My Muse

My Right Hand

With apologies for the hiatus, but my right hand has been severed metaphorically.  On a scale from Pong to launching a Global Positioning Satellite, my comfort and reliance upon technology falls in the mid-level range.  At work, a computer shut down means I am dead in the water.  At home, my list of television shows saved to my DVR hovers consistently at zero, since I find the technology to be of little interest to me.  In my car, I love tapping Pandora to identify new songs that I might enjoy, but a spiral-bound map is always preferred to a Garmin (see “Traveling With Boys,” November 2011).

I love the conveniences technology brings to my life, and besides my professional dependence, I never defined myself by the hardware and software around me until my beloved netbook unexpectedly died three days into my epic vacation.  Lost to virtual inner space are three days of photographs and videos full of memories, and while I found ways to manage moving forward (new SD card, borrowed hotel business centers, etc), I found my greatest loss in the Hard-Drive Catastrophe of 2012 became how much my little electronic friend suited my blogging.  Suddenly, sitting at another screen felt less creative, less inspiring, and less like my fading friend.

Ray

Consider the feeling when a common cold begins to take hold: a little achy, maybe a bit feverish, and notably more sluggish as the first day wanes and a collection of microscopic viruses burrow into your system.  That is how my beloved Ray must have felt as I prodded him on his final day to download the first wave of pictures snapped inside the gates of Yellowstone National Park.  Maybe I had missed that signs that his performance was lagging, until suddenly, he just sputtered and whimpered and failed to respond; and then, nothing.  I used my digital camera to grasp an image of his faintly illuminated MS-DOS screen.  Nearly a week later, realizing my neglect and accepting my loss, did I take my little buddy to a walk-in clinic for ill hardware; a twenty-first century computer witch doctor, whom I affectionately refer to as my knight in shining pre-formed casement.

Poor Ray, I pushed him too hard, and I failed to appreciate that he had become more than a laptop of convenience.  Perching lightly on my lap, he became an extension of the thought process as I scribed.   Like an inkwell to Jane Austin, like Jack Kerouac pecking at his typewriter, Ray translated my mind’s visions.  He worked as the tool that transferred the dialogue in my head into the written word and uploaded these recollections to the world.  But now, thanks to the wonders of 21^st century technology, an email on my smart phone links me to a website notifying me that a package tracking towards my home is allowing me to monitor the journey of Ray on his way home to me.  My muse, my magical keyboard, my phoenix returns to bring forth new life and new posting, and will arrive in less than twenty-four hours.  Travel swiftly my friend, I await your homecoming and promise I will never take you for granted again.

On The Trail Of Family and Friends

Crab Risotto

On a quiet Saturday afternoon, I joined my friend for a drink and conversation to just make sure we were both keeping our heads above water.  The challenges of parenthood, of marriage, of employment, and of life melt away over a pomegranate martini and a pinot noir raised in a toast to friendship.  And upon the recommendation that we should try the crab risotto, we order the appetizer with slices of asparagus, colorful orange edges, decoratively sliced scallions, and tender bit of crab.  And when the waitress thoughtfully brings the creamy delight to our us in two bowls, she correctly guessed that the two friends would share the fare in the same way they share the stories of their lives.  And all too soon, the risotto and the afternoon were gone.

To Kill A Mockingbird

Using the “piddly roads,” as my father calls them, I sneak among the corn fields to reach the outdoor theater at New Salem, Illinois.  Tonight a dear friend takes the stage as Atticus Finch, and clock counts down to the raising of the curtain as I turn off one county road and down another empty lane to reach the theater.  Vacation sometimes is about cramming in as much as possible during a short amount of time, and while I am feeling the crunch on this drive, I cannot imagine not including this friend, this performance, and this evening in this vacation.  With apologies for entering the theater a few minutes late, I watch a southern gentleman on stage, and know that passing row upon endless row of withering corn in a maze of unknown roads is worth the drive to enjoy his final performance.

The Cool Aunt

 

I finally met my nephew.  The role of the aunt is non-defined, and in my family, I, myself, have more than a half dozen of them.  Each aunt is different, not too mom-like, sometimes a little goofy, sometimes a little more fun, and sometimes more cool.  One of my aunts, Marie, fits that bill.  She has mannerisms like my Mom, but she’s certainly more fun and definitely cooler.  I wonder if my nephew will see me this way.  I’ll certainly be the aunt that lives far away and pops in from time to time.  I’ll be the aunt that he visits when he vacations in the Sunshine State.  I’ll be the aunt that tells him the stories about his Dad that make him see he was once a kid, too.  And hopefully, I’ll be his Aunt Marie.

 

A Mentor and A Friend

 

I devoted today to seeing a former boss.  She is also my friend, but mostly she is amazing.  She lives privately, but beautifully.  She enjoys good food and good people.  She strives for greatness and wants to see it in others.  Her value to me is certainly worth a three-hour drive across the Mississippi River, through the Biodiesel Capital of the World, along the Lewis and Clark Trail, and into the heart of Mizzou Tiger country.  For a bite of beautiful salad and a couple hours of conversation, this day of my vacation reminds me of the kind of person I ought to be.

Airborne

In the moment when the plane revs its engines and begins its forced acceleration from a dead stop at the far end of the runway, the passengers feel the excitement of takeoff.  Glancing out the window, the queue of planes waiting to depart rush past, followed by the terminals and the flock of planes gathered around its edges like ducks at a pond. Then comes the moment where the plane lifts away from the pavement and is airborne.  Like the moment of birth, this forward rush, both literally and figuratively is the moment when the adventure begins.  The months of preparations and planning and excitement and anticipation before this actual moment arrives become real in less than sixty seconds of forward thrust.  The moment when the plane effortlessly releases its connection to the runway and ascends into the sky marks the moment when vacation is truly underway.

The Night Before

Packed and Ready

As I liberally advertised my upcoming vacation around the office, the customary close-in questions revolved around the status of my packing.  In truth, besides itinerary planning, there is little else about which to inquire, so we engage in a casual conversation about the open-face suitcase sandwich in the corner of my bedroom.  I have loosely tossed a handful of gifts for nephews, clothes that I can go without for a few days, and the few things that I fear I will forget if I wait until the final twenty-four hours before travel, so in answer to their inquiries, yes, I have begun packing.

This pre-vacation preparation excites me and I find it to be a self-reward after all the pre-travel housework is finished, almost like vacation foreplay.  And unlike packing to move, which is a punishment to be paid for getting a new home, the process of strategically squeezing my most playful and comfortable outfits into a colorful bag allows me to take a manageable amount of my favorite possessions to a new and fun place.  The thrill of what lies in the near future makes the mundane act of folding clothes deliciously enjoyable.  And besides my hairbrush and the power cables to my laptop, when I crawl in bed for the final night of sleep before my vacation, everything that will accompany me on my adventure is snugly stuffed into the bright bags with miniature locks completely oblivious of what tomorrow holds.  I, however, while equally prepared and ready to depart, lack the patience of the inanimate objects silently standing near the door.

Anticipation

And now I am tucked in my sheets, waiting for the adventure to begin and falling asleep is nearly impossible.  Like a child on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa to arrive and listening for reindeer hooves on the roof or sleigh bells outside the window, I think about what the morning will bring.  In my head I am running through the remaining items to be packed and hoping I didn’t forget anything.  I triple check my alarm clock to be sure I set both alarms correctly – a.m. not p.m. – and that I remember the correct flight times.  In my somewhat sleepy head I contemplate the transition from traveling to the airport, passing through security, getting to the gate, boarding the plane, and how much time it all totals from the moment the alarm rings until the plane finally pushes away from the gate.  Perhaps part of my last-minute insomnia is based in worry rather than excitement.

But then I begin to relax and think about what happens once the plane is airborne ad I am on my way to my destination.  For weeks, or even months, I have counted backwards to the day when I would visit someplace different, meet someone new, see an amazing site, and have my breath taken away by spectacular settings.  Tomorrow it all begins, and for day after day after tantalizing day, I will absorb beauty, experiences thrills, and revel in the excitement of my months of planning, preparing, and packing.  Now go to sleep, because tomorrow it all begins.

Forty-Nine

The Countdown

When I decided to initiate Project 50, I found myself ten states shy of seeing all fifty and I planned to visit the last twenty percent before I reached the half-century mark.  At first I thought I would knock out a couple each year, by regions, and eventually make my way to the newest of them all floating out there in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  But pretty soon the travel bug bit me and for the Independence Day weekend I took off to Omaha and suddenly found myself knocking off the other Dakota (see “North Dakota On A Napkin” from November 2011).  By the end of the month, I ticked off the entire American Northwest and cut my list down to four.

While headed to Washington State, the nice airline folks offered me a lovely voucher to afford me a few extra steps towards my goal.  Suddenly Labor Day arrived and I found myself in West Virginia and within three months I have passed through nineteen states, including the last remaining newbies.  Suddenly I close in on the final few.  What I expected to be a decade-long experience suddenly landed me in the driver’s seat putting a lot more miles on a myriad of new rental cars.  My beloved atlas took a beating that summer (see “Traveling With Boys, November 2011).

Almost There

The final leg begins with a flight into Connecticut, a drive through the Catskills of New York and a rise to the highest point in New Jersey – state number forty-eight.  As I drive through High Point State Park, I listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing about the way to pass time is by counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, but the breathtaking view at High Point State Park seems like a pretty spectacular way to experience the Garden State.  From atop the Veteran’s Monument, 291 butt-kicking steps upward, I glance to the west at Pennsylvania and to the east at New York, both of which I first visited in 1992, and now nearly two decades later, I finally visit the slice of mountainous beauty in between the two.  And then I hit the road the reach the last contiguous state.

Project Fifty is nearly complete, and from end to end, I have visited the United States, from my first state out west to this, my forty-ninth, and all the dozens in between.  My travels may be circuitous, sometimes years in between each state, sometimes coming all at once, like the past three months.  Sometimes, within a matter of minutes, I cross a sliver, or a corner, or sometimes an entire state.  And so here at number forty-nine I stop to tally my geographical and mathematical feat at the state line between Connecticut and Rhode Island.  At the entrance to the Ocean State, I pose with my camera’s self-timer and congratulate on myself on my self-navigation, my self-sufficiency and my self-determination.  Next stop: Hawaii.

Forgotten

Making A List

One of the hardest traits for me to give up is list making.  I truly like lists and I use them for a variety of tasks: organizing an office relocation, developing ideas and topics for future blog posts, and preparing for my upcoming vacations.  Someone once wrote of me that I am, “…terrifically responsible and well organized…” and the lists are my secret.   The people in my business life expect a level of performance, of quality, of perfection, of follow-through that columns of tasks enhance.  Whether or not my boss, my coworkers and my counterparts know that these simple catalogs exist proves inconsequential.  The results solely matter.  As for my blog posts, it may be years before every topic materializes online, and my cerebral skills cannot survive more than a couple weeks unaided.  Besides, just reviewing the inventory of ideas revives my passions for writing and travel.  My pre-travel rosters of clothing, sundries, electronics, and miscellaneous suitcase contents, once a staple, have vanished into a conscious yet challenging effort to loosen, release, and relinquish my organizational dependencies.

The result of my surrendering sometimes impacts me little, such as the cable that connects my iPod to the stereo in the rental car.  I find stores that sell this simple wired device and I know I have purchased one in Missouri and another in Nebraska when needed.  I now have several, which allows me to always have one stashed in my suitcase.  More challenging is stepping out of a refreshing shower before bedtime to discover the nagging feeling that I may have forgotten something held validity.  I question my relinquishing when the hotel heater lacks promise and my suitcase lacks pajamas.

Acknowledging My Shortcomings

On a business trip slammed into the middle of a hectic spring semester, I continue my efforts at packing from memory.  From textbooks to business requirements, I tick off the myriad of items I need for the three days across the continent.  From toothbrush to documents to child care, I confidently take flight to the west coast knowing I successfully manage my personal, professional and academic obligations.  As I settle into my hotel room, I discover the single missing item: my eyeglasses.  My contact lenses pull double-duty for nearly sixteen hours a day and keep me humble.

I do feel a sense of pride in my ability to let go of my lists.  Imagine a smoker giving up cigarettes or a barista giving up caffeine.  An accomplishment that others do not witness, but one with which I struggle, my willingness to find small ways to become less compulsive, less structured, and more accepting of my possible forgetfulness.  Even typing the “f” word irks me, frustrates me, and opens me to internal condemnation.  Nevertheless, it humanizes me in a way I have never before chosen to be careless, and graces me with fallibility of which I benefit from embracing.  I now travel listless.

Waiting

Their Departure

Carlsbad Caverns rank as my most favorite caves, partly because they are the first caves I ever explored, but mostly because they are grand and open and completely unclaustrophobically enjoyable (see “Hidden Beauty” from March 2012).  When I had the body of teenager, I squeezed through some much tighter openings to see caverns in northern Arizona, but on my road trip to the American Southwest, I chose to skip reliving that childhood experience.  Instead, I drove Son #1 and Son #2 near the Texas border to descend into my favorite caves.  And in advance of our day below the earth, I convinced the boys to drive out the night before to see the bats take flight into the darkening night.

We sat in an open amphitheater on historic and uncomfortable stone benches curving toward the entrance of the cavern.  We listened to a park ranger who seemed more of an angry, rule-follower than any park ranger I have ever met.  (Pun intended, I have to believe he was bat-shit crazy the way he treated us simple tourists, to use my brother’s terminology.)  We turned off every electronic device we carried – our cell phones, our cameras, everything – so as to not distract the audio-stupendous bats from finding their way to the river where the mosquitos foolishly gathered to be dinner for a million hungry flying mammals.  And we waited, watching for the first early birds to lead the rest of their relatives out for their midnight adventure.  And we waited, sitting nearly silent so as to not to disturb the swirling, spiraling pattern that would soon rise above us.  And we waited, wondering if they were ever going to make an appearance.

Our Departure

First one or two, so swift and darting, that I do not even see them swoop and swirl.  And with a reprimand from the ranger, the onslaught of little black creatures forms an exodus from the dark depths of the cavern over our heads.  And in the dark, moonless sky, in the middle of the New Mexican desert, we squint our eyes to see the never-ending stream of creatures faintly silhouetting themselves against the last light of dusk.  Their collective flapping and high-pitched squeaking emit far less sound than a million of any other creature might generate.  And they continue to pour forth from their deep recesses disappearing into the darkness.

Families with small children, who manage to keep them still as long as imaginably possible (despite the admonitions from the rotten ranger) are the first to follow the bats and depart into the night.  And much like the bats, once one departs, a continuous wave of tourists take flight in their minivans and rented campers.  But we wait, to see how long the bats continue, and I plan to stick it out until they have headed southward.  And we wait as more people depart, vacating their cold perches on the hard stones for the luxury of their car seats, and later their warm beds.  So we wait, watching the dark swirls seemingly dissipate, but in truth, against the black sky, the flying rodents are nearly invisible and may still be overhead, but we cannot tell.  We wait no more, and we succumb to the darkness of a late summer evening, leaving the bats to their night of frolicking and feeding.