Philosophy – Streaming thru America

Ballistic Badlands: Avoiding a Nuclear Winter

October 29, 2021Posted in Adventure, geology, History, landscape, museum, National Parks, Philosophy, Photography, Politics, Science, travel, video, wanderlustTagged Badlands, Cold War, Delta -09, Duck and Cover, Minuteman Missile National Historic Site, South Dakota2 Comments

Long stretches of telephone totems tethered as far as the eye can see…

Free-ranging livestock sprinkled across the flatlands…

Barbed wire perimeters surrounded by pastureland and littered with cow pies…

From 1963 to 1993, one thousand Minuteman II missiles (ICBMs) capable of delivering a 1.2 megaton nuclear warhead to a Soviet target in 30 minutes were housed in underground silos like Delta-09 that stretched across the Great Plains,

with 150 launch sites dispersed throughout South Dakota, transforming the serenity of the prairie into a hibernating military zone.

The Minuteman Missile National Historic Site commemorates a period in America’s history when “Mutually Assured Destruction” (MAD) imperiled the world, and delves into the birth of the Cold War, the nuclear arms race, and development of ICBMs.

At the height of the Cold War between Soviet Union and United States there were more than enough nuclear missiles in both arsenals to destroy the planet 5 times over.

As I walked through a maze of interactive exhibits, childhood memories came flooding back.

While growing up in an era of “duck and cover” mindfulness, we were acutely aware of the danger outside our global window.

With the school claxon sounding in 3-clang intervals, my classmates and I responded by hunching under our desks in silence until the principal gave us the “all clear” over the PA. It was our way of showing the Commies that we were prepared and doing our part in the recurring struggle to keep ourselves safe from a political bogeyman.

Of course, as we got older (these drills lasted through middle school), we doubted that “duck and cover” would ever protect us from a nuclear firestorm or subsequent fall-out.

Because of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the realization that Pittsburgh’s steel mills were a likely military target, my father’s master plan in the event of a nuclear attack was to convert our basement closet filled with dusty canvas awnings and rusted paint cans. We painted the concrete blocks a putrid shade of green under the glare of a single dangling light bulb swinging from the ceiling, and filled the 6 x 6 closet with mattress slabs, jugs of water, and a box of batteries for our flashlights. I always wondered how our family of four (at the time) would survive inside this moldy space.

After touring the Visitor Center, we rode 15 minutes on I-90 West to a decommissioned missile silo roughly the size of a football field, and the feeling was ominous.

Locked beneath a sliding 9-ton hatch…

was a vertical rocket in-waiting. I pressed against the tinted, transparent armor and peered into a hole 185 feet deep for a first look and a photograph.

Despite being disarmed,

it was no less unsettling to consider that humanity holds the power of mass destruction, and the Badlands backdrop–75 million years in the making–could vanish in an instant.

I’m Not as Young as I Used to Feel

June 15, 2021July 25, 2021Posted in Adventure, Airstream, health, hiking, humor, landscape, National Parks, Nature, Philosophy, Photography, travel, wanderlustTagged aging, Alamosa, Colorado, Great Sand Dunes NP and Preserve, High Dune, Medano Creek, motivation3 Comments

After motoring through half of America in our Airstream for the past 1 ½ months and reporting travel highlights along the way (http://streamingthruamerica.com),

I’m temporarily suspending the chronological order of my posts to confess that I’m not as young as I used to feel. I’m usually up for a reasonable physical challenge, but I have to admit that today’s climb did not go as easily as I wanted it to.

Yesterday, Leah and I crossed from Taos, New Mexico to Alamosa, Colorado, and settled in at Base Camp Family Campground by midday. After hiking in Taos the past 2 days, we thought we had acclimated nicely to the thinner air (more to be said on that later), but we were feeling our age after our arrival. We took an early siesta in air-conditioned comfort, followed by a 27-mile sprint to the Great Sand Dunes National Park Visitor Center just before it closed.

The park ranger suggested a climb to the top of High Dune (699 feet), but to keep in mind that tomorrow’s high will reach 92^o F. He recommended a 9:00 am start time in order to reach the top of the dune by noon, and before the surface temperature exceeds 150^o F. The ranger predicted the 2 ½-mile trek should average 2 hours, round trip.

Since we were already at the park, we decided to have a look around. We found it very refreshing to glide through three inches of snow melt, ebbing and flowing from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Considering it was a Sunday afternoon, and peak traffic was winding down,

there was still plenty of activity around us;

far too many interesting vistas to ignore;

and surprising driftwood sculpture to admire.

We arrived at the Dunes parking lot by 8:45 am the next day, and we were not alone. Many other families were already parked and trekking across the sand flats with sandboards in hand. Canopies and shelters were already sprouting up throughout and within Medano Creek, and kids were romping in the water and shaping wet sand castles.

We surveyed the 10,000 acres of dunes and plotted our course as there are no marked trails, but we followed along the ridgeline like most others.

Looking back gave us some satisfaction, because it reminded us of how far we trudged,

but looking ahead reminded us how much more we had to cover. The closer we crept to the top, the deeper our feet sunk into hot sand, slowing our progress.

We took a lot of breathers along the way,

and rated the sand boarders as they attempted to carve out a run…

but mostly, it was uphill twenty steps, pausing to catch our breath, having a look around, sipping some water, and repeating the process. Slow and steady wins the race. Right?

Many hikers passed us on the way down offering words of encouragement, but Leah–realizing her feet were about to catch fire–decided to mush down the sand slopes and soak her feet in the creek while I continued to the top.

And so I pushed myself, and willed myself up the final ascent, foot by foot, grabbing air along the way, until I finally reached the summit with barely enough energy to greet the younger people who passed me on the way up, and wave my arms for Leah’s snap.

Perhaps it was self-gratification…

realizing that I can still push myself,

or maybe I needed to see the other side of the mountain.

Either way, it’s all good. Ironically, as I admit to myself that I’ve lost a step or two, to my surprise, I often find myself taking a victory lap. As I get older, I’ll eventually have to make do with being young at heart.

But until then…

Regular programming resumes…

Just Wondering…

March 22, 2021June 6, 2021Posted in Adventure, Art, hiking, landscape, Nature, Philosophy, Photography, Poetry, Sociology, travelTagged alligators, Embracing Our Differences, Florida, Myakka River State Park, Sarasota Bayfront, symbiosis4 Comments

If gators…

and birds…

can coexist side by side,

why can’t we abide.

The above-mentioned poem and pics were motivated by a day-trip to Myakka River State Park, outside Sarasota, Florida.

Originally, my early inclination was to post this as a stand-alone, abstract reaction to all the hate that’s been circulating around the country of late, but as luck would have it–at Leah’s urging–I walked along Sarasota’s Bayfront…

and discovered the 18th Annual Art Exhibit Celebrating Diversity and Inclusion.

Almost immediately, after walking through the exhibition, I realized that showcasing birds and preying reptiles was too esoteric in getting my message across.

And I knew I had to include a sampling of the thoughtful, amazing talent from local and international students…

who have found a way to express themselves both poetically and graphically in ways that astound me, and give me hope for the future of our planet.

50 panels are spread throughout a marine park setting frequented by families, dog-walkers, tourists, and boaters, etc.,

interacting among billboard-sized art.

Indeed, a captive audience for a captivating display of enlightenment that’s too good to ignore.

A Prickly Pandemic

March 10, 2021Posted in Nature, Philosophy, Photography, Poetry, psychologyTagged cactus, Commentary, Haiku, pandemic response, tree frogLeave a comment

Self-isolation
promotes self-preservation--
Self-imprisonment?

Wise Guys

July 4, 2020July 5, 2020Posted in Adventure, Architecture, Art, culture, family, hiking, History, landscape, money, museum, National Parks, Philosophy, Photography, Politics, Sociology, travel, wanderlustTagged 4th of July, America, Crazy Horse, Gutzon Borglum, immigration, July 4th, Korczak Ziolkowski, Mt. Rushmore, patriotism, Planet of the Apes, South DakotaLeave a comment

Despite the three years since Leah and I visited Mt. Rushmore, what could be more American than re-posting this visit on Independence Day? And still, there’s great turmoil within the country. A trip to Mt. Rushmore means many different things to different kinds of people. One person’s treasure is another’s abomination. To visit was once considered patriotic. Now it’s an act of partisan politics.

There’s no better way to celebrate the 4th of July, than a trip to Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial. Sure, the crowds were large; that was to be expected. But once the cars were garaged, the pedestrian traffic was easy to negotiate. And with everyone looking up at the mountain, the Presidents’ faces and intentions were never obstructed.

It was also a time to celebrate family. There were plenty of kids riding in strollers, hanging from moms in carriers, or balancing on dads’ shoulders. Generations of families–many of them immigrants–had gathered to pay homage to the principles of freedom that make our country a beacon for the oppressed and downtrodden.

Seniors were being escorted through the Avenue of Flags by their grandchildren. Extended families organized group pictures at the Grand View Terrace, unified by their love of democracy and their reunion T-shirts.

All expressed awe at Gutzon Borglum’s grand vision and remarkable achievement–the transformation of a mountain into a national symbol visited by approximately 3 million people every year.

The 14-year process of carving the rock began with dimensionalizing the Presidents’ portraits through Plaster of Paris masks, on view at the sculptor’s studio-turned-museum.

Additional exhibits detail the construction of the memorial, and the tools used by workers, like the original Rand & Waring compressor, which powered the jackhammers for all the finishing work.

An overlooked fact–Mt. Rushmore was once intended as a tribute to the “Five Faces of Freedom,” but funding ran short when Congressional appropriation for the monument approached $1 million during the Great Depression. Hence, the unfinished carving of the Great Ape to the right of Lincoln serves as a reminder that we are never far from our true ancestors.¹

No less ambitious, and equally as impressive, the Crazy Horse Memorial is a work-in-progress located 16 miles away in the heart of the Black Hills–considered sacred land by the Lakota people.

Conceived by Korczak Ziolkowski in early 1940s,

the memorial, when completed will stand 563 ft. by 641 ft. across, and is expected to be the largest sculpture in the world. Already, the completed head of Crazy Horse measures 60 feet tall…

…twice the size of any of the presidents at Mt. Rushmore. While the first blast was conducted on the mountain in 1947, the current prospects for the memorial are to complete the outstretched arm during the next twelve years. There is no completion date available for the finished carving, which has been financed entirely by private funding since its inception.

Mt. Rushmore was created by a Danish American. Crazy Horse was created by a Polish American. And visitors to both destinations manifest the melting pot that has brought us all together as Americans. It’s our diversity that makes us strong, our ambition and determination that makes us great, and our compassion and sacrifice that make us whole.

These are the values reflected from the faces we’ve immortalized in stone. Yet, we would honor them more by living according to these principles.

Happy Birthday, America!

¹ Just kidding, but the photograph is real and has not been retouched.

If Hindsight is 2020…

May 6, 2020May 6, 2020Posted in culture, humor, Philosophy, Photography, Politics, satireTagged toilet paper2 Comments

Just asking for a friend…

Wise Guys

July 4, 2019July 4, 2019Posted in Architecture, Art, culture, hiking, History, landscape, money, National Parks, Philosophy, Photography, Politics, Sociology, travelTagged 4th of July, Crazy Horse, Gutzon Borglum, immigration, Korczak Ziolkowski, Mt. Rushmore, Planet of the Apes, South Dakota6 Comments

Although it’s been two years since Leah and I visited Mt. Rushmore, what could be more American than re-posting this visit on Independence Day?

All expressed awe at Gutzon Borglum’s grand vision and remarkable achievement–the transformation of a mountain into a national symbol visited by approximately 3 million people every year.

The 14-year process of carving the rock began with dimensionalizing the Presidents’ portraits through Plaster of Paris masks, on view at the sculptor’s studio-turned-museum.

Additional exhibits detail the construction of the memorial, and the tools used by workers, like the original Rand & Waring compressor, which powered the jackhammers for all the finishing work.

A little known fact is that Mt. Rushmore was once intended to be a tribute to the “Five Faces of Freedom,” but funding ran short when the Congressional appropriation approached $1 million during the Great Depression. Hence, the unfinished carving of the Great Ape to the right of Lincoln serves as a reminder that we are never far from our true ancestors.¹

No less ambitious, and equally as impressive, the Crazy Horse Memorial is a work-in-progress located 16 miles away in the heart of the Black Hills–considered sacred land by the Lakota people.

Conceived by Korczak Ziolkowski in early 1940s,

the memorial, when completed will stand 563 ft. by 641 ft. across, and is expected to be the largest sculpture in the world. Already, the completed head of Crazy Horse measures 60 feet tall…

These are the values reflected from the faces we’ve immortalized in stone. Yet, we would honor them more by living according to these principles.

Happy Birthday, America!

¹ Just kidding, but the photograph is real and has not been retouched.

Window Dressing

April 13, 2019February 21, 2020Posted in Architecture, Art, culture, Food, History, Philosophy, Photography, religion, Sociology, travelTagged Amsterdam, Amsterdam Museum, bicycles, canals, Cannibis, Red Light district, Vagina8 Comments

Peering into shop windows along the streets and canals of Amsterdam…

…presents many an oddity that will surely arouse the senses. Although, considering Amsterdam’s predilection and distinction for legal marijuana and prostitution, it would seem unlikely that there could be any room for other surprises.

Yet oddly enough, despite the merchandising overload of everything cannabis,

and the city’s penchant for 24-hr flesh peddling,

there is more to Amsterdam than just kink and circumstance.

There are also plenty of museums,

and enough al fresco cafés and frites stores to support a cultural and gastronomical battalion.

Amsterdam is a place for eyes behind your head, because two eyes in front is not enough to sidestep all the oncoming cyclists coming from every direction,

but also to catch all the head-turning outrageousness of an unrepentant town that still embraces Easter.

Amsterdam is a place to relax. Heck, half the population is already stoned, and the pungent waft of weed is a strong reminder to kick back and enjoy the scenery.

Amsterdam is a tolerant town, where all kinds of people gather and co-exist without judgement or little reservation. Citizens are proud and expressive, at times aggressive, but mostly helpful–although they smoke entirely too much, and regard the street as their personal ashtray.

As a laissez-faire society by practice and design, it appears to work. Quite simply, Amsterdam is a libertarian’s delight!

And that leaves plenty of room for rubber duckies and vaginas, and everything between.

Awashed

March 9, 2019March 9, 2019Posted in Nature, Philosophy, Photography, Poetry, psychologyTagged St. Augustine, Vilano Beach2 Comments

I fear
that being here…
or being there…
is neither here
nor there.
So where
should I care
to be,
if I never dare
to be?

To be clear–
I declare,
that far or near,
or anywhere
I care
to steer,
I may be unaware
of it,
if I only stare
at it.

Becoming My Parents

November 26, 2018December 1, 2018Posted in Food, hiking, humor, landscape, Nature, Philosophy, Photography, satire, travelTagged Birthday, Commentary, family, Growing old, health, Ramapo Valley County Reservation, Reflection5 Comments

Hiking along New Jersey State and County Park trails the day after Thanksgiving made a lot of sense to Leah, who orchestrated our first return to New Jersey since moving to St. Augustine five months ago. She promised a whirlwind week and a-half of personal appointments and commitments packed with a variety of doctors, friends and family members, all laced with an emphasis on over-eating.

And so, during the course of our visit, as advertised, our food-centric itinerary always included a meal punctuated by scintillating table conversation on family history and folklore–touching on recipes, obituaries, and kin outcasts, with politics and religion occasionally creeping into the dialogue.

But mostly, everybody seemed to be preoccupied with their health. And God help the person who would innocently ask, “So, how are you feeling?” Because this question would open the floodgates for respondents to freely reassign their HIPAA proxy on the spot so they could casually discuss their current condition down to the last agonizing ache and pain, notwithstanding the severity surrounding their prognosis and course(s) of treatments, always followed by a couple of random doctor-horror stories.

It seemed like everyone had a health-related story to tell–whether it was about themselves or someone they knew–not unlike my parents and their friends, who would gather at holiday occasions to compare notes about their medication intake. It was uncanny that the of crux of nearly all of our relationships was now firmly rooted in our faded glory and eventual demise.

Any outsider, after eavesdropping on any of our sessions of non-stop kvetching might be surprised to learn that we are still breathing and have more than one day to live.

And so, it was predictably refreshing to carve out some time to clear our ears of prescription patter, and find an activity that combined friendship and calorie burning. Of course, our opportunity to hike was completely weather-dependent, considering the prior Nor’easter and the Arctic chill that had settled on the Atlantic states.

Like many Northern transplants to Florida, Leah and I had become preoccupied with weather-watching, so we might bask in the warm glow of knowing that we had finally escaped the unfriendly winters by relocating to St. Augustine. But now that we were back in Jersey, it was time to face the hard cold facts of winter; Ramapo Valley Reservation (NYNJTC_RamapoValleyCountyReservationMap-2017) was 18°F at the Reservation trailhead, and expecting to peak at 23°F by the afternoon.

MacMillan Reservoir was partially frozen and dreary…

with the exception of distant water reflections.

Trails were camouflaged…

by crispy fallen leaves–densely packed and slippery–despite the assortment of Skittles-colored trail blazes nailed to forest saplings.

Brooks were running fast and high…

making each water-crossing challenging and hazardous.

We continued our four-hour excursion with the winds picking up across Campgaw Mountain.

And it became clear to me that marching through the New Jersey woodlands was not the best birthday present I could have given myself. The cold had already taken its toll on Arlene’s arthritic fingers. Leah, who had recently succumbed to lower back pain and acute Achilles tendonitis was now complaining about her knees.

My knees were also aching from sliding down one too many slippery slopes. Even Doug, the youngest of all of us by at least eleven years had to admit that his right knee was locking up occasionally. The ladies cut their hike short, taking a quick detour to the parking lot, but Doug and I wore our intrepid hats. We continued to the feature waterfall along the Brookside Trail with few delays or complaints…

giving us bragging rights to a 7.5 mile accomplishment,

and leaving me more than ready for my true birthday present to myself: a one-hour Swedish massage at a local day spa, if only to rub my aches and pains away for another day.

The United State of Armories

November 9, 2018November 12, 2018Posted in culture, money, Philosophy, Politics, satireTagged gun violence, guns, mass shooting, NRA, Trump7 Comments

There was another mass shooting the other day–only eleven days after the last mass shooting, in addition to 305 other mass shootings in the past 312 days–bringing the tally thus far this year to 328 DEAD and 1200+ WOUNDED.

With so many well-intended thoughts and prayers offered after each and every tragedy, there must be a reason why this keeps happening. Are we not thinking and praying enough?

Clearly, there must be someone or something to blame!

Donald Trump faults America’s preparedness. He said so when Nikolas Cruz shot and killed 17 students and staff members at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida on Valentine’s Day.

If only the teachers had been armed…

And he mentioned it again after Robert Bowers opened fire on congregants at Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, during Shabbat morning services, killing 11 and injuring others.

If only there had been an armed guard at the temple…

Trump continues to echo National Rifle Association chief Wayne LaPierre’s long-touted notion that “the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.”

It’s a familiar refrain by 2nd Amendment activists and lobbyists.

Perhaps they are right, and pacifists have been blind to such an obvious solution…

WE NEED MORE GUNS TO STOP THE VIOLENCE!

America has 4% of the world population, but controls 46% of the civilian guns, globally. Suppose we put them to good use!

Therefore, all of us have the power and responsibility to prevent the next mass shooting by stationing one or more armed civilians at EVERY:

bar, restaurant, coffee shop, donut shop, pizzeria, take-out, drive-thru, food truck;
shopping plaza, shopping center, shopping mall, strip mall, retail center, department store, discount center, flea market, garage sale;
home center, dry cleaner, laundromat, pawn shop, liquor store;
firehouse, courthouse, post office, police station, municipal office, county office, state office, federal office, library, voter poll;
barber shop, beauty salon, nail salon, eyebrow threading salon, tanning salon, massage parlor, spa;
bank, savings & loan, credit union, financial service, investment house, loan shark;
realty, mortgage agency, bail bond agency;
gymnasium, dance studio, yoga studio, swimming pool, bath house;
amusement center, amusement park, dog park, park ground, fairground;
food fair, street fair, corn maze, pumpkin patch;
horse-riding stable, kennel, boat yard, pier, seashore;
public school, parochial school, charter school, vocational school, tutoring center;
college dormitory, fraternity house, sorority house, lecture hall, classroom, laboratory, library, bookstore;
church, chapel, synagogue, temple, mosque;
supermarket, grocery store, convenience store, bakery, butcher shop, produce market, fish market;
vineyard, brewery, distillery;
hospital, clinic, doctor’s office, dentist, veterinarian, pharmacy, physical therapist, LabCorp office;
parking lot, car dealership, gas station, car wash, auto body shop, auto repair, oil change service, tire shop;
concert hall, stadium, arena, theater, amphitheater, movie theater, bowling alley, circus tent, carnival, casino, racetrack;
bus depot, train station, airport, heliport, car rental, truck stop, rest stop, gas station;
cruise ship, riverboat, ferry, freighter, tugboat, tour boat;
cruise ship terminal, harbor, port, mooring;
radio station, TV station, internet cafe;
hotel, motel, trailer park, bed & breakfast, Airbnb, campground, homeless shelter;
VFW hall, Moose Lodge, convention center, social hall, catering hall;
cemetery, graveyard, funeral home;
bridge, tunnel, toll road, railroad crossing;
warehouse, housing park, office park, industrial park, construction site, abandoned building;
haunted house, slaughterhouse;
museum, planetarium, sculpture park, art gallery, art studio;
factory, machine shop;
junkyard, trash dump, recycling center;
public restroom;
march, demonstration, parade, street performance, iPhone launch, rocket launch, victory celebration;
wedding, birthday party, prom, anniversary celebration, Ba(r/t) Mitzvah, Christening, Sweet 16, family picnic, school reunion;
gun store, shooting range;
etc. (in case I missed a place where gun violence might occur)

We can make a real difference with all of our guns, while reducing unemployment below 3% and giving Trump something tremendous to brag about!

Don’t you feel safer now?

photo of smoking shotgun — Photo by Ivandrei Pretorius on Pexels.com

Many Happy Election Returns

November 7, 2018November 8, 2018Posted in Mexico, money, Philosophy, PoliticsTagged #2018Midterms, #MidtermElections2018, Donald Trump6 Comments

Donnie is at it again and again–appealing to the baser instincts of his base by stirring up hate and fear-mongering against the “Others” during eleven “last-ditch” campaign rallies in the past week. He has put immigration front-and-center as a divider rod to ram home the difference between those who are searching for freedom, and those who are weaponizing freedom for themselves.

Trump has swung open the doors of his psychophant wards to fill arenas with thousands of cheering and jeering haters–poised to lap up his lies–in anticipation of the accolades delivered by his adoring acolytes.

Characteristically, even as the midterm elections have approached this fateful day after, I’ve discovered scores of emails from Donnie, Mike, Lara, Eric and Junior choking my inbox like a political virus (as I’ve highlighted earlier in Anatomy of an Email) in a mad attempt to pick my pocket for money in support of Trump’s lies and “Nationalist” agenda.

This time around, a new survey has landed in my account–a tribal and partisan survey that completely guarantees reverberating feedback that’s fit for a narcissist.

Okay. So allow me to be the survey outlier–a voice that struggles to be heard above the “LOCK HER UP” din; a voice that refuses to be paranoid of a Latin American stroller brigade that is worn thin by hunger and oppression; a voice that decries the inhumanity of caged children ripped from their parents; a voice that is guided by science, not séance; a voice that still believes in democracy, not demagoguery.

28 sheepish questions that deserve 28 unabashed answers:

I’m doubtful that my responses will be counted among other survey submissions. And I’m almost certain that my responses will never be shared with Trump’s campaign.

But I’m hopeful that I’m not the only person who feels this way. And I’m confident that others will continue to rage against the Trump machine.

Do you agree or care to disagree?

Wise Guys

July 4, 2018August 11, 2018Posted in Architecture, Art, culture, hiking, History, landscape, money, National Parks, Philosophy, Photography, Politics, Sociology, travelTagged 4th of July, Crazy Horse, Gutzon Borglum, immigration, Korczak Ziolkowski, Mt. Rushmore, Planet of the Apes, South Dakota10 Comments

It’s been one year since our visit to Mt. Rushmore, and what could be more American than re-posting this episode on Independence Day…

All expressed awe at Gutzon Borglum’s grand vision and remarkable achievement–the transformation of a mountain into a national symbol visited by approximately 3 million people every year.

The 14-year process of carving the rock began with dimensionalizing the Presidents’ portraits through Plaster of Paris masks, on view at the sculptor’s studio-turned-museum.

Additional exhibits detail the construction of the memorial, and the tools used by workers, like the original Rand & Waring compressor, which powered the jackhammers for all the finishing work.

No less ambitious, and equally as impressive, the Crazy Horse Memorial is a work-in-progress located 16 miles away in the heart of the Black Hills–considered sacred land by the Lakota people.

Conceived by Korczak Ziolkowski in early 1940s,

the memorial, when completed will stand 563 ft. by 641 ft. across, and is expected to be the largest sculpture in the world. Already, the completed head of Crazy Horse measures 60 feet tall…

These are the values reflected from the faces we’ve immortalized in stone. Yet, we would honor them more by living according to these principles.

Happy Birthday, America!

¹ Just kidding, but the photograph is real and has not been retouched.

Favoritism

May 30, 2018June 3, 2018Posted in History, landscape, National Parks, Nature, Philosophy, Photo Challenge, Photography, travelTagged Blue Ridge Parkway, favorite, Floyd County VA, Mabry Mill17 Comments

When I was growing up, I often accused my mother of favoritism–feeling as if she was more devoted to one of my two sisters or other brother than me. Yet today, I can’t recollect a certain situation that gave me the chutzpah to suggest to her that one sibling got preferential treatment over another.

Of course, whenever I raised the indictment, my mother always answered the same way, “How could you say that? I love all my children the same.”

I don’t know. Maybe what she said was true for her. But I was always suspicious of her definition of equality. None of us was the same in our looks, our likes, our talents and abilities. Each of us had something that made us special. So I was never really certain how our individuality and distinctiveness measured against Mom’s distribution of love. To me, she adopted “separate but equal” as a legal family doctrine in order to avoid conflict, but conflict always had a way of showing up.

Later, as a parent, I wrestled with whether one son was better than another. I came to the conclusion that I didn’t love them equally–I loved them differently.

Many years and careers later, when I was in a classroom setting teaching emotionally and learning disabled students, the notion of picking a favorite became a source of reflection. Of course, I was more inclined to curry favor upon students who were better prepared, less of a discipline problem, and willing to try. These were my “go-to” kids who were eager to respond to open academic questions whether they knew the answer or not, and it was hard not to treat them differently.

And so, it’s much the same with determining which is a favorite of the tens of thousands of photographs I’ve snapped since becoming a “serious” photographer. After scanning through archives of images that still thrill me, I’ve decided that I cannot pick one over another, since each “favorite” has a different integrity, or power, or message.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that my favorite photograph is the one I’ve taken last, because it’s in that moment that I’ve given it the most attention, and therefore overshadowing all the other images that have preceded it.

Currently, as I travel south with Leah to meet my new destiny in St. Augustine, I am following a ribbon of asphalt that curls through the ridgeline of the Blue Ridge Mountains between Virginia and North Carolina. And while I’m certain that it’s picturesque, given the large number of overlooks that the 1930’s Conservation Corps has carved out on both sides of the Parkway, the ongoing fog and rain clouds have obscured all sitelines, making this a dissapointing journey.

However, a short break in the weather while passing milepost 176 of Blue Ridge Parkway in Floyd County, Virginia gave us a chance to stretch our legs and take a self-guided tour of the mill by the water…

built by E.B. Mabry in 1903. Originally, a blacksmith and wheelwright operation,

Mabry later added a sawmill,

and seeing the need, added a gristmill as an additional service.

From all the rain, the scene was eerily green…

and serene.

And for one precious moment, it became my favorite place to photograph…

until the next assignment!

Prelude to a Move

May 19, 2018May 21, 2018Posted in daily prompt, money, Philosophy, Photography, travelTagged awkward, complication, FSBO, moving, real estate, transitioning9 Comments

From the moment Leah and I returned to Jersey living, we knew our lives had changed forever. There was no going back to the familiar home and life we left behind one year ago. There was only the open road ahead of us, and knowing that our fate would soon be determined by our imminent move to St. Augustine.

After the journey, friends and family told us they noticed a change in us as well. While we wanted to believe the many who tried to convince us that our marathon trip rolled back the years on our appearance, or that we seemed more relaxed than the last time they saw us, they couldn’t see nor imagine our overwhelming anxiety as we buttoned up our affairs in Jersey and prepared for a future in Florida.

There was still a house to sell; a lifetime of stuff to sort through; a long-distance move to coordinate; an avalanche of doctors’ appointments to schedule and attend; an Airstream to relocate; and a need to embrace and say goodbye to as many loved ones as possible before our grand departure. Our calendar was so full, it was hemmoraging with all the commitments and obligations we could muster.

Selling the house became priority one. We returned to our homestead, recently evacuated by our tenant, and staged it for photographs–inside and out–which included clearing a 150-lb. bough that narrowly missed the front façade of the house after crashing down from the weight of a record-breaking 27-inch snowstorm twelve days earlier.

Welcome to a flow-thru floor plan on two floors, representing the best of comfortable living with luxurious finishes.

Feel the warmth of boutique hardwood floors throughout as you enter to a spacious living room/dining room concept,

with one-of-a-kind accented powder room,

that opens up to 17-foot ceilings, accentuated by a marble-clad wood-burning fireplace, and a wall of light capped by Palladium windows.

A modern kitchen awaits, anchored by solid wood cabinetry with granite countertops, and a quad of updated appliances featuring a gas range and oven.

Sliders open to a spacious enclosed patio with two-tone pavers.

Take the golden-carpeted stairs to the 2nd level for access to two large bedrooms,

a main bath with tub,

a laundry room,

and a master bedroom with vaulted ceiling.

Walk past two walk-in closets to encounter a marble sanctuary with floating vanities, a deep-soak tub,

and a walk-in spa shower with glorious pressure.

Located within a diverse community, surrounded by greenspace, minutes from Interstate-287, and priced to sell–this property won’t last long on the market.

Your next home awaits you.

The timing was perfect! It was officially springtime (although the harsh weather belied the season), the real estate market was hot, and local inventory levels were low. We clearly had the upper hand, so posting an F-S-B-O (for sale by owner) sign by the roadside figured to be a beneficial experiment with a commision-savings payoff that would potentially subsidize our move should we pull off the sale of the home on our own.

I listed our house with Zillow on Thursday for an Open House on Sunday. Over the next couple of days, I tracked the website for hits, and was encouraged by the response; many had saved the listing, and I wondered who among them would show up.

The smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and vanilla-scented candles wafted through the air. It was 10am on Sunday, and we were open for business! Ten families traipsed throughout our home, making it a successful day, but the real proof arrived the following day when we accepted an offer from a retired couple intending to downsize.

Sorting through our belongings proved to be our next and more difficult challenge. While we had a notion of what we wanted to move, we still had to figure how we would liquidate everything that wasn’t coming with us. So, Leah decided to press our luck with a garage sale the following Sunday. She listed the event on-line with garagesales.com, and in anticipation of the event, we tagged all the furniture, furnishings, and assorted knick-knacks in the hope that we could lighten our load.

We intended on selling the complete contents of the living room, dining room, and office, with special consideration given to the sale of our baby grand piano.

I reached out to a reputable used piano store that I located on-line, but they balked at the asking price, given the expense of long-distance shipping to Baltimore. Oh well, there was always the garage sale to look forward to.

The weather was glorious on Garage Sale Day. In fact, it was the sunniest Sunday, and warmest day of the new season. At 10am, I hammered the garage sale sign in the same spot once occupied by the F-S-B-O sign, hoping that lightning could strike twice.

“It’s beautiful outside,” I informed Leah. “How can we miss?”

“Somebody’s gonna get a good deal today,” she intoned. “Everything is priced ridiculously low.”

We waited…and waited…and waited…until 2pm…for somebody anybody to show up…but no one…not a single solitary soul paid any mind to our sale…NO ONE!

Maybe our luck had run out? Leah and I blamed it on the weather. Perhaps, it was too nice a day to go rummaging, when so many customers were probably out and about (as we should have been), enjoying the fresh air.

True, it was a set-back, and a minor complication toward down-sizing, but we were determined to find another way to find new caretakers for our shit.

Enter OfferUp, a mobile app that speaks to millenials in a way that makes garage sales passé. Just snap a picture of the item, add a brief description with a price tag, and wait for the Ka-Ching! chirp to announce an offer.

Over time:
[Ka-Ching!] We sold the living room ensemble to a young guy who had just leased his first apartment in Paterson;
[Ka-Ching!] A young woman from Harrison jammed all of our outdoor furniture into her SUV; [Ka-Ching!] a young couple from Garfield bought our dining room set and loaded it into their pick-up, while their small boys played with wrestling action figures on the floor where the table had stood for so many years;

and [Ka-Ching!] A fellow from Parsippany dispatched two friends to shlep back the office ensemble, needing two trips to complete the transaction.

Here a chair, there a chest, it all entually sold, until only the piano remained. I think we lowered the price twice or thrice to encourage a response, and then it happened!
[Ka-Ching!] “Would like to inspect piano.”

A couple from Hillsborough visited with their two young girls to look and listen. It was awkward at first. The family had come to appraise the piano’s value and maybe make an offer. But I had an additional agenda. While a sale was important, I also wanted to believe that the piano would continue to bring music to a new family–that it would be played and protected.

After we all got acquainted, I could see that the mother of the girls had made an emotional connection, and was excited and determined to return to playing like she had years ago, before children. I played a refrain or two and the deal was sealed.

Days later, professional piano movers arrived to escort our piano to its new home. It was a melancholy Monday to be sure.

Our living room was naked, except for a lounge chair and a wicker rocker. Over the next few days, whenever we watched TV in our hollow-sounding living room, we reminisced about how comfortable and relaxing it used to be. But the deconstruction was also a wake-up call. While it rang out with bargains and new beginnings for every buyer–as they carried away, piece-by-piece, all the trappings that became a regular part of our life here–it also reminded us that we were ready to turn the page, in anticipation of writing our next chapter.

And then, [Ka-Ching!]

Leah received a picture-text from the new guardians of the baby grand–showing us its new footprint–and I knew we had entrusted it to caring hands.

Not long after, a video followed with a note, “Thank you. We will take good care of it. Good luck in Florida!”

Indeed, I believe they will!

My Place in the World

May 10, 2018May 10, 2018Posted in hiking, landscape, National Parks, Nature, Philosophy, Photo Challenge, Photography, Poetry, travelTagged Banff, Biltmore, Bonaventure Cemetary, Charleston SC, Coachella Valley, NYC, place, Redwood National Park, Riding Mountain, Sonoma Valley, Tombstone17 Comments

Where is my place in the World?
Where is my home?

**Is it deep in the forest**
**where redwoods are burled?**

gnome house — **Or far in the garden**
**protected by gnomes?**

crashing waves.jpg — **Could it be by the ocean,**
**where waves crash the rocks?**

Lake Moraine canoe rental — **Or how ’bout the notion**
**of boats by the dock?**

Biltmore Castle — **And why not the castle**
**that touches blue air?**

TSQ traffic — ***Or maybe the hassle***
***of crowded Times Square?***

Banff — **Could I hike to the mountains,**
**reaching higher and farther?**

Charleston waterfront.jpg — **Or lounge by a fountain**
**with views of the harbor?**

***Might I stroll through a villa,***
***grapes ready to prune?***

Kate's — **Or sip sasaparilla**
**at a Western Saloon?**

Salton Sea.jpg — ***Can I conquer the valley’s***
***remote isolation?***

Theus Bonaventure.jpg — **And weave through an alley**
**of tombs and cremation?**

My place is a harvest
of everything listed.

No one place defines me, lest
l ever existed.

Anatomy of an Email

May 3, 2018November 8, 2018Posted in daily prompt, History, humor, Philosophy, Photo Challenge, Poetry, PoliticsTagged Donald Trump, email, fundraising, internet, Jim Comey, Lara Trump, Melania Trump, Mike Pence, observe, political campaign, red meat, unlikely25 Comments

I’ve been getting lots of political email lately. In large part, it’s been requests for donations coming from Trump’s 2020 Campaign for President, with rally words added to hype an emotional response, and misinformation intended to misguide the nation. It amuses me and terrorizes me at the same time.

It all started when my curiosity compelled me to participate in a Republican National Committee (RNC) survey at Donald Trump’s email behest:

https://action.donaldjtrump.com/listening-to-america/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=ET_16&utm_campaign=20180417_2585_listen-survey-welseries-2_donaldjtrump_jfc&utm_content=gop_surveys_button_take_bottom_other_all

I was game. I swallowed the bait and jumped down the RNC rabbit hole for a deeper look at the Mad Hatter’s tactics. Confronted by leading questions, I answered in a way that left no doubt about my disapproval of Trump’s policies, his absence of ethics, and his lack of leadership.

For instance, when asked at the end of the survey, “What else do you think the President needs to know about the real America? We’re listening.” I responded in chapter and verse about his controversial WALL:

Humpty Trumpty wanted a wall
And Mexican pesos to pay for it all
But all the Trump bankers
And all the deplorables
Couldn’t find ways to make it affordable.

I presumed that my straightforward responses would immediately disqualify me from any future Trumpian communication, but I was wrong. I received an immediate response:

Wow! I couldn’t believe I had just earned the right to take $6 off the purchase price of a MAGA cap as a reward for my participation and apparent support! Is this a great country, or what?

However, controversy continues to surround the manufacturer’s claim that the president’s swag is 100% proudly made in America. According to factory employees (who stitch the hat in Los Angeles) and an independent laboratory conducting microscopic fabric analysis, the hat components have been sourced and imported from overseas.

I decided to pass on the hat for two reasons: First of all, I disapprove of the messaging, feeling that America, despite its flaws, has always been great, and doesn’t need to be reinvented by a game show host who panders to white supremacists; and secondly, the hat doesn’t come in blue–only hot pink, yellow, camouflage, and red.

Again, I thought this was the end of things, until I received another blast from Donald J. Trump, forewarning me about my negligent membership status:

Imagine! The President of the United States, a self-professed billionaire–whose estimated wealth is dubious because of withheld tax returns–now counting on me…for a single dollar contribution to his campaign, and pressing me with a renewal deadline!

What a dilemma! Of course, I still wanted to track the Trump Big Top. But what if I didn’t come up with the money in time? Would I no longer be welcome inside the circus tent? I decided to wait.

The next day Eric came calling under the guise of FAKE NEWS:

Eric makes quite an argument for my dollar–defending Daddy from a CRUSH of criticism, and a chance to be on the right side of America. This was good stuff.

And then this arrived the day before the FEC deadline:

…with another declaration of war against the media.

No doubt, being President of the United States is a demanding job that requires intense concentration and extensive hours studying the problems of the country and the world, followed by intense debate and policy development to secure America’s safety and enable continuing prosperity.

Yet, as of April 28, Trump has managed to spend 111 days of his presidency (or 22% of his time in office) at one of his organization’s golf resorts swinging a club, and costing taxpayers tens of millions of dollars in the process. In fact, there’s a Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/trumpgolfcount) that’s devoted to Trump’s rising count. And this coming from a man who chided Obama, who spent a “tiny, tiny little fraction” of his time on the links compared to Trump.

We’ve also learned–from Trump’s own admission–that Trump’s day officially begins at 11am, after Executive Time, which essentially translates to TV and Twitter time.

So given Trump’s extreme schedule, I couldn’t help but wonder, “How on earth did Trump have the time to notice that “[my] name is no longer on [his] list of official Sustaining members?”

I passed on paying the dollar, rationalizing that there was no reason to contribute to Donald’s green fees.

March passed into April, and with a new month, it was time again to feed the political war chest, this time in the interest of national security–by parlaying an immigration crisis into a $25B resolution: building THE WALL.

Considering I had raised my objection to building THE WALL the month before, receiving my financial support was unlikely. In fact, I returned the survey with a comment, petitioning the president to consider an idea more fiscally responsible and in keeping with his laissez-faire principles: privatization. I proposed that he reach out to the Walton family, a fine upstanding bastion of Republican sensibility, and convince them to build THE WAL-MART, a very long and skinny store along our southern border. By day, the Mexicans could buy American, and by night our border would be protected by Wal-Mart security teams. Imagine the savings!

Trump never responded to my idea. Instead I got this:

…an appeal to subscribe to Real News Updates, a weekly webcast hosted by Donald’s daughter-in-law, Lara Trump, wife of Eric Trump. Interestingly, no one was asking for money, just a commitment of my time to shower me with the real truth on Trump TV. However, after watching ten minutes of noise disguised as news, I found I didn’t have a nose for nonsense, as it reeked of propaganda.

Shortly after, I received another exchange from Donald recruiting me for another purpose: defeating LIBERAL OBSTRUCTION…

Here was Trump blaming the Democrats for his inability to get America’s work done. By the numbers, there are 1,212 presidential appointments requiring U.S. Senate confirmation, and 353 presidential appointments which do not require confirmation. As of April 27, 2018, 315 of Trump’s nominees have been confirmed for 640 key positions, and 129 are awaiting confirmation.

^{On what he called Trump’s “glacial pace in selecting nominees,” Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer posited, “If the President is looking for someone to blame on the slow pace of confirmations, he needs only to look in the mirror,” and suggests that the President should “roll up his sleeves and get to work rather than pointing false fingers of blame.”}

Equally as astounding, was Trump’s White House personnel turmoil as diagrammed by The New York Times:

Even today, in the wake of Trump’s impending historic summit with North Korea’s Kim Jong Un, there is no nominee in place to head the South Korean embassy, and that’s on Trump.

After a week’s time, I received multiple invitations to renew my 2018 Sustaining Membership and I ignored them all, but then an email arrived from Mike Pence that was impossible to overlook. He was offering me a chance to win dinner and a picture with him in North Carolina.

I checked my calendar to make sure I was available. I dreamed of the possibility of gnawing on BBQ ribs with Mike while listening to his sanctimonious defense of zygote life, his hypocritical defense of Trump as an adulterer, and his evangelical discourse of hysterical homophobia, as if he had been touched by St. Paul. I entered the contest…without a contribution…by discovering extremely fine print on the submission page that hyperlinked me to a free entry form, thereby sidestepping the requisite donation.

While I applauded my cleverness, no one called to tell me I’d won. I think I had Chinese take-out that Friday evening, and watched Real Time with Bill Maher instead.

A couple of days later, Donald reminded me that Melania’s birthday was approaching:

I have to admit, I was taken by surprise that Donald would turn up the spotlight on Melania when the world was wondering out loud about his sordid affairs with porn star Stephanie Clifford (aka Stormy Daniels), and Karen McDougal, Playboy’s 1998 Playmate of the Year, only months after the birth of Melania’s son Barron.

It’s now undeniable that Michael Cohen, Trump’s consigliere paid $130,000 in hush money to Stormy Daniels twelve days before the presidential election. Campaign election law violation? We’ll see.

I was happy to sign Melania’s card, hoping that it might represent even the smallest distraction from her otherwise burdensome existence, and perhaps put a smile on her forlorn-locked face.

Oh, how she shrinks from Donald’s touch as he ceremoniously attempts to lock hands during so many pomp and circumstance moments when cameras are rolling, and oh, how she spurns his pussy-grabbing fingers, sending a silent #MeToo message to her coterie:

And then instantly, the news cycle abruptly turned to former FBI giraffe, James Comey’s imminent release of A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies, and Leadership. Naturally, Trump launched a preemptive strike that landed in my inbox :

…even going so far as to transmit a less than scientific survey to his ardent supporters one day later:

Comey made the rounds of many a talk show, eager to tell his story, clear his name, restore honor to his bleeding Bureau, and peddle some books. But unlike Trump’s failed attempt to blunt free speech by trying to prevent publication of Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury, all he could muster this time around was a weak attempt to disparage, discredit and dismiss Comey as a liar and a leak.

Yet, for Trump to accuse James Comey as lying is no different from a cesspool telling a septic tank that it’s full of shit!

With Trump’s ascension to the White House,

perhaps, the President’s residence should temporarily be renamed, Home of the Whopper.

Jimmy Kimmel put it best in his classic “mockumentary”, Trump’s 2,000 Lies:

Finally, Devin Nunes, chairman of the House Intelligence Committee and TrumPuppet released a final partisan report that the President had been expecting, and considered long overdue:

Of course, Donald had a shiny new object to distract his core, but the real crime was the damage done to a one-time prestigious watchdog panel once charged with rooting out intel abuses, but now acting as the President’s personal pit bull. By shutting down the investigation and claiming no evidence of collusion by refusing to interview anybody who might have had evidence of collusion was like pulling the ripcord while still inside the plane.

Over the past two months, I’ve received dozens of email communications from Trump and team–all designed to collect a dollar and a steal a soul–while observing a Republican Congress willing to embrace Trump at any cost. And although I was never interested in contributing a dollar, I was more than willing to offer my two cents.

That’s when I received this email:

I clicked on CONTRIBUTE OTHER AMOUNT, and was whisked to the secure Authorized Website of Trump Headquarters:

By selecting Other, my blinking cursor filled the empty box in anticipation of a big round number. I entered $0.02 and pressed CONTINUE.

Rejected! The campaign wouldn’t accept anything less than two bits. So here it is, Mr. President…two bits of advice: Stop lying to the American people, and resign before the real truth comes out!

Epilogue

March 18, 2018June 23, 2022Posted in Airstream, Canada, landscape, money, National Parks, Nature, Philosophy, Photo Challenge, travelTagged blog, WordPress133 Comments

We pulled the Airstream onto Colonial Airstream’s parking lot in Lakewood NJ, on St. Patrick’s Day, ostensibly marking our one-year anniversary Streaming thru America, and my one-year anniversary of blogging with WordPress under the same moniker.

This has been a journey of a lifetime after a lifetime of journeys. It seems that everything I’ve done up until last year’s departure has prepared me for this adventure: as a NYC taxi driver, I honed my driving skills; as a restaurateur, I learned to cook using simple ingredients to create meals with complex flavors; as a camper, I grew up with an appreciation of nature and an affinity for adventure; as a producer, I perfected a perspective for planning and budgeting; as a carpenter, I mastered my mechanical skills; and as a special educator, I learned how to gain acceptance with the many special people we’ve met along the way.

This has also been a trip of numbers. As road warriors, Leah and I have traveled to 127 destinations: covering a total of 44,600 miles (5,500 flying miles) to thirty-six U.S. States; one Mexican State (Quintana Roo); and four Canadian Provinces (Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, and British Columbia).

Cost-wise, Leah acted as bursar for the trip, and took responsibility for all data entry into a categorized spreadsheet. Using round numbers, our largest expense was campground fees at nearly $13,000. We stayed at a smattering of National Parks (only because gaining online reservations are fiercely contested up to a year in advance), a few State Parks, a handful of Provincial Parks, some County and City Parks, predominantly private RV parks (many Good Sam and KOA affiliates), and an occasional Walmart parking lot when we were transitioning between longer distances. As a rule, we rarely travelled further than a tankful of gas, or the rough equivalent of 400 miles.

Entertainment was our second leading expense at approximately $10,000, which covered films, concerts, shows, tours, park fees, and ample opportunities for sampling the best food of the area, from fine dining to dive bars.

Next, we spent nearly $8,000 purchasing food and groceries–including paper products, personal hygiene, and liquor–with the lion’s share spent at Walmart and Costco.

And our last largest expense was for gasoline and liquid propane, which ran us close to $8000. We made 115 trips to the pump for 3300 gallons of gas, yielding an average of 11.8 miles per gallon from coast to coast to coast, while towing mileage topped out at 10.1 MPG.

Living aboard the Airstream for a year was also an exercise in living with less. At 240 square feet from stem to stern…

and cargo limited to a folded rear seat and 52.8 cu. ft. of storage behind the cab of our Ford F-150 pickup…

we learned to live efficiently, but never uncomfortably.

Leah and I scaled down to a small wardrobe of layering, using a combination of casual sportswear, appropriate outerwear and a wide variety of outdoor footwear to address most weather conditions.

The galley held two pots, two pans, two mix bowls, and Corel for four; a drawer of utensils and a drawer full of cooking and kitchen gadgets; a traditional assortment of spices and herbs; one presspot (mine), one two-cup percolator (Leah’s) and two coffee mugs; a tiny toaster, a hand mixer, a built-in microwave, a compact vacuum, and a VitaMix–my biggest indulgence for emergency frozen margaritas.

Electronics included: two mounted LED TVs, two tablets, one laptop, a color compact HP printer, a Kindle, a pair of UE Booms, Jaybird wireless earbuds, a Lumix DMZ-FZ300 for photography, and a tangle of cables and charging accessories.

The truck bed was home to a couple of stadium chairs, a CLAM screen enclosure, a 2000-Watt Honda generator, a hefty tool chest, and a portable Weber grill.

Our bicycles clung to the backside of the Airstream, tied to a Fiamma rack.

Getting along for 365 days was our biggest experiment, and a wild card for this trip’s success. While there was no denying our compatibility, we would often joke if we would still be smiling and talking to each other by day 365.

Our roles were defined early on, seemingly divided along gender lines: I did the routing, navigation and driving, the setups and breakdowns at RV sites, and all the general maintenance; while Leah acted as cleaning commando (inside and out) and laundry lieutenant. Invariably, Leah prepared a simple breakfast and packed a light lunch, while I played chef de cuisine for dinner.

Although our living quarters were tight, our door usually opened onto something spectacular, from sunrises…

to sunsets…

so most of days were spent exploring the extraordinary.

We brought along a cribbage board and backgammon set, thinking that when our conversation ran dry, we could always resort to games, but when it was the two of us together lounging in our lair, we either stretched out along the dinette streaming Netflix when internet allowed, or sought alone time at opposite ends of the trailer, separated by a sliding screen or a swinging lavatory door.

Our queenish-sized platform bed was roomy and comfy. And the only times we slept apart was for five days when I was fighting the flu. Otherwise, our sleeping cycles alternated between retiring together, or more often than not, Leah retiring early while I night-owled to edit photography du jour, or posted to my blog.

Although this blog is by no means the end, it has been a means to an end. Streaming thru America has given me a springboard to dive into my desire to write consistently for a audience bigger than one, and a jump-start to reinvigorating my passion for photography. Combining my writing and photography in a travel blog has been reaffirming and therapeutic, and the motivation I needed to pump out 160 posts of 100,000 words and 2800 photos along the way.

What started as a forum for family and friends has grown organically to a following of 1900 plus fans through WordPress and social media, with viewers from 140 countries along for the ride. I am awed and humbled every day that people from all over world find value in my words and pictures. And I am determined to keep going.

Long before we started out, Leah had already decided on our exit strategy–that once we’d completed our trip, and our Airstream had served its purpose, we’d put it on the selling block. But I had a different vision–that this trip would lay the foundation for future trips around the continent. While it would never be as epic as this particular journey, I could nonetheless foresee regional trips to faraway fields and streams for a month or two or three.

However, after shoving off and putting hundreds of miles behind us, the new and scary gave way to familiar and fearless, and Leah was hooked.

As it happens, there were so many destinations that we short-changed in favor of keeping the whirlwind spinning (see An Olympian Apology), not to mention sections of the country that we bypassed all together, that today we feel compelled to prepare preliminary plans to patch the holes in our past itinerary.

For now, the Airstream sits in the dealer’s lot awaiting its spring maintenance, although the fourth nor’easter forecasted to hit this area in as many weeks makes us yearn for the Texas heat spell we endured last April (see “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”).

When we return to Towaco, we’ll have a house to sell and a household to pack away for our anticipated move to St. Augustine (see Finally!). Then, in a few months, we’ll recapture the glory of living as seasoned road warriors, as we savor the feeling of hauling our reconditioned Airstream through the Shenandoah Valley and over the Blue Ridge Mountains to a long-term storage solution in Charlotte NC.

And before too long, it will be time to hitch up the Airstream like old times, and follow the road on a new course and a new adventure.

Until next time,

Happy Trails!

Duty, Honor, Country

March 16, 2018May 30, 2021Posted in daily prompt, History, landscape, National Parks, Philosophy, Photography, travelTagged Arlington National Cemetary, Charging of the Guard, John F. Kenndy, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, wrinkle10 Comments

It’s a solemn ceremony choreographed with the precision of an atomic clock, executed by a regiment of warm-blooded machines, and directed with the authority of a no-nonsense commander who only knows perfection. It’s a six-minute pas de trois that happens every hour on the hour during fall, winter, and night, and every half-hour during spring and summer–regardless of the weather or challenging conditions. And it’s a sacrament that’s never stopped since 1937.

The changing of the guard in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery is carried out with the pomp and circumstance of a Shakespearean ceremony, yet with the reverence of a canonization.

The rigorous training and commitment of the corps serving the monument is legendary. They are the best of an elite color guard from the 3rd Infantry Regiment, also known as The Old Guard, the nation’s oldest fighting force, serving since 1764.

The highly-selective unit is composed of impeccably dressed volunteers of similar stature, in peak physical condition, and with unblemished military records.

As if marching to a metronome that only he can hear, the sentinel paces to the south, rolling his feet effortlessly along a catwalk of worn rubber,

His gait and silent cadence is measured and precise…19…20…and 21 steps, a broad leg sweep, and CLACK, his heels lock with the force of two magnets attracted to each other. He quarter-turns sharply to the east, and whip-snap, CLACK, his heels lock again.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi…until he reaches 21, and his feet quarter-turn north, and CLACK, his shoes revealing the effort from hours of spit-polishing only achieved through tubs of Kiwi and micro-sanding.

He executes a sharp shoulder-arms, repositioning his sparkling M-14 from his right shoulder to his left, as if popping with his prop–his weapon always closest to the visitors to signify that the sentinel always stands between the Tomb and any possible threat.

After another 21 seconds of silence, the sentinel returns 21 steps north…

and CLACK, quarter-turn, CLACK, quarter-turn, CLACK. Shoulder-arms, one Mississippi, two Mississippi…always counting, always focused, no matter the distraction.

The significance of number 21 corresponds to a 21-gun salute, the highest military honor posthumously bestowed upon any service personnel.

A crowd of spectators has lined the marble steps outside the Memorial Amphitheater in eager anticipation of the one-o’clock ritual.

The hour tolls, and the sentinel on duty stands motionless, but at the ready.

From the opposite end of the plaza, the regiment commander appears beside the runway, and CLACK. In this ritual variation, the count-up to 21 continues, and marching resumes until the two honor guards pass.

Upon the commander’s return, he pivots to face the crowd of visitors:

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. I am Sgt. Davenport of the 3rd Infantry Regiment, United States Army, Guard of Honor, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. This ceremony which you are about to witness is The Changing of the Guard. In keeping with the dignity of this ceremony, it is requested of everyone to remain silent and standing. Thank you.

Meanwhile, on the south side of the plaza, the relief-sentinel stands at attention and awaits formal inspection from the commander–now marching past the on-duty sentinel.

After a graceful, yet deliberate weapons and uniform check from head to toe…

undertaken with the scrutiny of a dermatologist examining for basal cells…the relief-sentinel is deemed mission-ready.

They parade across the plaza in lock-step…

where they take up new positions in front of the shrine…

When the on-duty sentinel is officially relieved…

the new sentinel’s patrol resumes for the remaining hour.

However, on this particular day, at this particular hour, we were also witness to a wreath dedication ceremony from a local high school marching band…

which only added to an already moving tribute and ceremony.

But there was one last vital piece of business remaining before our day was done: an obligatory visit to the gravesite of JFK to pay my respects.

When John F. Kennedy was assassinated on Friday, November 22, 1963–the day before my 11th birthday–the announcement by Principal Simon came over the PA system, interrupting my Happy Birthday-song tribute. Immediately, the class went from cheers to tears in an instant, like a bipolar meltdown.

The pervasive sadness swept my home that evening, and I can’t remember when the sadness lifted. There was nothing any of us could do to keep from crying.

JFK quote — **In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility. I welcome it.**

My 11th birthday was a turning point in my life–one of those moments where it’s impossible to forget where you were or what you were doing when you learned of something so profound, or horrific, or cataclysmic that you knew right then and there that your life had changed forever.

And while there’s no going back to a wrinkle in time, processing the tragedy is always hard to reconcile, even after all these years, as is wondering about the wonder that might have been.

The Sentinel’s Creed

My dedication to this sacred duty is total and wholehearted.
In the responsibility bestowed on me, never will I falter.
And with dignity and perseverance.
My standard will remain
Through the years of diligence
And the discomfort of the elements,
I will walk my tour in humble reverence to the best of my ability.
It is he who commands the respect I protect,
his bravery that made us so proud.
Surrounded by well-meaning crowds by day,
alone in the thoughtful peace of night,
this Soldier in honored glory rest under my eternal vigilance.

PBS has produced the following video which masterfully demonstrates the precision of the pageantry, and reflects the awe of the ceremony.

My Word!

March 14, 2018April 8, 2018Posted in Architecture, Art, History, landscape, National Parks, Philosophy, Photo Challenge, Photography, technology, travelTagged Barbara Kruger, Gordon Bunshaft, Gran Fury, Haim Steinbach, Hirshhorn, Horatio Greenough, Jenny Holzer, Jimmie Durham, Mark Bradford, rather, Smithsonian, Spirit of St. Louis10 Comments

It’s always a pleasure returning to DC’s National Mall…

where I like to keep an eye on my tax dollars by walking through the Smithsonian museums…

to inspect the work being done by museum curators on my behalf.

nave (2) — **Smithsonian Castle Commons**

Aside from being a great depository of great aeronautical history at the National Air and Space Museum…

Spirit of St. Louis — **donated by** **Charles** **Lindbergh**

or interpretive history at National Museum of American History…

I’m always inspired when browsing through the Hirshhorn.

dry fountain — **Gordon Bunshaft–Hirshhorn Fountain**

rockface and car — Jimmie Durham–*Still Life With Spirit and Xitle*

where I get a chance to meander beside the curvy gallery walls, as I contemplate Mark Bradford’s updated Civil War cyclorama detailing Pickett’s Charge…

or introspect on a retrospective of the 80’s, where everything is rele-vent again…

SILENCE=DEATH (2).jpg — Gran Fury–*SILENCE=DEATH*

stripes — **Jenny Holzer****–Inflammatory Essays**

or think deeply in the basement, where I’m reminded by Barbara Kruger’s BELIEF+DOUBT installation that words matter…

…and can make a difference…something I’d rather be doing.

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Just asking for a friend…

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The Sentinel’s Creed

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