a multitude of problems. But our lawyer is a lazy piece of crap. He came highly recommended by our realtor, but he is not advocating for us. It is clear he is working for the realtor, trying to push the sale through, even though we are the ones paying him. While we no longer want the house, we have no idea what we will do if we don’t buy it. The landlord wants us out ASAP, but more importantly, G3 needs to be in school come September.
When I returned from my hike, we were all really hungry so we went out for breakfast. Then, Kati wanted to make some more calls and do some research online. I didn’t want G3 sitting around the hotel. He’s really nervous about tomorrow and I wanted to get him out of his head. There was nothing either of us was itching to do in Phoenix, so I consulted the National Parks app. The closest thing to see that we hadn’t already visited were the Casa Grande Ruins—an hour south.
The drive was pretty. The land parched and desolate for miles. There were hardly any cars once we left Phoenix. I do love the saguaro cacti which are scattered through the desert. The sun, however, baked the car. Even with the A/C turned on high the heat was uncomfortable and the steering wheel burned my hands, forcing me to hold it lower than I should have.
The ruins consisted of what was once the largest structure of the village and a couple of smaller ones. Time, the elements, and tourists—in the days preceding the NPS— have taken a toll on the ruins. The clay is dried and crumbling and scarred with graffiti. It is now protected by a metal roof and tourists are not allowed to enter. G3 was disappointing. He wanted to go inside.
The area was settled centuries ago by what archaeologists call the Hohokam. Their descendants take issue with the term and find it offensive. They prefer, instead, to be identified as Ancestral Sonoran Desert People. Life in the desert, even before we started to destroy the planet, was harsh. Even when the first Native Americans arrived, summer temperatures soared into the hundreds. In order to develop an agricultural community, they needed water—not readily available in the desert where there isn’t much surface water and where there is less than a foot of rainfall per year. To meet their needs they turned to the Gila River and developed a system of irrigation by building canals. The extent of the canals and the efficiency of them proved to be a prehistoric marvel of engineering. Farming prospered, providing enough food that some members of the community were able to use their time for tasks not related to farming or hunting. Archeologists have found beautifully woven baskets and pottery, evidence that life for the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People was about more than survival.
As for the structure now referred to as Casa Grande, it was made from adobe clay in the 14th century. It was so well constructed that it too demonstrates advanced engineering skills for the time in which it was built. Villages of the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People included ball fields. The game they played was similar to the games played by the Mayans in Central America—not surprising considering the proximity of the people. Sea shells and other trade items were found among the ruins demonstrating that trade was fairly extensive, reaching as far as the Pacific Ocean.
The question that puzzles archaeologists is what happened to the people who built Casa Grade. A century after the construction, the village was abandoned? Why? One theory is that farming became so successful that the community grew too big. Having to grow so many crops stressed the water resources. As a result, farming eventually failed. Another theory is that flooding—evidence attests to several years of heavy flooding around the abandonment—carved deeper trenches in the canals, this prevented them from being able to efficiently move water during years when there was a great deal less.
The ruins were discovered in 1694 by Father Eusebio Francisco Kino, a Jesuit priest. In the late 1800s, Congress voted for them to become America’s first archeological preserve.
Back at the hotel, G3 jumped into the pool for a quick swim before we had to head out for dinner—G3 wanted Culver’s…again—and then downtown to the Convention Center for the Master’s Ceremony. Two of our instructors and one of our former instructors were inducted into the mastership so we wanted to go and support them. We met up with another ATA family with whom we are friends and we sat with them. Conversation with people you like always makes things more enjoyable.
The ceremony was steeped in Korean culture which made me miss being in Korea. It started with a traditional dance and a legend regarding dragons and the founding of Songham Taekwondo. Masters who died this year were honored and a candle was lit in memory of each of them. The inductees came forward and also lit candles. Sixth degree black belts became Masters; seventh degree Seniors Masters; eighth degree Chief Masters; ninth degree Grand Masters. Masters wear beautiful white silk uniforms; Senior Masters wear blue; Chief Masters red; and Grand Masters black and gold. Each inductee walked on stage to receive a certificate. Finally, the names of all the new masters were called and the Grand Master tapped them on the shoulder with the celebratory staff and dubbed them Master-Instructor. All through the ceremony traditionally dressed musicians played drums. It was an experience to be there, to watch. I am sure there were many Taekwondo students in the audience who are now inspired to become masters—G3 is one of them. As for me, I am inspired to go back to Korea. Hopefully, someday I will. Anyway, congratulations Master Rodriguez, Master Hansen, and Master Peterson.
Airports remind me of Dad. In my life, I have flown more alone than with him, but still being here makes me miss him. Maybe it’s because until last summer, two of the last times I had flown had been with him when he and Mom took G3 to Disney. On the drive to the airport this morning, G3—who loves to fly and who gets really excited before every flight—reminisced about his first flight. He was only four but he claims to remember it well. He talked about how Dad sat up front with the cab driver and conversed with him the entire drive to the airport.
G3 is extra excited this morning because of his new toys. Yesterday, Kati had to drive down to Delaware to take care of some things regarding her Dad’s estate. G3 went along for the ride—he wanted to read and there were less distractions in the car than there would have been at home where he was supposed to be helping us pack so that we can move. While at Kati’s dad’s house, he discovered Beats (wireless headphones), which he has been begging us to get him since he first got a phone. He also came across a selfie stick—another gadget he’s been wanting. Needless to say, the four hour round trip drive paid off immensely.
We are heading to Phoenix for the ATA Taekwondo World Championship. G3 qualified. I did not—I missed by just a few points. G3 will be competing in forms, weapons, and combat.
Our flight was uneventful—except for the fact that G3’s phone refused to connect to United’s entertainment system. This inability to watch a movie put him in a really bad mood. At least he brought Salem’s Lot with him so that he had something to keep him occupied. Stephen King provided some entertainment, as did his selfie stick which he experimented with multiple times despite the cramped space that barely permitted him to extend his arm.
Kati had to tell the boy across the aisle to turn the volume of his phone down. He didn’t have earbuds and seemed to think we wanted to spend the entire flight listening to him play Angry Birds. He looked at Kati confused as if it never occurred to him that he was being rude. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it’s just that same sense of entitlement I witnessed daily in the classroom this year. He tuned the volume down for a spell but then turned it up again. The second time we asked the stewardess to address the issue. She told him he needed headphones or he needed to mute the phone. Again, he looked confused. The third time he raised the volume, I spoke to him. I am my father’s daughter—I don’t hold back when it comes to rude people. Finally, he put the phone down and fell asleep.
The rental car is proving to be a headache again. We landed nearly two hours ago and we are still waiting for a car. Why? Because Avis ran out of vehicles and they are scrambling to pull them in from other parts of the city. This happened last year. Thrifty made us wait and then they gave us a defective car that gave us trouble the entire time we were here. What’s the deal with Phoenix and not having enough cars to go around? Seriously, if you don’t have enough cars, stop letting people make reservations. It’s that simple. Like a hotel. When it runs out of rooms for a particular night, you can not longer book one.
We finally got a car…a brand new one. A just off the truck, hardly been driven car with a total of 3 miles on the odometer. Three! Even when I have bought new cars they never had so few miles. Wow! I guess they were desperate to meet their demand. Since it was already late, nearly 1–nearly 4 for our body clocks—we were all hungry. None of you will be surprised to learn that we drove directly to Culver’s for cheese curds and chocolate shakes. The three of us can never agree on where or what to eat, unless there is a Culver’s nearby. Lucky for us, there are many of them here in Phoenix.
Oh, and it’s 111 degrees. I don’t care what you have to say about dry versus humid—hot is hot and the sun is scorching.
We checked into the hotel and G3 wanted cool off with a swim in the pool. I’m not sure how cooled off he got since the water was warmer than a bathtub. But it made him happy. What makes Kati happy is wine. So after G3’s swim we drove to Salvador’s Vineyard in Scottsdale to go wine tasting. The wine was okay—none of it tasted like outhouse—but none of it tempted us to buy a bottle either.
Next, we headed to Papago Park to see the Hole in the Rock. Yep, that’s what it’s called.
And that’s exactly what it is—a massive rock formation with a hole in it. Okay, it sounds anticlimactic and boring but the dessert scenery surrounding it was really pretty. And, the rock looked like a sleeping animal, perhaps a dinosaur. The hike from the parking lot to the hole was less than ten minutes. Still, by the time Kati got there she was reduced to a puddle. She completely melted in the heat, declaring—no less than a dozen times—“It’s hot.”
It is hot. The sun has set and I’m sitting by the pool to write. Have you ever sat around a campfire on a warm summer night? A night where it’s too hot for a fire, but since you’re camping you don’t care, you want one anyway. So you sit next to the flames as they bake the air around you and you end up sweating. That’s kind of how it feels right now. Only there’s no peaceful fire and I can’t walk away from the heat—unless I go into the air conditioning. But you all know me, I am not a fan of A/C.
We are staying in room 116 in a Days Inn. I said to G3, “16 is a lucky number. It’s the day your grandfather was born.” At the same time, Kati said, “It’s the day your grandfather died.” My dad was born on 7/16. Kati’s dad died on 6/16. But here’s what I find interesting—do I know anyone who studies numerology?—my dad died on 4/14. Kati’s dad died on 6/16. Kati and I started dating right in the middle on 5/15. What message might those numbers be telling us?
For a crowded campground, packed mostly with RVs, it was surprisingly quiet last night. We thought Independence Day partying would have stretched into the late hours but it didn’t. Even the fireworks were done by 10-ish.
After breakfast this morning, we broke camp, packed up the car and got on the road to return to New Jersey. G3 has to be home for a final week of training before heading to Phoenix for the World Championship. En route we detoured to Salmon River Falls where we hiked down into the gorge. It was a short but steep hike. The falls were pretty, but we’ve seen so many that they’ve lost some of their appeal. We hung out in the shade of the gorge for a bit enjoying the scenery and quiet—we were the only ones there. Afterwards, I was up for more hiking but my family was not. Kati was overheating and G3 was eager to get back to The Shining. So I walked alone. I didn’t go far, maybe a mile in total, since we still have a long drive ahead of us. But a short walk was still better than no walk.
After that boring battlefield on Sunday, we wanted one more winery and so we stopped at Grace Tyler Winery. The grounds were beautiful, reminiscent of the wineries on Long Island. We sat outside with a view of the vineyard. Dad would have liked the ambience; I doubt he would have liked the wine. We didn’t. Kati said two of the ones we tasted smelled like an outhouse. Not a very favorable review. While I didn’t smell undertones of urine, neither the scent nor the taste of the wine appealed to me.
Originally, we planned to be home by six-ish, but our plans were thwarted when the car indicated that it needed more coolant or the car would overheat. Kati pulled over somewhere south of Scranton in Pennsylvania and a quick google search yielded an auto place for us to pop into. Before more coolant could be added, the car had to sit and cool off. While the car cooled, G3 and I walked a half mile to Dairy Queen to get some ice cream. It was so hot that the ice cream melted more quickly than we could eat it.
It is now 8 o’clock and we are home. Our mini-vacation is sadly over. And G3 has finished reading The Shining. He read the entire book—all 600 plus pages—in less than a week. He definitely reads faster than I do. Now he is begging me to take him to the bookstore tomorrow. He shares his grandfather’s aversion to library books. He doesn’t like the idea of reading books infested with other people’s germs. I, on the other hand, love library books because I don’t have to pay for them.
I slept well last night. The generator stayed off which was lovely. G3 stayed up late and woke up early to read. He is now half way through the shining and asking when we can go to the bookstore to pick up another King novel. Today is much less hazy, although the haze has not disappeared completely.
We made and ate breakfast—egg sandwiches—at the campsite and then headed back across the St. Lawrence to spend the 4th of July in Canada. A silent protest against the Supreme Court’s rulings last week. Once across the border, we stopped at the Thousand Island Sky Deck Observation Tower. G3 had wanted to head up the tower yesterday but it was much too hazy. Why pay money for a view that is obstructed? Today, however, the view of the Islands was pretty. It was one of those moments when I wished I could have called Dad to ask him what he remembered about our vacation here when I was a kid. What did we do? Where did we go? Did we stay on the Canadian side or the American side? What I do remember is that wherever we stayed, Dad argued with the hotel staff about meals. Since my brother and I were kids, they wanted us to eat off the kid menu. But I always had a good appetite and Dad didn’t want me to be hungry. He insisted that my brother and I be able to order anything we wanted even if he had to pay adult prices. Of course, dad won the argument. In retrospect, it seems rather stupid that the hotel would make an issue of it considering Dad was willing to pay for us to eat off the adult menu. Perhaps my memory is faulty. If only I could call Dad to clarify.
From the tower we drove north to Foley Mountain Conservation area. We walked a few meters to Spy Rock Overlook. The cliffs were formed when a meteor smashed into Earth a billion years ago. Below we could see the town and a lake. It was pretty, but not particularly stunning. Kati and I then took a short hike along the Beaver Trail. G3 chose, instead, to sit on a rock overlooking Beaver Pond and read. He has not been able to put down The Shining since he started reading it. The hike was ok, nothing special.
We stopped for lunch at a country kitchen. The food was meh and extremely overpriced. I ordered a side salad because I wanted Thousand Island dressing. Of course my luck ensured that they ran out just before I got there.
G3 wanted to stop at a Maple syrup farm so we did. We pulled over to a local place that ran a shop out of their house. There we discovered maple butter—essentially thick maple syrup that can be spread on food, such as toast, in lieu of butter. We bought two jars and a bag of maple candy. We might have bought more, but we could only use cash and we spent what we had.
Next, we went to see the Jones Falls Locks, a marvel in engineering in the early half of the 1800s. There are two locks—that result in an elevation change of 18 meters—on the Rideau Canal. The construction of the canal began shortly after the War of 1812. Peace had been declared, but there was still a great deal of distrust between the US and Canada. Canadians wanted to protect their shipping and to do so they thought it best to bypass the St. Lawrence River which also borders America to the south. As a result, they began construction on the Rideau Canal. It harnessed the water from dozens of lakes and channeled it through sparsely settled wilderness. While Kati and I found the stop interesting, G3 was bored. He is mastering the art of complaining. Lately, everything with him is an inconvenience. All he wanted to do was go swimming.
And so we went swimming in Gananoque. The Joel Stone beach is tiny, a short stretch of sand that leads into the St. Lawrence River. A few steps out and the ground is murky and mushy, but the water was refreshing after sweating all day in 90 degree heat.
Gananoque was the site of an American raid during the War of 1812. A regiment of New Yorkers crossed the river, killed a few people, destroyed some property and then withdrew back across the river into America. It’s hard to imagine us at war with Canada, considering we’ve been allies for so long. Today, the border between our nations is the largest undefended border in the world.
Before leaving Canada, we stopped at Duty Free and picked up some cookies and chocolate. After reading my post yesterday about the Kinderegg, a friend suggested that we try a Cadbury Crunchie bar because you can’t get them in the States. Being in Duty Free and seeing all the alcohol made me sad. In my pre-G3 days, when I used to travel internationally every summer, I always stopped in Duty Free on my way home to buy a bottle or two of alcohol for Dad. I guess little things still make me miss him.
Back at our campsite we lit a fire. While we were sitting around it we heard fireworks. G3 wanted to see them so he and I walked down to the water. They are always fun to see. I suppose we got back to New York in time to enjoy some of the Independence Day festivities. Though I have to question, how free are we in a country where people can decide not to serve you just because their God taught them to hate you? Christians want the freedom to discriminate against others? I want the freedom of not being harassed or being discriminated against. When freedoms collide, whose freedom wins? It’s hard to feel love for a country that doesn’t respect you.
If you are sleeping in an RV and running a generator all night, you are not camping. You are being rude to those of us who wish to get away and experience the great outdoors. Last night, despite the huge crowd, the campground was surprisingly quiet, except for the loud hum of one generator. The State Park has a ‘no generator at night rule’ so we think our campsite boarders another campground that plays by different rules. The generator did not let up once. It ran through the night and was still running when we woke up. I know because at one point I woke up and had trouble falling back to sleep because of the noise. Still, it was better than drunk people or people who were partying with loud music.
G3 stayed up late in his tent reading and he was awake at dawn to sit in his hammock and read some more. He is loving Stephen King. The Shining is the best book he has read in a long time. He’s already thinking about which King book he wants to read next.
We spent the day in Canada. We crossed over the St. Lawrence River and headed to Thousand Islands National Park. I’m glad we went but it was not one of the more awe inspiring parks. A gray haze has hung in the air ever since we woke up which I think—based on scent of burning wood in the air—is smoke from the forest fires. The haze has prevented us from truly being able to see and experience the beauty that very well may have surrounded us. It’s like when we went to The Grand Tetons and the smokey haze made it impossible to see more than a faint outline of the mountains in the distance. Damn forest fires.
Our first stop was at Mallorytown Landing where G3 and I went swimming in the St. Lawrence River. It was cold but refreshing. While there, we popped in at the souvenir stand and bought matching family tee-shirts. Next we drove over to Landons Bay to take a short hike. We walked up to the lookout point which was disappointing because everything was draped in a dreary gray. From the lookout we followed the trail down along the edge of the river. The water was murky and it smelled like something died, but as always, I enjoyed being out with G3 and hiking with him.
Yesterday, at the winery, several people suggested that we visit Kingston. They said it was a cute city with lots of history. I heard the H word and got very excited. So after our hike, since it was still early, we decided to take their advice and go to Kingston. We were not impressed—not at all. It was a small city on the water with a very vibrant downtown—lots of restaurants and more ice cream shops in a few blocks radius than anywhere else I’ve ever been—but not much else. As for the history…even that was a letdown. There was Fort Henry that was around during the War of 1812, but it never saw any action. We’ve been to so many forts, we didn’t need to go just to see how soldiers lived once upon a time. We all would have been interested in visiting the first Prime Minister’s house—you know G3 and his obsession with President Houses this would have taken that to a new level—but the house is temporarily closed. The old penitentiary might have been fun to tour but for that you need to make reservations days in advance. Since there ended up being little to do, we walked around and had some gelato. The gelato was really good, by far the highlight of Kingston.
While wandering around the city, it was impossible not to notice that nearly every store had a queer flag in the shape of a heart with ‘Kingston’ written across the center in their window. The crosswalk was painted to look like a queer flag, and the tourist information center sold rainbow shirts. We began to wonder if the queer theme was the real reason the people at the winery sent us there. Regardless, it was a welcome change from our own bigoted country that just ruled it is perfectly legal for businesses to discriminate against me. How bad does it have to get in the US for me to be able to apply for asylum in Canada?
As we were departing Kingston we stopped in Dollarama to pick up a spatula. We forgot to pack one and I can’t cook breakfast at the campsite without one. Kati and G3 both said they had more fun in the store than walking around the city. They loved the Canada day display—all over the top Canadian trinkets. Kati couldn’t resist buying a shirt with Canada written across it in the shape of a heart. I bought G3 a real kinder egg, since he’s never had one. Apparently, Canadian kids aren’t as dumb as American ones—or maybe Canadian parents are just more responsible—because tiny toys encased inside the chocolate isn’t illegal in Canada. Kinder eggs can’t be sold properly in America because too many American kids choked on them.
It turns out the generator that kept me up part of the night belongs to the RV in the site next to ours. They have two. One they turned off when told, another they hid in the woods. I saw the cord, and followed it into the trees. That must be a safety hazard. Kati reported it to the park ranger who told them they need to turn them both off. For the moment, there is silence. Will it last? Seriously though, why do they need two generators? If they are that much in need of electricity, they should stay in a hotel.
We were supposed go camping yesterday, but we delayed our trip for a day because of the air quality. Camping in New York next to the Canadian border did not seem like the best idea when the air quality there was worse than at home. This morning the air quality was much improved so we got up early and were on the road by 8. The sky is gray and there is rain in the forecast but hopefully it won’t rain the entire time we are away.
On the way to our campsite in Cedar Point State Park in the Thousand Islands, we stopped at Sackets Harbor Battlefield. It was the site of an anti-climatic battle during the War of 1812. In order to break the stalemate between the US and Great Britain, the Americans attacked York—now Toronto. The Americans lost, and in the process inspired the British to stage their own offensive. At the time, Sackets Harbor housed the main US shipyard on Lake Ontario. Militiamen were unable to prevent British soldiers from landing, but the winds blew in America’s favor, preventing many British ships from joining the fight. As a result, the militia rallied and forced the British to retreat. However, stupid Americans working in the shipyard completely panicked and burned the navel stores and ships to prevent them from falling into enemy hands. Needless to say, this cost the Americans a great deal of money AND it helped the British partially attain their objective. Each side ultimately claimed victory though it seems only logical to conclude that it was really—at best—a draw.
We paid for what I was told would be a tour of the battlefield but it ended up being a tour of some house that some random guy from history lived in in the 1860’s. He might have been someone important but I don’t know because the tour guide was absolutely awful. It was the worst tour we have ever been on and you know we take A LOT of tours. The guide spoke from a memorized script in the dullest monotone. The only thing that stood out was he kept pointing at historical artifacts and saying, “That was from Japan.” He said it so often that G3 started pointing at modern things in the house—like the fire extinguisher—and exclaiming, “Oh look, it’s from Japan.” Thankfully, the tour was only ten minutes because I don’t think any of us could have endured the agony of being there much longer. You know it’s bad when we leave a battlefield and I’m the one reaching for my phone to google the nearest winery.
When I was a child, my parents took me to the Thousand Islands on one of our vacations up into Canada. Even all these years later, I still have clear and sharp memories of many of the places we visited when I was younger. Unfortunately, most of my memories of the Thousand Islands, seem to have been deleted. I vaguely remember swimming in the Saint Lawrence River, but the only vivid memory that remains is the fact that I insisted on having Thousand Island dressing on my salad when I was in the Thousand Islands. I really was a rather lame child.
Our campsite is one of the worst we’ve ever stayed at. We knew it wouldn’t be great when we booked it. That’s what you get for being rather last minute on a holiday weekend. And we didn’t actually have the forethought to plan a trip for this week until the end of May when all the campgrounds we initially looked at were booked. This was the only site available at the only campground we looked at that had a vacancy. The sites are all squished together on a big open grassy field. It looks more like an RV parking lot than a campground, and of course all the RVs are running their loud generators. But being here is still preferable to being home. I am outside. We have things we can see, places to explore. G3, on the other hand, has not stopped complaining. He is pissy about the site. Unhappy that we are so close to other people. Cranky that the ground slopes. Hopefully, he will cheer up soon.
After we set up our tents, we went to Thousand Island Winery. The wine was some of the best we have tasted—and we have tasted wine in many wineries across the country. G3 asked for a soft pretzel with a nacho cheese dip. That made him happy for about ten minutes. After our wine tasting, Kati and I shared a slushy wine flight. The slushies were really good. We left with three bottle of wine. If Dad were alive we would have left with four because I would have bought a bottle for him.
G3 has rediscovered the pleasure of reading in Stephen King. While I have never been a King fan or even a fan of horror, I am glad he is reading again and that he has found a book—The Shining—and author that he likes. When we returned to the campsite, G3 set up his hammock, made himself comfortable, and read.
Yesterday was the Northeast District Championship for Taekwondo. We were both really nervous. I was hoping to walk away with a medal. With the season G3 had, we expected him to win a title–and he did, just not one we thought likely.
On Friday night, G3 and I drove down to Lancaster to stay in a hotel. Kati was down in Delaware with her father–who is rapidly declining. On the way down, we stopped at Pudge’s–G3’s favorite cheesesteak place–to have dinner. We went there two years ago, the night before G3’s first District Championship and since he did well, it’s now embedded in our Districts tradition. The subs are stuffed with so much meat, Kati and G3 used to share a twelve inch. But G3’s gotten older and his appetite has increased. He was able to put away nearly the whole sandwich on his own. Since I’m not a meat eater, I opted for the grilled vegetables with cheese instead.
After we ate, we continued the drive to the hotel. I planned to go to bed early and get a good night of sleep. However, a large group of people were having a party in the breakfast lounge area of the hotel. They were drinking and it seemed like they were celebrating something. As the night wore on, they got louder and louder, making sleeping impossible–even with ear plugs. Unable to sleep and getting grumpier and grumpier, I went downstairs to complain to the woman working at the desk. Miraculously, she managed to shut down the party–or get them all to be really quiet–allowing me to get the sleep this old body needed before competing.
In the morning, Kati drove up from Delaware and met us at a diner for breakfast. With nerves and anxiety having taken up residence in our stomachs, G3 and I weren’t very hungry, but we knew it was going to be a long day and if we didn’t eat we’d be famished long before our rings were called. As always, I ordered an omelet and coffee. G3 went with French toast and hot chocolate.
There were so many boys G3’s age and rank competing that they split the ring. When that happens at Districts, the winners of each ring have to face off. The winner of the face off becomes the District Champion in that event. One ring was judged by two Masters and a fourth degree. G3’s ring had two fourth degrees and a third degree. As far as judging goes, the rings were not equal–and we weren’t the only ones dismayed by how bad the judging was in G3’s ring. For the line-up, G3 drew the short straw. He was the first one called to do his form. Rarely, does someone who goes in the first three slots win. It’s just one of the pitfalls of competing in a subjectively judged sport. It seemed as if the stars were aligned against him. Even though he did his form as beautifully as he has all year, his score was the lowest it’s been in years–6-6-6. When G3 stepped off the mat, he was devastated. Last year he won the District title which earned him a spot at the World Championships. This year–after taking first in every tournament, except Fall Nationals–he wouldn’t even get a medal. He was more than a little discouraged and I could see tears in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. G3 was not the only one who seemed to get an unfair score and many parents grumbled on the sidelines, telling us how they felt about the judges. One judge seemed to be randomly throwing out numbers with no regard for how the boys actually did.
Weapons–the other event where we thought G3 had a shot at a title–went poorly as well. G3 was called to go second–usually when you get stuck in the first three for forms, you get to go later in the pack for weapons, but that was not the case yesterday. Luck was definitely not on his side, and Dad, I was beginning to wonder why you weren’t helping. As with forms, his scores were low, especially from the judge who didn’t really seem to know what she was doing. Again, G3 knew immediately that victory would not be his. He held on until the very end when he was beaten by a boy who visibility bobbled his weapon. Damn. At that point, we felt he was going home without a title. (It wasn’t as depressing as it would have been last year since he’s already qualified for the World Championship in three events, but still, it was achingly disappointing.) But it was not the first time we believed a tournament was over for G3 only to have him completely surprise us.
As the boys were putting on their gear for combat, my ring was called. Damn. It’s the one thing about competing that I don’t like, the fact that I sometimes have to miss part of G3’s competition. However, his ring wasn’t far from mine, so I was able to watch a couple of his matches. He kicked butt in combat. When I looked over it was–I think–the semi-finals and he was going against a kid who was at least a head and a half taller than him. In combat and sparring, height is always an advantage–but it does not guarantee victory. G3’s signature strike is dropping low–so fast his body is a blur–and striking the leg of his opponent. It can be risky because it exposes his head and if his opponent strikes him they get two points. As a result, it’s only effective if you are super fast, which G3 is. He gets mad at me that I don’t try for that strike, but if I did, my knees would give out. I’d fall flat on my face, hand my opponent two points, and cripple myself for a month. Anyway, G3 is enjoyable to watch. He’s so incredibly agile that he seemingly dodges his opponent’s combat stick effortlessly. At one point though, he was down. But he didn’t let it get to him. He came back and claimed the victory. He won in his ring and then had to face off against the winner from the other ring. I am so bummed I missed it, but I did get to catch it on video. It was amazing. G3 was amazing. A mother of one of his competitors went over with Kati to cheer him on to victory. That’s one of the great things about this sport. You end up becoming friendly with other parents and competitors to the point where you support each other.
We were shocked back in October when G3 won Nationals in combat sparring. That shock was nothing compared to how we felt yesterday. He came back from two devastating losses to claim victory in an event he was so bad at a year and a half ago we had stopped paying for him to compete in it. But in the school he now attends–after 18 months of training–he went from getting slaughtered in the first round of every tournament, to becoming District Champ. That says a great deal about his instructors and his hard work and dedication.
In sparring, G3 lost in the semi-finals to the boy whose mother cheered him on in combat. We all would have liked to see that boy win, but he didn’t.
As for me, I had spent the last month training obsessively. Every week, I had G3 work with me to improve my form and my combat skills. I would have liked to have earned a title myself, but I fell just short. I placed second in forms, losing by a point. But I did beat a woman who is ranked in the top ten in the world–a woman who beat me six weeks ago in Ohio–and I beat the New Jersey State Champion in forms. So, while I walked away without a title, my hard work–and G3’s coaching skills–earned me a silver medal and a couple of personal victories. I guess that’s not too bad. I also placed third in combat. Again, not as sweet as victory would have been, but definitely better than leaving without hardware around my neck. Considering this was my first season competing, and I only started halfway through the season, I’d say it was fairly successful. While I did earn the State Champion title in sparring, I opted not to compete at districts. The fee to compete is so steep per event that I limited myself to the two events I thought I had the best chance of placing in. I think I chose wisely.
To celebrate G3’s title we took him out to dinner at Miller’s Smorgasbord. I remember, Dad, how much you loved that restaurant. You took us there years ago when we were on vacation in Lancaster. I’m not sure what I used to like more, the taste of the food or the fact that we could keep going up and refilling our plates. I’m still not sure. I ate so much that I was definitely guilty of gluttony. I think the shrimp seasoned with Old Bay might have been my favorite, but I also really liked the vegetarian chili. Once I had sampled everything that looked good–Kati and G3 couldn’t believe I wasted stomach space on salad, but you know how much I love it–I helped myself to two desserts. Yes, they were small portions but I couldn’t decide between ice cream and tapioca pudding so I had both. The only thing that would have made the meal more enjoyable was if you had been there to eat with us–which, I’m sure, you would have been had you lived.
When dinner was over, G3 and I went home. Kati returned to her father in Delaware.
Our lives are in chaos. Kati’s dad is not doing well. As a result, she has been spending nearly every weekend and much of her free time down in Delaware taking care of him. (But that’s her story to tell, not mine, so I will leave it at that.) With Kati gone, there’s more for me to do here with cooking and driving G3 to his activities. But we had been counting down the days until summer when, without school or work, we’d have more time and energy to focus on other things. Then on Thursday, our landlady contacted us to say that we need to be out of the house in which we are living by mid July so that she can move back in. Crap! We’ve been looking to move—actively house hunting—since last fall, and we haven’t gotten lucky. We’ve put bids on houses—one we really loved—and haven’t gotten them. Other houses were either too expensive or required too much renovation. There were a few we looked at that we didn’t love, but we didn’t exactly hate either. In fact, we could have made due with them, and we would have put a bid on them, if we knew the clock was ticking. But we didn’t, and so we let them go, hoping something better would come along.
Since we’ve been hoping to get out of Middlesex, when our lease expired instead of signing a new one, we decided to go month to month so that we could move more easily once we found a house. The landlady took this to mean that she didn’t have to extend us the curtesy of letting us know we would have to move as soon as she and her husband made the decision themselves. Once the initial shock wore off, Kati and I looked on Zillow and discovered that our landlady put her other house—the one in which she is living—on the market back on May 2. That was an entire month before they called us to say we had to be out. A sale on the house has been pending since mid-May, and she didn’t even bother to let us know at that point. During the month of May, there were three houses that we looked at. Three houses that for one reason or another didn’t appeal to us, but if we had known we needed to move immediately, we would have put aggressive offers on all of them. We might actually have gotten one of them, and if that were the case, we’d be gone in time for the landlords to move back in.
But the they didn’t tell us as soon as they knew. They didn’t have the decency to give us a heads up early enough so that we wouldn’t have to scramble. Why? My guess—based on past practices and other issues we’ve had we them—is they didn’t want to lose out on rent. They were probably worried that if they did the honorable thing, we’d find a place to move and be gone before they were ready to move in. Then, they’d be out of rent for a month or more. They wanted to keep the money flowing, and that was more important to them than not screwing us over.
So what are we going to do? It’s almost summer. I’m not here in the summers. It’s my time to escape and explore. Plus, G3 has the World Championship in Phoenix and Boy Scout summer camp out on Long Island. And Kati will most likely be spending much of the summer with her dad. But even if we were planning to be home, how do you move when there is no place to move into? We can’t even rent because rents are so astronomical that we can’t afford them. Rent in Bridgewater would cost us more than a mortgage. We’re stuck. Soon, we will be homeless. But where do you send your child to school if you don’t have a home?
I wish you were here. You always had the answers. Even if you didn’t have the answer for us this time, you’d have suggestions for us to explore.
Over the weekend, G3 and I watched the Deadpool movies. In Deadpool 2, one of the character’s super power is luck. I didn’t realize luck was a super power, but now that I do, it’s the one I want. From now on, when anyone asks me, “If you could have one super power what would it be?” My answer will be luck. The hell with flying or invisibility or super strength. Those powers would all be really awesome to wield, but none of them are as useful as luck. Maybe it’s because I live under a dark cloud and have been cursed with bad luck that this appeals to me. But even if I could borrow that superpower for week or even a day, what a difference it would make.
I woke up early this morning and took a short hike. G3 didn’t want to join me. It seemed as if the rest of the campground was asleep since it was really quiet. The hike was more of a nature walk through the forest, but I still relished the serenity—listening to the birds and watching the fronts and salamanders skedaddle out of my way. Before heading back to the campsite, I detoured to the beach. Even this far away, at a lake instead of the bay, I find myself missing Dad. How many Memorial Weekends did I spend with him at the beach in Mattituck?
We had breakfast at the campsite, sitting around the campfire and talking. It was an extremely pleasant morning. We probably would have lingered longer if we didn’t need to break camp and get on the road.
We detoured to Great Barrington for lunch to meet up with more cousins. G3, Sarah, and Emily had not been in the same room with each other for ten years. However, before we ate, I needed to check out a used book sale at the library. I was very disappointed, all those books and not one called out to me begging me to buy it. Oh well.
Since Italian food seems to be the cuisine that appeals to mast people, we ate at an Italian restaurant that seemed to specialize in specialty pizza. The eight of us took over a corner by the door and proceeded to have a rowdy conversation. Meals like that never last long enough even through we hang out at the table long after the last bite has been eaten. Following our meal, we walked around for a bit and then stopped for Ice cream—again. We certainly do have a weak spot for ice cream.
The traffic going home was so bad the GPS rerouted us away from the NY Thruway. We had hoped to be home sometime between 7 and 7:30 since I have to get up early for work tomorrow. However, we didn’t pull into our driveway until 8. I guess it could have been worse.
I slept much better last night. No cranky child or dog woke me, but that might be because I didn’t leave my ear plugs in the car. I remembered them before I hunkered down into my sleeping bag. It was also a good deal warmer.
After two days of history, today was a nature day. We stayed in the state park to go hiking. Kati joined us for about a mile, then G3 and I hiked another four. It was not the most exciting hike I’ve ever taken but it could have been enjoyable and peaceful, except G3 spent most of the time complaining. I was just happy to be out in the woods far from people—we saw only one person the two hours we were out on the trail. G3 was bored. He’s outgrown me. He raced ahead most of the way, although he did stop periodically to wait for me to catch up.
Kati’s niece, Emily, and her boyfriend, Brandon, came to join us for a night of camping. They arrived as G3 and I were finishing up our hike. Once we connected with them at the campsite, we headed over to the beach on Lake Bomoseen for a quick dip. The water was frigid, but I love to swim, plus I needed a bath and a dunk in the lake was quicker and cheaper than an actual shower.
Neither Emily or Brandon had ever been wine tasting and since Kati had another winery due from our historical tours, we visited Fall Mountain Winery which is only about ten minutes away from the campsite. The wine was so much better than it was yesterday and the owners of the winery were extremely sociable and friendly. We had a lovely time chatting with them. As a bonus we got a glass of sangria which I always enjoy.
Since G3 is too young to enjoy the wine tasting experience, we went out for ice cream afterwards. We returned to the same place we ate yesterday and G3 had another Reese’s shake. While we ate, we talked and spent some time catching up since it has been years since we’ve seen Emily for more than a few minutes. G3 was really excited that he got to see his cousin and actually get to know her.
When we got back to the campground, I got the coals started and made dinner while G3 played catch with Emily and Brandon. After dinner, G3 and I combat sparred. Districts is only two weeks away so we need to practice, but it is also fun. Of course G3 beat me, but it doesn’t matter I was just happy he wanted to spar me.
I am not used to staying up so late. Midnight is way past my bedtime. But we had a nice night sitting around the fire and chatting. I think the conversation would have lasted even longer if some of us weren’t falling asleep.
It was cold last night, but it was the crying kid and barking dog in the site next to us that kept me up, not the cold. I kept trying to fall back to sleep but then my bladder felt as if it was about to explode so I gave up, slithered out of my sleeping bag, and walked to the bathroom. The air was cold, cold enough that I knew Kati would be uncomfortable when she woke up. On the way back to our site I gathered sticks for kindling and then started a fire. We usually don’t have a campfire in the morning, but it’s not usually in the low 40s when we camp either. My efforts were well received and much appreciated. The moment Kati heard the words fire she happily got out of the tent and pulled a chair up to the fire ring. For breakfast, I made egg sandwiches which always taste better while camping than they taste at home.
We continued our history tour this morning with a trip back into New York to visit Fort Ticonderoga. Its advantageous location on Lake Champlain has made it a key location for conflict since the the arrival of the first Europeans. Samuel de Champlain fought a skirmish here with his Algonquin allies against the Mohawks. In 1759, during the French and Indian War, Fort Carillon was under French command, but they were undermanned when troops rushed north to defend Quebec. Realizing they couldn’t hold the fort, they blew up the magazine and retreated. The English then took control and renamed the fort Ticonderoga. At the start of the Revolution, Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold defeated the British there which proved to be an important moral victory for the Continental Army. However, two years later, the British recaptured the fort in an attempt to clear a path for the British to advance from Canada down to Philadelphia. They may have succeeded in their goal had the colonists not stopped them at Saratoga.
We arrived at the fort in time for a musket demonstration. When I said I wanted to watch, Kati all but rolled her eyes. We’ve seen many such demonstrations through the years at various historic sights, but I enjoy them anyway. Mostly, I mavel at how basic and technical the muskets were nearly 250 years ago. It’s hard in today’s gun obsessed society not to be intrigued by how different the weaponry was back when our Founding Fathers wrote the Second Amendment. Can you picture someone walking into a crowded place today—a school, mall, grocery store, etc.—and opening fire with a musket? The aftermath would be much different than the bloodbaths that result when a shooter uses a modern day assault rifle. First of all, they would need a hell of a lot more training in how to use a musket. They couldn’t just buy it and start shooting. Second, stopping to reload after every shot would give would be victims a chance to escape. Third, a musket ball does not shred the body the way assault rifle bullets do.
G3 and I took a stroll through the King’s Garden. There was a fencing tournament going on which G3 stopped to watch. He found it interesting because the technique appeared similar to his combat sparring technique.
Before leaving, we took a tour of the history of the fort. It was extremely informative but not engaging in the least. The tour guide, dressed as a Red Coat, gave the history of the fort from its inception to the end of the Revolutionary War. He threw so many names and dates and facts at us that it was hard to process and remember them all. In fact, I walked away with not much more information than I extracted from the interpretive signs I read near the entrance to the fort.
After leaving, we drove up to Mount Defiance from which we got a stunning view of the lake. The water is brown, not terribly tempting for a swim even though the temperature was well into the 80s. We could also see Fort Ticonderoga down below. From that vantage point it looked rather small and not terribly imposing.
By now, after following me for years, you know the rule: for every battlefield we visit, Kati gets two wineries. She cashed in on one of them en route back to the campsite. The wine at Whaleback Winery wasn’t very good. At one point Kati turned to me and said, “I haven’t tasted one I’d want to spend money on.” I agreed. Then we tasted the maple syrup dessert wine, and yum. It was good, but very very sweet. I couldn’t drink more than a small cordial glass at a time. And yes, that was the one we spent money on.
As we were heading back to the campsite, we spotted an ice cream shop. I love ice cream. I wanted ice cream, so we stopped. I got two scoops of maple walnut. It is Vermont after all. G3 got a peanut butter chocolate milk shake—complete with a peanut butter cup—and he declared that it was the best milk shake he’d ever had.
There is a redneck white trash family staying at this campground. They are blasting their country music so freaking loud we can hear it clearly on the other end of the campground. Seriously, if all you want to do is sit around a table, drink beer, and listen to music, stay the hell home. People are so damn rude and self centered. The older I get, the more I hate people. There are exceptions of course…though not many.
We’re terrible parents. We like taking advantage of the three day Memorial Day weekend in order to escape town for a bit and go camping. This year, we got a bonus day. When Kati and I found out that we were each getting Friday off due to unused snow days we decided to go extend our camping trip for a day. Why hang out in NJ if we didn’t have to? However, neither one of us thought to consult G3’s school calendar. It turned out that unlike the two of us, he didn’t have off today. Oh well, the school will have to survive without him for a day. My dad never approved of me—or anyone—skipping school for any reason aside of serious illness, but it’s the end of the year and with two teacher moms it’s not like he’s going to miss something important that we can’t teach him at home. Besides, you know me, there will be educational stops on the itinerary, which means he could learn more on the road than in the classroom.
It seems appropriate to start off Memorial Day weekend visiting a battlefield where thousands of men died in an effort to break away from Britain and establish the country in which we live. When I was a kid in middle school, we studied the Revolutionary War ad nauseum. It’s was as if there was no history prior to the war and little after. And the teachers rehashed the same things year after year as if there were only a half a dozen battles and a dozen other critical events. The Battle of Saratoga was once such event that we learned about yearly without the teachers bothering to go deeper or build on prior knowledge. It’s no surprise really that so many people hate history, when it is presented in such a boring way. The Battle of Saratoga was important, as I first learned in fourth grade, because it was the turning point of the war. The world’s mightiest army surrendered to the rebels, handing the colonists their first major victory and signaling to France that they just might have a chance of winning. It was this battle that handed Franklin what he needed to convince the French to join the fight.
What none of my teachers ever touched on was the fact that Benedict Arnold was the hero of the battle. He charged onto the field, rallying the troops, and was shot through the ankle—an injury he carried the rest of his life. Three years later, bitter and resentful over they way his superiors treated him, he betrayed the Americans by giving military intelligence to the British. His name is now synonymous with being a traitor. Therefore, the Boot Memorial on the battlefield is in honor of him and his heroic victory, but it does not mention his name.
When we arrived, we stopped in at the visitor’s center and watched a short film about the battle. I learned more in ten minutes than in years of studying history at school. G3 and I then took a short walk on the battlefield. I wanted to do the full 4 mile loop but G3 wasn’t interested. He kept asking if we could turn around. Finally, I got tired of him asking and we headed back to meet Kati at the visitor’s center.
Our next stop was Philip Schuyler’s house. We got there too late for a tour but there were rangers positioned around the house to answer questions. We learned that Schuyler was a quartermaster during the French and Indian war, but he never had much experience in command of troops, which might partially explain why he lost at Fort Ticonderoga. After his loss, General Gates replaced him and went on to win at Saratoga.
We are camping at Bomoseen State Park. The woman working at check in was really friendly. She is a retired teacher and very happy to no longer be in the classroom. Once we got to our site, we set up our tents and then cooked dinner—taco meat for son and spouse, beans for me. After we ate, we sat around the campfire pleasantly chatting. It’s dropping down into the 30s tonight—I hope we get some sleep in the cold.
We were supposed to head down to Durham, North Carolina for a tournament this weekend, but at the last minute G3 decided he didn’t want to go. I don’t really know why. He said he was tired of driving long hours this season, but I’m not sure that is the real—or full— reason. Since he didn’t want to go to the tournament, and I didn’t want to be stuck home after planning to get way away (I was disappointed because I had been looking forward to competing in an out of district tournament) we packed up our camping gear, tossed it into the car and headed down to Shenandoah National Park. The destination seemed appropriate. Why not spend the anniversary of your death at a place you liked, a place we had once visited together?
Since it was an eleventh hour decision, we got on the road later than I usually like to leave. But the weather was nice and we hit limited traffic so we got to the campground early enough to set up and cook dinner before the sun set. The sites were all first-come-first-serve this time of year and since it’s April, we thought we’d have plenty to choose from. That was not the case. The campground was not full but there were a lot more people there than we expected. Still, we got a decent site and immediately set up our tents. While I cooked, warming up taco meat for Kati and G3 and beans for myself, G3 sawed wood for the campfire. There was lots of downed debris and it was all for the taking.
On Friday morning and into the afternoon, we took two short hikes. The first was on the Bearfence trail which was only 1.4 miles round trip, but it involved a fun rock scramble along one section of the trail. G3 greatly enjoyed that. Climbing rocks and boulders has always been a favorite for him. Kati had a little difficulty, providing the comic relief as she slipped and slided and struggled up a few crevices. But she survived and was able to laugh at the video G3 shot of her. G3 had fun posing for pictures for me to send to Nona. He climbed trees, did his signature side kick atop a giant rock, and even suffered through a picture with me.
Next, G3 and I hiked to the highest peak in the park: Hawksbill. The view was hazy but pretty. By the time we reached the overlook, clouds had covered the sky which kept it from being too hot. The loop we intended to do was supposed to be about three miles. But along the way we didn’t realize where the path divided. Inadvertently, we went the wrong way. Instead of turning onto the Appalachian Trail, we ended up in a parking lot a mile from where Kati was waiting for us. It wasn’t too bad having to walk along the road to get back to the car. Being in the woods would have been preferable, but as G3 pointed out, even the view from the Skyline Drive was pretty. And we probably ended up walking just as far as we intended. Of course it reminded me of when you brought me there many years ago. I was in middle school and for summer vacation we spent two weeks in Virginia. A few of those days—my favorite of the trip—we spent in Shenandoah. One afternoon, we set out on a hike. It wasn’t supposed to be long but we followed the wrong blazes and ended up walking much further than we intended. You and Mom were exhausted when we finally finished, but I loved every minute of it.
Since Friday was the three year anniversary of your death, we went wine tasting in your memory. You would have liked both wineries we visited. Wisteria Farm & Vineyard reminded me a little of Martha Clara—before it was sold—out on Long Island. There were roosters walking around and visiting with the customers. Kati and I each had a wine flight and we toasted you. It was peaceful sitting outside but the wine wasn’t that good. I don’t think you would have liked it. It was either bland or too sweet.
Brix & Columns was our next stop. The mountainous scenery was gorgeous. You would have loved sitting outside with us, looking at the mountains, and listening to the live folk music. Again, it was reminiscent of some of the time I spent with you at the wineries in Long Island. but the setting here was definitely prettier than there. We weren’t so thrilled with the wine. However, the first sampling was a Cabernet Franc which made Kati comment, “One of your Dad’s favorites. How appropriate.”
Once again we are camping near inconsiderate people. If you want to listen to music, stay home. Some of us enjoy the camping experience because we like escaping modern technology. I don’t pay for a campsite so that I can be subjected to others people’s noise.
The music, thankfully, didn’t last long. We sat for a long while by the campfire and by the time we went to bed most of the other campfires around us had been put out. I’ve never been afraid camping—ever. But as I was getting into my sleeping bag, I thought I heard footsteps. Plus, light and shadows kept flickering in the tent. I nudged Kati asking if she heard anything. She didn’t, but she did notice the light. I unzipped the tent to see if anyone was outside and there wasn’t. In the morning, G3 said I freaked him out. He had trouble falling asleep in his tent because he heard me and I spooked him. Kati couldn’t get back to sleep either. She feared aliens might be planning to abduct us. She didn’t hear footsteps but the lights were troubling her. She started listening for sounds of aliens clicking and speaking in their mother tongues. I felt bad. Next time, I will keep my concerns to myself. In the morning, I realized the light we saw was probably the headlights of passing cars and the footsteps were the leaves rustling in the wind.
During the night it rained, but not hard. The sound of the rain drops falling on the tent was soothing and the few times I woke up, it lulled me back to sleep.
Saturday marked 18 years since Kati and I got married. Yes, we got married on tax day. (For you history buffs, it’s also the day Lincoln died, the Titanic sank, and Boston was bombed.) We had hot chocolate and coffee at the campsite, then cereal for breakfast in the car as we headed off to take a hike. G3 and I hiked—three miles out and back— to Mary’s Rock Summit. It wasn’t too taxing of a hike—the uphill wasn’t too steep—but the view at the top was beautiful. We sat on the rocks, took pictures, and just enjoyed the moment. We would have stayed longer—G3 just wanted to stay there and forget that school is on the other end of this weekend—but Kati was waiting below and I didn’t want to keep her waiting too long.
We continued driving north and stopped ten miles before the northern most point of the park. This time, the three of us made the two mile round trip to Compton Peak. We went to see the basalt rock structure. The ranger at the Visitor Center asked if we had ever been to Devil’s tour in Wyoming or the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland because the formation was similar to those landmarks. We’ve been to Devil’s Tower so we were curious enough to see how the rock in Shenandoah was similar. Obviously, it is much smaller, but the hexagonal shape of the rocks was identical. We found it fascinating because a few years ago we watched a documentary that explained all the ways the hexagonal shape is found repeatedly in nature from the rocks at Giant’s Causeway to the honeycombs made by bees. It is always interesting when we can apply why we learn in a documentary to what we see or experience in real life.
In the afternoon, we returned to the wine trail so Kati and I could celebrate our anniversary. On the way to Shenandoah, she saw a sign for Gray Ghost Winery. We were both draw by the name. Then yesterday, the woman at the Wisteria Winery told us the Gray Ghost was Stonewall Jackson. She was incorrect. I Googled it—i had to, you know me and history. It turns out the Gray Ghost was John Mosby a Colonel in the Confederate Army. I never heard of him so I was that much more intrigued. As a result, we headed straight for that winery after our hike and I am glad we did.
As you know, Kati and I have visited many wineries over the years. Wine tastings are a standard part of our vacations and camping trips—you know the rule Kati gets one winery per president’s house and TWO for every battlefield. (Knowing my obsession with history, I’ll let you do the math.) But I’ve never enjoyed a wine stop as much as I enjoyed The Gray Ghost. The woman doing to tastings is the daughter of the owners. As soon as we walked in I asked her who the Gray Ghost was. That ushered in a very enjoyable conversation about history. She even brought her father over to further explain Mosby’s role in the war. A history lesson at a winery—it was a win win for me and Kati—what more could we want.
According to what we learned today, Mosby was against succession, but like many men at the time, his allegiance was to his state, more so than the country. He fought for the Confederacy because, like Lee, he was loyal to Virginia. His skill was being stealthy and getting behind Union lines. He captured men and horses while evading detection—and capture—prompting Lincoln to dub him “The Gray Ghost.” At the end of the war, he did not surrender. He then became a Republican and worked in Grant’s administration. How its it I never once came across his name? Not in a textbook, nor at any of the Civil War historical sites I’ve visited. Well, coming from the North, the only Southern military man we learned about was Lee. Our history books leave out so much and schools still haven’t figured out how to make history fun. But it surprises me that I never came across him anywhere else in my travels, especially in Virginia.
Dad, I wish you were alive because you would have enjoyed a visit to The Gray Ghost. I could see you hanging out at the bar, sipping wine and discussing the Civil War. And the wine was good—the best we’ve encountered in Virginia. I’d recommend the place to anyone passing through the area. (If you stop by, ask to see the John Mosby relics from the war.) When we left, Kati felt awful. We got so caught up in conversation she forgot to tip. I guess that’s an excuse to go back some day.
We stopped at Little Washington Winery next, but aside of a beautiful view of the mountains, there wasn’t much to write about. The wine was meh, and the staff was not very friendly.
On the way to the wineries it poured so hard Kati pulled over to wait for it to subside. Our fear was that when we got back to the campsite we’d find our tents flooded. But, the campground was dry. The rain seemed to have missed the park. However, Sunday morning, as I was packing up our gear, I discovered that I had been sleeping in a puddle. Water from Friday night must have seeped through the bottom of our tent. At least my sleeping roll kept my sleeping bag dry. The tent is relatively new. We only bought it last summer. Why are our tents so plagued with leaks?
Sunday morning was beautiful—warm and sunny. G3 and I did not want to leave. We’d have loved to stay for another hike, but real life beckoned. Spring break is ending and we all have to return to work and school on Monday. Ugh!
I’m not sure I want to do Taekwondo any more. On Friday night, G3 and I had our midterm. I did well on the Forms and Weapons components of the test, but during sparring I was paired up with a teenage boy. I’m nearly fifty. My body is haunted by old sports injuries and I just don’t move as well as I used to. Plus, I’ve only really been training in sparring for less than five months. Most of my training while getting my black belt was during the pandemic. First, it was virtual. Then, I got to spar a heavy bag because of the all the pandemic restrictions. It’s not the same as sparring a person, but at the time, it was better than nothing. A teenage boy, who has been sparring for many years, has many advantages over me. However, the instructors thought he would have proper control because he’s part of the teaching program and being able to control your power is something all black belts are supposed to do.
We were sparring for less than a minute when he kicked high and hard. His foot smashed against my face and knocked me to the ground. The pain in my jaw was immediate and acute. I’ve been hurt before, but the pain was more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. I stood up and pulled my helmet off, and I couldn’t get my jaw to align properly. The bottom jaw jutted out, giving me a terrible underbite, and when I tried to pull it back, a sharper surge of pain exploded in my face. Fear that the kid’s foot had done serious damage, combined with the fact that I was slightly disoriented—I was after all just kicked in the head, hard—made thinking clearly impossible. Instinct took over. I ripped my gear off. All I could think about was that I needed to get to a doctor—and fast. I needed to find out what was wrong. Why wasn’t my jaw working? I feared it might have been dislocated due to the incredible pain and the fact that I couldn’t close it properly. I announced that we were leaving because I felt the need to get medical attention right away. At that moment, I couldn’t fathom dealing with that pain all night and waiting for morning. In my moment of panic and disorientation, when I announced that we were leaving, I had forgotten that G3 wasn’t finished. His test wasn’t over. But my brain wasn’t processing properly.
In a fit of anger, G3 grabbed his gear and stormed out to the car. He and Kati were pissed at me for causing a scene. For making everyone leave. Kati said I should wait until morning and go to Urgent Care. But with the intensity of pain, I didn’t think I’d make it through the night. I insisted on going to the Emergency Room. In retrospect, it was a terrible decision. I should have stayed at the test, put ice on my jaw, and waited until morning. But at the time, I was driven by my need to know what was wrong. Why my jaw wouldn’t work. I sat in the Emergency Room for nine hours. I was up all night, pacing and trying to read. Nine hours waiting first to see a doctor. Then to get a CT Scan. Then for someone to read the results. My jaw was not dislocated. The muscles were just spasming and pulled too tightly from the injury. The doctor said my jaw would realign itself once the muscles relaxed and the injury healed. It could take a week, but in time I’d be able to chew again. She gave me a painkiller, a shot in the arm, and she sent me home.
The pain is still intense. I can only eat pureed food like a baby. And now I’ll have a lovely bill from the hospital to pay. Taekwondo was supposed to be fun. It wasn’t supposed to cause me this much pain, a trip to the hospital, and a hospital bill all because I showed up to take a test. If I had gotten injured during a tournament it would have been different. Circumstances surrounding tournaments are not the same—there are medals and points at stake. Plus, I’m fighting women close enough to my age that the disparity between skill levels—even if they are better than me—isn’t that great. I don’t want to put myself in a position where this can happen again.
G3’s who is still mad at me for embarrassing him and making him leave early—even though I made sure that he can complete his test on Tuesday—said, “You’re in a sport where people kick each other. What did you expect?” To a degree is he correct. But I didn’t think I’d be in a position where I’d have to spar against a teenage kid who would hit me with such force. On prior occasions, I have sparred other teenage boys who have always been gentle with me. They push me, but they recognize I’m an old lady compared to them, and they don’t hurt me. I don’t need to be in a position where a kid—perhaps, accidentally—indirectly points out that I’m not as fast as I used to be or that my reflexes aren’t as sharp. I don’t need him so clearly pointing out that with youth on his side he can easily overpower me and knock me down. Like I said, Taekwondo was supposed to be fun. Not humiliating or painful. And it’s unfortunate, because I was enjoying it. It gave me something fun to do, something to look forward to in a life that’s not exactly worked out as I had hoped. Besides, I now have an ER bill to pay. Tuition for classes seems like a waste of money. And if I don’t go back, I don’t have to worry about another nasty forceful kick to the head.
I got home at 6:30 on Saturday morning, and got a couple of hours of sleep before I had to go with G3 to take the first part of his collar test for Taekwondo. He’s tracking to be an instructor at some point in the future, and different collars are indicative of where a student is on the path to becoming a full time instructor. He had to demonstrate that he could do nine different color belt forms. He did beautifully, but he’s always had a natural knack and talent for forms. You would be proud of him. He will take the second part of his test—the teaching part—on Tuesday.
After his test, I drove to New York to visit Mom. G3 couldn’t come because he had Taekwondo classes again today and I didn’t want him to miss them. Mom has been down lately, and I knew she was looking forward to my visit. Even though my jaw was killing me, and I got little sleep, I still wanted to see her. Since she knew I couldn’t chew—all I had for breakfast was a heaping teaspoon of peanut butter—she made me bean soup for dinner and then pureed it for me. It’s one of my favorite soups and it tastes almost as good pureed as it does normally. Shortly after we ate, I crashed, falling into a deep sleep on the couch.
For Christians, Lent is this time of the year. When I think of my childhood, growing up Catholic, I remember the rituals that surround this season. The Stations of the Cross specifically stand out. The walk around the church, pausing at each station to relive Jesus’s path to his execution. I haven’t done the Stations of the Cross in years, but I am reminded of them every year now as I walk my own COVID stations which last thirty days, starting March 16 and ending April 14. For the last three years, each day during this time I pause to remember the early days of the pandemic, where I was, what I was doing, and how you were dying. My stations end on April 14, the day you died, but today March 26th is a significant station. It’s the day I first knew you were dreadfully ill the day, I first suspected COVID might kill you. The day I broke down because I tried desperately to get you help, but ran into one dead end after another. Tomorrow is the second worst station—April 14, of course, is the worst. Tomorrow, March 27, is the day Mom called me at 4:30 in the morning asking me to please come to New York to take you to the hospital. It was the very last time I ever saw you. I didn’t give you a hug. I didn’t tell you that I loved you. And every year I relive the regret, wishing I could have the day back so I could do things differently. If I could take the day back, I would get out of the car and wrap my arms around you. But I didn’t know that as I watched you walk into the hospital, I was watching you walk to your death.
It seemed appropriate, so close to the anniversary of the last day I ever saw you, that I walked up to Elmhurst to visit the “Missing Them” COVID Memorial. Your picture and obituary were there, so I wanted to see it. I’m glad that The City, a local new organization, took the time and effort to memorialize the COVID victims. I’m happy that you and the others were not forgotten, but the memorial was a bit disappointing. It was a banner—with the victims arranged on a timeline, showing when they died in relation to each other—that was hung on a playground fence. It was a beautiful morning, lots of people were out. Guys were playing basketball. A group of Asians were doing Tai Chi. Some people were hanging out talking. But only one other person, aside from me, paused to pay respect to the dead. Only one person took time to see the devastating effect the Pandemic had on so many families. I cried as I read the names and looked at the pictures. I cried because I wish you were still here.
I invited mom—if she had come we would have taken the bus—but she didn’t want to go. A banner hung on a fence did not appeal to her. She wants a permanent COVID Memorial built in New York City. You and the other victims deserve no less. I agree with her. It seems it’s the least the city could do for all the residents who died.
After I got back to Mom’s, I took her to run some errands. It’s easier for her when I can drive. She bought chocolate for Easter, the holiday I used to love, but now it just makes me sad. We don’t have you and we can’t go out to Mattituck. The day is just a reminder of how much we have lost. With her errands complete, we took a walk before I had to drive back home.
Elizabeth Jaeger 