What we leave behind

New Orleans beckons, our date to board the Grande Caribe Wednesday, May 1^st.  Our departure has been calculated to give us an extra night on the road for a visit with friends near Mobile, a visit we’ve been talking about and promising – them and ourselves – for some eight years.

The water to the washing machine is off; the thermostats, switched to cool, are set at 82 degrees; the irrigation should run each Saturday we’re away; the refrigerator’s nearly empty; Tal took Belle to the vet yesterday (sweet girl who did NOT want to be left).  Should we not get home, we won’t be embarrassed.

How ludicrous is that?!?  An amazing thought ... How could we be – embarrassed, if we don’t get home?  If we don’t ever return, would we even know what people (our family and friends, no less) would be saying about us?  And, who in the world cares?  “Tisk, tisk.  Cluck, cluck.  How could they?”  Should the end come to pass, I won’t be there to hear it.

I do obsess over leaving the place in “dying order.”  While it might not be true for anyone else, it’s a learned behavior for me.  And, mind you, it’s not without its benefits.  Beyond the not dying part, there is a wonderful pleasure that comes out of the compulsion: a clean, orderly reentry.  That’s a pretty decent tradeoff for all the work, I’d say.

And, besides the not dying thing, I also struggle with the potential problem of not packing some vital item.  Admittedly, almost anything we might forget can be procured along the way or done without.  But, the angst of having to scramble at the last minute for hair goop or a prescription is such a confrontational pain.  It represents that most ultimate humiliation: having to admit a mistake.  Oh, perish that particular thought.

So far, so good.  We left home smoothly and I’ve not had any of those semi-sickening moments, like fearing the iron being left on or having forgotten a boarding pass.  The wonderful truth?  I enjoyed preparing our home for a long absence.  Everything I cleaned or put away was something I took a moment to appreciate; everything I placed in the suitcase was something I looked forward to using.

I am concluding that it’s ALL about attitude.  I can live in fear of being judged, of what someone might think.  Or I can revel in the life I am living.  I can dread the moment of uncertainty or I can embrace every moment as it comes.  A pretty simple either-or.

If I leave anything behind on this trip, I so want it to be the weight of that anticipatory judgment.  It’s simply not necessary to life; it's a terrible waste of time.  It limits who I am and everything I can become.  Even at the age of nearly 60 it stunts who and what I can become.  I am envisioning it – that big, mean-spirited not good enough view -- left behind on this trip and maybe, just maybe,  on the remainder of the journey that my life is. 

Joy versus judgment.  I’ll end up doing precisely the same thing no matter which attitude I choose.  I'll aways try to leave the house clean and not to forget anything not matter what.   But, one way will be so much more pleasant than the other.  

Leave it behind, girl.  Let it go.
 

Although we travelled from home to Valley AL in fair weather, the skies did darken rather dramatically once we were settled in for the late afternoon and evening.  I stood in the parking lot and waited for the entire disk to reveal itself.

Happiness: a definition

After yesterday this single sentence was a welcome find this morning, both provocative and sweetly settling.

Happiness is not a station you arrive at, but a manner of travelling.

-- Margaret Lee Runbeck

 



 

I know nothing about Ms Runbeck aside from her being a US author born in Des Moines, whose life span was 1905-1956.  But, I like the quote.  It's enough for now.



Our best efforts

Packing for a trip is an imprecise science, if it can be termed a science at all.  Our attempts to ensure that we have what we need when we need it while away from home involve what I term a “best effort.”  After taking into account what the travel company has to say about what to expect and consulting the long term weather forecast you do what you can and hope for the best.

So, while sweating – literally – over stacks of folded clothes covering the bed at home nearly two weeks ago, I couldn’t bring myself to invest precious suitcase space in anything fluffy or in long sleeves and or a turtleneck.  Every decision has consequences; I am paying for having not made that investment.

After Cleveland came Wyandotte (Michigan) and an ominous forecast for Lake Huron.  A combination of winds out of the north, five-to-seven foot seas, rain, a cold front were to be expected.  Best case, a hint of a window between two systems.  Worst case, sit it out in Wyandotte.

Ended up, the Grande Mariner slipped away from the dock at 4:00 yesterday morning, two hours ahead of schedule.  Twenty-nine hours and two Dramamine tablets later, we moored at the Arnold Transit dock on Mackinac Island.  A grey, rain-slicked Mackinac Island.

While wishing for warmer clothes, I am ever so grateful that bringing foul weather gear was never in question.  I’d have been vessel-bound if the Gortex had been left behind with the fleece, the long sleeves, the turtleneck.  Cold is one thing.  Cold and wet entirely another.

Next time (oh, and there will be one): at least one warm, versatile layer.  In the meantime, however, I’m here.  So, another foray into the chilly but colorful damp.  I’ll just be brisk about it.

Ballet afloat

Tal and I are watching Lake Erie from the open fantail of the Grande Mariner as we make our way to Cleveland.  There's a honeybee out here with us.  It lights on the back of a chair, flies up level with the upper deck or to one side of the ship or the other only to retreat, returning to the unbuffeted safely of the chair.  Again and again.  In much the same patterned route.

We left Buffalo's boat basin before supper yesterday, some 13 hours ago, and I am assuming that our pollen-laden visitor has been with us since, trapped in this boat-wide block of still air.  I wonder if it will be surprised when it emerges in Cleveland.  Will it know it's in new territory?  Where will it deposit the bright yellow pollen?

The two of us are not exactly bewildered as to our location from day to day -- there's a schedule posted on the bulletin board outside the lounge after all.  But, where we find ourselves is something of a marvel when reality casts a beam on us, a wonderfully frequent occurrence since we moved into 57B last Monday.  Sailing Lake Erie at dawn on a Tuesday in late May?  Really?  I guess we are not entirely unlike the bee who continues checking out the edges here at the back of the boat.

Unlike the bee, however, we have settled into a calm and leisurely routine.  Our cabin is small and terribly efficient, if we're careful.  While getting up, showered, dressed in the morning requires very few steps, having put everything away is essential, as is only one person going through the process at a time.  That keeps frustration and jostling to a minimum.  The routine we have developed includes my rising first and arriving in the lounge for early bird coffee just about the time the gurgling stops and the light on the urn flicks to red.  On the upper deck at dawn that hot coffee searing my throat I am guaranteed a period of solitude.  Once I get that bit of time, on board togetherness doesn't cost me over much psychic energy.

Making all this possible is the Grande Mariner's crew and staff.  Meals produced in a snug galley by two chefs and served by four stewardesses are as good as I have ever eaten.  The entire crew sees and attends to our needs almost before any of us realize we have a need at all.  And, watching the captain maneuver the vessel in tight places inspires awe even in the seasoned sailors among us.  In the background of all our leisure is washing and cleaning, scraping and painting, fueling and waste removal, the arrival of coaches for shore excursions and of performers and lecturers coming aboard to entertain or to instruct.

One way to describe what I am observing is a delicate balance among us as our little ship moves river to canal to lake.  The balance is not precarious.  It is not overly promoted.  But, it is careful, a deliberate set of steps, a dance that -- along with two 750 horsepower Caterpillar engines -- allows and defines our progress toward Chicago.

As I watch the honey bee take another breather before resuming its patrol of this air space, I have to wonder what getting to Chicago is going to be like.  Pondering that is likely a more worthwhile focus for me than wondering about a bewildered bee's arrival in Cleveland.  Harder work, too, I daresay.  Am I going to be the same person I was in Warren the first time a walked up the gang way?  After participating in this graceful dance along these historic waterways, I feel certain I'll recognize Chicago, but will I recognize myself?    

Celebrating a return

I am sitting on the upper deck of the M/V Grande Mariner in the Oswego Harbor looking out at Lake Ontario.  My perch is one of two spaces that jut out slightly behind the pilothouse on either side of the ship.  This morning I have chosen the port side (think left; both words having four letter is how I came to remember it) since the lighthouse, a small double structure of dwelling and light, both white and roofed in red, is on this side.  It sits on a long breakwater which curves into the mouth of the Oswego River from the west.  Its right side will be illuminated soon as dawn gives way to daylight and the sun rises.  It is 5:30; we are departing at 6:00.  Our destination today is Rochester.

Since we left home last Sunday, I have been keeping the journal as usual and camera use has been high.  No surprise there.  Computer time has been another thing all together.  The choice made itself.  The rivers we have sailed – the East, the Hudson, the Mohawk and the Oswego—and the canals we have navigated – the Erie and the Oswego – have claimed my near complete attention.  The weather over these days has been variable: wet to dry, cold to hot, overcast to sunny.  With foul weather gear I have been able to be out in most of it, drinking in the landscape along the rivers and marveling at the rise and fall of the ship in the locks.  There simply hasn't been time for computers.

In both sets of locks we have been something of a spectacle, being the first cruise ship to use the New York State Canal System this season.  At almost every lock there were a few locals ready to watch us lock through.  But, no place along the system could top the greeting our ship received in Waterford where the Mohawk joins the Hudson. 

We were escorted from the Federal Lock just north of Troy to Waterford, the canal's official beginning, by a large tug boat where a cluster of state and local dignitaries, the president of Blount Small Ship Adventures, a knot of television crews and reporters and onlookers of all ages awaited us.  Waterford’s fire truck pumped a long arc of water into our path.  The return of the Grande Mariner to the canal system was an event of special note.

Last year this time Tal and I were on her first Warren RI to Chicago IL run of the season.  Because of heavy springtime flooding in the northeast the Erie Canal opened late.  We entered it on its opening day.  But the water on the Oswego Canal was still too high for the ship to use and our itinerary was adjusted rather severely.  (A tour of historic waterways by bus was an interesting turn of events.  More about that in Meanderings from 17 May to  2 June.) 

Then, on Blount’s last runs of the 2011 season two of their three ships encountered Hurricane Irene and Tropical Storm Lee while in the canal system.  The passengers required rescue, the ships ended up trapped for 70 days and the state of New York spent millions repairing the locks and canal enough to free them.  Hence, the celebratory flay waving at the advent of the 2012 cruise season.

After all that a celebration and some handshaking was in order.  I decided it was a good sign; Tal and I should sail all the way to Chicago on this try.  It was our celebration, too.

O'Hare redeemed

It had to happen one day ...

Tal and I will have been married 21 years just past midway through next month.  And, in at least half a dozen attempts over the years we have never had a good experience flying into, out of or through Chicago's O'Hare Airport.  Any number of things has kept us aloft, grounded, delayed.  Thunderstorms nearing the southern end of Lake Michigan.  Ground delay in Atlanta.  Overweight aircraft (requiring removal of passengers and finding their luggage in the hold).

Today our frustrating and humorous track record changed. 

After another early morning (to which Tal awoke without yesterday's fever) and fabulous Embassy Suites breakfast we were aboard our coach at the main entrance to the hotel at 8:30.  O'Hare was first on the schedule, followed by Midway. 

But, wait.  The luggage which had been picked up from our rooms at 6:30 hadn't been brought downstairs yet.  I had a bad feeling ...  Did part of me want the day to be a snarl-filled trial?  Is the O'Hara "badge" we've worn for all these years something I didn't actually want to give up?  I wonder.

Anyway, despite the initial delay, we ended up at the US Airways counter ahead of schedule, obtained boarding passes and handed over our suitcases, breezed -- unshod -- through security and were seated at our gate for the 12:10 flight before 10:00.  Then, wonder of wonders, the flight boarded on time and, since all passengers were accounted for, we were airborne early.  Once in Charlotte the shuttle to remote parking was where and when we were told to expect it.  We found the car -- covered with 17 days of grit -- and were home before 7:00.

In short, the we could not have asked for a smoother day of travel.  Tomorrow we'll fetch Whitby and Belle from All God's Creatures, start the washer to churning, tackle the grass and plow through the mail.  For the moment, however, I'm going to be content with the end of our long-antagonistic relationship with O'Hare.

Curves and angles

This has been our longest travel day of the trip both in time and in distance.  Dearborn -- Hyatt Regency just off Michigan Avenue -- to Chicago -- Embassy Suites Downtown, mostly on I-94, almost 300 miles and nearly seven hours, including a one hour time change.  I did some writing aboard the coach in my last row nest, along with some pretty serious napping. 

Looking across the
Hyatt's atrium at the
open corridors

I am surprised by the fatigue I am experiencing.  One would think that not having to drive or to plot the route would leave me rested.  But, that is not the case.  At the moment, however, despite the length of the day, it seems as though I walked out of a curvy hotel one minute and into an angular one the next.

Detail (in black and white) of the circular six-story light fixture
in atrium of the Hyatt Regency, Dearborn MI

The Embassy Suite's open --
and straight-sided -- atrium

See what I mean?  Spacious, more airy and open than Dearborn.  Not as soft or as enveloping. I find it intriguing that, when I walk into either one (or a charming B&B or a nice Hampton Inn for that matter), I respond very positively.  Which do I like better?  I would be hard-pressed to say.  For tonight, squared-off is good.



The ceiling/roof of the Embassy Suites Downtown, looking up and toward the elevator lobbies.  The pattern is distinct, making locating the building with Google Earth a snap.

Our in transit hours, though, were not without highlights -- beyond the napping and writing. 

• Our lunch was at an Olive Garden in the vicinity of Kalamazoo.  Our experience, Tal's and mine, with that chain is that service is slow.  But, not today.  A staff of five was standing by when the coach pulled into the parking lot.  We were seated in a reserved dining room, ate sumptuously (salad and their signature bread sticks for me) and were back on the interstate in slightly over an hour.
• Despite still sitting on the left side of the bus, I spied two intriguing signs -- also while we were near Kalamazoo.  The town of Portage MI declares itself "a place for opportunities to grow."  I'd like to know more about that.  And, I also spotted a sign for the Air Zoo.  That I have since looked up -- an aviation museum and amusement park (located where? why Portage, of course).  It boasts an impressive array of aircraft, including a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird.  I could be convinced to go exploring ...
• Since we were, on the original itinerary (on Plans A and B, in fact, the bus adventure being Plan C) supposed to spend a day at Mackinac Island, near the intersection of Lakes Michigan and Huron, we watched an hour+ long DVD, "Ice Bridge," about the three-mile span of ice that some winters allows islanders to pass to the mainland.  This link will take you to a minute and a half preview of the DVD if you'd like to take a look.  We didn't get to spend the day and the DVD didn't really help with the attendant loss, but the show was truly lovely. 
• I wrote in my journal "3:35 ...  Lake Michigan."  I don't know what our precise location was for that first view and I don't know what time zone it was.  From that sight, however, its vastness was evident.



As I watched from the corridor outside our room, a couple
of teenagers coming from the pool stopped by the table
where an adult they knew was sitting, leaving their wet foot-
prints on the stone/tile/slate floor. 

 So, we're in Chicago.  I'll sign off with two final images, other views that captured my attention after our arrival.

The view from our room is north.  Through a canyon of tall buildings and over several parking garages one can see the tower (with flags flying) of the Montgomery Ward Memorial Building at Northwestern University.

A new wrinkle

Essays detailing the past few days are composed in my journal, but I've not taken the time away from our activities to sit with the computer and  type them.  Stay tuned for posts that pre-date this one with its late-breaking news..

Well, we learned our fate after dinner.  The water at Oswego is still above flood stage, raging over the dam, meaning that no repairs from winter damage have yet been made and none of the bouys have been installed for the season -- a three day chore once the water abates.  So, the canal will not open this week and a decision as to a target opening date won't be made until sometime next week.

With our revised, slowed-down schedule while we waited to see about Oswego we were going to have to go like the wind once we entered the Great Lakes to get to Chicago by breakfast on June 2nd.  It now looks doubtful that the boat will be in Chicago in time to begin its next scheduled trip on June 4th.  In any event we will not sail the Great Lakes on this trip.

We are, however, going to get the Eric Canal experience, cruising as far as Sylvan Beach, to quote our on-board historian, "leaving the boat (and crew) in the woods."  They and it will wait it out.  Once a vessel this size is in the canal system it's trapped, and the Grande Mariner has to get to Chicago.  We will -- it's our individual choice -- either fly home from Buffalo after seeing Niagara Falls or continue the adventure overland by coach.

The option to continue on is not unattractive and that's what we are going to do.  Several of the excursions that had had to be removed from the itinerary due to our dawdling here at the beginning have been reinstated, like time in Cleveland, Dearborn, Chicago with a visit to the Toledo Museum of Art and a Mud Hens game (think Klinger!).

I'm going to bed a little sad, but content.  People at Road Scholar, Coastal Adventures and Blount are working hard to arrange experiences between Buffalo and Chicago that will continue our historic waterway theme and Tal and I are together.  I cannot ask for or hope for anything better than that.  In fact, there isnt't anything better than that.

A turn in mid-stream

After a third exceptional supper we docked last evening on Rondout Creek for a one day, two night stay to visit the Kingston area. Our historian, Sam Ladley, has been talking since the tour began about the North American westward migration and the development of crucial water routes to the west.

The earliest settlements were established at portages, Kingston being one such town – the second oldest in New York state, only Albany being older. The village of Rondout and the city of Kingston are nearly a mile apart, the distance involving an elevation change of about 400 feet, Kingston on an easy-to-defend promontory. Once one town, Kingston has grown into a modern city, since eventually the road went there. Rondout has remained much like it was a century ago, a quaint, run-down, charming district.

Rondout Creek
Our boat will end up between the large
vessel to the left of the bridge support
and the small white boat to the right
of that support.

Now, a word about our actual arrival. We were in the dining room when out vessel made a turn to port into Rondout Creek, there the person at the helm fashioned a U-turn before reaching the bridge, the array on our stern too tall to pass under. The 185-foot Grande Mariner turning in a creek not much more than 200-feet wide proved to be a tense move, one made with many people aboard and ashore watching. Reminded me of my refusal to learn to back Tal’s fishing boat and trailer with an audience at a launch site one afternoon! The current (the Hudson to the dam at Troy is tidal) was strong making the stern obstinate to come about, but the maneuver was a success.

I have to say I do feel oddly privileged, even conspicuous when the Grande Mariner draws a crowd. We are so lucky to be doing this. How often I’ve seen people doing things I’ve dreamt of, watched and wondered what it must be like. Now I know …

We spent this morning in Kingston. 
The Old Dutch Church has been part
of the town's fabric for 350 years, its
churchyard a roll call of the influential.
Some of the very old markers have had
added to them a protective edge
to slow the deterioration of the stone.

During the afternoon we were bused to the
Delaware & Hudson Canal Museum in High Falls.
This is a detail of one of the five locks built
in 1847 showing the tight, skilled masonry work. 

A day of bridges

On Wednesday we departed the Blount dock in Warren well in advance of the publicized sailing time of 2:00PM.  All the passengers were aboard and enjoying a first meal and the tide was going out.  If the captain had waited until 2:00, we would have likely ended up enjoying dinner in Warren.

Last night the tables were turned; our departure from Newport was delayed by an hour and a half.  Given the unsettled weather the captain advised us to take advantage of the motion sickness remedies being offered and explained that we would not leave Newport until 9:30.  We were going to be in the Atlantic Ocean for about 90 minutes as we left the mouth of Narragansett Bay and made the turn west to enter the protection of the Long Island Sound.  His hope was that everyone would be in their cabins and ready for bed before the "rockin' n' rollin'" began.  Oh, what a ride.  And, then what a marvelous sleep as we sailed through the night.

We awoke, not surprisingly, to dense fog.  As we approached the East River after breakfast, the fog experience was made more intense by the regular sounding of our fog horn and several of the crew at the bow on both levels straining for sight of channel markers and other boats and obstructions.  The moment the Throgg's Neck Bridge miraged into view was ... well, beyond description.  (See my photographic effort for this date at my Flickr page.)

From there we sailed the East River to the southern tip of Manhattan and paused for a leisurely time bobbing about at the feet of Miss Liberty.  As we admired her and relished the moment, some thoughtful soul on the crew played Kate Smith's rendition of "God Bless America" over the PA.  Then, we made our way into the Hudson (not actually a river until beyond Albany, as it's tidal for 150 miles inland, making it an estuary of the Atlantic Ocean that far).

In total, we sailed under 14 bridges today (and, from Miss Liberty I could see the Varazanno-Narrows in the distance through the mist).  Need I say I photographed every one?  Probably not.  I shall refrain from "sharing" either images or bridge names in the proper order.  But, my parting shot is below -- looking back through the sea smoke at the fading George Washington Bridge from some distance up the Hudson.  Sigh ...

  

Presence of those long past

During breakfast this morning our captain moved the boat from the Newport Yachting Center to the pier at Fort Adams located at the mouth of Newport's harbor and the east passage into Narragansett Bay. After happily sampling wine at Greenvale our trolley buses returned us to the Grande Mariner for lunch. (We will eat all our meals aboard.)

Following lunch Rob McCormack with the Fort Adams Trust visitor services came aboard to make a presentation on the history, state and future of the facility which is the centerpiece of a Rhode Island state park. The intrepid among us braved a lateral rain to cross the parking lot for a special pre-season tour in order to see it for ourselves.

Established in 1799 and decommissioned in 1950 what stands today was built between 1824 and 1857. Fort Adams is the largest, most complex fort the United States has ever built and the vast 6.5 acre parade ground illustrates that statistic dramatically. It's surrounded by structures built at various times and now in various states of (dis)repair, the west, oldest, most decrepit side commanding a dramatic view of the Atlantic Ocean.

Detail of west side of Fort Adams

The rain decreased to sporadic and for most part we were quiet as we moved from location to location with our guide. In the populated and damp solitude in which I found myself I was strangely aware of the presence of the thousands of people who had labored and lived on that spot.  Its empty silence was anything but.

What almost wasn't

This is a trip that very nearly did not happen.  And, it might yet end up dry-docked, so to speak.  Rain has been falling for some time in New York state.  The Erie Canal has been able to be opened, although one lock might still be troublesome for our ship.  But, the Finger Lakes are draining at a furious rate and the water is so high on the Oswego Canal (which connects the Eric Canal to Lake Ontario) as to make it unusable.

So, the published itinerary has been altered radically, slowing down our progress in hopes that the magic date of May 27th will actually mark the canal's opening for the season.  At any rate, we are aboard, afloat, cast off, underway!

This our first view of the Grande Mariner from the coach which transported us from the Johnson & Wales Inn in Seekonk MA to the dock in Warren RI.  I'll work at getting a better shot from a dock along the way, a shot without junk in the foreground.

I feel sorry for those who planned and who are leading this historic waterways trip -- for the long-established and now undone schedule, for the last minute scramble they're going to have to handle through the coming 15 days.  While I have a disappointment or two related to stops we'll not longer be able to make, I don't feel particularly sorry for myself or us passengers.  We are off on an adventure!

Nancy Hauswald, program manager for Coastal Discoveries in Belfast ME, the company offering this trip for Road Scholar/Elderhostel, wrote us a letter about the situation in the Oswego Canal which awaited us in our cabins.  She included this quote from "The Wind in the Willows" (Kenneth Grahame):

Boats ... in or out of 'em, it doesn't matter.  Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it.  Whether you get away, or whether you don't, whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular, and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not ... The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness ... 'What a day I'm having!' he said.  'Let us start at once.' 

Gratitudes

It didn't have to happen that way.  Any of it.  It could have been different -- and difficult.

After several days of preparation Tal and I left home this morning bound for the Charlotte/Douglas International Airport, beyond that our present location, the Johnson and Wales Inn in Seekonk MA, and ultimately tomorrow The Grande Mariner, a 183' long, 40' wide, three-deck ship, at the Blount Small Ship Adventure Dock in Warren RI.  I have to admit to having been "journey proud," in that I didn't sleep well, fearful that I wouldn't hear the alarm, most anxious about the almost three-hour drive to Charlotte and safely depositing the car once there.

I heard both alarms -- the cell phone at 4:00 and the bedside clock at 4:10.  We were on our way only five minutes past our desired departure time of 5:00.  Our Garmin took us from Edgefield to Saluda to Newberry to Whitmire to Chester to I-77N to I-485N to Wilkinson Boulevard.  No turkeys, no deer, no school buses, no multi-car pileups.  Whew.

After a right turn onto Little Rock Road the very next right was, miraculously, into Long Term Parking #1 where two attendants pointed us into a parking space and the shuttle bus waited for us to gather ourselves and walk-not-run to its open door.  We were in the terminal and had divested ourselves of luggage by 8:00, were through security very shortly after that and ordered our breakfast at 8:23.  I know, I know.  Simply unheard of.

Now, admittedly, the aircraft we were to fly out on didn't arrive until very nearly our scheduled departure time of 10:00 and the runway US Airways was using was handling both incoming as well as outbound aircraft.  We became airborne at 40 minutes late.  But, we were only 10 minutes late arriving in Providence, the baggage appeared on the carousel as if by swift magic and the shuttle from the Johnson and Wales Inn had waited for us.

I could spin a different sort of yarn over the condition of Tal's luggage ...  Fret not, it arrived. 

His bag is considerably larger than mine so he volunteered to transport the small day pack we'll use when we're off the ship and two aluminum bottles which we'll use for water.  Those two suspiciously-shaped items, those metal bottles, must have set off an alarm with the TSA because Tal's bag had been pretty much unpacked and -- sort of -- repacked.  So much for all that ironing I'd done.

And, our pills.  He had counted out 15 days-worth for each of us, all secured in those small snap-top, seven-day cases.  Every little lid had been opened and seemingly every pill dumped into the suitcase loose.  We were, first of all, astonished and, secondly, oh so calm.  We unloaded the contents of the bag, refolded and repacked, making a mound of pills as we went.  And then, we re-snapped them into the pill cases, missing only a few and none of them essential.

I said I could spin a different tale.  But, I won't.  What would it help?  And, I don't want anything at all to negate the hardest part of the trip -- getting from home to the airport.  So very much could have gone wrong.  But, it didn't.  Having a plan unfold like clockwork is something of a rarity for us.  For lots of people. 

I am enormously grateful that the part of the trip over which Tal and I had any control at all wasn't a compete disaster.  The rest is somebody else's doing.  But, there's still control to be had -- control over myself and my own reactions.  And, today I -- and we -- did pretty darn well.

(One photograph at my Flickr page.  More in coming days.)

Supper in the sunroom

It's been a 650 mile day, give or take.  Tal and I started out from Lyn's at Lakewood Ranch after breakfast.  I was sort of amused by myself, my eyes lingering almost longingly on two distinct aspects of her neighborhood -- the tile roofs in a variety of colors and configurations and the numbers of lovely shore birds in the cove.  We headed south, back to Punta Gorda, to pick up Mom and begin the drive back to the South Carolina coast.

While planning our trip, the three of us had talked about stopping for the night somewhere along the way on our drive home given the distance involved.  I think, if Mom and I were to be completely honest, we suspected -- despite the talk -- that we would end up driving straight through.  Her Buick hummed right along and even with traffic and road construction we pulled into Mom's Pawleys Island driveway before 8:30.

From Charleston on, Tal and I discovered, Mom had been thinking about what was in her refrigerator.  By the time we had rearranged the cars and brought in the luggage she had a lovely, light supper under way (complete with libation) -- which we settled into comfortable chairs in her sun room to eat.  A nice, nourishing and relaxing conclusion to a long, safe drive and happy trip.

Welcome

And, I thought yesterday was long! 

Our travel today from Mom's to Lucia and Andy's  was some 500 miles (US17 to US17A to I-95 to I-295 to I-10 to US301 to I-75).  We were on the road in Mom's Buick long before daylight.  The upside to that beyond the mere satisfaction of being underway -- something of a Tarbox tradition -- is that with minimal but adequate stops we arrived before 3:30.  In fact, Lizzie was the only one home, and in the driveway, when we pulled through the gate.  After that three more arrivals -- Andy bringing Alex in from school and Lucia home from work -- filled out the house's population for the weekend.

It is good to be here.  But, I'm so tired and the house is quiet.  Since Lizzie's given up her room and bed, I'm going to receive her offering with gratitude.  Closing the book, capping the pen, turning out the light.

One of those days

We had coffee and breakfast, packed, closed the house, dropped Whitby and Belle at All God's Creatures and headed to Pawleys Island this morning.  Our destination, along with my mother, is to points in Florida -- Wesley Chapel, Lakewood Ranch and Punta Gorda, to visit family and friends. 

This morning's routine and our travel route Tal and I (and even the car) know by heart.  So many of the minutes of the day were taken up with immediate chores that there's little in particular to offer as this evening winds to a close.  The getting ready and the getting here required a lot.  The cameras stayed stowed, as did the journal and the book I'm reading.

But, what a sight we did see.  It was an overcast day and very windy.  We approached North SC and were surprised to see a lone C-17 (Globemaster III) airborne.  Touch and go in a cross wind being the lesson of the day, I suppose.  We lost sight of it for a time.  Beyond the airfield Tal slowed to make a left turn and there it was huge and hanging over Bull Swamp in a low, slow turn, landing gear down.

My closing thought as sleep beckons is of Whitby and Belle.  They approached being dropped off with grace.  In fact, I handed Belle's leash to Tara and Belle headed up the steps and into the building.  Cassie took Whitby and he set out on an exploratory walk.  Neither of our dogs looked back.  Well adjusted and secure, I suppose.  But, I sigh a little sadly anyway.  I wonder if they'll miss us.

Closed doors

Tal and I had a plan.  After canoeing the Allegash in September and touring Utah's national parks in October, we had decided we would take only one trip during 2011.  That trip was going to be a long-talked-about train trip across Canada from Quebec City to Vancouver.

Yesterday afternoon I settled in front of the computer to sign up for the trip.  I was met with a single word:  WAITLIST.  Wrongly, we had thought four months to be enough lead time.  I cannot begin to describe the disappointment.  We had been so pleased with the prospect of that trip.  And, disappointment isn't even an adequate description of how I felt as a sat there, the news sinking in.  It was a state of bewildered inaction.  Plus, I was going to have to tell Tal.  Further, now what?

At some point during the remainder of the day, from the recesses of memory, the Erie Canal came to mind.  A short online search ensued accompanied by rising hope.  It turns out we are going to have a pretty terrific adventure after all. 

Seems to me that more frequently than not disappointment doesn't have to mark the end.  An end, perhaps, but not the end.  It was the mother superior in The Sound of Music who advised a disappointed postulant Maria that God wouldn't close a door without opening a window.  In that story and in her real life story Maria ended up with a family and a life she could never have imagined.  A convent it wasn't.  Her life's calling it was.

Likewise my photographic efforts.  Generally, I set out to photograph something specific.  If I am not concerned about time or personal safety and if I let myself get involved in the process, it often happens that eventually I see something else entirely or that I see the original subject or some aspect of it in a new way.  When that happens the results of my time with the camera bear little resemblance to my initial intention, more pleasing almost without fail.

Clean sleeping bags

We arrived home from our trip to Utah on Monday afternoon, over a week ago. By the end of the week the house was clean, the pantry and refrigerator had been replenished, Whitby and Belle were used to being with us again after their two and a half weeks at All God's Creatures, the accumulated mail was sorted and handled and the laundry was all done. Well, almost ...

When we returned from canoeing on the Allagash in mid-September, we went through every task listed above. The major thing left undone before heading west was dealing with our sleeping bags. They had provided warmth and comfort for our nine nights of camping. They had been damp. They had hit the ground more than once. We'd crawled into them not always as clean as we would have liked. And, morning after morning -- including our last morning on the river -- we stuffed them tightly into their compression sacks, where they remained during the ten days we were home between trips and while we were in Utah.

Yesterday was the day for taking care of those bags, a project requiring commercial machines. After breakfast I made my way to Ridge Spring to the new laundromat where the washing and drying got done -- and my eyes were opened.

Commercial machines -- both front-loading -- are wonderful and fast! I wonder ... could I get a set in our laundry room?

Small satisfactions

It's early in Edgefield.

After 4274 safe miles, plus the 1250 we enjoyed with the Road Scholar group on the coach in Utah and Arizona, we have come full circle.  That is a big satisfaction.

The small ones?

1. Waking up at home.
2. Tal making coffee.
3. Coffee in bed.
4. Whitby and Belle on the bed with us.
5. Knowing I don't have to get everything on the "to do" list done today, or even this week.

I like those five, so I'll stop there. 

All days are not created equal

The title of this post is more an observation than a complaint. 

We left Albuquerque early and in high spirits this morning.  The Flagstaff to Albuquerque day had been a really good one.  Add to that a room with a view, our almost two hours of hiking amongst the petroglyphs and a signature dinner experience.  It was a great day among days.

Every high requires a coming down.  Period.  Consider the exchange between Peter and Jesus on what is now called the Mount of Transfiguration.  One doesn't have to be a Christian to understand that story to be an illustration of the point.  It's a fact of human experience. 

Today, more specifically our stopping for the night, was our coming down, not only from yesterday, I suspect, but from the whole of the Utah trip -- and probably September's canoing trip as well.

Picture it.  An attractive, four-floor hotel just off I-40 at Shawnee Oklahoma.  Situated at the end of the same complex as an overrun Super Wal-mart and a pulsating Buffalo Wild Wings.  (Obviously, it's Saturday night.)  A hotel, full for the evening, where, for reasons sort of obvious after a conversation with the manager, the housekeeping staff is in revolt, only two of them having worked that day.  Rooms not clean.  Trash bags piled high in the elevator lobbies.  The voices of wedding party and wedding guests -- all irate -- rising to a crescendo in the lobby.  The desk clerk flummoxed, helpless.  Janet and Tal with no place to go and too tired to drive on.

Supper consisted of Wendy's.  College football on the television.  Although the carpet hasn't been vacuumed and there's only one towel in the bath (we can share), the sheets are clean.  I'm going to go to bed and fall asleep remembering this morning's view.  There's no need to let the troubles that reside here have any more sway on this day than they already have.