Erik, Katie and Griz      Nov 2017

This post is for our Nephew Eric and his girlfriend Katie who are embarking on a lifetime adventure in a little blue tiny  house. We wish them godspeed on their unique and creative journey as they travel about living life with awareness, compassion and enthusiasm for all the natural world.

I awoke this morning washed by a wave of ambiguity about our decision to sell our home and RV full-time.  We are coming off  a long three days weekend of Open Houses where we welcomed a parade of strangers through the front door.  The stream  of potential buyers wandered through these rooms where we have lived, laughed and cried and accepted life’s ups and downs, all the while nestled into a loving community of friends and neighbors. We were married in the little front garden. We said good-bye to two beloved pets in this house. We celebrated holidays and birthdays with friends and family gathered in love and acceptance in this place. This house is filled with the echo of love and laughter. The house is quiet now, comfortable clutter put away for staging and family photos packed for storage. With the dawn of Monday morning, I have mixed emotions about leaving this safe haven. It is not at all doubt about our decision to sell the house, but it is definitely mixed feelings. 

It’s been nearly twenty years since I re-homed myself to Florida and I don’t regret a single day. What a wonderful State Florida is with its exotic plants and wildlife all around us not to mention clear turquoise waters within any days drive. And what a pleasant place my lanai is to be on a day like this with the cool breeze and the aroma of Meyer’s lemons drifting in the window. 

It is in the quiet hours of the morning that I wonder how I could choose to move into the next season of life and leave behind the comfort of people and places here that are dear to me. It brings up questions that are good to ask. Why do some of us spend our whole lives trying to discern where we belong? Which fork in the road makes sense to us? If we take the other fork, would we discover where we end and the rest of the world starts? Choices at our stage of life can elicit a strange  mix of emotions.  As soon to be full-time RV’ers, we will be carrying our fragile selves about on wheels on a pilgrimage without a designated end date. Where will we belong? I am not often one to fret about the future, but I do admit to a few sleepless nights lately.

I’ve had these doubts before at critical junctures in life. During these times of anxious transition,  the remedy for me  is to quietly remember that there is goodness everywhere we have ever  lived or traveled. We encounter folks everywhere, who, by their very willingness to accept change and follow their heart down the road serve as an example that we really need not walk alone. Chance Encounters that bloom into friendships await at every bend.

Life is, after all, a meditation on loneliness. It causes us to explore the meaning of solidarity with whatever community we come into contact with and to seek and find that one special community with a capacity for love. The potential to be lonely as we leave our comfort zone community compels us to put out feelers  for little expressions that might indicate the potential for building new connections and friendships. As we travel and look for a future place to settle again, we will be on the lookout for those signs that an armature is in place where we can sculpt a new life rich with friendship and community. A new life where we can meditate  on life’s inevitable  lonely  periods within a caring circle.

During life transitions such as this, we are at risk of actualizing our all too human tendency to project onto the unknown our innermost fears. Will this challenge be too big? Are we too old? Are we foolish to give up a business that we enjoyed? Are we wise to be leaving behind  the security of a house that is paid for, a community that is familiar and secure, medical care that is reliable? Will we mourn the routes, routines, habits, and rituals that are unconsciously embedded into our daily lives?

Yes, change and transition sparks a questioning within our souls. But I have forever been burdened (or blessed) by an unrelenting  curiosity that translates easily into Wanderlust; a compelling desire to move about and experience the world from many perspectives. So, despite my habitual and human resistance to shedding comfort for the unknown, I am going to remember why I chose the fork in the road that leads to the potential for self-transcendence because it demands that I stretch and grow. I resolve this morning, as the sun comes up and the coffee enters my bloodstream to get a grip on it and embrace this new habit of heart that is mobile and exciting and soul opening.

I am about to put my sweater on backwards, or more likely since we will be camping, my sweatshirt on inside out. I will welcome the gift of opportunity to change it up and make life new again. I resolve to think and talk about what is to shortly to come with a novel vocabulary of being.  I will use a vocabulary that defines house and home differently. I will think about community more as the sweetness of meeting and not the sorrow of separation. I will welcome the walk somewhere new and experience fully and with gratitude all of the joy or bitterness as may come to be.

And so, we will continue to pack the boxes and do Open Houses as we work towards the inevitably time when we pull the camper out to depart for other places where we can listen to the heartbeat of stones and feel the forest beating its wings and see the color of the wind against a painted sky. Here we go turning the world upside down and inside out and backwards forward! And it is going to be good, Erik and Katie.

As we travel along and see people, places and things, we often find ourselves saying, “I wonder….” I thought it might be insightful or maybe just fun to track the things that we wonder about in the course of one day’s drive through multiple states. Sometimes we goggle questions and get unexpected answers but for this one day, we decided to be content with the mystery and the wonder of it all without the need for an instant answer. It was like “before internet”. Here’s the short list of things we wondered about on this one day of traveling along listening to the soundtrack from Forest Gump. It’s a great soundtrack by the way.

Several oversized tractor trailer bed trucks carrying some sort of giant metal connectors passed us on the highway. The contraptions looked like submarines; huge tanks of some sort with hatches. What could they be? We wondered aloud about how much of the infrastructure that powers our lives is hidden from us. There is a whole world of engineering that makes life smooth and easy that we are not even aware of. We wondered how many people are involved from design to building and transporting and installing such monster lego pieces. We wondered what those contraptions will do when they reach their destination. 

Why do toilet plungers have yellow handles? I wonder.

Isha’s Market in PA advertises Food, Fuel and Fun. Across the street is an establishment advertising Live Dancers. Is one a day job and one a night job for the same people? We wondered who wouldn’t want Live Dancers? Dead ones would be boring.

We saw caravans of electric company vehicles and wondered at the sheer enormity of the response to Hurrican Irma and the plight of the people affected. There were endless streams of utility company truckers driving north towards their home states after providing mutual aid assistance to the folks in Florida. They gave up time with their own families to respond to the need of fellow citizens who desperately needed their help and it was much appreciated. These guys are the true pole dancers!

Another caravan that we witnessed was a long line of brown vans marked  Law Enforcement. Possibly they were  transporting prisoners who had been evacuated ahead of the storm. We wondered about who they might be and what the losses in their lives might have been that put them in this place at this time.

We wondered if those trees were waving at us as we passed by? They seemed  to be. Their leaves fluttered like thousands of hands at the passing parade of cars whizzing by. The horse trailer that passed by us had two brown tails sticking straight out of the slats on one side blowing in the breeze. They also seemed to be waving to us as we all headed home south.

“Where does that pond go?”, we wondered. “Where do you think that road goes ?”, we wondered. “Where does life go? It seems to be flying by like the highway.” 

We wondered who thought of the camping sign that we have been seeing in camper windows that says, “I love it here!” What a great message! Wherever you go, there you are and you can just love it there. This short statement  communicates  contentment with our  present situation. It always amazes me that just one positive thought can lead to the insight that can transform how we feel about where we find ourselves. Saying it aloud, helps it to be so. I love it here.

I really do. I love it here.

It is time to prepare the New England garden for the coming winter. It is a ritual that we go through to lay to rest all of the growing things that have enriched our summer here at camp. In the flower beds, some of the annuals will continue to serve  next year as compost, but the perennials will greet the spring again after their winter rest, so we are careful to prepare them a comfortable winter place with a nice blanket of straw to protect their roots.

This chilly morning, as I step down the camper steps, I’m greeted by the Morning Glories. They are only buds at this early hour, curled up like a cozy cat, but in a couple of hours they will open with their arms flung back wide to greet the rising sun. Morning Glories know when to just be still, quietly waiting for the sun to warm them enough to open. They remain in their morning meditation, saving energy for the right time to stretch and rise and preen until it is time again to fold inward and relax for a bit. Sleeping in the dawn’s mist for now, they will be content blue smiles against a blue sky later in the day.

Morning Glories have always been one of my very favorites flowers. In the little mill town in NH where I grew up, they climbed up beside the porch screen door. The sight of Morning Glories is forever linked in my mind with the sound of that slamming door as we kids ran in and out of the house over summer vacation for Kool-Aid and snacks. They came back every year, newly planted from the seeds randomly dropped by the fading flowers of the year before. There is an old Buddhist saying that I am very fond of,  “All that is the flower is contained in the seed.”

This morning, I am pulling out squash plants that have been dressed up in cheery yellow blossoms all summer. I whisper a thank you as I bury them under cover in the compost pile; that living repository of energy that welcomes generations of plants to blend their fading life-force together to feed the new generation next year. Squash plants are prolific marvels of the garden. Bending but not breaking, they sway gently in a rain shower or breeze attesting to the wisdom of being flexible. They appear to be nothing but water wrapped in fragile, hollow green casings and yet, they produced big families of sturdy fast growing vegetables that we could share with friends all summer. They are hard working sensible New Englanders during this short growing season. It is hard to tug their roots loose and retire them to the compost pile, but as they finish their work, they remind me that everything is a process of renewal and that we are all a part of it.

The Rudbeckia plant has been our Evensong, glorious during the day and glowing against the moon at night. Usually they are tall, reaching around five feet in height, but this is a monster. We don’t know why, but it has stretched skyward to nearly nine feet this season and it bobs large yellow mum-like flowers on the breeze. At this height, they have to be deep and steady, determined and resilient, a lesson in how to set ourselves on a firm foundation as we tower up to our potential. I cannot imagine the roots this plant must have sent down to support nine feet of stalk with heavy flowers on its crown! The Rudbeckia has great Karma: the more flowers I harvested and gave away, the more they came back. It is seemingly eager to leave the nest garden and go sit in a vase to cheer the kitchen of a friend.

The sedums are an exercise in patience and faith. They do not blossom before we leave for the season. They take all summer long to form tiny buds and I can see the tint and tone of red deepening and developing, waiting to burst forth when full fall arrives. I look at them every morning, sometimes wishing that they would hurry just a bit this year so that we could catch a glimpse of how beautiful they will be. Ah, but they are not on our timetable, they are on their own. The time of every life’s full blossoming is not for us to determine; we come and we go not as we wish, but as it is. We will be gone before they shout color but I am grateful for the promise they make and the reminder that every life is a work in progress.

After a bit of garden work, I went on a walking meditation with our little Wicca. She, like the garden perennials, seems to continue to blossom even though she turned seventeen in August. I wonder how many more walks we will share? She still likes to go down through the grasslands  here at West Hill Park scouting out creatures. She walks out ahead of me, tail high and wagging back and forth, full of the joy of movement and whatever is on the wind that is making her nose twitch. We sit on the bench for a few moments and watch dragonflies and bees on the wildflowers that grow there. They too will soon rest for the winter.

I talked to her this morning about how precious it is to be with the living things that we love here at camp, including her. I talked to her also about the impermanence of all things. I think she seems to understand that this very moment is what we have together and that life will unfold and change with mystery. The garden will practice surrender and acceptance, reminding us that we are perennial too. Just as the flowers will come again and again, there are no limits on the beauty, courage and generosity that emerges from each of us in our short time together.

It has taken me all summer to write about a deep loss in Arnie’s side of our family that happened this summer here in Mass. This morning, as we close another season and move on to the mystery of what is next, I turn my face to the sun and thank the Universe for the life of Suzy Muzzey Seminara and comfort for those who loved her.

It’s our second summer of camping in the woods of Massachusetts with pared down amenities. Rather than moaning about how much I miss fast and reliable wi-fi, the dishwasher, cable TV and most of all, my own washer and dryer, I think I could choose to think about all of these non-existent Mother’s Helpers a bit differently. I could just think about my technology challenged summer as being one more whopping personal growth experience that life seems to enjoy placing square in the middle of the Barb Turnpike of Life. There’s been more than a few.

I can manage the absence of wi-fi because the Uxbridge Public LIbrary is such a friendly and welcoming place. Zach, the librarian sees me coming and turns the AC down and the fan off so that I will be comfortable. He offers a bottle of water if I am working there for a few hours. I love this spot and really appreciate  spending time there using their wi-fi. The dishwasher really isn’t much of an issue with just the two of us and cable TV is hardly missed at all. We get some local air TV channels and our wonderful neighbor, Phil, loaded a stick drive for us with movies before we left. So in the few hours that we actually have to sit down and vegetate, in front of a TV, we are adequately entertained. But then there is the laundry.

Camping by its very nature generates laundry. Jeans that are covered with Deepwoods OFF bug spray, damp towels and summer sneaker socks are all tossed in the laundry basket to breed into a witches brew that demands a weekly trip into town to the laundromat. Loading up sheets, blankets and baskets into the truck and then huffing them into the busy laundromat is not my idea of fun. It is a constant timeline of Tide, Snuggle and quarters to feed the machines. And the funny thing about laundry is that no matter how often you do, it, it’s never done.  There is no end and apparently no beginning to the process of laundering clothes. Laundry is a constant mundane flow.

It is helpful to me to keep in mind that the majority of the circumstances and events in our lives are just that: a constant and mundane flow. Our lives too are a process of sorting tasks and events into manageable loads. This white sock goes here and that navy towel goes there. The small decisions made while processing laundry are not much different that the large decisions that impact our lives in greater ways. How will we take the soiled aspects of our lives, sort them out and clean things up so that we have a new and fresh  opportunity to express the highest version of who we are or are evolving to be.

I try also to remember that there is a Zen aspect to the performance of every simple repetitive task like laundry. I sweep out the change house here at the Park each morning. It is probably the same grains of sand brought in on the feet of different swimmers that I move from the inside to the outside, day after day. But I love the sound of the old straw broom. I love that this is a tool of such elegant simplicity. I love making that floor all clean and shining and ready for the bare feet of dozens of children donning their bathing suits to go for a swim in the river. Elevating a seemingly pointless task to the level of something Zen, reintroduces purpose into the whole process. Sweeping the floor is something calming and meditative when you take the time to imagine the recipients of your efforts. Thinking of sweeping with that broom as a kindness that you do in preparation  for a small child’s  play or a compassionate act that enables an elderly person to sit and enjoy nature in a clean place transforms a mundane task into a purposeful act.

When the repetitiveness of  life seems pointless or like the never ending pile of laundry waiting to be done, there is a way to re-frame how we are feeling and move forward.  We can use our imagination and creativity to rewrite the script for our current circumstances.  It’s our own story and if we chose to make a movie out of it, we get to write and film it as we want to live it. We get to write the ending and the events leading up to that ending.

While not everything is within our control, we can practice conscious recognition of what works for us  and what doesn’t.  By recognizing what works for us we gather information and then create new insights that assist us composing our story lines. By doing this you can experience a new perspective on an old situation by imaginatively connecting the new characters and plot lines.  When we write our own stories, we then get to choose if and when we want to move forward or make changes.  Perhaps, most importantly, we get the gift of as many rewrites as we need to get it right.

Einstein said “Imagination is more important than knowledge.  Knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”  I try to use my imagination to envision a different way to think about those areas of life that I find mundane or even troubling. Some of the insights gained by using this technique allow me to think about life in a different and more positive light.

Clean underwear and fresh towels straight from this week’s laundry doesn’t seem like a bad place to start!

Dear Nolan,

As Poppy and I prepare to get in the truck and travel to your first birthday party, we wanted to send your gift ahead. We will not be bringing a new plastic toy or a snappy new outfit. We promise to your parents that a new puppy in a box is not on the list either! As a gift for this special occasion, we are sending along a brief and heartfelt message that we hope your parents might save and share with you each year as your grow.

One year ago we welcomed you into the world with such joy. It is our wish for you to experience lifelong joy and it is joy that we want to write to you about now

We wish for you, our precious boy, that you might live a life full of joyful moments. That does not mean that all of your wishes will come true or that all of your wants will be fulfilled. I means something much deeper.

We wish for you that you grow to be the kind of person who awakens each day with the committment to make this day meaningful. Not perfect, not without human ups and downs, not even without suffering. Just meaningful. Outwardly focused on all of the good that there is in the world and what your own unique and creative contribution might be to it.

For us, your loving grandparents, the path to joy is by way of compassion and loving kindness. We can live in a meaningful world when we  awaken each day with a compassionate worldview. If we open our eyes on the new day  thinking about what small kind thing we might be able to do for one other person to lighten their burden, then we create our own happiness.

For this, your very first birthday ever, we are sending along this message. Be kind, be compassionate as you grow in the light of a loving universe. It will come back to you as a joyful life.

See you in a few hours. It will be a joy!

Love, Poppy and Tanta

CAMPTON BAPTIST CHURCH

Last Saturday night, Arnie and I had an opportunity to attend a church supper at the Plymouth United Methodist Church, my Mothers church home in Plymouth, NH.  We always look forward to timing our visits right to be able to stop in and catch up with local folks we have known for years and enjoy one of the best meals in town for $10.00. We always hope for a Chance Encounter with someone who we have not seen in a long time and we are never disappointed. Going to the local church supper links us directly back into a familiar place and time.

I grew up in Campton, a small  neighboring town steeped in community and tradition. For most of us young kids, social activity revolved around the sturdy brick Baptist church that stood rooted on the common. It didn’t matter whether or not you were Baptist, if you wanted to be where the other kids were, you went to Youth Fellowship and Sunday School and all of the church suppers at the Campton Baptist Church.  Unless you could drive, it was the only game in town. It was what you did during that spiritually unconscious time of life when you just simply went where your Grandmother told you to go and enjoyed the company of friends (right Ann and Mary?)  because they were doing the same thing. And it was good.

Campton Baptist Church gave me a foundational immersion in a theology that I would later use as an architecture and a springboard to think critically about what path really fit my worldview best. While I moved gradually in another spiritual direction I would contend that all of the great religious thinkers have much more in common than they have differences. While the details may vary, a concern for the greater good is woven into all legitimate schools of religious thought. Therefore, I would contend that spiritually, I haven’t moved much at all from that little church that still sits overlooking the Village. Perhaps we never completely leave behind the indoctrination of our childhood, but rather build upon its foundation?

In this gentle and small church community, I learned about greater community. Here we gathered to celebrate life and mark all its important transitions. One of those transitions that we gathered for was the changing of the seasons; a significant event  in New England. where the seasons bring such dramatic shifts. Church suppers marked the advent of spring, summer, fall and winter. with all of the seasonal foods represented, especially the annual harvest supper. Church suppers gathered families from the Village and beyond to share a meal and then tarry over a cup of coffee and a piece of pie to catch up on one another’s lives. Undeniably symbolic, the ritual of gathering for a meal has brought people together for eons.

Church suppers are a very old concept based in practicality and finance as much as serving a social function.  Originally, churches supported their minister’s salary with a town levy. But after the Revolution, funds were spare and had to be diverted to other needs. It fell to the  Women’s auxiliary groups to get creative and  organize ice cream socials and church suppers to cover costs. Leave it to the women to save the day! also  It was not unusual to see local politicians stop by and shake hands, recognizing a grassroots opportunity to connect and fund-raise. I recall this from the suppers of my childhood, but I don’t know if this still happens or if social media has taken the place of in person connections.

Thus arose this effective method of generating funds that would evolve into a treasured New England tradition.  Meals are often Ham and Beans, built around a variety of made -from-scratch dishes brought along by church members. Cole slaw, mac and cheese, green bean casserole, homemade yeast rolls and brown bread, corn pudding and  of course, the pies line the serving table. Here, things haven’t changed much over the years, and that’s what’s wonderful about it. People mostly don’t cook this way at home anymore, but this is comfort food that brings back memories. Milk glass sugar and creamers and jelly jars set the table with flowers picked from someone’s garden create a country cooking ambience. Growing up, there were tin foil covered donation baskets on the table and I recall my Dad, a committed agnostic, putting a then generous five dollar bill in the basket for our meal. He didn’t go to church, but he never missed a meal!

All of the wonderful family recipes handed down through generations are represented and eagerly anticipated by supper goers. Women in the church are known by what they make for the church supper. If you want some good old New England food, here’s a cookbook that includes some great recipes:  the Church Supper & Potluck Dinner Cookbook published by Yankee Magazine.  And if you want a fun recipe, google Scripture Cake!

As we travel, we have discovered different specialties in different regions of the country : in the South it is fried chicken dinners, in the Northeast it is bean and ham suppers.  Amish dinners in Pennsylvania are popular and  Chowder suppers along the Mass and Maine coast catch the summer crowd.  But everywhere, there are the pies! Church supper pies are legend. You cannot talk about church suppers without special mention of homemade pies. A separate table is usually laid out with slices of cherry, apple, peach and blueberry.  Lemon meringue and chocolate cream peaked with meringue make your mouth water. Strawberry rhubarb in the summer and pecan in the fall are favorites. And we cannot forget apple!  All with homemade crusts; no boxed desserts here! The women in the congregation have their own following! Once a month now, my Mom still makes a pecan pie that disappears very quickly and our dear family friend Lois crafts an exquisite Lemon pie too.

Good Friends, Good Fellowship, Good Food

The times they are a changing. This will be the year that we take a big plunge. We are currently working our way up north to MA for our second summer as Park Hosts with the West Hill Park Ranger team. In the fall, when we finish at the park and leave MA, we will journey back to Florida to put our home on the market. At that time, we will commit to living in the RV full time. While another traditional home is likely in our future at some point, we do not know exactly when that will be. We’ve been taking increasingly longer trips and practicing for a couple of years now to get comfortable having no designated home base, but there is still an element of mystery about what it will truly be like to be completely itinerant. It’s been a real process reconciling our longing for travel with our love of our home and, sometimes, we still think, “Yikes!”, are we ready for this? But after many discussions, much research, and a number of informative trial trips, we are as ready as we ever will be to take the plunge.

We know that we are not alone in our decision to shed the burden of belongings and consciously chose a simpler life. Boomers are entering retirement each year eager to realize their dreams of travel and exploration after decades of raising kids, paying the mortgage and holding down nine-to-five jobs that many found necessary but uninspiring. RV sales are soaring as excited new buyers pick out their home on wheels and hit the Open Road to begin their new phase of life. In our travels, we have met some who embark and never look back, tackling the mobile lifestyle with enthusiasm and confidence. Others, hit some unexpected bumps in that road.

Perhaps the greatest challenge in moving forward in life is letting go of what we will be leaving behind. It’s hard to focus on what is in the headlights when you are more concerned with the loss of what is fading in the tail lights. What we hear from many RVer’s, is that moving forward means that they have embarked on a new adventure, but left behind their familiar community. That community may consist of kids and grandkids, good friends of many years, a church home or work colleagues. Familiar places to shop, restaurants and watering holes, social clubs and groups, the family doctor, etc all change now with the new mobile lifestyle.

Arnie and I can attest to that challenge. Saying good-bye to the daily comfort of familiar community, for us, is the hardest part. We will no longer be living near friends who have been next-door for years. Phil won’t be able to text and tell me to send Arnie over for a beer on a hot summer day. Judi won’t be able to stop by with an extra tomato or better still, chocolate chip cookies. John won’t be there to assist me down the stairs when my back goes out. What will the holidays be without Bert and Deb? And, who could ever make a layered berry shortcake like Chris? I can make ice cubes one tray at a time, make do with considerably less clothes and only three pair of shoes, use a laundromat, get accustomed to air TV and all of the other compromises necessitated by RV living. But, oh, how we will miss being in close proximity to our beloved community of people dear to us.

We recognize that embracing such all encompassing change would rock the boat of even people who are comfortable with sweeping adjustments to their lifestyle. This is a major life shift and the burning question for many people who decide to leave home and hearth for a mobile lifestyle is how to replace the sense of community and belonging while moving from place to place. While staying in touch via social media and cell phone is easier than ever, as humans. we still need some level of direct interpersonal contact to live a soulful life. Arnie and I have looked long and hard at the question of how we will find and build meaningful community while we travel about?

We know from the last two years of travels that we will need to be very purposeful about constructing community in this new way. Tolkien’s character Gandalf said, ”Not all that wander are lost.” I would suggest that Tolkien’s wanderers may not have known exactly where they were headed next, but they were okay with that because they knew that they were still grounded in community in the form of their steadfast traveling companions and those friendly folk they met along the way. Therefore they are never truly lost.

Over and over while camping we have struck up casual conversations with diverse fellow travelers only to find that we know or enjoy some of the same people, places and things. We are always struck by the fact that we have more in common than separates us. There is a culture of warm welcome and friendly assistance in the RVing community that seems to assure that no one is truly alone. We have been invited into people’s lives through chance conversations and, in turn, we have welcomed folks from all walks of life to our campfire. In sharing the fire, that communal experience that is so much a part of the human DNA, we have been blessed with new friends and a much appreciated circle of support that now extends around the country. Traveling the open road has much in common with moving to a new neighborhood. It is just that that your neighbors change every time you hitch up.

As we move about in the coming year, we will be interviewing people about their RVing lifestyle and how they share their fire. We will continue to hold conversation with retirees who are seeing the nation, parents who are home schooling their children with the parks as their classroom, traveling nurses, pipeline workers and work campers. We are interested in learning about how a meaningful community of interdependence develops for the ever expanding group of people who choose to live mobile. We know that a mobile community of compassion and kindness exists because we have repeatedly experienced it. The outcome of these interviews will (hopefully) be a book in which we explore the nature of the new mobile community and how we can build upon its very best features. Folks are connecting with one another as they experience that common bond of going places. As we all travel our separate roads, our Chance Encounters with kindness and compassion reduce the distance between us. Sharing the fire might just contribute in some small way to reducing the metaphorical distance between us in a troubled world.

“However capable and skillful an individual may be, left alone, he or she will not survive. When we are sick or very young or very old, we must depend on the support of others. There is no significant division between us and other people, because our basic natures are the same. If we wish to ensure everyone’s peace and happiness we need to cultivate a healthy respect for the diversity of our peoples and cultures, founded on an understanding of this fundamental sameness of all human beings.”

~ The 14th Dalai Lama

Windmill Village 2015 The Times They are a Changing

I saw Fluffy Little Bunnies everywhere on Easter this year. And I don’t mean on the shelves at Wal-Mart amongst the chocolate eggs and the Peeps. I saw Fluffy Bunnies at the ER near Stone Mountain, GA where I spent Easter evening trying to pass a beast of a kidney stone.  Thanks to two consecutive doses of morphine, I was definitely stoned in Stone Mountain for Easter. Fluffy Bunnies  abounded!

In the moment, there is not much funny about having a kidney stone. But, like all of life, after the crisis is over, there is always a retrospective humorous side. I gained this perspective when I read the instruction on the drug information sheet for the medications that the ER doc sent me home with.

My first chuckle came when I read that I’ve been prescribed a drug that is usually given to men to treat the signs of an enlarged prostate. I am not sure what I should be aware of for side effects, but I am watching carefully for chin whiskers and a stache. That would add insult to injury. I am supposed to tell my doctor if I am pregnant. The medical community should stop asking me that. I don’t get carded in pubs anymore, so stop asking an old lady if she is pregnant.

Also, no one told me that this medication would kick in suddenly on the second day while I was in the car in rural Georgia with no bathroom in sight. Oh dear Lord have mercy! First, I cannot pee and now I cannot stop. What kind of cosmic joke is this? The instructions suggest that I talk with my doctor before I drink alcohol. What should I do? Ask him out for drinks? Because, I definitely need a drink.

And then the informational flyer lists other side effects. First on the list is “a change in sex ability.” Given the rest of the list, which includes cough, loose stools, runny nose, mood changes, gas, vomiting and headache, who would want to have sex with me anyway?

I am further cautioned not to share my drugs with anyone. Who would want this drug which causes you to constantly plot a course between bathrooms and become a public nuisance when there is a line for the lady’s room.

You might ask where Arnie was in all of this fun and games. When it became clear that we would be at the ER for an extended period of time (all night and into the morning), I sent him home for a few essentials. In the chaos of leaving the house in excruciating pain, Arnie had grabbed whatever garb was within near reach for me to wear and he decked me out in a pair of his own men’s dress socks along with a fetching inside-out zebra print pair of skimpy panties belonging to my daughter in law. He pulled up  the beaten-up jeans I had gardened in all day and topped it off with a striped nightgown, no bra, no shoes. Out the door we flew, with me doing a striking imitation of  a Ringling Brothers circus clown in that ensemble. It was Homeless Chic. I was in danger of being mistaken for an escaped mental patient, especially after the second dose of morphine kicked in leaving me in a sleepy slump in the wheelchair.

These are the times that might make a weaker man question his choice of brides, but Arnie took vows and so, off he went to get some supplies to clean up my act. Time marched on and, after several hours, I began to be a bit concerned that he had been gone quite awhile. As our only cell phone began to lose the last little bit of charge, I fantasized about him wandering the streets of downtown Atlanta in the wee hours trying to locate the place he left me behind. Knowing he would never ask directions and was relying upon our unreliable GPS in the truck, I prepared to send out a Silver Alert on my husband. About this time, he walked in the door sheepishly denying that he had been lost. He was instantly forgiven because he brought me coffee and breakfast. I might add that this somewhat congealed breakfast  had clearly been cooked several hours prior, but who’s looking for clues or hard evidence of his being lost.? Not me, Lost Boy. I am just glad you made it back.

Here’s to Fluffy Bunnies and Lost Boys! We leave GA on Friday to go make some more tender memories!

We are packing and preparing to depart for cooler pastures up North and so here we go with the blog again. As some of you know, I’ve been on blogging hiatus over the winter while I was working on a book. We love staying in touch with all of our dear ones and hope that this year’s Chance Encounters posts will keep you a part of our lives while we are away.

But, least you think that this post is about departing on another fun trip, let me clarify that it is sadly not. It is about another kind of departure. A bittersweet departure.

Yesterday, we said a loving goodbye to Hana, our friend of 14 years as she departed this life gently and peacefully while Arnie and I held her and each other, thanking her for being with us. Hana has been our much-loved  surrogate child and traveling companion, so her final departure is a bit heartbreaking on the eve of our own leaving. This morning I got up out of habit at the usual ungodly hour that she needed to go out in her old age. I knew she wasn’t there, but I got up anyway. I changed the water in the dish. I picked up the dog bed I couldn’t touch yesterday and went out on the porch with my coffee alone. And then I heard an early morning bird call out, seemingly telling me to sit for a spell and just heart-talk with Hana.

Chin’s are an odd little breed of dog that are full of mixed emotions. One the one hand they shun  close contact, keeping themselves at a polite and aloof distance. On the other hand, they greet you with wild abandon after even a short separation. Even a five-minute trip to the garage could result in a greeting that would be more appropriate for after a long weekend away. Hana had the short-term memory of a sixties stoner. But those spinning, circling greetings accompanied by joyful squeaks and snorts were reaffirming. You never doubt that someone loves you with their whole heart when you are greeted by a Chin after being gone for only five short minutes. This morning when I talked with Hana, I told her how deeply reciprocal that love has been.

Hana came to me at the time of another transformational departure in my life. I had just lost another beloved dog and was full-blown into a grief process that was really challenging me to recover from. I was vulnerable. Not only that, I was puppy vulnerable, that awful state of being where every sighting of a puppy brings on a painful longing that you really are not yet ready for. Your head knows that, but it is a visceral response. A friend who did rescue work for Japanese Chin Rescue called and shared that he had just gotten in some puppies that needed homes. I went to see them thinking that I might just foster one, but  when he put that tiny ball of fluff in my hands I was hooked. It was that gut-wrenching puppy longing fulfilled and all intelligent thought vanished.  I had a bug-eyed, snaggle-toothed, crusty nosed instant Princess. This was perhaps the ugliest puppy I had ever seen. Not withstanding, I loved her instantly. I went out and bought her a dress.  I thanked her for sparking the kind of adoration in me that pulled me out of a dark, sad pit of grief over the loss of her predecessor. So this morning , I also thanked Hana for turning me into one of those dog ladies who unapologetically expressed their mental issues by dressing their dogs in clothes and parading them around local farmers markets in a dog-stroller.

Chin ‘s are  known as a brachlocephalic breed. Their short faces are  artificially selected for by breeders who are going for a particular look. Pugs, Pekingese and Boston Terriers are examples of other breeds who have been developed for shortened faces. Along with this kind of breeding can come physical deformities and disabling conditions. Hana had a cluster of issues. Her face and head were twisted slightly, making one eye protrude prominently. Both eyes drifted lazily out to the sides and her jaw jutted off at an angle Her nose resided jauntily off to one side as if it were God’s afterthought. Although she snored and snorted enough to carry the nickname “PigPig”, none of these endearing attributes affected her in the slightest. But more than one vet was to confirm that she probably was a not “all there”. Hana’s head injury likely occurred at birth, resulting in challenges to her IQ that only made me love her more. I made sure she was home schooled in the special class and we made out just fine. The heart condition that finally precipitated her departure yesterday was more critical. This morning, I thanked Hana for reminding everyone around her that there is intrinsic value and something to celebrate in every individual no matter what they look like or what makes them different and unique.

Most of my life, I’ve had athletic dogs such as run-with-the-wind greyhounds,  a razor-sharp  Australian Shepherd,  and working German Shepherds that live to do your bidding. I’ve always prefered dogs that can do a job. An unlikely choice made at a vulnerable time in my life,  Hana was a born pillow-sitting Diva by nature. By her superior attitude she communicated her demands on the whole household. She could stop other dogs in their tracks and interrupt that introductory sniff with a stiff glare that said, “Keep away from the royal self.” Hana knew no commands, only invitations.  She followed a daily routine if rewarded in accordance with her wishes. She knew the words Treat and Cookie before she knew her name and she trained me early on that I was expected to pay a tariff for her cooperation. This morning, I thanked Hana for keeping me humble for 14 years. I told her that I appreciated the constant reminder that we are all only here to serve in some way or another. To make the life of another creature better, safer, more comfortable or happier is a gift. As the giver, we receive beyond measure.

Back in my pre-Arnie days when I tent-camped all over Florida, the other  dogs happily roughed it with me. Hana staked herself out on her pink fluffy blanket, wholly disgusted with the accommodations. No dog in the campground was too big for her to grump and growl at from her royal vantage point. She loved a nice hotel room with a balcony but she hated tent camping.  Today, when I talked with Hana, I told her I admired a woman who could claim her rightful place in the world. I especially admire a woman who can get what she needs with one withering look.

And finally, I talked to Hana about how much we are going to miss her. Our household is an interlocked puzzle of animal personalities and there is a missing piece this morning. We are all feeling it in our own ways. For awhile, Cracker the African Grey will call her name and she will not come. Wicca the Cairn will wait for her at the door and Hana will not bounce back into the house alongside her pal. Arnie and I will reach for her and and miss the silken touch. And then, one day, we will Chance Encounter her somewhere again and recognize that it is sweet Hana.  We hope that we sent your spirit off in love to drift gently into that next life where you have more lessons to learn and more lessons to teach. Thanks for being with us just as you were. Continue to love well little Hana and we will touch noses with you again and soon.

We like to take the long way home. Rural Georgia has some of the prettiest scenery anywhere. It is without pretense. Cotton fields roll out as far as the eye can see making it look like it snowed last night. Peanut field ready for harvest lie waiting for the men and equipment. Straight lines of pecan groves line the fields like statue soldiers at attention. It is still possible to see tenant farmers’ cabins quietly decaying at the edge of the field. They still stand in testimony to harder times.

The back roads of Georgia are also filled with interesting places to stop off and sample some local color. The little town of Andersonville is one that we really enjoyed. Below is some historical background information that I gleaned from various local publications.

The little hamlet of Anderson was named for Mr. John Anderson who was a Director in the Southwestern Railroad at the time it was extended from Oglethorpe to Americus in 1853. It was known as Anderson Station until the post office was established in November 1855 and the government changed the name of the station from Anderson Station to Andersonville in order to avoid confusion with the post office in Anderson, South Carolina.

If you read the blog that we published  about Camp Sumter, you will know that during the Civil War, the Confederate army established Camp Sumter to house incoming Union prisoners of war. The town of Andersonville served as a supply depot during the period, and it included a post office, a depot, a blacksmith shop and stable, a couple of general stores, two saloons, a school, a Methodist church, and about a dozen houses.

Until the establishment of the prison, the area was entirely dependent on agriculture, and, after the close of the prison, the town continued to be economically dependent on agriculture.  Andersonville changed very little over the years, until 1968 when the large-scale mining of kaolin, bauxitic kaolin, and bauxite was begun by Mulcoa, Mullite Company of America, which turned 2,000 acres (8.1 km2) of scrub oak wilderness into a massive mining and refining operation. Bauxite is a chief ingredient in the production of aluminum. The company now ships more than 2000 tons of refined ore from Andersonville each week. I did not know anything about mining in the South and in doing some research to learn more, I came across this paper which gives good background if you are interested:  https://pubs.usgs.gov/bul/1199g/report.pdf

In 1974, long-time mayor Lewis Easterlin and a group of concerned citizens decided to promote tourism in the town by turning the clock back and making Andersonville look much as it did during the American Civil War. Now today Andersonville welcomes tourists from all over the world who come for the History, Museums, Eateries and to step back in time. It is charming with a big dose of friendly. We learned from chatting with some folks that the community comes together to foster a spirit of cooperation and commerce that is the best that small towns have to offer. One of the things we loved most about this little place was that there is a Town Dog. He was a stray from who-knows-where, so the folks around town just built him a dog house in the square and everyone feeds and cares for him. This caring seems to epitomize the spirit of the town.

The Andersonville Station Confederate Restaurant sits on the small square in the Historic Civil War Village of Andersonville, Georgia. We pulled into a parking spot and were greeted warmly by the owner/cook, Kimberly Ward and her waitress who were sitting on the front porch in rocking chairs recuperating from the lunch rush. A friendly old lab/cur cross  got up to meet us and let us know he was open to any leftovers we might have. It seemed he doesn’t presently have a home and Kimberly is caring for him until one can be found. Needless to say, it was hard to leave without him, but we have such a full house already there was little choice. Kimberly assured me not to worry about him as a friend of hers was on the way to help.  A cat rounded out the welcoming committee. For a variety of reasons, this stop called out to us as a Chance Encounter we simply could not pass by without learning more. So, in we went for lunch.

We love the juxtaposition of the local landscape with the local people. We try to get as close to the earth and the local culture as possible in the most respectful way possible. In keeping with the purpose of our travel and blog,  when we are eating or  visiting with folks we try hard to support local businesses and agriculture. We hope that you might have an opportunity to take the back road to Andersonville, stop by and visit the nice folks at the Andersonville Station Confederate Restaurant, 107 E. Church Street, Anderson, Ga  They are working hard to preserve a slice of American pie, no pun intended.