The antipizza

Anyone who has lived between the Delaware River and the Atlantic Ocean is aware that there is a vast epicurean wasteland west of that River. For beyond that point there are impostors.

Their names are infamous: Pizza Hut, Domino’s, Little Caesar’s, Poppa John’s and Sbarro are among these spawn of evil incarnate. Even worse are those new “take and bake” places like Papa Murphy’s (What the HELL kind of a name is that for a legendary Italian food?). These places give you horrifying junk and then blame YOU if it didn’t turn our right, because, after all, it’s YOUR oven.

Everyone knows that frozen pizza is pathetic. Because, of course, you freeze the ingredients.

And as I have been up and down the Atlantic Coast several times and have recently completed my third cross-country trip, I have been exposed to these impostors. I know the best I can hope for is some processed cheese melted on all kinds of imitation crusts with packaged meat and other ingredients tossed in.

For those of you who live west of the Delaware River, one has to understand why these foul impostors are rarely around between the river and ocean. It’s because New York is THE city. It is where many immigrants came to our shore, especially the (are you ready for this?) Italians.

And so one must experience pizza in one of the thousands of small pizza places that dot the metropolitan area. The impostors are rare. They simply can't compete with the quality. The crust is thin, but not so thin as the slice can’t be folded in half as one eats it. The cheese is fresh, the sauce is home madeand perfectly spiced. And despite their small size, these pizzerias provide a bountiful menu of Italian-American dishes including veal, chicken, sausage and meatballs served with an infinite variety of pastas, cheese and sauces – or as classic heros.

Alas, I am in Oregon, about 30 miles west of Portland. And these imposters are everywhere. It makes me very nervous as my frugal lifestyle has boosted my credit rating to ridiculous highs. And I am often sorely tempted to head to PDX and fly back home, if only for a real meal in Brooklyn, Queens or even Jersey. Could there be anything more wonderful than take-out with a fabulous friend? (Especially if she lived in Denville!)

My love for pizza and other Italian foods began when I was a callow youth of about 10 tender years of age. You may ask why it took so long to have pizza, and you may. I had eaten spaghetti out of a can and occasionally my mother would make it with canned tomato sauce, not the sauce you think of. It was the tasteless, spiceless kind. But what did she know? She was Irish. And so on a hot summer day at a beach along the Rockaway River in Mt. Tabor, New Jersey, I approached the snack bar. And on the counter was pizza. It was truly lousy pizza, but even then, it was wonderful.

And so, my mother had been forced to journey to Fred’s Pizza, located in my hometown of Morristown, New Jersey, every other Friday (payday) where we would enjoy an epicurean delight of  “two slices and a soda.”

And then things got serious. When I was married, we discovered that the Daily News had rated the best pizza place in New York City was about five blocks from where we lived and we went there many times. But to be honest, it was about the same as just about every other pizzeria in New York. I was especially fond of a small little place in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. It was a few blocks from my in-laws home and had incredible chicken and veal Parmesan. The last time I ate there was on my way home after selling the house. I went about sixty miles out of my way to eat there, and it was well worth it.

Anyhow, except for a few weeks in New Jersey in October of 2013, I have been out of touch with the “real” stuff since I hit the road full time in 2012.

And thus in Banks, Oregon, I tripped upon the antipizza. Banks is a small town. It has little retail, but it does have a small supermarket. Next to it is “Main Street Pizza.” As we enter, you are warned. It is not for the faint of heart. I approached the counter and asked for two cheese slices and a soda. I get a blank stare from the counterman. “Sorry, we only sell slices between 11 and 1.”

WTF????? The entire NYC metro culture, not to mention the economy, is based on two slices and a soda. A place that did that on Long Island wouldn’t last a week. And so I reviewed the menu. It had sandwiches. A sausage and pepper would be great. They didn’t have it; nor did they have chicken, or veal. The girl at the counter never heard of them! How can you work in a pizza place and NOT know about veal parmesan? They had ham, Swiss, roast beef, cheddar and other sandwiches without a hint of salami, pepperoni or provolone. Would you like an antipasti? Good luck, they didn’t even serve pasta! And forget meatballs. Even the nearby Subway sells meatball sandwiches for $5!

In the tradition of the Portland region, however, they did sell eight varieties of microbrew beer.

As I was leaving, wondering if the Chinese restaurant next door knew how to make chow mien without noodles, I passed by a table and noticed that the pizza didn’t look half bad. In fact, it looked and smelled about the same as the beach pizza I had more than half a century ago. And so I ordered a large pie. I went shopping at the local market and the pie was ready when I was finished. I brought it home, opened it and discovered the pie was sliced into 12 pieces. That was weird. The “real” way to eat pizza is to fold it in half so the oil can drip on your shirt as you bring it to your mouth. That works with eight slices. I was tempted to describe the slice as "lice" — one letter shy of a slice."

And so, my memories of real pizza still intact, I tasted it. And it wasn’t half bad! In fact it was good – not as good as east of the Delaware – but good enough to be the best west of the Delaware. The crust was perfect, and the cheese and sauce in correct proportions. I had four of the “slices” and divided the other eight into four bags and put them into the fridge for future meals.

Cold pizza for breakfast? Oh yeah!           

Snow and cold and fear, oh my!

I don’t like being cold. And I am especially not fond of snow. Over the last two winters, I have inadvertently placed myself in winter weather. Last winter I was in the “sunny south,” about 90 miles north of Atlanta. But I was also in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the region had record cold. This year, I am at a state park near Bend, Oregon. I am on the eastern side of the Cascade Mountain Range. On the western side, there is the Willamette Valley, where temperatures are about 15 degrees warmer and snow is not much of an issue.

But today, it is snowing heavily. It is around 3 p.m. and there are at least six inches on the ground already. I expect more tonight with bitter temperatures in the low single digits to prevent any thought of moderation. I was due to roll out to my new destination in the morning, but I have abandoned such plans and will probably wait until New Years Day to leave in the afternoon when the temperature will rise to freezing.

About six weeks ago, we had an early season snow that turned to ice, leaving much misery as a the ice made it impossible for me to drive up the hill that is at the entrance to my campsite where I am hosting. But this time, it is simply a matter of cold. So the snow won’t turn to ice, but won’t melt either. The nights have been below freezing for some time now, but daytime temperatures in the high 30˚s and low 40˚s have made life comfortable until now. But even the moderate weather caused some problems. I had two buckets filled with dirt that I used to anchor my awning. The buckets froze with the rain that poured into them over the months. I had to bring them inside to loosen the stakes that were in them.

And so I am trapped in a splendid and beautiful isolation. And it is often at these times I take my fingers to keyboard to write. There is quiet and I know it is doubtful that anyone will come knocking at my door. I am truly alone and I feel secure in it. I don’t have to submit myself to any interpersonal behavior and am simply bathed in the calm. I also feel quite secure. While it is quite possible the power will go out, I have a propane refrigerator and stove and enough power in storage batteries to last at least a couple of days. My primary heating system is an electric infrared fireplace, but I know that I can flip a switch to activate the propane heat.

And the view is incredible. I can look out at my picnic table to judge the number of inches of snow. And in the background are many pine trees whose branches provide a serene blanket of green and white.

A park ranger, Josie, is in a pickup plowing the road. It will eventually become my route to freedom in a few days, and one more thing I am secure of. I expect her to drop by to pick up the park’s keys, cell phone and other items.

But the best part of this magnificent environment is that I am able to write. I haven’t even decided what to write about yet but I do know that I have already written nearly 600 words. 

My mind continues to wander to memories of previous winter cold, especially fears. I suspect my earliest incident was when I was about nine years old. We lived in a town called Victory Gardens in New Jersey. It is the smallest municipality in the state. All of the homes in the town were built of cement blocks during the World War II years for workers who labored at a nearby arsenal. The buildings used coal for heat and it was purchased by the ton and then dropped into a bin. One would shovel it into a furnace that would generate the heat.

By this time, my parents had been separated for about three years and I had spent my third through fifth grades in five different schools and eight different homes. I was beginning to act out and I didn’t know what would happen next. Mom was broke. We were using firewood I had scrounged in the woods and charcoal to feed the furnace. It burned way too quickly and for about a week I went to sleep at night bundled in winter clothes and many blankets. When the coal finally was delivered, I hid in the bin for hours on end, guarding it.

Christmas of 1965 was very different. It had snowed overnight and we were left with about a foot of the white stuff. The morning was cold but clear. I went downstairs to find our landlord shoveling. I joined him and we spent about two hours in removing the rather wet and heavy snow. My mother was furious. I don’t know why but she told me I had no business shoveling; it was the landlord’s job. As the years go by I realized she was well on her way to getting plastered. She was angry at the world I suppose. The snow prevented us from going to here friend’s home for Christmas dinner and we didn’t have much in the fridge. I suspect some sort of canned dinner was on tap. However, the landlord showed up with half a roast beef and the trimmings and we ate well.

I had moved out from the madness by 1968. I had a studio basement apartment and lived quietly. However I didn’t make much money and just like mom 13 years earlier, I was unable to pay the gas bill and I had gas heat. I went through the month of March sleeping in jeans and a sweatshirt and lying near a rotisserie, which supplied some minimal heat. But I would rather endure the cold than return home. Had I asked, I suppose my mother would give or lend me the money to pay the bill, but I was either too proud or too stupid to ask. I never gave it a thought.

Darkness comes early around here. It is about five minutes before sunset now and because the mountains are to the west, it is a time of twilight. The snow continues to swirl and has changed to much larger flakes. I will let Pup out for a walk in a few minutes. Earlier today he enjoyed frolicking in the snow as I walked him. It is a far cry from his first exposure to snow when he put his feet into it and ran under the trailer. Born in Florida, he had never seen it before. I rarely put a sweater on him, for he has a thick coat. But tonight I most certainly will.

The ex and I moved to Ronkonkoma, a town on Long Island, New York around 1982. Long Island is, of course, along the Atlantic Coast and is subject to massive blizzards called ‘nor’easters’ – the equivalent of tropical storms that rage up the coast. I remember the first one the most. We lived on a dead end street. It was wonderful for our children’s safety, but hell on snow plowers. The would have to plow up a small hill and then down a bit so that the six houses beyond us could be cleared. But they often became trapped when there was ice on the ground. Sometimes they would plow to the top of the hill and other times, they ignored us. I never did like it when they made it to the just over the top as they would push the snow along my driveway, tripling my efforts at clearance.

Anyhow, the first time I experienced this, they didn’t come at all. On the third day after the storm, it was warm and the snow was starting to melt. All the neighbors went out into the street and had a block party of sorts shoveling.

We lived near Long Island’s MacArthur Airport. One year with the beginnings of a blizzard attacking, we had to drop off my oldest son so he could fly back to college in suburban Chicago. We watched as the wings were deiced several times, hoping that the flight would be cancelled. In the meantime, plows were constantly clearing the runways and with great fear, we watched as he boarded and then saw the jet taking off. We were very relieved that it was a safe takeoff. By the time the flight left, there was more than 18 inches of snow on the ground and his was the last plane that left the east coast for several days.

By then, we had purchased an electric snow shovel after several arguments about the cost. But I finally refused to shovel snow without it. My back couldn’t take it any more and I would come back into the house profusely sweating and my heart racing. The best pair of ‘nor’easters (they often came up the coast one after the other) was when we weren’t there. Our one and only grandchild had been born in late November and we flew to Portland to meet her. This was during Christmas and our other son, who stayed behind, had to clear both storms up . . . about 40 inches.

But these were times when there was plenty of heat and warmth. I discovered that over the years, I needed the temperature to be around 75º to be comfortable while the ex insisted on 65º. There were occasional battles over this with both of us being both sneaky and stubborn, constantly adjusting the thermostats in every room of the house.

But perhaps the worst moments of Ronkonkoma winters was the arguing. Winter is a depressing time. There were the cold and short days. We argued to a point where I couldn’t handle it and I would spend the night in the car. I had sleeping bags there and I would park in the back of the church, which I thought to be safe. One February morning I couldn’t take it any longer and checked myself into a psych ward for depression and compulsive overeating. I refused to even see her until she apologized for doing something that was extremely hurtful.

Since then, my encounters with snow have been rare. I lived in a senior apartment complex in Port Jervis, NY and when it snowed, the maintenance people cleaned off the cars and plowed them after moving them to clear the parking spaces as well.

In 2013 the weather bureau decided to start naming blizzards. I wound up smack in the middle of the first one. Coming out of the Rockies and through the Black Hills, this one dumped about three feet on the prairie town where I had spent the summer. It was around October 4^th and we expected a few inches. The worst part was the high winds and drifting. You couldn’t get into the town’s emergency shelter because drifts had gone above the doors. There was one motel where the snow had drifted up to the top of the second floor balcony, trapping the people in first floor rooms and completely covering their cars. Interstate Highway 90, the major east-west route for the northern part of the country, ran right through the town. It was closed for five days. I followed it on TV until the power went out, but was still quite comfortable with my propane heat. I have made it a point to never be without full tanks again.

My former boss and now good friend constantly invited me to go skiing in Vermont where he had a time-share. I had a bad knee and kept on refusing, but I also wonder if fear, or at least an intense dislike, of cold that was built from a lifetime of unpleasant experiences was the real reason.

Anyhow, I’ve just past 2000 words trying to figure out a topic to write about. The night has turned black and I need to walk and feed Pup and settle in for a long winter’s nap. Happy New Year to all.

Today's Nazis

“The Nazis whom we did abhor

Are now completely kinder.

For when they aren’t making war,

No one could be politer.

The rule Miss Liberty with zeal.

They bow with grace and vigor.

The tip their hats and click their heels…

…Before they click the trigger.”

-- E. Y. Harberg

I have come to realize that I haven’t gotten over 9-11. I was in New York City that day, teaching in the Bronx. I experienced some of the response to the terror intentions of the attack, as I was unable to use mass transit to get home. And I worried in subsequent days if I was in the middle of a target as I passed through Penn and Grand Central railroad stations.

The school I worked in lost six parents from our “family,” all of them maintenance and clerical people. They were poor people just trying to earn a living. Ronkonkoma, the Long Island town I lived in, lost eight -- including six cops and firemen. I was in a floral shop ordering flowers for our son’s wedding reception when I saw a pretty, young, pregnant widow in tears as she arranged her fireman-husband’s funeral. The ex went to several of the victim’s funerals, returning in tears each time. I watched as the debris passed over the East River into Greenpoint Brooklyn and into the lungs of my wife’s parents and sister – possibly contributing to an earlier death than expected.

And a year later I was teaching lower Manhattan when helicopters started circling and the school was locked down as there was a sniper a few blocks away. The children saw a reflection the last day of the towers and freaked out. They were never the same after that for the entire year. Every single teacher and the principal chose to leave the school at the end of the year.

I had a grad school professor who lost a son and watched him collapse into darkness while trying to hold it together enough to teach the course.

Never one to be super patriotic, I fly a flag every day these days to honor them.

And so, more than a decade later, in a single week there was slaughter of more than 100 children in a school in Pakistani, a lunatic holding and killing people in a chocolate store in Australia, many innocents being slaughtered in Syria simply because of the fate of where they were born, and more children being kidnapped and killed in Africa in the same week. The rage from 9-11 has returned.

What is the difference, I ask you, from the souls who were murdered at Auschwitz to the children who were slaughtered yesterday? Or from the innocents who were crushed beyond recognition on 9-11 and the recipient of the Nobel Peace prize, a child who simply wanted to learn to read and write? Who speaks for these people if not us? We are a spoiled race that bitches about gas prices and the color of our President’s skin. Where is our courage as a nation?

The extreme branches of Islam are today’s Nazis. They have pulled every nation into a world war of terror. And the only way we were able to stop the original Nazis was to destroy them.

And so I have come to the conclusion that today’s Nazis must also be destroyed. Kill them all. I don’t give a rat’s ass about their reasons for doing what they do; and to hell with their civil rights. They are Nazis. They destroy innocents who happen to be in the way of their wars. They hate the Jews simply because they are of a different religion. Hell, they hate other branches of their own religion! They behead journalists whose only offense is to observe their terror. They kidnap and rape little girls.

America. It’s time. If we’re going to spend billions waging limited war, we might as well do the job right. Slaughter those bastards.  Out nation’s entire culture changed for the worse in the 1960s because politicians decided to wage a limited war in Vietnam that was impossible to win. And as I talk to people today, they are more frustrated than ever. They have bought the line that it isn’t possible to stop them all. Yes we can. Yet I hear the echo of those who perished in an airliner in Pennsylvania as they stopped yet another terror attack on 9-11. “Let’s roll.”

And while we’re at it, let’s nuke the next Nazis: North Korea.

“Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice. And moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue.” – 1964 Republican Presidential Candidate Barry Goldwater.

(For those who don’t know who Yip Harberg was, he was a composer. He is responsible for the score of “The Wizard of Oz” as well as the Great Depression’s iconic “Brother Can You Spare A Dime.” He authored many of Broadway’s musicals of the 1940s through 1960s and wrote several anti-war songs of the Vietnam era. )

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A Vagabond Christmas

It’s Christmastime in the Trailer

I happened to mention on Facebook that I was spending Black Friday decorating and I said I had to enter the den of Satan (the local Wal-Mart), because I discovered both my decorative and tree built-in lights were dead. I realized that both of these were purchased in 2010 and were probably due for a burial anyhow. And since lights and trees were 30 percent off until noon, I went over at 11:30 and picked them up. The store was fairly quiet except in the electronics department and I had no problem checking out.

After morning madness at the local Wal-Mart, I was able to get 30 percent off  on my new tree and lights by arriving about a half hour before the sale time ended. I also picked up a new doorbuster digital camera at about half price.

Some of my Facebook friends asked me to put some photos up on decorating a trailer and so I am posting this blog.

Now the first thing you need to know about living in a travel trailer is that it is not unlike a small apartment. The main area includes a kitchen, kitchen table and couch, not to mention amenities such as a television and DVD player. And the bedroom is a closed off area which, of course, contains a full-size bed (it can also fit a queen-size mattress) and lots of closet space for clothing. You can lift the platform for storage space, which includes the decorations I’ve had for years.

Oh Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches:

My trailer contains what is called a “side.” That’s a motorized extension that slides out from the trailer that permits more floor space. Sides can run from two-to-ten feet. Some larger units have them on both sides and create a living area greater than many living rooms in houses. I neither need such space, nor can I afford it. And even if I could, the cost of towing such a unit would be about six miles per gallon. It’s wonderful if you want to live somewhere permanently, but is not really suited for a nomad such as myself.

Putting a tree on the floor would not be pragmatic as there would be no way to get past it. My open floor is five feet wide and no matter where a tree would be placed, it would block traffic. And I am too old to have it stop me from going to the bathroom in the middle of the night. So a tabletop tree is necessary. I have always like the fiber optic lights on such a tree from the first time I saw one in the 1970s. You only need to change one light bulb and a rotating filter enables constantly changing colors. When I saw a 32” high one for about $20, I was sold. It now sits on my kitchen table using ornaments I purchased for the tree I bought in 2010 as well as some lasting back to my childhood. Yet I still have about 2/3rds of the table left for dining, tv watching and working on my laptop.

Top: 32-inch tabletop tree fits conveniently on the table.  Lights around the picture frame enhance the setting. Bottom: A color wheel at the base of the fiber optic tree results in constant light color changes.

Surrounding the window frame is a set of lights, which sets off the tree quite nicely.

Deck the Halls with boughs of Holly!

Sorry, but Holly was not an option, but I do string lights along the wall on the other side of the living area. The last time, I had lights inserted in an artificial pine bough. This time I mixed the lights with a garland instead. While the lights are nice, it is the place I hang the larger ornaments. There are a number of memories in these ornaments. There are a couple of very lovely glass ornaments more than sixty years old dating back to my childhood before my parents separated. There are also some very cheap plastic ones purchased in 1957. They were bought during hard times and no matter how lousy they look, especially as the angel hair inside them has become messed up, I refuse to part with them. That time was the blackest point of my childhood, and probably my life, and they symbolize that there can be joy even in the worst of times. Every year as I open the ornaments from their storage bin, I reflect on both these times. There are good memories in them.

Ornaments that have a strong sentimental value are hung from a light string and garland along the shelf area. In the foreground, a holiday-theme throw covers my couch. It was a gift last Christmas from the daughter of a friend. Holiday towels and hot mitts also hang by the kitchen area.

Also hanging there are a few newer ornaments that were given to me after my marriage fell apart in 2010. I am especially fond of one that says “first Christmas in a new home.” It was given to me by someone I love very much and stirs memories of us that warm me even on the coldest days. Thank you for that gift, and the many others you have given me, Emily. I sometimes become quite depressed during this time of year. Along with being alone during the holidays, the short, cold and dark days can be quite painful. These reminders lift my spirits.

During the Christmases since the breakup, I have spent several of them with my friends, Frank and Gina. I am in Oregon and they in North Carolina. As I write this, they enjoy a sunny 73º day, while I am enduring a sleeting 33º day with a night of sub-freezing weather that will turn the wet roads to ice.  Yet I still love them. Last year, their daughter gave me a Christmas-themed throw blanket that I have placed on the couch. Thanks Nickki.

And Momma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

I have two Santa hats, a normal one and one that says “Bah, Humbug” on it. Those who know me know that I have a full, white beard that I grow every Christmas season just to have fun with people. But they are soft and keep my bald head warm at night. Because I have to open the closets constantly, electric lights are not an option. But I do have a garland and, inspired by Nickki’s blanket, I purchased a second one, a lovely snowman, for the bed.

A snowman throw covers the bed while garland hangs from the cabinets.

In addition, I have my fireplace, a heater, and a DVD that plays music from “The Nutcracker” to a burning fire. Some of my favorite memories are Christmas in a home with a fireplace. And New York’s WPIX Christmas Eve programming played holiday music with a fire from Gracie Mansion’s fireplace (home of the New York City mayor). Perhaps the most joyous fireside moment was five years ago as I held my newly-born granddaughter by my son’s fireplace in suburban Portland, Oregon.

My electric heater features a fireplace. It is very similar to a real fireplace I had when I was a child. My campsite includes free electric and I use it instead of the gas heat the trailer has. Purchased this year, it is effective to about 20º and in bitter cold, I use both systems.

My electric heater/fireplace has kept me warm in weather well below freezing.  

Fireplace and campfires have a way of warming you twice. The first time is the warmth of the actual fire and the second is the warmth of the memories. And if the weather is right, I have a new outdoor fire pit for more good nights. Sometimes I have it with company, and my granddaughter always wants one for smores. Other times, I have Pup, my corgi, who is a wonderful companion.

Top: Holiday lights greet the few visitors I have as the park is closed for construction. My main function is as a caretaker and I keep an eye on the day use area across the street. Bottom: The view from outside my picture window at night. 

Outdoors I have blue and white rope lights running along the ground and I have placed a set of lights that alternate in red and green around the camp host sign I have at my campsite. I am at 3500 feet above sea level and near ski country. Chances are pretty fair I’ll have a white Christmas. I will be keeping a sharp eye on the weather and hitch up if there is any chance of snow.

And so I am ready for the holiday season. Despite being completely alone in this campground (it is under reconstruction and I am here as a caretaker) I have made some friends here and I hope they will come by for a visit. I’m also planning a hot-chocolate and muffins morning for the construction workers who sort of watch over me.

“Christmas” will be sometime around New Year’s Day when I will be back near Portland for my next assignment and see my granddaughter again.It’s Christmastime in the Trailer

The weather outside is frightful

I hate winter, especially snow. The last time I wintered in Oregon, it was along the Pacific Coast — no snow all winter. But where I am now was somewhat shocking. I'm in ski country, 3200 feet above sea level. And so I faced something I never thought I would again — winter storms.

Thursday, November 13, 2014 – 3 p.m.

“The first significant winter storm for the Pacific Northwest is now

Unfolding and is forecast to last into Friday, and winter storm warnings

And winter weather advisories are in effect, with Oregon likely seeing the greatest impacts.  With plenty of moisture being lifted above the cold arctic airmass near the surface with a mid-level disturbance moving overhead, widespread snow is likely, with some areas receiving in excess of eight inches of snow before the event is over.  Some sleet and freezing rain is a good possibility for the lower elevations near the Cascades and western Oregon.” -- National Weather Service 11-13-14.

As winters go, I’ve been through much worse. But this time it’s a little different. I’m at the western base of the Cascade Mountain Range in Oregon. I’m at Tumalo State Park volunteering as a caretaker.

The park is closed for the winter due to reconstruction of almost all of its buildings. I have very little to do here except be a presence. There’s lots of construction equipment around and the fact that I have my lights on at night is supposed to discourage theft. I open the day use area gate around 7:30 a.m. and close it around 6 p.m., well after sunset. But it’s my day off so I’ll let someone else deal with it. Otherwise, I’m here by myself and I sort of like it that way since I’m using the time to catch up on my writing and some other digital projects. I’ve met a couple of people, but the winter weather has added to the isolation, as I am now unable to travel.

While the road has been plowed this morning, more snow has made the road impassible for me as my non-snow tires need replacing and I don’t dare risk the hill to the entrance.

It has been fairly moderate compared to many of the winters I’ve experienced in the New York metropolitan area. There’s only about seven inches on the ground since it began snowing around 3 a.m. The wind is light, so there is no drifting. And though it’s early compared to the winters where I was raised, it is nothing I won’t survive.

The initial snowfall was almost six inches, but another two inches of a mix of snow and sleet fell adding 2” of treacherous ice.

But circumstances are different because I’m living in a trailer and am none too bright about winter RVing. And it is very inconvenient.

The early (for me) winter has been in the forecast for some time now. And I have prepared myself for it. The water line has frozen several times, so I spent about $200 to have a heated hose. I also purchased a small space heater to place under my holding tanks to prevent freezing and cracking. Earlier this year, I purchased a new space heater to replace the two-year old unit I had that was breaking down. It generally keeps the trailer warm and it is one of those heaters with a fireplace simulation. I have missed a fireplace for a long time. I had one when I lived with my family in New Jersey during the 1950s, but not since then. My son and his wife have one in their house and they make the most of it.

When the space heater can’t keep up, usually when the weather drops below 20º, I also have propane heat as a back up. I am comforted by the fact I survive a massive blizzard in South Dakota about a year ago. Power went out and the propane kept me warm, cooked my food and ran the refrigerator.

So I am comfortable, but I also have a few problems, especially since last night as I prepared for the storm. After I had purchased the heated hose, I discovered the water supply was frozen. This required me to plug in its heater. After connecting everything, I turned on the water in the bathtub to let me know when the line defrosted. Alas, I fell asleep and woke up to find the tub halfway full and the drain plug not there. Now this may mean that “grey” water tank is full to capacity (I drained it the day before) or that something is frozen under the trailer. I suspect it is both. Last night, I attempted to drain the tank and the valve is frozen. It has been cold, with the high temperatures not exceeding freezing for several days. It’s been as cold as 10º F at night. I don’t foresee temperatures exceeding 32º until Sunday, four days away. So I’m stuck with a sink full of dishes until then. The other holding tank, called “black water” is for sewage. It was also drained the day before and it is viable until its frozen valve is also loosened on Sunday.

And so, while I have plenty of food, it will have to be cooked on paper plates, as the sink is full of dirty dishes. This will mostly be convenience food such as chicken potpies, chicken bakes, and canned meals. Fortunately, I remembered to purchase paper plates the night before as there were only a few left.

While the area directly in front of my entrance was clear because I left the awning out, I could barely emerge as it weighed down the awning, blocking the door. When I did get outside, I spent about an hour clearing it off and dumping it. I then put the awning up to prevent more problems. But frozen rain made my walk a sheet of ice.

As I emerged from the trailer around noon, I was barely able to do so. I had not closed my awning and there was about six inches of snow on it. The awning had sagged blocking the door. I wedged myself and Pup the dog out and was unable to go anywhere he considered respectful. He prefers grass. So he hid under the trailer and did his business as I spent nearly an hour clearing the snow off the awning. It took several times to bring the awning down, shake out the snow, and pushing it over the awning. I finally got the snow cleared and put up the awning. I then had to put things such as firewood under the trailer that the awning had been protecting.

I then turned my attention to the rest of the area. I discovered I had left the truck’s tailgate down after emptying the firewood I had purchased the night before. So that was one more thing to clean. I then took a few photos, though I just wanted to document the storm for this article. I was beginning to get chills and had no interest in shooting “beauty” snowscapes.

Dumb Move: I stocked up and got extra firewood in anticipation of the storm. I forgot to put the tailgate up after unloading. 

A small issue is garbage disposal. The nearby dumpsters are also covered with snow and so that shall also require some cleaning off before being used. Fortunately, I emptied the trash in anticipation of the snow.

Throwing out garbage was difficult after the storm, but the ranger pushed plowed snow in front of it.

The road by my campsite was plowed earlier in the day, probably around 8 a.m. This was to enable the park’s construction workers into their work area. But we’ve had another four inches since then so it is of little use to me. I will also have to shovel the driveway even though my truck was practically on the road as the plow gave it much leeway. Since I’m at the top of a hill, I’m not moving. When I bought the current pickup, I purchased a larger engine but sacrificed four-wheel capability. I also need new tires soon and I don’t want to chance the hill until the ground is clear, which isn’t likely for a while.

Dumb Move #2: After attaching $200 heated hose and plugging in water source heater, I opened up the tub to let me know when water was running. I fell asleep and didn't hear it start. Water filled to the middle of the tub and since it was frozen in the discharge area, I couldn't wash dishes or shower for a week.

As the construction workers are gone over the next few days (they only work Monday- to-Thursdays) I suspect a time of blissful isolation. I will use it to work on my projects and Harry Potter and NCIS marathons are definitely part of the agenda. Naps certainly are also a prime consideration. So please excuse me while I take one.

By the way, it’s still snowing.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

The snow ended yesterday afternoon, but I am still snowbound. At the moment, it is -4º and -10º with the wind chill. I am safe and warm as Pup and I have excellent heat with a high-wattage fireplace/space heater that is supplemented by gas heat. The floor of my trailer is cool to the touch and that is due to the open space under the trailer.

And that is the crucial problem at this time. I had placed a small space heater directly under the wastewater valve, and it finally thawed today. But when opening it, I discovered that at least part of the grey water holding tank’s water is frozen. Nothing will flow out. And with the partially filled bathtub water in place, I am worried that the tank will burst. I will not know for several days, as the temperature will not rise above freezing for some time, probably Tuesday. In the meantime, I am not bathing or washing dishes. Most of the food I am eating is of the convenience type. But other than a slight cold, I’m OK.

The release valve on the tank dump was frozen, despite having a space heater right under it. It wasn't until the rear of the trailer was surrounded by cement blankets that it defrosted the tanks. The valve handle broke, but fortunately it only cost $1.98 to replace.

But this is the coldest weather I can remember enduring. I mean in my entire lifetime. In the New York Metro Area suburbs, where I have lived most of my life, there have been many violent snowstorms due to Nor’easters. But within a day or too, the snow melts on the road. If anything, the below-zero temperatures have solidified all the ice on the road. I’m not afraid of draining my propane as I filled both tanks just before arriving here. But if the electric goes out, I’m not sure about what to do. But it probably involves calling for help and several nights in a motel.

Today, I ventured into the park. It has a quiet beauty but is quite desolate. The workers who are refurbishing the park are off from Friday to Sunday and there is no trace of them. Yesterday, one of the rangers dropped by to make sure I was OK and to tell me that the road had been plowed. But there was no salt and sand and it is filled with ice from when the snow turned into sleet. My truck, which is about 10 feet off the plowed area, would not be able to get back up the hill by the park entrance even if I did decide to drive it. My tires have 45K on them and are in need of replacement now and unlike my previous truck, it is two, not four-wheel equipped.

The snow added a quiet beauty to the deserted park, which is closed for construction.

The “Gator,” a utility vehicle about the size of a golf cart, has four-wheel drive and tires designed for mud and snow. I have taken it over to the day use area a couple of times in order to open and close the gate. The day use area is supposed to close at 6 p.m., but sunset was around 4:45 p.m. and I went over around 4:30 p.m. and chased a few visitors away by telling them that it was too hazardous to drive there after dark. Indeed it is. The road was plowed for one lane only and turning a car around could easily get it stuck in the snow.

The Gator, a four-wheel vehicle with snow/mud tires, helped me around the park. Since it had no license plate, it couldn't be used on public roads.

I didn’t leave the trailer yesterday (Friday), as it was my day off. However, this morning I found a pair of cars at the bottom of the hill inside the campgrounds and the gate had been opened. I took pictures and sent them to my ranger and they were gone by evening.

I also had misplaced my phone. On Wednesday night, the eve of the storm, I had bought supplies and filled up my gas tank. I left the phone in the car and when I discovered it under the driver’s seat, I was very relieved. The battery was drained and it was going to voice mail with messages, but at least was there. I had worried that it had fallen out of my pocket and was under the snow. For a while, I was able to use it to go on line as it was set to the hot spot. But when it lost power, so did my Internet connection.

I have not tried to work on my projects. I just don’t feel like writing anything other than this missive. I was way too bored with the NCIS and Harry Potter movie marathons I planned, but I watched some Batman and TNT’s “The Librarian” movies. Other than that, I’ve been re-reading a Tom Clancy novel on my Kindle.

I sort of imagine this is God’s way of telling me I was in need of some down time. I remain bored and filled with thoughts of the next nap. I am surprised that I am not depressed. Despite being alone, I don’t feel lonely. I am often overcome with loneliness this time of year. The days are short and depressing. I have an immense need for people and I do not have it at the moment.

At the same time, I am gaining patience because I have no choice. But then, how much choice do I have in my life?

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Facebook Post thanking Josie and FB friends who helped keep me in contact with the world.

At Last! The freeze has broken. And with it, assurance that my system issues will not repeat. I owe much to the park ranger, Josie. Last night was the first I dared to go into town to get supplies. Josie had sanded the roads in the park and we had talked about other things. By the time I returned, a path to the door had been shoveled, the rear was surrounded with cement blankets (they are not made out of cement, they are designed to cover cement), And with the small space heater located under the trailer, the holding tanks finally melted.

After the storm, construction workers returned and removed cement blankets to continue working on rebuilding bath/shower/laundry building. In the foreground is a cement blanket, which the ranger used to insulate my tanks and defrost them.

I was able to open up the “grey” water tank – the tank containing dishwater and bath water – and drained it onto the ground. It was virtually all fresh water from the other day when I slept through the defrosting of the water line. I can now have a shower. I also drained the “black” water – sewage – into a holding tank and then poured it into a site with a functional drainage. Later in the day, I again opened the grey water tank after a shower, but the handle snapped off. Fearing the cost of a major plumbing repair, I went to the local RV dealer and was relieved to discover the handle screwed into the system and a replacement part was $1.98.

Between the heated hose and the portable holding tank, I spent more than $300. But at least I won’t have to worry about winter issues again.

A nearly-undectable leak created ice under much of the trailer

Footnote: The next week, I purchased a new set of tires. The truck’s original ones were designed for a 50,000 mile tread life and I know have about 48,000 miles on the truck. My next assignment starting on New Year’s Day requires me to cross back over the mountains and I am quite relieved that I will be able to handle the weather. 

Under The Sun

“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

A few years ago, on my first trip to Oregon via the trailer, I drove throughout the night from Rapid City, SD to Bozeman, MT – a 450-mile jaunt. I like to drive at night when traffic is less dense and tractor-trailer drivers are more courteous.

But as I passed through Montana, I passed by a sign that said “little big horn” sometime around 2 a.m. and didn’t stop. As this is my second westward journey along Interstate 90, I chose to drive by day and reached the site around 2 p.m. I have been learning something about the tribes of the Sioux: the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota. The Lakota have a museum in Wall, South Dakota, with a focus on the Wounded Knee massacre. I’ve been to a couple of reservations and finally to the Little Big Horn, site of what whites would call “Custer’s Last Stand.”

Monument to where most of the 7th Calvary were buried.

What have I learned? As a kid in the 1950s, much of my life was dedicated to playing “cowboys and Indians.” Of course, what I knew of Indians was based on the westerns I saw on television: Roy, Gene, Hoppy, Marshall Dillon, Maverick, The Lone Ranger (and Tonto) The Rifleman, Sugarfoot and dozens of other shows provided me with my information on the American Indian. One of the shows, “Broken Arrow,” was a fictionalized account of the historical relationship between Indian agent Tom Jeffords, played by John Lupton, and the Chiricahua Apache chief Cochise, played by Michael Ansara. It was the only one that portrayed the Indian as people instead of mindless warriors.

In talking to Native Americans, the politically-correct name for them these days, I learned that there is still much anger at white people and especially the federal government after many treaties were broken.

And I discovered I’m angry at the government for many of the same reasons. I am furious that the Bush Administration did not control the New York banks that caused a disastrous meltdown of the economy. Well, it isn’t the first time and corrupt New York banks were the seminal cause of the Indian Wars. The panic of 1873 was the worst economic mess the country had had until that date. Overstretched on loans to the railroads (instead of bad mortgages), the banks nearly collapsed, plunging the nation into what was then called the great depression, until the 1929 stock market crash ushered in an even greater one.

I don’t know which depression/recession came in second place – the one in 1873 or the one in 2008, but both were pretty damn awful.

Anyhow, prior to the 1873 panic, there had been treaties between the Sioux and the government. It basically said that the lands in Western Dakota, especially in the Black Hills, belonged to the Sioux.

But then gold was discovered in the Black Hills. And the desperately poor whites came in droves, hoping to emerge from the depths of poverty. But the Black Hills was sacred grounds to the Sioux. Buffalo, or American Bison, were the heart and soul of the Sioux way of life, and they were quickly disappearing from the Dakotas. And so many, led by Sitting Bull, moved westward into areas of what are now Wyoming and Montana. The government had tried to purchase the Black Hills, but Sitting Bull and others refused to sell it. So they government sent George Armstrong and his 7^th Calvary to take over the land by force and confine the Sioux to reservations.

I’ve been to a couple, and they are no place you want to live.

Eventually the government ordered Sitting Bull (who fled to Canada) and the others to return to the reservation. They refused. And Custer headed to the north.

This area is called The High Plains. Today it is mostly ranchlands. And my 250-mile route from Rapid City to Little Big Horn (named after a nearby river) was constantly uphill. I usually get about 11 miles to the gallon when towing my trailer, but this stretch had me down to 8.4 mpg.

And the Sioux had a legal right to be there as spelled out by the treaty.

Top: Sculpture at Sioux monument. Bottom, tombstones commorating names of those who died. Near the Sioux monument, there are tombstones of warriors who also died.

And so Custer advanced on the Sioux. But the encampment at Little Big Horn was not just hunters, there were women, children and the elderly there too. And so the Sioux, led by Crazy Horse, attacked. Custer’s tactics were poor. Just like the wars in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan, American soldiers were at a disadvantage as the enemy had an intimate knowledge of the territory.  And Custer split his forces into three groups, two of which were massacred and the third group managed to get away.

This was the last victory for the Sioux. The government sent troops in overwhelming numbers to force the Sioux to surrender and return to the reservation.

And the banks prospered. And the rich got richer, stealing even more.

And so I ask you. What is new under the sun? The rich remain greedy while the poor struggle to get a living wage that the political party serving the rich refuses to allow. The red men remain on the reservation, mired in alcoholism and crime instead of living the life they were meant to live – in a nomadic freedom.

And today we continue to extend our wars – this time against ISIS. And the rich will become richer and those who are not slaughtered will live a life of desperation and rage. There is nothing new under the sun, except perhaps we have graduated from buffalo shit to bullshit.