Remembering Ross

Every so often someone from a far away time comes into my mind and I smile.

Ross Bloom has been dead for a few years now, and I hadn't heard from him since I was a freshman in high school. But I'd like to share a couple of things with you.

Why am I writing this now? I suppose that I was recently conversing with a very good friend who was questioning his own worth. When Ross poped into my brain, I started to think about his worth as well.

Between 6th and 8th grade, we shared little. Most of our association came on the playground. But in 8th grade, we finally were allowed to play interscholastic sports. And we did fairly well in both soccer and touch football.

But then came our freshman year Ridge High School in Bernards Township, NJ. And we were on what was possibly the worst freshman football team in New Jersey history. It wasn't that we didn't have enough talent, we just didn't have enough warm bodies. We started the year with 15 guys and it slowly whittled down to 9 as the season wore on. We were playing against squads with around 30 guys so by the time the first quarter was over, we were exhausted. We played every single down of every game, while the other team had separate offense and defense squads. We never scored and it was rare that we had a first down.

Ridge High School 1962 Freshman Football Team. I'm number 45, standing next to the coach. Ross is number 17, standing next to me. 

Anyhow, towards the end of the season, the coach called an extra Saturday morning practice. Everyone was completely fed up and we started hitting one another with a ferocity we rarely displayed in practice or on the field. I suppose I was the worst. I just kept pounding and pound and Ross, my best friend on the team, kept pounding back just as hard. It was inevitable one of us would get hurt first. It was Ross.

I smashed into him and he went down. He told the coach he thought he broke his arm. I started screaming at him that he was a girl and a pussy and so forth. His injury, combined with one of the other players deciding to quit after his father died, left us with 7 players. Our season was finished and we spent the rest of the time being fodder for the varsity.

It turned out Ross had hurt his shoulder, not his arm. And he wound up in a sling. We both despised our science teacher, Mr. Jorgensen, but Ross got really upset when Mr. J was making demands about him using his bad arm for writing and so forth. From what I understand, he told him off pretty badly, probably stating what the rest of us thought of him. Unknown to me, it was "suggested" that Ross find another school. In the meantime, I moved to a different school district during the Christmas recess. And we never saw one another again.

It was a few years ago that a classmate, who was in my home room at the second school district sent me a message on Facebook asking if I knew Ross. It turned out He married her. And I was able to find out a lot about him.

He remained living in Bernards Township, and he became a big part of that community as a member of the Basking Ridge Volunteer Fire Department. He was a good husband and he raised three great kids. And was always willing to help others.

Every year, there is caroling at the small town square in Basking Ridge. I went with His widow and two of his kids to listen to it. I had done this only once before, exactly 50 years before. And it was nice to be a part of that community's Christmas celebration. Ross was always good with tools. And he built a star to hang on the top of the town Christmas tree. I took some photos of it during the caroling and I was not pleased. The photos were blurred because the nightime light wasn't enough to use a fast shutter speed. So I went back and took a picture from a tripod. I put some text into it and Ross' widow uses it every year on her facebook.

So what's the point of this ancient tale. Perhaps in dealing with the adversity of that horrible football season, both of us learned to be stronger. And both of us somehow chose to be of service to others. And in looking at Ross life, I understood that even the most ordinary of us have the capacity to make a difference to others. A positive difference. Ross' star still shines in Basking Ridge, but his light still shines in the heart of many.

And so, as we celebrate the birth of a savior this season, we can also celebrate the lives of people who made this world a better place for having been a brief part of it.

May God bless you and fill you with peace and purpose during the holidays.

A Different Day At The Beach

It was a day that seemed sort of upside down. The skies were clear after weeks of rain, despite a weather forecast calling for a 90 percent of rain. I was optimistic, something a little different for me lately as I spend my nights in isolation. I was missing the New York City sports scene and my favorite sports radio broadcaster was on the air. Suddenly he stopped talking about the Knicks and the Jets and told us there was something awful going on in Connecticut.

It was the shooting at a school where some disturbed person first killed his mother at home and then went to her school to massacre her students.

And so, instead of taking advantage of the sunshine, I spent the morning listening to the events as they unfolded. I finally shut off the newscast and decided I needed to clear my head. I went across the street to the state park and visited Shipwreck Beach, one of the best-known Oregon state landmarks where there is a wreck of a 1900s-era steamship on the beach. Yet the beach was very different from the summertime.

I knew there would not be many people, and there weren’t. But this wasn’t the beach I had enjoyed either. The month of nearly nonstop rains had turned the sand into a tough grey clay-like dune and footing was quite easy.

 The tide was going out and the beach was filled with the remains of huge ocean vegetation, some as long as 50 feet. There were tube-like roots at the bottom and eventually leaves at the top. It was all over the place.

As usual, there was a lot of driftwood, some of it clearly originating from some sort of man-made function. I found it very appealing and took many photos. Yet no matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to get my mind off the deaths of so many innocents.

I remember teaching in the South Bronx where I had to deal with some insane parents more than once. One time, a man came in and began yelling and threatening his nephew. I got the principal and it turned out he was carrying a gun and he was arrested. I thought about my granddaughter who is in a day care center, and about my friend’s granddaughter, who is in kindergarten.

I went to the park’s lake. There was little breeze and the reflections in the water of the trees gave me a measure of peace. I took a few photos and one of them was incredible in terms of composition and color. But it included a dead and broken tree and my thoughts again turned to Newtown. 

I was near the museum area where I volunteered last August. I thought I would visit the rose garden. But it is December and there were no roses in bloom and the branches were neatly trimmed. On the way out, I stopped at a small store I went to last July. They had wonderful servings of Tillamook ice cream. The freezer was covered and no one was in the store. I saw a man in the garage next to the building and I asked him if he worked there. He didn’t, but his daughter owned the store. She was back in the area when I re-entered and she served me a dish of cherry vanilla. It is nearly as good as the cherry vanilla the east coast Caravel stores served. It is the favorite of both the ex and myself. And it again brought up the murders.

I took my ice and went a few blocks to Warrenton Harbor where I had a nice view of the Columbia River. To my right was the town of Astoria and its bridge-linking Oregon to Washington’s Pacific beaches. On the right were the remains of a dock where sea mines were loaded and dragged across the mouth of the river during both the first and second world wars.

I listened to Francesca’s former radio partner, Christopher Russo. He also did not want to discuss sports. Russo, whose nickname is “Mad Dog” based on his attacks on various sports figures since the 1980, was in attack mode on the gun lobby. Later, I learned that the weapons and ammo used in the attack were stolen from the killer’s murdered mother. What the hell a kindergarten teacher in a bucolic New England village needed with them anyhow?

This is the second time this week that stolen weapons were used to kill innocent people. Here in Oregon, another young man went on a rampage killing holiday shoppers. It was fortunate that the weapon jammed and people were able to escape. The fact is, I’ve been in that mall a couple of times. And I have not doubt my son and his family, and even the ex, has been there. But it could have been just about any mall, anywhere.

I got back to the trailer in time to hear the president. He was fighting back the tears. This was clearly not “presidential.” It was about a man who had kids who could have been the victims. I don’t care what your fuckin’ politics are. The man gets it. And we should be grateful he occupies the White House. He spoke – with eloquence – the words our nation needed to hear expressed.

Not that it means a damn thing to anyone, but I had to write about it and post it on my blog. It won’t comfort anyone, and certainly won’t stop the insanity, as troubled minds need to continue the Columbine syndrome. But felt I needed to write about it or I would be unable to personally let go of it. And the slaughter of the innocents continues. When will we ever learn?

Food chain

So here it is, nearing 2 a.m. in the morning and I can’t sleep. Being me, I decide life would be better with a pb&j and so I make myself one. As often as not, I’ve been eating pb&j for lunch lately because a number of the people I work with are vegetarians of some sort. I haven’t a clue what a vegan is as opposed to a vegetarian, but I suppose that since they don’t eat animal products, they avoid dairy products. A glass of milk is essential to a pb&j and I often have a cheese sandwich, so I guess I’ll never make it as a vegan.

But anyhow, this morning madness has me thinking about these things. I’ve been watching the Ken Burns documentary on our national parks and trying to find out more about John Muir. Apparently, he extended his Christian beliefs to conclude that being in harmony with God’s entire creation and all the living things created is a way of life. Muir was known for, upon occasion of finding a new plant, communing with it for hours in an attempt to understanding it. At the same time, he and Teddy Roosevelt would go into the Yosemite Valley and live off the land for days on end.

I suppose this is sort of along the lines of Heinlein’s Stranger In A Strange Land protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith and the concept of “Grock” that filled many of my generation with thoughts of all things living. Yet Smith thinks there is nothing better than eating his friends after they pass away.

Across the river from me, the State of Washington has legalized pot. But nobody’s quite figured out the distribution system yet. But it too, to some people I guess, sounds like another way of being in harmony with nature. At the same time, the fact that it helps us to remove our veneer of civilization is also a factor. And how many animals have we killed to satisfy the yearning for “munchies” that go with the use of the weed?

I observed something the other day. An eagle swept into the river and grabbed a fish for its meal. They call eagles and similar birds “raptors” and that means they tend to be vicious little monsters.

In fact, there is little in nature that is harmonious. When you get down to it, it is pretty much kill or be killed. I personally am quite glad to be on top of the food chain. I can eat anything living – plant or animal – that I feel like. Take a burger, for example:  I suppose that killing the animal, butchering it into pieces and then grinding it into a pulpy, bloody mess before setting it on fire is not exactly harmonious, especially from the animal’s point of view. I was talking to someone who loves sushi and I can’t begin to describe how that fish is violated to make it.

This summer, I was at a park along the Columbia River Gorge. I discovered a remote apple tree, filled with fruit reaching it’s ripest time. I was quite happy to pick more than a few apples, along with other fruit in the park including plums and berries. There was also a pear tree at one campsite. But the fruit was out of my reach. Every day a few pieces fell and I hoped to grab one. But each morning, all the pears that had fallen in the night showed evidence of consumption by either animals or worms or insects. And I realized we compete for plant food as well. More than three decades ago, I planted some corn in my yard and enjoyed watching it grow. But just as it was beginning to get ready for picking, I came home to find a mob of squirrels attacking it.

As humans, we can be very selective in the choice of our prey. I’m working at the Lewis & Clark National Park at the site where the expedition spent the 1805-06 winter at Fort Clatsop. The men were so tired of fish from the nearby Columbia river and its famous salmon, they killed more than 100 elk and had them boiled three times a day instead. And they used the elk’s hides for clothing and blankets as well. Yet the journals of the party said they couldn’t wait to get back over the mountains where they could find buffalo and other cattle.  I can’t imagine being skinned and tanned for clothing. Yet there have been incidents of that being done.

One of Muir’s major points is that we have ravaged our lands and killed off many of the species that once inhabited it. Bison used to roam the plains by the millions, yet in my lifetime I have seen them only in zoos or in parks where they have been protected. Yet even there, they are attacked by these nasty, biting flies.

My dog just climbed up on my lap to get petted. He has been on a diet of dog food. But every time I cook after just feeding him, he wants what I’m having. And this gentle companion took a rather nasty nip out of my friend a few years ago. My son’s cat took a nip out of my granddaughter and the little bitch was on death row for a while until my son figured out that the way to avoid the problem was to have my granddaughter be the one to feed the little beast. These somewhat friendly carnivores we call our pets and companions have simply learned that it’s easier to be nice to people and get food than to have to hunt it.

Even the things we are unable to see are fighting to kill us. It’s flu season and we are urged to get shots, wash our hands frequently and isolate ourselves when we become sick. This year, I have endured double pneumonia and even my own body is out to get me as I passed a kidney stone.

In other words, the idea of harmony is a lot of bull (think about how many burgers are served every hour). Life at every level is out to consume some other sort of life, be it animal or vegetable or both. We were born predators and our veneer of civilization simply means we let others do our killing, butchering and cooking for us and pay them.

And sometimes that veneer goes away. The other day, some young man ran amok at a nearby shopping center: a place where my son and his family, her family and even my ex could have easily been. The man gunned down three people, killing two strangers before turning the stolen weapon on himself. We look and ask “what’s wrong with this person?” Yet there is that killer within us dating back thousands of years. We call it mental illness and try to understand. Yet if we wound up as survivors of a nuclear war, who of us would not want to have that same weapon to defend ourselves?

Going back to Lewis and Clark for a moment. Clark brought his slave, York, with him on their journey. York saved the expedition’s ass more than once. He remained a slave and was even threatened with beatings and being sold after the return. We may not eat one another, but we often treat one another like animals. My mind wanders to how women are treated in certain Islamic cultures. Another of my favorite Heinlein stories is about a revolt against a theological despot. As armies endured bitter conflict, the priestess who served the prophet tore him to shreds. I wonder if something like that could happen today.

Finally, all of this chaos leads me to wonder what heaven would be like? God created the earth in this ecology that destroys. So how has he created the next step? I’m getting so that I’ve lived way more years than I have left. And I’m sort of looking forward to finding out. In the meantime, it’s nearly 3 a.m. now and I think I’m going to go to the local 24-hour McDonalds and choose between slaughtered cow or chicken. It’s really something I was born to do – sort of.

November in the Rain

It is, as usual, raining here at Humbug Mountain State Park along the Southern Oregon Coast. And as I’m leaving here in a couple of days, I suppose it is time to do a little blogging.

Along the Pacific coast from Northern California, through Oregon and Washington, up to Canada, the rainy season is here. Pacific storms are raining upon me about five out of every seven days. There are times when I can look from the ocean beach at our park, and see sun or light clouds to the north while the south features heavy rain being dumped into the ocean.

There have been times when the weather has been quite dangerous. There have been four storms this month where winds have exceeded more than 90 mph. About 10 miles north of here is Cape Blanco, the westernmost point of the continental United States and winds are known to frequently lash the cape at 115 mph.

The second night I was here, a storm hit. The winds smashed into the trailer, buffeting it around and it seemed as if someone was throwing hundreds of rocks at the truck and trailer. They turned to be small pinecones from the many pine trees throughout the camp.

The campground is in a canyon with Humbug Mountain (1500’ above sea level) on one side and China Mountain (1100’) on the other side. At one end is the ocean and the winds whip into the canyon and are turned around. Often, horizontal rains from two directions are pelting me.

About a week ago, we had about 10 inches of rain in a 24-hour period. The creek that runs through the park to the ocean overflowed – at least six feet above its normal depth -- and the road in front of me turned into a rampaging torrent, though my site was elevated just enough to escape. Some campers towards the beach woke up to find themselves in water just below their trailer floors and had to wait until the ocean tide went down to move to higher ground. Had they attempted to move, they surely would have been washed out to sea. Huge logs from fallen trees also came down the creek, knocking out our phone lines and endangering the bridge to the entrance of the park. At Cape Blanco, the park is on high ground, but there is a river behind it and the only road in or out was closed by about seven feet of water

Photo taken of flooding with my cell phone. I couldn't get to my regular camera that was in my truck. This is the street in front of my campsite, which was about 8 inches deep at high tide when the nearby creek rose seven feet. This photo was taken about 1,000 feet from the ocean as the water drained into it. This was taken a little after high tide. 

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I spent much of the week picking up tree debris and cutting up a pair of trees that had been knocked down.

But while scary, it is survivable. The winds with today’s storm gust to “only” 50 mph, so it is no big deal. One of my campers told me he pulls in his slides (areas of the trailer that extend out) during high winds to protect their awnings. It’s a really good idea. It seems I learn something new and important about camping often, even though I have been doing it for about 60 years. At the same time, the temperatures are mild, usually in the mid 50s during the day and it has yet to reach freezing at night. Often, I will wear only a tee shirt.

My computer just told me it is 2 p.m. and it is dark. This is not just a result of the storm. As the sun makes its journey from East to West, it spends most of the day behind the mountain during the winter months. So we are in shadow often. There have been times when the sun has come out after a rainstorm, but because of the shadow and the continuing drops of rain falling from the trees above me, I am often unaware of the sunlight. There is a small meadow, which I have dubbed “Molehill Meadow” as a result of the constant hills being created by our mole population. If I look over there, I can see the “real” weather.

Part of the incredible Pacific Coast along Highway 101 in Southern Oregon. Note the fog banks that seem to constantly envelop the mountains and hills along the coast.

Until I reached Oregon, I had never seen molehills. But in the parks I was at, they are all over. Being creatures who spend most of their time underground, I have yet to view a mole, though part of my duties have been patting their hills down with a shovel at campsites.

But my main issue here is being alone. There are about 100 campsites in the park, but because of the time of year, it is rare when there are more than a couple of campers. This leaves me with little to do. At my last park, I usually had to clean up about 25 campsites each day, as well as do garbage runs and run campfire programs. Since it rains constantly, it is rare when I need to clean out a fire pit. I do garbage about three times a week, most of which comes from people who drop in to visit the beach. Unlike the other park, the rangers all work the same shift this time of year and leave around 4:30. There is another host, a nice lady, but she is allergic to dogs and so most of our socialization is brief chats.

Which leaves me with only one “friend” – food. I have gained about ten pounds as a result of eating too much and lack of exercise. Because of the rain, I can’t hike or do cycling most of the time.  More isolation includes not television or Internet and phone service is so sporadic that the park gives us a “landline” phone for emergencies. Thus, I do some writing (this will be well over 3,000 words) and watch a lot of DVDs. I’ve just finished watching all eight Harry Potter movies over a two day period for the third time this month and today’s trilogy will be Star Wars.

But I endure knowing I will be heading to a much different and much the same environment on December 1 as I will head back to Astoria, at the mouth of the Columbia River. I will be housed at a KOA and will have Internet and some broadcast television. I will be working indoors at the Lewis & Clark National Park’s Fort Clatsop area. Fort Clatsop was where the Corps of Discovery wintered after reaching the Pacific before returning. Records indicate misery at the constant rains, and every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I can remember that I have both gas and electric heat and am much drier.

I will be volunteering three days a week instead of five, but for longer hours. Hopefully, my injuries won’t make it too difficult. The other four days a week I will hopefully get to know my fellow volunteers and neighbors. I am also much closer to my son and his family and am looking forward to spending some time with them.  

I once told someone that my idea of “civilization” was a nearby McDonalds and Wal-Mart. The nearest of either is 50 miles away. The closest town is Port Orford. A pretty village along the coast, it is known for it’s harbor facilities that raise and lower boats into the ocean as sandbars have lowered the normal tides over the year. It has a few motels and restaurants, but not much else. There is a convenience store and a Ray’s Food Store. Ray’s is a local food chain along the lines of an IGA. Prices are significantly – as much as 50 percent – higher than that of grocery stores such as Safeway and Fred Meyer’s. And gas prices are 20 cents higher in Port Orford than in Brookings, fifty miles to the south. It is actually more economical to travel the 100 miles because of the lower prices. I go there about once a week.

Brookings is at the California border and not much further south is the magnificent redwood forests and parks. Though there are many free parks, I went to a private venue called “Trees of Mystery” that included a forty-minute hiking trail and then a gondola ski lift to heights up to 2,000 feet above sea level. It is beautiful, yet the photographer in me was very frustrated. Because of the density of the forest, there was very little light. And the giant trees are so huge, you can’t fit them into the widest-angle lens. As we hiked along, Pup, the pup who is no longer a puppy, would mark his spot many places; but never along a redwood tree. They are so huge that he couldn’t seem to comprehend they were trees.

Pup was marking his spot all along the hiking trails in the Redwoods, but never saluted a redwood tree. They were just too huge for him to comprehend they were trees.

Highway 101, which runs along the Pacific Coast from Mexico to Canada, is quite beautiful in this area. Unlike the Atlantic Coast, there are thousands of huge boulders, some hundreds of feet high, in the ocean where the seas tore apart the land. It is a photographer’s dream and because of the constantly changing clouds, the scenes are rarely the same. I frequently photograph sunsets. But sometimes after midnight, I take the truck to one of the dozens of vantage points along the road and simply watch the waves in the moonlight and listen to its endless roaring whispers. Over weekend, we had a couple of days of relatively clear skies and the light shed by the full moon was incredibly beautiful. The sky is a very dark blue and the moon and stars are surrounded by mist. It is just wonderful as you breathe in the salt air and realize just how little you are despite your ego.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Because it falls on a Thursday, it meant a four-day weekend most of the time. It’s also been a time when “must” obligations relegated to Christmas could be avoided.

Past Thanksgivings meant, in my childhood, a visit to my godmother. My godmother, a World War II widow, lived with her spinster brother and sister. The brother was an alcoholic and practiced AA’s 12 steps so there was no drinking at the house. It was a good thing for me, as my mother didn’t drink as she usually did on Christmas. So my childhood memories of the day were much better.

As an adult, I often did things with my mother like taking her out. The last Thanksgiving we spent together was also with her sister at my cousin’s house. It was a time of reconciliation following years of battle between the two women and neither would live to see another Thanksgiving.

Three Thanksgivings ago, I was alone for the first time in decades as my marriage collapsed.  I absolutely loathed the idea of being alone and since I was living in a 55+ apartment community, I held an open house. Not many people came, but there were enough to have a good time. And the leftovers lasted for weeks and I kept the frozen pies I had purchased for a New Year’s Eve party.

Where I am is on the Oregon Coast about 60 miles north of the California border. It’s about 350 miles from my son’s family and I figured he would be with his mom anyhow, which she was. So I faced Thanksgiving alone for the first time in memory. Come to think of it, I don’t think I have ever been alone on that day.

While I really wanted a turkey dinner, a turkey was just too large for me to keep as my RV has a small refrigerator and even smaller freezer. So I bought a rotesserie chicken and made some of my sweet potato stuffing on Wednesday night. A huge baked potato, cranberry sauce, and broccoli would, along with lots of diet root beer, finish the menu.

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning and realized something wonderful was happening. The sun was out. Now, this is the Oregon Coast and we’ve had perhaps three days of sunshine this month. Earlier this week, we had 10 inches of rain over two days with winds up to 90 mph. It rocked my trailer. And if you go over to the beach on these rare days, you can usually spot a huge storm coming in from the southern side of the beach while northern half had sunlight.

I was really alone. The staff at the park were off and the other park host also had the day off. We had two campsites occupied by a family reunion and one campsite occupied by a couple of hunters. As I did my morning patrol in my “Gator,” A 4x2 utility vehicle sort of like a lawnmowing tractor, all were gone.

Do you know what a “Grange” is? It’s kind of like a service club along the lines of the American Legion. If you live a rural life, you know it is composed of farmers and others involved in local agriculture. Anyhow, the local Grange was holding an open house Thanksgiving dinner. I spent some of the morning wrestling with myself about going. When I was active in my church on Long Island, I would often take a day off from work to help organize and distribute about 150 food baskets. As I would deliver them, people would be embarrassed about needing them, while at the same time grateful.  I guess my mindset was about the same.

So I said to myself: “Self, the chicken can last another day. Go find some human company.”

It also helped that as I went to take a shower, my laundry basket was overflowing. I had not done laundry in more than three weeks and so I packed it into the truck. I figured that since I was going into town to do the laundry, why not stop at the Grange for some free food?

The laundromat, to my surprise, was open. And so I loaded the clothes and sat down to read about the nearby California Redwood Forest, which I plan to visit next week. I had a call from John and Lydia wished me a “Happy Thanksgiving.” The world’s most beautiful and brilliant toddler was busy playing with the HO train set I gave her a couple of years ago. I talked with John for a bit and the washers stopped and I hung up and put the clothing into the dryers.

And then I went to the Grange. I passed by another state park and thought about “Mary”, a woman who lives two weeks at a time at different state parks in a very small trailer that she needs to have someone tow between sites. She barely survived the flood we had earlier in the week and had moved to the other park. Until I spoke with a ranger about the woman I had thoughts of offering to share my holiday dinner with her. But she has a whole range of issues including a hellish package of mental problems. I thought about both our similarities and differences and realized that while I was one illness away from being in her shoes, I was doing OK for the time being.  It is certainly something to be thankful for.

I reached the Grange and it was packed with about 50 cars. I went in and served myself. The turkey itself was the processed variety that I used to get when I was in the Army. It was white meat and I was sort of hoping for some dark meat and skin. But there was plenty on the chicken I would have the next day. There was stuffing, mashed potatoes and a homemade whole-berry cranberry sauce. It was wonderful. But the main attraction was the vegetables. It was green beans in some sort of gravy covered with French fried onions. I think it is a regional dish. I never had it before but saw it in several food stores. A very simple dish, it was wonderful! I took some back to the trailer.

I sat down with some people and asked if “this is where the cool kids sit?” Sure enough, a minute later, their great granddaughter sat down wearing a tee shirt that said “cool cat” on it.

Turns out they were having some problems that day. In the middle of roasting their turkey, the stove broke down. So they loaded everyone into the truck and came to the Grange. He’s a commercial fisherman looking forward to the crab season and she’s a dog groomer. We talked a little about the horrific storm we had a few days ago and I showed them a photo of my road under six inches of water. And I shared some of my travel experiences. The young girl with the “cool” tee sang a song for the people, along with a few old timers who were picking on a guitar and banjo.

It turned out that one of the main crops from the area is cranberries and the wonderful cranberry sauce was made from fresh-picked berries.

Anyhow, as dinner ended, I grabbed a “to go” platter of a couple of slices of turkey a little potatoes and lots of the green beans, a far greater preference to frozen broccoli. On my return, Pup, the pup who’s no longer a puppy, got the turkey and potatoes for a holiday treat. He’s been on a diet since July and has lost all his excess weight so I didn’t feel any guilt about his holiday foray into “people” food.

Pup lapsed into a happy nap and I played Arlo Guthrie’s wonderful “Alice’s Restaurant” song about a Thanksgiving half a century ago. Then I unpacked the laundry and began my holiday decorating, putting out holiday dishtowels and potholders. I’m moving up the coast on December 1^st so I’m holding off the main decorations until then. I suspect it would be a problem securing a tree and ornaments in a trailer as it travels around the many bends ahead as I drive up Highway 101.

It is nearing the winter equinox, and darkness descends around 4:30 p.m. Around 6 p.m., a young man knocked on the door and I set him up with a site. He was travelling by himself and camping a tent. Experience has taught me that pitching a tent in the dark is not much fun and the temperature will probably dip into the 30s tonight. I have a choice of electric or gas heat in the trailer. I prefer the electric because, other than the $50 I spent on the heater, it’s free since the park supplies electric. Certainly, it’s something else to be thankful for. I hope your holiday was filled with the peace I had.

It’s now closing in on 4 p.m. and while the rain from the trees continues to descend, the sun has finally emerged from behind Humbug Mountain and I look up to China Mountain and watch the shadow line as the trees above it are gloriously filled with the sun’s blessing. It’s time to go out to play.

10 minutes later: it’s raining again.