The unpardonable sin revisited

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers'

--Henry The Sixth, Part 2 Act 4. Scene 2. by William Shakespeare.

Those immortal words were uttered by Dick, a minor character who played a butcher in the play. But before the lawyers, let's kill the bureaucrats. Lawyers are harmless kittens compared to them.

Right now, I seem to be a minor character in a role that should be the protagonist of my current drama.

I am once again caught by the inescapable snares of bureaucracy. I have the incredible challenge of dealing with an auto insurance claim.

First, this has nothing to do with my driving or my truck. A tree fell through my trailer. More than a month ago it was declared a total loss. About three weeks ago, after some haggling, I reached a settlement amount. 

The haggling was the first time bureaucracy struck in the present claim.  The insurance companies, at least the one with the Gekko in its advertising, uses a company called CCC to create a "valuescope" of comparative prices in settling its claim amounts. 

I am once again caught by the inescapable snares of bureaucracy. I have the incredible challenge of dealing with an auto insurance claim.

A decade ago, a claim was made on a Ford Taurus, the most popular car on the market at that time, and I was living on Long Island. The comparative prices, or comps, came from places like upstate New York, in an entirely different price range, from a private seller instead of a dealer. 

This time it was worse. There was only one model the same as mine in the comps. And the sales location was in Wyoming. Another comp was a different year and a different size model and the third comp was of a model that didn't exist. They offered me $12.5K and after nearly ten days of haggling, I finally got them to go for about $1.5K more...still at the low end of the most reliable quote, NADA (North American Dealers Group).

One would think that once that hurdle was overcome, the credit union that has the lien on the trailer would be paid. But that is not the case. GEICO wants the title before paying off the note and giving me the balance. But the credit union does not have the title South Dakota does not issue a title until the loan is paid off. So let's get this straight. GEICO wants something that does not, by statute, exist. The credit union wants its loan paid and the state of South Dakota will issue a title only when the loan is paid. 

In the meantime, GEICO's salvage company has picked up the trailer I don't even have a trailer, which -- in fact -- could have been repaired enough to live in by myself for a couple of hundred dollars. In fact, GEICO never even told me what the salvage value is (as it is obligated to do), despite numerous requests. 

I'm not sure if the bureaucrats or ISIS should be killed first, but on general principles, it's got to be the bureaucrats. After all, ISIS does claim some sort of moral ground.

I'm not sure if the bureaucrats or ISIS should be killed first, but on general principles, it's got to be the bureaucrats. After all, ISIS does claim some sort of moral ground.

But the insurance company was most helpful in adjusting my billing, eliminating the part that covers my insurance on the trailer and backdating it to the day of my claim. This means I will only need to pay $66 of my usual $270 monthly payment at the end of the month. By the way, the policy renews on February 1 so my new payment will go up to $411 -- $141 more. It could have been a lot worse. I just got a notice that, including the trailer, I would be paying $586.09 -- far more than double my previous payments.

All because a tree dropped on my trailer. What they dropped on me is worse. I probably can't afford to drive anymore. 

Perhaps trees will fall on their cars and their rates can go up 200%. One can only pray so. But who do I pray to for that, with more than a thousand religions vying for the true belief. Just look at any of these religions, murdering one another. Can we get this to work on bureaucrats? Can we have a blood war between GEICO and State Farm?

A Christmas Card Carol

Ah look at all the lonely people.

I sent out my Christmas cards, late, so they arrived today (Dec. 26). I received a Facebook note from one of the people on my mailing list discussing how her kids were away and that this Christmas was unusual for her. Alone, she said she hadn't gotten any cards and hadn't sent any. She surmised that Facebook greetings had replaced them.

The note ended: "And thank you so much for the card. Receiving it actually brought tears to my eyes that someone remembered me."

It reminded me of another occasion a few years ago. The former Mrs. Munzer and I were in the middle of a bitter divorce. I sent her a brief e-mail that said something like "For what it's worth, happy birthday." I received a very emotional response because I was the only one who acknowledged her day. The next day others did, though I had little to do with that.

But it got me to thinking about other times. I've had those days too. Last year, I was alone in the Cascade Mountains and was snowbound. I was volunteering as a "presence" at a state park. It was closed for construction and I was basically serving as someone who could tell people the park was closed and as a discouragement to potential thieves of the heavy equipment that was on the grounds.
With poor cell service, I got a voice mail from my son, but little other contact with the world.

This year was entirely different. I drove my companion to Western Massachusetts where we met up with two of her daughters, one boyfriend and one grandson. We went to the boyfriend's family home where we had wonderful food, better company and more at a farmhouse. The 66-degree weather and eating at a picnic table was quite a surprise for everyone. And the 200 mile drives back and forth were good times for my companion and I to spend time talking beyond the usual daily business discussions.

And so the words of Eleanor Rigby, a Beatles' song, came to mind.

Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice In the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream Waits at the window, wearing the face That she keeps in a jar by the door Who is it for?

I went to a midnight service on Christmas Eve and there were a few single, mostly elderly people. I thought how they simply wanted to be near people on Christmas Eve. During the service, the sign of peace was offered and people seemed to gravitate to those who were alone. Except for one person.

Father McKenzie, writing the words Of a sermon that no one will hear No one comes near Look at him working, darning his socks In the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

The one person who wasn't involved in the sign of peace was the minister. Confined to a wheelchair, I noticed that he remained by himself at the alter. No one had come to him. I started to go to him, but my friend told me that everyone would shake his hand after the service. And the exchange of greetings was just about over. You can bet tomorrow morning, I'll be the one to go over to him. 

Eleanor Rigby, died in the church And was buried along with her name Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt From his hands as he walks from the grave No one was saved

I was blessed to give someone some Christmas joy, And during this Christmas season, let's remember the ones Jesus associated with. They were the outcasts, and the lonely. Those who were desperate came to Him and were comforted.

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

I am reminded of another song. It's called "Do Something Now" by the Cause, a group of popular Christian music artists who put out the song as a fundraiser for Compassion International in 1985 to aid African starvation.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IehAFd7N2Ok.

The song compares life in starving Ethiopia with life in our Utopia. And it notes we are God's hands and it is up to us to Do Something Now.

That song, 20 years later, still resonates because we are used by God, even when we feel we are at our worst, to help others. Neil Diamond's "Brother Love" preacher said we have one hand while we are in need to reach out to God, because that's what He's there for; and lift the other hand to our brothers because that's what we're there for.

And so I challenge every one who reads this to look for and reach out to someone who is lonely and hurting. And remember, It's not too late to send Cristmas Cards.

Psalm 37, Verse 3: "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. 

* * *

Those who read my blog regularly may be confused. I frequently attack religion and the Christians. I want people to know that, despite many doubts, I still believe in the good news of Jesus. BUT I am very angry at how fundamentalists, especially the people of the book, have turned their views into ways to control others. It is simply hate in a religious environment that calls for love. 

Tis the season to be raging -- It's complicated

For those who don’t know me very well, I have given up living in a travel trailer and my cross-country hauls are at an end. I’m living with a woman who was my senior prom date 50 years ago. Her name is Emily, and this is the first Christmas in a long time that I’ve lived in a house. Recent events, mainly the destruction of my trailer by a fallen tree, have also affected this decision. 

I love to do things at Christmas.  I believe in Norman Rockwell's view of it, though I've never experienced that world. This year I put up probably more than a thousand lights in the front of the house. And there is an 8’ tree in the living room with a village and a train on the bottom. In the dining room, I’ve placed a small fiber optic tree. It still needs to be decorated.

Decorating the big tree was an experience. After putting it up, Emily mentioned she didn’t bother decorating it last year, except for some candy canes. I figured it would be a good start to decorating the tree so I picked up three dozen at Wal-Mart. It took days to get started and I practically had to shove the canes in her hand. I brought up decorations and waited more days before trimming the tree by myself. The decorations were quite personal to Emily. Like my former wife, she either bought or made personal decorations for each of her children every year. And so I put up many decades of decorations involving the years of growing up with her three daughters who, incidentally, are almost as beautiful as their mother.

Long ago and far away, when our high school days ended, in the summer of 1966, it was quite different than today. A high school diploma was good enough to get a decent clerical or “blue collar” job. It was a time when being able to go to college meant your parents were well-to-do or you were a great student who could earn a scholarship. We were neither. And our post high-school days were for finding work and getting on with our lives. While we went to the prom together, our relationship wasn’t very serious. And we quickly lost track of one another.

The days of the junior college system began a couple of years after we graduated and we both attended the same college. I ran into her one day on the steps, but nothing lasted as I dropped out to go in the Vietnam-era army and she continued to do clerical work.

Anyhow, after my marriage ended, our relationship began anew and we finally are giving cohabitation  a try to see where it goes. 

Which gets us back to the tree. It was somewhat emotionally painful for me to put up the decorations. There were dozens of the annual ornament for each of her three girls. And every time I came across one, it reminded me that I don’t have these memories from my children. I began to go through time passages where I remember the Christmases with Rosemary, my former wife, and our children. Rosemary loved Christmas, especially decorating the tree. Her father loved to make decorations from things like the plastic “egg” packaging from L’eggs brand panty hose. And she had many of them, eventually adding more of her own comparative ornaments each year. I was flooded with warm memories of those days. When John was a year old, he was sick on Christmas Day and running a fever. Rosemary was a pediatric nurse and knew how to bring down a fever by simply putting John in a lukewarm bathtub. But both grandmothers insisted that he be bathed in alcohol, the treatment from when they were young mothers. We finally wound up taking the poor kid to Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan. Rosemary worked there and had a good friend who was working in the Pediatric emergency room that night. A couple of years later, I got an ornament that you put a photo in, and the photo was of poor John looking half asleep by the tree. I wonder if Rosemary or John still has it. I hope so.

I also thought about certain Christmas myths. John believed in Santa and we decorated the tree but left the tinsel off. We told John about the "Tinsel Angel" who came at night and put tinsel on the tree. It was a sign for Santa to come an place presents under the tree. He became so excited when he knew he had been good enough for a visit from Santa.  I often think about my kids and Santa. Trapped in the "born again" Christian culture, Rosemary decided that Matthew, my other son, would know there was no such thing as Santa. John is very optimistic and a mainstay in his church in Oregon while Matthew wants nothing to do with church and tends to be pessimistic. 

Those early Christmases were good years. We didn’t have much, but we had one another and didn’t need much. We had the largest apartment and hosted our families for Christmas dinner each year. I wish to God I could somehow have captured it again before the marriage fell apart.

Back to the tree. When Emily got home tonight, it was finished after several days of work and she told me how much she appreciated my putting it up. A window for about 15 years now, she told me she found it very difficult to handle the memories. Hell, so did I. But she was happy that the tree was filled with them for one of the few times since the loss of her husband to cancer.  It’s morel than that though. Life with her daughters has been very complex since her husband’s death. One of the girls had become involved with drugs and did much to hurt her sisters. She has been clean and sober for about six years now. But the bitterness still remains, complicated by other issues that are not appropriate for this missive, but very painful just the same.

As we sat and talked about it, I began to remember the Christmases of my childhood. For the first seven years of my life, they were wonderful. Then after my mother walked out on me, they were hellish. Alcohol destroyed many of them. Other times, we were very broke. I still have some Christmas decorations from both those periods. There are a couple of decorations that have been with me since I was born. The others were some cheap plastic globes filled with angel hair we got in Woolworth. They look like hell after nearly 60 years, but I cling to them because they are a symbol of survival. As I write this, I am playing Christmas music that synchs with the tree lights. “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” sung by Judy Garland has come on. I hold that song dearly because every year I hoped that somehow the next Christmas would be better. It never seemed to happen though.

In talking with Emily, I voiced something for the first time ever: “My mother left me.” I have always used the term, “my parents separated.” And I was filled with rage. Over more than six decades, the hurt and all that went with it still emerged. It refuses to remain buried. I can't get away from it and it has given birth to far too much of my life. I am perhaps writing this to finally lay this to rest. It’s a season for forgiveness, and my mother has been dead since the mid-1980s. I thought this had been let go of when we talked to one another with great honesty for the first time in decades, if ever, when she learned she had cancer. I told her what her drinking had done to me and she apologized. It was a long time coming. 

But the rage continues to haunt me and I can’t seem to turn away from it. I suddenly can understand why the holidays are a peak time for murders and madness.

“Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe. Remember thee.

Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away the trivial fond records, all saws of books, all pressures past,

That youth and observation copied there; and my commandment all alone shall live within the book and volume of my brain unmixed with baser matter: yes, by heavens.

 Oh most pernicous woman, Oh villain, villain, smiling damn villain. “

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

How ironic it is that finally I appreciate Shakespeare. Perhaps I recognize the beginning of Hamlet's madness and I am drawn to it. The rage he expresses is deep inside me. It is not so obsessive that it will end in murder as Hamlet's life did,. I am merely a wounded animal in constant pain and those who know me, know it. And I am grateful for their concern and understanding.

Back to the tree.  I have pounded it out on my keyboard. All that is left is to check the spelling and put the words on my blog. I do not know how therapeutic it is writing about it. All I know as I sit in the dark with my screen and watch the tree lights dance, that I am grateful to be where I am and that I am loved. I hope the same is true of my former wife and the boys. It has been a long and difficult journey for us and I’m sure, dear reader, that you too have had your ghosts from Christmas past.

I suppose part of my spirit is also dogged by my lukewarm faith. As I continue to look at my own Christianity, I tend to become quite confused. I often challenge the so-called “facts” of the Bible, which does not lend itself to the fundamentalist point of view that states every word of the Bible is absolute truth. One of my college professors, a Jewish rabbi who taught a history course on the foundations of our Judeo-Christian heritage, noted that the style of writing in those days was often not literal. For example, the number “40” was indicative of a long period of time, not a more precise meaning. So I wonder if the children of Israel really did wander for forty years, or did Jesus fast for 40 days. I often think of the tall tales written about our fictional American icons such as Pecos Bill, Paul Bunyan and others; and about tall tales the historical people of our time including Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday, Calamity Jane and Buffalo Bill. Did Davy Crockett really kill a bear at the age of three? Writers of this literature were prone to great exaggeration. We recognize these tall tales as what they are. But we really can’t conclude if what in the Bible is completely true. And we also wonder what is what God wants of us. The Apostle Paul sets many conditions of behavior for women. Can we think these are divinely inspired, or simply a reflection of the mores of the time. Can “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet,” be acceptable in today’s America?

And what about the many Biblical accounts of Christmas? Are we to believe there were three wise men, shepherds seeing and hearing angels in the field, the birth in a manger? There was a time in American politics that anyone who aspired to become President had to claim birth in a log cabin. And they lied about it. 

I have read the entire Bible several times. But one must have faith to believe. And so my faith is torn in several directions. My former fundamentalist commitment to Christ has disappeared. I see the hypocrisy of the right wing too much. Rosemary and I were perhaps the only Democrats in our church. We were in favor of social legislation such as welfare. Yet while they opposed things like abortion, their opposition never came close to their charity to unwed mothers to be. They did not raise these children, but condemned them to live a life of emotional stress and poverty. It says something when you oppose both birth control and abortion at the same time.

But enough of my commentary on that. Back to the tree. It’s after midnight now. The lights both inside the house and our neighbors’ outdoor adornments are off. The only lights I see are those of the tree, dancing to “Silent Night,” and yet another childhood memory comes to mind. I was somewhere around four years old and went to a party for cub scouts, of which my cousin Red (Luke) was a member. I heard him and the rest of the scouts sing the song and I remember to this day how “all is calm, all is bright,” soothed my spirit. I sometimes compare our lives. I idolized Red as a child. He was like the big brother I never had. Red's life has been one of steadfastness. He remains with his lovely wife and worked for one company for most of his career. Mine has been chaotic, with two divorces and dozens of jobs. He knows what his life will be like in the future while I remain wandering. He is more Norman Rockwell while I am more Terry Redlin, looking at the closed homes and enjoying the beauty of nature that surrounds them.

I guess I have put enough words – more than 2000 – to finally free myself of the rage and sleep in heavenly peace. 

Oh reader, if you’re still here, thanks you for taking the ride and may your Christmas be bright. Show those you care about some love and give even more to those you don’t care about.

This too shall pass -- maybe ‫این نیز بگذر

I have hesitated about commenting on the latest slaughter of innocents in San Bernardino, California. It is not for lack of empathy, but because I am simply overwhelmed by the violence. And very few will see what I write, and it will soon be forgotten.

Beyond yesterday's slaughter, recent killings include the Planned Parenthood massacre in Colorado, at a town I visited and really liked. It is near the magnificent Garden of the Gods. On the same day, ISIS released another beheading video, this of a Russian journalist.

Of course, there was Paris a week ago. And since Columbine, there have been so many school shootings such as at Sandy Hook. And there have been mall shootings – including at a mall my son and former wife surely have gone to. And the theaters. And the streets. And in homes. 

As I write this, I am listening to the news.  There was a shooting in Brooklyn, killing three. Police say it was a man killing his girlfriend, her lover, and then himself.. I can't help but wonder how many of these lesser taking of lives, numbering about 30,000 every year in the United States, are no longer shocking. We are nearly immune to these things. They have become common place. Perhaps it is because many of us have killed tens of thousands of video game characters. 

Politically, the insanity continues. As the Republicans yet again attempt to end Obamacare and defund Planned Parenthood, they ignore the issues of crime and refuse to take the slightest steps to stop crazy people from getting guns. And the NRA's mission seems to be to keep assault weapons for hunters. The United States has 283 MILLION guns in civilian hands!

It’s just too much to comprehend at one time. How do we stop terrorism? How do we end the political gridlock? How can we keep guns away from madmen? 

And I can’t help but think that humanity is now involved in a new Darwinian version of survival. The violent will destroy the peaceful. And the only way for the peaceful to survive is to fight back, becoming violent. 

I have also come to realize that the extremists of various religions care little about God. It’s all about power. Here, fundamentalist Christians use abortion, Obama, and gun control to gain political control of the nation. Elsewhere, ISIS and its cousins use control of women; hate for America, and weaponizing to control what it can. In this season, I ask whatever happened to “peace on earth and good will towards men?”

And the peaceful are dying. Not only here in the United States, but elsewhere. Europe is being overrun by those who flee Syria and ISIS. 

Personally, I had enough of weapons when I was in the Army. I don’t hunt, but I like to fish. But I am now thinking of arming myself. In my mind, I will be ready to protect myself. And if I do, I becoming part of the problem.

I also ask myself if I really want to live in a world like this? When I was in high school, I once proposed in a debate that the best way to control nuclear weapons was to have an all-out nuclear war. We would be rid of the weapons and the people who use them. A perfect Darwinian solution.

But that won’t stop insanity. Without violence, how we would have dealt with Hitler’s Nazis, an older version of ISIS?  I have said, “Kill them all.” But I know we can’t and whatever doesn’t kill them also makes them stronger. 

So I have another reason to be grateful that I’m getting old. I won’t live to see much more of this. But I fear for the survival of my sweet granddaughter. I wonder if she will someday live in some sort of  dystopian society. And I ask myself if we are entering such a time. 

Humanity surely has had other eras of social chaos. The Dark Ages in Europe; the world wars of the 20^th century; the near-annihilation of native Americans through European disease – not to mention AIDS in Africa. Civilizations rise and fall, and violence is its catalyst. Is it our destiny to repeat the same mistakes in a never-ending cycle? 

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” – Solomon, Ecclesiastes 1:9

I can only cling to the words that make a happy man sad and a sad man happy. “This too, shall pass.” ‫این نیز بگذرد‎‎‬ , ironically an adage coming from ancient Persian poets. And so will I.

No Answers

I’m not sure where this is going because I don’t have the answers about terrorism. It seems that nobody else does either.

My gut level reaction to the latest terrorist attacks in Paris continues to be the same. Kill every last fucking one. But the problem is, you can’t. Because for every one you kill, you will outrage others.

It began with the children of Adam and Eve as the Jews and Arabs became bitter rivals. With the rise of Islam and the European crusades, the hatred fermented into a bitter feud that has remained in the heart of Islam since before the Europeanization of North America. In a way, the current terror started with Hitler, you know. History tells us that actions create reactions. Unlike in science, the results are not predictable. Hitler tried to wipe out the Jews. The reaction – the state of Israel was born. Now Israel was filled with Arabs who happened to own the land for centuries. They were forced out; creating the Palestinian question that has gone unresolved for more than half a century and seemingly has no salvageable ending.

Out of this has come our need to defend Israel. It is in our political and moral interest to do so. And because of this, we constantly concern ourselves with any threats to Israel. And when you involve the oil in the Middle East, we are sure to get involved. We supported governments, like the one in Iran that was corrupt and certainly undemocratic. And when the Iranians revolted and put in an extremist religious group in power, the hatred for Americans became highlighted with the capture of embassy personnel as prisoners.

All this leads to more conflict. The rise of bin Laden and the September 11 attacks on America rose us to wrath the level of which hadn’t been seen since Pearl Harbor. The result – we invade places like Iraq and Afghanistan, and the cycle of rage continues. The crusaders have returned. We had no business in Iraq, and as we destroyed bin Laden’s group, others arose. And now we have to deal with ISIS, a group even more extreme.

Nuke ‘em, I say, nuke ‘em. But that really isn’t an option is it? To do so would make us even worse than ISIS.  

So what is to be done? Do we simply get the hell out of the Middle East? We can’t. The threat to Israel is too great. Places like Paris, London and New York are occasionally attacked. Israel endures terror on a daily basis. And Israel’s position is often highly provocative.

Do we wait for Armageddon? It seems almost certain we are a situation such as the end times described in the last book of the Christian Bible, Revelation. Jesus, the man with the hippie values that changed our entire philosophical landscape, would probably say the answer is to love one another. But how do you love after millennia of hatred? Come to think of it, with the hatred today’s fundamentalist Christian whack jobs have produced within our own country over abortion, immigration, education and other issues, I suspect we spread more hate than ISIS.

OK, perhaps I am being extreme – but so are they. And there is a problem with extremism – there is no place to consider the other’s position. And so while we have discussed compromise in the Middle East, there is no longer any room for it. The Middle East is much like the American political process – paralyzed due to the inability to compromise. And perhaps that’s another reason for the insanity. With all the political stubbornness, we can’t even agree on a national position. And I suppose our lack of a clear direction also encourages terrorists.

Or is this about us? View this link and listen to what it says. Are we so buried in our own bullshit that we have lost our direction? It is the opening scene from a HBO series called The Newsroom and the actor is Jeff Daniels. The series lasted from 2012 to 2014 and the writer is Aaron Sorkin, who also wrote much of television's finest series including The West Wing; as well as feature films including The American President, Charlie Wilson's War, Moneyball and The Social Network. His current movie is Steve Jobs, which was released two weeks ago.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMqcLUqYqrs

Like I said at the beginning: I’m not sure where this is going because I don’t have the answers about terrorism. It seems that nobody else does either.

I don’t know how long this will last, but carpe diem.

My nerves are shot . . .and it is a wonderful thing!

A decade of background is in order.  Sometime in the autumn of 2006, I was working in the auto service center of a Wal-Mart on Long Island, near where I lived. That day, the store was expecting some very important visitors form the Wal-Mart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas. And so some damn fool in management insisted that every floor in the building be freshly waxed overnight.

Now it was perfectly all right to wax the floors in the store. But there is a major problem with waxing the service bays. In brief, there is oil on the floor. It does not react well with waxing. We wear shoes with oil resistant soles to help fight the oil spillage problem. They do not work on wax and oil. To make matters worse, it was raining heavily. We were having the reminents of a hurricane, which had been downgraded to a tropical storm. But we still got four inches of water.

My job was generally to write service. I would take a hand-held computing device and write customer’s orders down as they lined up their cars outside the garage. I was very, very good at this job as I had won the district’s (Long Island, New Jersey and Connecticut) two years running. Anyhow, I walked into the passenger aisle of the garage and suddenly I was looking at my feet facing the ceiling. I landed, very hard, on my neck, shoulder, arm, elbow, and hand. I was in agony. After a moment of catching my breath, I walked over to the wall and slammed my right shoulder into the wall. The shoulder had become separated and I was able to knock it back into place.

And so began a long and unhappy series of doctor visits, MRIs and worker compensation hearings and lawyer nonsense. If you ever get hurt on the job, know that worker compensation is an adversarial procedure between you and your insurance company. It took five years to get a settlement for the case and I am supposed to obtain coverage from the ongoing pain from the injuries that has redeveloped, but people can’t even find the insurance company that handled it. So I have to see doctors under Medicare and lord only knows how much this is costing me.

I would be given a series of steroid injections in the upper spine to determine if the pain could be relieved. I showed up for the procedure a couple of weeks ago and as a precaution, they monitored my heart rate. I was stunned to discover it was 155 – about 95 beats per minute above my normal. And, rightfully, the procedure was postponed.

But it’s worth it. The pain has, over the course of 2015, become unbearable. I could not sleep well, despite taking medication to help me do so. I could not lift my upper arm over my head and often had the arm in slings, along with elbow and hand braces. After five years “on the road” travelling many times from coast to coast and living in a RV travel trailer, I rarely had the opportunity to see doctors or physical therapists. I spent five-month stints during the summers of 2013 and 2014 in a small town (population 850) in the South Dakota Badlands and saw a doctor who came once a week. He had a great name – Dr. Goodhope – and he was able to manage my diabetes. He also was great about prescriptions, enabling me to get refills over the course of a year; so even though I was only there for a brief part of the year, I had some medical support.

But with my return to the New York metro area, I was able to return to my medical support system, which included a primary/pulmonologist, cardiologist, endocrinologist, surgeon and others. I was back in the medical system. It took about two months to get an appointment with my primary care doctor and, while waiting, the pain had become unbearable. I checked into an emergency room, where I was diagnosed with, in addition to neck issues causing the pain, a sub-acute stroke. Doctors tell me that a sub-acute stroke is one that has occurred in the past few days, but has not been disabling. I had been very tired, but was unaware of what was going on.

So anyhow, after being discharged from the hospital, my primary doc set me up with a bunch of appointments. The problem is that the primary doc is located on Long Island, where I had lived for more than 30 years before hitting the road. And I had settled down in Northwest New Jersey, where I had been raised. It cost me more than $100 in gas, tolls and food, including dinner with my son, every time I went there and doctors there began telling me to get help in New Jersey.

Anyhow, I thought the answer to my pain had to be spinal surgery. I had problems with five disks and so I saw a Long Island spinal surgeon. He told me that I needed to see a pain specialist first. I decided that I would see one in New Jersey and I obtained a recommendation from my companion. (“Companion” is kind of a weird way to describe our relationship. It sounds too gay. She is a woman and was my senior prom date 50 years ago. We are living together but are very apprehensive about marriage due to many New Jersey legal issues involving property.)

Anyhow, I saw him and we set a date for a procedure. I would be given a series of steroid injections in the upper spine to determine if the pain could be relieved. I showed up for the procedure a couple of weeks ago and as a precaution, they monitored my heart rate. I was stunned to discover it was 155 – about 95 beats per minute above my normal. And, rightfully, the procedure was cancelled. I had another visit to the hospital where I was stabilized with IV fluids. I was very dehydrated and was showing signs of A-fib, which is very dangerous given my stroke history.

I’m not certain if the release from pain has restored me to more normal energy or if I’m manic as a side effect. And frankly, I don’t care. I feel wonderful, better than I have since I was injured.  

I had bowel problems over the past few days and figured the cause was dehydration. But I decided to go back to Long Island to see my cardiologist (whom had checked me out only a few weeks before and I was fine). But when I arrived, my heart was running 144 beats per minute. He prescribed the appropriate meds, but insisted I get a cardiologist in New Jersey to check me the next day and have lab work done. They did so, and now my heart was back to “normal.” And so yesterday, I received the procedure.

Now I hadn’t a clue what would really happen. It being “Back to the Future Day” – the day that Marty and Doc visit the future in the trilogy – I figured I would watch the movie on my laptop while they working on me. I expected things to last about a half hour, but it only took about 10 minutes at the most. So I watched it in the recovery room. You were supposed to eat and drink something and as a diabetic, I had issues. But the pretzels they had were only a gram of sugar and they had diet soda – which tasted awful. It was out of date and soft drinks with artificial sweeteners go south in a hurry. So they gave me a diet ginger ale instead of a diet cola and that was fine. I was very pleased to learn about the low sugar count in pretzels as they will be the handouts for the trick-or-treaters and I had thought that I would have to throw them out afterwards. Instead, they will make an imperfect, low-calorie, low-sugar snack.

So I drove home, after making a side trip to nearby Wightman’s Farms and picking up the best apple cider in America. We have gotten into the habit of a hot mug of it before bedtime and I will miss it after the harvest is over. It was also late so I picked up some chili at Wendy’s for dinner. She loves their chili and I didn’t know if I would be up to making dinner.

 I woke up feeling great. There was little pain, more like a minor ache. And for the first time in nearly a decade I was able to throw a ball overhand. 

Anyhow, the side effects started shortly after 8 p.m. I began shaking badly and became quite crazed and manic. I called up the doctor and his nurse practitioner returned the call. As I described the symptoms, I mentioned that they often occurred when I was hypoglycemic – my blood sugars were too low. But in this case, they were about 450. Normal is 80-120 and if I hit 500, it’s a matter of going to the ER. Anyhow she said the steroids where probably affecting my diabetes and I took some extra medication then and calmed down in an hour though my blood sugars were still very high at around 340, they were not a cause for immediate hospitalization.

My symptoms relieved, I took my normal meds around 10 p.m., including more diabetic medicine and something to help me sleep. But I was still way too manic, but much less than I was. I still didn’t get to sleep until around 2 a.m., after watching hours of post-Mets game cable coverage. And I’m not really a Mets fan.

But the needles worked. In the morning I woke up feeling great. There was little pain, more like a minor ache. And for the first time in nearly a decade I was able to throw a ball overhand. My accuracy sucked, but I could do it. I am so looking forward to playing a game of catch with my granddaughter the next time I get to Oregon. I recently joined a gym and will also give shooting baskets and swimming freestyle a go.

It feels incredible. It's as if a huge burden was lifted from my shoulders (and I suppose it is literally true since the shoulders were the key source of pain). But I remain somewhat manic. I had let things pile up in my room and though it would take a week to clean. It was done in a couple of hours – while I was also working in the basement and doing laundry. And when I sat down to write this, I’ve gone more than 1700 words in just an hour or so. I’m not certain if the release from pain has restored me to more normal energy or if I’m manic as a side effect. And frankly, I don’t care. I feel wonderful, better than I have since I was injured. And I raring to go. So far today I’ve done all that and I’m about to hit the gym. I don’t know how long this will last, but carpe diem.

* * *

An interesting aside to the dramatic reduction of pain due to steroid injections the other day. My mind seems clearer. I can remember words much better and am more aware of what I am doing and need to do. In other words, far less scatterbrained.

Hope for the children????

Sometime around 1980, an explosion of children who needed special education began. Learning disabilities, ADHD and ADD, autism, Asperger's and other issues created a situation where nearly 20 percent of the students I taught had special needs.

Now I know this is going to sound like I've lost my mind, but this is also started about the time we stopped having our babies sleep on their front and put them on their backs. It was an effort to reduce SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

But according to Betsy Stoeber, the director of the Brain Balance Achievement Center in Summit, NJ, this is the beginning of the root cause of so many of our educational/dysfunctional issues today. You are surely aware that we have two brain hemispheres -- left and right -- and normal human development is needed on both sides of the brain. When we let our left side dominate, it is like flooring the gas pedal on a car. And the right side sort of acts like a brake. And, according to Stoeber, the reasons for many of these issues is that there has not  been enough connections, or synapses, between the two brain sides. 

Getting back to the infant's sleeping position, when the child wakes up on their front, they need to push their heads up to look around and see what is happening. On their backs, they already look around. There is no need to raise the neck, thus no synapse. And thus the normal right brain sensory motor training is eliminated while the left brain cognitive skill training happens. 

I know for myself that my two sons are very different. One was raised in New York City and constantly was exposed to parks, zoos and museums on nearly a daily basis while the other one grew up in the suburbs and these visits tended to be rare, with most stimulation coming from the local yard and neighborhood children. The city boy had a brilliant academic career while the suburban boy was far more athletic. 

Brain Balance Achievement Centers (http://www.brainbalancecenters.com) was founded by Dr. Robert Melillo, who in the early 1990’s  began seeing a marked increase in children with learning and behavioral issues visiting his practice. Parents were concerned and desperate to help their children. 

Dr. Melillo’s research and extensive clinical experience led him to understand disorders like ADHD, Dyslexia, processing disorders, and autism spectrum disorders as manifestations of an underlying problem in the brain called Functional Disconnection Syndrome. 

In other words, he felt that these problems were symptoms, rather than disorders in their own right. He contended that this imbalance in brain development was the common thread between all these learning and behavioral issues. 

He knew, based on the science of neuroplasticity, that if he designed a program that could effectively stimulate the weaker hemisphere of the brain, it could, in fact, grow and develop new and stronger neural connections. In turn, this would remediate the many symptoms associated with these learning and developmental disorders. Dr. Melillo did just that. He developed a cutting-edge approach by integrating three key pillars of brain development: sensory motor stimulation, cognitive stimulation and nutrition.

Children are tested at any of the more than 50 centers spread throughout the United States (see map below) and programs are developed individually for each child. A typical program consists of three sessions per week, using 30 minutes each to work on each hemisphere. These sessions normally last between 12 and 24 weeks.

Locations of the Brain Balance Achievement Centers

I decided to Google this concept. there are many who say the concept is rubbish. But there are also others who say "whatever works." I have yet to find any research independent of Dr. Melillo'a. I certainly would feel more comfortable with a university study using Melillo's treatments. Yet with the explosive growth of these centers, it is obvious that there is a demand for this type of treatment.

Is it a con job, or an incredible hope? I don't know. I asked a number of questions. Stober says that some of the issues can be genetic, especially with parents who used drugs during pregnancy. She also says there isn't much that can be done with physical brain damage. And that not all children reach a point where they are cured (many medical sources say some of these disorders can't be cured). And so, I suppose time will tell about this theory. 

But to me, the issue is the diagnosis. Any child who needs special education must get a diagnosis from a health care professional before they can get help. But there is no diagnostic category for Functional Disconnection Syndrome. Without it, insurance or schools cannot pay and thus these centers are funded with full payments from the patients. In many cases, desperate parents can afford the fees which tend to average about $3,500 for a 12-week program. But certainly poorer  parents can't afford it. 

I am, by nature, an optimist. This theory makes sense is many ways. But it is so simple. I have no clue if it works for everyone. But it is obvious it works for some. And therein lies the hope.

Yogi

Sometime around 1957, I was in the fourth grade. And on Channel 11 (WPIX in New York) there was a Yankee baseball game on nearly every day or night. The announcers were Mel Allen, Red Barber and a young upstart named Phil Rizzuto.

Yogi Berra was the catcher, but with Ellie Howard, a fellow resident of the Yankees famous Monument Park, backing him up, Yogi often wound up playing the outfield as well, giving his legs a rest.

I remember one week where Yogi was especially hot. For three nights in a row, he went up to the plate while the Bombers were losing and jacked a home run on a pitch way off the plate to ensure the win. From then on, except for a few short seasons when Roger Maris arrived, Yogi was “my” man.

But despite winning three MVPs and being on 10 World Series champions, he never was the “Star” player. That was the role of DiMaggio, Mantle and Ford. But unlike so many egomaniacs, Yogi seemed to fit right in. Despite dropping out of the 8^th grade, he was smart enough to manage both the Yankees (twice) and the Mets. He also coached on other clubs, finally giving in to father time and simply becoming a spring training fixture.

During his second turn as the Yanks manager, I was furious at then Yankee owner George Steinbrenner. I never went to Yankee Stadium again until George and Yogi patched things up. I took my sons and nephews to Shea to watch the Mets instead.

In other words, I really liked the guy. And he taught me a very valuable lesson. While managing a moribund Mets team in the middle of the 1973 season, he was quoted as saying “it ain’t over ‘till it’s over.” The Mets won the eastern division with a record of just 82-79 but then beat the Reds’ powerful “big red machine” before losing the World Series in seven games to the Oakland A’s, whose roster included folks like Reggie Jackson and Mark McGuire.  He was also a coach on the 1969 “Miracle Mets.” The Yankees were winners, and Yogi helped turned the Mets into that. And so my life has been one of hanging in there and keeping on.

Now if you’re under 60, chances are this means little to you. But as I was listening to sports radio today, Yogi was being hailed as part of the Yankees “Mount Rushmore,” right up there with Ruth, Gehrig, Mickey and Joe D. It was deserved.

But Yogi hasn’t really left us. He simply went to be with his wife, Carmen, whom he married in 1949. She died in 2014 and I suppose Yogi was just too lonely without her.

I haven’t even begun to express my sorrow or the way I feel about Yogi’s death today. But he was simply a part of my life since I was able to hold a baseball and I will miss him. A long-delayed pilgrimage to his museum in nearby Montclair, NJ is in order.

Eastbound of Chaos

I have suddenly discovered that I haven't posted a blog since last February  It wasn't that I hadn't written them. I simply did not find the time to add photos. I still haven't  But these have been drafts so long, I've decided to forget about the photos. Hell, I grew up reading books without pictures after all.

Feb 21, 2915 Oregon Coastal Mountains

It is time to say goodbye.

I’ve only been in Oregon since October, but I’ve really had enough of it. This is my second extended stay in Oregon. Both times I have dragged my trailer here and instead of paying for living in an RV park, I’ve volunteered at various state and national parks. In fact, I recently received my thousand-hour pin for volunteering in Oregon State Parks. I’ve also done about 600 hours at Lewis & Clark National Park here in Oregon and another 400 in Georgia’s Unicoi State Park last winter.

And though my granddaughter, the world’s most beautiful and brilliant little girl (she just turned five and is reading Harry Potter) brings pure joy to my life, It isn’t enough often enough to make me put down roots. 

I was scheduled to be volunteering throughout the state for the rest of the year, but I was rather depressed. It’s month after month of the same-old and while I had a place to live for the rest of the year, it was only two months at a time. The Vagabond in me is slowly dying as about the only place on my bucket list I’ve yet to visit, Yosemite, is snowed in and not available now. 

But I obtained a wonderful and exciting job offer and will be heading back east, to a dude ranch in Western North Carolina through Thanksgiving. I'll be doing something I love — photography — and  I am more than confident that I’ll easily make enough money to stop volunteering for a while. And I can spend the winter loafing in the warm south – or near my other son and warm friends in the NYC metro area.

And so, just as in my life, my days in Oregon have dwindled down to a precious few. After the upcoming cross-country trip, I don’t think I’ll have enough left in me to do it again. This will be my fourth time, not to mention several trips up and down the Atlantic Coast and once along the legendary Pacific Coast Highway.

I suspect if I want to visit Yosemite, it will be on a tour bus with old geezers like myself and Oregon Trips will be family visits by plane.

But today, I realized some of what I’ve been missing – the freedom of the road. I’ve been so focused on tasks to be done as a park volunteer; I’ve overlooked the reason for doing so – the freedom to discover new places on my days off.

The process of renewed discovery took a rather convoluted path today. I returned to Oregon in October, spending that month in Stub Stewart State Park (the closest state park to my granddaughter and only a few minutes from my former fiancé, whom I remain friends with). After a couple of months of isolation, misery and early snows at a park that was closed near Bend, I returned to Stub Stewart in January for two months. It hasn't snowed here this year, though it gets a heavy storm every few years. Except for an occasional visit with my son’s family, the only times I’ve been out of the park was for shopping. And today started out like that. I needed to have my oil changed and my rear axle repacked before I headed east. I did so and then went to the Freddy’s next to the oil change place. For those of you who don’t know what Freddy’s is, it is a major chain quite similar to a Super Wal-Mart. Even though it is owned by Kroeger, it retains its northwest identity, as well as having low gas prices and giving discounts on that. I have been picking up photo supplies for my upcoming gig in order to avoid sales tax. Oregon, Montana and Delaware are the only states without it and I often wait to buy my big-ticket items there. 

As I headed back to the trailer, I passed a sign towards Tillamook, a small town along the Pacific coast about 80 miles away. Tillamook is also the home of a cheese factory, owned by a dairy cooperative, famous throughout the Northwest. They also sell some incredible ice cream, including my favorite, marrionberry pie.

I decided on the spur of the moment to head there. Why not get my Christmas shopping done? I’ve been giving Tillamook cheese over the past few years. And as I was en route I suddenly realized I could also say goodbye to the Pacific Ocean.  It has been so long since I smelled the salt from the sea and put my hands into the ocean water.  It was the first spontaneous thing I have done in months. I didn’t even have a camera other than my iPhone. 

This year’s winter weather has been far better than usual and even though it’s late February, temperatures have been running from the high 50s to low 60s and we’ve been having many more days of sunshine and beautiful stars than is usually a part of a rainy Pacific Northwest winter. 

Anyhow, after the visit to the cheese factory with just about all my Christmas shopping done, I dropped by a state park beach to visit the ocean. It was sort of strange. I had just gone through a town named Rockaway Beach and the beach I visited was named Manhattan State Park. There are Rockaways in both New Jersey and Brooklyn so my mind took a time passage to those places. And of course, I was born in Manhattan and spent much of my career there. I had enjoyed the day, but what made it very special was the return trip. 

Remember the Robert Frost poem: “The Road Not Taken?”

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,


And sorry I could not travel both


And be one traveler, long I stood


And looked down one as far as I could


To where it bent in the undergrowth;



Then took the other, as just as fair


And having perhaps the better claim,


Because it was grassy and wanted wear;


Though as for that the passing there


Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay


In leaves no step had trodden black.


Oh, I kept the first for another day!


Yet knowing how way leads on to way,


I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh


Somewhere ages and ages hence:


Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —


I took the one less traveled by,


And that has made all the difference.

Thus far I had taken roads known to me. But the GPS said to take State Highway 53.

The Route 53 I know runs between Denville and Morristown in New Jersey. And I took another few time passages remembering some nice things from both my childhoods. 

But Oregon’s Route 53, though about the same distance, was a rural and somewhat untamed road. As I moved away from The Pacific Coast Highway, I entered farm country. I immediately smelled something I could best describe as rotten. I was driving by a stream and thought that since the ocean was at low tide, the smell came from the stream since it was less than a mile away from the coast and the stream clearly emptied into it. It took me another mile or so to realize that I was in the area where  the Tillamook people had a lot of cows. And I quickly realized the source of the smell. 

But it didn’t quite smell the same as the pasture patties I am used to. I suppose the Pacific breeze and frequent rains create a different environment than the Midwest and East. “Maybe that’s why Tillamook's cheese has been judged as the best cheddar in the world,” I chuckled to myself.

The road then climbed into the Coastal Mountains, and the geography took on an entirely different face. I was in timber country. There were constant curves as the road wended its way through the mountains and hills. And around several bends, there was a tragic site. Loggers had literally raped the land, cutting down miles of forest and leaving no seedlings to replace them. I thought of the description of Biblical end times and figured that this is perhaps a perfect description. I have travelled through deserts and wastelands, but this desolation was caused by humanity.  God’s beautiful creation was destroyed by our need for lumber, without a care about the consequences. 

This left me very perturbed as I left Route 53 to rejoin the more familiar Route 26, the main route between Portland and the shore. But my spirits were somewhat lifted when I saw some reforested land. Perhaps we are not as self-destructive as I thought. But then my mind turned to the one percent and I returned to my liberal philosophy that gangsters need to be contained. Determined to do something pragmatic, I set the cruise control to the speed limit and soon I was leading a caravan of at least 20 cars through miles of a no passing zone. Sure, my big boy toy pickup was only getting 19 mpg, but look at all the gas I was saving with the other cars (Insert evil laugh here).

As I neared Stub Stewart, I stopped off at the home of my former fiancé. We had eaten together a few times, including the night before. But I was unsatisfied, as I didn’t want to leave things the way they were. She is fond of spicy foods, while I rarely use pepper. So I brought her a gift pack of Tillamook’s more spicy cheeses as a parting gift. It brought a smile to her face and we parted with a long hug. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again, but I felt the gift was a little better way to say goodbye. 

I am now “home,” at my trailer, because home is where I park it. I am weary from the day and hope I will get some sleep tonight. Lately, I have not been getting up until 10 a.m. at the earliest, often sleeping past noon and sometimes staying awake all night, only to have difficulty going to sleep the next night. When I go to sleep at this time, around 9 or 10 p.m., I often wake up at 1 a.m. and can’t get back to sleep. Hopefully, this won’t happen for the next few nights as I prepare to depart in a few days.

Feb. 22, 2015

Happy Birthday George Washington. I never did like "President's Day" that was created by MLK day. I used to mark the day with a slice of cherry pie, but no longer.

Today is a day for packing out the trailer. Unlike when I move a few hours to a new state park locale I'm getting ready for a 3,000-mile trip. Everything has to be secure. Items in the bathroom must be boxed and stored inside the tub. The electric razor needs charging — I may noy have AC power for two weeks. Water jugs have to be filled.

Without AC power, the propane has to be topped off. It will be my heat and cooking source as well as running my refrigerator. About 16 months ago, I was trapped in a blizzard without power and got along quite nicely. I hope to leave Tuesday as I have checked my weather app and I need to stay ahead of snow as I cross the Rockies into the midwest. The Rockies have lots of snow, but the plains can have brutal blizzards due to prairie winds. But if I stay on schedule, I should avoid them and I sometimes get a nice tailwind, increasing the meager mileage I get while hauling the trailer. A nice wind can improve mileage from 9 to 11 mpg. It may not sound like much, but over a cross country trip, it will save me 

61 gallons of gas. 

Anyhow, I'm working on the inside this morning. Aside from putting away decorations, the outside has to wait until just before departure as I pull in the sliding room and disconnect my utilities. One of my biggest issues will be where to sleep on the road. The bed is far more comfortable, but with its foam mattress, it also holds many things in place without the sliding. The pull down sofa is less comfortable, but more convenient. This time, I also have to deal with a computer desk that I bought. I have to drop the table (it can double as a bed) and lay it on top.

* * * 
Written in June 2015

This part started out as a personal e-mail to a friend. by the time I had passed 2,000 words (it's now well over 4,000), I decided to post it since I haven't posted anything in some time.

As I wrote this, I realized I have been living in chaos most of my life. Many of the choices I have made have contributed to this, and I am hoping to change. One decision I have made is to get off the road. I have paid for a site in an RV park in northwest New Jersey through mid October and the price includes storage through May 1, 2016. There will be no more wandering. I'm just too physically and mentally exhausted.

I am not sure about how much you know about what I have been doing, so I'll try to give you the story since I left Oregon. 

I left Oregon in late February to head for the western part of North Carolina where I had a job offer at Clear Creek Dude Ranch, a vacation spot for some rather wealthy people. Based on my estimates, I expected to make at least $25K, more likely $35K, as a photographer over the season that would end on Thanksgiving weekend. 

And I invested heavily in making it work. It started with purchasing an extra camera at Freddy's (Fred Meyer's -- a Northwest version of a Wal-Mart superstore) because there was no sales tax. Then, of course, was the trip east, which was a rather rough one. On the first night, I stayed at Farewell Bend State Park, which is on the eastern side of Oregon -- a few miles from the Idaho border. I had a site reserved, but I arrived late at night and it was impossible to back into it. So I "boondocked", in other words, just parked in the parking lot without sewer, water or electric. It was the first of many problems that I encountered.

After traveling through Idaho, I planned to see the Great Salt Lake in Utah en route along the Interstate highway. But my map was off and after checking at the Utah visitor center, I discovered that the highway viewpoint I was thinking of was actually about 15 miles from the lake. Plan B called for me staying at a state park campground at the northern end of the lake, but the people at the visitor center told me only part of the park was open and there were no vacancies. Even if they had one, there were no utilities.

One of the things I noticed about the area was there was little, if any, snow. I was told there was a drought that has been going on for four years. I passed a mountain town called Snowville, a ski resort, and there wasn't a flake to be found. Even the mountains near Salt Lake City had little snow -- and this was where the Winter Olympics were held not too long ago.

So I changed course and headed east towards Wyoming along Interstate 80. I reluctantly made a reservation at a KOA in Rock Springs (I don't like them very much as they are usually overpriced, but this one didn't seem too high). Naturally, it started snowing. So I'm passing through high Rocky Mountains in February with snow falling and sticking. It started getting slippery and as I climbed hills both my truck wheels (with brand new tires) and my trailer started skidding out of control. I was forced to drive at only 30 mph to keep the vehicles under control. It was getting quite cold as well, about -5º. The woman at the KOA gave me bad directions and my GPS couldn't find the campground. After going past the place where the KOA was supposed to be, I decided I would spend the night at the next truck stop, hoping I would have enough gas left to get there. I had less than 1/4 tank. Fortunately, I found the KOA and pulled in. It was the worst campground I had ever seen. It was nothing but a pile of rocks. The name of the town came from its abundance of rocks, not any springs. I couldn't find the office building where some instructions were so I just picked out a spot (There was about 100 spots, almost all of which were vacant) and plugged in my electric. It was way too cold for water or sewage. 

It was a rough night. I had to use both electric and gas heat, and I ran out of propane. I had gotten rid of some sleeping bags I had for several years and I wished for them dearly. Eventually I fell asleep. In the morning, I disconnected and left, stopping at the local Wal-Mart a few blocks away for food. I then picked up gas, which was about 40 cents per gallon more than it was in Utah. 

The day alternated between sun and snow showers. While there was no serious accumulumation, the going was slow. There was a rest stop at the continental divide and I stopped there for a nap. The mountains seemed to desperately cling to this snow --  where there should have been six feet; there weren't even six inches. I suspect this drought will be far worse in terms of food prices this summer as the Midwest won't have enough water for crops.

En route, I had wanted to see Cheyenne and Laramie, two famous old west towns. But as I left the mountains, the snow got worse. I decided to get to the flatlands of Nebraska and found a truck stop where I could spend the night. It was dark when I pulled into North Platte. As I went to park, I pulled into an RV area and slightly scratched another trailer. The problem was it was brand-new and being delivered from the factory in Ohio to a dealer in Oregon. The commercial truck driver went nuts. He said he would have to return it to the factory. Hey! I really didn't care. He was "on the clock." But I did care that it was a Winnebago, the most expense RV made. The scratch made my insurance jump about $300 a year. 

I was thoroughly exhausted and tired of three days of Interstate driving. Still on I-80, I knew my destination was near I-40 so I headed south along local roads to I-70. The snow began flying and the rig was again slipping. I decided to have no more of it. After only three hours of driving, I stopped at a Holiday Inn -- the first decent chain I saw -– shortly after noon and had to spend $120 for the night. They charged an extra $30 because I had Pup with me. I quickly went to sleep. I woke up around 7 p.m., put on my swimsuit and went to the pool and the spa. The spa was lukewarm instead of the hot water I expected, but it helped ease the tension a little. I went back to the room and stayed on line for a while before going back to sleep. The on-line experience was frustrating. The computer was nearly five years old and I couldn’t see a lot of content. Even g-mail and YouTube had notices that it didn’t support my browser any longer. 

I asked for a 7 a.m. wake-up call and went back to the spa when I woke. This time, the water was warmer but the room reeked of chlorine. After a little time in the pool I went back to the room and chose a very hot bath instead. 

The motel had a good free breakfast spread with eggs, sausage, waffles and more. I ate some eggs and a couple of servings of Oatmeal and then packed up several pastries and made several sandwiches from the eggs and sausages for my lunch and dinner. I went back to my room and napped, leaving about 15 minutes before the 11 a.m. checkout time. 

I knew this was going to be a long day. First because of the late start and also because we were still having snow flurries. I wanted to get through the rest of Nebraska and through Missouri with a route that would take me through Kansas, a state I had not yet been to. I am trying to visit every one of the 48 states. It was a long drive, though the snow eased off during the day. The idea of sightseeing was completely gone. I really would have liked to see the Truman Presidential Library in Independence, MO, but as gas prices and food prices continued to mount up on my credit cards, I was becoming a tightwad. It was very late by the time I reached St. Louis and got off at the wrong exit. I was stranded in a very poor section where snowplows had not gone through and there was about six inches of snow. It took me an hour to get back on track. So I had crossed the Mississippi and headed south, finding a truck stop in Illinois to spend the night.

I was still very psyched by the accident from two nights ago and was very, very careful to find a safe spot to pull into. I was now in the Midwest, safely out of the mountains and the temperatures had moderated somewhat. I was able to fill my propane tanks and had heat. I had dinner at the Denny’s at the truck stop. It was my second visit to Denny’s on this trip and all I wanted both times was a couple of eggs and some toast. But you can’t get that at Denny’s. They offer several different platters with lots of choices, but you always had to get some sort of meat with the meal, making it more expensive. 

Anyhow, I had a comfortable night and a very uncomfortable start to the next day. Feeling good about myself, I drove up to get gas – and scraped the trailer on the cement pole barrier. I haven’t had an accident in the last 20 years – except with the damned trailer or the damn hitch on the truck.

Anyhow, it was my last full day on the road. I reserved a campground in Ashville, NC, near the dude ranch. I knew the ranch was in the mountains and didn’t want to go there at night. I was on the road through Tennessee. I dearly wanted to take a side trip to Memphis. I wanted to do the things in the song “Walking in Memphis” and see the sights. Elvis’ Graceland home did not really interest me, though I would visit there, but I wanted to see the clubs where the blues began on Beale Street. But it was just too far off my route, about 300 miles. But I thought I would at least get to see Nashville, the capital of country music. And I did. In rush hour. With no visible place to park a trailer. So I finally linked up with Interstate 40 for Ashville. It was dark when I crossed the state border. I was finally in North Carolina. But it was pitch black with little traffic and no road lights. And I was exhausted. I-40 went into the mountains and I was climbing much of the time. I accidently pulled off the road into an exit. When I got to Ashville, it was close to 10 p.m. I stopped at a Cracker Barrel to eat. It was late in the day and they had run out of a couple of entries. I forget what I had, but I ate well, taking some cornbread for the morning. 

I had made reservations at an RV park and insisted on a pull-through site. I found it and for the first time in days, I spent the night with water and sewage. I dumped my tanks and had a quiet night.

In the morning, I thought I was about 40 minutes from the dude ranch, but it took me several hours. to get there on the winding roads along the mountains. The ranch itself was built into a mountain and the roads are very steep and very poorly paved. I drove up to the office building, not realizing there was no turnaround, and checked in. This was around March 1 and they weren’t expecting me until the end of the month. I told them that I just wanted to leave the trailer there and return when they expected me. The manager had to back the trailer down the hill and took me to the site.

I stayed there a few days. The nearest town was about 30 miles away and had a 24-hour Wal-Mart. I figured I could process the photos every night there but I discovered they stopped printing every day at 6 p.m. Despite the fact I would have given them around $1,000 a week in business, they said there was no way they could override the system to help me. A visit to a Rite-Aid proved equally fruitless and I realized I would have to print the photos myself, which meant that I would have to purchase a high capacity printer and lots of ink cartridges, not to mention paper.

After setting up what I could, I moved across the state to my friends, Frank and Gina Savarese. Frank was my boss when we both worked for an ad agency servicing some of Canon’s accounts. We have remained close since the 1980s and he is just about the closest thing I have to a best friend. They moved from Long Island to a town near Raleigh to be with one of their daughters and have been running a thrift store to benefit and train autistic people. Their daughter teaches autistic children in the public schools and the system drops them when they become adults. Anyway, I spent several days with them doing little but recovering from my arduous journey. My future plans called for me to head north and visit with friends and family but I learned there was a “real” camera store in the area and I picked up some equipment there. I also purchased the printer, ink and some office supplies at the local Staples and, throwing caution to the wind, bought a new laptop, which I returned the next day to exchange for a model that was introduced that day. I finally decided to keep the one I originally purchased after they gave me both an educational price and knocked off another $100, the new price for the model I purchased.

I then headed north. I went to New Jersey via I-95 heading through the DC area, which I reached around 7 p.m. Rush hour was still going on and it took more than two hours to get past it. I arrived at my friend Emily’s home around 11 p.m. – 14 hours after I started. 

Emily and I have an interesting relationship. We went to our high school senior prom together in 1966 and quickly drifted apart as we were both starting careers. The last time I had seen her was when I was attending County College of Morris in 1969 when I spotted her walking up the steps.  I went to pat her butt and, just as my hand started moving, she lifted her leg up to the next stair and I wound up goosing her. I was sooooo embarrassed. But she gave me a huge smile and we talked for a few moments. A few weeks later, I had joined the Army and we never saw one another for decades.

About six years ago, I discovered our prom picture and set out to find her on Facebook. I did, sort of, as she had gone on Facebook but didn’t know to use it. Anyhow, I e-mailed her the photos and we started a conversation, as I had done with many people – especially classmates – from my youth. I have had a very turbulent life and I wanted to re-connect with people from that time to ask what they thought of me. One of the things I was trying to understand was what was “real” from that time as I had been told so many lies by my mother that my entire perspective of life had changed in those days. I went from being a happy 2^nd grader with some good friends to a constant, friendless “new kid” as we lived in 11 different places in four years after my parents separated. 

While corresponding with these people, the last battle with the ex happened. Emily had worked with abused women and told me to get the hell out of Dodge and I did as soon as I could. She was one of the first people I visited after that. I spent some time at the library with her teaching her how to use Facebook. After which I headed to Florida to try and get my head straightened out. By the time I returned, our relationship had become a loving one but we never moved in together or got married. I moved into in a senior citizen complex in New York, just over the New Jersey line and we saw one another frequently.

It was a few years later, 2012, when I decided to go to Oregon with my travel trailer. Oregon is where my son, John, and his family live and I hadn’t seen them since the winter of 2009 when my granddaughter was born. I talked to several people about volunteering at state parks and I was able to get several gigs there, meanwhile re-establishing a relationship with my son and his family. In the summer of 2013, I started heading back east, spending the summer in a tourist trap in South Dakota to earn enough money to head back to New Jersey. I wanted to see my son, but more than anything else I wanted to ask Emily to marry me. I put her in a very unfair position, demanding an answer right away. I started running out of money and had to leave the area. There just wasn’t a place to winter in New Jersey that I could afford. I wound up working for Amazon in Kentucky for the Holiday Season and then volunteering at a Georgia state park. Afterwards, I spent the next summer in South Dakota at the tourist trap and again wintered in Oregon. 

I had no plans to return east at that time. In fact, I had booked myself into volunteer spots throughout Oregon through December of 2015. 

But the dude ranch job offer was just too good to resist. 

Anyway, after leaving Frank and Gina, I visited Emily and stayed at her house while also visiting my other son, Matthew and doing some other things. The pain we experienced from our breakup was discussed and we decided she would spend a week at the ranch to see where it would go. 

After a week or so, I began the return trip to the ranch, stopping to visit my cousins and my best friend from high school, all of whom lived in suburban Baltimore. We hadn’t seen one another for several years and I was surprised how “old” my cousins were. Cousin Rita is in her 80s and still very sharp, writing medical stories for one of the universities in Maryland. Still, she was slower and more deliberate in her movements. But Luke, who I have always called “Red” dating back to his childhood and bright red head of hair, was now using a cane and he appeared to be very dependent on it. Luke and his wife, Judy, spend much of the winter in Florida now, commuting between temperate seasonal climates. The one thing about Red I still remember is he always seemed to do what was proper. He graduated from college, was an officer in the Navy, and had a long career with the telephone company and has a wonderful wife and lots of kids and grandkids. It is such a contrast to my life where jobs and places where I lived were constantly changing. We are like opposites – Red’s calm vs. my chaos. 

During this time, I gave everyone Tillamook cheese. Tillamook is an Oregon dairy cooperative and make cheddar cheese that has won several worldwide awards. I have tried to give presents to people from places I’ve visited. In 2011, I gave jars of cherry butter that I found in Gettysburg. I still have some cheese left and am not looking forward to running out. Hopefully I can get John to send some.

After that, I ventured back to Frank and Gina’s for a couple of days of rest. At this point, the thrift store was in the middle of moving to a new location and I tried to help where I could. But there was little to be done.

And then it was time to return to the ranch. I arrived a few days prior to the opening of the season, setting up the new printer and other equipment. I built a small corral fence as a photo prop and placed a saddle blanket and old saddle on it.

It was a good start. But I was in the rural southern Appalachian Mountains. And I had that type “A” New Yorker heritage. I was heavily invested in this photo business and between travel and equipment I was more than $8,000 in debt. My perspective was I was not only there to take photos, but sell them. And I pushed sales. A couple of the guests complained to the owners. I could have eased back, but the owners and the managers had some discussions along the lines of “do we really need a photographer?” This was after about a week and I made about $800 for the first week, when the place had only seven of its 19 rooms filled. During the summer, I expected their share of the take to be at least $10,000. But the photographers over the past few years were very laid back and made only about $100 a week. I had been a resort photographer before and they hadn’t and I knew what to do.

Anyhow, they decided to terminate both the position and me. That was the first week of April. I wouldn’t get my social security check until the third week. The managers agreed that I could leave the trailer there for a couple of weeks. I would not be on the premises, staying with Frank and Gina. During that time, I helped with the move to the new thrift store. I returned to the ranch in two weeks to begin packing and discovered that the managers had been fired. They wanted me out of the ranch immediately. I spoke to one of the owners and arranged to stay an extra two days in order to ready the trailer for travel.

I was now faced with a decision. I could return to the state park in Georgia, about 200 miles away, or I could return to New Jersey. With the money I earned from the week I worked there, I could put up $1500 for a seasonal campsite at a RV resort where I spent the summer of 2011 and a month in 2012, and then pay another $500 in June and July. The reason was simple – it was time to see if my relationship with Emily would work. 

But there was a big problem. A few months after leaving Emily in the winter of 2013, I was a mess. I asked another woman I had known in Oregon to marry me. When I arrived back in Oregon last October, there were just too many issues between us and we called off the wedding. Like I said, my life is one of chaos.

So I hauled the trailer back north. The campground didn’t open until May 1, so at a midway point, I spent a night at an RV park in Virginia and then put the unit in storage for a week. I then spent a week with Emily. During that time, I also visited Matt and the Freedom Tower. 9-11 was a very significant day in my life and it changed its entire direction. 

Anyhow, after a week, I hauled the trailer upstate and moved into the campground. I figured we could take our time. But then there was more chaos. I was at her house, feeling exhausted and in much pain from neck and shoulder injuries I sustained in 2004. I went to the local emergency room where it was discovered I had a stroke recently. They wanted to admit me there, but that hospital has some bad memories for me. I had a very unpleasant tonsil removal as a child and I also had 21 stitches in my arm after another incident. Also in my childhood, my mother was confined there for months and I was only allowed to see her on Easter for about ten minutes. In later years, my aunt died there, as did a friend of mine. When I discovered that the doctor wanted to give me certain drugs that were counter-indicated for some of my other medical issues, I left against medical advice, entering Morristown Memorial Hospital two days later, in my hometown. I was in the hospital for several days and as I started to recover from the weakness of my stroke, they gave me a neck MRI and I learned there was a lot of damage there. 

It has gotten worse. I cannot lie down on my shoulder without the entire arm turning painfully numb. The neck continues to ache badly. I am going to have to go through the hassle of re-opening a worker compensation case to treat it. I will also need to be treated in New York. So tomorrow, I’m heading to see my doctor on Long Island to start the process. 

In the meantime, a friend of mine died. Pete was a high school classmate who served in Vietnam. He died of complications from exposure to Agent Orange. We renewed our acquaintance in 2011 during our high school reunion. He had been a widow for several years as had Lois, another classmate. When Pete got into some trouble, he moved in with Lois and the two became companions. In the meantime, he dreamed of living an RV lifestyle and we frequently corresponded about various ideas of RV living. I am grateful that Pete and Lois had the time together. A lifestyle of mourning became better with the two. I am hopeful that Lois will continue to reach out to others.

While in the hospital, a heavy rainstorm destroyed my trailer's awning. I have a settlement, but I used the funds to reduce my debts. I will make the decision later this year depending on what happens with Emily. In the meantime, I’ve been staying with her and we are seeing if we can finally make it work. We will be vacationing together at the campground next week. Things seem to be better. We appreciate one another for what each gives to the relationship. Despite having several family and economic problems in her life, she remains drama free and expresses thanks for small favors. Once, she helped me through one of the worst parts of my life and I will always be grateful for it. I hope whatever I can do for her will reflect how grateful I am for her being in my life. Even if it doesn't work out, I will forever value our time together.