Thursday, May 29, 2008

Programming Notes and a Ode to the Worst Drivers in the U.S.

As of Tuesday, Francine has moved from the Slow Lane, to no lane for a couple of days.  You see, we are comfortably ensconced in the home of some wonderful friends of ours in the western suburbs of Chicago.  This is a bit of an unplanned stop, as our dear friend and companion of nearly 13 years, Zoe Hilda Hake (Zoe the Dog), is under the weather.  In fact, she is in the hospital for a couple of days with pancreatitis.  Fortunately, it appears that she is going to be fine.  More on this in an upcoming post.

We have also been experiencing some technical difficulties, which has slowed the rate of the posts to the blog.  This is directly related to one factor.  Many of the campgrounds we stay at offer "Free WiFi" as a selling point.  First, let me say that I have never understood what WiFi means.  I know, I know, it is a popular slang name for wireless internet service.  But, let's dig a bit deeper.  The "Wi" part obviously stands for wireless and the "Fi" part no doubt stands for fidelity.  An ode to the days of "High Fidelity" stereos and such.  But, what does fidelity mean?  According to Mr. Webster, in the context of electronics, fidelity means: "the degree to which an electronic device (as a record player, radio, or television) accurately reproduces its effect (as sound or picture)."

If we apply that to Wireless Internet, this means WiFi is wireless internet which accurately reproduces the input it receives.  In other words, it would be wireless internet that accurately inputs and outputs the data in receives from the attached computers.  As you might have guessed from this mind numbing aside that you are asking yourself why you read it, this is not what we have been experiencing on the road recently.  Rather, we have had WiLoToNoFi, or what we would also describe as: you might get signal if you are in the right spot, at the right time, with the right equipment, the right weather, the right attitude, no one else on the system, the planets are aligned in an auspicious manner according to your birth sign and you stand on your head wireless.  This type of wireless = fewer posts.  Also, our pictures are currently on the laptop, which is not connected to the internet here, so we will get caught up with some pictures soon.

But, here we are and now that you have suffered through that random stream of consciousness, let me do this.  I would like to pay homage to the worst drivers in the United States of America.  This homage goes a little something like this:

"Dear citizens of Chicago and those limited areas of northern Indiana surrounding Gary, Indiana.  I pay homage to you because you have earned a dubious honor from The Slow Lane.  You are, without hyperbole, the worst drivers in the entire United States of America.  You are rude, discourteous, unsafe, and unhappy.  You are all Mike Ditka losing in the 4th quarter mad.  You tailgate.  You swerve.  You change lanes with no signal and cut people off at outrageous speeds.  You pass on the right.  In short, you need to go home, order a title from Miss Manners and brush up.

Please understand that this award is well researched.  We have driven nearly 7,000 miles in the last 10 weeks.  We have been through Denver, Santa Fe, Dallas Ft. Worth, Shreveport, Nashville, Charleston, Dayton Ohio.  We have also visited many other places throughout our lives, including foreign countries. While you may not rival a taxi driver in Beijing at rush hour (trust me, I have been in one, you aren't THAT scary), you are really, really bad.

I shall illustrate your distinguished award with a couple of examples.  On our way in to the city, I pulled out onto a dived highway by turning left, into the left hand lane, which my fuzzy drivers education memory indicates is the correct procedure.  Then, I looked to move immediately into the slower right lane (which is where this whole journey takes place).  Since there was a car coming up in the right lane, I waited to move in behind.  Big mistake.  During the time I waited, 7 cars moved over into the right lane to try to pass me, thus prohibiting me from moving over.  Three of them succeeded before the right lane leader slowed.  The third one raced through a gap that was maybe 5% larger than his big fat Cadillac and then had the nerve to wave towards the right lane and flick me off, indicating his displeasure with my occupancy of the fast lane.  Well, Mr. Jackass, had you not been trying to shoehorn your big pig around me in the right lane, I might have moved over for you sooner.

A second example for your award, you horrible Cook County Couriers.  Yesterday, I was sitting at a stoplight (without Francine).  This particular light has a dedicated left turn lane, while the right lane is reserved for those going straight or turning right.  I was going straight, thus I was in the right lane, which I would again surmise was the right place for me.  The person behind me wished to turn right.  Immediately.  Be damned the fact that the light was red.  I pulled up as far as I could without entering cross traffic, but alas, there was not enough room for her to get by to turn right on red.  Given this indignity, she did what all you Chicago land drivers apparently do.  She started honking at me.  Why?  Well, apparently because I had the nerve to go straight in the straight lane, thus impeding her ability to turn right for at least 15-30 seconds.  

These two small examples are mere illustrations of what I have seen in the last few days.  These kind of things happen every day, everywhere.  I even witnessed a guy rear end another guy yesterday.  The victim was stopped in the left lane, trying to turn left.  It appeared that he too was getting berated by the fellow who hit him.  As in: "what were you thinking trying to turn left from the left lane when the traffic is busy.  I am not going to actually stop moving for that!"

So you Chicago drivers.  Enjoy your award.  You are truly awful drivers.  Now I am sure that you will probably take this award with pride (since I am sure SOOOOO many of you are reading).  Much like you Cubs fans pride yourself on your teams century old ineptitude.  If so, it will only reaffirm what is written here.  Enjoy your award!"

With that out of the way, we will move on.  Oh, and should you Chicago area folks come west with those driving skills, be forewarned.  Most states in the western U.S. have concealed carry handgun laws, just to let you know. . . 

The Low Country

Somewhere south of Columbia, South Carolina, travelers cross a hidden line.  Once you cross this line, you are in a somewhat mythic, hard to define area, which is known as "The Low Country."  South Carolina apparently has 3 distinct areas.  The areas in the northwest, up near the border with North Carolina (the Up Country or the "Mountains"), the center of the state (is this the Mid-Country?), and then the Low Country.  While I do find it amusing that a state that seems to be roughly the size of Weld County, Colorado would have 3 distinct areas, nonetheless, there they are.

The Low Country appears to consist of Charelston, maybe Savannah, Georgia, and a few other areas along the coast.  You will know you are there when you start seeing signs for Low Country this and Low Country that.  For me, the whole state is low country, but lovely.  We spent several wonderful days in Charleston touring the city, enjoying the waterfront, and even doing a little fishing.

For those of you who have not been to Charleston, you need to go.  It is one of the nicest small cities I have ever visited.  Great architecture, friendly people, a real downtown that you can walk through, a lovely harbor, and close access to some excellent beaches.  And, as we previously discussed, the food options are tremendous.

On our first day in Charleston we took a horse drawn carriage ride through the city.  Charleston was founded in 1670 and is full of narrow, windy streets that make for a delightful carriage ride.  The city also has one of the largest carriage industries in the world, so the carriages are wonderful and the guides are top notch.  We rode in a hand made carriage, pulled by a sweet, if not a bit grumpy draft horse named Dick.  Our guide, Emily, knew her Charleston and shared great stories about Union cannon balls still lodged in churches, frontal lobotomies performed in the asylum, along with some great history.  We even saw an old house that was being remodeled where the workmen found a confederate cannon hidden under the porch.  Apparently, the earlier occupants were confederate partisans who were saving their ordinance for the day the South rose again.

In addition to the carriage tour, we were also fortunate to be in Charleston during the Harbor Festival, which is a big festival that celebrates Charleston's shipping heritage.  There are tons of activities for kids, including tons of pirates who walk around in pirate garb, tell stories, shoot off real cannons, and have talking parrots.  All good stuff.  We also were able to tour several tall ships, which had sailed into Charleston for the event.

These ships were fantastic and all are active ships being sailed around the world today.  One of the highlights was an exact replica of the Amistad, the 19th Century slave ship that was overtaken by a slave revolt.  The ship is an incredible work and the crew had already sailed her from Sierra Leone to Barbados, across the Middle Passage.  You can find more information about their journey here:

www.amistadamerica.com

Charleston also provided one of those rare moments that a person remembers forever.  One evening I found my way to a beautiful ocean tidal flat, where I was searching for some feeding redfish to catch.  I was wading along in about 6-12 inches of water, watching fiddler crabs, baitfish, and blue crabs scurry about through the turtle grass.  Off to my left, in the distance, Fort Sumter sat guarding the entrance to Charleston Harbor.  As I fished, the sun set and I watched huge container ships silently cruise in to the harbor.  Then, just as I was getting ready to retire, I saw a tall ship sail in to the harbor, then another.  It turns out that this was the arrival of the Amistad, under escort from the Spirit of South Carolina, an ambassador ship from the local hosts.  Just as they were about to fade from my view, in traditional maritime fashion, the South Carolina fired its cannon, signaling to the Harbor Master its entry into the harbor.  The harbor cannon responded with a ground shuttering charge.  Then, amid the smoke of the cannon fire, the ships slipped in to the harbor, with the South Carolina escorting the Amistad.

What a sight.  The flag ship of a former slave state, escorting a ship built and sailed by the descendants of freed slaves into a harbor for a celebration.  A harbor where their ancestors were probably brought years ago to be sold.  

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

A Side Order of Ham

While it is not often a considered point, you should be aware that grocery stores, thankfully, are a bastion of regionalism in a 21st century America that is becoming less regional and more national.  This nationalization is a process my father somewhat affectionately (okay, it’s more sarcastic than that) refers to as homogenization.  In other words, every place is starting to look like every other place, geography aside.  Sure Colorado doesn’t have an ocean and South Carolina doesn’t have 14,000 foot mountains, but the red brick strip mall with the Bed Bath and Beyond, Best Buy, and Borders are indistinguishable, save the meager landscaping that cooks in the asphalt fueled sun of the respective parking lot.

For some reason, grocery stores have at least superficially bucked this trend.  Even today, you can tell what part of the country you are in based on the grocery chains.  Out west, we have the Safeways and the King Soopers.  In the midwest, you have your Cub Foods, Red Owls (are they still around?), and Rainbow.  Down south, we have been provisioning our journey at Winn Dixies, Food Lions, Publix, and the greatest of all grocery store chain names: Piggly Wiggly. 

Names aside, these stores also deliver differences inside.  Sure you have all the big national brands of stuff, but you also have uniquely regional offerings.  Take sausages for example.  Now being a born Minnesotan, I happen to enjoy sausage (as if this statement need be made).  In Colorado you can get excellent Chorizo, made locally, that will bring forth sweat from a gringo’s brow merely upon opening the package.  Where else do you get Polska Kielbasa if you are not in the upper midwest?  In Louisiana, we found a tremendous smoky, spicy Andouille that made gumbo, breakfast eggs, and everything in between taste like the bayou. 

Winding your way through the aisles of an unknown grocery store is a mini exercise in trying to go native.  In a small way it is like arriving at the airport in a foreign country for the first time.  You have to be able to find your way around and get to where you are going.  In the south, this means you must navigate side orders.  Side orders are big business in the south.  In fact, they have whole restaurants built around the concept.  There are these dining establishments called “Meat and Threes,” in which you apparently hurriedly select some random main dish in order to get on with the serious business of choosing your 3 sides.  This can be a challenge because the choices are not minimal.  Everything from normal, well understood offerings such as mashed potatoes, fries, and vegetables, to things such as grits, collared greens, white beans and rice, and enough cole slaw and potato salad choices to stun an ox.  You got your mayonnaise based potato salad, your mustard based potato salad among many others, along with your creamy slaw, your vinegar slaw, and your yet to be identified by this northerner, southern slaw.

Yes, southerners take their sides seriously (as would be evidenced by their lingering feelings about the Civil War, or as the South Carolinians call it The Recent Unpleasantness).  This serious selection of side orders also appears in the grocery stores where you can walk past a cooler display the size of a Chevy one ton truck filled with nothing but sides (but you cannot find tortillas to go with your beans and rice, because that is not how you eat beans and rice here.  It is a different thing).  Folks, they are SIDE DISHES!  They are an accoutrement to the main offering.  They are the nifty afterthought you dig in to after you have stuffed yourself with a big cut of beef, pork, or chicken.  They are the dish you mention to your spouse on your drive home from the picnic: “say Helen, Ethel sure looks good after she got that goiter removed.  Oh, and did you taste the Johnson’s potato salad?  What is that spice they use?”

Strangely enough, at the same time we were discovering all these sides, we were discovering a great song while listening to XM Kids radio with Maggie.  The song is called Starfish and Coffee and was no doubt written by a frustrated southern restaurant menu designer looking for new side dish offerings.  It has become a favorite song of the trip and its refrain goes like this: “Starfish and coffee/maple syrup and jam/butterscotch clouds, tangerines/a side order of ham.”  No doubt there is some potential there for an intrepid southern restaurateur.

All kidding aside (get it?), these sides can make for seriously good eating.  When we arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, we were quickly steered towards a new restaurant in town called The Glass Onion.  This restaurant was apparently opened by some folks from New Orleans who were displaced by Katrina and decided to make a new home in Charleston.  If you go to Charleston, go there.  I quickly settled on braised pork belly with locally made Anson Mills grits, and collared greens.  Heaven.  For all you Iowa pork farmers reading this (yeah, right), this is what you should do with your pigs.  Forget bacon, give me a slab of bacon four inches thick.  Crispy on the outside, melts in your mouth tender on the inside.  This is not your “other white meat” low in fat, lean pork.  This is have your cardiologist on call pork, and in one bite you will see why they call it soul food.  Oh, and the grits, macaroni and cheese, collared greens, green peas, and rice where darn fine as well.

A quick word of warning, The Glass Onion’s menu is a side sneaky, in that it only purports to offer about 7 sides, which range from grits and greens to cornbread, homemade pickles and vegetables.  This is a ploy.  It is mere trickery.  For placed on another part of the menu there is a section entitled “Soups, Salads, and Other Stuff.”  This section is a hidden land for side orders.  In fact, there is only a single salad selection and 1 quasi-soup offering here: Gumbo.  Outside of that, there are more sides.  Deviled Farm Eggs are $ .75 each, fried chicken livers are 8 bucks or 5, depending on size.  And don’t forget the macaroni and cheese and french fries with bĂ©arnaise sauce, they are also available.  Serious sides y’all. 

Rather that sweat these differences (and you do sweat down here), we should rejoice in them!  You can still really find out where you are by how people fill their stomachs, and this is an activity I am really fond of, so it all works out very well.  While it may be true that we are becoming more and more homogenized, I have yet to find locally milled grits at Schaffer’s grocery store in Nisswa, Minnesota and we remain the better for it.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

On Top of Old Smoky

When we departed on this journey, one of the places we really wanted to see was the Great Smoky Mountains National Park (GSMNP).  After spending more than a week in the park both on the Tennessee and North Carolina sides, I can tell you that it was well worth it.  We were able to experience the Smokies as they likely were many years ago.  Uncrowded, beautiful, and inspiring.

If you want to see this park, the time to go is in the spring, before Memorial Day.  You can beat the crowds, the weather is excellent (for the most part), and you can drive into just about any campground in the park without a reservation and set up in a great site.  A word of advice we received from several Smokies veterans, enter the park through Townsend, TN, not through Gatlinburg, TN or Cherokee, NC.  The latter two towns are the gateway towns and they are zoos, with every kitschy tourist trap known to tourist-kind.  This particularly applies to Gatlinburg.  I know a local fisherman who once spent 3 hours going 14 miles between Pigeon Forge, TN and Gatlinburg.  That is NOT the way to see the park.  

GSMNP is different than many of the parks I am used to from the midwest and the west.  It is a park with a long and storied human history, in addition to its natural beauty.  While the park was dedicated in 1930, the human history of the area runs from the Cherokee tribes, through white settlement in the 1800s, to the early 20th century, when the park areas were severely threatened by logging and other development.  What makes this park different, and exciting, is that the Park Service has preserved much of this history.  In addition to
 sweeping vistas, beautiful rivers, and quiet trails through the woods, you can see great old homesteads, farms, mills, and settlements that preserve the unique way of life of Appalachia. 

During our first few days on the Tennessee side, we explored Cades Cove, an old settlement area with a working grist mill, old churches, and other buildings.  We also spent some time hiking and fishing various branches of the Little River.  The weather was beautiful, but know this.  On the Townsend side, the wind blows EVERY NIGHT in the spring.  The dramatic temperature changes between the mountain tops and the valleys creates a wind tunnel that starts after dark and continues, relatively unabated, until the sun begins warming the earth the next day.  Make sure you batten down the hatches on your campsite, or stuff will fly away.

After leaving the Tennessee side, we drove over the spine of the park and descended down to the Smokemount campground, on the eastern side. Being that it was preseason, we were able to drive right in to a beautiful camp spot, set up our camp, and begin exploring.  Smokemount has two beautiful rivers running right through the campground and numerous hiking trails all around.  Maggie is getting to be quite the hiker.  Her record so far is over 2 miles and she loves to see birds, bugs, insects, and animals.

In the Smokies, she was enthralled with bears and salamanders.  We saw a couple of bears briefly from the car one day and she talked about them nonstop.  One day when we were at the visitor's center, she informed us that she needed to discuss the bears with a Park Ranger.  So, Lisa set her up on the counter and she proceeded to have a 10 minute discussion with the ranger about the bears in the park.  From that day on, she would pick up her bear information and say: "Dad, for more information about these bears" and would proceed to regale us with facts about the bears, some true and some not so true.  Often times theses information sessions would end with "the bears have big muscles and big claws and if you get to close to them or bother them they just might swat you with their paw or bite you."  She didn't find that reaction scary, just the right thing for a bear to do if one was crowding its space.

Salamanders are another famous animal of the Smokies.  Apparently, there are 27 different species of salamanders in the park and Maggie knows about 12 of them by name.  Her favorite name is the Hellbender Salamander, which she says with a throaty roar similar to Alan Roach introducing "YOUR Colorado RRRRRRRRockies."  These salamanders are apparently 12-25 inches long and pretty rare.  I'm sure if we had seen one, we would hear about it until 2010.  On a hike in the rain one day, we saw several red cheeked salamanders, who Maggie was certain were racing the snails nearby.

We were also fortunate to experience migrations of both the Zebra Swallowtail butterfly
(which is the state butterfly of Tennessee), and the Red Spotted Purple butterflies.  The butterflies were floating about in clouds, diving, fluttering, weaving, and dancing.  There numbers were so great, it made driving treacherous in the mornings as the warm asphalt attracted them at their peril.

On our last day in the Smokies, we got up at 5:15 and made our way to the top of Clingman's Dome, which is the highest point in the Smokies.  We were hoping to get a glimpse of the sun rising through the famous smoky mist.  While we were stymied by the remnants of a powerful spring storm, which dropped more than 2 inches of rain and nickel sized hail on us the night before, we did experience an incredible morning.  We hiked through the clouds and mist, which sped around and through us on the cold, gusting wind.  We saw the shadowed figures of pines and hemlocks, emerging from the mist.  It was a memorable morning, which will always remain despite our not achieving our goal of seeing the sunrise, which maybe wasn't the goal anyway.

As we left the Smokies my lasting memories will be these.  First, by all accounts, this land was being destroyed by industry in the early 20th century when concerned citizens and their government stepped up and saved it.  It has recovered admirably into a truly spectacular and relatively wild place in the midst of a great
collection of nearby humanity.  While it still faces threats today, most notably from acid rain and from the introduction of exotic invasive insects that are attacking the pine and hemlock trees in the park, with our care it will remain a preserve for generations to come.  While that may sound corny, or reek of cliche, it is true.  It is true and it matters.  Just watch a young child play in those surroundings and you will believe.

Second, after seeing the beautiful old buildings, farms, and fields of the early settlers I was struck by the ingenuity, strength, and simplicity of their lives.  I am not trying to romanticize it, as I am sure it was often a hard life, but the simple beauty of the buildings, the well designed and built sheds, barns, and corrals, and the orderly layouts of the fields and gardens is inspiring.  These people did so much with so much less.  They used everything and everything had a purpose.  They grew gords in their gardens and then dried them, hollowed them, and turned them into birdhouses for sparrows, who then ate the insects trying to feed on those same gardens.  Necessity is the mother of invention, of that there is no doubt.  I wonder if those lessons are being lost on us in a time, even given the current blip on the economic continuum, when there isn't always all that much necessity around.



Monday, May 12, 2008

Dichotomy (aka where are the multi-theistic Democrats?)

Dichotomy - Noun.  ( pl. -mies) [usu. in sing. ]1. a division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely differenta rigid dichotomy between science and mysticism.

When you buy an RV and decide to travel the country, little do you know that you are faced with a choice.  Actually, you don't even know the choice is there.  You are too busy learning about electrical systems, water systems, sewer systems, and climate systems.  All the intricate systems that make your little house on wheels a home.  You are learning how to tow, how to back up, how to "level your rig."  All this knowledge is essential so that you don't freeze, poison yourself, crash, or roll your "rig" into a river.  No, you don't even know you are about to be faced with a monumental decision, but it is there.  You face a dichotomy.

While I might make the difficulty of becoming RV savvy out to be more difficult than it is, rest assured that unless you are indoctrinated into the shady undertree of the RV world by a grizzled veteran, you don't even know this choice exists.  Of what do I speak, you ask?  Well folks, I am going to let you in on a little secret here and hopefully the RV overlords won't arrange for site number 8 to have a friendly visit tonight, after I reveal the goods.  You see, we have both private RV "campgrounds" and public (read city, state, or federal parks) campgrounds in this little ole world of ours and which one you choose says volumes.

Private campgrounds look a little something like this.  They are RV focused private "parks" catering to folks who own rigs that cost more than the first four cars I owned in my life combined.  To take a page from the Trailer Life Directory, (which is billed as "The Directory America turns to for RV Parks & Campgrounds" and no, don't blame that abusive capitalization on me) a private RV campground looks something like this: "Good gravel interior rds. No tents.  SITES 29 gravel, some shaded, 15 pull-thrus (23x70), back-ins (24x50), 29 full hookups (30/50 amps). REC Pond, freshwater fishing, rec hall."

Now, what the heck does that mean?  Well, it means you can take your huge, 50 foot rig (you gotta use that word "rig" constantly in this game) and drive it right through onto a flat, level, concrete pad that just so happens to permit you to have water, sewer dump, and enough electrical to power both of your flat screen TVs.  Oh, and with the trusty "no tents" you can be assured you won't be dealing with any of those obnoxious, noisy folks who choose to sleep OUTSIDE (okay, that capitalization is mine).  In short, this is a site for "campers" who don't like to be outside.  They have a perfect little campsite with a picnic table, a fire pit, and manicured lawn, and every rig is lit up by the blue glow of the TV at night, while its occupants are lulled to sleep by the hum of their Carrier Climate Control System (note - capitals are getting out of hand).  

Now don't get me wrong, there are times when these RV campgrounds are the bee's knees (and we thank to good people at Trailer Life for pointing them out to us).  Let's face it, clean laundry is a good thing every now and then.  Showers too.  And the pools and playgrounds can be nice.  Yet ultimately one must realize, you are "camping" in a parking lot.  A beautiful, manicured, security controlled, amenity rich parking lot.  And to make sure your are staying in exactly the right park, Trailer Life even rates them on a complex three category rating system (which includes stars) for you.  If the park has all the above amenities, it will rate high.  However, if you are going to choose these places, you better be planning on traveling somewhere else during the day to see and do things.

To top it all off, these campgrounds often come with another feature.  50-60 year old conservative, evangelical white couples with small dogs, who preach the gospel and potentially believe that you might be on the road to eternal damnation should you not attend the campground endorsed service on Sunday.  While a bit wordy, the previous sentence accurately describes this prevalent demographic, to which I clearly do not belong.  While these folks are certainly very kind and I do respect their beliefs, I belong to a slightly different demographic, the 30-35ish moderate to liberal multi-theistic buddhist leaning white young family with large dog looking to see the world and hope that it is still around in a recognizable form for my child demographic.  I also like to go outside when I am camping, even if I am "camping" in an RV.  I use "camping" in quotes in this context for all my old dirtbag climbing buddies who are laughing their asses off at me for even using the words camping and recreational vehicle in the same sentence.

If you want to find more of my type demographic and less of the previous, you have got to angle for the public campground entries in Trailer Life,  which look a little forlorn, lacking capitals and such, and would read a little something like this: "Good interior roads, 67 tent sites, mostly shaded, 6 pull throughs.  14 day max stay.  Some sites water and electrical.  Dump station.  Pay phone."  To the true big rig enthusiast, this entry reads: "Good Luck."  Other things these campgrounds often seem to have are hiking trails, bodies of water, historical sites, recreation, national parks, and Democrats.

We learned of this dichotomy the hard way, when after a long string of nights in a couple of private campgrounds we started to sweat, get grumpy, feel a bit claustrophobic, and speak in tongues.  While both types of campgrounds can serve you well when needed, choose wisely and remember that nary the two shall meet.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

An American Institution

The phrase An American Institution is one that we hear all of the time.  People use it to describe famous people, places, and things.  It has evolved, essentially, into being a cliche.  However, there are times when this description is an apt one, and such is the case with the Grand Ole Opry.  The Opry got its start as a country music radio program in 1925 and has evolved today into a internationally known production.  And while there are several shows a week now,  it still is a radio program, recorded each Saturday and transmitted across the world.
Last Tuesday night, we got to experience all of this history and music from behind the scenes.  A good friend of ours, covertly known as the Flounder, is a big time muckity muck who knows people.  The last time we were in Nashville he kindly offered to take us to the Opry, but it would have meant ducking out on a friends rehearsal dinner, which wouldn't have been cool.  So, it had to wait.

The Opry's philosophy is a unique one.  It is a place where country music legends of the past, present, and future get together a couple of times a week and entertain their fans.  On any given performance night, you will see a mix of old tyme country performers in rhinestone shirts and jackets, young "new" country stars, and outlaw country guys in big beards and big hats.  We had a bit of all of that and then some.  We saw the Del McCoury band all dressed up in suits and slicked back hair, picking that mountain bluegrass, James Otto and Chuck Wicks playing some new country, Jimmy C. Newman and Bill Anderson bringing back some zydeco and country standards, and the highlight of it all, the Charlie Daniels band playing like only the Charlie Daniels band can.

Watching it all from backstage was fascinating.  First of all, you are just walking around by the dressing rooms and all the artists are milling around, talking, eating and drinking, and just having a good time.  You can tell, particularly with the more seasoned performers, that backstage at the Opry is kind of like home (in fact, they were having cake in honor of one of the longtime backstage employees who was retiring).  The younger ones, while smiling, are also rocking around on their heels, looking every bit like they are about to walk out onstage at the Opry and not quite sure they believe it.

Two highlights in particular.  

First, meeting Jimmy C. Newman, who is one of the nicest, funniest guys you will ever meet.  He is around 80 years old and still going strong.  He also tells some great jokes.  You see, down in Louisiana where Jimmy is from, they have the cajun version of the Sven and Ole jokes us upper midwesterners are familiar with.  These jokes are called Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes and Jimmy, having grown up and lived a great deal of his life in Louisiana, knows how to tell 'em.  I couldn't try to repeat his best one, not only because I can't come close to Jimmy's born and bred Cajun dialect, but also because this is a family show and it is before 9:00PM.  Suffice it to say, it involved duck hunting, water moccasins, and the risks a southern gentlemen takes when he decides to go out in the field.  A classic moment not to be forgotten.

Second, where else in the world do you run into Charlie Daniels in the bathroom (that's Charlie there in the bright yellow shirt and big hat.  The beard and the rest of him are just as big)?  I mean really, what are the odds of that?  Well, actually, backstage at the Opry they are reasonably good, but not anywhere else in the world.  Oh, and you should see Charlie's motor home.  Now that is rolling in style.  Had Francine been there, she would have been green with envy.  But anyway, we had wanted to get our picture taken with Charlie Daniels and were waiting for the right chance.  Then, I nearly run into him in the men's room.  As we shuffle past each other, he says "howya doing?" I say "good thanks" and off he goes to hit the stage.  Not really the time you stop and say "hey Charlie, would you mind standing over there by the urinal so I can get a picture with you and while we're at it, you mind if I run and get my wife?"

Such is life.  After that, Charlie and his band proceeded to go out on stage as the closing act.  First, he hears through the grapevine that their is a young navy seaman who is shipping off to Iraq the next day, so he has the house lights brought up and he recognizes this guy in front of the whole crowd, saying:  Ladies and Gentlemen, that right there is what stands between us and the enemy."  The crowd is on its feet and the family is in tears.  Then, Charlie and the Band bring the house down, including tearing through an absolutely smokin' rendition of The Devil Went Down to Georgia.  The man is a showman.  I have always loved that song and believe you me, it is a sight to see it happen live.

We had a great time in Nashville and would like to extend a big thank you to our good friends who hosted us (Flounder and his lovely wife and son).  Even though they are Minnesotans by birth, they showed us tremendous southern hospitality and Maggie was thrilled to have time to play with a friend.  

We will close things out with a few pictures from the Opry.  None are very good, as it is hard to take pictures in the dark, backstage.  But, it is a bit like second grade show and tell, you have to show the bad, blurry, grainy pictures, just so you can prove to your friends you were there.





















(Those church pews backstage are from the Ryman Auditorium, the original Opry home, which started its life as a church).


Friday, May 2, 2008

The Natchez Trace


Upon leaving Tishomingo, we decided that rather than racing across country on the interstate and getting blown away by convoys of speeding semis, we would take the Natchez Trace Parkway.  "The Trace," as it is called by the locals, is a federally owned scenic byway that travels through some of the most beautiful parts of Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee.  The Trace has been the way to go for travelers, commerce, Native Americans, and charlatans for hundreds or years.
The Trace started out centuries ago as a migration way for the great eastern bison herds that used to roam these parts of the country.  With those herds came the native tribes that used to hunt them.  Then came fur trappers, settlers, and business people who quickly realized that this old bison trail was the most direct route from Natchez, MS all the way to Nashville, TN.

Today the Trace is a beautiful two lane highway with a mellow 50 MPH limit and a prohibition on commercial trucks.  It also lacks fences, gas stations, fast food restaurants, and tourist traps.  Driving the Trace is a chance to road trip slowly and enjoy some beautiful scenery.  On our drive we saw countless wild turkeys, raptors, deer running through huge fields of flowering clover, and many fascinating historic sights.

We also saw dogwood trees.  Everwhere.  Stunning, luminescent, flowering dogwood trees.  While these trees are domesticated and found in yards all over the eastern U.S., they are breathtaking to see wild. 
 Basically, the dogwoods are a small tree that for a majority of the year is overshadowed by the great hardwoods above it.  It is essentially an under story tree.  
But each spring, the dogwoods have their chance to shine.  Through a symbiotic agreement with its arboreal neighbors, the dogwoods get to come out and play first.  They erupt into full flower before most of the other trees in the forest even completely leaf out.  For a few short weeks, this leads to an ephemeral sight.  Clouds of lustrous white flowers, which due to their trunks blending in with all the other trees, give the impression that they are floating throughout the hills and hardwood forests.

Along the way, we also passed another sight of historical significance.  To avoid having this blog start to sound like a boring history professor constantly droning on, I will refrain from spewing too many details.  But, in southwestern Tennessee, you do pass the final resting place of an American legend. Captain Merriweather Lewis.  Lewis died under somewhat material circumstances while traveling along the Trace from the Louisiana Territory (where he was Governor) back to Washington D.C. to deliver to President Jefferson some of his notes, specimens, and artifacts gathered on his great expedition to the West with Lieutenant William Clark (Clark's rank was not officially raised to Captain until Bill Clinton did so in 2001).

Lewis has always been an inspiration to me.  A true renaissance man.  Politician, scientist, outdoorsman, adventurer, and a leader of men.  A man, as President Jefferson eulogized, of "courage undaunted."


After 160 some miles of pleasant cruising on the Trace, we arrived in Franklin, TN, just south of Nashville.  Here we have been hanging out with some good friends and seeing some sights, including back stage at the Grand Ole Opry, which was quite an experience.  Stay tuned.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Beam Me Up Scotty

When you are traveling around the country for a while, you get to experience unique and exciting adventures that your everyday workingman doesn't.  I had this rare opportunity yesterday.  I boldly ventured forth to a place I have never gone before: Wal-Mart on a weekday, before 5PM.

Yes, you heard that right, I went to Wal-Mart during the day.  Now this may seem like a small adventure to many of you, but you must understand a few fundamental truths about me:  1) I am from Minnesota, we do Target, not Wal-Mart, 2) as a general rule, I don't shop, unless it is for fishing gear or tools, and 3) I have been living in campgrounds for a while, not in large metro areas.

While on this strange adventure, I noticed an unusual and unexplained phenomena.  A disturbing number of the men walking around the store were apparently wired into the Matrix via these strange Star Trek like communications devices attached to their ears.  Several conversations with esteemed Ethnographers revealed to me that these devices are known as Bluetooth Headsets.  Apparently, with the aid of this revolutionary device, one can answer their cell phone faster than John Henry Holliday, D.D.S. drew his weapon one dusty October afternoon in southern Arizona.

While I can perhaps see the alleged benefit of this dubious device when one is shooting down the highway at 80 miles an hour, these guys were pushing carts in Wal-Mart at 3:30PM on a Wednesday.  I have to ask if this is really necessary?  Perhaps all these guys were Obstetricians on call with a 40 week first timer, or perhaps they were nuclear first responders, but more than likely, not.  Do we really need to be able to answer the phone that fast?  So fast that we can't reach into our pocket, pull out the phone, and press send?  Is every call so important that we can't risk not getting it on the first ring?

While I will confess that in years past I did own one of these devices as a part of my previously plugged in persona, I certainly didn't wear it to Wal-Mart (or more likely Rocky Mountain Anglers).  Eventually, it died a quiet death in a drawer somewhere when I stopped charging and using it.

As I have started to settle in to this journey I have come to analyze my relationship with technology a little closer.  How much is too much?  Which gizmos are actually helping me; actually saving me time, and which ones leave their promises unfulfilled?  While this might be a funny question for a guy who at times has sidled into motel parking lots on this trip to try to poach some free Wi-Fi, for me it has been a good one to ask.

Too often the tools become the point.  The information becomes the experience.  Too often I have looked at the clock after a quick visit to the internet to look up something to find that an hour is gone.  What else could I have done in that time?

Part of the goal of the Slow Lane trip has been to try to change our pace of life a bit.  Technology is a big factor in that.  Now that I know again that I can go for days without internet, computers, and cell phones without dying (like we did just a few short years ago), I do feel life's pace slowing down.  Rather than having instant information, communication, and connectivity at your fingers, you have instant experience and interaction.  Give it a try!  But mind you, it is not always fun and games.  Give yourself a goal of staying offline, off a computer, and off a phone for a couple of days.  Ask yourself how comfortable you feel.

Jim Harrison, one of my favorite authors, stated once that while everyone always says life is too short, he believes life is actually seven times too long and that the reason why people fill up their days with so much business: they are bored and don't feel the urgency of life.  While I don't think life is too long by any means, it definitely feels just a little slower and just a little saner when you unplug for a while.

So to those of you who were at Wal-Mart yesterday at 3:30, next time, live dangerously and leave the earbud at home.  You could even leave the phone there with it...

Then again, this could all be the crazy ranting of a guy who lives in an RV, drives around the country with no job and no schedule.  If so, Beam ME up Scotty.

Tishomingo


Sometime between 1837 and 1839, an old Chickasaw warrior and medicine man, Chief Tishu Miku died while walking from northern Mississippi to the "Indian Country" in Oklahoma where the Chickasaw had been forcibly relocated.  At the time he died, Chief Tishu Miku was rumored to be 100 years old.  He was the last great leader of the free Chickasaw, when they still lived, hunted, and roamed through the bluffs of northern Mississippi.

While the current capitol of the Chickasaw nation is located in Oklahoma, that capitol is called Tishomingo (the Americanized version of the great chief's name), in honor of their great leader.  And although the Chickasaw nation has been in Oklahoma since 1856, it's flag still references the great chief, the Mississippi River (which means "without source" in Chickasaw), and the geography of northern Mississippi, their ancestral home.

Upon visiting Tishomingo State Park, in northeastern Mississippi, you can well see why this land was and is so revered by many Chickasaw, and the Europeans who came after them.  The geography here is much different that what I had conjured in my imagination as The Deep South.  From the rolling bluffs, the unique rock outcroppings, and the deep rock ravines of it's small creeks and streams, this is special land.  We spent several days here, hiking in the warm, gentle rain, exploring the park's history, and just enjoying the lake, the streams, and the hills.

Long after the Chickasaw were gone, white settlers also made their mark here as well, and those remnants too remain.  There is a lovely old settler's house, perfectly preserved on the property.  You will also find a 70 year old swinging suspension bridge, which tenuously stretches it's rusty string of cables across Bear Creek.