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.

Manic Mode

Dear universe: Can we rewind about two weeks and have a do-over? Because I really preferred a world where being black was not an arrestable offense, a good kid I knew from work hadn't drowned, and Robin Williams was best known for being funny and not for being dead? – Facebook post by John Munzer, my son, August 2014

It’s nearly 1 a.m. and, as usual, I can’t get to sleep. Lately, I’ve been falling asleep around 4 or 5 a.m. and waking up around noon or later. And I’m psyched at the moment because there’s a huge storm heading right at central Long Island where my son lives. And though he has handled himself well in snow before, he has never seen what is predicted – 36 inches of snow with 50 mph winds.

And so, while I’m in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, where snow is rare, I’m listening to one of the news radio stations coming out of New York City.  It’s 4 a.m. there and the storm is hopefully about half over, but the blizzard part of the storm has arrived and Matt and many of my friends will wake up in a few hours to a hell of white. So I'm in a manic mode.

But that’s not what this is about today; although perhaps it is related as I think of the despair many will have tomorrow. It’s about Robin Williams.

I was scanning through a possible movie to rent on iTunes and saw “Good Morning Vietnam” and decided to rent it. It’s halfway downloaded and the computer says it will take about another five hours to finish. Why does it take three plus times the length of the movie anyway? And so, I’ve been thinking about him. I’m not at all surprised he killed himself. He was clearly bi-polar. I am too. I don’t know why, but bi-polar people can be extremely creative and, at times, filled with immense courage. Robin was both. At the time of his death though, he may have been also suffering from a form of dementia according to his autopsy. There was no evidence of illegal drug use, which had plagued him during some of his career.

My son made two posts about Robin on his Facebook page, the second being a picture of him standing on a desk saying  “my captain, oh my captain”. It was from a scene in one of his movies, “Dead Poets Society.” I think it was his most memorable film moment. Playing a prep school teacher, he jumped on a desk and demanded that his students take a look at things from a different angle. When I saw it, I too, started looking at things from a different angle. And while never jumping on a chair or desk when I became a teacher, I certainly urged students to do so.

My son’s first exposure to Robin (as well as mine) was when he was a pre-schooler. Robin played Mork, an alien seeking to learn about humanity, which gave him a marvelous comedic platform at the end of each episode when he contacted his ruler back on his home planet.

But I suppose Robin’s movie career also impacted him. Robin was willing to take risks. His first movie, “Popeye,” pretty much bombed. But the script was far more terrible than Robin’s performance. For every “Good Morning Vietnam,” Dead Poets Society” and “Mrs. Doubtfire,” there were flops, sometimes ahead of their time, like “The Birdcage,” “One Hour Photo,” and “The Butler.” Perhaps one of the most interesting films was “What Dreams May Come,” where, after dying, pursues his late wife who committed suicide. It was an indictment of many of our religious beliefs about an afterlife, especially how unfair it is. I didn’t like the film very much. I felt the computer-generated scenes were too distracting to follow the plot and I didn’t think it was much of a plot. I saw it with my ex, and she liked it. I suppose it was because he went to the depths of Hell to find her. But we both loved “Patch Adams,” where the pompous medical institution was ripped to shreds (she was a nurse and hated the system and I hated it for what it had done to her).

But my favorite was his voiceover as the genie in Disney’s “Aladdin.” Unlike other Disney films, Robin recorded his voiceovers, complete with dozens of ad-libs before the film was made. Usually voiceovers are done as the finished cartoon runs in front of the voice actor.

One of the most interesting times I saw him was in “Inside The Actors’ Studio,” the cable television series. He was manic at his highest (he may have been high too. This was when he was having trouble with drugs) and he was crazy non-stop funny. But he just couldn’t come down to earth.

I was also quite shocked when I saw a DVD of his live show “On Broadway.” It was filled with comedy of an adult nature and the man had no limits. It completely altered my perspective of him. He was no longer a “family” act.  But he was, as always, a tough act to follow.

Yes John, I would also like to see Robin best known for being funny and not for being dead. But he left us a wonderful legacy that made the world a better place for his being there – something we all should aspire to. 

By the way, it's still going to take four more hours to download the movie.

Crossroad

As most of the people who know me are aware, I live in a travel trailer and — in between cross country journeys — justify my existence by volunteering in state and national parks. They are rent free and I do not pay for utilities.

At the moment, I have no assignment for May and June, a tough gig to get, and I stumbled into a situation that sounds rather attractive. It is at a county park in Columbia County Oregon. Compensation includes a free single-wide home and $150 a week for 15 hours. I have been offered the position through the end of October, but have discovered the spot can also be for a year round host. I've been offered the gig at least through the end of October.

On the plus side, I would be able to give up the vagabond lifestyle for a while. I've generally lived in a tent or a trailer since 2010, though I did lease an apartment for about 15 months, though I mainly used it between November and January before heading south to a warmer clime.

I would probably not need the trailer any more, but would have to keep it anyhow if for some reason I was terminated.

Being in one place means not having to travel to another location. The last move I did cost me about $200 in gas and other travel expenses. It costs at least $2500 to move to the other coast, which is the reason I have done seasonal work in the midwest for the past two years. And frankly, I don't think I can keep up with the 40-hour work weeks any more.

On the negative side is location, location and location. Just look at the map:

This map is about 20 miles wide. There are few signs of civilization. It is in the heart of Oregon Logging country in the Coastal Mountain range. The bare spots you see are generally areas that have been logged and there is no sign of reforestation. 

But the major problem is that there is no cell service for fifteen miles in any direction. I've been in isolated areas over the past two years, but there were towns nearby. And I've always had service. I bought a smart phone with great reluctance last year because I needed a hot spot for my internet. I'm about 25 miles from a McDonalds or Wal-Mart, my personal requirements for calling an area "civilized." So food is something that needs to be shopped for and cooked. I'm at a point where I don't enjoy cooking anymore, especially for myself. I am no longer fond of canned or frozen meals. I often go for fast food, or food from a deli department.

It's also about 68 miles — about 90 minutes from my son and his family. And while that is certainly better than being 3,000 miles away, it is a tough trip over two-land winding and sometimes steep roads. And it's a continent away from many people I love and care about.  The idea of a nighttime drive home for either of us in unattractive, though it would be much better as the days become longer. 

And it's unfurnished. While I'm not ready to go dumpster diving, I'm not able to afford much furniture without going broke.  I don't feel secure enough to sell the trailer to furnish this place and I certainly need a truck, rather than a car, in this territory.

And so I contemplate it. I'm tired of being a vagabond and a free house is awsome. Living in the middle of nowhere is not. 

And so I ask you, what are your feelings about this?

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!