A Mare and her colt taking a stroll on a warm breezy day 

With our summer job position secured at West Hill Dam in Uxbridge, Ma, we are merrily along our way taking a slow mosey up to New England and seeing some sights along the way. Arnie has mapped out a route that will allow us to take in some beautiful natural places and also leave enough time for Chance Encounters. We hope you enjoy traveling along with us through this blog.

The first night was spent in Woodbine. Georgia at Walkabout Camp. This is a small family owned facility that the Kilner family is re-habing, so there are a few glitches here and there to be worked out, but generally is a decent stopping off point. I am really hoping that Cracker, our African Grey traveling companion, does not pick up the squeals from the family’s two pot belly pigs who are penned not too far from our site. In the afternoon, the campgrounds large flock of chickens are let loose to roam free. Yesterday, we were treated to them swarming our campsite, clucking and scratching holes in the sand to take messy dust baths just outside the door. They are hungry and bold and they made me laugh when I tried to video them and they saw themselves in the iPad screen. Eggs from the flock are $3.50 a dozen.

We were up early the first morning, got the dogs fed, walked and squared away for the day and then set off to take the ferry over to Cumberland Island National Seashore. Driving through St. Marys, Ga to get there is a treat. It is a quaint, tidy fishing town that caters to the tourists who come to explore this National Park. The houses are beautifully kept and we enjoyed seeing the little white church. It is a quiet little escape for the tourists who come to see the island.

Examples of some beautiful St. Mary’s architecture

The tourists are an eclectic mix of day trippers, hikers and die-hard granola heads who are headed over to the 36,800 acres of wild barrier island that is protected under the 1964 Wilderness Act. Many who come to visit this island today are the children of the sixties generation of hippie nature lovers (like us) who supported this act. They come to enjoy the results of the advocacy of their parents and bring their own children to learn from this place. We had a delightful Chance Encounter with a family who was just finishing up their spring break and headed back to Mass themselves. They had been primitive camping all week and were sporting Red Sox hats and shirts from home. The little boy who was eight was still excited by the fact that one of the herds of feral horses that populate the island had visited them the last evening, milling about, whinnying and stomping just outside the campsite. This is a memory he will have the rest of his life!

All aboard the Cumberland Lady for the 45 minute ride over to the island. When you arrive, visitors are welcome to explore on their own, but one of the most intimate ways available to visitors to learn about the island is to tag along with a Ranger on a walking tour. There were only five of us who chose this option, so we had a wonderful tour with a very knowledgeable young man whose career as a Ranger with the National Park Service has taken him and his wife all over the country. He will be at Cumberland for the next year and had really done his homework. He’s a history buff, so he was full of details on the role of this strategic island during the Civil War. He’s also a natural storyteller, so his descriptions of the history of Carnegie family ownership and occupation was as good as any episode of Downton Abbey!

The ferry approaches from St Mary’s and as you near the island, you pass by the tidal creeks that weave through the marsh. The tide was in when we arrived and out when we left. When the tide is in, it looks like the biblical River of Grass, swaying with the current and making it difficult to tell grass from water. With the tide out, marshes look like broad, tall-grass plains with an array of birds wading and feeding at the creek banks. Fiddler crabs scurry across the mud flats and eat the decaying vegetation. This habitat will support raccoons and other uplands animals who, later in the day, will come down to feed on the crabs and shellfish.

By their very nature, barrier islands are always moving and being changed by the shifting tides, seas and water. They form dynamic lines of sand just off the coastline, running parallel protection for the mainland when storm surge threatens. It is humbling to remember that we left footprints in the sand today, but Mother nature will erase any trace of our being there and reconfigure the beach tomorrow.

Arriving at the dock, we could see that the marshes give way to the beach habitat. I love to watch the Sandpipers flit back and forth, dancing with the rhythm of the advancing and retreating waves. Visitors are allowed to swim, but the temperature today was a deterrent. It was not the ankle aching frigid water that we loved in Maine as children, but it was nippy enough to not be too tempting to us. Besides, the conditions were ideal for exploring; some cloud cover along with a soft ocean breeze that kissed a day in the high seventies. Perfectly ideal to set off on a hike to explore a new place. Despite the fact that both our backs were talking to us about loading the camper the day before, we still managed the 3.5 miles with Ranger Nick.

As the marshes and the beach gave way to higher and drier ground that is washed only at very high tide, we could see the salt tolerant communities give way to plants and animals that are more freshwater loving. This gradation soon melts into trees and the forest begins. Live oaks thrive on Cumberland and a live oak forest’s most striking feature is its solitude. Even the air seems to whisper as it moves over the arching branches. We like to stand very still and look up into the dense canopy of leaves and vines that mute everything. The breeze this day has set the Spanish moss swaying in constant motion. Painted buntings, summer tanagers, cardinals and pileated woodpeckers splash color and a rustling in the underbrush suggests quiet life there too. The island is home to both Timber and Eastern diamondback rattlers as well as cottonmouths, so we did exercise caution where we stepped.

Live oaks line an old carriage path leading to the summer residences of the Carnegie family.

Flocks of native Eastern Wild Turkey live wild in the park and the males look huge when they puff up. They can weigh up to 30 pounds! They are a sight to behold, strutting under the live oak canopy, enjoying the shade and foraging for seeds and nuts. Further inland there are freshwater ponds that support the herds of deer and horses. We are still far south enough that alligators are native to the island also.

Of course, such a beautiful place cannot escape the notice of humankind and there has been a notable human imprint. It’s location as well as its attraction has led humans to live on Cumberland Island for thousands of years. Piles of shells (middens) are clues to the early inhabitants, the Timucuan people who are traceless today. Ranger Nick explained that early Spanish activity on Cumberland included expeditions and early missions. As Cumberland became territory of the British, they built defensive positions that are now lost to time. Ranger Nick told tales of the island being the site of the home of revolutionary war hero Nathanael Greene in 1783 who built their estate home named Dungeness.

But by far, the most famous inhabitants were the Carnegie family. Thomas Carnegie, with his wife Lucy, began building on the foundations of Dungeness in 1884. Their mansion’s ruins remain today and are an eerie site. We felt the ruins of the huge mansion looked like a movie set.

The ruins of the main house

Feral horses on the pld polo field

The mansion as it would have appeared in its heyday

The Carnegie family members have donated much of the remaining estate to the National Park Foundation in 1971 to become part of the 1972 creation of the Cumberland Island National Seashore. When it was a thriving summer estate for the family, it employed 200 workers and had servants barracks, kitchen and laundry, a milking parlor that could accommodate 40 head of dairy cattle at a time, stables for thoroughbreds, polo ponies and working horses, an ice house with ice imported from Maine, etc. It was true Victorian excess. And because the Victorians believed that untamed nature was unhealthy, extensive flower and vegetable gardens, manicured lawns, polo fields and tree-lined sand streets brought order to nature’s chaos. Much of the original landscaping remains in testament to the history even though many of the buildings exist only in photos today. Even the Carnegie’s could not sustain such expense over multiple generations. Some far distant relatives who have inherited pieces of the land still remain a residents and there are 10 holdings still in trust that will go to the National Park Service eventually.

The Ice House which housed ice imported from Maine for the families everyday and entertainment needs.

The Caretaker’s cottage and office which is made entirely of “tabby”, durable shell and limestone.

This original safe still sits in the Caretaker’s building on a reinforced concrete pad.

Of special note are the family groups of feral horses. We were surprised to learn that nothing is done to manage them. There is no round-up, no routine vet care and no culling of the herds of any sort. It is left to nature to manage their numbers which stay right around 150 individuals. They are descendants of a few Spanish horses abandoned on the island, mixed with the thoroughbreds and Tennessee Walkers belonging to the Carnegie’s. At one time there were a few American mustangs brought in also, so the current population is a hearty mix of mutts. We were lucky enough to be able to see some of them grazing and lounging around the old polo field by the mansion with their new foals. It is possible, but not advisable to approach them. The Ranger explained that a young woman was airlifted off the island the week before after one of the stallions kicked her. A woman in our group crept away and approached the herd for photos right after hearing this story! Everything on Cumberland is “At your own risk” and I guess she took that literally.

A family group of feral horses grazing in the near distance on the old polo field in front of the mansion’s ruins.

Back to the camper after a long day of sun and history, we were greeted by two little dogs who were ready to go out and have their supper. They are such good little travelers and just seem to sleep the whole time we are gone. Cracker was glad to see us too. We will be up early tomorrow to sort out chaos in the camper leftover from loading in a hurry. And then we are planning to go out for two nights on the town to the Woodbine Opry, the real reason for this stop in Woodbine on the journey.

It Was Only an Idea! And it was an idea that would challenge us to remember through the frustrations that we love one another and that  a morning smooch makes all challenges bearable. It was an idea that would take a year to germinate into action.

About a year ago, Arnie and I got the bright idea that we might like to bid on a federal contract that would allow us to spend the summer of 2016 in Massachusetts working on an Army Corp of Engineers project site. It’s a really interesting opportunity that we stumbled across quite by accident while searching for volunteer opportunities in national parks. It took the better part of a full year to complete all of the convoluted steps involved in even applying for the position. When we began, we never could have imagined where we would finish! It was only an idea!

Throughout, we kept in mind that the upside of this bright idea is that we are expecting a new grandchild in May. Son and daughter in law, Kevin and Val are in Arlington and it would be really joyful to be nearby to welcome this new soul into the world and be of some help to the kids. It is also nearby  a number of New England friends and family that we would enjoy spending some more time with after many years of living away.

The downside of this bright idea is that we have had to learn to navigate an array of federal requirements, websites, timelines and instructions that are less than intuitive. In fact, the federal government speaks it’s own language when it comes to forms and regulations; it’s a language that we did not speak prior to starting this process. We speak it now!

Who comes up with this stuff? Are they sitting around a conference table like a group of writers for Saturday Night Live, saying, “You know what would be funny?”  What if we targeted a demographic of older retired Americans who wanted to make a difference in our federally administered natural resources. Let’s offer them some enticing opportunities and then place a series of obstacles in front of them! Let’s require high level computer skills, learning to speak “government”, long waits and short timelines, etc. That would be so funny. Yeah! Let’s do it! Let’s prank the old people!

First, let’s make them sign up for something that we will call a DUNS number. We will make that a requirement to even do any business with the federal government. We will ask them all kinds of irrelevant questions that will not only puzzle, but frustrate them with the pointlessness of the inquiries. Example: Let’s ask them if they have ever shipped anything overseas by cargo boat. That would be a really funny illogical question to ask someone who wants to serve in a campground for four months! Let’s ask them if they have ever done business in Dubai or Kuwait. That pertains directly to working at a dam in Massachusetts. And we were easily able to say a definitive, “No.” to the question of whether or not we have ever violated any trade embargos with Iran.

Next the deviant group of federal contract writers decided that they would be amused by taking it to another level. If the hapless seniors muddle through the first stage and procur a DUNS number, then, let’s break the news to them that the DUNS number now needs to be registered with a whole separate entity. Now they need to visit the SAM website and go through another convoluted process.That DUNS number should be registered with SAM. Those comedy writers are now chuckling amongst themselves as they conspire to require exactly the information that would be necessary to screen Arnie and I well enough so that we can clean toilets and take money at the gate for four months.

Next, let’s make them get FBI level criminal background checks to keep those toilets safe from any kind of fraud. And let’s be sure they need to drive three hours to the district office so that the finger prints can be electronically sent to the Army Corp office. It should be no problem that the finger printing office is not at the address listed on the Army  Corp website and no problem that the software is down when they arrive.

We are, by now, that any federal crime that the two of us might concoct, would most likely be hatched on a toilet seat. I don’t see any other explanation. Uncle Sam has devised these well thought out procedures to keep the world safe from plots being hatched by seniors like us from the confines of a bathroom stall. We probably would be writing it out on the TP (technically federal property) so their concern may be quite valid.

Next, let’s send these old folks a 57 page bid packet to wade through until they are cross-eyed from reading it. And let’s be sure that only one (1) page of that 57 pages is really relevant and the rest is indecipherable filler. Oh, and let’s give them seven business days to figure it all out and submit the bid. But we will help them out by assigning a special consultant in case they have any questions or concerns. Let’s just not tell them that she will be on vacation the week the bid is due.

Following that, let’s require that they get bonded in case they intend to steal any of that TP. I picture this group chuckling at the array of new usernames and passwords that this whole process had required. Just for icing on the cake, let’s make sure that the wife (who is doing all of this work) cannot have the business in her name because their home phone is in the husband’s name.

And finally, let’s make them stay home for weeks checking their email multiple times daily to see if the bid packet has arrived so that they are questioning their sanity by the time they actually leave to go to the job.

Yeah! that would be funny. If it was not so true!

We are soon to be off again to seek more Chance Encounters. The Wanderlust has fallen once again like Fairy Dust, descending on our camper in preparation for transport to faraway magical lands. That’s if Massachusetts can be considered faraway and magical. Arnie and I are headed for a contract job with the Army Corp of Engineers for the summer months. We will be embedded in a natural setting for four months with a three-week stint of exploring on either end of the trip.Yes, the Wanderlust does not stay at bay for long with us. And we choose to respond to the call of the Gypsy Heart rather than cultivate a strong immunity to it.It is in our blood.

A Chance Encounter of the Feathered Kind:  There is just something about making new friends. Cracker met these two friends in the most unlikely place. They were touring the Great Smokey Mountain National Park with their people too.

In my college years, two dear friends and I embarked on an adventure that was epic in our own adolescent minds, even for the sixties. Today it seems rather tame, but back then, it was unusual enough to be tempting to three fast friends touched by the wanderlust of youth.

Penny, Rosie and I pooled funds and purchased a retired mail delivery box van. My Dad spent weekends and nights gutting and re-habbing the interior into a bunk house with storage, the sixties equivalent of an RV. We repainted the US MAIL insignia on the rear of the van to read US FEMAIL and hit the open road.I remember departing with my Grandmother weeping in the driveway from the sure knowledge that this would be our eternal undoing.

What a season of life that was, despite breaking my Grandmother’s heart. Three hipee chicks off to see the country in a FeMail Van with AAA maps. Our karma must have been righteous because we met and stayed with some wonderful people who housed, fed and encouraged us in our quest. It was a first naive foray from home for us and the memories are strong all these  years later. We traveled hither and yon, We celebrated Easter in a Philadelphia cathedral with Penny’s minister friend, welcomed the coming of Spring in Shenandoah  National Park with Gallo wine in a basket bottle,  and visited Key West where my vacationing parents treated us to a motel room for a night. In between, good people, took us under their wings and showed us the land and their interpretation of what is was to be American in that distinctive decade.

I have a dear friend, Penny, who lives over in Pinellas county. For years, before I moved to Davenport, she and I lived in the same community. We spent many happy weekends driving around to yard sales together and doing the week’s errands. I really miss being near by to her and the adventures we shared.

It was on one of these trips with Penny that I learned a valuable lesson about power struggles. Now, mind you, separately, we are two intelligent and capable women. But when we got together and distracted with the fun we were having, we did some really dumb things. I freely admit that we were usually not paying good attention to what is going on around us because we were chattering on like a couple of magpies.

We were catching up on the week and knocking out some errands while we chattedt about nothing in particular and, certainly, nothing very interesting to anyone but us. We just conversed with that constant stream of conciousness that close women friends have together. And, in our distraction, we sometimes lost our power.

On this Saturday morning, between yard sales we stopped off at the local Target. We got out of the car and jabbered our way over to the line of shopping carts. Reaching the carts first, I announced, “I’ll get it!”. I grabbed the handle and yanked hard. Nothing. I moved on to the next line of carts and pulled again. Same thing, nothing to show for my efforts but whiplash. Being a true friend, Penny grabbed the next cart behind mine and pulled in the opposite direction, hoping to free the two from their red plastic embrace. We huffed and puffed and tugged and pulled, talking about it the whole time. People were beginning to stare and the struggle was becoming personal. We fussed about how inefficient this was and we fussed about why a store would make their customers suffer through such a physical struggle to just get a cart!

We asked out loud what kind of scientific genius would design a storage system that required brute strength and contortions to begin the shopping spree. Was it to get the adrenaline pumping? Was there research showing that a spike in adrenaline leads to impulse buying and thus increase sales? We postulated that there must be some sadistic marketing guru snickering behind a one­way mirror in Target and watching people like us lose a finger trying to separate one single cart from the impacted line of self­hugging red buggies. We know he was not balancing a large purse and a baby when he had conceived of a system that requires consumers to engage in a tug of war with resistant willful shopping carriages. We knew he didn’t need to use the ladies room as much as we did either!

We’ve all done it: tugged and pulled to free rows of carts clutching each other before you can get one crammed, jammed buggy to budge loose. We paused to come up for air and just then, Dudley Do Right, in the form of a Target security officer came forward to save the day. He loudly announced, “Ladies, let me help you. You are both pulling on opposite ends of the same cart.” He then pulled gently (I think with one finger) and wheeled a cart out into the open for us to use. “You have a nice day and try to work together.”, he said, dripping condensation. We readjusted the shirts that had ridden up around our necks and nonchalantly pushed off down the aisle like it was easy, hoping no one had noticed

“Thank you, sir”., we said. What we were thinking was more like,  “Screw you, Dudley, you sarcastic hulk.”

These two power shoppers were feeling anything but powerful! Small everyday circumstances can go a long way towards reminding us that we are so very human. As analogies for life, it is fun to meditate on these circumstances to see what we can learn. Maybe the moral of this story is that potentials power struggles are stacked up everywhere waiting for us to engage. Avoiding them is easier if we take a moment to breath and evaluate our options Otherwise, we might find ourselves tugging on opposite ends of the same shopping cart with someone special in our lives?

We all have those friends. You know the kind. The ones with impecible taste and the ability to pull off a gourmet meal and make it look easy. Micheal is my friend of over 20 years and he is one of those people. He has good taste and he’s a really good cook too. When we met, we were both spending the summer camping in travel trailers in Ogunquit, Maine. Ogunquit mean “beautiful place by the sea” and good taste is abundant in this town.

We spent many weekends experimenting with new recipes and enjoying meals with friends. The fact that we were cooking in dinky little camper kitchens never seemed to dampen our enthusiasm for emulating Julia Child. We had champagne taste on a beer budget and we had FUN making good food with good friends!

One weekend, Micheal decided to cook a meal for a nice young fellow he had met recently. Meaning to duly impress the lad, Micheal bought all of the ingredients for an exquisite traditional Maine meal. Lobster Flambe.

I was sitting on my deck quietly reading a book when I heard Michael call over to me. “Barbara, can you flambe lobster in a non-stick pan?” I pondered the question for a moment. Frankly, at the time,  I couldn’t have afforded to flambe lobster in any pan, but I guess that was not the point. Putting aside all of the sarcastic quips that were running through my head, I responded simply, “Sure, I don’t know why not.”

“Okay, thanks”, Micheal responded, disappearing into the camper again. He was clearly on a mission to create a memorable meal. The object of his attention arrived shortly, waved and also disappeared inside. I sat on my deck envisioning the lovingly prepared delicacy that they would soon enjoy over a fine bottle of wine……….the opening to a nice evening.

Suddenly, the door of Micheal’s Love Shack flew open banging flat against the metal of the camper with a metallic bang that drew the attention of everyone around including those resting quietly in the cemetery next door. I looked up just in time to see Michael fly through the air in a pose from Swan Lake with the non-stick pan extended far in front of him. A firestorm rose from the pan high into the air, kissing the canvas of the camper’s awning. Michael’s feet never touched the steps, he just levitated through the air and landed at a dead run over to the fire pit. I watched in both wonder and horror as he threw about $100.00 worth of Flambeing (is that a word?) crustaceon into the dirt.

Evidently when Michael reached the actual step where alcohol meets sizzling pan, a giant wall of flame rose up like a David Copperfield magic trick. I think it is called tornado of fire and people pay big money for tickets to see this spectacle. Michael did it for free while we all watched that day! Fancy French waiters can pull off this culinary trick to impress you at fancy French restaurants, but it was never meant to be executed in the confines of a small camper.

When the vodka was added to the pan and the match lit things turned tragic, the alcohol had ignited in a flare that instantly reached Biblical proportions, ending all hope of a romantic evening. The good news is that the camper did not burn down in a inferno of gourmet spices and expensive lobster. The bad news is that Michael’s dear friends have never let him forget this story.

If you must try this at home, here is a link to a very good article from Bon Appetit magazine about another cook inspired to try his luck with lobster. It includes the recipe and instructions too! Good luck to you and, if you get stuck, don’t call Michael!

http://www.bonappetit.com/columns/vintage-ba-columns/article/vintage-lobster-flambe

Prepare the squash circles

(this is the curried variation. More variations are below at the end of the recipe)

•  To cut the acorn squash, insert the point of a very sharp knife into the outer skin. You can slice down through it more easily once the skin is pierced. If you have an amenable produce manager,  you could ask him to cut it for you. Whoever executes the cut, you want the Acorn Squash sliced sideways into approximately two inch rings, crosswise, so that you are left with circles when the seeds are scooped out. Because the squash tapers, some will be smaller than others. They will look like this:

•  Scoop out the seeds.
• Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and spray with Pam.  I like to cut little squares of parchment paper to place under each circle too. That allows me to  just lift up the individual squash after baking and slide it onto an individual plate easily later.
• Put the squash circles on the paper and brush with a mixture of olive oil and curry seasoning. Just stir the curry into the oil and brush on heavily. Reserve about 1/4 cup for later.
• Pre-bake the circle at 300 degrees for about 45 minute uncovered. If they are not soft when you prick them with a fork, put them back in until they are.
• Remove from oven and let cool.

Prepare the filling                              

Variations:

• Make it with a Mexican flair with yellow rice, shredded chicken and your favorite sauce. Top with salsa and cheese to melt and a dollop of sour cream to serve. Or, you can stuff with Chili.

                          

• Make it Italian with your favorite spaghetti sauce topping. We use tofu crumbles, but you could use ground beef or meatballs for a hearty version. Top with freshly grated Parmesan cheese. We sometimes add a bit of fresh spinich. You may want to cut your circles a bit wider for this variation.

 

Campfires are magical things. Many of my most treasured memories have been made around campfires. Many years can pass by, and all it takes is a newly lit campfire to bring back the recollection of fire circles from decades past. Memories of my kids with marshmallows on sticks, laughing with friends over a glass of wine or, sometimes, just me  sitting solo by a fire trying to figure out where life should take me next. 

I have only to light a fire and close my eyes to re-live tender times when friends gathered after dark to talk and sing and laugh around the magic fire. The snap burning logs lulls the brain into a state where the poignant past is just a sigh away. I like to think back with fondness to a special place in Maine where my heart healed and my life found direction in the circle of friends who camped together for seven summers, sharing circles every Friday and Saturday nights.  Two of those friends, first met around a Maine campfire, are my dearest and closest to this day. When we get together and reminisce now, we inevitably talk of those times with nostalgia remembering the campfires that were a beacon to many who wandered in and sat down to join the circle only to find everlasting friends and everlasting lessons. Like all of life’s seasons, those Maine summers were special in their own time and place.

But before Maine, there was another special time of fires and friendships.

Tommy was my brothers friend first before he became my friend. He used to hang around our house when we were teenagers and they would go joy riding in Dad’s old white Impala. I never noticed him until one day we discovered our common interests. Tommy loved to draw and so did I. He also loved a good campfire and so did I. Soon, my brother’s good friend became my friend too.

I grew up right in the heart of the White Mountains, surrounded by the White Mountain National Forest and just a few miles from a secluded State Park. The rules were lax and weekend supervision by the Forest Service back then was non-existent. Since we lived in a small town in rural New Hampshire there wasn’t much to do on a Saturday night and we often ended up out at the Campton Campground around a campfire. This was a small group of nature loving outdoor teens privileged to grow up in a pristine and perfect environment. We were not really rowdy and no one ever questioned what we might be doing out in the woods. We were there to sing. We sang the songs of the late sixties. Baez, Dylan, Pete Seeger and Peter, Paul and Mary lyrics drifted towards the heavens on glowing red embers. We knew the songs by heart; they were the architecture of our budding moral compasses. The artists were the voices of the war resistance and we, in our naivety, sincerely believed that they were the change agents that would prevail in calming the chaos and insanity. 

In addition to the folk artists,  Tommy loved Jefferson Airplane and , in my mind and heart, I can still hear him strumming the guitar and singing Go Ask Alice, Grace Slick’s reference to Lewis Carroll’s classic Alice in Wonderland. In my mind’s eye I  can see him sitting on a log, facing the fire with the flames reflecting off his nerdy big glasses. We were all sort of nerdy kids. We were all bridging the literature of childhood and the temptations of sixties culture. We were crossing this bridge together, I can still feel the strong sense of deep and abiding friendship that arose when we were together as kindred souls growing into our identities. We sat so close to the heat of the fire that our faces turned red and the knees of our jeans burned hot. In the chilly New Hampshire night, we talked of the war, of peace and of resistance. We were figuring out our place in the world. Talking it through, we fleshed out hopes and dreams and explored social causes. It was not light talk around these campfires. These were not easy times and thus we were not light weight kids. Those campfires forged us into near adults, bound by the nature around us and the nature of the times.

The seasons passed and we all reached the other side of the bridge to young adulthood and began to follow the various paths that called to us. We kept in touch as best we could with no Facebook, no cell phones or any social media of any type. What had been forged around the fire would not be easily relinquished and we still somehow managed to keep up with what was happening in each others lives.

The call came on Christmas morning. It was short. When my brother hung up, he stared blankly out the picture window in my parents home, looking down at the garden covered in winter snow. After a moment he told me that Tommy’s Dad had called to let us know that he had been killed while stationed in Thailand. There would not be another campfire with our friend. There was no more Alice to Ask. 

For many years, as Tommy’s brothers grew to be adults, they tended the Old Man in the Mountains with their Father. It was a family passion. When I read articles in the paper about their service, I often imagined that when they climbed up to the summit, they felt a bit closer to Tommy and maybe talked with him a bit. He was a great person to talk to. He was an easy person to love. He was a great friend.

As this holiday season comes to a close, I will light a campfire and think the thoughts that I do every Christmas season; thoughts of campfires whose embers cooled and died out long ago and thoughts of a dear friendship from long ago that still burns warm in my heart.

We’ve just returned from a short escape to Kissimmee Prairie Preserve, the subject of a recent blog and the site of one of our more interesting camping blunders. This is such a unique and special place that we wanted to tell you a bit more about it. It is one of our favorite places for a camping escape in a quiet and pristine place with amazing sun rises and sunsets.

Sunset on the Prairie

This 54,000 acre preserve protects the largest remaining stretch of Florida dry prairie. The preserve is home to an array of endangered plants and animals. You have to have a full tank of gas and great patience to get there, but GPS is not necessary since it doesn’t work anyway. Neither do cell phones or wi-fi! This is a true get-away. We headed down HWY 27 to 441 and then about another 25 miles through cow country….literally. Huge farms and herds of cows now graze on what used to be land that was just like the preserve. It was taken over for huge commercial farms and now that habitat has been lost. Much of the work on the preserve that is being done by staff and volunteers is focused on restoration of the prairie.

Driving the final five-mile-long road into the preserve, we enjoyed sweeping vistas of grasslands reminiscent of the Great Plains of the Midwest or even the savanah of Africa. You almost expect to look into the distance and see a giraffe amble across the landscape. A variety of prairie grasses wave in the breeze and, with the late arrival of winter this year there were still many wildflowers in bloom and lots of green color. Normally, by this time of year, we see the full fall colors.

A beautiful Prairie vista January 2016

The preserve offers excellent seasonal birding opportunities and is home to the endangered Florida Grasshopper Sparrow, as well as the Crested Caracara (they were perched on a ramshackle tower on our way in this visit) and Burrowing Owsl. Wild Turkeys wander through our campsite and we always see some deer too.

CaraCara

Wild turkeys grazing through the campsite

Of course, we bring our own wildlife too.

In the preserve, there are than 100 miles of dirt roads that allow hikers, bicyclists and equestrians to explore prairies, wetlands and shady hammocks. This week, there were a number of beautiful horses camping with their owners.

A tall ride across the Prairie with some fellow nature lovers

November through March, ranger-led prairie buggy tours allow visitors to see remote areas of the preserve. We had never taken the tour and decided to do so this visit. We were so glad that we did! The tour was driven and hosted by our cordial volunteer host, Bruce, who has been serving at the park for seven seasons now with his wife, Darlene. They journey down in the winter for a month’s stay here and together they assist the ranger staff with a variety of tasks that benefit the preserve. Bruce sometimes does the buggy tours and is a knowledgeable guide with lots of interesting facts and stories to share.

The park system relies heavily on volunteer skills and time and we always really enjoy talking with the folks that we meet on our travels. Many of the volunteers are retired with invaluable knowledge and expertise to lend to maintaining and preserving the wild places for all of us to enjoy. The park provides a site for their camper and they provide willing hands and hearts. Most work part time and enjoy the company of other volunteers who tour the nation making a contribution where they park.

In one of my very favorite lines from The Lord of the Rings, Gandolf comments that, “Not all who wander are lost.” This is so true of the committed folks we have encountered who volunteer for the park systems. Wherever they go, there they are! As we ease into joining their nomadic ranks, we try to foster and practice this open minded and easy approach to life and all the wonder it holds for us.

Our three and a half-hour bladder busting ride took us out into the heart of the preserve where we encountered deer, gators and lots of birds. Four wheel drive was essential as we traversed a few areas of pretty deep water underpinned with a charming layer of muck.  Riding in the very tall swamp buggy, we were able to see some of the wet areas much better than hiking. We never realized how much wet area there is at KPP and Bruce shared that, in the summer months, when there is lots of rain, the staff move about in air boats because the areas that are dry right now became more like the Glades.  This area actually is the beginning of the Everglades.

Some views from the buggy

Arnie and I bird-watching from the swamp buggy

Evidence of hogs (an invasive and non-native species in Florida) was everywhere and the hog problem in the park now requires that a skilled hunter with specially bred dogs be contracted to come in on horseback and remove as many hogs as possible. Many are relocated to private hunting clubs where hunters come from all over the world to pay big money to hunt the pests.

Another interesting curiosity along the route was a very large Mistletoe plant attached parasitically to an oak tree along the road. It looked like a huge wasp nest in the distance. It was very large and Arnie owes me a kiss since bouncing along in the seat of a swamp buggy is not the most conducive way to catch a kiss under the mistletoe! We joked that we found the Kiss in Kissimmee!

Arnie owes me a kiss under the Mistletoe

We really enjoyed Bruce’s stories, especially the one about how the preserve used to be a bombing test site back around the late 1930’s. There are still some unexploded ordinances on the property as one volunteer found out when he heard a “clunck” while mowing a fire break road one day. When the explosion experts came out to check it out, they found that it indeed was authentic and they subsequently detonated it. That story will keep us on the designated trails!

One morning when we were up early we noticed that the landscape looked like someone had gone out in the night and draped old fashioned lace all across the land. The Golden silk spiders had been hard at work on the night shift spinning webs to entrap the next day’s meal. If you look in the direction of the sun, you can see their lacey handiwork shimmering for acres and acres. What a wonderous sight!

This beauty greeted us for morning coffee!

Golden Spider Webs in the early morning

Kissimmee Prairie’s remoteness makes it one of Florida’s premier locations for stargazing. The night sky simply takes your breath away and the visibility is so clear that we could see satellites zooming across the heavens with the naked eye. There is another volunteer, Bill, who is available some nights to share his telescope with visitors and too make astronomy understandable to the lay person.

This area has the second highest frequency of lightening strikes in the world! Storms blow in quickly and frequently and can be very dramtic. Since Sunday’s forecast was not looking good, we decided to break camp and leave a day early. Packing up camp and three animals is easier when it is not pouring rain.

We are home bound again back to Davenport to plan the next adventure. It is good to go and good to get home too.

We are packing to go to one of our very favorite spots in Florida to spend a few days unwinding after the busy holidays. Kissimmee Prairie Preserve is a remote state park that offers quiet and solitude. It is a perfect place for quiet reflection.

Thus, it is puzzling how Arnie and I managed to get ourselves into one of the most stressful situations we have had while camping while visiting this wonderful park.

 Like all beer-related  situations that folks get themselves into, this one is funny now. Not so funny then. We were still working and very much looking forward to a nice long weekend away from the grind of work. We traveled down to the Fort Drum area, entered the preserve and set up camp. Breathing a sigh of relief, mostly due to the fact that there’s no cell service or wi-fi and none of my crazed condo customers could get a hold of me, we settled into the camp chairs to unwind. It was off season and hot, so a beer sounded ever so refreshing after setting up camp in the heat.

Now, Arnie will have an occasional beer and I hardly ever make this my beverage of choice. But, as I mentioned, it was hot. Florida hot. As dusk began to descend, I popped us a cold one. That went well, so I I hopped up and got us another one. Then another. What the hey…….just one more. By now, the world is an exceedingly beautiful place, we are in love, there’s no phone, no other campers and we can sleep in tomorrow morning.

We finally got sleepy and I got up to let the dogs out of the camper one more time before we call it a night. It was time to retire to the snug comfort of our bed.  Clamoring up out of the chair I sort of zig-zaged towards the camper door, grabbed the handle and pulled. Oops, I must be doing something wrong.? I tried again, summoning some focus. ” Release the handle and pull  you drunken idiot.”, I muttered to myself. It’s simple. Take a deep breath. I drew breath, focused, released the handle and pulled. It’s locked.

“Arnie, the camper’s locked.”, I reported with only a hint of my rising panic. “How did you do that?” said my husband with the gift for saying just the wrong thing at the right time.  “How did I do that?”, I queried testily.  “Well, you are the one who’s been getting the beer all night.” he stated factually. Now, girlfriends, you all know that facts are immaterial in situations like this. Facts only throw fuel on the fire.

Arnie, who is a veteran of dealing with me and my assortment of baseless anxieties quickly changed tactics and moved away from facts to something more appropriate. He moved directly to problem solving. “Just get the spare key out of the truck.” Instant relief flooded over me as I now zig-zagged to the truck, reached for the door handle and pulled. I nearly fell over backwards. It’s locked too.

Back to facts. The camper is locked. The truck is locked.  The cell phone (which with no reception anyway) is in the locked camper with the truck keys. There are no other campers foolish enough to camp off season in this remote location. The Rangers office won’t open to morning.The two dogs and the parrot are inside doing the Potty  Dance. The bugs that come out at night are now out and we taste good. And we are so screwed.

We desperately circled the camper to identify our options. We hated to cut the canvas on the end and we had no sharp object anyway. We could gnaw our way through it, but dentistry is so expensive. Our dogs are not tall enough to flip the latch like Lassie, so they are no help. No windows were cracked. What are we going to do?

Arnie is not the cussing type, but this one called for some expression of frustration, so he kept channeling his Dad, repeating, “Son of a whore !” I am not sure how it helped, but if you believe in magic, as I do, I am considering this epitaph to be some sort of incantation. He uttered the magic words and suddenly he had a bright idea. Check the cargo bay. “Son of whore, it’s open!!!” Either the magic worked or the beer wore off due to the adrenaline.

We dragged everything out of the cargo hold and pounded out the supports holding up the coach inside. Surveying the less than cavernous opening. I decided that it would be best for me to try to wiggle in first. Surely I would fit better  Wrong. My hips would not go past the first 2 x 4. So, Arnie once again muttered the magic incantation. “Son of a whore ! “, he said as he dove head first into the narrow space. I saw him twist and wiggle and miraculously, he began to disappear into the void. Somehow he managed to squeeze himself in and up into the camper, all the while being greeted and licked by two very happy little dogs.

Seeing that door open up from the inside was sweet relief. But the sweetest relief is knowing that magic does exist. Just channel your Dad and let that epitaph rip. Your fondest dream will come true.

See you at Kissimmee Prairie Preserve this weekend and be sure to bring the beer!

Today is the day after Christmas 2015 and I awoke early thinking about the fun and good company yesterday. There is nothing like a house full of family, friends and holiday spirit. All of the work and preparations leading up to this gathering are instantly worth it when everyone arrives and the fun starts.

The day began typically with Arnie and I bustling about the house, preoccupied with all of the details of any house-party complete with a big dinner. Last minute presents to wrap, calls from the kids and rolls to bake took our full attention.

Since we had been out the night before, merrily putting ourselves at the mercy of a full jug of Wassall we slept in late and were now at least two hours behind schedule in getting ready for today’s festivities. Some of us never seem to learn that there are predictable consequences of coming home in that dreamy adolescent stupor brought on by pouring a variety of wines into a large jug and calling it by a fancy name. Arnie remembers that, in college, we called it Screech. Now it’s Christmas Wassall. As Shakespere said, “A rose by any other name still smells as sweet.” Screech is still Wassill and this quote would prove to be prophetic. By any name, this concoction is a Sneak and crawls up on revelers with great stealth. This puts our friends and party hostesses, Judi and Chris, in a position of some responsiblility for the events of the next day. Events which we will ultimately blame on the Wassall.

But we rallied because there’s nothing we like more the day after a party than another party. Putting one foot in front of the other (another prophetic statement), Arnie gamely got up out of bed and pitched right in helping me with all we needed to accomplish. We had much to do!

I tackled the kitchen chores and he hustled out to make coffee and get Cracker the African Gray squared away for the day. The phone rang, we chatted with the kids.  We grabbed quick showers. We paused for a moment for a Mistletoe kiss and hug and then went right back to work with cheer. Much to do and much ado!

The next thing I knew, Arnie poked his head out from the bedroom and snarled in an a-typical tone of voice, “Will you let those damn dogs out!” Wow! I know it was a rare full moon for Christmas last night, but what kind of bi-polor shift in mood is this? “Damn dogs”? He usually has those two right up on a pedestal taking up the space that should be rightly mine. And now they are, “Damn dogs!”? What happened to the cheer of a few moments ago?

I quickly scooted the little dogs out the door, not sure of why they needed to go out again so soon. I was sure that Arnie had let them out earlier when he got up.  We were soon to deduct that he thought that I had let them out earlier when I got up.  We both thought that they were doing that cute little dance because I had unwrapped the Christmas ham on the kitchen counter and they are both blatantly spoiled beggers. Oops.

We still are not sure which one of them exploded on the porch. We are sure that we will never buy a brown patterned rug again as long as we have dogs. That rug expertly hid land mines which Arnie stepped solidly into with both sneakers. He then proceeded to walk the whole length of our modest little home to the far end of the bedroom to make the bed. That would be  sixty-four feet of  footsteps that left  reindeer tracks on the rug all the way to the back bedroom.

My sweet husband was on his knees in the bedroom with a bottle of Nature’s Miracle and a wet rag doing his best to clean up the path of tracks. He looked like the spot cleaner tech for Stanley Steamer. Oh, thank goodness I realized, he’s not bi-polor after all. We just have the most horrifying mess imaginable spread out over the entire house.  With perfect timing, my Mom chimed in to the situation to announce, “Reggie and Jeff are here!” Of course they are.

Stanley Arnold and I just chuckled at this point. No sense in fighting the inevitalbe. My Grandmother used to say that if the dishcloth falls on the floor, it’s a sign that company is coming. Not in our house. Here, if the dog shits on the floor, for sure, company’s coming.

I took control of the sneakers, honestly not knowing where to start when I turned them over. Like a well worn tire, there was hardly any tread visiable. I gave them a futile spray of Lysol bathroom cleaner and perched them over the toilet and muttered a desperate Christmas wish. “Please Santa, make this disappear just like the Mr. Clean commercial where they spray on the foam, swipe the sponge across the glass once and enjoy the sparkle.” Needless to say, magical thinking was no match for this situation. It would take the hose, a brush and a clothespin for the nose  to make those babies fit for Stanley Arnold to wear in polite society again.

This morning, the first thing I did when I got up was let the  dogs out. Or did I? I need to go check. Right now.