The Deep South – Tennessee - A WARNING, my orotund prose are raw

The radio became my friend during the days as I’d completed all my book tapes far earlier than expected. I liked the idea of being local hearing what is jiving in this neck of the woods. Preachers, the more the merrier, man they were alive for God, or at least to sell you a book, CD, encourage you to rush to the nearest church. Not a woman voice in 2 weeks hit the airway on country stations, on biblical waves, and politically they stood behind or to the right side of their husbands.

Rain prevailed as Cyndi’s voice said, “Feel free to turn around and come back if the winds, tornados get too strong for you to drive through, there common here.”

What a comforting thought as I left their happy nest with the camera in the passenger seat ready to use. Sudden gusts would shift the car into the next lane as locals glared at my inability to control the beast. Double wipers were useless in the deluge as my speed diminished to a crawl while others were whipping by me. All of a sudden the car lifted like hydrofoil ships, the difference being they were in control, I was not. Seconds past then the tires gripped the road spitting me further into the next lane. Honking supervened and that recess voice that my tires needed to be changed slapped me in the face.

The news didn’t assist my nerves any, they spoke of Hurricane winds coming off the Atlantic all day and staying off the road was recommended. Hovering behind semi might have shielded the wind, yet their cargo swayed uncontrollably. Two lanes chocked full of semi’s was formidable for the savviest drivers. Others dashed by semis while I fretfully waited to feel safe, which was a rarity today, then I would pull out in hopes that their spray, power, and gusts wouldn’t house me in the median.

Franklin couldn’t have come soon enough. Rain subsided just long enough for me to meet the only Tennessean not attending church.

“Man every day there is another pamphlet in my mail box asking me to join and INEVITABLY, give some of my hard earned money to the church. Oh, and by the way, you overshot your friend’s house by 5 miles. I’ll get you there the back way.”

Franklin proper was a one street town with a 5 point intersection, homes of real people existed far from town, how silly of me to have thought they lived within a community. They do along with everyone else, on ranch like developments. Homes exist about a mile off the main road each little sector housing 20 homes with large backyards. As I pulled up to Wayne’s large 4800 sq/f brick home I was looking for horses in the back 40 that he called his backyard.

 

 

Rerouting Washington

I was anticipating highway 64 in Virginia for some time as the morning light cast shadows on the roadway. 10 times the amount of people means at 7:30 when I thought I’d be clear sailing alone, 10 times the amount of people were thinking the same thing. Baltimore was glorious, funny expression for a city with the highest murder rate, so Hal enjoyed telling me.

Warm had sunk into the car and my hands weren’t gripping the wheel quite as tight. A panoramic overview of the ocean and harbor lead me to the off ramp and a fabulous trip around the grand shipping harbor. It was magical seeing these massive working cranes as far as the eye could see loading and unloading cargo trunks from the ships. The car followed the shoreline for miles then just as gently as I followed the 180 turn off the highway I was back on overlooking their stadiums, downtown and lesser prosperous areas.

Descending, as the roadway literally drops for miles into DC a flurry of activity was upon us. Highway 64 leading west to the BRM was shut off with police manning all the possible exists when I finally came across a place to pull over and ask where I would connect back onto it and a stocky female officer hummed, “Take the 9^th street bridge and follow highway 345 to Richardson, but I have no idea where and how you could connect back to highway 64, I don’t think it’s possible, now get going this isn’t a tourist office.” The hours I’d made up on the highway to get to the BRM early was lost in DC. It took 1.5 hours to get in and out.

Washington was under my tires before I could blink. The Lincoln Memorial, the Capital, The White House and the Washington Monument can't be described but grand. I drove around gawking and then finally parked the car and got out. No picture could possible capture the essence and now I knew why so many of my friends had suggested a day in town. I wondered as I drove on if they wanted to keep up with the Jones in Europe better known as the Vatican and not allow them to be the only city enclave.

A running mass of 45, 000 caught my left eye as I was crossing yet another bridge in my attempt to find a highway moving westward. The veterans ran several races a year in each city to raise funds and there was no shortage of support. Veterans in the States have a very different respect than our, major road closures in Canada, for a running race, I don't think so.

The sun had slunk back into the clouds as I found my trail, the Blue Ridge Mountains Parkway. The first 100 miles I was daunted with sheets of rain. I stopped off at the pull outs laughing. Besides being drenched within seconds, there was no view, low lying clouds. When I entered the next 100 miles the clouds were so low I could barely see the yellow line separating the oncoming traffic. At one pullout several of us gathered and discussed what to do. Frightened and noting that the stagnant air wasn’t going to lift, I drove as slowly as I could fearful that without sight I could easily go off the cliffs edge and no one would find me for weeks, months, or even years. The thick foliage would engulf the car within hours. Another pull out 10 minutes down the road brought an abrupt stop to the journey. A police officer was closing the roadway. The only question was how do we get off?

The BRM sits about 500 meters above the main roadways with only several exists. Getting out my map for the umpteenth time I found a little route down, little did I know the road grade was a frightful 20% for 2 miles. I also learned how long a mile is when you’re not breathing. I pulled the car over after descending to make sure my legs were functioning and then I wanted to kiss the ground, like terrifying flights, I too was happy to be alive. Looking up I couldn’t comprehend the lack of movement in clouds. It lasted all three days I had available to sightsee. God was either telling me to return another day, or never come back.

The silver lining at the end of the day was Ron and Cyndi’s Virginia home. A bed, not a smoke filled  hotel room, not an overcrowded or desolate campground with bear warning, a bed, a luxurious bed that I coveted along with fun tales to tell my girlfriend, as this was her brother and sibling rivalry doesn’t end when your 20. Rich dialogue ensued about the differences between north and south, educational jargon, sports, Canadians vs. them Yanks and what living in the south meant for a Canucks.

Delaware Hell

I left Boston in the same manner that I entered on back roads with traffic traveling into and onto my bumper. Sure they know where they are going but did? Several people had observed that I was the last Luddite in the northern hemisphere not to purchase a Tom – Tom, a GPS. After 12 miles, which takes a while, we popped out of the forested one lane route onto a busy intersection. God always graced me with the ability to ask directions. Sure enough most of the time I just needed to venture a little further and voila I was on route.

I 90 wasn’t for the faint of hearts. Get on and move fast or get off, never mind moving to the outside lane, they used that for really reeving it up, gearing into their 18^th gear and making motion into potion. Flesh tone, to white and eventually as circulation was lost shades of plum took over my hands skin color. The only rest was for gas at the interstate stations, which I must admit were set up beautifully. Every 25 miles, gas, greasy food, and greasier accommodation could be sought. Overcast ominous skies prevailed throughout my day making time move fast.

Hal was generous enough to find some accommodation, since by noon I’d past our friend’s house between Boston and Washington DC. I kept the peddle to the meddle and didn’t see much but trees, fast moving cars, licence plates from the east to the west coast and not one Canadian. My paper directions were magical as I marked by hand no less my route along with a paper map. I loved taking off onto side roads and really seeing the country. Evening was approaching so I pulled off to one of Hal’s suggested hotels.

Stopped at the gas station that had more cracked concrete and looked desolate, only one pump was working and the plexus-glass that stood between the owner and my was thicker than coke bottle glasses. A hooded black man about 6’5 leaned over the car as I opened my window his hand on the roof and said something. I asked him to repeat it twice, feeling rather uncomfortable for not comprehending what he was saying.

“Do you want to buy some beat? I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he said, “Man where do you come from? And his facial expression lurched between disgust and perplexity.

“I come from Canada, your neighbor to the north. What are you selling that stuff for anyway?

“Need the money he said as his voice softened.”

This is where I might have started my Mother Teresa speech, but he was off walking to a group of 4 guys all watching the action and I was relieved.

Upon arrival home a month later I looked up street names for crack. You ready, here they are so you know the lingo. Beat, Candy, Chemical, Cookies, Crumbs, Devil drug, Crunch and Munch, Dice, Fat bags, Electric kool-aid, French fries, Glow, Grit, Gravel, Hail, Hard ball, Ice Cube, Nuggets, Jelly beans, Paste, Hotcakes, Raw, Piece, Prime time, Rocks, Scrabble, Snow coke, Sleet, Troup and Tornado. As a linguist I must admit they did justice to adjectives. 

I got into 12 ft. gas station shop and spoke with the owner hidden behind the glass.

“Do you know where The Comfort Inn is?”

“Yes, it is right there”, as he pointed to a hotel amongst some damaged foliage just off the freeway that looked sketchy. There was only one car, and the concrete building was run down. The sign was hanging sideways and I couldn’t spot the office.

Another man, a hyper Hispanic in the shop listening to our conversation tried to lure me outside to explain how to get to another hotel. I wasn’t budging. I thanked him for his time. But he wouldn’t let up.

“I’ll show you were you can stay.” My eyes cast down to the ground yet this didn’t dissuade him. The gas attendant behind the glass was getting uncomfortable probably wishing I’d never shown up.

“Listen lady if you come outside, I’ll point to the street you can go down.”

“Thanks for your help, but I won’t come outside.” Meanwhile the gas attendant was trying to explain how to get to the downtown area to look for another hotel. Their voices were trying to outdo one another, as I glanced from one to the other, finally resting my eyes on the attendant.

“What is the matter with you?  I’ll show you another easier route.” The Hispanic man’s tone wasn’t calming down, I moved closer to the owner and so did he. I could tell he was about to grab my arm when I just skipped around him to another part of this 12ft. shop and pretended to be looking at something.

“I’ll wait for you outside lady.” My mind was now racing, what to do? How did I ever get in this situation, where is Hal, how could he have chosen such a poor hotel? The rain was coming down, my back was killing me from hours of driving and night was coming.

“Does this happen often?” I asked the owner.

“Ignore him and get in your car.”

I got in the car called Hal and tried as desperate as I was to keep my composure. I failed. I eventually hung up and went into town. That was even worse, the only hotel after a 15 min. of driving around was $200.00 plus. I got back onto the highway and got off at the next exit. All these towns flowed into one another, there wasn’t free land between Boston and Washington, just concrete. I stopped off at the Holiday Inn, right beside the air strip.

Full no rooms, and the lady looked over the counter and said, “I wouldn’t be staying at any of the hotels along this strip you are likely to be propositioned by prostitutes.

My heart sank. I got onto the highway after being led not once but twice in the wrong direction. Now it is night and I am searching for a hotel. I pull off in Newark, Delaware.

The football stadium is full and people are swarming onto the streets. I see 3 possible hotels.

“We have a smoking room, do you want it. That is your only chance for a room in this town. Its parent week-end at the University and all the hotels are booked in the State.

My head rolled back as she handed me the smoke spray to use in my room. 
"Just spray it on the rug, curtains and in the bathroom and when you come back from your dinner, all smell better."

It wasn't the smell that kept me up that night, but an amorous couple next door that decided to show their love for one another 2 feet from my head. The constant signing, banging, growing and yelps for some reason didn't bring the relief I was looking for.  

Cape Cod

The labyrinth of small roads twisting roads with signs only at 7 mile intervals and rapid morning traffic on your tail leaves little sense of relief. I wanted to head to Cape Cod to get my road legs back, my nerves in check and see the ocean one last time. I drove exactly one hour from the house and no further. The ocean met my eyes and feet in freezing waters. Ever force yourself to do something just to feel the pain, to make sure you are still alive, and haven’t become so complacent in our comforts. Two other couples on the beach looked on rather quizzically.

Highway 6A sinuousness was not to be. Car raced up behind me yearning for yet another tourists to vacate their homeland as local rushed to do their daily chores. I yearned to slow down which became near to impossible as pullouts didn’t exist.

“Oh, honey if you think this is bad, you should have been here in August.”

“How does anyone visit artisans on route?”

“With a lot of U turns.” Which is exactly what I ended up doing. Coming around a bend with a car on my bumper I inevitably had to turn into someone driveway to head back to the store, artists shop, gardens, beaches, and fascinating architecture. Then signs started popping up “Don’t do U Turns In my driveway.”

I laughed out loud….

Determined to move only slightly faster than a 2 toed sloth I entered a gourmet grocery crowing only the finest in culinary dishes. I had a salad in mind, then in the corner of my eye I spotted a cheese pizza stand hidden from view. Funny how fast the grey neurons can be tricked into thinking that one deserves the cheesiest piece of pizza instead of the healthy salad. I relished every bite of it amongst the aristocrat wining and dining on caviar, now that was living. My waist line was expanding yet only on the finest of gastronomy.

From potters, to painters, no candlestick makers, yet gardeners extraordinaire. Foliage, blue hydrangea accented the teal blue shutters on a grey shingled home. Vines covered entire home having to be shaped for light to enter windows. Tall grasses whispered below the red maple that hedged the stone patio, willow chairs, stone tables, and manicured evergreens in the shape of mushrooms. White picket fences contained overflowing pots of peonies, pansies, and lawns hourglasses in shape. Every garden was an erotic movement, only the nymphs and the flutists were missing.

Blue, orange, brown, and red doors all adorned with wreaths of straw, foam, flowers, wheat, berries, and even a lifesaving device was a statement. What struck me odd was the Halloween fix. I’d been listening to some preaching on the radio, as they too were a dime a dozen. A gentlemen in his 70’s was going on about how American’s have overdone Halloween. He spoke about how in his day, kids dressed up, went out, got some candy and that was it. Next to Christmas yanks spend more money on Halloween than any other holiday. Every lawn has tomb stones, full size ghosts in doorways and behind hedges, dead crows hanging upside down, pumpkins Jack lanterns.  Cobwebs hang from trees, blow up full size Casper’s, Draculas, Witches, Gargoyles, Scarecrows, and Mummies coming out of the ground, and even human appendages spiked into the lawns.  The production is so big you can hire a landscaper architect to decorate your lawn. And this all starts in late September.

The labyrinth of small roads twisting roads with signs only at 7 mile intervals and rapid morning traffic on your tail leaves little sense of relief. I wanted to head to Cape Cod to get my road legs back, my nerves in check and see the ocean one last time. I drove exactly one hour from the house and no further. The ocean met my eyes and feet in freezing waters. Ever force yourself to do something just to feel the pain, to make sure you are still alive, and haven’t become so complacent in our comforts. Two other couples on the beach looked on rather quizzically.

Highway 6A sinuousness was not to be. Car raced up behind me yearning for yet another tourists to vacate their homeland as local rushed to do their daily chores. I yearned to slow down which became near to impossible as pullouts didn’t exist.

“Oh, honey if you think this is bad, you should have been here in August.”

“How does anyone visit artisans on route?”

“With a lot of U turns.” Which is exactly what I ended up doing. Coming around a bend with a car on my bumper I inevitably had to turn into someone driveway to head back to the store, artists shop, gardens, beaches, and fascinating architecture. Then signs started popping up “Don’t do U Turns In my driveway.”

I laughed out loud….

Determined to move only slightly faster than a 2 toed sloth I entered a gourmet grocery crowing only the finest in culinary dishes. I had a salad in mind, then in the corner of my eye I spotted a cheese pizza stand hidden from view. Funny how fast the grey neurons can be tricked into thinking that one deserves the cheesiest piece of pizza instead of the healthy salad. I relished every bite of it amongst the aristocrat wining and dining on caviar, now that was living. My waist line was expanding yet only on the finest of gastronomy.

From potters, to painters, no candlestick makers, yet gardeners extraordinaire. Foliage, blue hydrangea accented the teal blue shutters on a grey shingled home. Vines covered entire home having to be shaped for light to enter windows. Tall grasses whispered below the red maple that hedged the stone patio, willow chairs, stone tables, and manicured evergreens in the shape of mushrooms. White picket fences contained overflowing pots of peonies, pansies, and lawns hourglasses in shape. Every garden was an erotic movement, only the nymphs and the flutists were missing.

Blue, orange, brown, and red doors all adorned with wreaths of straw, foam, flowers, wheat, berries, and even a lifesaving device was a statement. What struck me odd was the Halloween fix. I’d been listening to some preaching on the radio, as they too were a dime a dozen. A gentlemen in his 70’s was going on about how American’s have overdone Halloween. He spoke about how in his day, kids dressed up, went out, got some candy and that was it. Next to Christmas yanks spend more money on Halloween than any other holiday. Every lawn has tomb stones, full size ghosts in doorways and behind hedges, dead crows hanging upside down, pumpkins Jack lanterns.  Cobwebs hang from trees, blow up full size Casper’s, Draculas, Witches, Gargoyles, Scarecrows, and Mummies coming out of the ground, and even human appendages spiked into the lawns.  The production is so big you can hire a landscaper architect to decorate your lawn. And this all starts in late September.

By late afternoon I was fully appeased that Cape Cod is truly magical in so many ways. My last of 5 beaches saw a man dressed in waterproof camouflage gear getting into a boat covered in plastic reeds as he held his gun ready to shoot the birds. I sat on shore and thought I had seen it all.

 

Boston

Meandering around the gentle roads that motorcyclists dream about was about to come to an abrupt halt. I slunk into Nathan, NH and ate my last sandwich at a gas station prior to entering the I95. I’d been warned by many not to enter between the hours of 4-7 as the traffic would be horrific. Nothing could have prepared me for, marriage, work, no this idiocy that they call a highway. Within minutes of entering the snare my shoulders and back tightened up leaning forward to not miss any of the signs diverting the traffic this way and that. Keeping to the right hand lane for protection if I needed to pull over to breath was rudely stripped from my options when a car pulled up on my left. My first thought was how utterly illegal and where is our driving gone too. I looked through my rear view mirror and they were coming me at me in droves. Between 4-7 breakdown lane (shoulder lane) is used as an extra lane.

I was proud of myself for not getting lost until I saw signs for Washington St., little did I realize there were Washington streets in every dinky little town. Ask anyone how to get to where I was going and blank looks stared back at me. My hope of arriving for 5 turned into 6:30 and my patience and emotional exhaustion was gone. When I finally arrived in Scituate, I realized south of Boston, you have hamlets and everyone lives as they did 300 years ago, on farm plots, so the town is actually irrelevant, as it doesn’t lead to anyone’s home. This kind man assisted me just after I’d been spit off my last roundabout.

Linda greeted me at the door, and I’ve never been so happy to see someone at the correct address. I’d driven up a long forested driveway and thought, I bet this isn’t the right address as the street signs are only posted at intersections and it wasn’t uncommon to drive a mile or two between signs. That along with not everyone posting their address at the road  made for some complexity. Cam, her son, was cleaning the eaves when I arrived and if Linda had asked if I wanted a glass of wine, the bottle might have been suffice for starters. I don’t really know if alcohol does take the edge off. Giddiness usually supervenes after a glass and then sleep. My body probably holds the muscle tension until I stretch and I’d begun to tell myself, sleep will suffice.

Boston was Boston. I listened as the rail conductor gave me the breakdown of the food trucks, which ones to avoid, which to run too, and those that would move from my lips to my hips just whispering the name.  The fine arts Museum drew me further into the history of the area and era from textural oil painting to contemporary pieces.

The blisters on my feet speak volumes to the hours of walking through MIT, Harvard, Simmons College, and Radcliff, along the Charles River while watching sailing regattas. Cambridge led me through architectural ages that I’ve always dreamed of living in, but only as an aristocrat as women’s thoughts were not written let alone heard back then. The old stone building in their campuses resonate wisdom, wealth, and mark those that have made an impact on society. The Commons better known to Canadians as Central Park boasted plush grasses, comforting benches, and branches that told stories of lover’s tales.

Newbury street was adorned with red brick shops boasting bay windows from beneath ground up, not an inch of space was wasted hosting the latest fashion, beers on tap, shoes, sweets of pastries cake, candy, ice cream, gelato, chocolatiers, Ben and Jerry’s, hairdo’s, skateboard shops, kitchen ware, books, hardware goods, consignments shops, artists, spas and flowers oh the flower shops were intoxicating. I entered them simply to be washed over in posies of irises. The restaurants were not impeded my noise, they sat quietly on each corner canopied by red, white and yellow umbrellas’. The hustle of life didn’t exist here simply the impulse owners hoped you would use as they enticed you into their dwelling.   

Words, 26 letters often lose their meaning, the pauses between thoughts, sighs of relief knowing I had a home to return to at the end of a day was palatable. This journey which was never meant to be explored without Hal brought less meaning. Linda filled the void, sipping a glass of wine over dinner and listening to her days work there was little else I needed, after a week in a tent worried about this and that, she was my rock. For we knew nothing about one another upon my arrival I left forever grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Hampshire White Mountains

The early morning hours on the road allows calmness to settle in as the direction is set, not on a GPS, but the intelligence  of her mind, keeping track of three routes, glancing at maps as the hours roll by not illegal in this state as it isn’t a technical hand held device. Lush trees border the roadways like perfume their essence molds the photo in one’s mind of all the beautiful New England images.

Gorham, NH is a strip of fast food joints, several gas stations hovering in a valley bottom. Night sets in early as I do my reconnaissance work up and down valley roads to find campground, trail head, and the warden station for information. By nightfall I am settled in after calling home to reassure myself that all will be well.

Three days of hiking ensue. Not sure who engineered any of the trails in the area but switchbacks must not have been invented, or perhaps not an acceptable means of contouring the mountains, because each trail teaches my body how to lift ones leg over heaving rocks. Walking up river beds describes the terrain, the only relief is a couple miles of walking over large tree trunks. The first shower doesn’t wash off the sweat but pierces the skin as liquid stones reaffirm the day’s work. No amount of vista can overcome the pain, or perhaps the stupidity of doing it for another two days.

The ridge walk is spectacular as it illuminates 4 ranges of mountains. The notion or concern of travelling alone on these trails wanes as each day more and more people gather at the trail head, does anyone work in this country? Hiking alone, and yet listening attentively to each person, couple, and family brings a sense of community that I won’t be left on the mountain if a storm comes through.

The vertical might not seem impressive, yet my legs are a true sign that constant lifting up and over rocks for miles has put some marring on my body. That long with my back that screams at the bottom of each trail. The meager stretching I try to do comes to no avail as I climb down into the tent, without my guide, as Hal was always the first to enter, to ward off daemons, ghosts and boogie men, is not around. Lying prone seems to bring the least agony yet after night 7 not even that can diminish the constant drone that my age is catching up with my spirit.

Rain was the least of my problems the last night when a sign posted bear sightings in the campground with large letters asking patrons to put their food away. I couldn’t sleep, no amount of Dermot Healy was going to slow my brain down. I brought bear spray into the tent as my mind relished all the terrible mauling of the past decade. Why wasn’t my deep breathing working? Would the beast give me some warning or simply bounce on me, would he knaw at my head or do they know to go for the jugular? Ever leaf that rustled and there were plenty sprang the body to a sitting position getting ready for the attack.  I eventually rolled up the sleeping bag and got into the car and with back pains twitching with every position I tried to manoeuver into I went back to the tent and slept. Here I thought I had good mind control, nature proved otherwise.

Acadia National Park

A neighbor decided since he was getting up the entire campsite might as well join him. Banging his doors, 5 - 6 - 7, 8 times, then clanging dishes, banging fry pans and mumbling loud enough for all to hear. When I rolled over for the umpteenth time and got up, it was 7:00 that means he had to have started his shaking at about 5:30.

As the eggs were frying another neighbor blew his propane canister and as the temperatures dropped quickly he threw it into the forest……I was surrounded by brilliance. I gave him an extra one I had and they are forever indebted to me. What they don’t know is that it often comes around when least expected.

The trail up Cadillac Mountain was strewn in cairns, weren’t allowed to make your own, as the sign posted many times, yet I must admit the blue stripes on the rocks and trees were welcome company when my legs were going off route in the flat scrub strewn highlands. I got up top along with the masses that had driven, found my oasis to photograph, no panoramic view and started heading down a different direction just for some interest. Upon return in the campground a woman in the adjacent site was painting. What a lovely calming appeal that was to have lunch by. I didn’t disturb her watched from a distance and admired her discipline.

I drove down the highway to Seal Cove, Northern Bay and Southern Bay and ventured a drive along the coast, jumping out of the car every few kilometers to gawk like the rest of the inmates at the fight going on, or in our case the beauty that lay ahead. The juxtaposition between the fishermen and the wealthy that had come here to get away from it all was quite unique. I ventured down to numerous harbor and watched the men load their catch onto trucks and turn my head to look at a 5000 square foot home. It all seems so odd, I wondered if those that come 3 times a year have ever been to the wharf and chatted with these men, and know of their lives.

Returning to the campsite in dark and disliking the flavor of my dinner. I ventured over to my neighbors who were in the midst of boiling 3 lobsters, baking corn on the fire and fixing up the fancy meal for a campsite. “Here taste the Riesling we bought and have some lobster.” I declined on both but sat with them for 2 evening of laughter. I’d never tossed my head back so many times in times in laughter and when 10 o’clock came around, quiet hours, our laughter  only got louder. We discussed everything under the moon about marriage, religion and law. They had 3 girls and one of them named Catherine, was on her 6 child. They laughed in utter wonderment, why would anyone have 6 kids.  Not enough alcohol if you ask me, or they must be Mormon, Catholic, or Muslim, none of them fit the bill.

Sleep came easy each night, the last night I’d stayed in town to meet some artists. No I have no connections, it was Art Walk Night, and some of the patrons had invited me for wine and cheese chez Michelle. It was glorious to meet the real deal rather than their compatriots. Many of them claimed to have moved from the big cities to this community to practise their arts and they supported one another.

 

USA - sounds big as it looks

The Great Blue Heron that had evaded my lens was standing patiently as I drove by and pulled over. I decided to forgo the camera, just observe. I’ve never seen an animal move so smoothly, patiently choosing with poise each step, then piercing the ocean to capture its contents, a fish.

I left without waking with fog and clouds shrouding the light, it felt earlier than it was. Elsie saw me showering, I waved and then thought, how bazaar. Blinkers I just realized I left my nighty. The miles melted away once I’d found the route for St. John. Lush forests of red, auburn, yellow, orange, burgundy, saffron, and gold yelled for your attention in front of the evergreens, jealous as all get up. I wanted to pull over so many times, but cars, lack of curb appeal, and the running gauge and time kept me peddle to the meddle. My innards were shaken by the brilliance of their hues. They can’t be real, they aren’t real, and no photo can possibly do justice. A revolt should be held so all Canadians can take time off work in October to see these forests. We’ll follow the Chinese, take up the banner, I don’t know if Canadians can do it without rioting, 100,000 of us on parliament hill?

St. John’s was a luge ride, twisting, winding roads to enter its gates. Then a huge drop off with 3 cruise ships in harbor, along with barges, cruisers, and yachts on this grey day. Just when my eyes want to divert to the scenery the road zips up a steep incline and jets you back onto the freeway past mills and lumber yards.

I was surprised by the distance, from one end of New Brunswick to the other, by the time I hit the border I was done. My arse was killing me, the onslaught of questions was laughable, she was one bored customs officer, and the price of gas, 25 cents less a gallon 5 miles down the road but everyone comes across to fill up…I’d been had.

I can lump all the American’s together, professional to Dunkin Donut servers, munchkin’s. Love em all, they are simple folk, happy folk, and just down right pleasant to be around.

Thought I would relax on the coastal route like I’d done in Nova Scotia, then the miles, hours and exhaustion came on about 2:30. The coastal route which was covered in trees and no views of the ocean was wearing me out. I reached Bar Harbor with the other 2000 Yanks and couldn’t believe my time alone was truly done. Hal and I had spent virtually 2 months on deserted roads. This was my fear, concern, plight, consternation and angst, what to do with all them others.

I fought through the throngs in Bar Harbor and kept driving to the Acadia National Park at the bottom of the peninsula. “3 camps sites left” the blonde says calmly as he starts punching in numbers in the computer. I wanted to kiss him, my heart doesn’t skip a beat for the first time in an hour. I set up tent and want to sleep, but my backsides needs a rest so I walk, along the coast admiring what else… the trees.  

Now sitting in my car writing this ditty because darkness comes early, the bugs are still a pest even in the cold temperatures, there are no shelters, no showers, and as I look around the entire campsite looks like night bugs aglow, everyone is sitting reading in their netted tent or playing cards, few are having fires and everyone is in bed at 7:59. What am I to do, the battery is going to die. Off to bed to read yet another glorious chapter of Dermot Healy – Sudden Times – a must read for the Irish in all of us.

 

Friends

Friends – 10 minute poem to be continued

When there is no more, you cut to the core….

That what friends do. When the roses fade.

I’ll remember you.

 

You see through fear, tear,

say little to none

yet stay by  my side when times are wrong.

I’ll remember you.

 

You are true blue

There are none like you

Make tears of joy

I’ll remember you

 

Dear sweet friend

I have thought ill of you

Yet God brings shows me truth

I’ll remember you

 

Seeing your sight, brings vision

Where blindness lingered.

I’ll remember you