Depressed in a depressed town

Photo: Crossing a bridge to another state means lower prices.

Right now I am somewhat depressed. And I can't help but wonder if where I live has something to do with it. I reside in a small town, Port Jervis, NY, where people lived in a recession well before housing prices crashed and they are now in a depression.

For example, the other day, the remains of what was once a thriving strip mall featuring a K-Mart decades ago was taken over by the bank. We lost a Rite Aid – the town’s only chain drug store – plus a dollar store, pizza place, and nail salon. We don’t have a McDonald’s, 7-Eleven, or much else. There are plenty of banks near the post office; and there is a Save-A-Lot food store. There is one gas station (where there used to be a half dozen) but it survives mainly through repairs and as an Avis car rental operation.

Much of the problem is an accident of geography. Some is a matter of politics. But both lead to poverty.

Port Jervis was once a thriving town. It is the end of the railroad line into New York, and its riverfront along the Delaware River was once a booming port, as barges floated agricultural goods downriver to Philadelphia. After the Second World War, the area attracted tourists with its beautiful scenery and location close to the Catskill and Pocono Mountains. Yet it continues to have an ever-increasing number of empty stores while the stores in the neighboring towns thrive.

But those neighboring towns are in other states. Port Jervis is where the states of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania all meet. The other states offer far less taxes. As soon as you cross the line into New Jersey, there are four gas stations offering prices up to 60 cents per gallon less. No rational person gets their gas in town. In that area is also a small shopping center – about the size of the one that closed down the other day – and it thrives with a ShopRite supermarket, TJ Maxx clothing store, GNC, furniture store, a dollar store and pizza place.

Go across the bridge into Pennsylvania and you’ll find the K-Mart that left town, a Home Depot and Lowes, Staples, a movie complex, and further down is a Wal-Mart. Restaurants abound. Why did the K-Mart end up there? New York has a sales tax on clothes. Pennsylvania does not. You can’t compete with Wal-Mart if your clothes are nine percent higher.

Even the small things are an issue. You have to make an effort to find a carton of Coke or Pepsi. There are no deposits in our neighboring states.

A part of the downtown area has tried to revive itself with about a half dozen antique shops. But go about 6 miles to Milford, PA and you will find a much more attractive area. You don’t have to deal with limited parking and the general gloom of closed stores.

Without retail revenue, the town is just about broke. There is a cosmetics factory, the towns largest employer, that was planning to leave town and the town and county worked out a deal to keep the factory here with tax incentives. The town’s largest ratable is paying practically nothing in order to save the jobs. Speaking of jobs, the local newspaper reports today that a nearby state prison is going to close, losing more than 300 jobs for the area. How can a state known for its overcrowded and violent prisons, shut one down?

And as stores close, homes are abandoned. This summer, you could purchase at least a couple of dozen houses between $30 and $50 thousand. And yes, you would pay more in taxes than your mortgage. In New York, Port Jervis is surrounded by a town called Deerpark (one word). A rural area, Deerpark’s taxes are much lower as town fathers don’t provide things like city water and sewers. School taxes are much more economical as there is a larger population. Port Jervis has a K-12 district but the tax base is much smaller, thus more dollars per taxpayer.

So what am I getting to here? I haven’t a clue. If the Republicans get what they want, senior citizens, who constitute a significant part of the town’s population with more than 200 apartments in two complexes, will lose both income and Medicare benefits. And the hospital that serves the area could shut down as well since Medicare and Medicaid cuts seem to be an issue. And the Democrats stance is to spend our way out of it.

My thoughts about the whole thing are simple: get the hell out of Afghanistan. Today. We got bin Laden. Who gives a rat’s ass about an incredibly corrupt government?

But then, no one listens to me anyway.

“Up in Massachusetts, there’s a little spit of land. The men who make the maps, they call the place Cape Ann. The men who do the fishing call it Gloucester Harbor Town. But the women left behind, they call the place Dogtown” – Harry Chapin.

Ever since Harry Chapin’s classic “Heads and Tales” album came out in 1972, I have felt the best song he ever wrote was “Dogtown” about the widows of sailors lost at sea from Gloucester, a fishing town in Massachusetts where the Massachusetts Bay Colony was established in 1623, a few years after the Pilgrims arrived in Plymouth. In most high school history books, the settlers are referred to as the Puritans, who dominated the population.

Fishing and shipbuilding were the basic industries of the town and are still so to this day. It is the home of the Gorton’s Seafood company. And commercial fishermen leave the port on a daily basis.

Gloucester is a part of Cape Ann, which town boosters refer to as “the other cape” in Massachusetts. Like Cape Cod, which is on the other side of Massachusetts Bay, there is a lot of tourism there. And summer homes along it’s shores tend to be extraordinarily beautiful.

Anyhow, when I realized that Cape Ann was only a few hours away from where I was staying in Plymouth, I had to make a (don’t pardon the pun) pilgrimage there. I wanted to see the “endless rolling whispers of the waves,” “the silence of the granite and the screeching of the gulls” and what else inspired Chapin’s song. And as I toured Gloucester, I did my photography with the song in mind. Along the harbor are two statues, one of a widow looking out to sea and a better known one dedicated to fishermen lost at sea since colonial times. In fact, the monument also features a list of every person who never returned from a fishing expidition up to 2001.

My mind was sort of set on the “Dogtown” song. And there is a part of Cape Ann called Dogtown. It is a deserted village where widows and the poor went to but has no roads and is a nature preserve now. I drove there, but a roadblock combined with gunfire from a shooting range at the entrance ended any thoughts of exploring there. I had been warned a few times that people become lost in there. Dogtown is a reference to the fact that most sailors had dogs and they guarded the women left behind when they went out to sea.

I knew my mind was obsessed with the song that had been with me nearly four decades. And I was certain I was looking at the town through the eyes of the historian rather than the town of today. Yet I couldn’t help myself. But that changed with a drive from Gloucester to Rockport, another town along the cape. I followed a sign that described the upcoming road as the “scenic route” and it certainly is. Along the rocky coast, waves from the Atlantic Ocean explode as they crash headlong into the huge boulders. The color of the sea is an incredibly pure blue. And while I was there I realized that this was perhaps the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen.

I went there with a friend, who had her own thoughts that were probably impossible to penetrate, though she tried. When she was married in the early 1970s, she and her husband spent a vacation there. And they returned there about a dozen years ago as her husband was weakened from the cancer that would take his life a few months later. I wondered how she compared her widowhood to the widows of the song.

But the incredible beauty of the land overwhelmed me. With every turn, I saw even more stunning scenes and my mind begged me to stop driving because it couldn’t take any more of the glorious views. I told my friend that if I never went to Heaven, I would have this place to remember because I could not comprehend how Heaven could be more beautiful.

Good Friday thoughts

I don’t deserve to preach the Gospel. I’ve had more than my share of sin over the past year. But I’m going to preach anyhow.

I’m writing this on Good Friday. I’m sharing a rustic campground with perhaps three or four others. Last night I went to a Holy Thursday service at an Episcopal church. The only reason I went was because I was with a friend observing the date of my leaving my ex wife a year ago. But perhaps it was a divine appointment. Whatever it was, it started a lot of thinking on my part.

The Episcopal Church considers worship from Thursday until Easter Sunday a single worship event. At the end of last night’s services, today’s walking of the Stations of the Cross that I also attended, and Saturday’s Easter Vigil, there is no formal blessing or dismissal. It is considered one continuous observation of the passion of Christ. I find this to be a beautiful concept as one is guided not just to a few thoughts about Jesus, but a four-day period of time.

While I disagree with some of the beliefs of this denomination, most of Christianity can agree with the Apostle’s Creed. And despite the trivial things that divide us, Christ’s sacrifice on Calvary unites us.

I prefer to view Palm Sunday as the beginning of the observation of the Easter period. In fact, I can relate to this incident more than the death of Jesus. It seems to be far more about the foolish person that I am, rather than the perfection of a sinless life. Here the people were celebrating Jesus and laying palms at his feet. In only a few days, they were screaming for his death. I am sort of reminded of sports radio, which I listen to a lot. Joe from the Bronx says he has been a Yankee fan for decades, then rips into them for not getting enough pitching or because a hall of famer is in a slump. Whatever happened to being faithful?

It seems I turn to God when one of two things are happening – when things are going great (namely I’m getting my way) and when what I have been done has put me in the depths of despair enough to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness. The other times I seem to be just living for myself and enjoying life instead of praying regularly and trying to do what God would have me do.

Of course, Holy Thursday focuses on the last supper -- the breaking of the bread and sharing of the wine. I won’t drink wine or any alcohol. But it’s because how alcoholic parents affected my life. I can’t help thinking that Jesus liked to have a good time. His first miracle was turning water into wine (in response to his mother nagging him no less) and sharing wine with his followers at the last. And even at his death, he was offered wine. But I also remember how he washed the feet of his disciples, even knowing that Judas would betray him and Peter would deny him three times. It was his final way of teaching us to be servants, no matter what our station in life. Many years ago, in the mid 1980s, I observed this in a Roman Catholic Church. To see a priest washing the feet of some children was quite a departure from the way I had perceived priests from my childhood who were the ultimate threats when sister whomever was teaching and I was being a problem.

I long ago came to the conclusion that I am much like Peter, being bold for the Lord sometimes, yet covering my butt in the time of a threat. But I also feel I am not really like Peter in that I will not evangelize very much. I will respond to people’s questions about my faith and perhaps discuss a philosophical or historical thing. For example, I mentioned to the co-pastor of the church today that a description of the Roman whip was far different than the bullwhips we have today. It included metal barbs, like you would find in barbed wire and the thorns of large bushes. It was designed to inflict real torture and I sometimes wonder if the crucifix was more of a relief after the lashing.

Anyhow, it has been a very, very long time since I asked someone to accept Christ. I just don’t feel I am worthy enough in my life to ask that question. I think about my example to the world and realize that I’m not much to look up to as an example of Christ, but more than enough to be an example of Christ’s mercy.

During the Holy Thursday service, the scripture reading was from the book of Exodus regarding the Passover. I had often thought of the many times Jesus has been called the “Lamb of God” and that many choose to eat lamb on Easter Sunday. But I realized that the lamb was probably also served at the Last Supper as part of the Passover meal. I had roasted a leg of lamb and sliced the meat on Wednesday before leaving on my current camping trip and will have it on Sunday. But now I shall regard lamb as my Thursday meal. Perhaps some chops instead. In Exodus, the Hebrews were told to eat their fill and then destroy what is left over before the dawn. I find it interesting how much that is against our human nature. A highlight of our annual turkey feast on Thanksgiving is the leftovers. Yet God ordered that there be none. I wonder if it was because of simply a practical thing such as the lack of food preservation, or telling us that not only must we make a sacrifice of an animal, but then sacrifice the days of feasting on the leftovers. At any rate, next year I’ll stick to a couple of lamb chops.

Today’s Stations of the Cross service was a little different from the one I remember as a child. In the Roman Catholic churches I grew up in, the stations – in some form of art such as plaques, statures or stained glass windows - were in the church throughout the year, with a walk from station to station as part of the service. There were no stations in this church, which has its roots in colonial times. And so, a program illustrating each station was handed out. And at each station, prayers were said for different groups. For example, where Pilate sentences Jesus, prayer is offered up for all those convicted of crimes, regardless of if the conviction was just or not. Everyone was prayed for, setting aside prejudices against criminals. For we are all children of God, no matter what our sins are.

I thought of two high school classmates. One was always picking on me in school and shortly afterwards became involved in drugs and crime and was sentenced to the county jail for 364 days. I thought of how personal justice had been done. But as the days continued, I wondered if he was able to turn his life around. I was told by some people he did. The thought of vengeance had departed and was replaced by thoughts of concern.

The other classmate had a run-in with a crazed off-duty cop and did some hard time. I can clearly see how the injustice of the conviction has left him scared and bitter. I have told him more than once that it was in his best interest to forgive. But he can’t.

So I prayed for both of them.

At one station, the minister offered prayers for those who hate and those who have felt the hate. In the last year, my family has endured more than anyone deserves to have in both aspects. And so I began praying for the haters and the hated, and came to realize that I am both. We so often cite hating in others but don’t acknowledge the hate that is in us. And as I came to look at it, I realized how much more I hate than I think I do. I begged God to take it from me. Hopefully, he will replace it with something more worthy.

The Lord’s Prayer says for us to receive forgiveness only in measure as to how we forgive others. The Jews have their Day of Atonement. I suppose this day is mine. I cannot go to the people I have hurt, but I hope that through today’s Internet that they understand I am begging for, but not expecting, their forgiveness. This especially applies to my ex wife and children. But there are also so many others.

So what can I do about it? The Bible talks of the woman whom the Jewish priests wanted to stone because it was their law. Jesus said that the person who was without sin should throw the first stone. When all of the accusers had left, he told the woman to ‘go and sin no more.’ I will try to take that as my personal commandment from him today.

No matter what your religious beliefs, may the peace of God find you, revive you and renew you in this holy season.

How to Wash and Dry Your Laundry in a Florida RV park

With apologies to all those in the Northeast

Washing the Laundry:

1. Place laundry & soap in washing machine and start.

2. Sit in the rocking chair on the porch and enjoy the gentle breeze; listen to and watch tropical birds and talk to friendly people for about a half hour.

3. Remove the wash and place it in the dryer.

Drying the laundry:

1. Start the dryer.

2. Take a walk over to the spa and spend about 20 minutes in the warm whirlpool letting it sooth all your aching arthritic joints while watching palm trees and talking with friendly people discussing the 20 degree weather in New Jersey.

3. Spend another fifteen minutes in the pool, cooling off from the heat of the whirlpool. Emerge completely refreshed. Take a nice soapy shower.

4. Remove clothing from the dryer.

It’s a tough life but SOMEONE has to do the laundry!

Springtime

So here I am, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch outside the laundry room writing this. I’ve got country music running on the computer and enjoying a petty sunset and a warm breeze. My laptop is in fact, in my lap and life seems to be not too bad.

I’m doing the laundry simply because tomorrow is moving day. I spent much of the trip to date learning about RVs and trailers. I decided to upgrade to a new one from my 11-year-old Mallard that I purchased a few months ago to a new Summerland. Basically, I bought the Mallard cheap up north and here at Lazydays, just outside of Tampa and the world’s largest RV dealer, I moved up to a new model. I actually got almost what I spent on the Mallard in trade-in. I’m bringing the Mallard into the prep area here at Lazydays where they will set it up side-by-side with my brand new Summerland and I can take my time moving in. They are about the same size but the new one has much, much more storage area. The floor plan is much more roomy and three windows on the back and rear of each size makes it even more open and inviting. I have a separate freezer and an oven and extra burner on the stovetop. Lots of improvements are obvious, the best being far, far more storage room, especially in the outside compartments. The brand new décor is nicer too.

In the meantime, they’ll be giving me driving lessons so I can back the thing up, which has been a chaotic (and funny) situation a times. My first attempt to back in took nearly two hours. My latest attempt was unsuccessful and I put the truck in 4-wheel drive and drove through another site to get where I am.

In the meantime, I’m multi-tasking. Since I’m going to be here at least six more days, maybe more, I’m taking the truck into a body shop to have the scar on the side fixed on Saturday morning and will have a rental car at least five days. The scar was the result of an unfortunate incident with a light pole at a shopping center. After the RV is shaken down, Lazydays will tow it back to the campground for me. When the truck is ready, I’ll just hitch it up and move on.

Taking care of some other business too. Talked to my real estate lawyer to ensure that the proceeds from the escrow go to me, and not my darling bride. Talked to Metropolitan Insurance Co. about the homeowners insurance refund today. They are insisting that they credited my card for the refund. I read them off the check number my wife has and they then insisted that they can’t cancel it until April 1 because their records show that my account was credited! I said the date seemed appropriate since they were being complete fools.

RV people continue to amaze me with their friendly ways. Was talking to another spring training person from Tennessee and we talked baseball, RVs and laundry. He was about 30 minutes ahead of me on the cycle and he gave me about a half hour on his dryer, which was enough to take care of my clothes. It’s the small things about these people. They’re always willing to lend you a hand and I could swear they are, as a group, just about the most honest people I have ever met. When I was checking in here, an older man had a $100 bill in his hands that the wind blew away and a kid ran after it for more than 100 yards and returned it. He adamantly refused a reward.

At the pool today, I talked with people from Canada and Washington State. I am really getting a handle on the “snowbird” mentality. I think it is a lifestyle I like. I saw a tee shirt with a trailer on it. It said “home is where you park it” and my mindset seems to be there. At the senior citizen housing where I live in New York State, people are waiting to die. The big event of the day is waiting for the mail. Here, people are living in the here and now, enjoying their lives. For them, the “golden” years are gold. And because they follow the sun, winter is something you only hear about. This week – the first full week of spring – it was snowing, sleeting and icing. March is going out like a lion. I’m sitting here in mid-80 degree weather swimming and using the air conditioner.

I kind of expected a “class” system here but you have half-million-dollar bus people, getting along just fine with $15,000 trailer people. It’s fairly cheap to camp here, especially since they give you a free breakfast and lunch. It’s not anything great, but it’s adequate. It is southern, however and biscuits and sausage gravy wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for breakfast yesterday. They had a sort of sausage McMuffin today. There's always cold cereal and sometimes grits. I hate grits dating back to my Army days.

After I get my laundry done, I’m heading back to the pool. Thought I could get there earlier today, but the cool of the evening sometimes works better than the heat of the day. The pool is screened off so insects can’t get in and by-and-large, there are very few bugs. That wasn’t the case in Georgia where gnats started buzzing around. The first few days were fine but the last few they were really intense.

Saw a spring training game last night as the Yankees beat the Blue Jays. It was really good to be in a ballpark again. I hadn’t been to a game since chaperoning my NYC kids back in Spring 2001. All the players I’ve been watching played last night and there was a great rally in the 7^th inning where they scored four runs and just about every one of the stars got a hit. Saw Phil Hughes start and Mariano Rivera pitched an inning. On Monday, the last game of the Spring, they’re giving away replica championship rings, this one of the 2000 champs who beat the Mets in the only subway World Series. Someone who got one last year tells me that they’re very nice. The games start for real in six days and so these last training games feature the best players as they get their final tune-ups. And while the intensity isn’t like in the regular season, they’re playing hard.

Baseball is something that is very much a part of me. As a kid, I played sandlot ball after school every day and some high school ball before wrecking my knee. Both my parents took me to the games. My favorite memory is one summer day in 1961 at the height of the Maris – Mantle home run race. I was sitting in the 75¢ per seat right field bleachers and I saw my favorite player, Roger Maris, knock two into my area. Then, after being deliberately walked twice, Mickey Mantle rocketed one against the wall of the back of the third deck in right field. It was still going up when it hit the wall. If it had been about 10 feet to the left, it would have gone out of the stadium, and no one ever hit a ball out of Yankee Stadium. Early in my courtship with Rosemary, I took her to a ball game. She hated sports and we frequently fought over it when I wanted to see a game. So I took my mother a couple of times, but over the 30 plus years, I only went a few times with my church groups. But now, I’m seeing three games in a week. It feels really good.

Thoughts about battle

I’m a history major, but would hardly describe myself as a historian. But a visit to Gettysburg certainly sheds some light on the price of war. On television, we see war reports from a limited area. We more often think of war as a football game in the confines of a stadium. Even in my personal reality, war had a limited perspective limited to perhaps a half mile while on Army maneuvers.

A visit to Gettysburg is different. We think of massive bloodshed as the tragedy of 9-11. But it is dwarfed by comparison where nearly 8,000 were slain and more than 27,000 more were wounded in just three days of fierce battle. They are numbers that are mind numbing. They far exceed our casualties in both Afganistan and Iraq.

It was here that Lee’s quest to bring the war to the north ended. It is here that the largest battle was ever held on North American soil as about 165,000 men fought one another without ceasing for three days.

Gettysburg takes the numbers and makes you understand the scope. Throughout the park are scores of monuments for various military units which took part in the carnage. The battle was not fought in an arena, but over miles of fields and woods, whose ground was soaked with blood. Many of the final resting places of the dead are marked with simple three-digit numbers.

I stood at the site where Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address about four months later. By then, the battle lines were back in the south and there were still years of conflict to come. I couldn’t help but think about how America today is still being torn by strife, with red states and blue states and media and mad men fighting over power and political positioning. And I wonder why we have any enemies at all?Because we shall surely destroy ourselves without any help from terrorists.

Finially I think of my personal civil war, with its mauled and wounded barely clinging to the hope that we can survive and maybe even thrive. I realize that the casualties extend far beyond the combatants. And as Lincoln noted “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us” what that task is, I’m not quite sure. I hope it involves healing the wounded.

I guess I’ll settle for “With malice toward none, with charity for all, ...let us strive on to finish the work we are in, ...to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

On the road to Gettysburg

It has been raining since the moment I woke up about 14 hours ago, and it shows no sign of letting up. In a moment of relative lightness, I have rescued my computer from the truck and I sit at a campground whose name I can’t remember. It’s been that kind of a day. Give me a moment to look it up: Round Top Campground.

I have journeyed from Port Jervis, NY (a town whose depressed community is desperate for change) to Gettysburg, PA, and a town that is clearly living in the past and thriving on it. But the journey, not the destination, is the story of this day. I decided to leave on this day to avoid the flooding that is accompanying this torrential downpour that is leaving two to four inches of rain throughout the entire east coast. In other words, I’ve been heading for the hills!

Most of the trip has been along Interstate 81, through Pennsylvania’s Appalachian Mountains. And while I encountered no flooding, at least until I settled into my campsite, the fog created by the melting mountain snow has been thick and sometimes terrifying. There were many times along the highway where I could barely see more than a car length ahead and I slowed down and put on my emergency flashers in hopes that the vehicles behind me wouldn’t crash into Vagabond2011, my small travel trailer. I was very tempted to cut short my day’s journey when I passed through the Hershey area but certainly going to the park would be a wet waste.

As I passed through Hazelton, it brought back memories from the 1960s. My friend Bill’s parents were dying and I drove him in my Ford Falcon to pick up his aunts and take them back to New Jersey to help with the family. It was the first time I had driven on an Interstate highway in the rain and I desperately coped with the never ending flow of water washing off eighteen-wheelers as well as the rain itself. The weather for both days was remarkably similar.

The experience didn’t kill me so I suppose I am stronger. At least I feel far more comfortable handling the trailer. What was supposed to be about a five hour trip was close to seven hours and I arrived at the national monument around 4 p.m., too late for the last two-hour bus tour. The rain let up for about fifteen minutes at the time of my arrival and I was able to grab a few quick photos and gather information. I was given directions to the ¼ mile walk to the site where Abraham Lincoln gave the famous Gettysburg Address. But as I started out, the downpour resumed so I headed back to my truck, getting soaked along the way.

The town itself seems to be deliberately quaint. There is a small circle in its middle and you can head in about six directions. There are no institutions like fast food joints and big box stores in this town, and the motels have a muted brick façade that fits in easily. After all, people come to Gettysburg to view history and the residents are here to find ways to part them from their money. There are many museums, art galleries, antique stores and shops such as those specializing in civil war toy soldiers and other souvenirs are interspersed with various restaurants and lodging facilities with historic names such as the Iron Horse Inn, the Dobbin House Tavern, General Pickett’s Buffet and the Battlefield Bread and Breakfast. There are several competing bus tours and you can even rent a Segway.

One of the rangers recommended the RV park I am in because she said it was the only one she knew for sure was open at this time of the year. Many do not open until April. It’s not very much to look at for the moment. It is packed with trailers without trucks, apparently permanent or winter residents. I have seen only a few people around and there is no green on the ground nor in trees as winter is still very much here. Of course the downpour adds to the gloomy atmosphere.

For some reason, the office closed early today, at noon, so my 4:30 p.m. arrival left me fending for myself. I filled out an envelope, placing $35 in cash into it. As I did so, a pizza delivery driver asked if I had change of a $50, which I didn’t since I was tying most of it up in the envelope. The place was so dreary; I was tempted to give him the change instead. But I chose to tour the place. With the weather showing no sign of easing up, I hoped to find a spot but everything was of the back-in kind. The last time I backed into an RV site, it took nearly two hours for me to figure out how to back up. I was about to leave when I realized a deserted group of sites, actually right in front of the showers, were pull through sites. I moved into one site and stopped but found I could not connect to the electric system since I was too far away from the box. Rather than back up, I went around the circle again and came within an inch the second time. I plugged in and headed for the trailer to change clothes and microwave a leftover burger for my dinner.

I took a nap and woke up to the sound of silence. Instead of the constant beating of water on my roof, there was no noise and I took advantage of the break to drop off my registration envelope and check out the bathroom and showers. It began to rain again and now the hooks on my bathroom door are drying out two changes of clothing. This time the rain included some thunder and lightning. I hoped the storm would not spawn tornados, as it had done earlier in the week in the Midwest. I’d been through a couple of tornados many years ago and the thought of being in a trailer when one hits is not at all very appealing.

Anyway, the heat is keeping me comfy and it’s time to try to sleep. If the rains have eased enough, I’ll go for a walk tomorrow and then travel on to Western Virginia where I hope to meet a friend who lives in the Shenandoah Valley, and perhaps see a sign of Spring, before moving on towards some warmer weather.