Please pass the gravy

From a child’s perspective (see yesterday’s post), Thanksgiving – and family, for that matter – can be seen as a very straightforward event. There’s family, food, football, more food and then Hallmark-like memories that can “last a lifetime.”

For many, of course, there is also a “faith” component – often a big one. Thanksgiving was the only meal of the year when my own family was likely to begin with a prayer – and I never got beyond “God is great and God is good; and we thank him for this food…” I sort of mumbled through the rest of the short prayer, not paying enough attention to learn it for future reference.

It seemed completely possible, just yesterday, to write a few hundred – certainly fewer than a thousand – words about Thanksgiving as celebrated during my formative years.

Oh! Was I ever mistaken. I quickly discovered that Turkey Day is a veritable smorgasbord – including some very complex dishes that might require volumes to explore.

Before attempting to scratch that surface with one example, let me repeat my previous assertion that this is about the best of days – an event that most families seem capable of carrying off with great success, an important day for that elusive institution (families).

No analysis, no matter how cynical, will change my mind on the matter: Thanksgiving was, in my childhood, a very good thing. It provided me with a model for having some great days later, when I was in the role of spouse and father – and, now that I think of it, it may also help me find new ways to enjoy family (even when not involving my own biological relatives) in the new stages of life I’m now beginning to explore.

Because Thanksgiving is sometimes the only time relatives get together – and sometimes more than a year may have passed, it’s a time of catching up on everyone’s news. That means it’s a time when those who may not have done so well may feel they need to defend their lives – and those who have success may feel compelled to boast.

I’ve never been more alone or isolated at Thanksgiving than this year. I expect to have a great day in this building filled with strangers, but a look at the weather forecast (see graphic) suggests that lightening may strike before the day is over.

The following account is of a Thanksgiving about 40 years ago when lightening struck in the middle of the meal and changed my view of Thanksgiving and family forever…

As during any social gathering, there are plenty of opportunities for what Eric Berne called, “the games people play.”

Berne is remembered as the father of transactional analysis. One of the most startling revelations of the complexity of family relations in the context of Thanksgiving came during a transaction rather along the lines of, “will you please pass the salt…”

One year (and this year may well have been later than the “prime time Thanksgiving era between 1958 and 1967 – I probably wasn’t astute enough to pick up the nuances that early in my life), my mother decided to use crystal salt containers with tiny silver spoons in lieu of the standard saltshakers.

Whether it was 1967 or a few years later, the “incident” was an exchange (or transaction) between my mother and my aunt regarding those little salt containers and spoons.

To me, the pairing of “Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary” was perfect. I also had Uncle Roy and Aunt Alma; and both of those sets of names still sound just right to me – everyone should be lucky enough to have relatives so aptly named…

But, to my mother, I’m sure Mary was not perfect. She’s the woman who charmed Mom’s little brother and lured him into a marriage that – for a number of reasons I won’t discuss here – seemed far from ideal from the big sister’s perspective.

I have no doubt that these two women had sparred with each other at every Thanksgiving since our families were formed. But I had never noticed – or at least never gave any significance to it. It was all couched in the language of backhanded compliments and other tactics Berne became famous for documenting in his books.

On this particular occasion, Mom was no doubt quite proud of being able to add an unconventional element of dinnerware to the Thanksgiving mix. I know I was impressed – the idea of sprinkling salt as if it were sugar appealed to me for some reason.

Others took note of the place settings and Mom was basking in the glow of positive attention as we all settled into our spaces around the Thanksgiving Dinner table.

“We’re not using salt much anymore.”

Aunt Mary’s announcement, though clearly on-topic, caught my attention.

Really, Mary?” There was something in my mother’s tone that started the wheels turning. I realized that this was more than just polite dinner conversation. “Not even on potatoes?”

This, of course, was a good comeback. Who could imagine eating potatoes without all kinds of added flavors? – And salt did seem like an essential additive no matter what the recipe.

I glanced at my aunt, interested to see how she might try to counter Mom’s point.

She capitulated! I believe I saw a flash of defeat in her face as she admitted that salt was an imperative when it came to spuds.

I still remember where they were sitting (my aunt opposite me; Mom to the right at the end of the table where she’d be able to move easily back and forth from the kitchen to refill bowls and platters.

I wondered, what just happened here? And I suddenly realized that whatever it was, it wasn’t the first time. This was just a battle in a war that had probably been ongoing since Uncle Bob announced, “I met a girl” some 15 or 20 years earlier.

The truth of the matter hit me like a bolt of lightening. These two women don’t like each other!

This was a real bombshell for me. It changed my thinking about family in fundamental ways.



Whoa--the games people play now.
Every night and every day now.
Never meanin' what they say now.
Never sayin' what they mean.

Oh we make one another cry
Break a heart then we say goodbye
Cross our hearts and we hope to die
That the other was to blame

Neither one will give in
So we gaze at our eight by ten
Thinking 'bout the things that might have been
It's a dirty rotten shame
        -- Joe South, 1968

All the trimmings

Most baby boomers, I suppose, must have thought – at least from time to time – that their family fell short of the mark back in the ‘50s and ‘60s.

With perfect icons like Robert Young (“Father Knows Best”), Donna Reed (“The Donna Reed Show), Opie Taylor (“The Andy Griffith Show”) and Gloria Winters (Penny of “Sky King) it was easy to wish one’s family had a father, mother, son and daughter that lived up to the television legends.

Even our pets couldn’t compete with Lassie, Cheetah and my friend Flicka – not to mention Ed, the talking horse or Cleo, the talking dog of “The People’s Choice.”

We certainly couldn’t solve major problems in a half hour (with three commercial breaks) and we most definitely weren’t always so … well … so darned NICE as the television families.

But, when it came to Thanksgiving, I think my own family did a bang-up job. I have very fond memories of that holiday. The sense of tradition was very strong – I suspect that ancestors going back generations also had very positive Turkey Day memories.

Looking back, the string of near-perfect Thanksgiving celebrations lasted only a decade. Of course, a decade in the life of a 10-year-old is a long, long time.

Attempting to analyze the experience, I can come up with several elements that contributed to the perfect-ness. Of course there are more, but each of these made the celebration more memorable for me. I’ll discuss just two here.

First, of course, was the food. We were not an all-you-can-eat kind of family. Portions of just about everything we ate were issued to us – there wasn’t usually any passing bowls around and serving oneself. We never went hungry, but we also seldom got all we wanted.

At Thanksgiving, food was plentiful – and nobody seemed to care or even notice how much we heaped on our plates. Best of all, the food was wonderful. Turkey, stuffing mashed potatoes, succotash, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes and salad were all available in mass quantities.

We also had crudités in the form of celery and carrot sticks and even little sweet pickles and olives – treats not seen at other times of the year.

Ah, yes! The food was a big part of the mix – especially as I entered adolescence and my appetite grew.

The second most memorable and essential element for a great family Thanksgiving was the people. I suppose most families sort of go one way or the other when it comes to grandparents. In our case, the grandparents on hand were maternal. My other grandfather died when we kids were quite young and Grandma Burke lived in Kansas.

So, it was the Whitacre branch of the family tree that gathered at Thanksgiving (and again at Christmas) each year. Mom had just one brother and, like her parents, he and his family followed us to San Diego in the late ‘50s. Rounding out the guest list were two women who would have been great supporting characters in any play.

They were also on the Whitacre side of the family – perhaps cousins removed a time or two. They were retired sisters who lived together in a retirement community near Los Angeles. They were Marguerite and Glenva.

Marguerite and Glenva! The fit together so perfectly in my mind. Two women who, from a boy’s perspective, couldn’t have been more different.

Marguerite was a talker. And she was an expert on the third degree. Sitting beside her at Thanksgiving meant having to respond to barrage after barrage of questions and comments about one’s answers.

Glenva, on the other hand, never seemed to speak unless spoken to. To me, she seemed to be entirely in Marguerite’s shadow – one of the few humans on earth capable of listening to as much as her sister had to say…

I wish I could spend some time with these two ladies today – with my new understanding of people of a certain age. I’m certain they had a lot to say – both of them; and I’m now interested. But then, I was not.


Then there were the more immediate relatives. We saw little of our cousins other than during the holidays. They were our opposite – two boys and a girl to our boy and two girls. The youngest was a brat, of course. These were always last to arrive and were considered chronically tardy.

Politics was briefly discussed each year – just enough to verify that the family was split. The grandparents were more Republican and conservative, the Burkes were more Democrat and liberal and the younger Whitacres weren’t very interested but seemed to side with the oldsters.

The decade in question happened to be filled with Richard Nixon news. He was vice-president at the start, lost a bid to become president and governor of California and then was resurrected and became president at the end. Through it all – and even beyond, after RMN resigned the presidency in disgrace – my grandfather remained a fervid Nixonian.

OOOOPS!!!

(NOTE: When I began this piece, I thought I had a fairly clear idea of what I’d be saying – a not-particularly complex and not-particularly profound essay about an annual event that was essentially pretty straightforward.

Upon reflection …. I’m becoming convinced [even as I’ve been writing this] that Thanksgiving, like families themselves, are actually quite complex. In fact, I wonder whether a study of a family’s behavior during this holiday might be the best way to gain understanding of that family as an organism.)

Not promising to wrap things up, I’m nonetheless going to end this piece with the intention of providing more thoughts on Thanksgiving in tomorrow’s blog entry.


We don't have to like each other. We're family. (Claudia)
Well, that was absurd, let's eat dead bird! (Tommy)
Nobody means what they say on Thanksgiving, Mom. You know that. That's what the day's supposed to be all about, right? Torture. (Claudia)
Where ya been? We ate already. (Tommy)
        -- “Home for the Holidays,” 1995

Back to school

When some loud braggart tries to put me down

And says his school is great
I tell him right away
"Now what's the matter buddy
Ain't you heard of my school
It's number one in the state"

So be true to your school now
Just like you would to your girl or guy
Be true to your school now
And let your colors fly
Be true to your school
        -- Beach Boys, 1963

Top-ten-list: major differences between life in a retirement facility and life in high school.

1. In the retirement facility, everyone is a senior

As I’ve traveled these 13,000 miles and had a chance to observe thousands of senior citizens in dozens of retirement facilities, I’ve been surprised by several similarities between the culture in such buildings and what I recall from high school.

Now, I’m not saying that moving into senior housing is just like enrolling at Rydell High – far from it. But there are some very interesting comparisons…

For example, there are lots of cliques in both settings.

I remember high school cliques included the “soshes” (socially advanced – at least from their own viewpoint), the “surfers” (it was Southern California, need I say more?) and the “brains” (not exactly the most highly regarded; but perhaps with the greatest potential).

Plenty of sub-cliques existed: politicians, musicians, Rot-See (Reserve Officers Training Corps), athletes, and a host of official and unofficial clubs and organizations.

Cliques in retirement facilities may include pet owners, card players, newspaper readers, puzzle-solvers, walkers (one distinct group that literally “walks” – usually counterclockwise around the building; and another that actually uses devices called “walkers” to aid mobility), shoppers, medical experts (these folks discuss various maladies endlessly) and more.

It’s really just human nature, I guess. People are motivated by a lot of different things and tend to gather in groups with similar motivations (or interests).

Student life in high school is structured around curricular and extra-curricular activities. Many clubs and organizations – some which offer credit toward graduation – are available. Nonetheless, many students just stick with going to class and spend little extra time on campus. This may actually be the majority of students – a silent, nearly invisible group of young people who aren’t caught up in school activities.

Life in a retirement facility tends to rotate around the meals. Though some residents eat in their rooms, most congregate in the dining room two or three times daily. The rhythm of each day is set by mealtimes.

Though no bells are rung, residents filing down hallways for meals are a bit like students moving from class to class. Meals are the only time to observe a majority of the residents in the same place.

When I enter a dining room for the first time, many pairs of eyes are cast upon me. At first, I found this to be rather disconcerting; now, I realize that it’s just part of human nature. I’m intruding on their territory and any newcomer must be examined and categorized.

By the end of that first meal, about half of the residents have learned something about me – often something that’s untrue. I’m often mistaken for a representative of the corporation – visiting from headquarters for some reason or another. And many folks conclude that I must be the son of someone sitting with me at that first meal.

Because many seniors have trouble hearing, others have learned to speak rather loudly during meals. So, it’s not unusual for me to overhear conversations two or three tables away from where I’m sitting. Occasionally, I’ll walk over, introduce myself and disabuse folks of false information I’ve overheard.

I believe I can make fairly accurate judgments about some folks simply based on where they are sitting and how they react to the rest of the room.

There are always a few residents whose eyes are constantly in motion. When they spot a particular neighbor, they’ll note to their tablemates that, “so-and-so is back from the hospital” or “I thought such-and-such was taking the bus ride today.”

I well remember these characters from high school. They always knew who was dating whom and definitely wanted to be the one to tell others when the couple broke up – or didn’t break up.

There are often volunteers among the residents. Sometimes these “helpers” are actually minor tyrants, wielding their unpaid duties like weapons. A woman put in charge of the remote control at a movie screening ran the room like a dictator, imposing rules and making decisions about lighting and seating as if she owned the place.

Volunteers who agree to change the menus that are posted each day on table-tops often come around and make those changes while folks are still eating – as if the job was so vital that it justified interrupting the very meals it was intended to facilitate.

There are actually any number of residents who take it upon themselves to enforce – even to enact – rules of conduct. I’ve been challenged several times when I plug my laptop into the facility’s Internet connection:

“Do you have permission to do that?”

“No, sir. But I don’t need permission.”

“Who told you that you don’t need permission?”

“Nobody needed to tell me. I know that all of the amenities in this building are here for the benefit of residents; and as a guest, I enjoy the same rights as any other resident.”

“Well, you should have asked permission.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Should I disconnect my computer?"

“No, I guess you might as well finish what you’re doing."

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

(Sorry. I got started with that dialogue and just had to see it through. It’s just so … so … well, so HIGH SCHOOL!)

Well, honky-tonk baby get on the floor
All the cats are yellin they're shoutin’ for more
My baby likes to rock, my baby likes to roll
My baby does the chicken and she does the stroll

Well sock-hop baby
Roll up her crazy jeans
Gonna rock to the music
gonna dig the scene
Shimmy to the left
Cha-cha to the right
We're gonna do the stomp till broad daylight

Well shake it
Yeah shake it
Yeah shake it
Everybody shake it
Shake it at the high school hop
        -- “Grease,” 1972

That’s a dumb thing to sing

They say our love won't pay the rent
Before it's earned, our money's all been spent

I guess that's so, we don't have a pot
But at least I'm sure of all the things we got
        -- Sonny and Cher, 1965

Mrs. Davis saved our poetry assignments all year long when I was in 6th grade; in the spring, she published the Room 6 book of poetry.

Though my stuff definitely didn’t stand the test of time, I considered myself to be a pretty good poet back in the day. I had more poems in the collection than most of my classmates and a couple were actually rather clever – if I do say so myself.

It was obvious that our teacher wanted to be sure that every student had at least one poem in the book – and just as obvious that she had a hard time finding a useable sample from one of my classmates, a kid named Frank.

She finally went with the Thanksgiving Prayer assignment. Though poor Frank usually couldn’t find a rhyme for anything, he became a rhymanian devil in this case.

The sample poem/prayer we were provided had a typical pattern to it – sort of one of those aabbccdd kind of deals that produced pretty standard fare along the lines of

Lord, we thank thee for thy bounty
Most of which was grown in our county
Thanks for veggies, fruit and meat
And for all the rest we eat
Thanks for family, friends and pets
We’re grateful all day, until the sun sets

Well, Frank went into some sort of frenzy and became trapped in an intra-line rhyming pattern that may have been an indicator of hidden genius.

I can’t recite the whole thing from memory, but the part that sticks with me goes a bit like this:

Lord we thank thee up above.
For thy good and all thy love.
For the plates and all the states
For those who could and those who would
For those who tried and those who died
For those who lied and those who cried
For the best and all the rest
And for the goats and all their oats.

Like Franks work, many commercial hit songs really don’t bear scrutiny. The lyrics often seem to be a sort of afterthought for songwriters. And I imagine the fact that there is probably little or no editing makes it less likely that the words to songs will really be profound.

If a song sounds good, the words are really a distant second in importance when it comes to popularity. And if the topic is timely and the “message” seems to be right on point – particularly for the target audience – the actual words become quite unimportant.

The Sonny and Cher example (above) seems to support this theory. The lyrics are without merit – but the simple message (if we stick together, we can conquer the world) had enormous appeal to teens back in the mid-sixties.

Another Bono-written hit, “The Beat Goes On” seems to me to be even less profound when read as a poem – sans the music and energy provided by the performers:

Charleston was once the rage, uh huh
History has turned the page, uh huh
The mini skirts the current thing, uh huh
Teenybopper is our newborn king, uh huh

The grocery store's the super mart, uh huh
Little girls still break their hearts, uh huh
And men still keep on marching off to war
Electrically they keep a baseball score

Grandmas sit in chairs and reminisce
Boys keep chasing girls to get a kiss
The cars keep going faster all the time
Bums still cry "hey buddy, have you got a dime"
        -- Sonny and Cher, 1967

There can be absolutely no doubt that the use of logic or even understandable language is not always essential for songs. Mel Torme, Ella Fitzgerald and others applied nonsense syllables to music – particularly Jazz – and obviously entertained millions of us.

This kind of singing – sometimes referred to as “scat singing” features nonsense words that follow lines of notes that are often improvised – in the fashion of jazz musicians.

Louis Armstrong was an early adopter of nonsense lyrics. He recorded “Heebie Jeebies” in 1926. In this cover by the Boswell Sisters in 1932 the singers are obviously not improvising even when the words lose all meaning in the second half of the song…


Make no mistake about it, I love music. And I've been "taken in" by songs that seem to be filled with meaning but, upon inspection, either deal with platitudes or have practically no meaning at all. Regardless of tendencies toward flight and fancy, I'll continue to appreciate many really dumb songs.

Thank goodness patriotic songs always make sense.

Our nation was founded by folks who put truth to power by declaring, in song: “… he put a feather in his cap and called it macaroni.”

Sampling

Just give me the filet mignon. I’ll take the center of the watermelon only. How about those lettuce leaves from the middle third of the head – not the floppy stuff near the outside nor the to-pulpy stuff in the middle.

I’ll take that one. No, not that one, the next one over – the biggest, juiciest, more perfect one.

Some readers have already moved on to something else. If this blog entry isn’t their cup of tea, I say, “more power to them.” It’s exactly what I would do – and what I actually do just about every time I go online. I pick and choose – and I can be pretty darned picky and choosey.

My favorite new find on the world wide web is You Tube. I’d heard about it before leaving California, but I didn’t get hooked until I’d been on the road for a while.

Founded in February of 2007, the online service allows users to find video clips on any topic imaginable. And it’s interactive; anyone can post material online that becomes almost instantly available world wide.

A year ago You Tube was taken over by Google. Like other web searches, You Tube queries almost always hit pay dirt now – a huge amount of data is indexed and can be found in a fraction of a second.

Political candidates haven’t missed the boat and videos are available regarding many politicians.

As was the case with the Internet in general and with every major advance in Mass Media channels, from books through movies, radio and television, there is substantial fear that online videos will go out of control and will destroy civilization as we know it.

Whether this proves to be the case or not (and a fairly strong argument can be made on both sides), there’s little chance that online videos are here to stay and ordinary computer owners with inexpensive equipment will be able to post just about any message they like.

I’m finding a wider and wider range of uses for this technology, but my favorite You Tube pastime is searching for favorite things.

Songs, performed by the greats from the past and present, scenes from movies, plays and television programs, speeches, news events and an amazing quantity of unexpected business caught – often by amateurs – in nature and in communities.

Before You Tube, one usually had to watch a whole movie to see a favorite scene or two – and it was potluck as to when a movie might appear on television. Alternatively, one could listen to the radio for days on end without hearing a particular song.

But in the space of an hour or so, it’s now possible to watch a score or more of favorites. The main problem for me has been stopping after just an hour or so.

It’s YouTube.com

Here are a few scenes I’ve enjoyed:

Working things out

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you
(Woo, woo, woo)
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson?
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)
        -- Simon & Garfunkle, 1969

It’s probably all Frank Halleck’s fault.

Mr. Halleck was my fifth grade teacher. Every week, he scrawled a “Brain Teaser” on the chalkboard. Students who completed their other work could tackle the teaser for extra credit.

Some of these were pretty straightforward: I got a kick out of figuring out how to split exactly 10 gallons of water into 7- and a 3-gallon portions even though I had only a 5, 8 and 10 gallon containers for measuring.

But other teasers were hard. I typically finished my work early (not always correctly, but usually early), so wrestling with the teasers was a part of my life for the 180 or so days I spent with Mr. Halleck.

Knowing there was a solution but not being able to wrap my mind around it, so to speak, was frustrating. I got headaches. It made me mad.

For much of my adult life, I rather proudly defined myself as a “problem-solver.” I guess I viewed this as one of the higher callings.

I learned that it is often not necessary to solve a problem – there are work-arounds.

I learned that the solution to many problems can be found outside the apparent boundaries used to define them – it helps to think outside the box.

I learned that more than one solution often exists – there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

I learned that some problems really aren’t worth the cost of solving – don’t sweat the small stuff.

I learned that many apparent problems really aren’t problems at all – if it ain’t broke, you don’t need to fix it.

And I learned that other people can often do a better job solving a given problem than I can – two heads are better than one.

Whatever his motives, Mr. Halleck managed to get my nose out of the books and into applying my talents, such as they were, to figuring stuff out.

I wanted to solve the problems; I wanted to be first to do so.

Mr. Halleck made a difference in my life, I suppose. I remember him as a fairly detached person – not seeming to take a personal interest in his students. But he was very good-natured and obviously enjoyed having a good time.

Many nights, I move from sleep to awareness and find myself trying to solve some kind of problem. It’s usually an ill-defined problem and potential solutions make no more sense to my waking mind than the problem itself.

My earliest recollection of sleepless nights featuring endless attempts to solve insoluble problems is of nights when I was sick. No doubt the underlying problem was my illness, but it manifested itself as something less tangible.

I suppose those first sleepless nights could have begun when I was in Fifth Grade – and that this really is Mr. Halleck’s fault.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know; but that doesn’t mean I won’t spend endless hours in the darkness trying to figure it out

Begin, Reagan, Palestine, Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan

Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless Vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz

Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
Well, we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it
        -- Billy Joel, 1989

Step right up

If you want it, here it is, come and get it
Mmmm, make your mind up fast
If you want it, anytime, I can give it
But you better hurry ’cause it may not last

Did I hear you say that there must be a catch?
Will you walk away from a fool and his money?
If you want it, here it is; come and get it
But you better hurry cause it's going fast
        -- Badfinger, 1970


Has anyone been riding along with me since Washington State? Do you remember that gas station shaped like a teapot on the road?

I’ve seen a lot more of this kind of outlandish effort to convince tourists to hit the brakes and find out what’s up with that … whatever. Gigantic sharks, lobsters, oranges, pirates – you name it – are erected along highways as lures.

Tonight I sleep in Sarasota – the former winter headquarters of the Ringling Bros, Barnum and Bailey circus. The circus no longer winters here, but circus history and artifacts abound. The Ringling Circus Museum is a major attraction, but Sarasota offers a 3-ring-circus as the town also features the Ringling Art Museum and the Ringling Castle – which was the winter residence of the Ringling family.

I have a feeling that once tourists start arriving in a Florida city – for any reason – a host of cottage industries follow, notably the aforementioned gift shops housed in grandiose structures designed to attract attention.

I’ve lived in tourist towns – and have noted efforts to separate visitors from their cash by nearly all means necessary. But I get the feeling that Florida (and points north along the east coast) have the art of trolling for tourists down to a science. And I must admit that I’m beginning to find it off-putting.

Figures from 5 years ago indicate that Florida is second only to California in attracting tourist dollars – well over $50 billion annually. These two states are way ahead of New York and Texas; others that fall far behind.

I suspect that Florida has to try harder – and must resort to more artificial (and less artful) means – in order to stay close to California. The Golden State (CA) has many more natural attractions and a wider range of offerings.

In future years, as growing numbers of Baby Boomers take to the roads, tens of millions of middle-class vagabonds will soon descend upon interesting regions, cycling in and out with the seasons.

It will be interesting to see how different “tourist destinations” evolve in the coming years. Those that stick with overpriced food, souvenirs, thrill rides and flashy, but vacuous shows, they may lose out in the long run.


Even if one is born every minute, there are only so many suckers to go around…

What do you mean by that?

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
        -- Lewis Carroll, 1872

This was done by creating quasi-natural sentence material with decreasing semantic, syntactic, and phonemic information (i.e., jabberwocky sentences, in which all content words were replaced by meaningless words; pseudoword sentences, in which all function and all content words are replaced by meaningless words; and delexicalized sentences, hummed intonation contour of a sentence removing all segmental content).
        -- Ann Pannekamp, others
        Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience , 2005

“This is America,” he said. “They must learn to speak English!”

How many hundreds of times have I heard that battle cry? It has logic to it – an undeniable appeal to those who are uncomfortable when they can’t understand what others are saying.

Finally (I never cease to amaze myself at how long it takes me to put two and two together), the most appropriate retort to this logic occurred to me.

“Because this is America,” I suggest, “we are free to speak any language we choose – including pure gibberish, if it suits us.”

It’s true. The First Amendment declares that we all have the right to free speech. We can utter what ever words we like, in almost any context and using whatever vocabulary we wish – including words that originated outside our borders … er … the borders of England, where some of our ancestors used to live?

In fact, the logic – if there is any – behind “this is America, speak English” is far weaker than, “this is northern Colorado, speak Arapahoe,” or “this is southwestern Colorado, speak Ute,” or “this is South Dakota, speak Sioux.”

Today’s lecture (forgive me, I’m on my soapbox again), however, isn’t about languages – though it is about communication.

I have enjoyed meeting and speaking with hundreds of senior citizens I’ve encountered on this trip, but I have to admit that I can count the number of conversations that were “deep” on my fingers and toes.

There just doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of interest in trying to get to the root of a matter or to reach an understanding – even to define terms so we know for sure what we’re talking about.

I hate when someone uses a big word or complex sentence to impress others; but I love it when words are used properly to make a clear and precise point.

Consider the quotes provided above.

The first, penned by Lewis Carrol, is a perfect example of how one can appear to be making sense while uttering absolute nonsense.

And the second, written by scholars, is a great example of how a point can be made clearly.

I respect people able to communicate so clearly and accurately – in fact, I envy them. Those who dedicate themselves to the systematic study of something must surely have a far deeper appreciation of them than the rest of us who have only explored the surface. How strange that we don’t depend on such people more when we must make decisions regarding matters within their spheres of knowledge.

The ability to grasp both fundamentals and nuances, to analyze one situation and then apply what’s learned to another, is a good thing. Most Americans – including our leaders, I fear – tend to shoot from the hip, taking issues out of context and often making choices without applying much history, science, psychology or scholarship of any kind.

Author Norman Mailer died this week. As I watched some clips from interviews he gave over the years I recognized that we’ve lost someone who took few serious matters lightly. He was an egomaniac, a college dropout** and a man with strong opinions that sometimes got him into trouble.

But Norman Mailer brought something to the table. He added to the discussion, challenging others to think.

Though a bit uffish, he was brillig and lived life frabjously.

(** NOTE: Mailer never dropped out of college; see comments)

Blog rolling

When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and turn
and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again
Yeah, yeah, yeah
        -- The Beatles, 1968

Day 13 in the NABLOMO world event. The idea is to make a blog entry every day during the month of November. Depending on one’s standards, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

It’s a writers’ thing. Many of us who believe – or want to believe – that we have a novel inside us that would come out of us, if we just apply ourselves, are attracted by otherwise rather silly challenges like this.

The bloggers’ promotion is actually a spin-off of something called NaNoWriMo – “National Novel Writers’ Month.” That event makes a nearly impossible challenge: novelists are required to complete at least 50,000 words in 30 days, pounding out an entire, full-blown novel in a single month.

The blog project was invented last year by a gal who failed to complete her novel-in-November challenge and it being repeated this month. Thousands of bloggers are participating.

Since a blog can be quite short – and can even include mostly information borrowed from other sources – the blog-a-day challenge is far less demanding for most folks than novel-writing.

But the underlying theory is pretty much the same. Most writing teachers and coaches agree that the key to becoming a better writer is to write, write and write. To a certain extent, most argue, improving the quality of one’s writing is less important than developing the discipline necessary to make daily progress and meet deadlines.

Published writers know that writing begins as a solitary effort but usually ends up as a collaboration between the originator and several editors who help make the product better.

Well, no such luck in the blogosphere. Blog entries are typically little more than first drafts. Blogging is a great way to adhere to the “write, write, write” imperative, but the end product seldom rises to professional levels – even when the writer is a professional.

Though I am seeking an audience of critical readers and hope to be presenting fairly clear, concise and if not significant at least somewhat interesting prose, some of my entries are what I once labeled “F.R.O.T.H.” when criticizing students’ work.

The effluent that results from so-called stream-of-consciousness writing – or the product of just sitting down and “pounding out” a story – isn’t really professional writing, as I see it.

Writers should probably really be called RE-writers because the process of editing begins with the writer and, in most cases, takes more time than creating the first draft.

FROTH – writing that flows onto paper “From Right Off The Head” – can be full of energy and promise. Much of a first draft may find its way into the final version unchanged – but much more usually doesn’t bear scrutiny.

There is no shortage of FROTH in these entries of mine. When I revisit some work from past months, I often cringe – realizing that the whole world has had access to unpolished, unedited and often incompletely developed work.

I’ve been asked many times whether I intend to write a book about my adventures. My answer is becoming a more and more emphatic “probably not!” One thing is certain, though, none of these blog entries will make it into such a document without a lot of editing.

This one included.

Homeward bound

How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again. You can go home, it's good to go home, but you never really get all the way home again in your life. And what's it all for? All I tried to be, all I ever wanted and went away for, what's it all for?

Just one way, you do get back home. You have a boy or a girl of your own and now and then you remember, and you know how they feel, and it's almost the same as if you were your own self again, as young as you could remember.
        -- James Agee
        -- A Death in the Family, 1957

Take it from a rolling stone: there really is no place like home.

I’ve felt “at home” quite a few times along my route, usually when invited into the private apartment of one of the folks I’ve met, but also during meals and other activities.

It’s a great feeling – sort of a combination of feeling warm and cozy and well fed and comfortable and entertained and relaxed and satisfied and cared-for.

Sometimes I feel that way just because of a chair or couch. When I’m sore or tired, or sore and tired, just nestling into a soft, supportive and otherwise just-right seat makes everything else seem unimportant.

Another kind of “at-home” experience is the product of proximity to people. Put me in the company of some copasetic fellow humans and I go right into a comfort zone. Barriers that I usually have in place; I feel free to expose my feelings and risk being found lacking.

It’s the combination of people and place, I guess, that puts folks in a condition most conducive to happiness. And the ideal, it seems to me, is when one is part of a family that lives together in a comfortable home.

On an equal playing field, all things being equal, with average luck and by applying good common sense, it should be possible for most people to enjoy four score and seven years, more or less, of the good life.

Many of the hundreds I’ve met over the past nine months have done just that.

As a representative of those who’ve been less fortunate, I’d just like to say to all of those whose lives have gone pretty much according to plan: “lucky you.”

Most of us make mistakes and/or are affected by events outside our control that scotch the deal. Hooray for those whose errors didn’t prove fatal to family and for whom unavoidable intrusions weren’t destructive.

As I turn west Thursday, and begin my long journey from the Atlantic back to the Pacific, I’m determined to explore paths toward home – not in the sense of it being a physical place, but home as sort of a lifestyle that facilitates happiness.

Younger readers may simply refer to the manual (as presented on television and elsewhere). But for those of us who must begin a new search later in life, the options are fewer (biological clock-wise).

That said, I do believe I’ll find examples of folks in the over-fifty crowd who have encountered problems but managed to get those home fires burning again despite chronological limitations.

If I stay on pace, I’ll have a chance to survey several hundred more seniors before trail’s end. As I continue these interviews, I’m going to focus more attention on ideas like “family,” “joy,” “meaning in life” and “home.”

'Mid pleasures and palaces

Though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble,

There's no place like home.


A charm from the skies

Seems to hallow us there,

Which seek thro' the world,

Is ne'er met with elsewhere.


Home, home, sweet sweet home,

There's no place like home.
        -- John Howard Payne, 1823

The Magic Kingdom is for the birds

"Feed the birds," that's what she cries,
While overhead, her birds fill the skies.
All around the cathedral the saints and apostles
Look down as she sells her wares.
Although you can't see it, you know they are smiling
Each time someone shows that he cares.
Though her words are simple and few,
Listen, listen, she's calling to you:
"Feed the birds, tuppence a bag,
Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag."

        -- Mary Poppins, 1964

Walt Disney sought to control every aspect of visitors’ experiences at his amusement parks. Few of the millions of people who visit Disneyland and Disney World notice that the buildings along Main Street are actually scaled-down versions of edifices one might have found in turn-of-the-century American towns.

That’s not actually an accurate statement. Replicas that are “built to scale” use a ratio that’s applied equally to each dimension. Buildings that are 2/3 as wide as the original are also 2/3 as tall.

But Disney used an artist’s technique to create an optical illusion that makes Main Street appear more realistic. “Forced perspective” fools the eye and makes fantasy seem like reality. The second stories of Main Street buildings are not as high as the first; and third stories are shorter still.

The same effect is applied to the Sleeping Beauty Castle where grown-ups stroll through spacious ground-floor gates but you’d have to be one of the seven dwarves to crawl through an upper-floor window. Even the Matterhorn was designed to appear far taller than it is by using forced perspective.

Disney managed to manipulate the environment so effectively that it’s easy to forget you’re still in the real world. A different set of rules – even rules of physics – applies in the Magic Kingdom.

Disney World was built in a Florida wilderness that almost provided a blank slate – a pristine lump of clay from which Disney could mold whatever creation he pleased.

He had complete control over the width, depth and height. No residential, commercial, industrial or other influences threatened his borders. He was god-like in his ability to create a kingdom in the Florida forest primeval…

But, as we learned in “Jurassic Park,” the 1993 film blockbuster, “Life will find a way.” Even the great and powerful Walt Disney couldn’t control flight patterns of migrating birds or the nesting habits of other fowl native to Florida.

Thousands of birds occupy Disney World. These are not official “cast members” and they do occasionally break the spell a bit. After a while, I stopped noticing their ubiquitous presence – except when they literally got in my way, which happened more often than one might think.

It’s possible that Disney has employed strategies for controlling the creatures. If so, the effort has not been completely successful. It seems just as likely that park officials have refused to engage in battle with the birds – but rather have learned to love them … and to live with them.


Disney Wildlife Conservation Fund has taken action to protect endangered species of birds, notably the Whooping Crane. Their efforts have spanned more than 10 years; the corporation has contributed more than $10 million to worldwide efforts to protect wildlife and the ecosystem.

It’s nice to know that Disney has not only built wonderful facilities for boys and girls of all ages, but that they’re also for the birds.

Now, if there was just a way to keep birds that perch on Main Street rooftops from appearing to be so much larger than they should…

Look at me way up high

Never gonna be a man, I won't!
Like to see somebody try and make me.
Anyone who wants to try and make me turn into a man,
Catch me if you can.

I won't grow up.
Not a penny will I pinch.
I will never grow a mustache,
Or a fraction of an inch.

'Cause growing up is awfuller
Than all the awful things that ever were.
I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up,
No sir. Not I. Not me. So there!
        -- Peter Pan, 1954

Peter Pan defied the adults in his life (mainly pirates and Indians) and he absolutely, unequivocally, undeniably and stubbornly refused to grow up.

I stood watching Peter Pan in the center of Disney World this week and listened to him as he contemplated the prospect of once again taking on the formidable Captain Hook in mortal combat.

1954’s Mary Martin, portraying Peter on live TV, knelt over the body of a dying Tinker Bell and implored viewers to demonstrate their belief in fairies.

I was 6 and, of course, I responded. And I’ve been responding, more or less, to one version or another of the Pan philosophy ever since – even after my rational self realized it wasn’t quite true.

Listening to Peter Pan in the shadow of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, I was inclined to believe. Good versus evil seems so well defined when all of the bad guys look like bad guys and the good guys are so very completely good.

Walt Disney said, “Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America... with hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world."

But “hard facts” haven’t treated all of us equally, nor have we become aware of their existence at the same age.

My parents’ generation discovered Walt Disney in the context of a world dominated by hard facts. But my generation discovered hard facts in the context of Disney.

In Disney’s world, it seems possible to actually be sure that we are right. And even when it’s certain that things will get worse before they get better, it’s also certain that good will prevail and that we’ll all live happily ever after.

But in the real world, outcomes aren’t always guaranteed. Those living through the Depression and World War knew this before they were ever exposed to Disney; we Baby Boomers had less cause for skepticism and were more susceptible to the Disney message.

But life’s lessons can be harsh and the time comes, for most of us, when we realize that good intentions, hard work and following the rules does not always lead to positive outcomes.

Standing in the crowd this week, I struggled to let the joyful message prevail. But I failed.

I guess I was crying because I knew Peter was telling a lie. I know now that dreams don’t always come true, that goodness is not always rewarded and that it isn’t always safe to trust others.

He was describing a world I once thought I lived in – a world I can’t stop wanting to occupy. And I wept out of a sense of loss – the loss of something I never really had.

"I don't want the public to see the world they live in while they're in the Park,” admitted Disney. “I want them to feel they're in another world."

It’s a wonderful world. It’s a great place to visit. But, at the end of the day, I just can’t live there. And that’s why I was crying, this week, right in the center of “the happiest place on earth.”

“After me.”

Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first,"
Pushing in front of the ice cream line.
Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first,"
Grabbing the ketchup at dinnertime.
Climbing on the morning bus
She'd shove right by all of us
And there'd be a tiff or a fight or a fuss
When Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first."

Pamela Purse screamed, "Ladies first,"
When we went off on our jungle trip.
Pamela Purse said her thirst was worse
And guzzled our water, every sip.
And when we got grabbed by that wild savage band,
Who tied us together and made us all stand
In a long line in front of the King of the land-
A cannibal known as Fry-'Em-Up Dan,
Who sat on his throne in a bib so grand
With a lick of his lips and a fork in his hand,
As he tried to decide who'd be first in the pan-
From back of the line, in that shrill voice of hers,
Pamela Purse yelled, "Ladies first."
        -- Shel Silverstein, 1974

Rush hour was technically almost over by the time I set out for the Magic Kingdom yesterday. But plenty of folks living in high-traffic regions like Orlando adjust their work schedules to cut commute time and that stretches the “hour” to at least 120 minutes – longer still on Fridays as “get home” traffic is increased by “get out of towners.”

Many, though perhaps not most, drivers are fairly courteous and will give a little slack to motorists attempting to change lanes or make other maneuvers. But the general attitude is “get moving or get out of my way” as nearly everyone is eager to get where they’re going and out of the rat race called “the daily commute.”

I was on the road for nearly an hour and probably had mini-episodes with hundreds of other drivers. Several times, I needed to make an exit or lane change and waited as several cars refused to open a gap for me. Occasionally, I hit the gas and forced my way over – coming way to close to other cars for real safety.

It’s a jungle out there and sometimes you just have to be the aggressor. Or so it seems to me.

As soon as I arrived at the park, I knew I had made a good decision. Ten or 12 lanes offered access to the parking lot. Most were open, with green lights inviting me to make a choice between inviting options. None of the lines was more than three cars long.

And yet…

I slowed a bit to survey the situation and a half-dozen cars flashed by me, two or three made multiple lane changes so they could race to an open booth – or toward a line with just one car. On a busy day, we might have been held up for five or ten minutes; with virtually no waiting, drivers still seemed intent on saving a few seconds – at the expense of someone who hesitated, as I had.

We were single file all the way to our $11 parking spaces, but a new race began immediately. Families poured out of their cars and quickly headed for the end of our row where a tram was waiting.

Catching that first tram seemed to be the most important thing in the world for many folks and there was plenty of shouting, quick-stepping and even running to make sure to find a seat – at the expense of others who didn’t rush.

As so often happens, I caught up with those who had passed me before they were able to gain any real advantage. I took some satisfaction in the fact that I hadn’t raced past others in pursuit of my own self interest.

The ritual repeated itself at the ticket booths. On this slow day, there were very few people in line to buy tickets. But people jumped from the trams and raced to the short lines – passing others to gain a dubious advantage.

I was second in line at my ticket station and was soon beyond the gate. Two new races were underway inside – one stream of people headed for the Monorail and the other toward a ferry. Unlike the configuration in Anaheim, parking is a long distance from the real entrance to the attractions.

I turned toward the Monorail station, but soon noticed that more people were exiting that area than entering. Apparently there was a delay.

Those who were opting not to wait for the problem to be resolved looked a bit frantic, at least in my eyes, as they retraced their steps and headed for the dock. I decided that it was prudent to follow their lead and also opted for the ferry over the problematic Monorail.

The sense of urgency was very high as it became evident that the ferry was nearly full. I refused to join the panic and neither elbowed my way past others nor attempted to block those who were willing to shove me aside to make sure they got aboard.

Once again, luck was with me and I reached the dock before the ship was filled to capacity. Without having been rude or greedy, I’m sure that I arrived at main entrance at the same time those who passed me at the parking gate, in the parking lot – enroute to the tram, at the ticket booth and on the path to the ferry.

This pattern continued all day long. Despite very short lines for most attractions, visitors raced through the turnstiles and along lanes where folks normally wait for their turn. Several times, moved aside to let a pack of eager beavers rush past me. I always caught up with these rudesters farther down the line and always ended up on the ride within a few seconds of them.

Though I’ve linked the behavior of commuters to the behavior of vacationers in an amusement park, I don’t mean to say they are of equal import.

In the context of leisure activities, I believe running is a good thing. It adds to the excitement and keeps the heart rate up. I don’t mean to judge or even to discourage those who felt compelled to race to the front whenever they could. I am a bit miffed, of course, by those who did so in a rude fashion that transcended thoughtlessness. But, upon reflection, I’d say these were few in number.

There does seem to be a shortage of good old fashioned courtesy; and more of that is always a good thing. I’m very forgiving of children who are caught up in the excitement; and am tolerant of parents wishing not to dampen that enthusiasm by tightening the reins.

But when the adults take the lead, and when their actions take some of the joy out of the experience of others – and even threaten safety – I disapprove.

About two hours before the park closed, temperatures dropped and I began wishing I had brought a jacket. I had visited every attraction on my list and had stayed long enough to see the lights come on. The only remaining event of great interest was the evening parade and fireworks – which might have been enough to keep me around if I had that jacket.

But I left about 2 hours before closing. When I returned to the parking lot I discovered that about a third of those who arrived when I did had already left. All of their rushing around ended up saving them time they apparently didn’t need after all.

Peak experience

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you
        -- Jiminy Crickett

“I’m going to Disneyland!”

That four-word phrase has become a standard at the end of Super Bowl games when there’s been no recent “costume malfunction” and when the MVP of that venerable game has not been an accused murderer.

As a fairly typical American who made his first visit to the park about a half-century ago at the perfect age and during the right time in history – the idea of Disneyland is powerful.

In fact, that idea is so powerful that even the most gross and greed-driven efforts by corporate functionaries to translate every single bit of the magic into an enhancement of the bottom line can’t destroy the Disney experience for me.

Before the Disneyland there were already Disney characters…

Walt Disney was one of the most powerful influences on me and millions like me. He was the kind of combination of entrepreneur and creative genius that has given us so many of our most useful, amazing and enriching “things” – be they products, services, programs or events.

Born at the turn of the century and raised in the Midwest, “Uncle Walt” absorbed the set of values that became known as “the American way.” Creating art—particularly cartoons – was an almost daily part of his life from school days onward.

Making steady progress toward fame and fortune, Disney hit the big time in the mid-’30s with “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” Typically, he invested much more money than experts of the day thought prudent in the enterprise and it turned out to be much more successful than even he hoped.

"I don't make pictures just to make money. I make money to make more pictures,” he said. That same logic seemed to be applied to Disney attractions until Walt’s death at the end of 1966.

The first generation affected by Disney was caught up in the Great Depression and then in World War II. Those unhappy contexts surely had a lot to do with how fantasy operated in their lives.

But my group (Baby Boomers) came to know Disney in a whole new age – the post-war, growing economy, focus on family, fantastic FIFTIES!!

Those who first saw movies like “Pinocchio,” “Dumbo” and “Bambi” during the depression or war years might well have wondered whether dreams really do come true or even if good conquers evil; but during the ‘50s it was easy to imagine that happy endings are not only possible, but predictable – almost certain.

There’s certainly a difference in expectations between one who had to endure years of strife that must have seemed to be without end (particularly for children) and those who came onto the scene after the struggle had ended and things got better.

In a world where real evil had recently been conquered, it was easy to accept fantastic worlds where imaginary bad guys always lost out and nobody got hurt in the process.

And so, I grew up not only with Mickey, Daffy, Goofy and dozens of other animated good guys, but with idealized (though also rather “sanitized?”) historic and imaginary heroes of the past like Davy Crockett, Zorro, Elfego Baca, the Swamp Fox and more. These, to a very significant extent, were my mentors, teachers and role models.

Of course, my life contained many other stimuli. I also learned from movies that clarified the horrors of war. I had perceptive parents who helped me see that the world is not perfect and that progress requires work and sacrifice.

But I believe I have Walt Disney to thank for not becoming a cynic, for not giving up hope and for not giving in to the dark side.

About six hours into my visit to Disney World yesterday, I experienced a surprising emotional response while watching a performance by familiar Disney on the steps of Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

It was standard Disney fare: quite joyful and emphasizing the power of dreams (as in the message from “Cinderella”: “A dream is a wish your heart makes”). Several villains, including Captain Hook and the evil queen of Snow White fame, were vanquished in a little drama; and good conquered evil – as usual.

I stood in the crowd and was surprised when familiar but unexpected emotions swept over me. For the first time in my life, the Disney magic backfired and I wept – right in the center of the happiest place on earth.

And THAT has given me something to think about. I can hardly wait to read what I write in my NEXT blog entry. Stay tuned.

Be sure you don’t miss …

By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond.
Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae
On the bonnie, bonnie banks O' Loch Lomond.

O ye'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road,
An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks O' Loch Lomond.
        -- Scotland, circa 1745

Even before I left Merced on this yearlong jaunt, people were trying to take control of my itinerary. Now, 265 days later, I still get travel advice just about every day.

Of course, I’m bringing it on myself because I invite me to have breakfast, lunch or supper with strangers just about every day, and the main topic of discussion is usually my trip.

One observation I’ve made is that people assume that I will be interested in places and activities that interest them. I’m often steered toward opportunities for shopping – an enterprise I detest; and I’m also encouraged to visit upscale neighborhoods to look at the houses – another activity that fails to capture my fancy.

The fact of the matter is that I tend to appreciate rather offbeat phenomena. I can spend an hour watching an individual or team working on some kind of project. I get a kick out of figuring out how things get done.

I do appreciate the advice I get and do act on quite a bit of it. But since running into a few lemons, I’ve become a bit more careful and tend to interview those who make suggestions to determine whether our interests are in synch.

I’ve also noticed that people tend to be true to local visitors and tourism offices. I’ve been urged to take in attractions that are part of local lore – even though the person making the suggestion may actually have never been there her or himself. The local reputation seems to be enough to justify making a recommendation – most towns have kind of a list of landmarks – these sites often decorate the covers of calendars and brochures.


Such local attractions can turn out to be rather disappointing; but they are what the town has to offer. Often, it seems to me that the hype isn’t matched by maintenance or even adequate signage. Such sites suffer from neglect – though their reputation remains unblemished in the eyes of those who haven’t dropped by for years.

So, the advice I’ve received from local residents has resulted in a sort of potluck set of outcomes. I’ve learned to ask follow-up questions and to seek second and third opinions before jumping into the Saturn on what just may turn into a wild goose chase.

People often want to give me detailed driving instructions. But, I’ve become completely dependent on my GPS device. The constant update of my position and reassuring course corrections have removed a considerable amount of stress that has always been part of travel for me. You see, I’m directionally impaired – usually uncertain as to north-south-east-west orientations; and I’m basically lost just about all of the time.

When people start giving me directions, I try to explain that I can’t usually remember anything past “turn left at the second light…” I also mention that I have a GPS device and only need to know the destination – that my onboard digital navigator will plot my course – but they often seem intent on providing turn-by-turn details despite the fact that I can’t remember them and don’t need them.

It’s actually rather entertaining when two well-meaning travel assistants begin to debate each other regarding the best route. I just kick back in these situations and recall how terrible life was in “the olden days” – meaning a year ago – when I didn’t have the GPS.

Actually, travel is a great starting point for interesting discussions. Learning where people have been leads to discussing what they’ve done which tends to uncover a bit of what made them the people that they are.

What did you bring me?

Three or four kids are gathered under a tree alongside the road. The obvious leader is a girl, perhaps 9 years old. She’s clutching an armadillo in both arms – the animal is the size of a large cat and seems to be resting about as comfortably in her arms.

She’s smiling, signaling without words that she and her friends would make a very nice shapshot photo for tourists wishing to remember this tropical area of Mexico south of the capitol.

We’ve foiled her plan, though, by shooting while on the move – capturing this young entrepreneur on film as our truck rolls by. Using a movie camera does much more than capture a moment in time; it allows the photographer to capture transitions.

And the transition in this little scenario is rather remarkable. The incident was captured some 50 years ago and it has been a couple of decades or more since I last viewed it; but I remember both the day itself and the images captured on our family’s new 8 millimeter movie camera.

We were visiting a historic part of Mexico, an area that featured ancient ruins. It was a popular spot for tourists and the local residents had devised several strategies for separating visitors from some of their money.

A type of clay or other substance, comprised, in part, of volcanic ash, was used to create objects that had an air of antiquity to them – though they were pretty obviously being produced contemporaneously, the unique texture apparently made them popular among tourists.

When we arrived at one of the most visited sites, vendors gathered around in a sort of swarm, pressing their wares forward and making their pitches. Everyone was a target, even I – a 14-year-old with no money or interest in the products.

I noticed that many of the salespeople were actually younger than I. Perhaps their parents found the business to be a bit demeaning – it did seem to me to be almost a combination of sales and begging as the young people seemed to be appealing to customers’ charitable instincts as well as their interest in neo-ancient art.

The little girl with the armadillo flashed that smile and I was interested. She appeared to be truly friendly, interested in sharing her pet with passersby.

But when she realized we were stealing the product she was attempting to sell – namely, her image and that of the reptile – she became enraged. Her pretty face was transformed into a mask of hate and fury. She turned her body to block our view of the animal and shouted what must have been harsh words.

All she wanted, I realized, was our money. She was willing to pretend that she was interested in sharing something with us; but her only real interest was in making a buck – and that attractive smile was a sham.

She had fooled me. And I felt betrayed by my gullibility. I learned that some people pretend to be friendly while really only wanting something from me.

I didn’t go visit Niagara Falls on this trip, partly because for me it symbolizes the worst characteristics of tourism and the tourist “trade.” People have actually risked – and lost – their lives in an effort to gain fame by “going over” the falls; and hundreds of stores and stands struggle to extract dimes and dollars from the millions of tourists who pass through each year.

I get that old feeling at carnivals and county fairs, in Tijuana and, now, in Myrtle Beach South Carolina and today in Orlando, Florida.

I’m still planning to spend tomorrow in Disney World, but as I drove down to that part of town today – to check out the lay of the land – I got caught up in the world of “gimme.”

I’ll pay a fairly incredible entry charge to spend the day in an undeniably amazing place. And that’s fair enough.

But, in the context of that visit, I’ll be charged $11 for a parking space and will be offered all kinds of food and souvenirs at prices way beyond reason.

I wish the transaction between an excited guest to a region that contains something of great interest – be it a battlefield, national park or amusement park – and those who choose to make their living by selling products and services to those visitors.

It seems to me that there is a range of returns on investment that falls into the “fair to both parties” category and then there are transactions falling above and below that range.

That said, it would be nice to go back to Mexico and find that little girl. I think we owe her a dollar for those 75 millimeters of film we shot of her holding the armadillo.

Orlando

As a Californian, I’m used to living on the edge. Because of its tall and narrow shape, our state has over 800 miles of coastline. The population is generally crowded toward the coast – as it is in most regions of the world that are largely desert.

Florida has less than half of California’s land mass, but boasts about 1,200 miles of coastline, including a lot of pretty impressive beaches…

The reason for this inequity, of course is the fact that most of Florida is a peninsula. Yep, look up “bi-coastal” in the dictionary and there should be a photo of Florida – though the term more often refers to folks with roots on both the Pacific and Atlantic coasts.

Twenty-second in size, Florida is fifth in population. People are packed a lot closer together down here where there are about 50 percent more people per square mile than in the Golden State.

One interesting tidbit of historical fact: Florida entered the Union five years before California. I suppose that provides some minor bragging rights…

I’m 13,000 miles into this journey; and one thing has become very clear to me: I don’t like crowds. I’ve been uncomfortable in heavily populated areas. I tend to avoid big cities; and when I’m camped out in one, I tend to stay “home” more of the time, though I hope to break this trend while here in touristy Orlando.

As I traveled east, the landscape featured thick forests and people became less visible. At first, this provided the illusion that I was in rural areas – even when large housing tracts and commercial or industrial zones were nearby.

Now that I’ve adjusted to being unable to see beyond the trees, I’ve developed an almost paranoid sense that I’m almost always just a hundred yards or less from urban sprawl. Rather than enjoying the forests, I’ve become suspicious of what secrets they may be hiding.

I’m still near the beginning of a month-long stay in Florida, so it’s premature to begin reaching conclusions. But it is accurate to note that there are a LOT of people here.

Orlando, proper, has just over 220,000 residents and is the hub of a large metropolitan area, ranking third in the state after Miami-Ft Lauderdale and Tampa-St Petersburg.

The city grew dramatically in the last quarter of the 19th century and again in the early 20th century and still dominates inland northern Florida. It is a sprawling metropolis, however, and I’m not sure I’ll get a real feel for this historical city most famous, now, as the site of Disney World.

All of this said, it’s only fair to note that today was an absolutely beautiful day in northern Florida. Humidity, which was still oppressive in the Carolinas in October, was not a factor and, despite temperatures edging into the 80s, today couldn’t have been nicer.

With a new GPS device (that’s another story), I’m confident enough to venture forth tomorrow in the general direction of the many attractions that surround Disney World and to try to discover the lay of the land.

I’ll probably make Wednesday my day in the park. The forecast is positive and I’ve been eager to see this eastern version of Disneyland since Uncle Walt described it so enthusiastically on the “Wonderful World of Disney”.

I’m 2,000 miles and 48 years away from that memorable day, but I believe I can recapture some of the magic if I give it a try.

Changing times

Still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets and
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me

Ch-ch-ch-Changes
Pretty soon now you're gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can't trace time
        -- David Bowie, 1971

It’s funny how the “bonus” hour we receive each Fall when we get to set our clocks back seems so much more important than any other hour of the year.

Perhaps it’s because that sixty minutes is one of those something-for-nothing deals that reeks of unexpected opportunity. Unfortunately, I tend to end up spending more than an hour trying to think up a good plan for making good use of this annual gift – which clearly defeats the potential.

I wonder what might happen if the powers that be changed the official clock-reset time to a daylight hour during the workweek and encouraged us all to spend that hour creating a benefit for our communities.

If the “set-back” time were 3 p.m. on Wednesday, for example, we could all spend the second hour between 2 and 3 picking up trash, painting over graffiti or doing any other kind of service we might devise that improves the general quality of life for our towns and cities.

It’s interesting to consider how much could be done in a few hundred million hours of public service – even if they occur only once a year.

Of course, the whole daylight/standard time game is artificial – as are hours and minutes, for that matter. Time is a rather mysterious phenomenon that can be measured in very specific and detailed fashion, but can’t be controlled at all.

Time is a one-way street; we can only move toward the future.

It’s said that one can’t step foot into the same river twice – because each successive entry encounters different water. But one can get on a raft and flow with the river, slowing it’s passing a bit; or they could take a powerboat and travel upstream – racing into the future for a ways.

But, at the end of the day, the river isn’t really affected by our puny efforts to artificially speed or slow its passage. Old Man River just keeps on flowing along…

The main thing about time, it seems to me, is that it’s the most logical way to put events into perspective. While one thing may not often actually lead to another, it always happens before, during or after the time that the other occurred. That positioning, along a timeline, does seem to add some meaning, or at least context.

Time allows us to reflect and to anticipate; it provides urgency and – ultimately – deadlines.

At the end of this day, it’s probably not very significant to determine whether I’ve gained an hour or not. The certain fact is that the day that will end in a few hours will never be available again. Like every other day in my life, it’s a one-time offer.

I'm not the kind to live in the past
the years run too short, and the days too fast
The things you lean on are the things that don't last
well it’s just now and then, my line gets cast into these
time passages
There's something back there that you left behind
oh time passages
Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight
        -- Al Stewart, 1978