This train is bound for ...

Déjà Vue, all over again

It’s something I haven’t done since 1976. But from the ‘50s until then, it was done often, namely talking the Lackawanna Railroad.

You say you’ve never heard of the Lackawanna? How about the Delaware & Erie? Well, to tell the truth, it’s now New Jersey Transit. But when I moved to Denville, NJ in 1955, it was called the Delaware & Erie-Lackawanna, which everyone called the Lackawanna.

The ride started in Manhattan with the Hudson Tubes. Oh, I’m sorry, the PATH (Port Authority-Trans Hudson) train. Even I’ll admit to calling it the PATH because the Port Authority bought the bankrupt line when I was in elementary school (or was it middle school, or junior high?). Nothing unusual there except for the electronic tickets and a ride that used to be 50 cents is now $1.75. Still cheaper than the NYC subway (or is it the MTA?)

Upon arrival in Hoboken, the first stop had to be the hot dog stand. It was still there. At one time, the world’s absolutely greatest dogs were grilled by the most amazing man who could grill, hand out dogs with whatever toppings you want, sell beer and make change as if in a ballet. It was part of a bar. It still is, but now the dogs are cooked on one of those circulating grills you find at any 7-11 and the woman serving me was, to be kind, slow and clumsy. She had to wear those latex gloves and had to constantly switch hands as she somehow managed to get me a couple of dogs. I dread to think what she would do at rush hour. Way back when, the lines were three across and 15 deep and the guy didn’t miss a beat.

I then found out that I would be taking a train on the Gladstone Branch. Had to switch at either Newark or Summit. There were no direct trains to the Morristown Branch. They now run out of New York’s Penn Station. I didn’t even have to come to Hoboken. Though I’m really glad I did.

As I was waiting for the train doors to open, I wandered over to the water. There is a fantastic view of lower Manhattan from the docks. I saw the ferry and remember my father taking me on one circa 1956 when he wanted a break from the tubes, they were the Hudson Tubes then.

The train was certainly more modern. The lighting was fluorescent compared to the clear tungsten bulbs in lanterns at every other seat. The windows, of course, were sealed for the air conditioning and instead of straw; the seats had fake leather covers. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that the seat backs still moved back and forth, permitting you to be seated in a forward direction no matter what way the train was going.

I had to change in Newark. The last time I waited for a train there was in 1967, the night Newark erupted into rioting and I could see fires about a mile away while standing alone on the platform. The idea of switching trains was not comfortable, but it was broad daylight and I rationalized there really wasn’t any need to fear. As we travelled from Hoboken to Newark, I was surprised to remember what some of the landscaping was about. It still is swampland and motionless rivers ran by. But then, there were also changes. Interstate Highway 280 now runs parallel to the tracks.

And when I reached the Newark stop, I realized it was different from the station I saw fires at. It was the Broad Street station, not the one on the Pennsylvania Railroad (now Amtrack) line I had stopped at more than 40 years before. Across from the station was a minor league ballpark that is the home of the Newark Bears. It was a really nice place, not as sterile as the field on Long Island where the Long Island Ducks hold sway. It was brick and looked more like Ebbits field than the new Mets park is (another change from Shea to Citi Field).

Minor league ball had been out of style in the New York metro area for many years but it is now making a comeback. The Newark Bears were the first opponent Jackie Robinson faced when playing minor league ball for the Brooklyn (now Los Angeles) Dodger’s Montreal Alloutte team.

As I boarded my next train, I noticed there was a change in the seating system. There is now a spot for people to park a bicycle and reserved handicapped seating. And the toilet system had changed radically. Once, you dumped or pumped through an open hole onto the train tracks. If you were a guy, you could watch the ties pass by as you relieved yourself. Now there are chemical toilets. They don’t smell very good.

Another connection to the present was an electronic sign, which, between announcing stops, told riders to be aware and report suspicious activities to the police. I can’t even take a ride down memory lane without some of the issues of the present hitting me in the face.

As I continued my journey, the familiar names of the route returned to me – Summit, Chatham, Madison, Convent, Morristown, Morris Plains, Mt. Tabor and Denville each station had different memories for me from making chicken deliveries to making love in the parking lot (and being scared half to death because it was across the street from the local police headquarters).

Some of the stations, such as in Orange, hadn’t changed a bit. Others had been completely refurbished.

I finally arrived in Denville, the town where I spent some of my younger years. It hasn’t changed much, which is a small comfort in a world that is changing way too fast to be comfortable any more.

The Bird

I had seen them in Florida in plenty, but the concept of an exotic bird in Hacketts-town, New Jersey was mind blowing.

Yet there it was, standing on a rock in a stream at Stephens State Park. It was completely motionless, its long neck not moving a muscle. A large bird, at least three feet tall. Its coloring was a deep blue-grey.

I spotted it while crossing a bridge in the park. I got out of the car and watched for many minutes, photographing the bird. I have photos of similar birds at Centenial Park in Sarasota. And the ones there moved in the shallow water. But this one did not move. Suddenly, its head turned ever so slightly, and it remained still for several more moments. I thought my eyes deceived me, that someone had actually placed a statue there.

As I exited the bridge, I found a truck with a couple of park rangers. Yes, the bird was real. It was a blue heron. It was feeding; waiting in absolute stillness until an unlucky member of the newly-stocked trout population passed by.

A little research revealed the blue heron is not just a tropical bird but is found throughout most of North America, including Alaska. Birds east of the Rockies in the northern part of their range genrally migrate and winter in Central and South America. But in the warmer climates such as Florida and Southern California, they live year round.

They can be found always close to bodies of water, both salt and fresh, usually nesting in trees or bushes.

I had visited Stephens State Park for nearly four decades. The stream that runs through it bubbles with a peace-inducing noise that if Thoreau ever found, he would have stayed there and never found time to write. Yet all the wildlife I had ever seen there – deer, bear, chipmunks, robins, bluejays. etc. was what one would consider native to the Middle Atlantic Region.

Seeing this one didn’t just leave me awed, it did serious mind damage on what perceptions are. Something just didn’t fit into a lifelong comfort zone. It was kind of nice.

The bear facts

Gators and Panthers and Bears, Oh My!

It happened in broad daylight no less!

I was visiting with some friends and upon my arrival back at the campgrounds, I discovered my tent poles were destroyed and my food was missing. Three coolers and a milk box were gone.

The park police were nearby investigating a problem at another campsite. I told them and the immediate assumption was bears. I would normally agree with them, but there was no evidence of food being opened. Mostly all of it was canned and the other stuff was in sealed containers. How could a bear take four items leaving everything else, like an air mattress, intact?

The police took my report and then left for another part of the park. I went to the picnic table and found a note from the ranger. A bear did indeed go after the tent. But the ranger had the missing items. I never, ever, leave food in the tent overnight. I always pack it in the car. But this was in broad daylight and I didn’t even think about the bears as daylight raiders. In the morning, I got my things back unscathed. The bear was chased away. The ranger told me bears were “opportunists.”

I’ve lived among gators and panthers in Florida and Bears in the Middle Atlantic region. I’ve actually camped in this area since I was seven years old. And nothing ever happened like this. I’m not frightened of the bear. I’m frightened of my stupidity. I think that maybe it’s time to stop camping.

Afterword -- Bears are not dumb. I left two water containers at the site the next day. One was a clear plastic gallon bottle of water. The other was a two quart container with the red and white markings of a cooler. When I returned to camp that night, the red container had been knocked to the ground and opened up. the clear container was ignored. The bear also checked out a white plastic grocery bag which had some newspaper flyers in it that was under the tarp covering my wood. I was using that to ignite my campfires.

Raining and reigning

To the people who care:

Yesterday (Wednesday) was a day of not much going right. I started out heading to Long Island and was overcome by fatigue. Fell asleep in a McDonald’s parking lot and left my lights on, killing my battery. Had to get jumped and then gave up on the trip. Was just too tired.

Spend most of the day sleeping before having dinner with a friend. Then returned to my tent. I watched to the north as I saw heat lightning and it began to drizzle about a mile from camp. Went into my tent and in a minute or so real lightning and a torrential downpour surrounded me. I am getting pounded at the moment, but thus far there are no leaks into the tent.

Where am I? I am paranoid about the stalking my wife has been doing and also the harassment she has given innocent people. So I won't give an exact locale. I am somewhere in New Jersey camping in a park. I change locations about once every 10 days or so. Sometimes I am in North Jersey, sometimes South Jersey. The lightning and torrential rains continue and I have just felt a few drops on my feet. There is minor leakage by my door but my bedding is on an air mattress and away from it.

This is the third storm I have gone through. I lay sick and felt exhausted about two weeks ago but the tent held up. Then on Sunday, it was a complete disaster as I had set up my tent at a new locale and left for a while. I didn’t bother to stake it, leaving it erected by the tent poles alone and everything got saturated. I kept rolling into puddles while trying to sleep and finally gave up and spent the night in my car. Monday was spent drying out.

Tuesday was difficult because the woods were so wet. It took a while to get a campfire going. So I purchased some firewood from the park and covered it with a tarp. I should be good for tonight (Thursday).

In general, I am doing well. I have kept my sense of humor and am finding it to be my greatest asset. At times, I have been pounded by e-mails from Rosemary making demands and many vicious comments. But since the divorce papers were served to my lawyer on Tuesday, the mailbox has remained somewhat quiet. My lawyer says to stay out of contact with her.

The rain continues, but no major leaks have developed and I am exhausted. I will continue to write when I wake.

I awoke around 5:30 a.m. to the continued dropping of water on my tent. But mother nature called and I had to get out to relieve myself. In the pre-dawn light, there appeared to be not a cloud in the sky. Yet the water continued to drop. A miracle of Biblical proportions? Hardly. My tent is under a canopy of many trees, some at least a century old. The water drips from them. I can walk 30 feet to the road and there is no rain.

After dealing with the morning ritual, I cooked breakfast on a charcoal grill. The Eggbeaters and apple juice are somewhat more nutritious than yesterday’s breakfast of champions: Goldfish crackers and diet cola.

I will journey through Pennsylvania to upstate New York today to get a Post office box in Port Jervis. It is to give me a New York address to make the divorce easier and to give me a place to send mail.

So what have I learned from my journey throughout the East? First, I have a feeling of who I am. Over the last 30 plus years, I had immersed myself so much into my marriage that I lost the identity that I once had. For better or worse, that has returned. I love to make jokes and laugh and enjoy being with people. In fact, I have found that people are far different than the perceptions I had developed over the course of the last few decades.

In general, people are very decent. I take the time to talk to them. For example, a dog, mostly Labrador retriever, walked up to me and I said, “Hi buddy.” Its ears perked up and then from the distance the dog heard “Buddy, here!” Apparently I had accidently told the dog his name and after a confused minute, he returned to his owner.

As the owner passed by my campsite, along with a couple of scotties, I told him what had happened and he stopped and we chatted about life for about 20 minutes. He lived near the park and was careful about campers because “city people” did not understand his dogs. The lab was so large that it scared them. Buddy, like most labs, was a gentle, loving animal whose entire ambition in life ranged from giving unrequited love to chasing squirrels and chipmunks.

So I’m more open with people. What else? I feel at peace. I don’t need to fill any role. I don’t have to be what others, mostly my wife, expected of me. I don’t spend the days hiding in a room trying to avoid the conflict the day would inevitably bring. Even when it does rain, I try to enjoy my life. I go for frequent walks and write – a whole lot – about my trip. I’m tending to focus on the little events such as seeing a gulf coast sunset and a meal shared with a complete stranger. The highlights of my trip have been visits to friends I haven’t seen in as many as 48 years. I am constantly surprised by what they share with me and I delight in learning about their lives.

My soon-to-be-ex-bride will tell you that I am hypomanic and crazy. I don’t think so. I certainly feel saner than I have been in many years. But if I am, despite being a nomad without a home, it sure feels like a good place to me.

Weekend Campers

Live from New Jersey, it’s Friday night.

Camping in the various states I’ve done it follows a weekend pattern. As the sun begins to set, many campers start arriving, their lights moving through the woods like phantoms and one can hear calls like “here it is” as the right number campsite is found.

Then comes the hassle of trying to put up a tent in the dark. Where I am at the moment, Stokes State Forest, is by far the most isolated and rustic place I’ve camped. Only a few lean-tos and platforms are available. I’ve been here since Monday and have had a chance to look at various sites. Few have ground that is level enough for anything but a small tent. It is a vivid contrast to the county park I had moved from where there were platforms, level areas and hot showers nearby. Of course, there were also bears there while all I have seen here are deer. But the cursing of trying to find missing stakes and assembling poles fills the air. It’s a macho thing. As I listen, female companions usually are not involved and the simplest question brings a curt response.

The cars continue to pour in well after sundown and it is around 10 p.m. by the time the camping area settles down. The silence is broken by an occasional baby crying or the screaming of teenagers as they perform the rites of adolescence.

But the noise does not stop on Saturdays. There is an assortment of jerks with boom box radios inflicting rap music. And the teen rites are in full bloom. I enjoy the solitude and silence of camping, but Saturday nights can be incredibly different. There is usually beer (even though it’s banned) and loud voices and sometime fights also are likely.

Weekend campers are also uninformed about camping in this area. We are in the wilderness, not suburbia. They frequently confuse a bear locker with a garbage can, which brings the bears out with the smell. And, of course, many of them leave their tents open for bugs to camp in.

Yet they also offer companionship. Campers are the most friendly people I know. And the contrast between the isolation of the weekday is something to enjoy.

I had a friend visit my campsite last week. He told me there were significant changes in me. I had purchased some firewood and it was way more than I could use. I saw a young couple dragging wood along a path and gave them what I didn’t need. I also gave away half a bag of ice to another camper because it would have melted and I couldn’t use it. He said the generosity was a change in my personality.

I suppose that I have been looking for ways to relate to people. I am out of practice. But I am frequently surprised at the response my fellow campers have given me. On my first morning in camp, I cooked some steak and eggs, terribly burning the steak. Some campers walking their dog walked past me and I offered the dog the burnt food. “He hasn’t complained about it yet,” I was told, and they gladly accepted the offering. I am used to hostility, but am learning.

Another time, I mentioned a book, “Travels With Charley” by John Steinbeck, to a fellow camper, also a single older fellow. Steinbeck’s tale written in the mid-1960s forms much of the basis for my wandering. The camper mentioned how he loved how Steinbeck’s dog, Charley, said “pffttt” when wanting to go and how he went crazy near bears in Yellowstone Park. It was good to know someone else thought the way I did.

I am learning that more people than I imagined also feel the same way.

A Small Incident on a Long Trip

I started the day in Northern Georgia. I had pushed my way along I95 through the Carolinas amid many rest stops and was exhausted by the time I reached the Virginia border. I stopped at the state welcome center to see if I could find a cheap Day’s Inn which had a business center—a computer that permits one to go on line to check e-mail, etc. The three that were called did not have this service and the center was closing. I grabbed a flyer with motel discounts and started North again.

I came to a small town about 50 miles up with several motels and an apparent price war and found something cheap. After settling in and getting a shower after the hot ride (my car has no air conditioning) I asked the desk clerk for a place to eat. I had been living on fast and canned food for several days and wanted a cooked meal.

The restaurant he recommended was across the street, but a look at the menu told me that it was way too expensive.

I decided to drive down the state road and it appeared that as soon as I left the motel area, it was deserted. But less than a mile from the hotel was Nanny’s, and it was packed with cars, a sure sign of good food, service and prices. It turned out to be an all you can eat place that was only open on weekends. The price was right, about half of what the other restaurant was.

I had my doubts about it because people were milling around outside waiting to be seated. But I went inside and was delighted to learn that if I took a seat at the counter, I would be seated immediately. I sat down and ordered my drink. Then went to the buffet. This was southern food – barbque, fried chicken and much more. There was a carving board and there were veggies like collard greens among the other fare. Gravy was everywhere in many forms.

I had a nice slab of roast beef carved for me and grabbed some meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans and sat down at the counter.

The person seated next to me was an old black man. Almost as soon as I started eating, a voice inside me said to pay for his meal. I looked at his hat and saw he was an Army vet. He was about my age and I struck up a conversation about where he served. Turned out we had both been at Ft. Dix and Ft. Knox. He served his two years as a draftee and then stayed in the Reserves for twenty years. He was a year older than me and looking forward to turning 65 when he would not only get his social security but an Army pension too.

He had spent his life working in menial jobs such as at retail outlets and it turned out he was also an assistant pastor at a small Black church down the road a bit. He said folks called him “Doc” because he had received a doctorate from his church denomination. The voice inside me continued to say pay for his meal. So as I went to get a second round of the best meat loaf I’ve ever had, I stopped at the cashier, handed him some money and pointed out the man. I said the meal was on me and to refuse to accept payment. Seems this sort of thing happens in this restaurant often and the cashier had no problem with it.

When I returned to the counter, we talked some more. He told me of his church and a little more about his life. He finished eating and he took out his checkbook. I watched as he struggled with the idea of writing a check for his food. He certainly didn’t have enough cash on him. I suspected there wasn’t much in the bank either. He asked the waitress if he could pay by check and she told him it was OK. He then went to the cashier and I watched as the cashier told him the bill was paid.

He came over to thank me and I told him that he had served his country and he was serving the Lord and it was my pleasure to be able to bless him. He gave me a huge smile and left me to my thoughts and another helping of meat loaf. It was wonderful.

That night, as I thought about him and many other things, the thought occurred to me that Jesus was like that too. He paid for our sins so we would not have to worry when the check came due if we had enough to pay. It had been a long time since I had done something like that. The cost of both meals was less than I would have paid at the restaurant the clerk recommended. I slept very soundly that night.

Time with myself

It is nearing 7 p.m. on Memorial Day. I am alone camping in a state park. All the holiday weekend campers have gone and it is quiet. I am the last and will depart tomorrow. The heat of the day is leaving. Birds are chirping. The wind is rustling through the vividly green leaves and I hear the crackling of wood from the campfire I have built as I write.

Somewhere along the way, someone told me that campfires make you warm twice – when they are burning and when you remember them. I think back on past campfires, as a child in summer camp, sitting with friends and lovers, and as a parent with my children.

There are little moments, like toasting a marshmallow. Oh how I was tempted to buy a bag tonight, but I knew I would devour the entire bag if I did. And there are times remembered of sitting around solving all the problems of the world. And simply sharing the moment. There are events, like camping and canoe trips, which come to mind. And there are the memories of songs, stories and tall tales as well. All of them hold a special place in my heart.

I am filled with temptation to rip into my soon-to-be ex – to let the world know “my” side of the story. But I will not do so. Things between us are bitter enough and it simply is not worth the time and effort to do so. There is nothing wrong with things being left unsaid, especially since they are no one’s business anyway. And so what I will write will be about the good things on this adventure of mine. I have taken many photographs. They warm my memories and help me to remember the small things. I will share them in chapters to come.

A gentle rain has come in from the East. It is enough to force me to retreat into the tent to protect my computer, but it cannot even begin to reduce the heat of the embers in my campfire as I watch it. In the West, the sun is setting among the trees. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of distant thunder. It reminds me that there are still challenges from my old life that lie in wait. I am truly saddened that there is so much anger. This started out as a voyage to change the perspectives from the past in order to deal with the challenges of the present. I never meant to inflict harm, and I really believe I didn’t. The anger my wife feels is, I fear, self-inflicted. But while I care about her pain, I cannot do anything to resolve it. She owns it and must deal with it in her own way. It is a role she is well rehearsed in.

The rain has stopped and the birds are continuing their evening song. I hope the clouds go away. Night out here has little ambient light and the stars are glorious. My first night of camping, I watched in awe as they once again revealed their true glory. After looking at them without the glow of civilization interfering, I wonder how one can even begin to question the existence of God.

Dealing with God – perhaps more with religion and religious people – has been a major factor in this journey. There is a beautiful country music song that is very popular today. It is about a singer who tells God he is down on his knees because there is nowhere left to go. He begs and pleads for just one more chance for his relationship with his wife. He asks for help to make him the man he wants to be.

Right now, I am very unsure about what kind of man I want to be. I know that it has nothing to deal with meeting the expectations of others. There have been some who expect me to do things which fit into their notion of “right” yet use vile words in an attempt to rouse me into their agenda. My friend, Larry, spoke of the concept of “thinking outside the box” and yet we create the parameters of the box itself. The fundamentalist Christian concept of a never-give-up marriage has driven me for many years. Countless professionals have told me the marriage is toxic and to leave it. Yet until recently, it has not been an option. It has been a matter of sheer willpower to keep it going. But alas, keeping it going and keeping it meaningful are two different things. Living together in a house is not the same as loving together in a home. One can find love in the most humble of dwellings, and never see it in the largest palace.

Some of these religious people cannot comprehend the marriage is over. They tell me to go back, but I am not welcome there. In my mind, there is little I have done wrong. I struggle with what new life I am to have, and what new person I am to become. I am enjoying the current vagabond status. I can go anywhere I choose, and see anyone who wants to see me. And last night I thought about living alone in one place, without friends and isolated. It would drive me to suicide. Yet I lived with intense loneliness for well over a decade. I was afraid to express my feelings unless they were of such intensity they screamed to be heard despite the consequences. To submerge one’s self to conform to my perception of what was expected by my mate was driven by the fear of ridicule, condemnation and worthlessness.

And then came the miracle of 2010. I began to discover I had a past, and a life that was far different from my present. As I made contact with people from many decades ago, I learned their perceptions of me then are far different than mine are. I learned that many of the things I do today are based on lies of the past. The thought of being less than good enough was replaced by people who validated my feelings. It is a heady and intense emotion. To feel worth when one was filled with worthlessness and despair is a metamorphous worthy of the caterpillar and the butterfly.

Events that are no one’s business but within my family led to thoughts of somehow making things different. I felt a desperate need to examine the past in order to resolve the problems of the present. In addition, there was a desire for a last adventure. A “bucket” trip to go on before I died. I thought I was fairly close to death. I have a number of medical issues and they were running much of the way I lived. I was becoming weaker by just giving into them. I wanted to live, not lay in bed waiting for something to happen. I hadn’t seen my best friend for more than a decade, and never met his grown children. I had read a book about traveling from my area to the Florida Keys. I dreamed of being able to put a foot into the Atlantic Ocean and then putting the other into the Gulf of Mexico a few moments later. I wanted to see Key Deer, small dog-size deer that are perfectly proportioned and exist on only one island. I wanted to see sunset at Mallory Square in Key West, a tradition begun by some of America’s greatest writers.

And I did. And I did even more than I ever imagined. I drove through the Shenandoah Valley, one of the most beautiful places on the face of the earth. I met and had my picture taken with a real Apollo astronaut at the Kennedy Space Center. I watched the sunset on the incredibly blue-green waters of the Gulf and was inspired by the sun kissing the sea. I paid for the dinner of a complete stranger and was the one who reaped the true reward. I visited the house my parents bought and replaced the memory of my drunken mother saying “tell your father I’m leaving him” with the beauty of my home, the good times like fishing, playing with trains, the childhood friends, the peace of fires in the fireplace and much more.

But the people were the most meaningful part. From near and far, the support and love I received has been wonderful. I had dinner with my prom date from more than four decades ago. How cool is that? I did see my old friend and met his children. I had time with high school and junior high school friends who I hadn’t seen in an eternity. And as things became difficult as my wife stalked me, they gave me support despite themselves being harassed. Others did not do so. And while I was sorry they came to what I considered the wrong conclusions about me, I accepted it. And then there was the kindness of complete strangers. There was the woman at my old home who invited me in to see my old room and tour the house. I was a complete stranger to her and in our current society I could have been someone horrible.

There were also the librarians at the Morristown library. Morristown is my home town. They were able to find yearbooks from a half-century ago and permitted me to photograph pages and spend hours enjoying the memories. Incredibly, only a week later, there was an electrical-gas explosion right in the area I was using. Some of the treasures I touched may never again be seen. To make matters worse, asbestos was discovered after the explosion. It could take years to rebuild this once-beautiful Victorian era building and restore its treasures.

There is now little glow left in the embers of my campfire. The sun has disappeared and the shadows of twilight fill the forest now. The song of the birds has given way to the hum of insects. The fatigue of being on the road for more than a month is setting in. It is time to close this chapter and prepare for the night and hopefully the stars.