Tennessee: a Long Blog about a Long State

The last stops of my trip were through mostly familiar territory. In Memphis, I visited with Jay and Anna Phillips before getting back onto I-40 West. Actually, before hopping on the highway, I couldn’t resist stopping at a Backyard Burgers for a Blackened Chicken Sandwich. While eating it, the coleslaw dressing ran onto my fingers—it was delicious, even though the price seemed higher than I remembered.

By the time I exited the interstate for Columbia where my friend Dana lives, it was getting late and the sun had already set. I drove to within 20 miles of her city when I came upon wooden barriers blocking the road and sign telling me the road was closed. This happened two more times before I reached Dana’s (a result of the recent flooding, I think). Finally, I arrived, glad to not just be somewhere, although that would be a relief, but especially at Dana’s. I hadn’t seen her in nine months. She’s got a great apartment, and I should have paid her rent for having my own nice bedroom and bathroom—but she wouldn’t have had any of that.
On Sat., we watched the U.S. vs. England soccer match at Kick’s Sports Bar, Music Hall & BBQ. At the busiest, there were maybe 5 customers, including us. Maybe lots of others were watching soccer at another sports bar that featured catfish instead of BBQ, but it’s probably just a reflection of the smaller fan base of soccer compared to the Big Three of American sports. Later in the day, with too much to possibly try to fit into the 32,000 people populated city of Columbia, Dana drove me to nearby Pulaski, which is smaller and more manageable. The court square there is still in working order, and at Reeve’s Drug Store, we had “nickel Cokes” and a homemade fried peach pie. Later, we saw Columbia’s court square, too, and dined at an exemplary restaurant called Market Square where Lynne and the Quintessentials were playing live music.

On Sunday, I went to Dana’s church. The children’s wing is unlike anything I’ve ever seen at a church before. Not to say something negative about churches that are different, but it’s apparent, simply from a visual perception, that this congregation has a vested interest in children’s ministry. The main hall of classrooms is designed to appear like a pier at a seaside amusement park. Lucky for me, this was Beach Club Sunday, meaning a special program was taking place with skits and singing.

In the afternoon, I tried to decide whether to visit Rippavilla, an antebellum home just north of Columbia, or go to the Jack Daniel’s distillery in Lynchburg. It worked better with the planning to head to Lynchburg. The Jack Daniel’s Distillery in Lynchburg is on the National Register of Historic Places (being the first registered distillery in the U.S.), and an ironic fact is that it operates in a dry county (no liquor sales permitted, which also means no samples on the tour, other than lemonade). The tour guide was a great grand nephew of Jasper (Jack) Daniel, and his regular job during the school year is as a 4^th grade teacher. The tour was informative and interesting—and free! While the famed Tennessee whiskey cannot be purchased there or in town, the court square has plenty of other JD-labeled merchandise for sale—as well as 75 cent Cokes (it ain’t Pulaski).

Back in Columbia that night, I had a heavenly meal at Dana’s, which we teamed up to cook together, thus enjoying a reminiscence of our Tuesday night dinner club in Michigan. The next morning, we stopped by Rippavilla and looked around the outside of it before eating at Cracker Barrel, where some grits helped fill me for the next leg of travel. I said bye to Dana and set off for Murfreesboro and then Cookeville to see my Uncle Dale and Aunt Debbie. Near Cookeville’s courtsquare, we had some good BBQ from Moogie’s and later relaxed to a free Flag-day orchestra concert in Dogwood Park. The next day, we ate lunch at Spankie’s and then walked around Tenn Tech. Come to find out, this school began with a donation of the property of a former college run by a local church of Christ. Also, unbeknownst to me, there is still a church of Christ Bible college in Cookeville called Tennessee Bible College, which consists of mostly online learning.

By the next morning, I was on my to my brother’s family in Powell, just north of Knoxville. When I pulled into the driveway, my five-year-old niece was shooting baskets. I didn’t remember her being able to shoot so well. Close by, her bike was tipped over. The training wheels had been removed. A part of her childhood, a part I remembered, was gone. She didn’t seem to mind. But I felt time in a way I’d never experienced it before. Now, funnily, my nephew Josiah, who’s a little over a year younger than Mackenzie, had removed his own training wheels from his bike, but he’s not really ready to balance on his own yet. That’s o.k., though. No need to speed up time.

On Thursday, I went with David, April, and the kids to Dollywood’s Splash Country, a waterpark about 30 minutes south of Knoxville. I can’t remember the last time I went to a waterpark, and I definitely can’t remember the last time I had so much fun at a waterpark in only going to kid-friendly slides and pools.

The next day, I loaded the Equinox for the final time of the trip, including April’s inclusion of snacks for the road, which she’s always good to give me. Before long, I was on I-75, which could have taken me all the way back to Detroit, but I tried going around Cincinatti and Dayton to avoid traffic. I had finally run out of books on CD, so I relied on the radio and music CDs for the remainder of the drive. However, I was careful not to listen to radio at first because I didn’t want to hear the score of the US vs. Alergia World Cup match before I could watch a recording of it or see the replay later on ESPN Classics. The time for the replay was supposed to be when I was in Troy, Ohio. I walked into a burrito place, and—what are the chances—a flatscreen was showing a replay of the England game. I thought I might’ve been in luck. I was ready to belatedly support the USA, wearing my USA World Soccer shirt, which a guy behind the counter saw and asked if I’d seen the US comeback. What are the chances of him mentioning this to me?—probably higher with me sporting the soccer shirt. I told him I had not, but now knowing what happened, I asked him to tell me about it. I didn’t wait around to see if my anticipated match would be broadcast. My friend Patrick had recorded it for me, so I could watch it another day. To do so, I just needed to get back to Michigan.

Recharged

Home. That’s where I was last week. Back in my old room, which still has mementos of mine on shelves and a bed that’s easy to sleep in. The first night I was there, dots of illumination outside the house made the atmosphere sparkle—lighting bugs: it had been a while since I’d seen those. I wonder what makes their light recharge. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation, but, regardless, the effect seems magical. While at home, I was able to recharge my phone, recharge my computer, and recharge myself in some way, too.

When one isn’t sure how to proceed further with a project, it can be good to start back at the beginning. Not too long ago, some friends helped me produce a “genogram,” chronicling important events of my life before college for reflective, analysis purposes. One thing that was suggested to me is that my Searcy home has functioned as a means of stability in my life. It has allowed me to feel more assured when venturing to new places because I remained connected to a familiar home. I have to say the real essence of this is my parents, themselves, and would remain so at another location if they moved. But, there’s something special about the physical place as well. Even though I live someplace else, I can fit in at this other home and take an interest in details about a house and a yard 862 miles from my own. What type of countertop will Mom select for the kitchen? Has Dad seen if any more of the bluebird eggs have hatched in the neighbor’s yard? Recharging isn’t simply a means of finding energy to repeat the same cycles as before. It can re-charge you to attempt something more or something different. Self-reflection occasioned by security and relaxation and a sense of your past can charge you to live life more deliberately.

My First Solo Booking

For Christmas in 1998, I received my first guitar, a Martin Dreadnought. I took one semester of lessons--enough to learn some basic chord progressions--and then decided to become more proficient on my own. Now, I can play basic chords pretty fluently and, having played with others and in front of others, I’ve gotten more comfortable with performing. Last Wednesday, I played a 30-minute show at a nursing facility in Searcy where my Grandma, who helped buy my first guitar, is now living. My mom and dad helped me set up in the lobby with a microphone stand (borrowed from the Harding University Music Department), an on-site mic (plugged into the electric piano), and a bar stool (borrowed from some friends). I supplied a music stand and the guitar—not my Martin, but a Yamaha I had bought just before my trip.

Though I hadn’t slated the show in enough time to be put on a printed schedule, the activity director said I could perform at 3 p.m. My parents and I started setting up shortly after 2:30, and right away, residents began gathering to hear the show. I visited with a few of them, and one woman was a fan of Elvis. “There’ll never be another Elvis,” she said. At least 20 people showed up—not bad for an unannounced program. Luckily for the audience, I had a warm-up act—my mother playing songs on the piano. Then my father introduced me. I started with “The Wabash Cannonball” and saw that some residents recognized this number. I encouraged people listening to sing along with songs they knew, and this happened with some of the tunes. The most popular must have been “You Are My Sunshine.” I was somewhat nervous at various points and played some wrong chords, but the audience clapped after each song and I made it through, ending my set with “This Land Is Your Land.” As an encore, I asked if anyone had a request. From the far side of the room, a woman called out, “The Wabash Cannonball.” (Had she not been present to hear me play that earlier?) I played most of it again. She enjoyed it, and no one else seemed to mind the repeat. At the end, Mom came back up, and we did a duet of “The Tennessee Waltz.” Afterwards, I walked around and thanked people for coming. The Elvis-lover I’d spoken to before was disappointed that I hadn’t played any of her favorite artist. She repeated, ‘There’ll never be another Elvis.” I told her I’d have to work on some Elvis for next time, maybe “Love Me Tender.” She said, “That was the first movie my husband and I saw together.”

Grandma liked having me play. It’s funny that during the show, I noticed her looking around at others as much as or more than she did at me. I guess she was wanting to see if others were enjoying the music, which she had, by living there, generated the opportunity for.

Last year when I switched from a full-time to a part-time position, I had an idea to work on a repertoire of songs that I could play at small coffee shop style venues to make extra money. That never happened, but perhaps I’ll give it more of a go this next year. Maybe in the future I’ll play at other places and even make money doing so; but I shouldn’t imagine I’ll ever perform at a more worthwhile place than this first concert in a nursing home.

Bless My Heart

Last Sunday, Mark (my former Michigan roommate who’s now a Texan) and I went to a church service at the Southside Church of Christ in Ft. Worth. The preacher, Steve, grew up in my hometown of Searcy, and he, as well as three of the other members, attended Harding Academy, my high school alma mater. Louisa, who was in the same grade as Steve at HA, is now a physician assistant. She is an excellent PA I’m sure--to hear her talk even a little bit about it and to know something of her aptitude for studies, I’m convinced of this; and Steve is certainly in his calling as a preacher. In I Corinthians, Paul talks about the different members making up the body of Christ, the church. Certainly, I could look at any church congregation and see variety in occupations; but it struck me much more powerfully this particular Sunday to witness students from the same high school class, one ministering largely with preaching, another largely through medicine--both part of the same church congregation. It was a blessing to experience this. The previous Sunday, I heard Randy Frazee (via video) speak at Journey Fellowship. I went there with my friends Buck and Katy and their girls, Lily and Zoe. Katy runs a “giftique” called Bless Your Heart, a place to behold with your eyes even if you don’t intend to buy anything—but (beware) you’re bound to find something to purchase if you go. Buck has lived in San Antonio since graduating from college in ‘99. I remember driving to SA with him and looking for his first apartment. A few years later, he brought his girlfriend, Katy, up to Arkansas, and in 2004, I traveled in Italy with Buck and Katy, who were by then engaged. I moved to Michigan later that summer, and it wasn’t long until I was flying to SA for a wedding. Last year, I met their daughter Lily in Michigan, and now I’ve met Zoe. On Memorial Day, we went to Buck’s parents’ for dinner. Buck’s dad said a prayer and thanked God for a friendship that has lasted all these years. It is indeed a blessing.

Petrified "Forest"

What’s happened to Petrified Forest National Park? I’ve heard of environmentalists’ concern for deforestation, but I wouldn’t have expected something similar to be occurring with trees turned into fossils. However, this seems to be the case. When I visited the Petrified Forest NP last Friday, I certainly couldn’t see the forest for the trees—because there weren’t enough to make a forest. I didn’t drive through the entire park, so maybe I missed a large conglomeration of tumbled tree trunks, but from what I’ve read, I evidently missed them because of when, not where, I went. Had I gone 100 years ago or 50 years ago--or make that even 1 year ago--I could have seen more. A New York Times article from 1999 talks about the vandalism of protected petrified wood. According to one study, every year the amount of petrified wood at the Arizona park decreases by 12 tons. Apparently, the signs one sees as leaving the park, telling visitors that their vehicles may be searched, do have some effect: hundreds of pounds are found by the signs in summer months. Even wood that makes it past the park exit sometimes returns. The article mentions that “[i]n September alone, 25 pounds of rocks were mailed back by people with guilty consciences.” In 1984, one man believed his theft of petrified wood had somehow cursed him, causing his car to be wrecked and his wife to leave him. Even though returning the wood may help bring peace of mind to vandals, it doesn’t fix the loss at the park, for rangers are not allowed to replace the wood since this would be changing the natural location of it and potentially causing problems for researchers conducting studies at the park. Even with the pillaging, tree fossils at the NP should be around for a long time, and layers of petrified wood exist under the ground. I wouldn’t travel to Arizona just to see fossilized timber (an Arizona tourism Website mentions that every state has deposits of petrified wood), but if you’re going along I-40 in the Grand Canyon State, it’s worth a stop. Even one tree would still be amazing to see.

Giuseppe-Sitting

In 2008, I flew into Phoenix and was met by my friend Eric who drove me to his house, an hour-and-a-half north, in Cottonwood, Arizona. He and his wife, Tracy, were going on a trip, and while they were gone, I had agreed to help run their art gallery and watch their dog, Giuseppe. I had not seen Giuseppe since then, but when I arrived this time, he seemed to recognize me immediately, hugging onto me. Even though this time my intention was not to gallery-sit or dog-sit, on the second day of my visit, Tracy received a call from her grandfather, wanting her to come 150 miles south to Casa Grande: his wife, who was in Hospice, was dying. Quickly, Eric and Tracy loaded their vehicle and took off with their one-year-old son, Cayden. Tracy’s grandmother passed away 45 minutes after she arrived, and Tracy, Eric, and Cayden stayed in Casa Grandre for a couple of nights. I remained in Cottonwood and watched Giuseppe again. I suppose it could seem I chose a poor time to visit, but I’m glad I was there. I’m sure someone else could have watched Giuseppe, but it was easiest for me to do so—and I was still able to visit with Giuseppe’s family and see Cayden walk, which he’d only started doing two days before I arrived. Yesterday, I saw a book about ministering to people while one is “on the road.” It encourages us to be aware of opportunities for assisting others even when we’re away from home. I don’t know that God planned for me to be in Cottonwood at that time, but I appreciated having the opportunity to help out one of my dearest friends. I couldn’t help remembering being in Athens, Greece in 1997 and receiving a phone call in my hotel room from my mother, informing me that my grandmother had passed away. I went to another floor of the hotel and knocked on a door. Tracy, who had met my grandmother, came out and sat with me. That sympathy means as much to me today as it did then.

Grand Weather

The Big Chill and Grand Canyon are two films written by Lawrence Kasdan. I have not seen either one, but I experienced their literal titles simultaneously on Monday. After leaving Vegas, I drove to Zion National Park in southwest Utah. The weather there was fair, perhaps slightly on the cool side, but I got by just fine in my navy Old Navy zip-up hooded sweatshirt. When I was leaving Zion NP, I was trying to decide whether to stay the night at Bryce Canyon or the Grand Canyon. I had read and heard that Bryce Canyon would be colorful at sunrise, so this won out, and I headed the additional hour north in order to see it. As I drove, I saw the temperature gauge in the Equinox drop to below freezing, and light flurries of snow hit my windshield. I had considered camping “out” in my vehicle at Bryce, but this weather dissuaded me from that plan. So, I checked on hotels, finding that the ones closest to Bryce would have been more than $100, which was hard to take since the night before I had stayed at a resort for half that amount. Because I had already gotten a glimpse of the canyon and wasn’t all that tired, I changed my plan and started driving south towards the larger canyon and warmer weather for car sleeping. The temperature reading went up as I’d expected. Then, as I entered Arizona, it started to drop again. Until, when I was close to the entrance of the North Rim, the gauge said 25 degrees. It was already after midnight, and the sun would be coming up in a few hours, so I thought, even with the cold, I might as well find a campsite and try to sleep. I wasn’t sure if it was safe to sleep inside a vehicle with the windows rolled up, so I cracked the front two (but ended up rolling the passenger pane back up after I thought I heard the wind blowing in snow). For a few hours I was warm enough in my sleeping bag covered by two blankets. By 4:30 or so, however, my pillow was chilled. I had gotten a few hours sleep and decided I might as well start the engine, warm the vehicle up, and get ready to drive on to the North Rim in time for sunrise. I passed by the un-staffed (I suspect due to my early arrival) entrance station and arrived at the Canyon shortly after the sun started sending light to the location. Wrapped in an Army blanket, I went into a café at the Lodge and bought a hot cup of coffee. In another part of the Lodge, there is a viewing area, and I alternated my time between sipping coffee inside this place and darting out the side doors to snap photos of the Canyon as the changing light created different effects on the Canyon’s walls. After spending about an hour at the North Rim, I drove on towards Cottonwood, Arizona to visit the Kees family. Within an hour and a half, I had descended enough in elevation to melt the icicles that had formed on my vehicle’s running boards, and by the time I reached Cottonwood, it was shorts and T-shirt weather again.

Venice and Tuscany in Nevada

In 2006, I spent a couple of hours at the Las Vegas airport, and I recall someone telling me that the outside temp was 112 that day. Last Saturday, I spent a longer amount of time in Vegas, and, thankfully, the temp was only in the 70s. This time, I wanted to drive down “the strip” and look around inside The Venetian. While cruising Las Vegas Blvd, I waited at long stoplights as lots of people crossed the road. Dominating the scene were casino hotels—some at least thirty stories tall—including Caeser’s Palace with its Roman look, the Paris Hotel and Casino, and New York New York. Here was the world in miniature—or at least the Western world. Quite a contrast from the open desert region I had come from only minutes before. I parked (for free) in the garage of The Venetian. The front of this casino hotel looks like the Ducal Palace in St. Mark’s Square, and there is what must be an almost exact scale model of the Rialto Bridge, but this one has moving sidewalks in the middle instead of shops. The bridge crosses a pool of water where there are actual gondolas and gondoliers. More gondola rides are available inside, too. In one sense, it’s a “best of” Venice. The ceilings along the canal are curved and painted to resemble a fair sky in Italy with a few white clouds. The ceiling of St. Mark’s Square is done the same way. Here you can eat “outdoors” indoors and watch street performers and cap off a meal with gelato purchased from the central stand. There are less Venetian-looking places as well: convention halls, theatres, restaurants, shops, and the casino. I found myself wondering about the objective of building a look-alike but fake Venice (or Paris, New York, Rome) for a casino crowd? Across from the Venetian is The Mirage, and I thought that this is actually what The Venetian is as well—a mirage of the real city. However, if I went to the authentic Venice, I would be able to visit the Ducal palace, but I would not find it being used for its original purpose, for it is now a museum. In some way, this seems to be another sort of mirage. The concept of mirage can be extended to the casino as well. For some, gambling may be an inconsequential hobby, but it can be a mirage of hope, too—a type that doesn’t always pay off as frequently as one might like.

The casino resorts really are something to see, and certainly Vegas is more than just gambling and entertainment, but I felt sad looking about the luxuriousness of this city (it’s visibly clean, seems to run smoothly, and promotes comfort and consumerism—understandable objectives to increase tourism) compared to others in the U.S. So much planning and care must be given to make this city (one based at least conceptually on entertainment) thrive, while other cities that Vegas visitors are “escaping” from might thrive more if the same amount of care were shown to them. On Sat. night, I stayed at the Tuscany Suites and Casino in a room that could have been a studio apartment—it even had a range for cooking. I paid the same price for it ($50, not including the $10 resort fee) as I did for the Super 8 I stayed at in Bakersfield, California the night before. Also, for dinner I paid $8.75 for a good buffet at a casino near the Hoover Dam—only slightly more than my $7.99 3-piece chicken tender meal at Popeye’s that I’d had for lunch. (The buffet ad was thankfully not a mirage, and my mom can be glad that I got some vegetables and fruit with it.)

I am not the kind of person The Venetian or the Tuscany, or other casino hotels, probably wants to see coming—who finds the deal for a night’s stay or a buffet, enjoys looking around the casino instead of placing a bet, pays only for a slice of pizza in exchange for free parking, uses the coupon for a free beverage that comes with checking into the hotel but doesn't buy any more, and utilizes a hotel's free Internet in public places but doesn't pay $13 to connect in his room. However, even though the “Italian” casino hotels weren’t built with a person like me in mind, I still enjoyed experiencing a nostalgic sense of Venice, my actual remembrance of which--it having been three years since I was last there--is surely to some degree, by now, a mirage.

The Joshua Tree

I have long been intrigued by Joshua trees. Surely, in part, because of their interesting shape, but probably more so because U2 has an album called The Joshua Tree. There is a national park called Joshua Tree in southern California. I considered going to it, but I opted instead for the Mojave Desert where I saw the Joshua tree in this picture. These trees are technically called Yucca. They were given a Biblical nickname by a Mormon who encountered them and associated their uplifted branches with Joshua praying.

West Coast Family

Mountain House, California--it may not show up on my older GPS, but I'm glad I found it and certainly have reason to go back. This is where the Pooler family lives. I first met Chris and Lori in 1997 for Harding's Italy international studies program, and it's hard to believe that as of this next Saturday, it will have been ten years since they got married. I've only seen them a few times since their wedding and had never before met their two adorable girls. What a comfort it is to have friends like the Poolers, who welcomed me and made it seem like it had only been a few months instead of a few years since I'd last seen them. A big thanks to their daughters, who not only shared their joy of life with me but also space in their playroom for me to store my luggage.

San Francisco Tribute

Yesterday, I spent about seven hours in San Francisco. Since 1999, NYC has been my favorite city in the world, and I'm not ready to change that designation but...I do think that, for me, SF would make a better city for living in than NYC. SF seems more driver-friendly (despite its steep streets), is less crowded (even though it is the second most densely populated place in the U.S.), and feels more laid back and casual. While in the city, I visited the Italian American Museum where I bought a book of Durer's etchings for Dante's Divine Comedy, drove down Lombard Street (known as the crookedest street in the world), visited the City Lights bookstore (famous for its association with the Beats) where I purchased a book by David Crystal called Txtng: the Gr8 Db8, walked to Coit Tower (where this picture of a mural was taken), and had dinner in the Fisherman's Wharf area--ended up getting shrimp in a sourdough bread bowl. I was going to check out one more site before leaving--a gift shop that has an entrance designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. First I went to the wrong area. Then I drove past it. I intended to turn around--first on 4th Street (no left turn), then 3rd (no left turn), then second (no left turn), then first (no left or right turn). It was getting late, and the city was becoming more crowded: I decided to let this one go.

The Silver Gate?

Here's another picture of a famous San Francisco bridge, but it's not the Golden Gate--it's the Oakland Bay Bridge. In some ways this bridge is more impressive than the Golden Gate: longer, composed of multiple types of bridges, older, and includes a tunnel between two sections of it. Perhaps, though, due to the silver coloring of it, the Bay Bridge was destined to come in second behind the "golden" one in terms of recognition.

Wonders and Limits of Technology

Four events were on my schedule for Tuesday: take a tour of a winery, eat lunch at the Marin County Civic Center, watch my niece Mackenzie's Kindergarten graduation, and arrive between 5-6 p.m. at the Poolers' house (about 60 miles east of San Francisco). I started from Ukiah, California and enlisted the help of my Garmin GPS to arrive at the Rutherford Hill Winery (seeing views of Napa Valley that were equal in sublimity to those of the forest drive from yesterday), making it in time for the 11:30 tour. This winery, now run by the Terlato family but at one time owned by Pillsbury, uses a system of machine-built caves tunneling deep into the hillside to store oak casks of wine, which must be topped off from time to time because 15% of the wine evaporates in a year and air left in the resulting space could negatively affect the taste. From the winery, the Garmin got me to San Rafael's Marin County Civic Center by 1:30. This is one of Frank LLoyd Wright's buildings that is still being used for its intended purpose. Unfortunately, my GPS was not capable of helping me to find a parking space quickly. After several minutes, I pulled into a 30-minute one and went up to the cafeteria on the top floor where I was able to eat my Reuben sandwich at a patio table by a fountain, while looking off in the distance at the Bay area...as well as about 15 ft. away at a couple being married by, I presume, a JP. Hustling within a half-hour back down to my SUV, I reprogrammed the GPS for a Panera restaurant in the Oakland suburb of Dublin because it would have free Wi-Fi where I could watch the live-stream of Mackenzie's graduation. However, I didn't choose to follow its directions precisely because I wanted to cross the Golden Gate Bridge. This, by the way, cost $6--the same as the drive-through tree attraction would have cost. Once in downtown San Francisco, I tried to follow the recalculated directions as best I could. At one point, the computer tells me to turn right on one street, then--before I do--says to turn onto a a different street--and then another different street--then, says, "Find the nearest road." Before I had to turn, the instructions went back to the original, and it worked to get me heading in the direction I needed to be going. But, it can't predict traffic, and I realized that, even though, by its calculations, I should arrive at Dublin in time for the ceremony to start, I was never going to make it. I had to get off the expressway and find another Wi-Fi location. Peet's Coffee offered an hour's worth of Internet usage with a purchase, so I ordered an iced tea and started up my Mac to discover that I needed a code. Went back to the cashier, got the code. Pulled up the school's Website, looked and saw announcements about the Kindergarten graduation but no link for the live feed. I tried clicking on many of the links, including one for the church associated with the school, but didn't see any way that I was going to be able to view the ceremony and figured the school just hadn't been able to get the feed set up. However, on one announcement, there was an alternate Website given, so I tried it, and it turned out to be the church Website I had seen--but this time, I noticed a link for the live feed. Immediately after clicking on it, up pops a window displaying the graduation. Kindergarteners in white robes were having their names called and walking across a stage to get their diplomas. I heard a last name that preceded "W," and I was so glad I hadn't missed Mackenzie. Then I realized they weren't following alphabetical order, and the procession ended after a few more kids walked across the stage, none of whom were my niece. But, a great thing about this graduation is that it didn't merely consist of graduates walking across a stage and a speech. The students performed songs, and there was a slideshow, too, and I was still able to see Mackenzie multiple times during the remainder of the program. When it was over, I closed the browser and my Mac, got in my SUV, and started typing in the address for the Poolers. Their city did not seem to exist according to my GPS. Come to find out, at the time my Garmin was bought, it probably didn't exist since the community is only four years old. Oh well, I thought, I'll just drive close to Peet's and open my browser again and use a map program. Too bad...because I had closed my connection, I wouldn't be able to access the Internet again without a new access code. I did the "old fashioned" thing and called my friend Chris for help with directions, and after a couple more phone calls, I eventually arrived at his house for dinner with him and his family.

Into the Woods

Not only is the Redwood Forest, along California's northern coast, part of the National Park System, it is also where Endor scenes from Star Wars Episode VI were filmed. Instead of a lightsaber, though, I took an umbrella with me as I walked around the Lady Bird Johnson trail. Redwood trees don't have deep roots, but they stretch out wide and intermingle with those of surrounding redwoods. This way, they can maximize their water intake from the ground. However, I found it interesting that only half of their yearly drink comes from rain. The remainder is from fog-produced water droplets that drip from their needle leaves. Compared to other trees, the height of redwoods is impressive, but the most sublime experience of yesterday's drive was the rollercoaster-ride sensation of cruising along the winding road called the Avenue of the Giants, where colossal conifers can be mere feet from your car. I was particularly anticipating arriving at one town near the southern end of the Avenue called Myers Flat because it has a tree you can drive through. However, this tree is off the main road and the drive-through experience costs six dollars. I didn't care enough about squeezing through a sequoia to pay this fare.

Heading South

On my final day in Seattle, I met up with the up-and-coming-actress Tabitha Kronenwetter (whom I'd been in a couple of plays with at RC) at St. Mark's Cathedral, and we had lunch at Voula's Offshore Cafe, a Greek restaurant that's been featured on the Food Network. The place has a diner feel to it--nothing fancy. We seated ourselves, and no one came to bring us menus, so I went and grabbed a couple. Voula, herself, then brought us silverware. I ordered the Greek Hobo (Greek sausage, mushrooms, onions, hasbrowns, and eggs smashed together and covered with feta cheese). I ate about half, and then (again because of the busy-ness of the place) took the liberty of getting my own to-go box. As we were about to leave, I asked the woman who served as our cashier how long she'd worked at Voula's. She said since 1984. This is definitely a place worth checking out--if you're not in a hurry. In Portland, I stopped and pulled out the to-go box for supper. Was just going to leave the city after eating, but I saw a sign with the word "Cascade" on it and remembered that the former Cascade College (which had been a sister school to Rochester) was in Portland. I thought it'd be neat to see the campus, and I called information, which still had a listing for the college. I found it with help from the GPS. The sign is still up by the road, and I walked around for a few minutes and discovered that the campus is currently being used by Columbia Christian School, and they're hoping to raise enough money to purchase it. While walking around, I saw a "Harding swing" and a sign for "York Hall"--connections to other sister schools of the former college. I've ended the day in Roseburg, Oregon at another Motel 6: again no alarm clock, but this room has a mini-fridge and a microwave with a clock on it. Tomorrow, on to California.

The Center of the Universe

On Tuesday, Christie (and Luke) took me to the neighborhood of Fremont. In addition to having a bridge with a troll underneath of it (as you can see in the picture), Fremont, come to find out, has declared itself to be The Center of the Universe. What an unexpected lucky find on my trip!

Sights for Sore Eyes

My “home” in Seattle (first non-hotel of the trip) was my friend Christie’s condo in the Queen Anne neighborhood. She’s been such a gracious host, and she’s got incredible sights out of her living room windows—you can see the Space Needle and the Puget Sound. In addition to Christie being so hospitable by opening up her home to me and showing me around, it’s been great getting to talk about college life with her (she teaches pastoral counseling in the School of Theology at Seattle University), as well as playing Bananagrams and getting to know her wonderful dog, Luke. On Thursday night, we went to a jazz concert at Seattle Pacific University to hear Olivia Hamilton (whom I know from Michigan) play bass--both upright and guitar. Turns out she sang in one song, too. The school concert could have just as easily been a professional one. Lisa and Andrew Kronenwetter were also at the concert, and it was great to catch up with them as well.

Seattle

For the last several days I’ve been in the Emerald City, Seattle. I’ve always heard about what a rainy city Seattle is, but from the day I arrived, I think there’s been sunny weather everyday, which makes it nice for sightseeing. The first thing that captivated me about this city is all the greenery—plants and flowers everywhere. Secondly, while Seattle has its own sights of the Space Needle, a monorail, distinct neighborhoods, the Pike Place Market (home of the first Starbucks), and sports arenas, the surrounding islands and parks are worthwhile visiting in and of themselves. One thing’s for sure, though, if you’re traveling on foot in the city, you’ll get a good workout for your quads and calves as the main section of the city is built on a slope ending at the wharf. And, speaking of the wharf, I’m told that Seattle has more ships than any other city in the continental U.S. However, I only boarded one, a ferry to Whidbey Island. While it’s been neat to check out some places, the best part of this visit was seeing people I knew (the first I’d encountered after about seven days on my trip).

Mammoth Springs and Missoula

Yesterday, I spent eight hours at Yellowstone National Park. The bison were still neat to see, but I didn’t gaze in as much wonderment or take as many pictures of them this time since I’d encountered them at Roosevelt Park. Instead, the most fascinating aspect of this park was the geothermal activity: hot springs, geysers, and mud volcanoes. Plus, there’s a canyon with a waterfall that’s even higher than Niagra (of course the parking area for viewing this one was closed—as were a couple of the main roads in park)--anyway, I did see what I believe was the shorter of the waterfalls, the sight of which from a place called Artist’s Point could compete for the most beautiful scene of nature. I left the park at about 7:30 p.m. Mountain Time and stopped in West Yellowstone to get food for me--and the SUV. I had only put a few gallons in the Equinox inside the park because I knew the gas prices were hiked due to limited options. However, West Yellowstone was actually no better. #3.17 a gallon and $8 for a medium 10-piece chicken McNugget meal at McDonald’s. Wanting to make it to Seattle by Monday, I knew I should get as far along I-90 as I could so that I’d have a reasonable drive the next day. Montana’s 70 mph on highways and 75 mph on Interstate helped. I was able to reach Missoula, Montana a little after midnight. Since I was checking in so late, I only wanted a comfortable bed and clean bathroom—or at least just a clean bathroom and a decent room, since I am carrying my own cot. A Motel 6 seemed just the place. One was at the first exit, but when I saw it, I decided to drive around to check other options. The Hotel Bel Air seemed promising until I looked in one of the windows of a vacant room and then heard a door open on the second level to reveal a long-haired bearded man—standing in his longjohns/thermals. The place seemed sketchy. I kept driving, and I called the Day’s Inn—a room with tax would be $62. I didn’t want to pay that for the night. Got back on the Interstate because I knew there was an Econo Lodge at the final exit for Missoula. Also, turned out, at this exit was a second Motel 6. I figured I’d give it a look-see: 180 degrees from the other one. This Motel 6 was 3 stories high with internal hallways and looked like it had been constructed within the past 5 years. I checked in. “Would you like to access the Internet?” “How much would that be?” “It’s free.” There was also an elevator and a luggage cart (two things that would that would have made my Super 8 experience better). Incredible. And the room—so pleasant looking--and with a better view out the window than my room at the more expensive bed and breakfast where I stayed on the first night of my trip. I kept looking around to see what else I might be amazed at--or uncover to explain how $53 affords such a nice place. Then I figured it out: no clock. This hotel was able to save money by not providing alarm clocks. Well…I had my phone. I didn’t need a hotel clock. And, I thought, even if I had to buy my own alarm clock and leave it with the hotel, it’d be worth it if I could always get as nice a place as this for what it costs.

I Should Have Brought My Cowboy Hat

I was on the lookout for mountains today, and they still surprised me. For the past two days, I've been driving past tall hills that are green or brown, and I figured the Rocky Mountains were going to be, well, rocky in appearance and easy to spot from far away--especially in a state like Montana with a "big sky." However, after leaving Billings, there came a moment when it seems the mountains materialized out of thin air. Not like when you're coming north on I-75 into Detroit and the Ambassador Bridge and the Ren Cen rise before you as you go up an incline close to the city. I'm sure the camouflage of the mountains has something to do with them being snow-capped, but even the colors of the base and the sections of evergreens on them from a distance take on a blue hue like the sky. The sudden presence of mountains makes you realize you're in a different place. I also had a realization about this yesterday, too, though. When I went inside a Visitor Center for the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, a woman who worked for the National Park Service asked me if I was from Michigan. How did she guess? I forgot I was wearing my Tigers hat. She said that the hat was a giveaway along with the Moosejaw shirt. That's funny--when I selected the Moosejaw shirt to wear that day, I thought it would help me blend in with the local outdoor apparel, but apparently not. Turns out, cowboy hats are more popular in this area than I would have thought: maybe I should've brought my Stetson.

May 7: Rain, Snow, Ice, and Bison

Yesterday, I visited the Theodore Roosevelt National Park by Medora, North Dakota. On my way across ND, it rained quite a bit, and I also encountered a little snow at Bismarck. Apparently, the weather had been much better the day before, according to the woman behind the counter at Taco John's/Goodtimes. I wondered how this would affect my plan to visit the park. However, as I was pulling into the Visitor's Center for the Painted Canyon part of the park, I saw a bison grazing off to the side of the parking lot--this made it a successful visit already. Later, after I checked into the Badlands Motel in Medora, I got in the Equinox to drive around the thirty-six mile loop of the park, and all of a sudden, ice pellets started falling. I debated about continuing with my plan, but I went ahead, and the weather improved with the sun coming out eventually. I was able to see many more bison in the park, along with prairie dogs and wild feral horses.

Not Turning Around for Hiawatha or a Viking Ship

If there was one thing I wanted to see in Ironwood, Mich.--and take a picture of to possibly use in a future American Lit. class--it was the fifty-two feet high statue of Hiawatha. I remembered this several miles after leaving Ironwood. I decided to keep going: I could always pull up the picture online to show a class. My next stopping point for the night was Moorhead, Minnesota. I ate supper in Detroit Lakes, about an hour from Moorhead, at a tiny Mexican restaurant. Working behind the counter that night were Justin and Ryan. I asked advice about what to see in Fargo, which is right next to Moorhead. Justin couldn't think of anything worth seeing in Fargo, but he did mention that Moorhead has a Viking museum with a Viking ship in it. When I arrived at the Super 8 in Moorhead, I looked for a brochure about this museum--but none of the three or so brochures seemed to feature anything Viking-related. I guess I should have made my own brochure as a reminder, for I left Moorhead in rainy weather without remembering to check on the museum. When it did cross my mind, I decided that since I'd already been to a Viking museum with a Viking ship in Norway, I could live without seeing this one.

May 5, Pictured Rocks and Pasties

I stopped for lunch in Seney, Mich. The UP is known for their pasties (a meat pie in a calzone shape). The first one I ever remember having was at Taquamenon Falls in 2005, and seeing as how this was my first time back in the UP since then, I definitely wanted to have another authentic UP pasty. I went into a restaurant/gift shop/post office which had a sign advertising pasties. I asked for a pasty, but they didn't have any. Jenny, the owner, said a shipment should be coming in at the end of the week, so I ordered the chicken sandwich you can see to the left. I told Jenny that my main reason for coming to Seney was because it's in Hemingway's short story "Big Two-Hearted River." (The last time I came to the UP, I went to see the Two-Hearted River--only to realize later that the river in the story isn't the real Two-Hearted River--it's the Fox River, which runs through Seney.) Jenny told me that there's a 101-year-old woman in town who would remember stories about Hemingway, seeing as how he used to come to Seney. Apparently, this woman still has a youthful spirit: I was told she's dating a younger man--a 90-year-old.

From Seney, I drove north to the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Not many other visitors there: I seem to have beaten the start of the tourist season by a couple of weeks as even the east visitor center wasn't open yet. I tried to drive to the western one, but the road was closed. Not wanting to retrace the thirty miles back to Seney, I took a couple of unpaved roads in the direction I wanted to go--towards Ironwood, Mich. , where I spent the night. I did, though, stop in Marquette for supper--and got a pasty.

St. Ignace Homework

In St. Ignace, the town on the Upper Peninsula side of Michigan's Mackinac Bridge, I stayed at the Boardwalk Inn, which is the oldest operating hotel in town. Apparently, each room has a book (the one in mine being Maggie by Stephen Crane), and guests are free to not only read the book while at the hotel but also take it with them and then either mail it back or mail a different book. I did none of the above, and instead, spent time grading composition papers.

Only a Fictional Poodle with Me

John Steinbeck wrote a book called Travels with Charley. It's about him traveling around America with his poodle, Charley. If I were to retrace Steinbeck's steps, I supposed I could write a book called Travels with Travels with Charley. But, whereas Steinbeck begins his travels in New York, I started in Michigan. Steinbeck's incentive for his journey was to reexamine the American landscape and people. He thought this is good for a writer to do every so often. My agenda is not to generate material to write about (except for this blog); really, it's to visit people and places. Still, it has been ten years since the last time I automobiled from my home to the Pacific coast, and I reckon making a trip like this every decade could be a good plan.