Moon River and Me…a Christmas Memory and Wish

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The Jazz Corner in Hilton Head has served as a haven for jazz enthusiasts for nearly a quarter of a century. Brad and I were fortunate to take in Lavon Stevens on the piano and singer Louise Spencer this past week. Dinner was fantastic  and the crowd responsive as they played a variety of holiday songs and traditional jazz tunes.

As soon as I heard the familiar strains of the classic song “Moon River,” tears began to swell.

Moon River, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style some day…

Memories flooded back to my childhood, to a simpler time during the holiday season. Snuggled in my pajamas with footies, the multi-colored lights from the fresh Christmas tree reflecting on the ceiling, the pine scent flooding our family room. I could hardly wait for one of my favorite holiday traditions; The Andy Williams Christmas Show. Mom turned on the TV, and adjusted the rabbit ears. The NBC Peacock appeared and then magic. Andy Williams and ensemble started crooning “We Need A Little Christmas Now.”

My five-year-old self squiggled and wiggled on the shag carpet covered floor, trying to make space among my four siblings (the youngest, Gordie, wouldn’t make an appearance for two more years). I watched my first crush sing “The Christmas Song” to his mama. My heart swelled as I felt Andy was singing to me. My dreams were dashed when his beautiful wife, Claudine Longet showed up on set.

Oh dream maker, you heart breaker, wherever you’re goin’, I’m goin’ your way… 

I waited patiently, hoping to hear Moon River during the broadcast. It wasn’t to be.

But, it didn’t take much pleading for my mom to dig into the wooden cabinet filled with vinyl and pull out the album with Andy’s renditions of movie themes, including the Grammy Award winning Moon River.

Williams-Moon.JPG

The day after our Jazz Corner experience, Brad and I drove to Savannah and decided to take in the city via the Old Town Trolley Tours. We could explore the city while hopping off and on the trolley. We hit the City Market, walked through Forsythe Park, and marveled at the massive Greek Revival and Italianate style homes.

A highlight was stepping into the Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist.

Volunteers were finishing up the last touches to the glorious Nativity.

Two drifters, off to see the world, there’s such a lot of world to see…

And then, after hopping back on the trolley, the little Christmas miracle happened.

“On the right you’ll see the Mercer-Williams home, built for Johnny Mercer’s great-grandfather,” our personable driver Miss Denise offered.

Denise stopped briefly in front of the beautiful home and said, “So who was Johnny Mercer? Let me play a little something for you…”

And with that, she clicked on her phone, and just as the night before, those familiar strains of nostalgia once again came back to me.

Moon River, wider than a mile…

Stop the bus! Johnny Mercer wrote the lyrics to not only Moon River, but to hundreds of songs over his career, from the 1930’s to the late 1960’s.

I turned to Brad, squeezed his hand, and cracked up.

Coincidence? One of life’s little gifts?

We’re after the same rainbow’s end, Waitin’ ’round the bendMy huckleberry friendMoon river and me

As the song wrapped, I knew I found my message for this Christmas wish for you.

I hope your holiday season is filled with fond memories, nostalgia, and loved ones to drift through this world in.

 

 

Family, Friends and Flames

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One of the greatest benefits to this on-the-road experience is being able to spend time with family members and friends. Over the last couple of weeks we’ve visited with my mother-in-law, Lynn, daughter Kyle and her husband, Will, son, Ian, and friends Steve and Debbie Gibbs.

I’ll get to the flames in a bit, but for now, here’s the highlight reel of our family and friend experiences.

Aiken

Brad, Luna and I arrived in this quaint town in South Carolina in time to spend Thanksgiving with Lynn. We enjoyed a non-traditional Thanksgiving dinner of fantastic rib roast, sweet potatoes, maple bourbon carrots and homemade cranberry sauce. Lit candles and the sounds of Harry Belafonte (Lynn’s favorite) crooned in the background while we enjoyed our feast. We managed to help Lynn with some “honey-do’s” around the house during our stay. Lynn and I also enjoyed shopping in uptown Aiken.

Aiken, SC

Photo credit: South Carolina, Travel

Aiken County was historically the winter colony for wealthy families from the Northeast. The comfortable climate and the sandy soil make Aiken a favorite for horse owners. Today such traditions as fox hunting and polo continue. For those of us who prefer to walk on our own two feet, there are lovely sites, including the gorgeous “Avenue of the Oaks.” South Boundary Avenue is nationally recognized as one of the South’s most beautiful streets.

Aiken, South Carolina

Photo credit: Peter Frank Edwards/REDUX

I didn’t manage to get any photos of the three of us during our stay, I promise to do so when we go back to visit Lynn over the Christmas holiday.

Atlanta

Time with Kyle and Will awaited in their adopted hometown. We’ve found that major metropolitan areas do not have a plethora of campground options for big rigs, but we enjoyed both of our experiences at Stone Mountain and McKinney on Allatoona Lake.

Our first exciting experience with Kyle and Will was to attend the Georgia State semi-final football contest between Walton High School and Carrollton High. Will and his father, Bill, have both coached the Walton team. Although Walton lost, it was so fun to be in the stands, hanging with Kyle and her new mother-in-law, Lori,  cheering the Raiders on.

Kyle and Will drove over to Stone Mountain  and joined us for Brad’s special smoked ribs. We love camp fires!

We didn’t hike to the top (I’ve done twice, once as a child, and once with the kids when they were young) because we had Luna and Riggins with us, and they weren’t allowed, no matter how cute they are.

Brad and I took an early morning bike ride around the perimeter of the park…my legs had forgotten what hills were like!  This is an image from a piece written in Conde Nast Traveler about the magnificent, largest piece of exposed granite in the world. Click on the image to read the full article. One could easily spend a week here, hiking, biking, kayaking, and taking in the view from the top.

Atlanta, Georgia, GA, Things to Do, Stone Mountain Park

Allatoona Lake

We then untied from our hitching post (i.e. disconnected our utility hookups) and headed north of Atlanta to McKinney Campground, an Army Corps of Engineers site. It was just what my soul needed, both in the amount of hop-skipping we had done in our travels, and what was in store….

Our site was perched on top of a hill, overlooking Allatoona Lake. We’ve heard geese, sandhill cranes and a free-ranging rooster. Every once in a while the sounds of a train or a bass fishing boat disturb the quiet, both otherwise incredibly calm and peaceful. Brad and I kayaked one morning on the lake, and hiked six miles at the nearby Red Mountain Top State Park.

Vegas, baby!

Okay…so I’ve been hinting that flames are involved in this post…

Ian and I were supposed to see Adele in Vegas back in February. But then Adele postponed the residency, offering that the production just wasn’t ready. Oh my, was she worth the wait.

Here we are, nearly pinching ourselves before the show.

Adele had me at Hello, her first number. Simply elegant in her black ball gown, with nothing but a white grand piano behind her on stage, Adele promised that the production would get bigger.

Much bigger.

So much bigger…with full orchestra behind, including the strings in individual huge squares elevated in the back.

And then this…when Adele set fire to the rain.

I’m getting goosebumps all over again just writing about the experience. Unforgettable.

Ian and I find the whole Vegas scene a bit overwhelming, so we set out to discover Sin City on our own terms. We took in Fremont Street, visited the Mob Museum, and perused vintage shops and an artist colony in the Arts District.

But most of all, we enjoyed hanging together for this rare occasion of just the two of us traveling together.

Priceless.

Photo bomber at our base hotel, the Sahara.

We left the Big City on (ugh!) 6:00 a.m. Pacific Time flights, Ian back to his home in Denver, me back to Atlanta.

Our last days were filled with dinner at Pure Taqueria in Woodstock with Steve and Debbie Gibbs, hiking, and taking in the beautiful automobile collection at the Savoy Museum in nearby Cartersville.

I’d take either one of these beauties, but especially the cute guy in the background.

And, of course, if you’ve followed my journey, you know that purple turns up when least expected.

Brad and I snuck in one last dinner with Kyle and Will before heading off to our new adventures.

So, there you have it…family, friends and flames! Wowza!

 

 

OBXing

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OBXing…verb 

1) exploring the Outer Banks of North Carolina

2) noting all the vanity plates that start with OBX

3) checking another destination off the bucket list

I’ve always wanted to visit the Outer Banks, with two experiences high on the list; visiting the site of the Wright Brothers historical flight, and seeing the Wild Horses of Corolla. During our week’s stay, we checked off those boxes and then some.

We camped at the OBX Campground on Colington Island, Kill Devil Hills. Our site was beautiful, just off the waters surrounding the island, and literally a stone’s throw away from the Wright Brothers Memorial. As we drove into the campground, we noted a bike trail surrounding the national park, so we decided we would take the short bike ride along Colington Road to the trail the next morning. As we headed out into the cold, brisk winds, I thought of Wilbur Wright’s quote, “No bird soars in a calm.”

It was rather appropriate we biked to the site, in homage to the bicycle-building brothers from Dayton who had a dream to create and fly a machine in the air.

We walked our two-wheelers along the route the brothers took on those historic flights on December 17, 1903. We were amazed by not only how far they ultimately flew that day, but all of the time, effort, research and attempts by Wilbur and Orville to achieve the first powered, controlled and sustained flight.

“It wasn’t luck that made them fly; it was hard work and common sense; they put their whole heart and soul and all their energy into an idea and they had the faith.”
― David McCullough, The Wright Brothers

Next up on that bucket list was to see the wild horses. There are various tour companies that will take you out on the beach in Corolla, but our trusty Jeep was up for the task, so we did a self-guided tour. The beach was rather compact, so we didn’t deflate our tires to the recommended 20 psi, which adds more traction.

We spotted five horses on the northern edge of Currituck Beach, lumbering slowly along the ocean’s edge. We respectfully stayed the requisite 50 feet away as they trudged through the sand. Quietly, almost mysteriously, the Colonial Wild Mustangs walked in the opposite direction, in single file, paying no attention to us.

I had to pinch myself seeing two iconic Outer Bank traditions, both in the same day.

Little did I know we were about to take in another…the Tomato Shack in the town of Duck. Carlton is the second generation owner of this beautiful market. We bought some fresh eggs, bacon and a variety of veggies for our travels.

One of the upsides to traveling in an RV is to be able to make home-cooked meals. I foraged away during the summer, freezing many batches of pesto, homemade marinara sauce and homemade chicken noodle soup. I even made my first batch of banana bread in the Coach on this trip. Yum!

We golfed twice on the Outer Banks, at the historical Sea Scape Golf Links (only because it was the first time I ever beat Brad, straight up!) and the Nags Head Golf Club. Both great tracks, and easily made our way around 18 holes in 3 hours due to midday tee times and off-season.

We traveled to the far end of the Outer Banks, going as far as Hatteras. (There is a ferry you can take further.) We were saddened that we couldn’t climb Cape Hatteras lighthouse, but enjoyed learning about the incredible effort in 1999 to move the lighthouse due to potential beach erosion. It took 23 days and a massive engineering effort to transport the beacon 29 feet to its current location.

I loved this view of massive charter fishing boats on our way to Hatteras.

Tundra Swan Adult (Whistling)

Photo credit photo on the right: Ian Davies/Macaulay Library

We stopped at the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge Center, where we were able to see hundreds of the migrating Tundra Swans. The all-white swans look majestic, gathered in the warmer waters of the Outer Banks for the winter.

This is for the fans of  the 2008 movie “Nights in Rodanthe” which featured Richard Gere and Diane Lane. The original house used in the movie also had to be moved up the beach due to the shifting of the sands. The property is rented out, and up for sale. But beware, it looks like it might need to be moved again in the future!

We ventured to Roanoke Island, taking in the quaint village of Manteo and the Roanoke Island Festival Park Heritage Center. After a quick tour of the reconstructed Elizabeth ll, we thoroughly enjoyed the interpreter at the first English Settlement Site. He was kind enough to create a small souvenir…a nail that he forged.

We tried to solve the mystery of the Lost Colony during our visit to Fort Raleigh, but alas, no such luck.

Luna, our lovable Labrador didn’t get to take in the golf or the historical sites, but fear not, she got her own adventures in too. We headed to the deserted beach early one morning, and to Jockey Ridge State Park, site of the tallest living sand dune on the eastern seaboard on our last day in the Outer Banks. She brought back her share of  the beach and the dune to the coach!

We enjoyed a rare night out while on the road, enjoying the delectable local fresh seafood and produce at the quaint Colington Cafe.  It was great to ditch the hiking/biking/golfing/kayaking gear and hats for a little more formal attire.

Our fond farewell to the lovely islands of the Outer Banks involved kayaking around the bay near Roanoke Island. Winds into our faces at the start, then cruised back quietly, past the sea grasses swaying in the winds. The breathtaking sunset was a perfect end to our OBXing adventures.

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Paddling

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It has been said that a duck looks calm above the water, but is paddling like heck underwater to stay afloat.

I’ve learned that this is simply not true.

Ducks only paddle to change direction, or to move forward.

Ducks have a gland at the base of their tails that secretes an oil that they spread on their feathers to keep from sinking. The waterfowl will frequently tuck their head and bill to help sleek the oil over their plumage to remain above the surface.

But sometimes, the oil gland gets plugged. Stress or trauma can be one reason. It is suggested that to help ease the stress, that the duck might need a reprieve, some down time from others to recover.

Northwest River, Chesapeake, VA

I thought a lot about ducks while kayaking on the Northwest River in Chesapeake, Virginia. As I came around a bend, wood ducks would flap up out of the water, startled by my approach. The river was covered in duckweed, a protein that wood ducks will eat, and serves an important role in the healthy ecosystem of the river.

I thought about how, like ducks, we need to take care of ourselves every day to stay afloat. And, that if we’ve experienced pain, grief or anxiety, sometimes we need quiet time to recover.

(And sometimes, like when we see a snake along the shore, we take a moment to take it in, snap a shot, then paddle the hell out of there.)

My husband Brad and I had planned our next adventure, six months in our motorhome, ever since we bought it last February. Brad has less tolerance for winter, and I’m always game to travel, so we began plotting our trip.

Sadly, I lost my oldest brother, Kevin, just a month before we were to leave. I know he would not have wanted us to alter our intentions, in fact, just the opposite.

After gathering with my awesome brothers and their wives, Jeff and Cindy, Greg and Lisa, Gordie and Debbie, along with Kevin’s wife, Bobbie, to celebrate Kevin’s life, Brad and I took off.

But, like those ducks, I realized I needed to take care of myself to keep my head above the surface. I needed peace and quiet to restore my soul. Our first stop, the Rubini family homestead in Tryon, North Carolina, offered just that. Plus bonus time with our daughter Kyle and our grandpup, Riggins, and our dear friends, Susan and Pam.

Sunset in North Carolina

Our daughter Kyle snuggling with Riggins and Luna

Pam (l.) and Susan at the creek below Chimney Rock.

Every day I preened my feathers, doing what I could to take care of myself. Hikes, picnics at waterfalls, glasses of wine at sunset, fun rounds of golf, writing, reflecting. Slowly I felt myself rising to the surface once again.

And then, like those ducks, I dug my paddles into the water and moved forward.

From North Carolina we ventured to the Cheseapeake area. Along with kayaking, we explored Williamsburg and spent amazing time with my niece Wendy, her husband Tony, and their 7-year-old daughter, Isabelle.

Entering Williamsburg with one of the historians. Brad is on the right…

Inventory of original items in the Peyton Randolph home.

On Veterans Day, we visited the Military Aviation Museum with Wendy, Tony and Isabelle. When we entered a restored, musty control tower brought over from England, Isabelle said, “This building smells like history.”

On our last day in the area, we spent the afternoon kayaking on Lake Christopher with Wendy and family, then ventured to the Norfolk Botanical Garden for an incredible holiday night display.

One of the last light structures we saw was tree shaped, with a star on top. It hovered over the walking path. Isabelle and I stood for a moment under the strings of blue lights. “Look up,” I said.

“Whoa,” Isabelle shouted. Whoa was right.

In that brief encounter, all that I’ve experienced these last few months melted away. I felt like all of my angels gone from my life too soon were letting me know that all is well. They are with me, helping me on this life journey.

They are lighting my way, and I’m paddling, moving forward.

 

Brother, lost and found

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The last time I saw my oldest brother Kevin was the morning after my daughter’s wedding, this past June. Brad and I hosted a brunch for family, and Kevin and his new wife, Bobbie were able to join us before they took off for their several-day drive back to their home in Lincoln, Nebraska.

It was rather amazing that Kevin came to the wedding, because, well, as we’ve always said, “Kevin is Kevin.” In other words, you just never knew whether he would show up or not. But, when it came to the BIG events, Kevin was there, sliding into home last minute. And when he made an appearance, Kevin was all in.

When a week after the official wedding RSVP deadline passed and we had not heard from Kevin as to whether they could join us for the joyous occasion, I tried to reach out to him. I texted, I called, and left messages. Finally, days later, I heard from him.

“Hey, sis, what’s up?” Kevin asked.

“Well, we’re hoping that you both will be able to come join us at Kyle’s wedding on June 4,” I said.

“Yeah, I think we can do that.”

Not exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for.

“That’s awesome,” I said. “So, part of the RSVP was to choose what you would like to eat at the reception.”

“Okay, kiddo (I loved that nickname) what are my choices?”

Without hesitation, I responded, “At this stage, Mcdonald’s.”

I’ll forever miss his hearty laugh, and his big shit-eating grin I imagined from the other end.

Kevin, always the protective big brother. He’s 7 and I’m 2 in this picture

On Saturday, September 10, Kevin left us just as he made his appearances throughout the years, suddenly, without fanfare and on his own terms.
He was just 66 years old.

Kevin filled his shoes well as the oldest, and as the youngest sister, I think he felt compelled to teach me important life skills throughout the years. How to survive guerilla warfare that involved him digging a massive hole in the ground and standing on the far side of its opening, covered by weeds and grass, to see if I’d actually fall in. Kevin and my other older siblings, Karen and Jeff, spiced up the situation to challenge me to outrun our visiting friend, Gwen Thees out to the garden.

I won and lost if you get the picture. I’ll never forget the images of all of them standing above me, as I was literally up to my shoulders in a hole.

This was the infamous Radio Flyer, before the grand adventure that follows…

Or, rigging up the Radio Flyer wagon filled with library books, tethered by a rope to the minibike Kevin drove like a madman to get to the bookmobile. Kevin and older brother Jeff were on the minibike, younger brother Greg and I were wedged in with the books in the wagon, youngest brother Gordie was tied up behind the wagon on his tricycle (who thought up this scheme????) and older sister Karen rode along on her bike to supervise. We lost Gordie at the first turn and turned him over to the neighbors. Soon after, as the wagon wove back and forth, Greg had a look in his eye that said, “It’s either you or me” and bailed out of the wagon. With the shift in the weight distribution, the wagon flipped, and somehow, I was trapped underneath, books scattering all over, and my back getting dragged against the asphalt. I still have remnants of scars from the small pebbles and black tar of the hot country road.

And then there was the time that he rebelled and ran from mom as she came after him with the wooden handled hairbrush that she whacked us with when we got out of line. I’ll never forget the rest of us, standing looking out the front window as he ran, cheering, “Run, Kevin, run!!” He taught me to be a survivor, and that sometimes there was a path to resistance.

Kevin enlisted in the Army and left for boot camp soon after graduating from high school. I was only in 8th grade but felt his absence every night at the dinner table, and when the cookies all disappeared, we didn’t have Kevin to collectively blame anymore. I remember a time when he came for a visit when I was a senior in high school. He was shooting pool in the basement, the glow of the fluorescent light suspended above offering a halo effect around the table. I sat on the basement steps, my hands cupped under my chin, lamenting that I couldn’t wait until I turned eighteen.

“Wait a minute, sis. Don’t be in such a hurry. When you turn eighteen, you’re going to want to be 21, and when you’re 21, you’re going to wish you were 18 all over again.”

Kevin’s wisdom was the greatest lesson in just enjoying the moment that I ever got.

Then he proceeded to teach me how to shoot pool. Left-handed. I never realized that, as a southpaw, Kevin taught me his way, until years later when Brad noticed while we were out with friends playing 8-ball.

As I got older, Kevin taught me important social and gaming skills. Throwing darts at his local watering hole, the Winking Lizard in Cleveland. Being able to hold my own, whether in a crowd or in a crowd drinking beer. How to come prepared for a white-water rafting trip when it rains all weekend. Sleeping upright in a car never felt so good.

When the kids came, Kevin became the “fun uncle” (our son Ian’s observations) and since he was working in Toledo for a time, was never more present in my life than during their early childhood years. Or, should I say, never more present up until that point. When Claire died, I’ll never forget his huge bear hug when he made it into town for the funeral. He always had such big hugs.

Months later, we all gathered together as a family to celebrate the nuptials of younger brother Greg and his Lisa. Our hearts were still collectively breaking over our loss of Claire, but, true to form, we held on to each other, told stories, and rallied. It’s the Zeigler way.

Greg and Lisa’s wedding, September 2000.

Kevin moved to Lexington, then to Colorado, and eventually to Nebraska. We didn’t see or hear from Kevin much when he was out West, but when mom and dad died, he came home.
I’m so glad he made it for our daughter’s wedding. We had one more chance to joke together, take pictures together, and tell stories together.

With my brothers celebrating my daughter Kyle’s wedding to Will Letton on June 4, 2022.

You just never knew if Kevin would show up, but when he did, he was all in.

We lost Kevin way too soon.

As we gathered on October 15 to memorialize Kevin, my siblings and I, along with Kevin’s wife Bobbie and extended family, shared our collective remembrances. The stories rolled, as did our laughter and tears. We searched through old photo albums, recalling shared adventures.

Throughout the weekend, I felt like my memories became full color as we sifted through black-and-white photos.

I’ll never forget what he taught me.

And I still shoot pool left-handed.

Rest in peace Kevin.

The Secret Case of the Nancy Drew Ghostwriter

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I’m flying high over sharing the many secrets of Mildred Augustine Wirt Benson aka the original Carolyn Keene on Friday, July 15 at Main Library, Toledo Lucas County Public Library!

My talk is all a part of a Nancy Drew celebration and unveiling of the Nancy Drew collection donated by Jennifer Fisher.

The event is free, but attendees need to register here.

Virginia Hamilton: Five Novels featured on PBS Fresh Air

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Fresh Air

 

Life has been a bit of a whirlwind this spring, between 2 weeks of Claire’s Day festivities and our daughter’s wedding.

I just realized I hadn’t shared the review of Virginia Hamilton: Five Novels on the PBS program, Fresh Air.

Check it out here!

 

Selma

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By the time you read this, I’ll be back from round two of our adventures in our new-to-us motorhome.

I’ve cranked out five blog posts in the course of a day, all the while wrapping up details for a presentation and making sure I have materials for a book festival at the end of the adventures. I like to leave our townhome clean for when I return, a place of peace after our travels. So, laundry was done, sheets were washed, vacuumed and dusted, cleaned out the refrigerator, and tried to wait as late in the day as possible to pack, so as not to freak out our Labrador, Luna.

All the while, I’ve been wanting to get to this last post in reflecting our initial set of travels.

Selma. Selma. Selma.

All-day long thoughts of this experience have been haunting me, making sure I got to this point in my reflections.

Hell, Selma has been haunting me ever since we visited in mid-February.

We pulled into town around 3:30 pm, crossing over the infamous Edmund Pettus Bridge, and making our way to the Selma Interpretive Center. We were greeted by site manager Kenneth L. Williams, who when learning we were from Toledo, announced proudly that he was originally from Cleveland. I was curious as to what brought him down to Alabama, and he graciously shared that his momma had a house and some property in the area, and when she passed, he moved down to the area and loves it.

This short interaction was huge, given what we were about to witness. How times have changed, I thought, that a Black man from Cleveland would love living in Alabama.

Kenneth explained that although the bookstore was open, the exhibit area was not, due to Covid. However, the Lowndes Interpretative Center, 25 minutes away was open, but we had better hurry, he said, because it closed at 4:30.

After a quick stop at the historic St. James Hotel, a brief exchange with a local heading into the property, (“Come back to Selma! You could spend three days here!”) we ventured to Lowndes.

Even though I researched the facility, I’ve learned of poll taxes, literacy tests, the historic march, Bloody Sunday, and Turnaround Tuesday, I was not prepared for the emotional impact of reading the firsthand accounts of the march, of the beatings, of the hate.

I read about Tent City, a settlement on Black-owned property as a result of sharecroppers being kicked off their land because of their roles in voter registration demonstrations and activity. My heart hurt as I read the accounts of senseless violence that occurred there.

The thirty minutes we had was a drop in the bucket to what I would have liked to have spent there. As my husband offered to the volunteer at the front desk, “She likes to read everything.” I guess it’s the nonfiction writer in me. I’ll never know when I’ll have the chance to go back again.

We closed down the place. I felt like I needed more.

So, Brad discovered Prairie Creek Campground, one of many that fall under the Army Corps of Engineers. The campground was just 15 minutes away, between Lowndes and Selma. We decided we both wanted to go back to Selma the next morning.

The campground was the best experience we’d had so far on the trip. Large sites, peaceful surroundings, with woods and water, campfires, families making S’mores, reminiscent of yesteryear with the kids.

Although we didn’t have three days to spend in Selma, we had the morning. We crossed back over the Edmund Pettus Bridge and visited official and makeshift tributes to those instrumental in the Civil Rights movement and March. We poked our heads into the St. James Hotel. We ventured past the sad public housing projects and took pictures of grand historic homes. Our last stop was the Live Oak cemetery, with its beautiful, yet eerie live oaks throughout.

We left Selma feeling sad, yet hopeful.

Everyone should go to Selma. I’m not sure I could spend three days there.

One was enough to remind me of how far we’ve come, but how far we have to go.

 

Psych out

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There isn’t anything much more intimidating than the prospect of playing golf with a sports psychologist.

I know that the opposite should hold true, but not for me, at least at the very start. Brad and I had the opportunity to play with Jon Stabler, co-founder of Golf Psych in Boerne (that’s Bernie for those of us from parts elsewhere) Texas. Brad took Jon’s course last year and played with Jon at the beautiful Resort Course at Tapatio Springs.

Brad wanted to reunite with Jon and play a round at the course he enjoyed so much before.

The night before our outing, our motorhome shook and shimmied to the significant wind gusts blowing through the area overnight. I suppose it didn’t help that we were camping at the Top of the Hill campground, prime real estate for wind.

I tossed and turned, my thoughts floating back to a camping trip years before with our kids and my sister-in-law, Gail, in Northern Minnesota, outside of Duluth. I remember holding on to the kids and Brad as we were all piled in the same bed of our pull trailer, hoping and praying we’d all be fine.

All was well the next morning, the winds calmed down, and after taking a hike at a nearby park with Luna, Brad and I headed to Tapatio Springs. After settling up in the pro shop, we headed to the range, grabbing a few clubs to warm up with. Soon after Jon showed up, offering a huge smile and a warm, strong handshake. I suggested that the student and instructor should ride together, and I would hang in my own cart, which they agreed made sense.

The first hole was a par 5 dogleg left (as opposed to dogleg right as I thought). I hit a decent drive, nice second shot, then needed a wedge for my approach shot. I repeat, I needed a wedge for my approach shot. I looked in my bag, then over at Brad’s thinking maybe I’d accidentally put my wedge in his bag after warming up. No wedge in sight. After a quick inventory of my clubs, I realized I’d left three clubs at the range…a first for me.

There’s nothing like the drive of shame from the first green back to the range, making my way strategically past the group behind us so as to avoid disturbing them or getting hit. I checked in with the golf pro by the shop to see if anyone had turned them in, no such luck. Drove to the range and discovered the clubs exactly where I left them.

I sped back to the guys, who were already midway into the second hole, a par 4 with the approach shot over water. I decided I’d just skip that hole. Feeling a little unnerved and embarrassed, I took a deep breath at the next tee, a short par 3, and struck a beautiful shot, which was tracking toward the hole.  An easy birdie putt later, I felt back in my groove.

Hole #12

We had a great time, both Brad and I played well, perhaps as a result of the calming influence of the golf mentor. At the end of the round, Jon gave me a hug and said I “had game” and that it was really fun to play golf with me. I felt the same about the experience and was proud of myself for not letting the mistake at the start of the round affect the rest of the afternoon.

Our Texas time came to an end and made our way the next morning to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where my niece Liz and her husband, Nick live. We had a wonderful evening enjoying their homemade chicken pesto pasta, always a family favorite. Temperatures dipped overnight, and I was grateful for my winter hat for our walk with Liz the next morning.

As we said goodbye, Liz gifted us with frozen salmon and halibut from their adventures up in Alaska last fall. Yum!

One of the many upsides to traveling by coach is the chance to see family along the way. Soon we’d have a quick stop in Atlanta to visit our daughter before heading home.

But, before then, Selma happened.

 

 

This post is brought to you by the letter S

/in /by

The Sonoran Desert. Saguaro. Shit. South Mountain. Sixteenth at Phoenix Open. Super Bowl.

This post is brought to you by the letter S.

Did you know that the Saguaro cactus is only native to the Sonoran Desert? As often as I’ve had the privilege to visit this area of the Southwest, I had no idea how limited their range was, much less that these huge, unique plants can live up to 150-200 years old.

As Brad and I hiked in the Casa Grande Mountains on the 2.7-mile East Butte Trail, I wondered about the travelers the cacti had witnessed over time. From Native Americans all the way up to the modern-day mountain bikers, the stories they could tell.

Luna was in her element, weaving her way on the trail, sniffing, enjoying the quiet trail. Until she met up with another cactus…the jumping cholla. The sharp, long needles latched onto her back leg. Shit! Brad was wise to grab Luna’s collapsible canvas water bowl to detach the barbed spines from poor unsuspecting Luna. After removing what we thought were all the spurs, we kept on. Only later that night did we find more needles embedded in her fur coat. Tough bird, she didn’t really even flinch as we pulled them out.

Do not try this at home! Ouch!

After the peaceful morning hike, we packed up and headed up to our visit with our friends, Tom and Margo. They live in Chandler, near South Mountain. We parked Bessie on their street and enjoyed the comfort of their home for several days. We hiked along the base of South Mountain the next day. Fortunately for Luna, she had no further interactions with the jumping cholla cactus. Luna is used to being off-leash and was so amazing as we wound along the narrow mountain trail. I’d put her back on the leash whenever coming across other hikers, and make her sit, pulling her off to the side of the trail. She made more friends than we did on those hikes!

A highlight of our visit was taking in the Waste Management Phoenix Open. Brad and I, along with Tom and his friend BJ hung out at the course all day, taking in the storied 16th hole. The PGA touts it as The Peoples Open. I’d call it the Party Open. I couldn’t get over the massive and numerous hospitality tents, multiple stories high. The 16th hole is the place to be, as crowds cheer on birdies and boo at a mere par. Beer cans flew onto the green a day later, as a player made a hole in one. It was fun to see the change in clientele and attire as we left the course later in the afternoon. Young women, dressed in heels and strapless dresses strolled in with their date behind, dressed in polos and khakis, headed to the live entertainment the course hosts nightly.

We enjoyed golf at Moon Valley Country Club with our friend, Mike. He offered at the start of the round that the course was where Annika Sorenstam carded her historic score of 59 twenty years ago…the first woman to do so. I had a blast but my score was not historic.

Sunday afternoon brought the Super Bowl. Refreshing to have it scheduled at 4:30 pm Mountain Time, two hours before we would typically be viewing back at home. Just as kickoff was to happen, so did the unimaginable for football fans. The power went out. Brownout through the whole neighborhood. Brad, with his ability to think quickly on his feet, suggested we power up the generator on the motorhome and watch it from the outside TV. We gathered up chairs and began to transfer beverages and snacks to their driveway. And of course, just as we were settled in, the power went back on.

Monday morning, we fired up the motor home and started our journey back home.

With a few amazing stops along the way.