At Home Wherever the Road Bends
by Sanda Horeis
Kurt Reichardt, Editor
For Willie — The German
Copyright © 2011 Sanda Horeis, 3700 S. Westcourt #2379, Sioux Falls, SD 57106. All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
978-1-933794-49-5
Published by Quill House Publishers at Smashwords
Quill House Publishers, PO Box 390759, Minneapolis, MN 55439
www.quill-house.com
Acknowledgements
The author is grateful for the assistance in producing this book from former colleagues Kathryn Brewer of Brewer Communications, Inc. for the cover, layout and production; and Laurel Hensel, who together with Rod Richey, provided the final read-through and text review.
Editor’s Note
Sanda Horeis and I had spent a decade as journalistic colleagues when, in 1997, she retired. Together with husband Willie, they embarked on what was to be their greatest adventure. Since Sanda and I both loved to write, we kept in touch and, in that way, my spouse and I were able to “go along for the ride.” I provided shop gossip while she, crisscrossing the country, wrote glorious, opinionated, descriptive prose — and often side-splitting accounts of road and RV camp experiences. I kept every letter.
Sanda always talked about finishing her “novel,” but by the time I retired four years later, I realized that I had possession of something much better: a real-life adventure with the man she calls The German and an assortment of road warriors they had met. We agreed that I should begin bringing the letters together from the beginning at Rainbows End — creating a manuscript that linked each road tale with the anticipation of new days that were — like the Johnny Mercer song* — always waiting “’round the bend” in the road.
A couple of times we met them and experienced the joy of “two drifters” off to see the country — if not the world. When the letter came which introduced their Huckleberry friend, I somehow knew — and told Sanda — “This is where the story ends.” I meant that it was time to finish the manuscript but, as it happened, the adventure itself was to end all too soon. In 2006, Sanda suffered a stroke, and her partial paralysis included her writing hand. The spirit is undaunted, but we print journalists know that our brains, perception, vocabulary, and articulation are all lodged in finger tips that race across pages — at first with pens and now on computer keys.
So the letters of those five years began to accompany me on vacations, shared the lives of several scanners and even fried a laptop computer in England. The manuscript was a labor of love and, as Sanda began to heal and we got older, the determination was renewed: she to have the book in print, and I to pass along the delightful prose and wonderful experiences with anyone who has thought about “hitting the road” and letting the spirit roam free. When you’ve read the book, you’ll understand what I mean.
– Kurt A. Reichardt, Autumn 2011
*Johnny Mercer, “Moon River,” © 1961 Paramount Music Corporation, ASCAP
Preface
Awakening the Dream
1975 to 1997, Minnesota to Illinois
When that last school year ended, we sold the house, gave all our remaining stuff away, moved into the motor home and began our long adventure of discovery. Seven years into it, we have no regrets.
In 1975, when a 6,000-mile summer-long family odyssey aboard a tiny motor home concluded in the driveway of our four-bedroom pseudo colonial home in Minnesota, thoughts of resuming life within those four walls were daunting.
Life had been so simple in our home on the road. Dad, Mom and the two kids — each equipped with only three changes of clothing, a set of eating utensils, sleeping bag, camera, backpack, art supplies, favorite sports gear and plenty of books — were free to explore the world. Standing in the driveway of our substantial 2,000-square-foot house, I realized the things we treasured most — uninterrupted conversations with our children, the magnificence of vast forests, the roar of the surf, the utter stillness of a starry mountain nights, the warmth of a campfire, new friends in far-off places — were things we could not own. At the end of our adventure, the possession-stuffed edifice we called home seemed somewhat absurd. Did we own this stuff, or did this stuff own us?
Although we continued to raise our kids in that house, we also continued our summer adventures, sans stuff. Then came a detour on the road to independence. After years as a newspaper woman, I decided on one more employment adventure — working as a communicator for the new Chicago-based Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA). Willie, my wide-bodied and big-
hearted husband who, because he counters my impious Danish heritage with stubborn Teutonic determination and has become lovingly known as The German, was game to come along. We downsized into a town home; some of the stuff went along.
Now while I wrote copy, supervised videos, planned convention displays, edited jargon created by church bureaucrats and discovered that I was becoming one myself, The German commuted to the inner city to work with the poorest of the poor students in an archdiocese high school. Each had its rewards, but still firmly convinced that we’d rather do than have stuff, we began the process of paring down possessions even more. “If it doesn’t fit in a motor home, we don’t need it,” became the mantra that made eliminating things easier and prevented us from making new purchases.
When that last school year ended, we sold the house, gave all our remaining stuff away, moved into the motor home and began our long adventure of discovery. We never had regrets.
– Sanda Horeis, Summer 2011
Prologue
Born A’gin in Texas
December 23, 1997 - Rainbows End, Texas
We are now licensed to drive blind, faster than a bat out of hell, carrying concealed weapons.
A Rainbows End retiree ...
A rip-roarin’ Texas frog-drowning gully washer, complete with booming thunder and lots of lightning, has knocked out our electricity repeatedly tonight, making TV viewing a spastic endeavor and scaring me out of the notion to use the computer. Must not let that expensive little beast be slain by a bolt of lightning. I may need it to help me supplement our income one day.
I had to make a decision about a job opportunity for which I did not go looking. While having a nice conversation with some of the writers here about articles for this club’s magazine, the editor asked me to meet with her privately in her office. She’s been at the job for eight years and wants me to think about replacing her. It’s a nice magazine, distributed worldwide to the 50,000 members of this organization of serious RV’ers. The office is right here at Rainbows End in a beautiful new building. It’s a wonderful job, but I’m in no mood to do it. Not having to get up in the morning and race to work is just too utterly delightful. Besides, I still need to travel, and editing that magazine would keep me planted right here in rustic southeastern Texas. Nah, I don’t want to do it. Willie thinks it would be fine to stay here and have that extra paycheck. Sure, he gets to play with his cronies.
… a non-gun totin’ Winter-Texan driver ...
We are now officially Texas residents, y’all! That’s frightening.
When we went to get our driver’s licenses at the county penal institution (complete with the high fence with barbed wire at the top), we were notified that we couldn’t take our concealed weapons into the jail. In order to become Texas drivers, we just had to complete forms and take eye tests — without our glasses. Now, neither of us can see those little letters on the test without wearing glasses. But that wasn’t a problem for them.
While we squinted, a tall female Texas Ranger-type officer, packing a 9mm automatic with lots of extra ammo, walked in and said, “Well, a lot of you winter Texans are decidin’ to come on down here and live with us.”
“Yes, but you regular Texans drive by the Braille method, and that sure makes our insurance rates go up,” Willie replied.
“No,” the officer said, “the rates are so high because you Winter Texans drive so slow we have to hit you.”
We didn’t pursue the conversation, but now we are licensed to drive blind, faster than a bat out of hell, carrying concealed weapons.
... and Christmas before we go
It looks and smells like Christmas here in the motor home — with poinsettias in the living room (that tiny fake tree was just too tacky) and a wonderful cinnamon-scented candle burning. I gave the naughty oven another trial run with a batch of pecan rolls today, and the good smell of yeast and hot caramel still lingers. On Christmas morning, Willie and I will play bakery elves and make pecan rolls to deliver, warm from the oven, to some of our favorite people here. We used to do that when we lived in Minnesota.
We’ve decided to worship with the folks at the care center here on Christmas Eve, primarily because that service is at five o’clock and will allow us to attend a party at seven. Wouldn’t want to miss a party! Christmas day, Willie and I are hosts at one of the tables at the big dinner gathering. Made the wine run today, but we will drink our wine from crash-proof glasses.
We’re itchin’ to get back on the road. Our attorney is out of town, so we can’t finish up our end-of-life documents until January 6. We’re thinking that we may batten down the loose objects, hitch up the tow car and move on down to Galveston right after Christmas, then drive the car back to see the attorney. After that it is “Westward Ho!”
After the Rainbow
April 17, 1998 - Cloud 9 Ranch, Missouri
(Here) you can buy everything from wild animal traps and farm supplies to sewing notions, lunch meat and a whole arsenal of semi-automatic weapons. …
From Foggy Hollow to hard times on Cloud 9
We’re adding this place to our list of worthwhile destinations. Much of the fun was in the getting here. Good thing there wasn’t a north wind or a south wind as we made our way over the ups and downs and twists and turns of our easterly journey on U.S. 160. We’d have been blown off a cliff. Each new vista outdid the one before it. Forests were rife with dogwood and redbud, meadows lush and green, lakes and streams bright turquoise. A 90-mile, four-hour Ozark mountain high!
And then comes Cloud 9 Ranch. Yes, it’s off the beaten path — this members-only campground sprawled across 10 square miles (more than 6,000 acres) of Ozark mountains and forests. There are 600 full-hookup campsites here, but you’d never know it. They’re tucked into little communities with names like Foggy Hollow, Powder Mill, Wilder Springs, Lonesome Pine, and Hill Country.
After turning from the highway and going through the main gate, we drove nearly three miles through the woods to the gate house. A short way beyond we found a surprisingly civilized community compound — supermarket, restaurant, welcome center, adult recreation building, swimming pool, tennis courts, pavilion, another swimming pool, and a chapel. Down a fork in the road is a riding stable. Roads branch out in various directions to the several campgrounds. The craft house is up near Wilder Spring in an old farmhouse. This place is paradise for walkers. A flock of birds that look to us like wild canaries (little bitty yellow buggers) has taken over the hillside by our campsite. This must be a stop on their spring migration route.
Only a few campers are here now, many of them with all-terrain vehicles. Well, isn’t that lovely? Designated trails abound for them to play on. Luckily the area is so vast, the ATVs disappear into the woods, and we never hear them. Speak of the devil! A little gray-haired man and a little gray-haired woman are driving by on their ATV right now. She has her hair carefully glued into curls. Ma
and Pa are driving very s-l-o-w-l-y. But do you suppose we’ve stumbled into a militia compound? Everyone but us is wearing camouflage fatigues.
This place opened back in 1972, I suspect with the sale of high-priced memberships. It’s fallen on hard times and is undergoing financial reorganization now. I think it has filed for bankruptcy. The managers have contracted to log off about $300,000 worth of hardwood lumber this year to help keep the place going, and they’ve cut way back on staffing. There used to be 87 employees. Sure hope they manage to keep the place afloat. I’d like to come back again.
Storms, whimpering worshipers and Punkin Center men
Our CB radio is a handy item here. The campground uses CB channel 12 to issue “take cover” warnings during tornado alerts. We had the darn thing on during our first two nights here (waiting for orders to hole up in the chapel basement) while nasty storm fronts moved over us. Tonight, thank God, it is calm, but last night, thunder crashed and the rain poured and the weather service issued severe weather warnings for this county. I got out my art supplies and turned out three things good enough to save (and six duds) before the violent weather — and my terror — subsided and it was safe to go to bed. In the midst of artistic frenzy, I smeared black ink on the carpet-and-wood floor. You don’t want to know what a trial it was to get rid of that stuff.
We worshiped with an ELCA congregation on Easter. Like many small Lutheran congregations, this one didn’t sing; it whimpered. We whined feebly through the liturgy, and our voices grew ever more tentative and pathetic with each hymn. Kinda jolting after a number of Sundays with lusty Methodists and Baptists. The interim pastor mechanically read his sermon. Poor little flock! You should have seen us chanting the Psalms; it’s never been done like that before. At least I hope it hasn’t. Next Sunday, it won’t seem too bad to resume non-denominational worship with a campground community.
A couple days ago, we went to the general store in the tiny town of Caulfield to get a few groceries. The store is a big old shed of a place right out of the 19th century. You can buy everything from wild animal traps and farm supplies to sewing notions, lunch meat and a whole arsenal of semi-automatic weapons — 9mms, 45s, whatever. When Willie told the woman that her store reminded him of the store in his home town of Pumpkin Center, in Indiana, she got nervous.
“We like to stay clear of them Punkin Center men,” she told us. “They’re mean ’un bad for fightin’.” Oops! Wrong Punkin Center!
Yesterday, we drove south to Grand Gulf State Park to see Missouri’s little Grand Canyon. The main feature is the collapsed remains of a major cave system — with a sinkhole, cave, natural bridge and, of course, a canyon. I got my hiking fix for the day on the forest trail above the gorge. Then it was time to go to the Mecca of West Plains for major grocery shopping. Hey, they have a Super Walmart there in addition to a state university. We buy groceries at Walmart everywhere we go. Makes us feel like our grocery store never changes. The groceries aren’t always great, but we know in which aisles to look.
Mills, springs and trails; so much to do with time to do it
Next on our agenda was a day or two of driving around the area to find the historic mills that were once centers of community activity. Dwat Mill, just down the road from here, is the only water-powered grist mill on the North Fork River, and I believe the original general store is still in operation. Since Willie promised not to run his mouth off about his Pumpkin Center roots, I thought we could safely go there.
We also took in the Aid-Hodgson Mill (the most picturesque of the lot) and Zanoni Mill. I’m sure we were within a mile of Rockbridge Mill — but damn! we must have blinked and missed it. Our mill tour took us off the main roads, which are only two-laners that looked like back roads to us until we got on the real back roads — narrow, narrow, twisty-turny, hard-surfaced trails with steep, steep grades, up and down and round, turn after turn. Because of heavy rain last night, we had to watch to be sure one-lane bridges down in the valleys weren’t under water.
Falls at all the mills were gushing mightily. At Dwat Mill, we ate hot-out-of-the-oven cookies made from the mill’s flour. Yummy! I’m still on a sugar high and dazed from several hours of back-seat driving while trying to appreciate the spectacular scenery. Willie estimates we drove about 80 miles; it seemed like several hundred. We didn’t want it to end, though. Came home when we did in order to avoid being lost back in “them thar hills” after dark. Tomorrow we may go back into the interior of hill country and put our four-wheel drive to work going up the one-lane gravel trail to the peak of Canev Mountain.
Maybe on the weekend we’ll drive down to the craft center at Mountain Home, Arkansas. We were impressed with it on a long ago visit back in the ’70s. As I recall, it’s a state-funded outlet for local craftspeople. Then, too, more mills remain to be explored — Topaz Mill, Turner’s Mill, Falling Spring Mill. And most of the state’s largest springs are within a few miles of here — Alley Spring, Big Spring, Blue Spring, Falling Spring, Greer Spring. Most of these spots have hiking trails, which I really need to be using to work off today’s glut of cookies. I also need to stumble around on the trails here in the campground until I find Line Spring Falls. So much to do; so much time to do it!
A Date With Gunnar
May 7, 1988 - Kansas City, Missouri
The dust on our rig and our tow car turned into something that resembled wet plaster. The slope surrounding us became slippery ooze. It rained and rained and rained. ... I think I’ve probably lost the option of choosing our campgrounds.
Grounds for divorce ...
When our Kansas City daughter, Kris, took us up on our offer to take her and our grandson Gunnar to Decorah, Iowa, for a two-day tribute to Weston Noble, Luther College’s choral director for 50 years, we began to head in their direction. But first we moved up to Lake of the Ozarks for a spell.
We paused along the way at Mansfield to see the place where Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote all those Little House books. Our route north from there on State Highway 5 (narrow, curvy, sans shoulders and a busy truck route) probably wreaked havoc with my blood pressure, and I have also become obsessed with taking advantage of our Coast-to-Coast membership. This allows us to stay in resort parks for $4 a night, and three such parks attracted us (me, really) to Lake of the Ozarks.
The first of those parks was so beautiful that we remained there throughout our entire stay in the lake area. For most of the week, we had the place pretty much to ourselves. It was just Willie, me, and a couple in one of those big half-million dollar Prevost bus conversions like the rock stars travel in. Then, toward the end of our stay, a fire broke out on the back side of the hill across the hollow from us. The extremely windy day prompted concern that the fire would jump across to our perch. Pumper trucks from many fire departments came over to our marina to fill up with lake water to keep dousing the fire. Kinda interrupted our tranquility, and was actually pretty exciting.
When we arrived in the Kansas City area three days before we were scheduled to begin the trek to Decorah, I was hell-bent-for-election to do the membership park bit again. Why opt for a $20-a-night RV park in the city that is just 10 minutes away from our kids when a cheap park is just 60 miles away? Willie has since let me know that my call on that one was grounds for divorce.
To get there, we drove eight miles north of the main highway on a rotten, but at least half-surfaced road with one-lane bridges to a washboardy gravel road that seemed to go on forever. By the time we got to the campground, our motor home and car were crusted with a thick coat of dust from the crushed limestone we’d driven over. While disgusting, that wasn’t the worst of it. Electrical service at the campsite to which we were assigned wasn’t grounded. It could have killed us or blown out all the electrical systems in our motor home.
We spent a lot of time searching for a site where the electric service was properly grounded, then had great difficulty maneuvering our big rig around the tight curves to get to it. Finally there, the motor home rested high-up on a beautiful, new concrete pad. All around it was a slope of loose dirt newly seeded with grass.
Then, it began to rain.
The dust on our rig and our tow car turned into something that resembled wet plaster. The slope surrounding us became slippery ooze. It rained and rained and rained and rained and rained, and it became impossible to take the dogs out to do their business without falling down in the ooze and rolling down the hill. The German was muddy — real muddy — on several occasions. And he was angry. I think I’ve probably lost the option of choosing our campgrounds.
... before tranquility
But it was fun to set out on a road trip to Decorah with Kris on board. The German got happy. Grandson Gunnar, at two months, is a charmer. He seems to think Grandpa and Grandma are a comedy team. He survived our care just fine while Kristen did her choir reunion, having a wonderful time and a much-needed break from baby tending and work at the hospital. Back in Kansas City, we are (at the campground where Willie wanted to stay in the first place) enjoying the company of our kids for a few days before we strike out for Minnesota with stops along the way to visit my family in Iowa and Willie’s kin in South Dakota. Plan to spend a month at the campground in St. Cloud. Perhaps St. Cloud won’t have the distractions to lure me from long writing sessions at the computer. On the other hand, I might just settle in for a marathon of reading. Still haven’t gotten past the euphoria of feeling like a little kid just set free from school.
Minnesota Morning Muse
May 28, 1998 - St. Cloud, Minnesota
We were summoned by the Stearns County Sheriff to meet all of our neighbors in the up close and personal environs of the camp’s shower stalls while storm front after storm front passed over us.
On being retired
While a load of laundry churns in our handy-dandy washing machine, I’m basking in the breeze that wafts across our compact living room. (No more
vacuum-sealed office buildings for this old gal!) Here, “The Home” is set amid a vast expanse of carefully-tended lawn (30 acres or more) and shaded by oak trees and tall evergreens in a very nice campground!
This morning, as has become our habit, we slept until 7:30, showered and feasted on cereal and coffee before taking the dogs for their long walk-of-the-day in the cool of early (well, fairly early) morning. Then we hung our bikes on the Tracker and drove to a trail head by the Mississippi for a quick six-mile ride. Some mornings we ride our bikes across the bridge and loiter a while by the river in Munsinger Gardens, a shady, tranquil place that gets kind of lively when groups of young mothers come through pushing babies in strollers while chasing toddlers bent upon leaping into 0l’ Man River. Willie watches and predicts which tots will be on Ritalin before they hit third grade.
I share this lazy morning ritual simply to remind you that life outside of a hermetically sealed office building is good, and although I sometimes wonder if my brain is getting mushy, it may be in better shape than it was when I had the privilege of attending directors’ meetings, staff meetings, work group meetings, communicators’ meetings, poor women’s meetings, planning meetings, corporate image meetings and meetings for the sole purpose of justifying reasons for yet more meetings. Gawd, I was tired of meetings!
Reading is no longer such a compulsion. The weekly book consumption has dropped from a high of four or five volumes to one or two. Guess I don’t need that escape mechanism any more. So that’s the state of the semi-affluent, homeless former church lady one year after fleeing the institution, and this might be total bliss were it not for my teeth — or the absence thereof.
I’m gumming everything these days, including Nicorette. Not a pretty sight! The German was hell-bent-for-election to get us back to the family dentist in Delano before our dental insurance runs out June 30, and this is my reward. He, on the other hand, needed only one filling and a cleaning. I got the big cleaning — all my upper molars blasted out. When the holes where they used to be heal over (June 25, according to the dentist), I’ll go in to have the impression made for the partial plate I hope the lab will produce in a real big hurry. This partial plate business wouldn’t be so depressing were it not a just a temporary measure — good for three to five years, if I’m lucky. Big-time dentures are definitely coming in the future. Ain’t that just ducky! But surely in the whole grand scheme of things, toothlessness is a minor malady.
Childhood memories and cottonwoods
Our journey northward included stops at the family farm in Iowa and at Willie’s sisters’ farms in South Dakota. One afternoon, when my kin were in Sioux City tending to the household needs of the sister-in-law’s aged mother, it seemed the time had come to make my way up the long lane to the farmstead where I grew up. Having avoided the pain of confronting those abandoned buildings since shortly after my father’s death over 20 years ago, I ventured there with trepidation.
The house that my memory paints so white and large is weathered gray now, and it’s so little. The roof over the kitchen and the back porch where my mother used to crank the milk separator has collapsed. Windows are falling away from the east-facing sun room, where Sanda the Kid stretched out on the glider to read stack after stack of library books. But the view from that room across the flat, flat bottom land to the hills is far more lovely than I remembered. No wonder my mother resisted convention and refused to hang drapes or curtains at the windows.
Every day of our lives, we looked to those hills, so it wasn’t so bad seeing the rotting house and the scrubby yard that once was lovingly tended and rife with flowers. Old lilac bushes, grown as big as trees, are mostly dead wood now. No doubt a few old-fashioned rose bushes still struggle to survive amid the weeds and thistles. The barn, never one of the finer ones in Kennebec Township, has outlasted all the newer, bigger, better barns. Doesn’t look much different than it used to. And what in the world did they use to build the old granary? It stands straight and solid as a fortress.
Ah, and the giant cottonwood tree in the pasture is still living. When my dad used to brag that it was the oldest tree in Iowa, we thought he was just being windy. Now, my brother tells me tree experts from Iowa State University, on their recent quest to identify and date old trees in the state, stopped by uninvited and have since dubbed our cottonwood the oldest of Iowa’s old ones.
Yes, it was time to venture up that lane again. Later this summer, the house will be dozed down and the basement filled in.
During our Dakota sojourn, we got to see four of the nieces and nephews — kids in my mind, but they’re pushing 50 now. And several of the grand-nieces and -nephews are finishing college and starting families. That leg of our journey did not enhance our youthful image.
They really do talk Minnesotan
Next week, we’ll attend a retirement party for Willie’s Delano teaching colleagues. Jean and Tony Kraft, our good friends and former long-time, next-door neighbors, are among the honorees. They’re currently in the process of doing what we did a year ago — getting the house ready to put on the market. Except, instead of getting rid of all their worldly goods, they’re preparing to move most of their stuff way up to-hell-and-gone north in Minnesota to a lake place they’re buying. The three acres with 300 feet of lakeshore they’re in the process of acquiring is 50 miles from anyplace civilized enough to offer hospital care or a comprehensive grocery store. But they say it’s their dream come true.
The cabin is small and needs a lot of fixing. (Jeanie loves re-doing houses.) The road into the place is barely passable, and the land needs a lot of clearing. (Tony is one of those compulsive workers who would rather be digging out stumps than sitting still.)
They’ll spend winters in the south. We have plans to meet them in San Benito next December. But this summer, in the midst of all this real estate transfer business and moving, they’re making a whirlwind trip to Alaska. Makes me tired just writing about them. And hey, they really do talk Minnesotan here. After living half my life here, it’s the first time I’ve heard the accent. Even the newscasters have it.
Yesterday, we went to Radio Shack to obtain a weather band radio with an alarm to rouse us when severe weather approaches in the dead of night. A couple storms recently have been doozies. Shortly after arriving here, we were summoned by the Stearns County Sheriff to meet all of our neighbors in the up-close-and-personal environs of the camp’s shower stalls while storm front after storm front passed over us. Last night we used the radio, and the alarm went off so frequently it nearly drove us crazy.
Looks as though we’ll be in this part of Minnesota longer than we thought we would. Those darn teeth, you know! We will spend at least a couple of weeks up on the north shore of Lake Superior in July, and then perhaps head east across Canada to the Maritime Provinces. We have a yen for lobster.
Cuspids, Quilts and Harbor Lights
July 27, 1998 - Grand Marais, Minnesota
Tonight we’ll dine by the fire. And as the sun goes down, we’ll watch the play of golden light on cliffs that mark the entrance to the harbor.
Held Hostage in Minnesota
It’s not so much that we are captivated by Minnesota as that we are being held captive. The California lab our dentist uses dithered around for weeks before it got around to making my new teeth and shipping them back to these hinterlands. I was livid — unkind to Roger, the gentle dentist. The teeth arrived at
3 p.m. on July 17. Late that evening, the worst of the dental
surgery was accomplished, and the process of reshaping the plate and trying to cram it into my shredded mouth began. Early the next morning, Willie and I fled the sweltering weather of central Minnesota for sanctuary along the cool north shore of Lake Superior. A campsite at the water’s edge provides a view of the twin lighthouses guarding Grand Marais’ small harbor — a scene that offers some relief from what ails me.
My new teeth bring to mind the pair of ill-fitting white buck
shoes that caused me to limp through an entire school year. A fifth grader — appalled by the long, skinny feet I’d suddenly sprouted — I opted to disguise those monsters by wearing cute
little shoes two sizes too small and endure the pain of chronic blisters. Who would have thought my old lady mouth would feel as pinched and abraded as those poor feet? My feet will never fully recover from the abuse inflicted nearly 50 years ago, but,
little by little, the discomfort in my mouth is subsiding, and I’m beginning to believe a 600-mile round trip back to have Roger
re-do his handiwork may not be necessary.
By the way, did you know most people with partial plates wear them to bed at night? I didn’t know that, but Roger says they do. (Warning: Partial plates cause sleep disturbances and induce anger! The German I travel with says I’m crabby.)
When I was the newspaper lady, and later, the church lady, I used to envision a future time when I would sew again — even learn to quilt. That time is now. While Roger held us captive in St. Cloud, the Minnesota Quilters’ Guild had its annual conference at the St. Cloud Convention Center. In the company of many avid quilters staying at our campground, I was swept into the turmoil of the conference. Before the gig was over, I had become addicted to shopping for fabric and hand-stitching one-inch hexagons together. If I’m lucky, this amoebae-shaped thing in which I’ve invested hundreds of hours will grow up to be a bed-size rectangle. What a labor-intensive project! But it did preserve my sanity during the final two weeks of our time in St. Cloud, when the weather was so hot we rarely left the air-conditioned confines of our house on wheels.
Life along the north shore
Life at the shore of the big lake is not conducive to sewing. Too many trails to hike, fish to fry, rocks to skip, cliffs to stroll. The pungent scent of the north woods and the roar of waves crashing against granite are powerful distractions. It is a shame, though, that so many tourists now come to this place that used to be so sparsely populated — the exclusive domain of locals and a handful of rugged outdoor folks headed for canoe trips into the pristine boundary waters. They still come, of course, but so do way too many sissy campers like us, as well as habitués of luxury resorts. More and more classy resorts and big-buck condos are constructed along the shore between Two Harbors and Grand Marais every year. Lutsen Resort, once just a wonderful log lodge, a few cabins by the shore and some ski runs on the small mountains north of the highway, has expanded into mountainsides covered with acres of condos. Even in the summer, it is filled with mountain bikers who have come to ride gondolas to the top of the trails they whiz down on their bicycles. The place is full of trendy bars and restaurants, gift shops and cheap concessions. State parks, nearly always filled to capacity, are impossible to utilize for camping unless you’ve had the forethought to reserve a site months — perhaps years — in advance. Even Judge Magnev State Park, where not so long ago mosquitoes and bears never failed to scare campers away and which was always empty, now posts “No Vacancy” signs in the campground.
On a recent morning, Peggy the schnauzer and I explored the trail through the woods west from this campground along the lake. It brought us to a place of decision. Turn back? Or scramble to the crest of a rocky ledge above the lake, where foot travel is difficult? Fifteen years ago, I sprang easily from boulder to boulder. Now the trek over those rocks is slow and cautious, but I’ll come back to that place and make my way across that ledge for as long as I am able.
Tonight we shall not feast on wild nice tarragon chicken salad at the bakery cafe down the road, nor order pizza from Sven and Ole’s shop. (Lena and Ingrid’s Mexican restaurant is closed.) We won’t have fresh lake trout and wild blueberry pie at Cascade Lodge. The coals in our fire pit are white hot, and a chicken, surrounded by new potatoes and assorted vegetables, is out there roasting slowly in the cast-iron Dutch oven. Tonight we’ll dine by the fire, and as the sun goes down we’ll watch the play of golden light on cliffs that mark the entrance to the harbor.
Readying to cross the border
In preparation for our border crossing next Monday, the dogs are scheduled to get their rabies shots from the local vet late this week. A few days ago, we drove up to the border to inquire about requirements and received little information but a lot of smart-assed rudeness. The dogs’ current shots don’t expire for several weeks, but given the attitudes of the public servants who staff the crossing points, we’ve decided not to take any chances. Fuel costs in Canada are very high. I hope the favorable U.S. dollar exchange rate applied to camping fees and food will compensate. The prospect of making the long trek over the isolated highway between Thunder Bay and Sault Ste. Marie is exciting. Not a good place to blow a tire or have engine trouble, however.
But first, there’s the opening of Grand Marais’ Fishermen’s Festival. Its promises of bargain prices will attract hermits who rarely leave their isolated cabins up in the woods along the Gunflint Trail. Everybody (locals and tourists) gravitates to street vendors selling fried herring sandwiches. Yum! There’ll be art shows, street music, log rolling, dancing, lots of fun!
Canadian Capers: Two Stretches
August 17, 1998 - St. Ignace, Michigan
Behold, the sound of canvas unfurled — wind filling our sails! But, hark, we have no sails! And if we do, we do not want them!
Lakeshore wilderness wonders
We’re revisiting the scene of a long-ago adventure with our kids, Kris and Derek, and Schnapps the schnauzer, at Straits State Park on the shore of Lake Huron — a short ferry ride from Mackinac Island.
A couple weeks ago, we headed out of Grand Marais along the north shore into Ontario. First stop: Kakabeka Falls Provincial Park near Thunder Bay. Lots more bear there than usual. The dry summer and lack of blueberries prompts them to move south, closer to Lake Superior in search of another type of berry (I believe I heard someone say it’s called Savannah?). Anyhow, we saw no bears, but every morning we saw their fresh tracks very near our camp site. My, what big feet — and claws and poop — they have! Met a man on the trail whose poodle had a run-in with a mama bear last summer. She nearly skinned the little pup alive, but he was out on the trail again — much the worse for wear after $2,000 worth of reconstruction by the local vet. That meeting ended Peggy’s status as my number one hiking companion.
And while I’m on the subject of Peggy, the little schnauzer is very sick. She’s been off her feed now and then for several weeks, but she’s been frisky. Yesterday afternoon, it became obvious she has a serious problem. We’re taking her to the vet later today. She’s 12 now, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if major organs are wearing out and failing. What a dear, devoted companion she is. How I dread the day we’ll be without her.
Thunder Bay has changed a lot since our first visit with the kids in 1970. It’s looking particularly grim this summer following a 13-week strike by city workers. All the parks are overrun with weeds and tall grass. Rose gardens have been allowed to dry up and die, and so have golf courses. All the rare, exotic plants in the conservatory are dead. And the taxpayers are the losers.
We spent three days and about $400 ($600 Canadian) near Thunder Bay — an outlay way beyond our budget. Life in Canada is expensive. We did not eat out much, and when we did eat out, we did not go to fancy places. A not-spectacular breakfast cost us $18. More than $100 worth of groceries yielded three days’ worth of so-so eating. The cost of diesel fuel was much higher than we’re used to. Time to reconsider the plan to trek all the way across Canada to the Atlantic.
But we continued east along the shore of Lake Superior. Both of us had forgotten how spectacular that drive is as it makes its way along the rocky cliffs that soar to elevations higher than we remembered. We recalled only how remote it was — the great distances between the three or four tiny towns along the road linking Thunder Bay and Sault Ste. Marie. Perhaps this scenery didn’t make a big impression last time because we were traveling with an unhappy 15-year-old daughter, and all of us wanted simply to get that trip over with as soon as possible. Now, minus the teenage princess, the views were overwhelming. To our left, mile after mile was acre upon acre of unspoiled, unpopulated wilderness, and to our right was the rugged lakeshore, 50-100 miles at a stretch, with no sign of habitation anywhere. The only signage imposed upon the view consisted of frequent warnings that moose were apt to charge out of the woods onto the road, or that rocks might fall on us.
We had hoped to stay at Neys Provincial Park, a location where German prisoners were confined during World War II and now one of the few places in Ontario where caribou are beginning to make a comeback. We pitched our tents right on the lake shore there in 1980. No such luck this trip. Provincial parks attract more campers than they did 18 years ago. All the sites on the shore were occupied, and the ranger thought our motor home would not fit in any of the forest sites. Still, we unhitched the Tracker and drove into the forest looking for something that would work. Though we found a couple of sites that would have been big enough, we’d have torn up the bottom, roof and sides of our coach before we got to them. Damn! I’d planned to go out at dusk to sit quietly in the brush beside a marsh to watch for moose and caribou.
Next day, though, we stayed in the forest at White Lake Provincial Park. The closest town is White River, home of the original Winnie the Pooh, a bear cub purchased by a captain who was on his way overseas during World War I. The cub, named Winnie after his owner’s home town of Winnipeg, was later given to the London Zoo, where A.A. Milne and his son Christopher met up with him.
Further along the route, we spent three days at Rabbit Blanket Lake Provincial Park, where there were many more moose and bear than people. Wonderful! Peggy and I threw caution to the winds and hiked the trail along Old Woman River. We were sorta young and frisky when we started, but by the time we’d scrambled over several miles of cedar roots and boulders, we were feeling our ages, and anyone who saw us coming off the trail would have thought the Old Woman River trail was named for us.
Most folks who camp along Superior’s north shore route in Ontario are real campers, primitive campers — like we used to be. We saw few motor homes or fifth wheels, and they were small and old — well used. It seemed obscene to roar into pristine provincial parks in this monster bus of ours. I was ashamed, but oh-so — comfortable.
Rescuing Willie
Near the end of our Superior shore journey, some strong lake gusts blasted us as we rounded Pancake Bay. Behold, the sound of canvas unfurled — wind filling our sails! But, hark, we have no sails! And if we do, we do not want them!
“Ay there, Matey,” says I, “we’ve got a problem! I told you we should have waited for the RV repair guy in Grand Marais to fix our awning, the one with the broken wind-up spring in it."(I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. But you said rolling it up by hand and fastening the arms would work just fine until we get back to Indiana to have it fixed under warranty in September.)
So here we are — stopped on the narrow shoulder of the Trans-Canada Highway with our orange emergency cones blowing over every time a logging truck zooms by. (Hmm? How do we roll that canvas up? No wind-up spring, you know — and no ladder.)
“Last time we did this, Matey, you had a picnic table to stand on.” (This time, we have a clapped-out, 3-foot step ladder, which you have plopped at a crazy angle on the top of the wire dog crate. The ground on the awning side of the coach slopes sharply downward. And you’re suggesting I climb on that rickety contraption and stretch up on my tippy toes to reach above my head and begin turning the awning spool by hand to wind the canvas back?)
“No way, Matey! And, no! That spindly wire cage with a step stool salvaged from the trash will never hold the likes of you."
I retreat down the road to cling to the emergency cones, preferring to face the hazards wrought by speeding logging trucks than remain in the company of a crazy German. From a distance, I watch old Matey resort to plan two — which involves unhitching the Tracker and driving it beside the flapping awning — but the lay of the land prevents him from getting it quite close enough. Now he’s getting out of the Tracker. Now he’s ....
No, it can’t be! No! It isn’t possible!
He’s standing on the roof of the poor little Tracker. Teetering on the edge, he’s leaning far forward reaching for the canvas. He’s released the awning arms, and now he’s winding the cloth back onto the roll and, as he rolls, the arms move upward bringing the long, coiled awning higher and higher above his head.
Now, he’s pushing it back to its resting place along the roof line. Slam! It’s up there, just where it ought to be. But, now, he’s strung — stretched to the max — in a more horizontal than vertical position between the Tracker and the top of the motor home, tiptoes on the edge of one roof, fingertips of the other. I haven’t a clue how he thinks he’s going to get down from there, but it seems pretty obvious to me that a 300-pound man can’t remain suspended like that much longer.
Luckily, at some point during this amazing acrobatic feat, two guys in pickups pulling fifth wheels came speeding by and couldn’t believe their eyes. They pulled off the road and came to the rescue. In a flash, one was on top of the motor home, wiring the errant awning in place, and the other was lending his hands and shoulders to the task of freeing old Matey from his strung-out perch atop the Tracker.
Because we thought that was enough excitement for one day, soon afterward we happily splurged to indulge in the refinements of life in a very civilized KOA on the outskirts of Sault Ste. Marie. After many days in primitive campsites, how wonderful to have 50-amp electrical service, city water, sewer hookup — and a good, stiff Manhattan! While we’re outside getting our house connected to all those goodies, the dogs are inside barking their heads off. I walk around the coach to go inside to scold them, but a raven (about the size of a Thanksgiving turkey) blocks my entry. It’s standing on our entry step tormenting the dogs through the screen door.
“Shoo!” I tell it. I wave my arms. I clap my hands. I stomp my feet. The raven’s staying. It turns and hisses at me, spreads its wings and flaps them, but it isn’t leaving. This thing is scary. What a beak it has! I suspect it may have mistaken Gus for a nice chicken dinner. Nevertheless, I retreat, and the raven remains on our doorstep.
By the time we’ve completed the hook-up process, the raven has vanished. Now for those Manhattans!
Canadian farewell
In Sault Ste. Marie, we officially decided to abort our trek across Canada. It’s not only the expense here; we really wouldn’t have enough time to do justice to such a long trip. When we go to the Maritime Provinces, we want to take our time getting there and spend a few weeks on the islands.
So this trip, we’ll spend the rest of August moseying down the Lake Huron side of Michigan — new territory for us, with good state parks along the route and some interesting history. When we get to Detroit, we’ll be tourists and visit Greenfield Village. In early September, we’re scheduled to attend a rally in Indiana sponsored by the dealer from whom we bought this motor home. Then we have an appointment to have several days’ worth of warranty work done.
From there we’ll go to Ohio to the full-timers’ Escapade, where we’ll be reunited with lots of folks we’ve met on our travels.
You know, The German does look taller now, but I hope he won’t be doing any more of those violent stretching exercises. His most recent one aged him — and me — considerably.
Midwest Tales: Of Libraries and Garages
October 2, 1998 — Richmond, Indiana
All pretty dull stuff — unless you happen to have the Hatfields and the McCoys as leaves on your family tree.
Tracing family affairs
Our slow journey down the west shore of Lake Huron was delightful. We stayed in several state parks right on the shore for a week at a stretch. At the park in Bay City, we made daily use of well-laid-out scenic bike trails. And, yes, we had a go at Frankenmuth. For the most part, it’s another commercial nightmare, but I loved the woolen mill where local women make some of the most beautiful quilts I’ve ever seen, and where wonderful wool batting is manufactured. Of course, we also tried a couple of the German restaurants.
We’re all rallied out for another year after attending a four-day rally with 5,000 others in Indiana in early September, and the full timers’ Escapade in Ohio a week later. It was fun to get together again with people we enjoyed in Texas last winter. And even some old friends from our “geriatric scout” group in Illinois joined us at the Escapade.
We arrived here after a brief stop in Steubenville, Ohio, to investigate early family history. Since Steubenville was the best adventure I’ve had in these last couple of weeks, it gets top billing about now. Around 1850, my great grandfather Seybold settled there, established a bakery, married Fredericka Weinmann, and sired 10 children. I wasn’t able to unearth all the information that exists in the one day we had there, but I did chart the migration of all but one of my grandfather’s nine siblings from their place of birth. And we visited the site of the old bakery, a downtown lot that now supports a recently constructed towering bank building.
Gosh, it was fun to be back in a library again, digging through dusty record books and looking at old news accounts on microfilm. Records of old business transactions were fascinating. Evidently my grandfather’s bent for wheeling and dealing in real estate was a trait inherited from his father. I had hoped to find some photographs, but on the day of our visit, the local historical museum was closed. Only two of the 10 children remained in Steubenville — my dad’s Aunt Aggie Bates and his Aunt Kate McCoy. Given Steubenville’s Appalachian setting (rugged back country, just like West Virginia), I wonder if Kate’s man was feuding with the Hatfields? Anyhow, many people named Bates and McCoy still live in Steubenville, and I probably have a number of distant cousins there. All pretty dull stuff — unless you happen to have the Hatfields and the McCoys as leaves on your family tree.
One day I’ll go back and look them up. When we get to Kansas, I’ll check into Great Uncle Ernest, who went to Atchinson in the 1870s. He, like his father, was a baker, and the bakery he started in Kansas remained in the family for three generations. My grandfather, too, started out as a baker. The Mormons lured him west to set up their bakeries but failed to deter his rigid atheism. Maybe they inspired it.
The RV repairs drill
Since mid-September, we have been addressing annual home maintenance RV full-timer style. Here’s the drill:
After making appointment,
1. Return to dealer from whom the motor home was purchased.
2. Present list of things to be repaired or replaced on coach
portion of RV to service department.
3. Connect RV to water, sewer and electricity in service
department parking lot and wait rest of day.
4. Wait another day or two.
5. Move RV to body shop and wait while back bumper that
connected with a redwood post somewhere in Michigan is repaired and repainted.
6. Take RV back to berth in the parking lot and wait another day or two.
7. Move RV to different service facility and wait for awning repairs to be completed. (You do remember the awning, don’t you?)
8. Wait in same spot while repairman works inside coach
replacing swivel mechanism on recliner chair.
9. Leave dealership before coach work is completed to keep appointment with the chassis manufacturer.
10. Arrive Freightliner service facility, Lima, Ohio, for repair of exhaust brake that has never operated properly.
11. Wait in huge garage, where RV is a dwarf among over-the-road semi-tractors, while mechanics work under dash and beneath coach.
12. Endure torture of brain-damaging music blaring from
mechanics’ radios.
13. Yell, “I’d rather watch a wolf caught in a trap gnaw its leg off than listen to this music!"
14. Wait all day and all night while mechanics fail to solve brake problem and music blares.
15. Hear Freightliner experts announce brake problem lies in
computer program with Cummins engine as they wash their hands of us.
16. Make appointment with Cummins service facility, Columbus, Ohio.
17. Go to Steubenville while waiting for Cummins date.
18. Rejoin the company of giant trucks at Cummins place.
19. Gratefully commend mechanics here on absence of music.
20. Wait all afternoon while mechanics tinker.
21. Hear Cummins guys pronounce exhaust brake failure not their responsibility but Freightliner’s.
22. See The German’s face go purple.
23. Watch big-gun manager (guy in a suit) join dialogue.
24. See lackeys scramble back into action.
25. Get word wiring installation upside-down and backward.
26. Wait while wiring errors corrected.