Times Change

At the Missouri River Overlook on I-90, a tepee made of concrete bars marks the 1804 and 1806 Missouri River campsite of Lewis and Clark. Here they collected specimens of pronghorn and prairie dogs; it was a welcome oasis where they stayed two full days both going and coming.

"I wouldn't like that much," I told Andy. "The tent for five or six men is the size of ours."

Later as we drove across broad expanses of prairie...

"11:55. We just picked up an hour crossing South Dakota," said Andy.

Ironic that I had been reading about fleeting time in McCann's novel Let the Great World Spin.

"So it's 10:55?" I asked. "Times change."

"Yup," he answered.

I wondered just how much of my double meaning was apparent.

Water, Water

"It was under water!"

That's what Andy answered when I asked him what to write about Pipestone National Monument.

Five successive days of heavy downpours had filled the sacred stone quarries with water. Only one Native American craftsman demonstrated carving techniques inside the visitor center for a small group of curious tourists.

"It makes me appreciate our three collector's pipes hanging in the living room even more than when we bought them at least 20 years ago," I told Andy.

If rain dampened hiking plans at Pipestone, the flooding upriver enhanced our visit to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The pictures of the water cascading over red quartzite downtown speak for themselves. The Queen B, a turbine driven flour company in the background, failed after two years. It must have been a dry spell.

Minnesota Wind Farms

Minnesota has no AT&T service. My cell phone won't even send a text. But out of nowhere, up pop windmills... everywhere... white arms whirling in the morning breeze, sun occasionally glinting off the blades as they cut the early mist.

In the midst, cell towers blink intermittent signals to everywhere that is not AT&T. Far off on the horizon, more swirling family clusters spring into view. Close up, towers flash between propeller blades, cranking, turning.

The wind picks up. "Forty mile per hour gusts," said the morning newscaster.

Little Red hugs the highway, riding low under the Minnesota wind as it whips across beige fields of dried out corn stalks. Roadside locust trees bend, and flame red sumac branches sway, as what yellow leaves are left on the aspen dance from the twigs.

Minnesota has had lots of rain; miniature lakes dot the edges of fallow fields where un-harvested cow corn stands knee deep in puddles. The sky stretches blue from left to right, with only a half dot moon to peek from the edge of the windshield as we breeze along. Andy and I drive in silence, taking in the vastness.

Outside of Jackson, Minnesota, a hundred white pillars, some with blades not yet attached, rise from the fields. A farm of windmills. A wind farm, growing, white stalks with roots planted in black earth, and all reaching up for the sun.

Nine Miles of Mounds

"It's too bad it didn't clear a little sooner and we might have had blue sky over the Mississippi," said Andy.

But the view at Hanging Rock was spectacular, regardless. We watched a riverboat paddle past, and a tug pushed a barge below us. The ancient peoples, who lived here at least 10,000 years ago, buried their dead at Effigy Mounds National Monument. They must have been struck by the same awe when they came here thousands of years ago and created a sacred burial ground by mounding dirt in animal-shaped effigies.

After eight miles of wood-chipped trails in the monument, we walked the boardwalk mile in Yellow River Bird Sanctuary, amazed at the level of the river after five days of rain.

"I heard the park ranger say the Mississippi is 17 feet over flood stage and still rising. It's not supposed to crest for another four days," Andy said as we walked.

"My friend Shannon reminded me to think of Mark Twain when I crossed the Mississippi. Instead, I see Huck Finn on Jackson's Island in the rain every time I look out across the water," I told Andy.

And the boardwalk at the bird sanctuary offered evidence of the devastating water level. Muddy sludge oozed over some boards. Little waves lapped when boats passed mid-river a couple football fields away. Other areas were impassable under a foot or more of the muddy Mississippi overflow.

Heading on West

We crossed the Mighty Mississippi late this afternoon.

Earlier I had called back to Mount Prospect after the good-byes and a 9:45 a.m. departure. "Mom, you won't believe it," I had told her on the cell phone.

"Where are you?" she asked immediately.
"About five miles north. It's grey and overcast at your house. Well, here there is not a cloud in the sky." And the rest of our day across Illinois was gorgeous. Activities included a couple mile-long hikes at Apple River Canyon State Park. "The terrain looks just like Connecticut with all the hardwood trees," commented Andy as we walked Pine Bluff and River Route.
We stopped at the home of Ulysses S. Grant in Galena, Illinois. Down the hill we discovered a one-room log cabin built by John and Mary Long in 1851, where the couple raised four kids. The home was later occupied by Henry Binns, his wife and six children until 1970.

"If you want an interesting free place to visit in southern Wisconsin, don't miss The Grotto in Dickeyville," recommended high school friend Connie when we chatted by phone.

"I'm all for interesting and free," I told her. "I'll tell Andy since I'm only the navigator."

Connie was right on. The Grotto, a religious and patriotic shrine, honored Catholic saints and our nation's founders. One man cemented millions of stones--from huge chunks of petrified wood to softball-size geodes to peas of obsidian and jasper and olivine. Every centimeter was covered, a visual testament of one man's passion.

"This is certainly a labor of love," said Andy.

"And apparently obsession and determination," I agreed. After advising high school yearbook for 17 years, as well as teaching English full time, I know all about obsession and determination.

Chicago... More than a Toddlin' Town



Buckingham Fountain in downtown Chicago spews rainbows of water color.

"There are only two things I really want to do in Chicago, besides spending a lot of time with your family," said Andy long before we arrived in the Windy City.

"And what would that be?" I had asked.
"I want to spend one evening at the Green Mill and hear Jim play, and I would like to go down to the city by train and see how Chicago has changed since we picked up our marriage license there 41 years ago."

"Sure enough," I agreed. And that's what we did. Our stops included Navy Pier, Buckingham Fountain and Millennium Park.

A Visit to Al Capone's Old Speakeasy

"It's hard to believe that Al Capone could really have spent time here," I said to my sister Jean as we walked into the Green Mill. "But it sure feels like Roaring Twenties."

"Well, I think it was the last time I was here last summer with Carol (our middle sister) that they told us he sat at that table," she added, pointing across the narrow bar room to a small table on the far side. "He could see both doorways from there."

I had explained to Andy earlier that rumor told of a trap door behind the bar that led to underground tunnels connected to dance halls down the street. Dim lighting, heavy wall carvings and murals, and locals who came to jitterbug in Twenties garb all screamed the Capone Mob lifestyle.

Lou Rugani, host of WLIP radio, emceed the evening at the Green Mill. Thursdays are swing band, featuring Alan Grescik's Swing Shift Orchestra. The unobtrusive night club offers three one-hour shifts of music, all swing from the Twenties and Thirties with singers Amanda Wolfe and David Sherman. Front row saxophonist is brother-in-law Jim Johnson, our reason for going.
With dancers swinging in the background, Andy, Sue, Helen and Jean hung out for two sets of nonstop music and fun.

Green Mill in Chicago brings back the Great Gatsby era.

Travel Brings New Profession

The week with Grandma Helen in Mount Prospect was not all work. even though when we arrived in northern Illinois, Andy trimmed all her trees and removed the overhanging branches from the roof. In addition, he cleaned out the gutters, repaired a lock on her door, took out some of the broken tiles in her basement and finished a few other odd jobs. Mom and I helped by bundling up four-foot armloads of cuttings and tying them with old twine. Days later Andy sat out front when he heard the garbage men in the neighborhood to be sure everything was collected.

On to Illinois

Retirement feels pretty good on Monday morning. As others rushed to work for 8:30 or 9:00 a.m. in downtown Indianapolis, we strolled along Meridan Street. Set off with pink begonias and red and white impatiens, the city came to life. Sun filtered through the trees around the Veterans Memorial, built in 1888, as the spire shot upward to a sky of puffy fair-weather clouds. Meticulously maintained, the monument, closed on Mondays, includes carvings of men and women from all branches of the service. Andy said he had read that Indiana lost more people in the wars than any other single state. Surrounded by flowers and trees, the impressive circular roundabout in the center of the downtown area reminds visitors, as well as residents, of that sacrifice. A couple blocks away the War Memorial, also immaculately maintained, glistened in the morning sun. Workers pretty much ignored our presence, only raising eyebrows at Andy's "Price Is Right" tee-shirt.
Our final stop on the way to Illinois was the Indianapolis Museum of Art (IMA) on 38th Street and Michigan Avenue. Leisurely we walked through the gardens and around the Lilly House and the 100-acre woods, not anxious to leave... appreciating the plants, as well as the art. "They need a statue of Winnie the Pooh," I joked with Andy. But the unusual outdoor statuary offered some interesting and beautiful perspectives. A group of 50 nursery school children and parent chaperons climbed on the basketball statue, and a college student asked if we had seen her class.
Then it was on to Mount Prospect.

Hints of Autumn in Indiana

A tourist stop in Waterville, Indiana,
emphasized how very small Little Red actually is. Other vehicles dwarfed the pint-sized Saturn in the line of parked cars. The area offered horse drawn buggy rides, a steam train excursion, and a canal boat cruise. There were shops of every kind, all offering handmade crafts and unusual gifts... tempting, beautiful, creative items. I wanted to shop.
"No, Sue," Andy ordered, "YOU MAY NOT BUY ANYTHING! If you do, I'm leaving you here!" We have no room in the car.

Revisiting Old Haunts

"I guess shorts are in. I don't remember girls wearing shorts like that when we went to school," said Andy as we sat at the Starbucks on High Street at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. A few college girls dressed in shorts and sorority shirts walked by early Sunday morning. "But then again it's 82 degrees out. Now I feel old."

"Why? what do you mean?" I asked. We had spent an hour strolling around the campus and remembering our lives here 41 years ago.

"It's amazing how it hasn't changed all that much," he reminisced.

"Even though it is so different?" I added, totally understanding where he was coming from.

We left the campus two hours later, both absorbed in our own thoughts of the past. The memories lingered. Years at Miami University had shaped us both into the people we would become, and it was here that our paths crossed. It was here that our lives came together so long ago.

Flying!

"I feel so dumb!" I said to Andy at the end of our travel day.

"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, after trying all day to read everything, I feel like I know less than when we started. There is just so much to learn!"

Early this morning Leisa and Ryan, the rangers at the Wright-Dunbar Interpretive Center in downtown Dayton, Ohio, visited with us about patents, the Wright Brothers and education in general. I listened with admiration, wishing I could remember all the facts about the talented Wright Brothers as inventors and businessmen.

Then, in the Wright Cycle Company on South William Street, Kim told us more about the legendary developers of the first airplane. The fourth shop seemed such a practical place to run a business. The fifth shop across the street had been purchased by Henry Ford, dismantled and moved to Greenfield Village in Michigan. It surprised Andy and me that today any interested buyer could purchase a house in the neighborhood for $1.00 with the promise to stay for five years and fix up the property. Undoubtedly, the Wright Brothers would have been amazed at how things change.

Finally, we spent the rest of the day at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, site of the annual Air Force Marathon. I don't know how many people registered to run the race, but I saw #10,589 leave the finish area. Three middle aged people crossed that same finish at 4 p.m. when Andy and I were heading toward the car. We felt as though we had run a Marathon as we left the seven museum buildings. It had to be more than a few miles of strolling through incredible displays of the history of flight. It only confirmed how much I didn't know about history, aeronautics and famous Americans in general. I found myself wishing I could just absorb it all at once and frustrated with my own slow rate of learning and educational shortcomings. But tomorrow is another day, and I'll keep on trying.

Going Back in Time

If you think traffic is bad back home, it's nothing compared to Morgantown, West Virginia, or Chillicothe, Ohio! The traffic lights are all out of sync, so whole lines of cars sit through five and six light changes without going anywhere.

Hopewell Mounds mark the site of
ancient Indian burials.

After our longest driving day yet, we
relished a few hours of exploring several ancient Hopewell Indian sites and strolling among the mounds. Archaeologists must find it fascinating to piece together all the relics recovered from the ruins, usually thought to have religious, ceremonial and social purposes, as well as being the burial places of a few cremated bodies of an ancient and highly civilized people.

"I'd like to be a lady bug on the wall for a few hours in those early times and observe life," I told Andy as we walked.

"Really? I'd rather see the future," he suggested.

Rain, rain, go away

Rain, rain, enough! But we understand that Pennsylvania needs it as badly as New England this year. Unfortunately, Little Red is not as waterproof as a car should be. After 15 years, the door moldings leak, and I forgot that had been a problem since rain has been so rare this past summer. We can even hear the drip as water drops fall on the cooler in the back just behind my head. But George Washington had it a lot worse when it poured all during the French attack on Fort Necessity. A Kleenex box solved our problem temporarily, and the weather should clear tomorrow. In the meantime, our hikes have been cut short by downpours off and on all day. Washington, on the other hand, faced the annihilation of half of his 400 men.
The only tourists at Fort Necessity National Battlefield, we watched the 25-minute educational film, amazed at the history we had missed along the way. I never knew George Washington made such serious tactical mistakes as a 22-year old. It started the French and Indian War when he accidentally signed a water-smudged surrender that stated he had murdered a French officer.
Our second stop, Christian W. Klay Winery in Chalk Hill, Pennsylvania, offered a refuge from the 11:00 a.m. drenching and lots of quality samples for tasting.
Washington's Tavern was closed, but we dashed around the old Georgian mansion in between raindrops. Luckily, our wind breakers only absorbed some of the water.
Braddock's grave was equally as drenched, but we ran out for a quick look at the final resting place of the British general who triggered Indian hatred of the British by addressing the American Indians as savages. Washington buried him in the middle of the road he was clearing for westward travel so the Indians couldn't desecrate his body.
Friendship Hill National Historic Site, the frontier home of Albert Gallatin, secretary of the treasury for 13 years in the late 1700's and early 1800's, would fascinate kids as well as adults. With free-standing staircases of 21 steps each and four or five additions between 1728 and 1902, the house is a fascinating assemblage of unusual architecture and significant U.S. historical influences. Gallatin wanted to balance the budget and reduce the national debt. He advocated for public education and argued against slavery. We need him today! The private tour was a treat, and our guide, superb.
Arriving in Morgantown, West Virginia, Andy checked in at the hotel desk wearing his Virginia Tech tee-shirt.
"I don't think it's a good idea to wear that around here," she said.
"I guess you are right," he answered, "but this is my $85,000 shirt, so I maintain a certain level of allegiance."
Los Mariachis won out over Chick Fil A for dinner. Yum! No arguments with that choice!

Munch lunch

The Johnstown Flood National Memorial offered a lesson in history I had not remembered. The South Fork Fishing and Hiking Club, a group of wealthy tycoons, was accused of causing the flood by not up-keeping the dam that held back the lake north of Johnstown. The flood killed 2,209 people, and that was only bodies recovered. The club claimed "Act of God" and lawyers absolved the group of all responsibility. The Museum and its 25-minute film provide a moving tribute to what happens when people cut corners and ignore warnings. Unbelievable! Andy actually fed me lunch two days in a row. The deal was light breakfast and no lunch. But yesterday we each had an apple, and today we shared one breakfast granola bar and one cranberry wine cooler, compliments of Tara's refrigerator. He wasn't kidding when he said I would lose weight.

Steinbeck commented about feeling like a turtle with his shell on his back as he drove in Rocinante, his converted truck. I can relate, but Little Red is a much smaller shell. Getting up this morning, Andy looked for his big blue comb. "Did you bring my favorite comb?" he wanted to know as he tore apart the cosmetic case.

"I brought everything you left on the counter in the bathroom. It's all packed in the cosmetic case," I told him, afraid I might have neglected the comb. "But did you bring the comb? Oh, good girl. here it is."

A pleasant surprise was the evening stop at Conemaugh Gap Scenic Overlook, west of Johnstown, that commemorated people who had died fighting in U.S. wars. The simple display of flags and flowers against the spectacular treed valley offered a peaceful respite after a busy day. We met a man who stopped on his way home from work to water the marigolds. I guess there are still true patriots who go beyond the norm and value more than the dollar.

Ricketts Glen

In spite of the drought in most of the Northeast, the waterfalls of Ricketts Glen were still spectacular. The steep trail wound along two converging steams that dropped into two beautiful gorges. Hiking meant picking our way over rocks and tree roots and crossing back and forth over the streams.

Andy recommends this park to all visitors who come to this area of Pennsylvania. Don't miss it! I kept a closer eye on my feet, trying to multitask with the camera, and hoping not to slip and fall and break another wrist.

Steamtown

Andy, already in job retraining, files the mail for the railroad. He wasn't qualified enough to shovel coal or polish engines.

Setting Out to See America

Feeling a little like teenage hippies, we hit the road at 8:45 a.m., heading to Scranton, Pennsylvania, and Steamtown National Historic Site.

Overloaded already, the car offered no room for the four extra outfits I had unobtrusively stuffed into the suitcase.

"I'm not piling things so high in the back that it blocks the window," declared Andy, and we didn't.

The last steam locomotive carrying passengers in this area dated back to 1960; that seemed late for such "outdated" technology to be operating. But the historic site is now home to 28 locomotives, most very impressive in size and restoration.

On to Ricketts Glen state park and the Falls Trail for hiking, a challenging loop walk that follows two converging streams that carved a gorge with 17 waterfalls.

Advantages to travel during the week in September: 1. Other than the two overturned semis with container boxes spewed all over the highway, the traffic moved steadily. 2. In Steamtown, only a father and son joined us in the 250-seat theater to watch the story of steam locomotives in America. 3. The gorgeous weather invited outdoor activity so our hike in Ricketts Glen provided spectacular views of the falls with almost no competition from other travelers.

Preparations

Sue and Andy leave on a coast-to-coast adventure.

And so preparations began: Like replacing all four tires on Little Red, checking the vehicle and making sure the 15-year old car could handle the stress, ordering medications that couldn’t be mailed to no mailing address, setting up a web site and learning about WiFi access, packing clothes for all kinds of weather, a variety of situations, and all in ONE suitcase. "Should we get quarters for laundry?" I asked. "No, but take detergent. And dryer sheets, I guess," Andy suggested. "How do we access money?" I wanted to know. "I'll learn how to use the ATM," Andy promised. "It’s about time," said the kids. "Can I take some books to read?" I asked. "Yes," said Andy, "One or two. You need to fit in a Saturn! What don't you get about “THERE IS NO ROOM IN A SATURN?” "How about my pillow?" I wanted to know. "FORGET IT!" he insisted. That's when I figured I had better cut down on the baggage.

The best laid plans...

Rocinante died. Well, almost. “What do you mean ‘the truck won’t make it’? It drives very well,” said Andy to the garage mechanic, after a mid-summer check of his Ford Ranger. “I know it has 189,000 miles, but it handles beautifully, and you replaced the clutch nine months ago. It doesn’t burn any oil, and it gets 23 miles to the gallon on the highway.” Andy figured that his 10-year old Ranger would be ready for the junk yard after our 15,000-mile trip, but it seemed such a shame to buy a new truck with the exact same gas mileage as his trusty Ranger. Often Andy commented, “The trucks today are a disgrace. Companies have done nothing in ten years to improve performance. I’d buy a new truck in a minute if they got better mileage than what I have now.” Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be. Andy had even planned to buy a cheap box cover and sleep in the back bed if circumstances dictated. That was the master plan after a couple months of checking out new vehicles. Enlightening discoveries: new trucks are either four-cylinder or eight-cylinder and bed covers for old trucks don’t come cheap. "Fours" wouldn't even make it up the mountains, and the "eights" would bankrupt us in gas. I telephoned local junk yards and used parts dealers for Ranger tops… unsuccessfully. “All I can tell you, Mr. B,” explained the garage mechanic, “is that this truck isn’t going to make it in my opinion. The gas line looks rusty, the muffler and tail pipe clamps are falling off, and the head gasket shows major wear. The Ranger will probably last you a year around here, but I wouldn’t trust the long distances. Rangers are notorious for dying around 200,000 miles, and you are getting close.”

“Okay, so what are we going to do now?” asked Andy as he walked in the back door. “I don’t really want to buy a new truck.”

“My Saturn?” I offered, immediately regretting the suggestion.

“Sure, that would work,” he jumped at the mention. And from that point on, Little Red was our vehicle of choice, and the decree of one suitcase per person became the law of travel preparation.