An Epilogue: The World Awaits

Unexpected, unlikely events like walking barefoot on a beach on Thanksgiving Day or seeing orchids on a raw afternoon in February, marked our serendipitous journey. Every day was different, unusual, special. All 33 states offered beautiful places, friendly people, interesting activities.

Our travels covered 25,228 miles in 165 days, an average of 153 miles a day in a huge circle around the United States.

The vehicle, our 16-year old Little Red Saturn, turned over 104,000 miles before we got home.

We planned ahead and stayed impromptu. We arranged visits with friends and improvised. The National Parks Golden Age pass was our admission ticket and rangers, our friends. We visited people we had not seen in 40 years and kept in touch with family daily, thanks to email and blogging on a laptop and texting and calling on a cell phone. We felt that age-old exploring spirit and utilized that modern technology.

We spent an average of $95.27 a day for a total of 165 days. That average included all costs: food, motels, gasoline, oil changes. souvenirs, supplies, admissions and treats.
In addition, we saved more than $530 in admission fees by clipping coupons, using the National Parks Golden Age pass and doing some careful planning.

Do we have regrets? The four days of rain.

Would we do it again? In a heartbeat.

The world awaits. And we are ready to go.

Home Once Again

As we climbed into Little Red at Hampton Plantation in Maryland, I knew this was our final tourist stop. The wind roared around us and Little Red swayed. No question, weather was sending a message.

Suddenly, a crack in the distance broke the whistling. "A tree," I guessed.

"No, I don't think so," said Andy. Then another, bigger crash. "That WAS a tree," he agreed.

A block away, as we left the Hampton driveway, we saw the culprits. A large branch blocked the road on the hilltop, but down below at the main gate a huge collapsed tree had taken the power lines. The transformer exploded in white flashes and giant balls of flame.

"I guess we will try a different exit," said Andy, "and a whole lot of people around here won't have power tonight."

"Nothing like going out in a flash of brilliance," I joked.

We paid our tolls and zipped through Delaware. Wind gusts rocked the car, jostling us back and forth on the bridges.

New Jersey disgraced. With the Rest Area closed and locked due to Governor Chris Christie's cut-backs, the state had provided four Porta-Potties. Apparently, funds were not allotted for upkeep though.

"That's just disgusting," said Andy. They were hardly usable.
John Steinbeck witnessed the sickness of discrimination and prejudice as he drove through Louisiana and the South in 1960. He wrote, "I was ill with a kind of sorrow." And he headed home immediately in a kind of blind fury, his exploration of America over soon after he left New Orleans. He wrote, "Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased." Steinbeck's trip had not continued.

We experienced no such racial tension, only the economic divisions more and more evident between the haves and have nots in a country with a dwindling middle class.

But I knew our trip had ended last night when Andy turned off the weather and said, "Saturday isn't worth it if Friday and Sunday are lousy. We can save a few nights in motels since we're this close to home." He had made up his mind.
We headed into black thunder snow clouds with winds gusting 60 m.p.h. At the Connecticut state welcome sign, three-foot piles of snow suddenly lined the highways, even though there was barely a splotch in New York City and none in New Jersey. Here at home, winter ruled.

Well after dark Little Red glided up the driveway--25,228 miles in 165 days, an average of 153 miles per day--a journey complete.
Like John Steinbeck wrote, "And that's how the travelers came home again."

Hampton and More

A palace in the wilder-ness, Hampton flaunted elegance as the largest house in the entire United States in 1790. Ranger Alan hosted a private one-hour tour of the mansion for a small group from Annapolis. "You may join us," he welcomed Andy and me. Grey when we arrived, the skies cleared by the time the tour ended.

The National Park Service obtained the Georgian mansion and 60 acres, because in 1948, when the Ridgely family couldn't afford to keep it and the government couldn't afford to buy it, John Ridgely Jr. sold it to the Mellon Foundation for $60,000 with a promise they would donate house and property to the National Park Service in the interest of its outstanding architectural merit and historical significance. He certainly didn't make much, but he didn't lose the house either.

The sedate Georgian mansion, built between 1783 and 1790, elegantly furnished and settled amid gardens and shade trees, showed nearly perfect classic symmetry--three stories connected to smaller wings on either side by hallways or hyphens. The exterior stone, quarried on the property, was stuccoed over and scored to resemble blocks of limestone.

Built as a summer home, the Ridgely house and property, which they called Hampton House, equaled half the area of present-day Baltimore, and it made its owners rich through iron production, agriculture and investments.

Ranger Alan led us through the great hall and showed the parlor, drawing room, dining room and kitchen downstairs. "Most of the furnishings are original," he explained. They were brought from Europe, purchased with grain, iron and timber on the Europe-bound merchant ships owned by Ridgely. His ships, such as the Baltimore Torn, carried raw foodstuffs to England and returned with manufactured goods and luxury items.

During the American Revolution, the Ridgely family aligned with the Patriot cause. Charles Ridgely turned out camp kettles; round shot, ranging from two to eighteen pounds; and cannon of various sizes from his Plantation in the Forrest, the company name of his ironworks. "The colonies were the third largest producer of pig iron in the world," said Ranger Alan.

Then he took the tour group upstairs to see the five adult bedrooms and Eliza's room. The only living daughter of John and Eliza Ridgely in the early 1800's, she wanted a bedroom with the grownups. Her brothers all slept upstairs.

After Ranger Alan's indoor tour, Andy and I drove to the Lower House, home site of the plantation overseer. This house was occupied by the Ridgely family before the mansion was finished in the 1700's and after it was sold in 1948.
In addition, we saw the dairy that utilized flowing stream water to keep milk and butter cold. It was state-of-the-art for its day. Ranger Alan had told us of the cleverness and technological genius of Charles Ridgely.

Here too were slave houses, built of stone so they would look nice from the mansion on the hill. Hampton's slave population at its height numbered more than 300, making it one of the largest slave plantations in Maryland. Indentured servants and paid labor kept the plantation functioning, as well. Inexplicably, Governor John Ridgely freed all his slaves at his death. Maybe it was religious awakening. Maybe he suspected the Civil War was coming and would free the slaves for him. Or maybe he was just a guy way ahead of his time.

Hardly Poetic Justice

"On and off drizzle," reported the television newscaster. I heard Andy grunt. "Bands of rain will move through the area, and expect 60 m.p.h. wind gusts by afternoon as the front moves out to sea," said the TV voice. "Winds could be higher than people are able to drive around here," she commented.
"Well, that's debatable," said Andy, answering the television.
"So does that mean we are going home?" I asked from the motel dressing area.
"I haven't decided yet, but 90 percent chance," he called back.
The debate had raged for 24 hours.
"Do I sense homesickness?" asked Drew on the phone the night before.
"I don't think so," I told him. "Certainly not on my part."
"NO!" said Andy vehemently. "I just see no reason to pay for a motel so close to home to watch drizzle."
I wiped the shampoo bottle and wriggled it into the cosmetic case, as I had done for 164 other mornings.
"I found a motel in Baltimore," called Andy, "but I didn't make a reservation."
Mentally and almost mechanically, I followed the routine: zip duffel bags, pack computer, cross check drawers, then check once more to be sure we had not left any small object on the closet shelf, behind the door in the bathroom or in a bureau drawer.
"Traffic back up on Route #66," said Andy, as I placed bags by the door so he could pack Little Red. "It's dreary outside. Really damp."
I couldn't believe we were going home.
We climbed in Little Red, maybe for the last morning. A light mist fogged the windows, but my seat was not wet.
"Kentucky got four to six inches of rain last night from this. It's a huge storm, and we are getting the fringes," said Andy. "But the effects of this weather-maker last several days, according to forecasters." Rain dribbled as we traveled north to Interstate #495 and connected with Interstate #95 to Baltimore.
At the first Rest Area, some piles of dirty snow packed the corners. They looked like someone had dumped coal dust on ice piles.

"It's not very nice outside," said Andy.
We picked up maps and a couple travel fliers.
"Broken clouds ahead," said Andy. "If it's not raining, we'll go to Fort McHenry."
Alternately turning off wipers and flipping them to low, we squinted through drops and splatters. "There's a bit more snow here," said Andy. Stray piles dotted corners and lined roads. Grey clouds hung low over Fort McHenry and the harbor. Construction left mud everywhere, but it wasn't raining... much.
"Come back next week for our grand reopening," invited a ranger, when we checked in.
"How in the world are they going to have this ready for next week?" I asked Andy. "It's a muddy mess, and the Canada geese haven't helped much."
We walked the bricked paths of the star fort and read the interpretive signs. Of course, we knew Francis Scott Key wrote, The Star Spangled Banner here, but there was so much more. Key watched the battle between British and Americans from the truce ship behind the British fleet in Patapaco Bay on September 14, 1814.
The wool flag at the fort in 1813, stitched by Mary Pickersgill, a Baltimore seamstress, measured 30 x 42 feet with 15 stripes and 15 stars. It was our country's flag from 1795 to 1818.
The ranger explained that the fort currently flies a nylon replica flag, weather permitting. It's so big it takes three to five people to raise and lower it, and it can only be flown when winds are between 5 and 12 m.p.h. Sustained wind over 12 m.p.h. puts dangerous stress on the flagpole.

I read another interesting tidbit. Fort McHenry flew the very first 50-star flag anywhere in the U.S. on July 4, 1960, after Hawaii became a state.
"Now that's poetic justice," I said to Andy.

As we walked outside, the clouds broke and the wind picked up. The fort had withstood heavy firing during the War of 1812, but the ramparts remained in good condition. Records indicate 1,500 bombs and 700 rockets hit, but damage to the earthen structure was limited. The British kept a wary distance, fearing the red hot cannon balls that set wooden sailing vessels on fire, and the 32-pound guns in the fort had a mile and a half range.
The British called the attack on Baltimore payback for supposed American raids from Baltimore Harbor on more than 500 British merchant ships. They burned Washington, D.C. and attacked Baltimore in reprisal.

Inside the fort, Andy and I looked at soldier quarters, where enlisted men slept four to a bunk bed. An interpretive sign said that Fort McHenry served as a jail, as well. Sometimes called "the American Bastille," the fort housed Southern sympathizers after a Baltimore uprising on April 19, 1861, and Maryland legislators were locked up here so they could not vote for secession, considering Maryland was a slave-holding state.

Ironically, even Francis Scott Key's grandson Frank Key Howard, a Southern sympathizer, was jailed at Fort McHenry.
Beautiful blue skies greeted us outside, as a ranger and volunteer waited for military guests who were coming to town. We circled the fort on the outer perimeter, heads down to forge against the increasing wind.

A statue of Orpheus, the Greek mythological poet, musician and singer, unveiled on June 14, 1922, reminded tourists of Key's musical contribution. The statue, Orpheus with the Awkward Foot, originally at the entrance to the fort, was dedicated by President Warren G. Harding in the first coast-to-coast radio broadcast by a U.S. President.

"It's classical, but I can't believe they chose that from 30 or 40 submitted designs," said Andy. "It doesn't seem to fit here." At the entrance to a fort, the nearly nude Orpheus with a fig leaf covering looked out of place.

"I'll never sing the words 'Oh, say can you see,' the same way again," I joked.

Drizzle in D.C.

As we stepped outside and headed toward the National Gardens and the United States Botanic Garden greenhouses, grey clouds hung low and heavy.

"I hope the rain holds off a while longer," said Andy.
We walked through the outdoor garden, mostly devoid of green in late February. Rose bushes in the Margaret Hagedorn Rose Garden poked up dead-looking stalks and the First Ladies Water Garden granite pools lay empty and dry.
"Wrong time of year to see much here," said Andy. "Let's go inside."

Stepping through double doors, we breathed in the blast of warm, moist air and everything came to life. Even through my fogged-up glasses, all was green.

"That's the dinosaur tree," said Andy, pointing to a seven-foot pine.

"Araucariacaeae," I read. The species, Wallemi pine, discovered in the Blue Mountains of Australia in 1994, is thought to be 65 millions years old.
For an hour we twisted our way between desert cactus and succulents, up and down stairs in the 93-foot high jungle canopy, around displays of rare and endangered species, by hundreds of orchids and into the showings of spring blooms, like hyacinths and giant begonias. The USBG collection of orchids alone numbers about 5,000 specimens. And spring flower perfumes smelled wonderful.

Congress was not in session, or I would never have let Andy walk me near the Capitol without going in.

"You can't anyway," he said. "You don't have a ticket."
"You're kidding!" I answered, amazed. So often in the past I had escorted groups of seniors into the seat of representative government, but then again it wasn't in February. Skies looked darker as we walked to the National Gallery of Art, East Wing, but surprisingly no rain dampened the day. "We have lucked out again," said Andy. "Forecasts predicted rain before noon. Now it's 2:15 p.m., and we're still okay."

For another hour or more we browsed in the East Building of the National Gallery of Art. The oils of Canaletto on display illustrated the "view painters," whose achievements "count among the most brilliant in 18th century art." We looked at the 21 masterworks of the city of Venice by Canaletto and 34 more by rivals like Guardi and Bellotto. Not as knowledgeable as I wish I were about art, I could certainly distinguish between Canaletto and Bellotto, even if their names showed Italian similarities.

Dribbles of rain started by the time we walked to the Navy Memorial and then to the Old Post Office, but with hoods on our jackets, the dribble wasn't enough to get us wet. I even left the umbrella in the day pack.

"This is one of the locations where We the People constitutional law contests announced the Top Ten states," I explained to Andy, as we entered the building. "We came here more than once on the Sunday night after two days of competition to find out which best ten teams would compete in the finals on Monday."
"And you never went to the top of the building?" he asked.

"The Old Post Office closes at 4:30 p.m. We came for dinner and a dance with a couple thousand kids. I didn't know there WAS a top," I told him.

The elevator and 129 steps took us to the 20-foot observation deck in the tower of the 110-year old Old Post Office for views of the nation's capital. We read an informative placard. "This was the first federal building erected on Pennsylvania Avenue, the first steel frame building constructed in Washington, D.C. and the first government building designed with its own electrical power plant."

The view from the 12th floor overlooked the city: Capitol Building, White House, Washington Monument, Smithsonian, Supreme Court, Lincoln Memorial, Pentagon. Even with overcast skies and a light rain, the view amazed us.

The Ditchery Foundation of Great Britain change-ringing bells occupied a lower floor. Cast in three-fourths copper and one-fourth tin, they replicated the bells of Westminster Abbey in London. Intended for the Capitol, the ten bells were placed in the Old Post Office for structural reasons. No wonder. They range in weight from 581 pounds to 2,953 pounds.

"I'd love to hear them," I told Andy.
"Sorry," he said. "They only ring on federal holidays."

Later I read that the Washington Ringing Society practices on Thursday nights from 7:00 to 9:00 p.m. We could have waited a couple hours. But the rain had started. I didn't argue when Andy headed back toward the Metro station around 5:00 p.m. Rain dampened the sidewalks. Little did I realize at the time that by this hour tomorrow, we would drive home. The weather, the primary factor in his decision to return a few days early, had dealt its deadly blow.