We headed out early on an overcast Georgia morning to go see another of our National Historic Sites. We were planning about an hour’s drive to Plains, GA, home of President, Jimmy Carter to visit his museum and childhood homestead. Passing by cotton fields and pecan groves along HWY 90 we spied another Historical Site called Andersonville National Historical Site. Being easily distracted, we took a quick left and entered the park just to check it out quickly before continuing on to our intended destination. Three hours later, we would come back out, silent and spent.

Established in 1970, Andersonville National Historic Site has three main features; the National Prisoner of War Museum, which also serves as a visitor center; the Camp Sumter Prison Site; and Andersonville National Cemetery. It is maintained by our National Park Service.

We began our visit through this entry, admittedly a bit nervous about what we might see. From the first step in, this place set a somber and respectful tone.

The Museum focuses on the POW experience across time and not solely on the Civil War experience. It clarifies, through educational exhibits who exactly is considered a POW and takes visitors through the ages with artifacts, photos and interactive exhibits that are sometimes really hard to experience………..especially the two films. Deep questions come to mind; questions we don’t really want to grapple with. Some of it is just too close to home. I have embedded some of the questions that came to my mind in this blog. I want to go back and think about it some more after some time has passed. Perhaps you will give these questions some thought too? Perhaps peace can start with a state of mind?

QUESTION: Does the concept of a just war exist?

QUESTION: What joy is there in winning a war when so much loss and pain is associated with it?

Bridging the museum and the grounds is a moving courtyard commemorating all prisoners of war. Entitled “The Price of Freedom Fully Paid”, this memorial also captures a portion of the tributary of Sweetwater Creek that flowed through the grounds as the only water source. Today, it runs crystal clear, unlike the muddy trickle that served so many souls in the fourteen months when Americans imprisoned Americans.

QUESTION: After every major disastrous war, humans vow to never let it happen again, yet that event comes to pass again eventually. Why is that?

The prison site itself was profound. We visited on a comfortably cool fall Georgia day, but it was easy to imagine the site in the heat of summer or the bone cold of a snowy winter. Andersonville was hastily built to relieve crowding in Richmond prisons and to relocate Union prisoners away from the battlefront. Camp Sumter, commonly known as Andersonville was not even finished or supplied when the first prisoners arrived in February 1864. Essentially no more than a giant pen intended to hold 10,00 men, the 16 1/2-acre pen had a 15-foot-high stockade wall and two gates. Nineteen feet inside the stockade was the “deadline” marked by a simple post and rail fence. Guards stationed in sentry boxes shot anyone who crossed this line. White posts still stand showing this line and walking along it, I imagined the thousands of souls who stood here suffering and, of course, those who perished here. I felt my hiking boots rooted to the footsteps of men in unimaginable circumstances. I could walk away from here and go home. They could not.

Conditions at Andersonville in its 14 long months of operation were among the very worst in the history of war. The camp was covered with vermin, there was no clean water supply and flies and maggots tortured the men. The surface was swampy mud. Here, a prisoner of war was more likely to die than a soldier in combat. The overcrowding, short food supplies and inadequate shelter allowed disease to run rampant.

QUESTION: Why do prisoners of war and the civilian citizens have to face the consequences of their nation’s decisions?

Exactly how many prisoners died is not known. Surviving records suggest some 30,000 or 15 percent of Union prisoners and about 26,000 or 12 percent of Confederate prisoners died. Some states have erected monuments to commemorate those who died from their states. There are monuments that honor the contributions of nurses also.

After touring the museum and grounds, visitors return to their cars and drive over to the cemetery. Anderson National cemetary was established July 26, 1865 as the permanent resting place of honor for deceased veterans. The first interments were soldiers who died in the prison. Burials continue today for veterans and their spouses who chose this place as their final resting site.

The NPS brochures and films tell an interesting story of a 19-year-old named Dorence Atwater who was with the  2nd New York Cavalry. He was captured in July of 1863 and spent eight months in Richmond, VA prisons before arriving by rail at Andersonville. In June of 1864 he was detailed to work in the hospital where he recorded the names and grave locations of the deceased. He secretly copied this list and smuggled it out when he was released. He later worked with Clara Barton to mark the graves of the dead . His death register enabled many families to locate their loved ones and thanks to his work, over 95 percent of the graves were identified.

One final question: How long will we continue to bury veterans who perish in wars in this cemetery? 

One of the joys of traveling here and there is stopping in to places that we might bypass if we were not on the lookout for Chance Encounters. We are easily distracted by interesting places and often hit the brakes and turn around to investigate. Since we are committed to eating locally and adventurously, we are especially alert for new food experiences and the stories of the people behind the food. We stumbled upon one such person and his place recently and it proved to be a real palate pleaser.

Vinny is a vibrant, energetic fellow who’s welcoming smile radiates from behind the counter of Padira Bakery. We had a few minutes to spare while our laundry dried, so we strolled down Main Street in Milford, Massachusetts to explore a group of shops whose signage was all in Spanish. Padira Bakery called to us on this hot day with the full color pictures of fruit smoothies on the window. What we discovered inside was an enchanting array of baked goods and a young man by the not so Brazilian name of Vinny, who is extraordinarily proud of work.

Vinny shared with us that he is a nutritionist by training. He wanted to combine this perspective on food with a business concept started by his Grandmother two generations ago. She had made bread from her home kitchen to help support her family. He also felt that some of the healthy aspects of his native cuisine could be adapted to please an american palate. And so the Padira Bakery was born.

Vinny bought the bakery a year and a half ago as a failing business in need of much updating and hard work. It is right on Main Street in Milford under the green awning. His business provides employment for extended family and it is really fun to walk in and be greeted by their enthusiasm and smiles.

Brazilian cuisine has European, African and Amerindian influences. It varies greatly by region, reflecting the country’s mix of native and immigrant populations, and the size of this large continent as well. When I explored the subject online, I learned that this mix and size has created a national cuisine marked by the preservation of regional differences. There is not an exact single “national Brazilian cuisine”, but there is an assortment of various regional traditions and typical dishes. This diversity is linked to the origins of the people inhabiting each region.

We actually have some really good Brazilian food in our surrounding home community in central Florida, but because the menus are often based around meat, we have not sampled much in Florida. In the Southern part of Brazil, the influence and focus on meat shift due to gaúcho traditions shared with its neighbors Argentina and Uruguay. With many meat based products, due to this regions livestock based economy – the churassco, a kind of barbecue, is a local tradition and that is much of what we see in Florida now with the emergence of the Brazillian steakhouses. So the Padira Bakery was a nice opportunity to try a different aspect of Brazillian cuisine with the focus being on less meat and more on lighter fare.

Ingredients first used by native peoples in Brazil include yucca, cassava, guava, coconut. All of these influences are represented in the bakery. The acai ice cream is made from fruit imported directly from Brazil and the deep red color looks like beets. It dances on the tongue with a partnering of tart and sweet. Other tropical fruits such a mango, papaya, orange, passion fruit, and pineapple are all fruits we are familiar with from living in the tropics, but they are used  creatively in the bakery’s cooking in a variety of delicious manners that we were unfamiliar with. The coconut cake made with yucca flour was delicious. I served it with fresh picked strawberries and whipped cream for dinner with friends one night and it was an all around hit! Vinny loves to share his work and we left stuffed with generous samples that he insisted we eat and take with us. We had days of yummy in the tummy to look forward to!

A few days later we picked up meat pies and a smooth as silk flan to take to the kids house for lunch. Everyone kept going back for flan all through the day! We have lots of great Cuban food in our area of Florida, but this was some of the best flan we have ever sampled…….smooth and not overly sweet.

The national beverage is coffee and what bakery doesn’t need a great coffee? Vinny’s brand is imported from Brazil and roasted in Boston. The beans are delivered daily from a roaster in Boston and the bean bags are often still warm…….now that is fresh!

Arnie and I shared a  pães-de-queijo, a large filled concoctions similar to a pierogy of Polish cuisine or a kibbeh from Arabic cuisine. It is a common finger food items, that is a meal in and of itself. In the center is a melted volcano of Queijo Minas Cheese is surrounded by  spiced pulled chicken encapsulated in a gluten-free dough made from yucca flour. The egg-shaped result is rolled in cornmeal and deep-fried like a donut. This is what the workmen line up out the door for at 5:00 each morning. They come to fill their lunch pails, grab a coffee and breakfast to go.

Given the predominance of the beef/dairy industry in areas of Brazil, cheese figures in as a common ingredient. Queijo Mnas is a soft, mild-flavored fresh white cheese usually sold packaged in water. If our Florida friends will journey over to Rt 127 and visit La Isla grocery, across from the Pulix Plaza, you will find this cheese in abundance and we hope you enjoy trying it!

In addition to the pães-de-queijo, we tried Pateis, similar to empanadas. These small hand-held pastry envelopes are wrapped around assorted fillings, then deep-fried in vegetable oil. These are filled with either spiced beef, chicken or just cheese. They look like the jam filled tarts that my Grandmother made to use up leftover pie crust with their crimped edges and golden brown hue. It was interesting to learn that these delicious hand held goodies are actually an Japanese influence. There has been a significant Japanese diaspora into Brazil and this street food is an easy fast food pick up with their different shapes  used to tell apart the different flavours. The two most common shapes being half-moon (cheese) and square (meat). Some resemble chicken croquettes.  We washed it all down with a big glass of passion fruit juice which Vinny said would leave us calm with a feeling of well-being. Not sure if was the great food or the passion juice, but we did feel really good after that! 

Of course, the deserts are the highlight at Padira Bakery. Bolos, or cakes line the trays,; cut into big slabs that would easily feed four people for desert (or Arnie and I on a glutinous night). We didn’t have enough time this year to try them all, so we obviously will have to set a goal for next year!

• Bolo de rolo is a rolled cake, a thin mass wrapped with melted guava and a delicacy of Southern Brazil

• Pão de mel is honey cake, somewhat resembling gingerbread and  usually covered with melted chocolate

• Bolo de cenoura  is a scrumptious carrot cake with a chocolate cover made with butter and cocoa

• Bolo prestígio is a chocolate cake with a coconut and milk cream filling

• Bolo de fubá (corn flour cake)

• Bolo de milho (Brazilian-style corn cake) resembling cornbread

• Bolo de maracujá (passion fruit cake)

• Bolo de mandioca (cassava cake)

• Bolo de queijo (literally “cheese cake”)

• Bolo de laranja (orange cake)

• Bolo de banana (banana cake spread with cinnamon)

  As the weekday crowd gathers early in the morning, we think it is not only for the food.  An additional benefit is being greeted by Vinny and his friendly family to start your day off right. That is food for the soul!

via Daily Prompt: Stylish

 At 6:00 each morning as the alarm broke the peace this summer, I rolled out of bed, grabbed coffee and threw on my not so stylish outfit. The center-piece of my wardrobe was a drab brown plaid flannel shirt. One pocket is ripped a bit, two buttons are missing and it has a stubborn coffee stain on one sleeve. I originally got it at a rummage sale in Virginia, knowing it would take the chill off an outdoor Massachusetts morning. I love this shirt.

Now mind you, this shirt is not pretty. Some women can sport a man’s shirt and come of as pretty, even sexy. Remember Annette Bening in The American President?  Michael Douglas almost gave up an election for the love of her in his crisp not-so-virginal white shirt. I don’t think she would have had the same effect in flannel.

Flannel is almost a genre. Labels like Pendleton, Woolrich and L.L. Bean have made a classic out of its comfort. And then there’s red flannel hash, that staple of New England church suppers that makes little children gag. It is a traditional corned beef hash with beets added for color and it is definitely an acquired taste. I guess it probably derives it ‘s name from the Red Flannel underwear that our Dads used to wear in the winter when they went out to shovel snow or hunt deer or some other freezing New Hampshire endeavor.

Each day this summer, I had chores to do and two hours to do them. Under the flannel shirt, bleach spattered jeans and a t-shirt completed the ensemble. Loosely pulling my graying hair back in a twist-tie  and lacing up sturdy hiking boots, I headed out for the morning’s honest work, stylish in what would best be described as a rumpled-crumpled look. I never wasted a moment this summer thinking about what was stylish. Clothes were as practical and as honest as the work.

Now, summer has passed into fall and the chores are done until next spring. Tonight, I dress up for dinner. As I squeeze into a dress, I will spend a moment though, imagining the hug of a familiar flannel shirt and the tug of jeans. I miss my summer style already.

One rumpled-crumpled July morning, as I headed out for chores with my sweet husband I turned to him and jokingly said, “Why don’t you ever tell me I’m pretty anymore?” We looked at each other and just laughed. I snuggled my flannel shirt around me and off we went to do our chores, caring less about what is stylish.

via Daily Prompt: Hike

This morning I woke up early while the rest of a house full of adult kids slept off the big meal and wine from last night’s feast. We arrived yesterday to babysit the Grand-dog; that substitute for the real thing that many of us accept when no Grand-babies are part of the plan. They leave this morning to go to a couple of concerts and the beach and to spend precious time together.

 These are hip, mobile, urban thirty and forty somethings who know how to live their friendships fully. They have walked a path together for years and kept firm the bonds of friendship. As they age, that walk will become a hike. It will be harder. They don’t know that quite yet. Keeping friendships strong and close will become more arduous with hills to climb and valleys to descend into. It will call them to be committed and to work hard to both give and receive friendship. They will need to hike in each other boots and be there in person when encouragement is needed.

This morning, my friend Penny lies in the hospital recovering from bypass surgery. My friend Karen lies in rehab recovering from a double knee replacement. This morning I walk for you both. I walk up and down a steep Decatur, Ga hill, thankful that we are friends of so many years and rejoicing that we will hike again together through this short life when you are well again.

For us all, the walk one day becomes a hike.

This post is for the Beebe Kids or so we still call ourselves. We were and are the progeny of a mill town, Beebe River, New Hampshire. We are bound by a common history of growing up as true children of the common community. We were wild and wonderful, running carefree under the paternal eye of a whole town that protected their children one and all. Everyone took responsibility for everyone. We belonged to one another in a way that persists even today. This summer has reminded me that being a Beebe Kid is a privilege afforded to very few. It is a blessing with a rich heritage for which I am thankful.

It has been a summer of revelation. When we accepted the Army Corps of Engineers contract in Uxbridge, MA, I had no idea that the next town over would be Hopedale. And the town after that would be Milford. These are two towns of major significance to my family and the coincidental fact that we would be spending quite a bit of time in both towns rekindled precious memories. Little did I know that I would find a web of hidden memories and joys in unlikely places this summer.

As we left the highway and turned onto Route 16 towards Uxbridge, I felt a funny feeling. I commented to Arnie that something seemed oddly familiar about that road. We passed a cemetery and I commented to Arnie that I felt as if I had been there before. Not to go all New Age on you, but it felt eerily familiar. As if, a long time ago, this place meant something to me. It was unsettling. But we were excited to be near our destination and I didn’t have time to think much about it. That funny feeling would return and grow.

After we got our feet under us and had been in the area for a few weeks, I called my Mom and shared that we were in an area of Massachusetts that I recalled from childhood conversations with my Grandparents and I thought that I had some memories of being here before. But after years of being filled to the brim with children and work and life challenges I had only sketchy pieces of memory of this place. I would find that indeed, I had been here before and that the connection was real and strong. From various sources over the summer, I would be piecing together recollections that had faded and now are meaningful once again.

My Mother filled in many of the pieces for me. She explained that she was brought up in Milford in the home owned by my great-grandparents until she and her parents moved to Beebe River, New Hampshire when she was going into high school. She gave me the address and Arnie and I went out like sleuths in search of that home. After a few false starts, we checked with the Milford Library and found that the streets have been re-numbered several times. Mom provided an old photo of the house and, with that in hand, we were able to visually identify the house. I recognized it immediately and remembered coming here with my Grandparents to visit. It is comforting to find it well-kept and cheerfully presiding over the street to this day.

This home on Purchase Street belonged to my Great Grandfather John Henderson. He was a Milford selectman for many years and lived here with his second wife, my Gramma Carrie. Pulling up to the curb, I felt a deep sense of connection and remembered visits to this home as a very young child. At the age of 66, how is it that  I now end up for the summer staying minutes from a home that welcomed me as a six-year-old child? What aligned the planets to make this come about? Tears welled up as I missed my beloved Grandparents with an acute longing. Here, the elders of my family lingered over coffee and conversation. I can smell the kitchen. I can taste the apples from their orchard. I can see the color of the woodwork. I can hear the rain on the roof over the bedroom I fell asleep in with a feeling of safety that only a child can feel in the bosom of a loving family. All of these recollections had been put away for a time when I could truly appreciate them once again. When we are fortunate enough to return to the places where we formed the habit of loving we are reminded of what is important.

We also went looking for another home on Congress Street in Milford. This home was the residence of my Great Great Grandparents and the beautiful bow-window in the front is where my Grandparents stood to be wed. I have a picture of them there on their wedding day. This home too is well-kept and obviously well-loved by its present day family.

And remember the cemetery that gave me deja vu as we drove by? Grampa John and Gramma Carrie are buried there. When we originally turned off the highway towards our final summer destination, we unknowingly drove within sight of their resting place in Pine Grove cemetery. If I had looked to the right, out the window, I would have seen their graves lying under the cast of sunlight drifting through the old oak trees. Later, when we would visit and tend the graves, the breeze would snoop around with me, reading the inscriptions, remembering, whispering to the memory of kind, loving people long ago moved to the great universal energy. I marvel at the force that brought us to this place which I might never have come to. I am so grateful to have been led here because, being here has completed something in me. Memories recaptured this summer have imbued the ordinary details of the days with weight and importance. The plain details of life were transformed into something sweet and dear when filtered through the memories of these loved ones, the work they did, the good lives they lived.

The memories flooded back and Arnie and I went on to explore further. The next town over from MIlford is the town of Hopedale. As a significant locale in the Blackstone River Valley Historical tract, it is protected and we decided to take a Ranger tour provided by the National Park Service one Thursday evening (for more information http://www.adinballou.org/walktour.shtml ). As we walked and listened, I was mesmerized. Here, in this town, in these buildings, my Grandfather worked as a young man.  The ranger described the emergence of this town conceived and built by the Draper Corporation and the information below is from my notes on this tour.

Hopedale mirrors the small mill town that I grew up in, Beebe River, NH. I know that some of my childhood friends follow this blog, so I am going to share some of the details. See if you recognize any parallels with our little hometown. I thought of all of you and wished that we could all take this tour together.

Hopedale is unique. It was founded in 1841 as a small commune of Practical Christians who advocated temperance, abolition, women’s rights, Christian socialism and non-violence. Hopedale evolved into a paternalistic model company mill town. Today, its tree-lined streets, rows of mill houses and green parks still remain beside the silent towering mill complex remind me of Beebe River in its hey day. The Ranger tour invites us to relive the story of a town rooted in the dream of “peace and love” and tempered by the fire of industry and spectacular wealth in its time. That wealth is still evident in some of the grand homes and stately municipal buildings that remain and are amazingly well-kept.

The story really began when Universalist Reverend Adin Ballou and forty-five followers purchased a 258-acre farm in an area long known as “the Dale”. Each person owned shares and through their communal efforts they hoped to transform the world by establishing more Practical Christian communities to spread their philosophy.

Among this small band of Yankee pioneers in Utopian living was Ebenezer D. Draper, who ran a machine shop that produced parts for mechanical weaving looms. Eventually, Draper’s business became the main source of support for the communal association and in 1856, he and his entrepreneurial brother, George purchased the majority of the shares and assumed all of its debts. George Draper gave rise to a new era in Hopedale. His successful use of technological innovations resulted in the Draper Company’s emergence as the nation’s leading manufacturer of looms for the textile industry.

Combining great wealth with a strong social conscience, the Draper family maintained complete control over the town for over one hundred years. They provided jobs, built and maintained award-winning worker’s housing, erected imposing public buildings and regulated most aspects of public life within the community. They also left an endowment that continues to be used for community projects today.

At the height of production, the Draper Corporation employed more than 4,000 workers in the massive mill in Hopedale. My Grandfather, Harold Henderson worked in their business office which still stands across from the mill, now providing housing for seniors. Today the mill itself stands abandoned over the river and on silent watch over the town. A single guard patrols its depths each night to prevent vandalism.

My Grandfather was recruited from the Hopedale business office to move to New Hampshire and help to recreate the mill town model in rural New Hampshire in a locale where timber was plentiful and the bobbins used in the looms could be made. My Mother recounts that the decision to leave family and all things familiar did not come easily but it was a good promotion that might not come along again. My Dad, Ed Wentzell would work in that mill for many years and we would grow up as true children of the community attending the two room schoolhouse, participating in events at the Community Center, gardening in the community gardens, swimming and skating on the central pond, living in mill housing and shopping in the company store. By design, life in Beebe River reflected that of life in Hopedale.

The original values of Rev. Ballou continue to filter down through the generations and into our own lives. It should be of no surprise that I take no issue with temperance, abolition, women’s rights,  socialism and non-violence as a good starting point for a well lived life given that I essentially grew up in a commune!

Draper Place, is the old Draper Company Office now

But, due largely to the decline of the American textile industry, the Draper family divested themselves of most of their town properties in the 1960’s and the corporation was acquired by outside owners. In 1978, the Hopedale plant was closed. Many of the mills in this area have been repurposed for commercial or residential use, but the Hopedale mill is a gigantic and sprawling complex. Reportedly, there are interested developers, but it is tied up in international litigation through Rockwell International, mostly owned by investors from China. Many families in all of the Draper properties lost not only jobs, but pensions and a sense of community when the Draper paternalistic model of management ended.

All my journeys, inside and out have led me here and now. I cannot help but wonder why was I led to the very place; this place. where I can still see my Grandmother and Great-Grandmother sitting by the window of the big old house on Purchase Street, hand sewing together the strips of wool that they would braid into colorful warm rugs. I am reminded that while memories of Milford and Hopedale remained in storage for most of my life, certain riches ripen only later in life. And now, I will simply savor the invisible braiding and intertwining of memories that weave  the past to the present and on to the future. The braided past gives us a Way of Being crafted by family and community. The work is fine, hand done, linking us all together across generations and miles as family and friends.

For you, Beebe Kids, with love.

Yesterday was our second day of what was intended to be a quick uneventful trip to Georgia from Mass. We were typically locked and loaded, prepared for anything. Off we went with a cheery good-bye to our summer home at West Hill Park and Ranger Viola as we left the Wildwood and hit the Open Road once again. In my mind, I put aside the comment I had made to my friend Penny last week. I had shared with her that I didn’t really believe in premonitions, but my Irish second sight had kicked in and I had an uneasy feeling about this trip.

The first indication that things might not go smoothly came when little Wicca began to whine from the backseat. Now this is a dog with a bladder that has never failed her. She’s a virtual holding tank. She never asks to stop, but now, as we were speeding down the highway between the big rigs, she decided that the situation was urgent. Her whining went from polite to demanding and just for good measure, Cracker the African Gray parrot joined in. In his repertoire, he has a near perfect dog whine. As the two of them reached crescendo in their duet, we finally found a safe place to pull off and let her out. She took a dainty leak and trotted right back to the truck. We still have no idea what that was all about.

Back on the highway, we settled in again for the drive, with Wicca refreshed and more relaxed. But the peace would soon be broken. We had not gone far before a pick up truck passed us with a woman leaning far out the window. She had a rather frantic look on her face and was waving to get our attention. I never knew that we could read lips, but both of us knew instantly that she was screaming, “You’re on fire!”.

We careened to a stop on the side of I 81, jumped out to the sight and smell of smoke billowing from underneath our little home on wheels. Arnie grabbed the fire extinguisher and I called 911. The dispatcher asked me twenty questions, only about three of which seemed pertinent at the time. She read robotically from a prompter giving me some common sense advice, all of which I ignored in the heat of the moment, no pun intended. I did not realize that she had dispatched help already and was just following a protocol, so it was very frustrating to stand there responding to a scripted inquiry. I was vividly imagining our little gypsy cart burning to the ground while she asked me everything but what I had for breakfast and my mother’s maiden name. I understood soon enough when not one, not two, but three fire trucks pulled up, sirens blaring.

The efficiency with which these guys worked together was impressive if not a bit daunting. I am not sure why they needed an ax, but they got out all suited up as if they were going to enter a burning tenement building. Now remember it is 93 degrees in the sun this day! They lumbered out of the trucks dressed like little boys in cumbersome snow suits ready to play. In no hurry to go anywhere, they crawled all around the offending tire sniffing and using a heat meter to locate the source of the rising temperature. Using their state of the art technology, measuring and conferring with one another, they concluded that the tire was hot. Now I felt better.

They stayed for quite some time waiting for the source of the heat to cool down, in the interim, deciding it was probably not the tire, but the brakes. Now I didn’t feel better anymore. In addition, the spectacle of fire trucks had managed to back up traffic on I 81 with miles of gawkers probably hoping to catch a glimpse of my dead body. But the firemen assured us not to worry, that they were not busy and had nowhere else to go at that moment. They were actually very nice and reassuring, but the magnitude of the response was a surprise to us as well as a reassurance. We were grateful, if not a tad bit overwhelmed and bemused. After they left, one safety officer stayed behind with us until I could reach our Roadside Assistance. In a couple of more hours, the heat seemed to dissipate and we decided to attempt to make it to the next exit where there is a mall. The safety officer kindly escorted us to that safe location with his lights flashing behind us. Thank you to all of these good guys for the assist…….we appreciate it!

As an aside, during all of this, I had been on the phone with our Roadside Assistance provider, Good Sam Club. Literally three hours of being on hold with them and the operator came back on to tell me that she had contacted everyone she could and no one could help us get the camper off the road. Her advice was to call the police. I will be making some calls tomorrow to address this situation, but in the meantime I would advise all my camping and traveling friends to drop this provider like a hot potato and sign back up with AAA for your roadside assistance. This was a serious situation and  Good Sam’s lack of response exacerbated it, keeping us tied up for over three hours with animals in the car and with no good outcome.

When I finally got off the phone with Good Sam Club (Bad Sam), I used my iPhone as a wi-fi source, fired up my computer and within 60 seconds found a dealer within 10 minutes of us who came right over, looked at the problem and got us to their dealership. They even put us into a complimentary campsite for the night so we were able to cook some dinner, make the animals comfortable and sleep.

I try to keep posts on Facebook up to date when we travel because we have friends and family who follow us to keep up with where we are and to know that everything is okay. It is a great way to communicate from the road. So this morning when I checked in, imagine my surprise when I saw that a number of folks had clicked “Like” on the posting of the firetrucks and camper on the highway holding up miles of traffic.  I “LIke” posts all the time just to acknowledge that I saw a particular post and enjoyed it and I am guilty of not always reading the posts thoroughly. I am going to rethink that habit now. Hey, are you guys fire truck aficionados, enjoy traffic jams or just  perversely glad to see me sitting in 93 degree heat for three hours waiting for a resolution?  Whatever your personal reasons, I am so glad you  “Liked” it!

This morning, we are currently sitting in the dealership waiting area where the only plug-in is four feet from the entrance to the men’s room which is a very popular place in the early morning. We’ve just been given the good news that all of the issues related to the braking problem we had are not covered by the warranty. But we will be back on the road sometime today merrily resuming the journey and hopefully finding the humor in some of the past 24 hours events. Meanwhile, dear ones, if anyone else has any premonitions about the rest of the trip, kindly don’t post it on Facebook because I won’t “Like” it very much!

I try to keep posts on Facebook up to date when we travel because we have friends and family who follow us to keep up with where we are and to know that everything is okay. It is a great way to communicate from the road. So this morning when I checked in, imagine my surprise when I saw that a number of folks had clicked “Like” on the posting of the firetrucks and camper on the highway holding up miles of traffic. I “LIke” posts all the time just to acknowledge that I saw a particular post and enjoyed it and I am guilty of not always reading the posts thoroughly. I am going to rethink that habit now. Hey, are you guys fire truck aficionados, enjoy traffic jams or just perversely amused to see me sitting in 93 degree heat for three hours waiting for a resolution? Whatever your personal reasons, I am so glad you “Liked” it!

This morning, we are currently sitting in the dealership waiting area where the only plug-in is four feet from the entrance to the men’s room which is a very popular place in the early morning. We’ve just been given the good news that all of the issues related to the braking problem we had are not covered by the warranty. But we will be back on the road sometime today merrily resuming the journey and hopefully finding the humor in some of the past 24 hours events. Meanwhile, dear ones, if anyone else has any premonitions about the rest of the trip, kindly don’t post it on Facebook because I won’t “Like” it very much!

Although I long ago chose an alternative spiritual path for this lifetime, the United Methodist Church has been a constant presence in my life since my children were little. They were all baptized in this church and we attended the Methodist Church in Plymouth, New Hampshire as they grew up. I was committed that they should be exposed to broad information on various spiritual disciplines. It was important to me that they be equipped to make informed choices that worked for them as adults. As part of that process, in addition to public school, they attended Sant Bani Ashram school for a time, a wonderful alternative school education that included information on world religions and cultures. Their Dad and I exposed them to a variety of religious thought and disciplines along the way, but the UMC was the grounding church home for them over their formative years. So, despite eventually moving in a much different direction, I have a fondness and gratitude for this church and was intrigued when we met Pastor Zach of the Grafton, MA UMC in a recent Chance Encounter.

Pastor Zach leads Simple Church in Grafton, Ma. We knew immediately upon meeting him that this Chance Encounter would turn out to be deliciously creative…………and it was certainly that in more ways than one.

We had driven over to Grafton on a beautiful summer Friday to check out a shop we had read about. Grafton, Ma is a quintessential New England town, built around a large green common.

Grafton Mass is a beautiful town!

Grand, huge old homes are scattered along the town’s streets, giving visitors the impression that, here, in this picturesque place, a typical small town finds predictable expression. The white steepled churches on the common bear stately witness to a history where generations have met to express traditional values and perform generally unchanged rituals of life.

Upon first impression, this is not a town where anything alternative would find expression. Ah, but first impressions are just that………..only a fleeting first look. For a true Chance Encounter, you have to pause. You have to pause long enough to talk in more depth to someone you’ve just met. You have to stop and look them right in the eye. You have to listen hard enough to hear what is important to them. You have to be still and silent about your own story and journey, focusing on theirs intently enough to move past the first impression.

As we pulled into the shop, which was closed that day, Arnie got out of the truck to go in and see what hours the shop was open. He encountered a young fellow on a cell phone who seemed to be working in the kitchen of the church where the shop was located. Maybe he was the janitor? Or doing community service cleaning the kitchen? He appeared to be distracted and busy, but when he hung up he ran over to our truck. He quickly began to apologize for the distraction saying, “I hope I didn’t scare you off!”. Something about him gave us pause and as we listened to this engaging young fellow whose story tumbled out, we were captured by the unfolding of Zach’s story. It is the story of Simple Church and Zach Kerzee, it seems, is the Pastor!

First, let me try to explain the concept of Simple Church. Their website  (www.simpleumc.org ), just says that “ Simple Church is a United Methodist dinner church in Grafton, MA committed to simplicity, service, and community. Every Thursday night we meet around a good meal, good music and good conversation. Want to check us out? We’ll set a place for you.” It goes on to say also that ,”Simple Church is a United Methodist, farm to table, Dinner Church in Grafton, MA- which means that the whole church is built around eating a eucharistic meal together. We don’t have a building, but meet in rented or borrowed space. We began meeting for dinner in September of 2014.”

When we began to research the idea of Simple Church on the web, we learned that a simple church may, in concept, meet anywhere and has no formal liturgy, programs or structures. Facilitation of relationship is paramount to the concept, so simple church is usually a small group of no more than 20-25 persons with small group participation considered to be essential.

We quickly found that Simple Church is much more than a dinner though. It is a gathering of some pretty interesting people who are working to be change agents. Take that distracted young fellow we met in our Chance Encounter who we thought might be the janitor!  It turns out that Pastor Zach is a graduate of Harvard Divinity School and is committed to simplicity as a spiritual practice. Zach is interested also in sustainable agriculture, organic farming, bread baking and he enjoys raising chickens. For a janitor, he has some pretty strong credentials.

Assisting Pastor Zach is a new addition to the team from Texas. Pastor LyAnna Johnson who will be in Grafton to work with the team on farming, baking and worshiping for a year before starting a second synergistic branch somewhere in central Massachusetts in 2017. LyAnna is delightful to talk with and we have no doubt that she will bring vibrancy and passion in the expansion of this revolution. Her position is supported by an Urban Ministry grant from the New England Conference of the UMC.

One of the first questions we pondered was, “How do you support the work of your church given that you are committed to small group congregations? Here is the deliciously creative part that I alluded to: The Grafton Simple Church is becoming self-sustaining on a monastic model of baking Artisan bread. And by the way, this is simply the best bread you could ever wish for! And if Zach and LyAnna don’t bring enough talent to the mix already, check out Kendall’s credentials: Kendall Vanderslice, the Head Baker for Simple Church, holds a BA in Anthropology from Wheaton College, and an MLA in Gastronomy from Boston University where she studied the importance of the meal in fostering community. Kendall received her culinary training in the pastry departments of Boston and Chicago’s top kitchens, developing a fascination with the science of bread baking.

On baking days, it is all hands on board. The two pastors, Kendall and a small group of folks from Job Corps all pitch in to produce up to 500 loaves in the rented kitchen space of the Congregational Church that presides over Grafton’s beautiful common. Members of the congregation lend a hand as needed and also assist with selling on Market Days. A goal is to develop a program to employ teens who are aging out of the foster care system and need jobs and mentors to help establishing them in their own adult lives. This is their monastic model of sustaining Simple Church and it is working! They are expanding the bread bakery and acquiring efficient and modernized equipment with the profits.

At the Market in Douglas.Simple Church collaborates on a booth with Potter Hill Farms.

You might wonder how the hierarchy of the Methodist Church views this new twist? While it is not yet officially sanctioned, the local New England District is interested enough in it to fund one of the pastors salaries by grant.

You might also wonder how the traditional church “business” of baptisms, deaths, marriages, etc is conducted? Pastor LyAnna assured us that pastoral care is provided to parishioners exactly as it is in a traditional church. All donations are given away directly to chosen causes and missions and the bread funds everything else. Research on the internet would seem to indicate that the Simple Church has ties to the Christian evangelical movement and takes some inspiration from other churches who have used the “house church” model of meeting in small groups, i.e. early Jewish synagogues, Quakers, Amish, Mennonite, etc. It is firmly grounded in UMC principles and that fact was evident. With this information in hand, we decided to join them for Thursday night dinner at Pastor Zack’s invitation.

So let’s address the elephant in the room: why would two Buddhists be drawn to this church and concept? It’s simple….no pun intended. Beyond the definition of Simple Church, is the community. Community, especially inclusive and welcoming community is something that we keep an eye out for as we travel to different places. For nomads, (Some of our friends have taken to calling us the Wandering Bu’s) , when you run across true community, it is equivalent to the smell of fresh bread. You know that smell instinctively when you encounter it. Whether the focus of the community is art, history, religion, music, etc., true community of like-minded people draws you into its midst easily. Community reaches out in welcome and says partake and find nourishment here.

As we encounter various definitions of community along the road, we have been immersed in our American history, appreciated beautiful local art and handmade crafts. We have had the privilege of celebrating being human with a variety of religious groups, raised our voices in common song and had our souls stirred by the music that built a nation. We have enjoyed the lively exchange of challenging intellectual ideas with all sorts of people with all sorts of perspectives. You can sense and recognize true community by its draw. It pulls you in and builds your tolerance, patience and humanity. It need not be an exact fit, but, for us, true community must stir something in our souls and inspire us in some way. Simple Church is community, as evident on first encounter as the smell of the fresh bread baking in the bakery.

While grounded firmly in Christian principles, Simple Church welcomes all people. We were so pleased to find that they are particularly supportive of the LGBT community. Thursday evening, there were a variety of faith paths represented and we felt welcomed and comfortable: Buddhists guests to a Christian table. (You know you are a fully included guest when you stay to help do the dishes!)

As we arrived, a small group of folks were beginning to gather in the backyard of the Grafton Congregational Church where Simple Church rents space with their contributions to the dinner table. In addition to a delicious soup cooked by staff, the church collaborates with Potter Hill Farm for fresh vegetables. All of the scraps and leftovers from dinner go to the farm to feed the organically grown chickens, pigs and garden. Simple Churches have no buildings themselves and do not intend to incur that complex expense and committment. Pastor Zach would later say that the canopy of trees overhead is their sanctuary. He would point out the woodpecker on one of those trees, who does not worry about who he is and reassure those in attendance that they are welcome and that the dress code is come as who you are.

Dinner with music!

This process of putting people at ease is not random, but rather, it is well thought out. When folks arrive at Simple Church, they do not struggle to find a group. In their article, Sunday School in a Simple Church, Thom Rainer and Eric Geiger comment that, “if people are not moved into relational networks, they will not stay in the church.” Simple Church solves this dilemma by seating people at a common table, providing them with “instant conversation” in the form of discussion questions and then allowing the magic of relationship to happen naturally.

A simple alter set with the Eucharist bread and grape juice.

We chatted at our table about the concept of true self. Is there a true self or are we evolving beings that adjust as necessary throughout life. When we find ourselves in situations where we might not be able to express our true self, how do we “get home”? We were lucky to have Daniel, another minister of a local Grafton church sitting at our table and we thoroughly enjoyed his insight, which matched our own, on the Buddhist concept of Emptiness and Self. As an aside, I am enjoying a new course offered on Audible under The Great Courses called Buddhism; check it out if you are interested. It is taught Malcolm David Eckel who is Professor of Religion and Director of the Institute for Philosophy and Religion at Boston University. He received a B.A. from Harvard, a B.A. and M.A. from Oxford, and a Ph.D. in the Study of Religion from Harvard and his lectures during this course are really great. They are scholarly, but down to earth enough for the casual student. You can see the course description and learn more at:

  http://www.thegreatcourses.com/courses/buddhism.html

The time flew by as we all engaged in deep and thoughtful dialogue that helped get to know one another easily.  In Simple Church, the sermon is the relationships formed through these discussions. The people learn about one another’s lives through revealing conversation. They are then more able to minister to one another in real ways that are relevant. There is nothing superficial here. No polite Sunday greeting with no further contact. This is a chance to engage in a meaningful way and really get to know who that person is sitting across from you.

Gentle acoustic guitar music bridged the close of our table talk and moved us into other elements of the evening. A subtle structure does support Simple Church. Be not fooled that this is random or chaotic in any way. I heard someone characterize it as loose, but I would not. It is the antithesis of rigid for sure, but the evening had a definite structure and flow. Perhaps the difference is that each element of a Methodist service, while still there, is delivered with relationship in the forefront. There are no pews facing front. You are sitting across a supper table from others. When you break bread off a freshly made loaf and pass wine in mason jars, it is an intimate and direct experience between communicants. And all are welcome to perceive the experience in the framework of their own belief system. Again, while firmly grounded in Christian principles, tolerance and acceptance are practiced here. All are welcome to the table.

Ideas for the next weeks discussion topic are dropped into the guitar case.

Old songs and original compositions followed dinner, further folding people together. As we concluded the evening, the age-old question that all families ask came up……….who is going to do the dishes? Arnie and I stayed to dry and many hands made quick work.

We surely wish this group of folks well in their missions and growth. We will hope to join them a couple more times this summer before we head back to Florida for the winter. We believe that when people of goodness come together to make a difference in a hurting world this defines miracles. It is the small stuff that adds up to miraculous change.

This week I charge you to go meet someone in a Chance Encounter. Sit down and eat a meal with that stranger and listen to their story. Take that conversation about true self out into the world and speak deeply with someone about it. Learn their journey. Travel along the road for a time with them until they are no longer a stranger. Go be part of a community. We are not meant to travel alone.

As Pastor Zach reminded us, “Conversation is a fragile flame. Keep it alive.”

Check out this article on conversation. It’s a good one.

http://tinybuddha.com/blog/art-listening-stop-zoning-out-waiting-to-talk/?platform=hootsuite

I cannot believe that we are just getting around to writing about where we are camped for the summer and the summer is going to winding down very soon. After a really great five week road-trip we arrived at West Hill Park and settled into a summer gig with the Army Corps of Engineers in Southern Massachusetts.

Our job site at West Hill is in the heart of the Blackstone River Valley National Heritage Corridor, a very special type of National Park consisting of over 250,000 acres between Worcester, Mass and Providence, RI. This park consists of whole cities and towns, dozens of villages and half a million people. It is not a traditional nation park as it is not federally owned or operated. Instead, people, businesses, non-profit historic and environmental organizations along with 20 local and two state governments and the National Park Service work together to protect its special identity and future.

We are smack dab in the middle of the corridor and this little park is a hidden gem. West Hill operates under the auspices of the Army Corp of Engineers. As a result of their response to a devastating local disaster to the area, a secluded slice of preserved nature is now available to be enjoyed by anyone who seeks it out. It is a beautiful backyard for Unbridge and the surrounding towns and it is our backyard for the summer much to the delight of our two little dogs.

Two hurricanes, Connie and Diane, in August of 1955, dumped 12” to 20” of rain from the Berkshires  to the Massachusetts coast after coming in across Long Island Sound. Streams gushed and rivers jumped their banks,  washing away bridges, roads, homes and businesses. virtually flooding the entire area and causing more than 200 deaths and $680  million ($6 billion in today’s values) worth of damage. On August 20th, President Eisenhower declared many locations in Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island nas disaster areas. (Source NOAA.gov)

These tragic losses prompted the US. Army Corps of Engineers to hasten the building of several flood control dams that had already been authorized by the U.S. Congress. In 1958 the Corp began construction of a series of flood control dams to help prevent future damage. The West Hill Dam project, completed in 1961, now protects Uxbridge, Woonsocket, Providence, and the other communities along the path of the Blackstone River from flooding damage. The dam itself is 48’ above the West River bed and is comprised of rolled earth, concrete cutoff wall and rock-slope protection 2400 feet in length. When filled to spillway crest the reservoir is approximately 5 miles long and has a surface area of 985 acres and 23 miles of shoreline. The West Hill Dam itself is called a run-of-river dam and has no permanent pool. It is designed to hold back flood waters during heavy rains, until rivers begin to recede and the stored water can be safely released. Our campsite is on a hill in the heart of the park, so we do not worry at all about flooding. That’s not to say that our camper would not be a great ark with all of the various animals in and around it!

The Reservoir Regulation Team at the Corps Headquarters is the nerve enter for managing all the flood control dams in New England. Hydrologists and engineers use satellite communications and computer technology to constantly monitor river levels and weather conditions. Without exception, we have a wonderful team of Corps Rangers here who collect hydrologic data and operate flood gates at the dams to store and release flood waters in the river valleys. They are subject matter experts who bring a variety of skills to share and it is fascinating to work with them and learn from them. (Also, as a result of some Smokey the Bear childhood fantasy I seem to have, Arnie looked really cute to me in the Ranger hat they let him try on.)

On a quiet back road and across from an old stone arch bridge lies West Hill Park where the West River widens to form a large, natural swimming hole known locally as Harrington Pool. This is our home for the summer. The agreement provides us with a beautiful campsite in a forest clearing complete with raised bed garden space, a fire ring, concrete pad for the camper, water, sewer, landline, electricity. A nice open space for a back yard is mowed for us once a week and a woodpile that is also provided with our resident garter snake feeds our campfire. We are allowed to make improvements to the site, so we have added a perennial garden and fern border along with a pen for the dogs.

The dogs have a nice fenced in space and Cracker, the African Gray has a natural playground made out of limbs to climb and boss the dogs from. Many days, he hangs out in my outdoor studio under the EZ-UP awning. He has learned to screech like a hawk that lives very close to our clearing. It is such a blessing to wake up with the songbirds each morning with windows open. We don’t miss the Florida summer heat!

The habitat is ideal for those songbirds. In creating the flood dam and protecting the surrounding acres, a natural protected area was created for wildlife as well as humans.The West River winds through 600 acres of white pine and red oak forests, widening at one point to create a natural swimming hole and two sandy beaches known locally as Harrington Pond. We share responsibility for tending the day fee entry booth with another host couple and it is fun to see the kids coming in so excited about going swimming. We’ve created a loaner program for beach toys from all of the left-behind toys that we pick up on the beach each day. It has become pretty easy to recognize the carloads of kids who come in without their own and the squeals of delight over plastic pails, shovels and sand toys are music to our ears.

About five miles of multi-use hiking trails lets walkers wander all over the woods, offering unhampered views of the river, wildlife, birds and open fields. Sitting in the entry booth last week, we watched a doe walk out of the edge of the woods, look about and then quietly slip back out of sight. We wondered if she might have a fawn hidden just out of sight.

The park is very, very dog friendly and, on any given day, we are apt to see 20-30 different breeds of dogs and an assortment of happy mutts walking to their own designated swimming hole. We are getting to know many of them by name as they stop by to say hi to our two little ones who sit in the fee booth with us each day.

The main river channel is stocked with fish for the enjoyment of anglers and in-season hunting of deer, small game and pheasant. At the beginning of the season, we saw some large trout coming out of the pond! Hikers are in and out all day and into the evening and we really enjoy seeing the folks come in horseback riding.  Some stop by for a pat. I especially love the little pinto named Tucker. Tucker lost an eye to a bad infection last year, but it has not hampered him at all, He drops his head sweetly so you can tell him how beautiful he is and rub his forehead.

Periodically we welcome scout troops for camping with special permission. These are busy bathroom cleaning days! One morning, while cleaning the bathrooms, I encountered a little one sobbing in the ladies room. “What’s the matter honey ?”, I inquired. “I slept in a tent last night and I pooped in my pajamas. It always happens to me!”, she elaborated between gasps. I got her quickly reunited with her parents. Her brother, who had been instructed to escort her up to the bathroom took off like he was shot out of a canon at her first utterance. Some scout!

But the best part of being here is the diverse habitat in the park that makes it a perfect home to at least 200 known varieties of birds, a group of coyote, five different kinds of local snakes, red maple swamps, and several natural bogs. Three small brooks feed the river and are home to spring peepers, nesting box turtles, owls and great blue herons. The West River winds through 600 acres of white pine and red oak forest and, walking along it, you might see beaver, otter, muskrat and mink which play along the shorelines. Painted, snapping and other species of turtles, along with bull frogs bask in the surrounding wetlands. We can hear their grunts and calls early in the morning and at dusk.

      An 18 acre restored grassland habitat abuts the river and it is nice to walk here and see what animals are out and about. These grasslands attract monarch and other species of butterflies, field mice, kestrels, screech and great horned owls along with several species of hawks. The volunteers here enhance the bird populations with regular maintenance of bluebird, kestrel and owl nesting boxes. We have been listening to the hoots of an owl near camp for the past few nights after we go to bed.

This is one of the finest birding areas in Worcester County, with over 200 species sighted annually. The Audubon Society volunteers who come in frequently to do maintenance and research are extraordinary and Arnie has really enjoyed getting to know them and learn from them. He has participated in banding and what fun that was!  The researchers band those tiny little legs with great care and then allow us to hold and release the birds. What a thrill for us “Nerders” (nerdy birders) ! We have songbirds, wading birds and waterfowl resting in and near the river while we work and the herons feed along the streamside. We do feel so lucky to have a place like this to get quiet and still and also to make a contribution.

And as always,

Camping has an almost mystical appeal for many urbanites. People living the city life often long for the escape into nature after the hectic work week of traffic and 9 to 5 obligations that crowd out real life.

Camping expos fill to capacity with couples dreaming of a retirement on wheels. Touring the country in a traveling get away home is enticing and the very thought of it causes normally sane people to go all starry eyed over the thought of crackling campfires. They wander among the mammoth rigs that are fully equipped for inter-planetary travel.

Envisioning a life free of mundane responsibility, potential campers contemplate budget busting purchases  with little real experience of the realities of managing life on the road. I once asked a dealer, “Who can afford these things?” He chuckled and responded, “No one. But that doesn’t stop anyone from falling in love with them.”  He went on to explain that a vast majority of the really big rigs come back into the dealership for resale within six months when the bloom is off the rose and the new owners realize what driving one really entails.

We women folk dream of building a nest in a tin cottage while their husbands set up the grill that will cook up the barbecue to compliment the beer. As most new camper owners discover, somewhere between fantasy and reality lies the real truth.

The truth is, sometimes camping is more like cramping. Like when you have to back up the trailer……..that’s a literal cramp in the neck. And a pain in the butt. Some parks provide the courtesy of well-designed pull-through sites to reduce the aggravation of trying to skinny that trailer in between two trees and a boulder. Pull through sites are good for marriages that have a low tolerance for stress. The rest of the parks are designed by some engineering masochist who enjoys the spectacle of seeing campers trying to line up 40 foot rigs with the picnic table, the fire ring and the water/sewer hookups.

Arnie has help with backing up. Me. He handles the drive forward and I back it up. I am assisted by the two large mirrors, a talking bird, a whining dog and Arnie’s dyslexic directions. Little did he know that he married Large Marge who can put that rig into a pencil thin spot between two leaning trees. My preternatural backing skill was a bonus to be sure… as I keep reminding him.

Parking is camping foreplay. Sometimes it goes well and, well, sometimes it just doesn’t. It is high entertainment to watch  couples park together. The conversation goes something like this:

Driver OK?
Director: No, turn your wheels.
Driver: Which way?
Director: That way? Right.
Driver: Which right……..yours or mine?
Director: Mine……..that way. No the other way…….
Driver: I can’t see you.
Director: Back up………..Now stop……………stop, stop STOP. Why didn’t you stop?
Driver: Were you talking? I couldn’t hear you 40 feet behind me with the engine running.
Director: When I motion like this STOP.
Driver: I thought you were waving to someone. I’ll pull out and start again.

And this is how the West was won. Those pioneer women knew enough to have the men circle the wagons, not back them in.

This summer may just end up being an epic journey of self discovery. Our duties at West Hill Dam are varied and interesting, some more appealing than others. I start my day with a perfect acoustic spot to practice my meditation and chants. The early part of my morning gives me a chance to hone my humility and remind myself that all work is good and valued when it makes a contribution to the group and the whole.

Here are some insights that I’ve gained from cleaning the restrooms:-The acoustics in an outdoor bathroom make people who are tone deaf sound quite good. I sing and the crowd goes wild.

• The crowd consists of creatures that love to crawl and wiggle into camp bathrooms overnight. There is a hierarchy of fright when you open the door in the morning, so you learn to survey the area before entering. Snakes are first on the hierarchy. Rodents second. Spiders are third. Moths don’t even make the list.
• The mop made famous in the movie, Joy, doesn’t really clean anything. It just moves the water around and applies a layer of bleach.
• Trail boots look Ghaumy. Ghaumy is a made up word that Arnie uses to describe a woman in really big chunky, clunky boots with little fashion sense. I am Ghaumy this summer.

• Straw brooms are not only for flying around during the full moon, they are good for sweeping away cobwebs too.

It is kind of fun to make men wait in line for the bathroom while you are cleaning it. I especially like the look on their faces when I suggest that they could use the ladies room if their need is pressing.

Some genius discovered that they could chill beer by filling the ladies room stainless steel napkin container with ice and immersing the bottles. I am so glad to know this in case I ever plan a party in a restroom.

That guy that missed the toilet………I have his DNA and I also have an FBI clearance. I may make it my life’s mission to identify him and hunt him down.

Plastic diapers should be outlawed.

Who knew they made Spiderman briefs in Men’s XXL.

The summer has only started, so I am sure that there will be more insights to come. Stay tuned for more personal growth experiences and don’t forget to wear gloves!