A Brief Programming Note

The Slow Lane has made it's way to Bozeman, MT after leaving Minnesota and making our way across the North Dakota plains.  We will have several posts up shortly, updating you all on our current adventures.  Suffice it to say, we are experiencing the usual internet connectivity challenges...

MPR - A Special Report

This Special Edition of MPR is brought to you from Bloomington, Minnesota.  While visiting family in the Minneapolis area, Maggie reached the zenith of her playground reviewing life.  Throughout the last few months, we have visited playgrounds in nearly 15 states, each containing some combination of slides, ladders, swings, rocking animals, merry-go-rounds, and other thrill generating items.  But never in her 3.83 years on this planet had Maggie seen anything like the Nickelodeon Universe theme park at the Mall of America.

For those of you who have recently arrived to this planet from outer space,  you may not know that Minnesota is famous for, of all things, a shopping mall.  Yes, a sad but true association.  You want retail?  Get a charter to MSP and a ten minute cab ride will put you out of, or into, your misery.  However, know this. This is no mere run of the mill, basic, department stores on the corners, Gaps in the middle sort of mall.  This is the Mother of All Malls, The Mall of America.  This place is 4.2 MILLION square feet or retail heaven, or hell, depending on your perspective.    It is so big, I think Delaware hid Rhode Island here last year and no one has found it yet.  Seriously, look for next year's flags to have only 49 stars and a dollar sign on it.  

Spread out across the MOA's four floor, vertigo inspiring square design is every imaginable thing a human being may want to purchase . . . with the exception of decent fly fishing equipment.  That major detraction aside, it does have a huge attraction if you are an almost four year old who has spent too much time in the car: it has an indoor amusement park.

Now, we aren't just talking a ride here, ride there, local town Fourth of July traveling show kind of amusement park with some swings, a carousel, and the Spider ride.  No, we are talking about four story roller coasters, log flumes, bumper cars, blenders, big drops, and four story spinning surfboards, all with Sponge Bob running around too.  In short, it was kid nirvana.

When asked, after nearly seven (yes, you read that right) hours of running, eating, riding, singing, screaming, and getting her ears pierced, what this park rated out of five stars, Maggie said something like: "I don't know, like 27 stars or something!"  Please note dear reader that the "like" part of that quote is direct language from Margaret.  You see, it appears that our 3.83 year old little girl must have somehow come across a few abandoned episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 because she now officially speaks valley girl.  To a father whose occupation tends to demand precision of language, this sounds similar to a constant grating of one's nails on the proverbial chalkboard (not the 3.83 year olds know what a chalkboard is).

Verbal cheese graters aside, we did have a fantastic day with my Sister and her 4 children, who along with Maggie, turned the Nickelodeon Universe upside down.  For a guy who doesn't like to shop (unless for the aforementioned fishing gear), I do have to admit, we had more fun in that mall than any 8 people should have.  Lisa, my Sister, and I were even able to hit some of the big rides, which are tremendously fun.  There is even a roller coaster, the SpongeBob Square Pants Rock Bottom plunge, which sports a 68 foot first hill that drops down at 97 degrees!  That was a blast.

So, without further ado, some photos from this special edition of MPR.

Yes, we have a dog

At this point, I think it appropriate to introduce you to our dog, Zoe. While we have posted bits and pieces mentioning her, including her most recent unplanned hospital visit, it is time you the reader had a proper initiation into the life of Zoe the Dog.

Maggie is quick to inform nearly everyone we meet that we have a dog.  This introduction usually goes like this: "do you know what?  We have a dog."  When the engaged party inevitably responds: "really, what is your dog's name?" Maggie immediately will say: "Her name is Zoe, she's a border collie and she likes to eat trash." While both of these points are certainly true, some further breadth and depth is necessary to truly understand Zoe.

In December of 1995, I gave Lisa a gift certificate to the Minnesota Humane Society for a Christmas present.  We discussed wanting to get a border collie and one day, Lisa called me at work telling me she had bought a dog.  While it wasn't a pure bred border collie, it was a collie mutt, and Lisa fell for her the minute she saw her.  Lisa was out in the exercise yard with Zoe and as the were heading back in, Zoe picked up a ball that was laying outside.  The volunteer who was out with Lisa simply said to Zoe: "that's not yours," and Zoe dropped the ball and went back inside.  Sold.

What a smart dog we had.  We were so happy.  And indeed, she was a sweet, sweet puppy.  A funny looking black and white mutt with legs and tail just slightly oversized.  She was a lover.  I taught her to fetch the paper in about 20 minutes and she can still do it today.  She could tell her toys apart by name.  She slept on the bed because she would whine and cry if we made her sleep on the floor.

During our new dog parent bliss, we happily overlooked several telltale warning signs.  Zoe's previous owners had given her up when she was 5 months old.  They had named her Lady, and clearly even the early signs indicated this was no lady.  She had a tendency to chew things.  Oh, and she had an incredible amount of energy.

Over the next two years, these points were painfully brought to life.  This dog was perhaps a child of Satan.  She tore up her dog beds.  She ate a bottle of nail polish remover.  She actually chewed through an electrical cord that was plugged into a wall . . . while standing on the metal floor of her kennel.  She nearly ate a dog gate.  Once, when we had to put her in the kennel in the garage for a house showing, she tried to dig her way out through the metal floor, leaving her bloody and shaking.

Then, just as we were reaching the ragged edge of sanity, she turned two, and a switch flipped.  Sure, she could still run down a frisbee all day long, and yes, she snacked on the occasional coffee cup or Chicago Cutlery knife, but these things were manageable.  Again, we believed she really was a great dog.  During these years, we enjoyed a quiet life with our crazy canine, taking her everywhere with us, including on our first road trip in 1998-1999.  On that trip, she traveled 4,000 plus miles.  This for a dog who was car sick as a puppy.

All was well until Maggie came along (well, this may have been the trigger).  Then, Zoe had competition for the affection.  Then, things started to go bad, again.  In the autumn of her life, in addition to countless bags of haphazardly placed trash, Zoe has eaten coumandin based rat poison, numerous banana peels, Easter baskets (chocolate and all), an unimaginable variety of organic and semi-organic items outside, and the gold standard of "foraging," as our most recent vet so charitably called it, razor blades.

All of these incidents have blended together over the years and we have typically dealt with them through a mixture of frustration, disgust, and laughing disbelief.  Once we were battle tested, these foraging events became nothing a tablespoon or two of hydrogen peroxide induced vomiting couldn't handle.

But a couple of weeks ago, our attitudes changed.  That change occurred rapidly, or slowly depending on your point of view, as I stayed up for an entire night with Zoe as she vomited endlessly on the cold floor of Francine.  This was not normal.  This was not a bounce back after a quick bout of vomiting.  In fact, as I took Zoe to the vet in a bleary eyed stupor, I thought it might be the end.  I had never seen her so sick.  I thought our erstwhile companion might be through.  I was scared.

Hah!  Right.  All Zoe needed to kick a bout of pancreatitis was a short stay at the vet, a quick IV, some doggie drugs, and some special canned food.  Two days later she was back home with us as right as rain.  We were thrilled.  We loved her, spoiled her, and doted on her.  There is nothing like almost losing your dear canine companion to realize how rich she has made your life.

Shortly after her vet stay, we even talked about posting a blog tribute to her.  We would laud our unique, quirky, and indestructible nine-life dog.  We would talk about her being the unsung hero of the trip.  Always wagging her tail, never complaining, the faithful companion indeed.  Good thing we didn't fall for that.  We would have been just like that family 13 years ago who named her Lady.  We would have been duped.

Since her brush with the beyond, Zoe has learned nothing.  She has not changed.  She has not wisely settled in to enjoy her remaining days in peace.  No, no, no.  She has eaten trash, again. She broke in to the pantry at my sister's house with a canine sidekick and ate an entire bag of hamburger buns.  She ate half a bar of soap (one of her traditional favorites.)  And, needless to say, she has also suffered absolutely no ill effects.

All this brings us around to today.  As we were leaving for a quick trip to the Dairy Queen tonight, Lisa's dad says to me, "should we put those cans of dog food away?"  "No," I replied "she won't eat through the cans." Stupid, stupid, stupid, me.  You see, it seems that she will indeed eat through steel cans.  Apparently, the canned dog food from the vet had a strong impact on her.

So, we arrived home tonight to a back hallway covered with dog food, blood, cardboard, chewed up steel can, and a male schnauzer who I swear looked at me and said: "YOUR DOG IS X$#@!&@ CRAZY!!!!!"  And so she is.  She is also uninjured.  Sure she has a couple of scratches on her chin, a few cuts on her lips, and a gash on her tongue.  Nonetheless, within 10 minutes, she was licking crumbs up off the floor.  This dog has an unimaginable tolerance for pain.

The author Jim Harrison once wondered something to the effect of why we give our dogs ages in dog years.  You know, why do we assign seven years to a dog for every one year they live in order to get a sense of how old a dog is based on our perceptions.  He propositioned that perhaps, given the great contribution dogs make to our lives, we should determine our age based on the number of dogs we have had.  Based on this alternative age, I am nearly 3 full dogs old and feeling every bit of it.  In fact, I am going gray on my temples at 3.  

It is hard to describe how I feel about having Zoe as a pet.  She is neurotic trash eater.  She is obnoxiously pushy.  She is an incessant beggar and a relentless licker of every surface she can place her high mileage tongue on.  She is also one of the sweetest, smartest, most loving, friendly, and goofy four legged companions one could ever hope to have.  She is a go anywhere, do anything dog, who loves Maggie like crazy.  She has been one of the best dogs possible, I just hope, given life with her, that I live to see age 4 on the Harrison scale.

Interregnum

We have arrived at the spiritual half-way point of our journey, with the "east" behind us and the "west" beckoning.

We are going to take another week or so off from travel and enjoy visiting some family and sleeping in a full length bed.  During that time, the posting will be a bit slow.  We will get caught up on a few things and post a few pictures, however. 

Once we have some updates up, we will send out a quick e-mail letting you all know.

Thanks for reading, we love hearing from people who are reading the blog, so please drop a line.

A Tale of Two Beaches

It was the best of beaches and the worst of beaches.  In a short couple of weeks we experienced both.  After leaving Charleston, S.C., we headed just north to Huntington Beach State Park, which is just south of Myrtle Beach, S.C.  This park is located on the "Grand Strand," the famous stretch of Atlantic Ocean beach on the South Carolina coast.  

In addition to a stunning, three mile stretch of white sand beach, the park also has a fresh water lagoon, a salt water lagoon, and summer home of Archer and Ann Huntington, the original owners of the land on which the park is located.

We took some great walks through the park, seeing alligators, crabs, jellyfish, egrets, herons, shrimp, and squadrons of plunging shore birds.  The weather was as good as the scenery, too.  Low to mid 80s every day and only a little bit of rain.  

One of the things that we have tried to do as much as possible on this trip is make that little bit of extra effort to really enjoy unique experiences.  At Huntington Beach we had just such an experience.  We rallied the whole family out of bed at 5:15 in the morning to watch the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean.  While this was a real early morning for us, we were rewarded with a spectacular display.  

We hiked together to the beach through the sand dunes by the light of a dimming flashlight.  As we crossed part of the salt marsh, the moon was setting off to our right, glowing brightly in the pre-dawn.  

When we reached the beach, the sun just began to lighten the eastern sky. As Zoe ran up and down the beach

reading the morning scent newspaper, we took off our shoes, waded into the water, and soaked in the dawn of a new day.  The sky was perfect for a grand show; mostly clear with just a few clouds to highlight the color.  While I took nearly 30 pictures, here are a mere few, which will hopefully do the morning justice.

Huntington Beach marked the end of the first leg of the Slow Lane journey: our journey through the South.  While we did spend a few fine days in the Blue Ridge Mountains in western Virginia, our primary goal after South Carolina was to make our way back to the Midwest, to spend some quality time with family and friends in the lake country of Minnesota.

As part of that journey north, we steeled ourselves for the great jaunt across the Ohio-Indiana farm megaplex.  For those of you who have never driven across these states, this is vast, vast country.  Truly the nation's breadbasket.   On our way, we stayed one night in Chillicothe, OH, which was the original state capital of Ohio.

At our campsite there, we met one of our first younger couples of the trip, who were traveling the country in a 1958 Yellowstone travel trailer after getting married.  It was great fun sharing a campfire with them before we went our separate ways the next morning.  As spring has started to turn into summer, we have definitely seen more young families and kids traveling, which has really made us (particularly Maggie), happy.  

At the end of our long, windy, and slow journey across farm country, we stopped at an interesting state park at the southern tip of Lake Michigan, Indiana Dunes State Park.  The Dunes is a unique place, with a huge sand dune ecosystem along the lake.  When we arrived, it was beautiful, with temperatures in the upper 70s.  As we were cooking dinner and making a campfire, our weather radio went off with a weather warning.

For those of you who have not been to the Great Lakes, it can be hard to explain the ferocity of the weather.  Suffice it to say there are nearly 5,000 documented commercial shipwrecks lying on the bottom the Great Lakes.  In fact, several years ago, Lisa and I experienced the fickle and dangerous weather of Lake Superior aboard a 38 foot sailboat, when a storm bringing 35 knot winds, 6-8 foot seas, and pouring rain hit us out of nowhere.

Our short stay at Indiana Dunes was a dry land repeat of this experience.  The weather warning that rang out that night told mariners to seek immediate safe harbor, as the gentle south winds that were blowing 5 knots or so were going to switch 180 degrees in front of a cold front steaming south from Canada.  In a few short hours, the temperature dropped to 45 degrees, rain fell in sheets, and the winds were blowing at 30-40 knots.  Let me assure those of you who haven't experienced this type of weather: it is unpleasant.  It is cold, wet, scary weather.  If you were to park your car in the parking lot at the beach that day, you would have been treated to a free sandblasting.

For a family who had just been enjoying 85 degree temperatures on the beaches of South Carolina, this was an abrupt change.  At the same time, it was fun to see and brought back great memories of my years growing up in Minnesota.  The Great Lakes are a truly awesome environment and one everyone should experience.

Given the weather, we cut our stay at the Dunes short and headed to Chicago, which turned out to be a fateful decision, because when Zoe got sick, we were 5 blocks from a vet, not 1.5 hours.

Here are some photos of our second beach in two weeks.  Needless to say, we weren't beachcombing and swimming on this day.

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.