6:30 a.m. over the Atlantic Ocean                                 Krailsheim, Germany

                  Rothenberg, Germany                                                                Krailsheim, Germany

Cades Cove, Tennessee

Cades Cove

            Have you ever had the feeling that you had been someplace before, but you “knew” you hadn’t.  This was the feeling my wife and I had a couple of years ago when we visited Cades Cove, near Gatlinburg, Tennessee.     

            Cades Cove is an entire area that once was home to families who were removed so the area could be become the Smoky Mountains National Park.  You get there by driving up a one-lane road.  Along the way are homes, churches, and school houses now abandoned, but you have the feeling the people are still there, at least their spirits, looking on as you stop to visit now empty buildings. 

            I remember a little white church.  The doors and windows have been removed and outback we walked along a path through the cemetery.

            There’s something about this place that communicates with the soul through the sites and sounds.  It’s as if the people have gone for a visit and will be back shortly.

            At the western edge of Gatlinburg is the Cades Cove Road, which quickly takes you into the Cove on a one-way only, single lane twisting, turning up and down, round and round "road." Along the way are farm homes, now preserved as they were, but now empty and alone.  There are  churches, also preserved next to their accompanying grave yards.  There is a foreboding since that the people who onced lived here are gone only a short time ago and will return. (I understand that former residents do return twice a year, in May and in October, to hold family reunions.)

            For some, there is a feeling almost that you are intruding; that they will somehow suddenly appear and want to know what you are doing there.  You think of what it must have been like to be told you will have to leave your home forever so the National Park can be established "for a greater good."

            John D. Rockefeller, who led donations for the establishment of the Park gave $5 million toward it in 1934,  the "most beautiful natural setting east of the Mississippi."

            These people who physically departed since the park was officially opened by President Franklin D. Roosevelt on September 2, 1940, remain there in spirit.  You see signs of them everywhere, in where they lived, and worked, worshipped and played. 

            Their presence is felt in their homes, and in their churches, everywhere in the now-empty cove.  There is a kind of sacredness as we tread on other people's lives.  Visitors are solemn in a kind of sacred feeling reserved for national monuments such as the Lincoln Memorial, the Kennedy graves, and the Vietnam Memorial, now joined by other war memorials, such as the Korean War Memorial, and the World War II memorial.

            The overwhelming feeling after spending a day at Cades Cove was that we had been there before, though we never had. It was as if we were visiting who we were 150 years ago; if not us, then at least our relatives, families, and friends who were a part of that time, now referred to as our past.

            A. Randolph Shields, who spent his first 13 years living in Cades Cove, captures this foreboding feeling in his book, The Cades Cove Story. On a visit back to his home, Mr. Shields reflects.  “I felt a deep sadness about this place that day, one that I could never put into words. A way of life has vanished from us that can never return….

            The sun had gone down behind the ridge; darkness would soon creep in and blend into the stillness over the few old decaying logs of the old house that was a home many yesterdays ago.  I thought about the grief and sadness that comes to every family, but there was an overpowering feeling of the happiness and togetherness that this family had shared. 

            There would be winters of cold and wind and snow, and spring times that no one would see.  Summers would come again and drift into lazy autumns.  The leaves would fall, and in a few years all traces of anyone ever living here would be gone.  Except for the ones that can remember, it will be a wilderness again.”

The Penny People

            We had gone to New York City to visit with relatives and see the progress being made at the World Trade Center site.  As part of our regular visits to the Big Apple we stayed at the Double Tree in Times Square where we could walk to the Broadway Shows and also make a visit to “the sites” that included the World Trade Center.  We were there when they stood, we were there when they were cleaning up the mess, we were there when the new subway station opened.

            We recalled the “Windows on the World” restaurant, but never ate there and the sphere that was located in the plaza on the ground between the two towers.   Most recently, after we had gone to Battery Park to see the “final” resting place of the Sphere from the WTC plaza, our relatives took us to something else in Battery Park just a few steps away.

            It is what we called, “the Penny People.”  It is not the view that one had from the “Windows on the World” at the top of the WTC, but it the sculpture display by Tom Otterness is called, “The Real World.”  It is a refreshing view of how things really are and is well worth your time.

            As stated in the Battery Park City website “Real World is one of New York’s most popular public artworks.  Cast in bronze, the sculptures feature Otterness’ signature cartoonish figures: animals and people, bankers and robbers, laborers and pilgrims, predators and prey, all miniature, including frogs wrestling over a moat, a tilting tower, and diminutive workers rolling giant pennies toward a multi-armed idol.  The figures are anywhere from a foot on down in size.

            “Scattered nearby are a giant feet and fist, and a bulbous-nosed creature seated on a bench, pondering a bound animal that may be a meal.  Yet even as his characters erect their monuments and enact their wiles, they remain oblivious to the giant viewer.”

            The secret of Mr. Otterness’ work is the skill with which he has “mixed levity and discord, biology and social commentary.  His world is always entertaining.”  You come away with a little more insight into how things really are.  The pain of the fallen towers is not gone; but somehow there is another day, another tomorrow.  Life really is a matter of perspective.

            In addition Mr. Otterness had 25 of his sculptures in an Open Art display along Broadway Avenue from Columbia Circle to Washington Square this fall, from September 20 to November 22.  “Tom Otterness on Broadway represents the first large display of temporary public art on the Broadway Malls. 

            As Parks and Recreation Commissioner Adrian Benepe said, “The exhibition is both a tribute to a New York’s artist prolific work and a celebration of the Broadway Malls’ transformation over the last 25 years.”

            Tom Otterness was born in Wichita, Kansas in 1952.  At 18 years old, he was a member of the Arts Students League, New York City, and at 21, participated in the Independent Study Program, Whitney Museum of American Art, New York City.  He was a founding member of the Collaborative Projects, Inc. New York City in 1977.  He lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.

            His work is displayed widely including at The Museum of Modern Art, The Whitney Museum of American Art, The Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh.  Commissions include U.S. Courthouses in Minneapolis and Sacramento, the 14^th street Subway station in NYC, and Battery Park City.  Most currently he has been working on a public commission for the Museum Beeldende an Zee in Netherlands.

            One of my favorites is these two plump figures, (man and wife presumably) dancing on a sack of money they have found which is called, “Free Money.”

            As stated on the marlboroughgallery.com website, Mr. Otterness’ “stylized bronze figures combine into sculptural ensembles that explore the range of human experience, from grand ambition to common foibles, plucking imagery and themes from popular culture and subtly transforming them in humorous commentary.”  They say something about us and the real world.

Chicago skyline

Chicago—the Windy City

            Whenever it gets really cold and the wind starts blowing I am reminded of our visits to the City of Chicago.  We have been going to Chicago for over 25 years.  At first we went because we had relatives there, but now we just go because we like Chicago.  It’s a good city to visit, it’s not too far away, and it’s well organized and easy to get around in, especially along the lake front where the museums, art galleries, and parks are located.

            It really is cold along the lake front, but I’ve found out that Chicago originally won the name “Windy City” because of some local politicians.

            This summer when we were in Chicago, Mayor Daley and other dignitaries dedicated the new Millennium Park next to the Art Museum.  It’s very impressive and has a lot of unique features, much different than the Buckingham Fountain and Grant Park.

            During this time of year, I am reminded of all the local people who would get on a train in Lima or Fort Wayne to go shopping in Chicago.  It was often a one day trip.  I am reminded again of the many trips we made to Chicago by train.  Here is an earlier account of one such trip.

            Huddled together along the tracks in the cool fall air, travelers stare into the night, watching and listening for the train.

            First comes the familiar whistle, then the approaching beam of the train’s headlight.  Another whistle, the sound of wheels against rails, followed by a screeching stop.  Waiting for the conductor’s order to board here after arriving passengers disembark, the train feels much more powerful and much bigger than we had expected or remembered.

            Our bodies shake a bit with nervousness and cold as we step on the stool and into the train.  Steady hands of the porter make sure that we don’t fall.

            Inside is a sleeping world of New Yorkers and Pennsylvanians  and eastern Ohioans sprawled out in all directions, sound asleep.  A dim overhead light guides us to our seat.  Bags are stashed overhead, coats unbuttoned and removed, as the wheels beneath our feet begin to roll.  Goodbye, Lima.

            Chicago, save the light of morning and the heat of day for us.  We’ll be there by 9:15 a.m. Ohio time.

            There is something magic, there is something mysterious and romantic about going places on a train.  The train lovers, like John Edminston and Helen Eischenbrenner knew this.

            For a few bucks, Amtrak brings the wonders of the City of Chicago to the weekend shopper and two-day vacationer.  All possible with no traffic hazzle on crowded city streets and endless interstate highways.  The train ride to Chicago is just long enough to be interesting, just short enough to be fun.

            Racing westward with the rising sun, ahead lies the morning light and the city with all its wonders.  Somewhere between Valparaiso  and Gary, Indiana, we pick up an elderly gentleman, who points out all the sites via the P.A. as we head into Chicago.

Buckingham Fountain

            Chicago is Grant Park and Buckingham Fountain (and now Millennium Park).  Chicago is the el train racing around “the loop” above the busy streets and crowded sidewalks.

            Chicago is the massive steel sculptures of Picasso and Calder.  Chicago is museums and parks and zoos and people—all kinds of people.      

            Chicago is subways and transfers, buses and taxis, trains an airplanes.

Chicago is theatre and art, music and dance.  Chicago is food as varied as her people.

            Chicago is State Street and Michigan Avenue.  Chicago is “the Magnificent Mile” and shopping like you only dreamed about.

            As if the view is too much too sudden, the Broadway Limited backs into Union Station upon its arrival in Chicago.  With suitcases in hand we wait impatiently in the aisle for the train to stop so we can disembark.

            Across Union Station and up the ramp to the second level passengers hurry to their destinations.  A bold sign reminds us that this isn’t Mercer County.

“Watch for pickpockets and purse snatchers.  Guard your belongings.” The city is real.  So are the people.  What’s yours today may not be tomorrow.

            The first best buy in the city is a map.  Unlike most cities, Chicago is fairly easy to find your way around.  Three expressways stretch out across the city from the lakeshore like large spokes.  To the northwest is John F. Kennedy.  To the west is Eisenhower.  And to the southwest, Adlai Stevenson—dividing the city somewhat into north, west, and south Chicago

            The main thoroughfare from south to north is Michigan Avenue, a wide busy street with equally spacious sidewalks.  To the east of Michigan Avenue is Grant Park beyond which is Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan.

            State Street runs parallel and west of Michigan Avenue.  The major city blocks are 1/8 mile apart and our numbered consecutively by the 100’s.

            Another landmark which helps visitors get around is the Chicago River.  The mouth of the river is next to Navy Pier and it splits into North Branch and South Branch at Wacker Drive.

            If you arrive by train at Union Station, much can be seen afoot, if you don’t mind walking.  For example, the Sears Tower is east of Union Station on Adams Street.  The Sears Tower stands 110 stories and 1454 feet tall.  The observation deck on the 103 floor is reached by two express elevators.  There is a great historical display about Chicago on this floor.  Opened in 1973, Sears Tower weighs 222,500 pounds, has 16,000 windows washed eight times a year by six automatic washers.  More than 12,000 people work here.

            Due east of the Sears Tower also on Adams Street is the Art Institute which is also located on Michigan Avenue and the western edge of Grant Park.

            For the tourist arriving by train and exploring on foot, key sites can be located from here.  For example, at the southern edge of Grant Park is the Field Museum of Natural History, the Shedd Aquarium, and the Adler Planetarium.  On further south is the Museum of Science and Industry.  The latter museum will best be reached by bus or taxi as the distance is too far to walk unless you have lots of time and good walking shoes.

            If you saw no more of Chicago than the museums along the lake front, the trip would be well worthwhile.  The museum makes the trip especially interesting and worthwhile for children and families.

            If on the other hand, you have come to Chicago to shop, attend the theatre, and/or dine out, you will want to go north on Michigan Avenue.  Again, if you’re not in a hurry and don’t mind walking, strolling along Michigan Avenue is a memorable experience in itself.

            The further north you walk, the more exclusive the businesses become.  Once you cross the Chicago River, you enter the famed “magnificent mile.”  Entrance to this exclusive shopping area is the famed Wrigley Building on the west side of the street and the Chicago Tribune building on the east side.

            At the far end of the Magnificent Mile is the Water Tower.  It is both a historical landmark and a Visitors Center.  The Water Tower escaped the Great Fire of 1871 which destroyed downtown Chicago including 17,450 buildings in 24 hours.

            Across the street is the famed Water Tower Place.  The first seven floors contain over 100 shops, retail stores, and boutiques. There are several movie theatres.  Constructed of marble the rest of the building is a hotel and condominiums for the very well-to-do.

            For a shopper, this is “the place to be.”  Revolving doors at the entrance open into a plaza connected to the additional levels by escalators separated by a series of water falls between the floors.

            At the second level the surrounding shops and boutiques open into a mall in the center of which is an all glass elevator, noiselessly carrying passengers between the floors.

            This is no everyday mall store.  Here hang rows of dresses K-Mart style, but Water Tower prices--$500-$600 and more.  Sweaters at $150 each.  This store is not for the faint hearted.  “If you have to ask how much?   You probably can’t afford it.”  Still it’s nice to look.

            And there are lots of window shoppers at the Water Tower Place and all up and down Michigan Avenue and along the Magnificent Mile.  Besides, it’s fun to see how others live and get some idea what it would cost to buy what one would buy if one did have the money.

            Beyond the Magnificent Mile to the north is the Gold Coast with the high rise condominiums bordering along the lake front.  Also to the north is the Lincoln Park Zoo with its farm display including “real” cows for the city children who have never seen one. 

            One of the most pleasant surprises of the City of Chicago is the availability of parks.  There are about 600 parks in the city.  In addition there are over 130 forest preserves, 31 beaches, and over 35 museums.

            Chicagoans enjoy their parks and the beautiful lake front.  Here across Lake Shore Drive are joggers and cyclists, family outings and romantic strollers.

            Family’s bring portable grills, spread blankets on the ground, and establish their own space for a “private cookout.”  With all these people doing their own thing, the parks are kept amazingly clean.  The parks are a showcase for the city.

            There is something intriguing about this city, something that sets it apart from other cities.  Perhaps it was the devastating blow of the great fire that inspired the people to recover and building an even better and bigger city than before.  Perhaps it is the attitude of her people who have so many varied backgrounds but share one love with their city.

            Here one sees and experiences things not found in other cities—a blind black man is helped off the subway by a passing white, front bus seats are reserved for the elderly, strangers stop to give directions to visiting tourists or to show them which bus to get on.

            Of course the panhandlers are there.  And so too, the pickpockets, the thieves, and the murderers.  But here is a juggler and here is a mime.  And standing beyond the gates of the recent Jazz Festival, a lone saxophonists blasts out a tune for a few pennies from the passerby's.

Home on Star Island

Santa Comes to South Beach

          As I sit here looking out at our white Christmas and temperatures near zero on Christmas day, I am reminded of another location also celebrating Christmas, a place we visited just a few days ago, during Thanksgiving. The place—South Beach, Miami, Florida.

            We had visited many places in Florida before, including Jacksonville, Daytona, The Cape, Orlando, Tampa, but never Miami.  And here we were spending a week at South Beach during the Christmas holiday season.

            The first thing that strikes you as the plane settles down over the area to land are the blue-green water of the ocean and the rows on rows of red-tiled roofs. We have seen and swum in the Atlantic Ocean from Maine to Florida, but have never seen such bluish-green water and as the landscape comes up to meet us, the white sand beach that seems to run on forever, wider than most of the ocean beaches we have visited.

Santa in South Beach

            From the time we enter the Miami airport until we leave days later, Christmas music is in the air—all the best known songs, but in Spanish.  We are reminded that it was Spaniard Juan Ponce de Leon who named this area Florida and claimed it all for Spain in 1513.  Christmas is everywhere in the air—only the words are in Spanish.

            Before the taxi has dropped us off at a hotel along the beach, we have passed literally hundreds of palm trees all decorated with strands of lights encircling them.  It is interesting to note that the trip from the airport to the hotel takes us by Kenneth Triester’s “Sculpture of Love and Anguish,” an impressive, gut-wrenching Holocaust Memorial—a large extended arm marked by a Auschwitz tattoo number with small figures of human beings crawling up the arm.  Near the reflecting pool on marble slabs their story is told along with the names of millions who died in the Holocaust.

Holocaust Memorial in South Beach

            It is the holiday season even in the subtropical temperatures of Miami.  We spent a of time on the beach in 80 degree weather, walked to and from the Lincoln Road mall, “the Fifth Avenue of the South,” and ate most of our meals at the street side cafes which were everywhere.

            Santa Claus and Christmas were there with Christmas lights and sounds.  We enjoyed a delicious Thanksgiving meal at the Cardozo Hotel where the porch and street cafe was filled with tourists and locals. 

Cardozo Hotel in South Beach

            The meal was exquisitely prepared and served, roasted turkey “slowly roasted and marinated with cranberry and herbs, served with mashed yams, seasonal stuffing, gravy and jellied cranberry sauce.”  Other choices included Lamb Shish Kebab with garlic citrus marinated and grilled with pepper red and green served with vegetable rice.  Or Lechon Asado, roasted pork with Mojo serve Arroz Pifaf and Mariquitas (fry green plantains), all topped off with pumpkin pie.  Magnificent.  A meal and a place and a holiday to remember.  Let me recommend the Café Cardoza at the Cardoza Hotel, 1300 Ocean Drive in South Beach, Miami.

            Only a couple of blocks away, noted fashion designer, Gianni Versace, “the Prince of Fashion” was gunned down as he returned to his home along Ocean Drive on July 15, 1997. 

            I am reminded of Joseph Brown’s account of Versace’s tragic death in his account in a local publication—“some mornings Versace would walk down Ocean Drive to the News Café, a few blocks from his mansion.  When Versace walked, he walked under a brilliant Miami Beach sun, the same beguiling light that lured legions of artists and photographers to this magical place over the year.  The golden light of Miami.”

Sunrise at South Beach

            South Beach is best appreciated by walking.  Here is the largest collection of Art Deco in the world.  (Art Deco is defined as early 20^th century decorative art featuring geometrical designs and bold colors.)  Much of South Beach is listed in the National Register of Historic Places.  It is not just a few prominent buildings along main thoroughfares, but the Art Deco design is present in the private dwellings along side streets.

            The colors of green and yellow and pink and orange and tan with stripped geometric designs across the building remind one of Santa Claus himself—in his bright red suit and black stripped belt and cap. 

            The Art Deco District of South Beach could all have been lost except for the efforts of Barbara Baer Capitman who in 1976 helped form the Miami Design Preservation League.  This group identified these buildings and had them placed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Lincoln Road Mall in South Beach

            Finally, no trip to South Beach is complete without a visit to the Lincoln Road Mall.  Here is the center of the Miami Beach commercial development.

Since 1960 it has been maintained as a pedestrian only, outdoor mall with shops, and eateries.  There are endless outside cafes where you can come and eat and sit, or just sit and watch the world go by.  Called “the Fifth Avenue of the South,” the buildings are “a mix of Mediterranean Revival and Art Deco/Moderne from the 1920’s and 1930’s.”

            The only disturbance is the occasional curious lizard (about 5 inches long) which may drop from the awnings into a woman’s hair, but is quickly disposed of, despite the sudden shock of something moving in your hair.

            A favorite stopping place in the Lincoln Road mall is the gelato shops.  (Created in the court of the Medici in the 16^th century, gelato is similar to ice cream made from milk, eggs, sugar and natural fruit flavoring).  It is not frozen as hard as ice cream, is more powdery flavored with intense colors.  Served in small dishes with miniature spoons, the gelato shops are always busy.

            A holiday stay with Santa at South Beach includes a boat tour from Bayside in Biscayne Bay by the homes of the rich and famous on Star Island, Fisher Island along the port of Miami, and the Cruise Capital of the World.

From here several million people begin each year their life dream of a cruise.

            As Santa gathers up the packages for delivery, the moon over Miami reflects on the waters along the white sands of South Beach.  Pictures of this only hint of its beauty.  And in the morning, the golden light of Miami stretches across the horizon as Santa waves good night with Christmas songs sang in Spanish.

Bike Path. Board Walk, Beach at Virginia Beach, Virginia

A Vacation Along the Ocean

            I don’t know how many of you go on vacation during the summer, nor how many of you head for the ocean, but the report we get from the east coast is a lot of Ohioans, especially here in  West Central Ohio head for Myrtle Beach or Hilton Head or Virginia Beach or Charleston.

            East coast realtors and reporters say, next to their own residents and those in the Virginia and Carolinas, Ohioans make up the largest number of visitors.  Recently I asked a group of elementary students where their family was going for vacation and it confirmed what I had been told by the coastal authorities.

            Parts of the family and all when possible have made several trips to the ocean and except for the long drive, it’s well worth it.  The next time you’re so hot you think you’ll lose your mind, close your eyes and picture this.

            You and the family are staying at the Oceanfront Inn on the sands of beautiful Virginia Beach.  All rooms have balconies; all rooms have balconies facing the ocean.

Resting along Virginia Beach

            During the day there’s nothing to do but sit under a big beach umbrella, sipping something cool.  If the urge strikes you, you wade out in the ocean, or rent a bike or roller blades or just go for a walk along the board walk.

            When the sun goes done, there are plenty of eating places as well as souvenir and sun shops to buy what you should have brought with you or what you should leave there.

            The best part, for older people like my wife and me, is the walk along the ocean when the sun goes down in the evening or just before it comes up in the morning.  You kick off your sandals, reach down and shake off the sand, and carry them by the straps as the cool water of the tide play tag with your toes.

            And in the morning before the beach is covered with sunbathers, and after the huge sweeper has made its nightly run, there is plenty of opportunity to look for shells.

            Then at night, after most folks have gone home or back to their rooms, you can leave the balcony door in a locked-open position and listen to the sounds of the waves hit the shore as the tide comes in and then goes back out.

            Like the rhythmic sound of rain on a tin roof, the sounds of the waves striking along the shore, hypnotically wash away the pressing stresses of everyday life, bringing with it first rest and then peaceful sleep.

            Nature’s a healer.  Everyone needs an ocean front of some  kind.  And not just a few days of the year.

The Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island

       "Summertime, when the living is easy."  How's your summer going?  Despite the weather, I understand you and the family and the families had a good Fourth of July.  At least it didn't rain.  And besides the broadcast of the Celebration in Washington was well worth it for those who couldn't or didn't huddle up to the grill to keep warm.

            The Fourth of July is always one of the biggest vacation holidays of the year--but it mostly a family within the community of man celebration.  Families within families (mom, dad, and the kids) usually go somewhere else to celebrate their own uniqueness.

            My family found one such place recently.  It's up I-75 passed all those traditional orange and white barrel landmarks, up north through Michigan until you reach five miles of bridge suspended in air and named, "Mackinac Bridge."

            There before (or after) you cross find a ferry or plane headed to Fantasy Island--known locally as Mackinac Island. Just three miles long by two miles wide--picture this romantic (for some) getaway, cyclists paradise for others there in the middle of Grand Lake St. Marys somewhere north of Windy Point. 

            Mackinac Island.  Talk about a tourist attraction--right there in the middle of "Ohio's Other Great Lake."  The 3 by 2 addition would still leave plenty of room for skiers and fisherman would have even more banks from which to fish.  (By the way, the island also includes golf facilities.)  Then there's the matter of the "Sunshine Skyway" local snowbirds go to St. Petersburg, Florida to see every year. 

            Last word was that Ohio some day may be building an interstate north to the Michigan line somewhere east of the current SR 127.  Now folks in "One of 100 Best Cities in America" won't have to wonder about the location the new highway takes south of the city.  I can see it now--just due east of Wright State Lake Campus, the  Buckeye Skyway, from 703 to 219 with a stop off at what is now Mackinac Island.

            Seriously, the Auglaize and Mercer Counties Convention and Visitors Bureau has put out a great Visitor's Guide. An island like Mackinac would be a dream come true (maybe), with or without the skyline bridge.

            On the other hand, both locations hold a common bond with the fur business done locally (by the Girty brothers among others) and the fur trading post operated by John Jacob Astor. (Think what might have become if Girty and Astor had just traded places.)

            If you're going to cater to conventions, as both communities do, you're going to need somewhere for people to stay.  Mackinac Island has "The Grand Hotel.”

            Talk about a hotel--it comes with a 600 foot porch set off with huge white pillars.  And for $360 (plus tax) you can stay all night.  On the other hand, if you're just visiting and looking around for ideas, you can visit the lobby for five dollars.  A lot of people stay all night; a lot more, over 250 a day, come to see the lobby.  (sort of like the tour of a couple rooms of the Whitehouse for most of us versus an all-night stay in the Lincoln Bedroom for the rest of the "friends."

            Anyone who has either sold or bought a house (or a hotel) knows that the first three things to consider are "location, location, location Consider Mackinac Island is one of the few places in the U.S. where cars are prohibited and have been since 1901.  On Mackinac Island people walk, ride bicycles, or ride in horse-drawn carriages.

            When you leave your car on the mainland and travel by ferry or plane to the island, you leave a lot of baggage behind.  One of the first sights is of course The Grand Hotel which sits high on a cliff over looking the island and Lake Huron. 

            American flags bedeck both the roof and the tall pillars along the length of the front porch.  High rates and high standards are maintained.  Near the entrance is a large sign reminding that "all gentlemen are required to wear ties and jackets at dinner, and dresses or skirts for women."

            Contrasting with the open dignity and display of grandeur of The Grand Hotel, are the street cleaner who carry the hotel's insignia on their clean white uniforms while they endlessly man their shovels.

            There are no cars here, but there are plenty of horses.  And even in paradise, someone (or something) must keep the streets clean.  Young men man their shovels, if not with dignity, at least with accuracy as the signs of the endlessly passing horses are quickly removed.

            Signs along Main Street, which is filled with bicycles remind the cyclists that "horses have the right of way."  Bikers are to ride to the right, watch dangerous hills, and drive slowly enough to enjoy the ride.

            Called the most historic place in Michigan, there are several places of interest to see including Fort Mackinac, Benjamin Blacksmith Shop, the Indian Dormitory, Biddle House, Beaumont Memorial, and the Mission Church.

            There are also natural rock formations including Great Arch and Sugar Loaf.  The Great Arch is a rock forming an arch 146 feet above the water and spanning 50 feet at its widest point.  Sugar Loaf, standing 75 feet above the ground is all that is left of an earlier island when all of Mackinac Island except the center was covered with water.

            Then of course, speaking of atmosphere, is "the fudge." Mackinac Island is known for its fudge.  And it seems like every third shop along Main Street is a fudge shop.  Shops turn out thousands of pounds of fudge every summer.  Eat enough or buy enough and you become "a fudgie."

            In 1875 Mackinac Island became America's second National Park and is now under the jurisdiction of the Mackinac island State Park Commission with half the island reserved as a park area.

            Bicycles, horses, and fudge.  Some stay all summer, but most come and go as tourists, sometimes as many as 10,000 a day.  And when winter comes, residents number less than a thousand.

            The Chicago Tribune, June 27, 2004, ran a feature in the Travel Section listing packages and “On your own” fees from a Thursday-Sunday on the mainland with visits to the island for a family of two adults and two children (5-12 years old), July12-August 28 economy lodging for $466; and premium water front for $790.

            The Grand Hotel itself, available for booking only from mid-May to November, single $275-$315; double, $340-$360 with an additional 18% service charge.

            For more information for mainland stays call 1-800-750-0160 or www.mackinawcity.com  Information about the Grand Hotel, call 906-847-3259 or www.grandhotel.com

A Great Summer Vacation

      A few days more and school will be out for the summer.  The question facing every family is "What about the kids?"  Perhaps this is the most important question a family faces in the summer.  If it's the family tradition for them to stay with your parents or the neighbors, then it's pretty well set.

            With or without the tv console in the back seat, a lot of extra effort is required if the children are to go along.

            There is a temptation to leave the kids at home, but to do so is to pass up two things 1) a chance to build happy memories together that someday both you and your children will appreciate; and 2) a chance to further the education of your children.

            If a family is to be a family, the summer vacation together is a golden opportunity too good to miss.

            Of all the places we visited in the summer, one of the kids' favorites places was Little Big Horn.  Located in southeastern Montana, the Battle of Little Big Horn is the "single most discussed event in American History."

            I'm sure we didn't know that when we stopped there. And when I think back on it, the reason that visit was so worthwhile and interesting was the Park Rangers.  One of the Rangers met us at the visitor center, gave us a brief introduction, and then guided us along the trails running through the tall grass--first down toward the Little Big Horn across which on that fateful day, out of view of Custer and his approaching men, were several thousand Indians.

            He led us along paths and pointed out white marble markers placed there to mark where a soldier had fallen.  Then he took us up on a hill where there was a fine view of the battlefield and where gravestones marked where the final battle had taken place for Custer and his men.

            The ranger energetically retold the story of one of the most famous battles in history, pausing to let his words sink in, before he unfolded the rest of that fateful day in history. 

            Park Rangers can be, and we have found are some of the best educators around.  What they say about the location you are visiting and the people who made the location famous goes along way towards making a worthwhile visit for both your children and you.

            For example, better than a century later, the debate goes on about the man, Custer, and the Battle of Little Big Horn.

            Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer, a legend in his own time and one of America's most famous soldiers, was only 36 years old when he died.  A native Ohioan, he was born in New Rumley, just 30 miles west of Steubenville in 1839.

            Although he graduated at the bottom of his class at West Point in 1861, he quickly established himself in the Civil War. He was promoted to brigadier general at 23, the youngest to do so in U.S. history, and was quickly dubbed "the boy general."

            After leading the final cavalry charge at Appomattox, he witnessed the surrender of Robert E. Lee.

            Known for his courage, horsemanship, and weaponry, Custer was also despised for cruelty and insensitivity.  He was loved; he was hated.  He was nicknamed "Yellow Hair" and "Hard A___."  Although he designed a uniform for himself in blue velveteen, he preferred buckskins and a white broad rim hat.

            Before his death at Little Big Horn both he and his wife had a premonition of the forthcoming doom.  Custer had his long yellow hair shortened so it wouldn't be so tempting to a scalper.

            He almost missed Little Big Horn altogether by testifying against and implicating President Grant's brother in the corruptive administration of tradership positions.

            For this Grant removed the fellow Ohioan from the campaign to force the Plains Indians back to their reservations.

            Only at the insistence of General Philip Sheridan did Grant relent and agree to let Custer participate and then he was only to be in charge of the seventh cavalry.

            Washington had made peace with the Indians in 1868 when they set aside eastern Wyoming as a permanent Indian reservation. But this treaty was short-lived when gold was discovered in the Black Hills. Prospectors ignored Washington who then tried but failed to buy the land from the Indians.  Prospectors and Indians battled over the ground. Washington stepped in and ordered all Indians back to their reservation in January 31, 1876, then sent 3 military units to the area that same spring to enforce the order.

            An estimated twelve thousand Sioux and Cheyenne Indians had gathered in the Little Big Horn valley under the confederation established by Sitting Bull.  Unbeknownst to Custer, there were 2500 to 4000 warriors in the camp he ordered to be attacked.

            History buffs still argue about the critical decisions that Custer then made.  First, although his superior officer, General Alfred H. Terry, permitted him some leeway in the orders, Custer was not to enter the Little Bighorn valley until the other troops had arrived.  Custer did so anyway.

            Secondly Custer pushed his exhausted men he had marched day and night into battle a day early.  Some argue he had lost the element of surprise and had to do it.

            Thirdly, he ordered an attack without first determining the location and size of the enemy. 

            Finally, he decided to divide his men against the unknown number.  Their fate was sealed.  It was just a matter of time--30 minutes more or less and all 216 were dead. 

            We don't have much information about this famous battle from the surviving Indians because they feared repercussions so they told the whites what they wanted to hear.  We do know that the Indian attack was led by a group of young warriors ages 18 to 25 called "Midnight Strong Hearts" who attacked the whites to save their wives and children.

            Some Indian accounts say that if they had known Custer was going to attack their encampment, they would have moved their wives and children elsewhere.

            Warriors said "it was like a buffalo hunt," the killing was so easy and that the "battle did not last long enough to light a pipe."

            The only survivor as any good Trivia player knows was Comanche, Captain Keogh's gelding.  And he survived because he was so full of bullet holes and arrows that Indians figured he'd die anyway.

            Comanche recovered and upon his later death was stuffed and is on display at the University of Kansas.

            Finally, the real irony to this story is, that although the Battle of the Little Bighorn was the "last hurrah" for the Indians, it was not the biggest battle in any sense of the word.  I wonder if "Son of the Morning Star," as Custer was referred to in the movie "Battle of Little Big Horn," ever heard of a place called Fort Recovery.

            Eighty-five years before Little Big Horn became a permanent place in history, there was the "Whitewash of the Wabash," when the Indians massacred over 900 men, women, and children right here on the banks of Wabash not far from Fort Recovery.

            On November 4, 1791, General St. Clair's army met its crushing defeat by the Indians.  Consider this--less than two weeks before this fateful day, three men were hung for deserting.  Four days before the massacre, 60 soldiers deserted to intercept incoming supplies.

            As Nancy Knapke points out in the "Military History of Fort Recovery,”  the army was outfitted in shoes with paper soles, tents that dissolved in the rain, ammunition that didn't match guns, axes whose edges turned dull in chopping, poor quality food and in short supply, horses which were old and sickly with poor quality fodder with which to feed them.

            On the day before the Whitewash on the Wabash, "St. Clair pushed his men to the Wabash so tired that they went to bed unprepared for the battle that was to follow in the morning.

            To further put the Battle of Little Big Horn in perspective, three years after the Whitewash on the Wabash, a second battle occurred at Fort Recovery where "the largest Indian force ever assembled was defeated in 1794."

            As historian Martha Rohr pointed out, "Strange that historians should have passed over so lightly these two great battles fought at Fort Recovery.”

            It is interesting to note that following the massacre by the Indians in 1791, a Congressional investigation was held in regards to what happened there.  Then suddenly the investigation was discontinued "and St. Clair was exonerated and praised when the hearings may have got too close to possible wrongdoings in terms of funds for the army by important political figures."

            Isn't that interesting.  If only St. Clair had yellow hair and not the gout, if President Grant had not permitted Custer from going West because of the implications Custer had brought against his brother; if the Congressional Investigation of the Battle of the Wabash had been completed...

Kelley’s Island and Put-in-Bay

         One of the best ways to take a great relaxing trip and never leave Ohio is to take an "island-hopping" cruise on Lake Erie.  It takes less than 24 hours but provides a much-needed tonic to the world we live in.

            One such cruise begins and ends at Sandusky (take I-80, the Ohio Turnpike, east out of Maumee, to route 4 north to downtown Sandusky.  At. U.S. Route 6, turn left and go one block to Jackson Street.  Turn right on Jackson Street and it's just three blocks to the Jackson Street Pier).

            There, 7 days a week, from the end of May to the first week of September, "Goodtime I" is waiting to take you across the Lake to Kelley's Island, Put-in-Bay, and then back to Sandusky, an all-day trip well worth the trouble.  On Friday nights, there are Party Cruises, 7:30 p.m. to 1 a.m.

            Just the time on the boat (1 hour to Kelly's Island, an hour over to Put-in-Bay, and a couple hours return) is a refreshing trip with the cool breezes from the lake restoring your faith that even in the summer  the heat and humidity of this summer can't last forever.

            Kelley's Island, 3 miles long and 2.75 miles wide, was settled by Daturs and Irad Kelley, who paid $1.50 an acre for 1500 of the 2800 acres there. 

            Known as "the walleye capital of the world,"  Kelley's Island was once claimed by the British and came into the Union in 1803 as part of Ohio.  Here in West Central Ohio it's hard to imagine that this state also includes "wind-swempt shores of sand and rock islands in Lake Erie."

            In fact this chain of islands in Lake Erie includes North Bass Island, Middle Bass Island, South Bass Island, Kelley's Island, and Catawba Island (which is really a peninsula).  Goodtime I makes stops at two of them, Kelleys Island and South Bass Island, home of Put-in-Bay and Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry's famous victory over the British on September 10, 1813.

            No visit to Kelly's Island is complete without visits to two historical sites there.  The first is the Glacial Grooves Memorial, located on the north side of the island, just off SR 575, which route follows the western edge of the island.

            No picture can do justice to this site.  Enclosed by wire fence, the grooves were carved by the Wisconsin Glacier, about 30,000 years ago.  The cross-section picture often depicted in textbooks is misleading. 

            The remaining grooves, believed to be the largest in the world, are 35 feet wide and over 400 feet long.  Geologists believe that boulders in the glacier cut grooves from 35 feet in the limestone on the north side of the island to 210 feet in the shale rock at the east end of Lake Erie.

            This magnificent site is most appreciated when you allow time to walk their full length on both sides, crossing the bridge at the far end.  Also, leave enough time to read the markers along the sides.  Although a trolly will take you to and from the site, necessary time to fully appreciate the glacial grooves requires other transportation, be it by golf cart or bicycle or walking.

            Although badly eroded by the weather, the second historical site worth visiting is "Inscription Rock" on the south side of the island along Lakeshore Drive.  Native Americans, who came to Kelley's Island in search of game and fish, left evidence of their stay on this 32 foot by 21 foot limestone surface with over 40 images.  The were drawn by the Eric tribe over 500 years ago.

            Geologists believe Inscription Rock was moved from the north side of the island to the south side by the same glacial movement which left the grooves. These petrographs seems to be of people, animals, action, and passing of time.

            Although there may be over 1500 people living on Kelley's Island in the summer, only 350 live year around there.  The downtown area is typical small town with shops supplying both necessary food and living items for the residents and souvenirs for the visitors.

            The first sight from the deck of Goodtime I is the golf cart shop which also rents out bicycles.  Golf carts, from plain to fancy, and rented for $10 to $18 an hour are parked along the Main Street and in the alleys as the preferred way to shop.

            Kelley's Island, who graduated one student, Lindsay Van Orman in 2001, had 28 students in 2002, K-12 with two pre-school students.  Instructors come from the mainland to teach at Estes School.  At one time students were flown by "the Tin Goose" (tri-motor plane) to the mainland for classes. 

            It was only the small class at Kelley's Island that first passed all students on the Proficiency Class that topped Mercer county students when testing began about 10 years ago.  Although we chose to make a one-day only trip of it, there are lots of places to stay at Beds and Breakfasts, cottages, condos and apartment.  Reservation ahead should be made.  More information is available on the recently updated website, www.kelleyisland.com

            In addition to siteseeing and shopping, things to do include fishing, birdwatching, sailing, hiking and walking, scuba diving, kayaking, and flying.

           In about an hour, Goodtime I takes you northwest to South Bass Island, Put-in-Bay and the Perry Victory and International Peace Memorial.  It stands 352 feet tall and is topped by a 11 ton bronze urn.  Three British and three American officers killed in the Battle of Lake Erie are buried beneath the memorial floor.

          A short 37 step walk and an elevator takes you to the viewing deck at 317 feet.  "On a clear day you can see the battle site, just 10 miles away."

            At the base of the Perry Memorial, retired teacher Charles Urwhiller, talks about the War of 1812, the Battle of Lake Erie, Perry's success, and demonstrates how to shoot the muzzle loader of that period of time.

            Noted for his care and concern of British prisoners, Perry, who was only 27 years old at the time, died of fever at 34 on a diplomatic mission to Venezula.  Much of his success on Lake Erie hinged on the direction and strength of the wind, the ultimate accidental ramming together of two British ships, and Perry's quick capitalizing of this sudden turn of events. 

            Perry's message to President William Henry Harrison was simply, "We have met the enemy and they are ours: two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop."

Niagara Falls

          According to the Niagara Falls Convention and Visitors Bureua, 12 million people visit the falls every year and 50,000 couples marry there.  The custom began in 1801 with vice president Aaron Burr's daughter, Theodosia Burr and Joseph Alton honeymooned there after a long ride from Albany with nine pack horses and a lot of servants.

           But Niagara Falls is much more than the "honeymoon capital of the world" and it is doubtful newlyweds are really in the mood to truly appreciate such a magnificent wonder of nature when they are so intent in their own natural wonder.

            In addition to being "the honeymoon capital of the world," the second most common thing we had heard about Niagara Falls is that it is "highly over-estimated."

            So a few years ago when my wife and I and our three children went, I didn't expect much from this highly over-estimated place.  "Just some water going over a falls," someone warned me.

            We arrived early in the morning, drove across the bridge into Canada and then along the river to the parking lot across from the Canadian Falls, or "Horseshoe Falls" as they are more commonly referred to.

            I took my camera, somewhat reluctantly with me, as we crossed the street to where supposingly this natural wonder was.  We walked up to the railing and looked down--I was dumbfounded, absolutely dumb-founded.  It is without question one of the truly spectacular sights available to man. 

            For several minutes, none of us said anything--we couldn't believe our eyes.  The roar of all that water cascading endlessly down into the river below.  The mist caused by its action covered us, filled our lungs, and covered our clothes.

            The first site of the Niagara Falls, the Horseshoe Falls on the Canadian side was forever.  And after viewing the American Falls across the river and noticing all the tourist-trap rift-raft that has grown up in the vicinity of the falls, I recommend that everyone's first view of the falls should be the Horseshoe Falls.

            The length of brink of the American Falls is 1060 feet, 176 feet high with a fall of 70 feet due to rocks at the base with 150,000 gallons of water falling per second.  The length of the brink of the Canadian Falls is 2600 feet, 167 feet high, and 600,000 gallons of water falling over the falls every second. It is said that the negative ions of the water falling create a powerful aphrodisaic.  I can't verify this, but I do know every human experience thereafter is more meaningful than it was before.

            And if you or your kids are really into wax museums and t-shirt shops, go to Myrtle Beach, where you can send them on their own, while you stretch out on a big beach towel along the ocean.

            Niagara Falls is best appreciated by a couple celebrating an anniversary or a family on vacation.  There is such a contrast between "The Falls" cutting its way across the shelf of rock and man's futile attempt to imitate with works of his own, many of which have evolved so numerously in the Niagara Falls area.

            Many return from Niagara Falls disappointed, but what was it they expected?  Granted, within the city of Niagara on both side of the international line, there are numerous tourist traps and enticements, but nothing man-made can equal the astounding view of the falls.

            The falls may be wasted on too many honeymoons.  Go after you know each other; go when you can share the experience with your children.  Then the joy is twice yours--as your own experience and as a shared experience as your kids are awestruck by this natural phenomena.

            For about 20,000 years the Niagara River, linking Lake Erie with Lake Ontario has been cutting through a shelf of rock which is 500 million years old.

            Historically, the first-known men to live near the falls were Indians labeled the Neutrals who lived between two warring tribes, the Hurons and the Iroquois.

            Tourism began in the 1820's after the War of 1812 was over.  In 1827, there hotel owners set up the first stunt to attract more tourists. Ten thousand people showed up September 8, 1827, to watch a dozen wild animals ride an old Lake Erie schooner, The Michigan, over the falls.

            There have been plenty of attempts since then.  In 1829 Sam Patch leaped into the area below the falls from a 100 foot tower on Goat Island, which is between the American and Canadian falls.  His first attempt was successful, but when he tried to repeat the stunt to the Genessee River, he died.

            Perhaps the greatest stuntman to perform at the Falls was "the Great Blondin," whose speciality was tightrope walking.  He made his first crossing on June 30, 1859, and then stayed all summer with an endless array of stunts performed on the rope stretched across the falls.

            The first person over the falls in a barrel was a school teacher, Mrs. Annie Taylor in 1901.  After a trial run in which a cat was sent over the falls in a barrel (the cat didn't live through it), Annie had herself strapped in.  Seventeen minutes later after going over the falls, she was lifted unconscious from the barrel.  She made it--barely.

            Despite the danger, people continue to attempt a trip over the falls. For those of us not as daring and not as foolish, there is the famous "Maid of the Midst" boat ride. he boat ride, which leaves every few minutes is the real way to experience the falls without endangering your life.  Each passenger is outfitted in a plastic raincoat which comes up over your head.  The boat passes in front of the American Falls, Cave of the Winds, and then pauses within a few feet of the base of Horseshoe Falls.

            At this point you are part of the falls as the roar of the thundering water fills your ears and the mist strikes your face and mouth and you literally taste the experience.

            My wife says this is the best--it is an unforgettable experience (not quite white water rafting, though). Presidents, kings, the rich and the famous, have taken this boat ride.  Truly the Maid of the Mist lets you experience the falls first hand.

            There's an awful lot of tourists traps near there, but hatever you do while you are there, see the falls.  Itis a phenomena every person should not miss and will not miss if you go there to see "The Falls."

            For more information about Niagara Falls, visit  www.niagarafallslive.com on the internet.

"Someday I Wanna Be a Cowboy"

            I grew up with Howdy Doody.  I remember the first television show I ever saw was in Hutchings' (I think that was the name) Store at the junction of State Route 116 and St. Marys River Road where they came together and formed Defiance Street at the edge of St. Marys, Ohio.

            Dad stopped to get some milk and they had this new gadget called a television. So we stepped into the main display room of the store (now a residence moved to the east side of Defiance Street).  There was a bunch of people, mainly men and kids, staring at this box.  On the box screen, there was this singing cowboy, Kenny Roberts  who played a guitar, blew a harmonica, jumped into the air, and sang all at the same time.

            After that, there was Howdy Doody, whom I saw the other day peering back at me out of a glass cage at the National Museum of American History in Washington, D.C.  How could Howdy Doody, such an important part of the lives of so many, come to this?  So do we all end of in cages or boxes of some kind?

            In fairness to Howdy and all those Howdy Doodians still out there, I really became aware of life pre-Howdy Doody, pre-television.  We had this old radio, that I think my sister still plays once in awhile, that we sat around and listened to Sky King, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon with his dog (On, King! Go Boy, Go King!), The Shadow, and of course, Tom Mix.

     There were a lot of other shows, like Amos 'n Andy,and Henry Alrich.  And there were other cowboy programs like Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, Gene Autry, and Hopalong Cassidy, but there was only one TOM MIX. 

            And for 35 cents and two boxtops of some cereal I can't remember any more, they would send you "these genuine spurs straight from the west."

            Well, I sent the two box tops and the 35 cents, my sisters and brother and I ate the cereal, and after centuries of waiting (probably a month), the spurs came from, sure enough somewhere in the West (at least west of Ohio.

            Genuine?  Now that's another question.  They were genuine plastic if that's what genuine meant.

            Willie Nelson prepared for another Farm Aid concert where he will sing again, "Mamas, don't let your children grow up to be cowboys?"

            No danger here, I hung up the spurs.  Actually, I think after Dad stepped on one, Mom threw them out.  However, I read in The Chicago Tribune, for X bucks you can go live on a dude ranch, or even for enough money, participate in a real cattle drive.  I suppose like the "Reds for a Day" program that lets middle-aged men play out their fantasy of being a big league ball player, vacationing on a dude ranch or joining a cattle drive is the next best thing to the real thing.

            Sometime ago, my family and I decided to see if we could find the real cowboy, that is without joining a cattle drive. Where is the real cowboy?  Try the West, try Wyoming. Miles and miles of near-empty road marked only by a prairie dog who paused to look when he should have kept going. Open range as far as the eye can see covered with sage brush, a few wandering elk, and once in awhile a small herd of cattle crossing the road, recrossing, stopping to graze as they see fit and as they can find grass.

            For miles huge billboard foretell of "Real Western Wear," but where is that elusive cowboy?  Only miles of empty range.  and then a figure appears out of the sage brush, some fifty yards down the road.  A lone, thin figure on a horse.  Not too romantic, but nevertheless, a real cowboy.

            For the romantic, the west has preserved the cowboy of our dreams.  And nothing has made that more possible than the rodeo.  There, too, is the real cowboy, but more as we had imagined.

            Where is the real cowboy?  Try Cheyenne and Cody, Wyoming.  Cheyenne's annual Frontier Days are world famous.  Cheyenne is located at the junction of interstates 80 and 25 in the southeast corner of Wyoming.

            Cody, located in the northwest part of the state is near the East Gate entrance to Yellowstone National Park. During the summer, Cody holds nightly rodeos.  The town was founded in 1901 by Buffalo Bill who left it his namesake. In 1927, ten years after his death, the original museum was opened and has expanded today into the Buffalo Bill Historical Center.

            Here in addition to a collection commemorating Buffalo Bill's life from boyhood to Pony Express Rider, Civil War soldier, buffalo hunter, army scout, guide and hunter, actor, showman, and westerner, is the Whitney Gallery of Western Art, including work by George Catlin, Albert Bierstadt, Frederic Remington, Charles M. Russell, and W.H.D. Koerner.

            Other parts of this very impressive museum include Plains Indian Museum, Winchester Arms Museum, and Harold McKracken Research Library.

            First impressions are indeed lasting.  Arriving from Yellowstone at 1:30 a.m. in the morning, we looked first for a place to sleep and then for something to eat.

            On the first corner was a group of ruffians brewing for a brawl.  We didn't waste much time in finding a nearby motel. After registering we piled into the car and drove down Sheridan Avenue, Cody's main street.  We passed "The Irma," a hotel and grill, founded in 1902 by Buffalo Bill and named after his youngest daughter.

            There weren't many eating places open, but we found a place a couple of blocks on by "The Irma."  It was called "Caley's Cafe."

            Now this was an experience.  Here we were, in the wee hours of the morning when the nightly rodeo is over and the cowboys stop by for a bit to eat.

            A full course meal is more like it.  Stepping into Calley's Cafe at two in the morning after the rodeo is over is like stepping into a western--only this one is for real.

            There were real cowboys everywhere.  In fact everybody, but a couple of tourist families was dressed in chaps, vests, boots, spurs, and ten-gallon hats.  Nobody parted with their hats.

            Across the way a seasoned cowboy was teasing a younger one for a less-than-successful riding performance.  Four other cowboys sat in the next booth to us, waiting for their food.  The language was rough, but not vulgar.  Just a little unwinding after a hard performance.

            From the open kitchen counter behind us came the aroma of mouth-watering steaks.  The waitress arrived as soon as we sat down.  And in a few minutes she returned with our orders--steaks two inches thick on platters  filled also with baked potatoes.  Side dishes were filled with vegetables and salad. Oven-fresh bread completed the meal. 

            Cowboys have a hearty appetite, and as we soon found out, they eat well.  What a meal! With full stomachs and the memory of the cowboys at Calley's Cafe, we returned to the motel for a restful night.

         One of the best times to plan a springtime vacation is now, knowing we are about halfway through winter and knowing that what the poet  said is true,  “Oh Wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind."  Here is an account of one of the best spring vacations we have had and it all started with planning about this time of year a couple of years ago.

          Nothing so illustrates what we found in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park than what author A. Randolph Shields said of his own grandma, both natives of Cades Cove, and both gone now.

          "I can still remember when I was a small lad growing up in the cove, how my grandmother would stare off into space for what seemed to be hours from her rocking chair on the porch. "What are you doing, Grandma?"

           "Ah, just settin' here soakin in the mountains."

            Even amidst the chores of subsistence living there was time to appreciate the aesthetics of the mountains surrounding Cades Cove.  Today, thousands of visitors come to the cove each year to "soak in" the mountains that rise in hazy blue splendor above the grassy meadows."

            We went to the Smokies , and Gatlinburg and Cades Cove in particular to participate in the annual Spring Wildflower Pilgrimage, April 25-29.  They were celebrating their 51st year. 

            Imagine that, a group of now almost 1000 people who meet  each year in Gatlinburg since 1951 to celebrate wild flowers.  Now isn’t  that something.  As long as there are people, young and old, who love flowers enough to return to an annual pilgrimage, there is hope for the rest of Mankind.

            The Spring Wildflower Pilgrimage "is a five-day program of conducted nature walks, motorcades and photograhic tours in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  Sponsors are the Botany Department at the University of Tennessee, the Gatlinburg Garden Club, the Southern Appalachian Botanical Society, the Great Smoky Mountains Natural History Association/Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Friends of the Smokies, and Gatlinburg Chamber of Commerce." It is held at the W.L. Mills Auditorium, Airport Road, Gatlinburg, Tennessee, 37738.

            That year there were over 100 pilgrimages (hikes, short and long walks, motorcades, and lecture-sharings you could attend. A large exhibit of identified wild flowers were on display at the W.L. Mills auditorium.

            To give you a feel for the program, here are the titles of some of the programs: Wildflower Walk, Bear Walk, Tree and Shrub Identification Walk, Forest Recovery in the Smokies, Birding and Wildflower Motorcade, Old Growth Forest of the Smokies, Spider Foray, Walk the Medicinal Path, Bugs and Butterflies Walk, Big Trees Walk, Bushwhacking in the Smokies.  Programs lasted from an hour to half a day to all day.

            On Friday evening we attended a culminating presentation given to several hundred people by George Ellison entitled "A Place of Refuge: Horace Kephart, "Our Southern Highlanders" and the Making of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

            Ellison focused on the personal evolvement of Kephart, who lead the way to establishing the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

            The annual Spring Wildflower Pilgrimage can be as much or as little of your visit to Gatlinburg.  Our first two local guides told us to at a minimum go into the mountains and visit the new acquarium.  They were right on both accounts.

            Although 8 million people annually visit the Great Smoky Mountain National Park not everybody was in favor of converting this area to the second National Park  (Yellowstone was the first National Park).

            Remember, over 7300 people were asked (told) that they would have to give up their homes so where they born, grew up, married, and died could be shared with others.  What a noble cause.  Could we do the same--literally give up who we are so others could enjoy it, too; well into the future, after we are gone.

            Of these 8 to 9 million who come to visit the Park, three-fourths of them come specifically to visit areas such as Cades Cove, the part of the park that has been preserved the way it was in the late 1800's-early 1900's.

            At the western edge of Gatlinburg is the Cades Cove Road, which quickly takes you into the Cove on a one-way only, single lane twisting, turning up and down, round and round "road."

            Along the way are farm homes, now preserved as they were, but now empty and alone.  There are  churches, also preserved next to their accompanying grave yards.  There is a foreboding since that the people who onced lived here are gone only a short time ago and will return. (I understand that former residents do return twice a year, in May and in October, to hold family reunions.)

            For some, there is a feeling almost that you are intruding; that they will somehow suddenly appear and want to know what you are doing there.  You think of what it must have been like to be told you will have to leave your home forever so the National Park can be established "for a greater good."

            John D. Rockefeller, who led donations for the establishment of the Park gave $5 million toward it in 1934,  the "most beautiful natural setting east of the Mississippi."

            These people who physically departed since the park was officially opened by President Franklin D. Roosevelt on September 2, 1940, remain there in spirit.  You see signs of them everywhere, in where they lived, and worked, worshipped and played. 

            Their presence is felt in their homes, and in their churches, everywhere in the now-empty cove.  There is a kind of sacredness as we tread on other people's lives.  Visitors are solemn in a kind of sacred feeling reserved for national monuments such as the Lincoln Memorial, the Kennedy graves, and the Vietnam Memorial, now joined by other war memorials, such as the Korean War Memorial, and the World War II memorial.

            The overwhelming feeling after spending a day at Cades Cove was that we had been there before, though we never had. It was as if we were visiting who we were 150 years ago; if not us, then at least our relatives, families, and friends who were a part of that time, now referred to as our past.

            A visit to Gatlinburg is incomplete without the town.  Gatlinburg, we found, is not Pigeon Forge nor Dollywood which grew up nearby for commercial ventures into every form of entertainment known and imagined by man.

            These, too, are nearby and helicopter rides are available at the edge of town and the edge of the Smoky Mountains.

            Whatever your taste, and for whatever reason you came, you can find it there; including all that nature has to offer of what was there before the other entertainment came.

            Beyond the wax museums, fun rides, tramways, miniature golf, and endless other forms of entertainment, there is just off the main street near traffic light #6 a small archway that leads to "The Village," which is 27 unique shops with artists and historians next door to each other, along with eateries and shopping specialties.

            Next to the archway entrance you can watch as a fellow uses two machines to make taffy--one for the taffy pull, and another that forms, shapes, cuts, and wraps the taffy, ready to go.

            In "The Village" is a display of  Thomas KinKade's works (Painter of Light), including limited editions.  Nearby a retired physician has a shop devoted strictly to the Civil War, where he can talk about what has become his life while "minding the store about the war."

            Finally, don't miss Gatlinburg's latest addition, Ripley's Aquarium of the Smokies.  Probably better known for it's "Believe It or Not" museums, the new aquarium is truly first class, including displays of sharks and saltwater fishes.  It took hundreds of workers three years to build this 115,000 square foot structure. In addition there is a 1.2 million of gallons of water here with Shark Lagoon holding 750,000 gallons.

            The single panel of acrylic in "Our Coral Reef" which is 40 foot wide and 9 and 1/2 feet  high, weighs 15,000 pounds.  The moving walk way in the "Shark Lagoon" winds 370 feet through an acrylic tunnel.  Ripley's aquarium is a must see in Gatlinburg, but not before you visit Cades Cove where you can "soak in the mountains."

           During the course of a lifetime, one crosses a lot of bridges. Some bridges we cross and wish be hadn't, so we at least try to cross back over, if we haven't "burned the bridge" when we crossed it.

           Other bridges we get right up to or start over and then decide not to go ahead and cross.  In the childhood memories of many of us is the story of "Billy Goat Gruff," who waited, waited for us to try to cross over the bridge so he could butt us into the water and sudden, but sure death.

            I don't remember the whole story, but something about the grass being greener on the other side of the bridge. I don't know what the law of averages has been for you, but I'd have to say I didn't generally find the grass green on the other side--different, but not necessarily greener.  Different it was, different maybe in some regards because I had crossed the bridge.  Sometimes it was the crossing, never a mere feat, that made the other side so different.

            I want to tell you about a couple of important bridges and what I remember of what others told me and what I experienced first hand.

            The first bridge extended across the Miami Erie Canal just due west of the Weston Paper Mill.  It was a simple foot bridge about a couple of plank wide.  I took this bridge for granted most of the time I worked at the Paper Mill in St. Marys, Ohio. 

            Larry Mallory, Ward Harner, Jim James, Don Cook, Joe Turner, Gerry Gilbert, Ward Chambers, Joe Leugers,and Mr. Koch, the head honcho, worked in the laboratory where we collected both paper stock and paper samples to check for impurities such as tar and parafin and ran test on the paper for weight, tear strength, pressure per inch, etc.

            One of our supplementary jobs was to regularly change the nozzles which were spraying the waste water over the old McDermitt farm, which later became K.C. Geiger Park.

            I worked a lot of shifts with Larry Mallory, especially night shifts and we would flip a coin to see who would go out and change the nozzles, especially for the four a.m. change.  I usually lost the flip.

            I will remember one fogggy, rainy night when I dawned the big yellow parka, rain hood, and miner's light and headed out to make the change. 

            To get to the field to make the changes you had to cross the footbridge.  Normally this was no problem and the biggest fear wasn't the bridge, but the cemetery out in the middle of the field.  Everyone knows that ghosts hang around cemeteries and make themselves known, especially at night, doubly so on a cold, rainy, foggy night, as it was that night.

            I was thinking about the cemetery, Eliza Applegate and all her friends waiting out there at the cemetery, when I heard a mad dog barking loudly.  He stopped me cold.  I couldn't see him anywhere, but I figured he must be somewhere in the vicinity of the bridge. I took a step forward on the bridge and he really let loose.  I knew I was where I shouldn't be so I turned, triped, and stumpled off the bridge.  I figure his teeth would be somewhere around my neck when I fell.  It was all over for me but the funeral. Time to pick the color of the casket.

            I waited for what seemed forever for the teeth to sink in, but nothing happened.  I cautiously lifted my face out of the hood, expecting him to tear out my eyes.  My glasses had fallen off and the rain was pounding into my face. No dog, at least no dog teeth had found their mark yet.

             Cautiously, I worked my way up to one knee, hurt the crushing of glass, and knew I had found my glasses.  I reached down and sure enough, there they were under my knee. I put them back on my face, with one lens completing missing and the other cracked.

            I gave a moment's thought to hanging the whole thing up--forget the dog, forget the bridge, forget the nozzle change, forget the Paper Mill. One thing, looking back I did forget was Eliza Applegate and all those folks in the cemetery.   I had a bigger headache.  Chances were I would never make it out to the cemetery alive again.

            The dog, which by its sound, must have been a big one, was no longer barking but growling, growling so deeply that the bridge shook. He must be on the bridge, I thought.  Well, if that's all he wants, I'll just get out of his way and so I did.  I waited; he growled; I waited, he growled.  Well, I guess he wants to be "King of the Bridge," I thought, so I'll let him.

            When I had rearranged by raincoat and hat and wiped the one good lens of my glasses off well enough to squint through, I aimed the light on my hat in the direction of the bridge to see what was the matter.

            Then I saw him--a Great Dane, about six feet tall and four feet long, a good two hundred pounds, standing there in the rain ready to eat me. I could see it in the newspaper now--"Papermill kid eaten by Dog." 

            What a sight I must have made for that dog--no wander he was barking and growling.  If I met myself decked out in that bright yellow raincoat and hat with the fog light attached to the head, I would be frightened, too.

            So here I was, standing in the pouring down rain at one end of a bridge where a great Dane stood guarding the middle.  What was I going to do? 

            Well, I decided--dumb, real dumb--that I was going to try to cross the bridge.  At least they would find my body as I was "doing my job."

            I inched by way closer and closer to the dog.  Then I saw with a flick of my headlight to the bridge beside him what the trouble was.  His chain, one end which was fastened to his collar, was caught in the floor of the bridge between the two plank.

            Interesting predicament.  As Riley used to say on tv, "What a revolting situation this is."  I reviewed the situation.  Here's this dog whose pulled loose from his owner's pen, out for the evening, trying to get out of the rain, and he gets caught on this bridge.  Me--just as innocent, trying also to get across the bridge so I can change a couple of nozzles in the fog and the rain, there next to the cemeterey.  Who is the dumber creature here on this bridge in the rain?

            You know you look back and see a lot of dumb things you do.  At the time, you just do them.  Later, you think--boy, was that dumb. Well, I decided, rain, fog, or dog--I was going to cross that bridge.  So slowly, ever so slowly, I worked my way closer to the Great Dane.  I talked to him ever so gently--I haven't ever talked to anyone before or since as gently and softly and kindly as I talked to that dog.

            Then when I was about a foot away, he keep growling. Now he didn't start wagging his tail, but he starred straight into my eyes.  I moved closer, still talking gently and starred back in his.  I was now in his space and I knew he could bite me at any moment he choose.

            It's a funny kind of situation when you are eye to eye with another creature, human or non-human, in a death-defying situation.  I knew that same kind of feeling yours later when our family pet dog, Barney died of cancer.  For a full five minutes, he did as much talking as you can do to another using sounds without words--sometimes you don't need the words.

            We were now about eight inches apart, eye to eye, as I reached down to him, knowing that now I must trust him, he must trust me.  Still talking now in a whisper in his ear, I reached across his face to the collar and unsnapped the chain.  Thank God, it was not rusty, but fell away freely to the bridge.

            He looked one more time at me in a hard, cold stare and then walked across the bridge and went on his way in the rain.  I stood up right, leaned against the railing, and wiped the water--rain and sweat--from my face.  I breathed and sigh of relief and then crossed the bridge to the otherside. 

            Rest assured, I will never forget that bridge. Years later I went looking for the bridge. It was gone, but somebody told me it has been placed across the aqueduct to the south.  I found a bridge there that looked like it, but it didn't matter because that was a bridge that I will always remember.

            I wanted to share with you another bridge that I got to know a few years ago with my family.  Prof Kohler, legendary teacher at Memorial High School in St. Marys,  first introduced many of us to Ralph Waldo Emerson and in turn to perhaps America's most famous bridge, including the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.

            Some time ago my family and I went to New England to the Boston Commons and the Freedom Trail and the Old North Church and the harbor where the Boston Tea Party had taken place.  We went also to Concord to visit the homes and the graves of Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

            In an appropriate manner we found Thoreau's and Emerson's graves on a hill, the graves covered over with leaves and acorns from nearby oak trees.

            But we went to New England and Concord to see something else--the bridge, "the bridge where the embattled farmers stood and fired the shot heard around the world."

            It was Emerson who wrote the famous poem, "Concord Hymn" which was sung at the dedication of the completion of the battle monument on April 19, 1836. Emerson's words, like the monument and bridge mark forever this location of the Battle of Lexington and Concord, where the Revolutionary War began.

           By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

           Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

           Here once the embattled farmers stood,

           And fired the shot heard around the world.

           The foe long since in silence slept;

           Alike the conqueror silent sleeps

           And Time the ruined bridge has swept

           Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

           On this green bank, by this soft stream,

          We set today a votive stone;

          That memory may their deed redeem,

          When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

          That bridge, long since gone, has been replaced by a replica on the same spot where America's freedom begin. It is a bridge worth seeing; a spot worth standing on.  Some bridges are too important to ever forget.

            My friend Wayne looks forward to late fall and winter every year. He goes skiing every year, but not just to Valley Hi near Bellefontaine.  He signs up with a full fledge skiing tour, sometimes a college group, that does it up right and goes out West to places like Aspen, Winter Park, Loveland Basin in Colorado; Jackson and Grand Targhee, Wyoming; Big Sky and Whitefish, Montana.

            I'm not much of a skier; as a matter of fact, I'm no skier at all.  We had a ski club at Wapakoneta High School when I was there and every year you could tell who was a member by looking for those on crutches.

            But I wouldn't mind being one of those "non-skiing" skiers who sit by the fireplace sipping hot chocolate, overlooking the beautiful snow-covered mountains and all those skiers weaving their way down the mountain, then waiting to ride their way up again.

            If you're not a skier and can't get any time off till late spring or summer, it's still a good time to plan a trip to the west.

            The first thing you need to decide before you go is 1)is this a vacation?  or is this trip for sightseeing and travel?  If it's the first, better settle on one location without much movement and little time on the road.  Maybe fly to some destination like the Grand Canyon or Jackson Hole.

            If on the other hand you have a couple of weeks, but want to see a lot of sights, time with a map or travel agency can help you see and experience the most in the given time period.

            Photographer Ansel Adams said when he visited Yosemite National Park he knew what he was going to do with his life.   I have not see the Canadian Rockies, but I have seen the Swiss Alps.  I am not aware of anything near comparable, except places in the Rocky Mountains.

            Anymore it seems foolish to drive there from here, unless you really want to see the countryside.  Two things stand between us and the Rocky Mountains--Missouri and Kansas.  If you've decided to go to Branson, then you don't mind Missouri, but if you're crossing Missouri to the west and the next state is Kansas--it's a long, long ride.

            Whether you take I-70 across Kansas or I-80 across Nebraska on your way to Denver, the road runs on and on and on.  During the summer, every roadside stop and restaurant parking lot is filled with trucks overloaded with huge combines pulling a header behind them; and the restaurants are filled with hungry harvesters.

            Driving to Denver at the edge of the Rocky Mountains is like driving to Charleston, South Carolina, for the first time.  You drive on and on and one, anticipating in your mind what it is you well see when you can see something besides an endless road ahead.

            Mile after mile we drove scanning the western horizon for some sign of Denver, then the twilight followed by night. Still no sign of Denver, still no sign of the mountains.  You begin to fill it is all a hoax.  There is no Denver; there are no Rocky Mountains.

            In the middle of the night we drive on--no other lights in site except those of a now-fading truck.  And the road signs are few and far between.  We felt that we would surely see the lights of Denver and that the Rocky Mountains would be visible for miles away.  But there was nothing.  Nothing at 150 miles, nothing at 100 miles, nothing at 50 miles.

            Maybe we were going the wrong way.  Then, just as we were giving up, a green and white road sign appeared in the shadows, indicating that Denver was just ahead. But where?

Five miles out of town, we climbed a slight grade and there she was--a beautiful sight stretching in both directions as far as the eyes could see.

            Millions of lights, bright neons of red and yellow, green and blue of motels and restaurants, gas stations and truck stops--all leading us into Denver.
            The next day we travel south 67 miles to Colorado Springs for a visit to the Air Force Academy.  The multi-steepled chapel glistening in the sun is well worth the drive there.  Situated there at the base of the Rocky Mountains, why would anybody want to leave? 

            Returning then to Denver and north almost an equal distance (63 miles) brings you to the community of Estes Park.  Located at the entrance of the Rocky Mountain National Park east entrance, park travelers enter here.

            And as we climb gently up the base of the Rockies, we are greeted at the gate by a Park Ranger.  She hangs us some literature and warns us of bears--what to do and not to do. Just beyond is a grassy slope where we stop to watch bighorn sheep coming out of the mountains to feed.

           The grassy sloop is covered with bright yellow spring flowers.  In the distance, beyond the sound of the wind blowing through the trees and the smell of pines, the mountain peaks reach up, joining both earth and sky.

            The drive through the mountains along Trail Ridge Road

Closed many months of the year) is breathtaking, as the dropoff on both sides of the narrow road go steeply down

for thousands of feet.  You listen for the sound of the tires on pavement, hoping the driver does not venture too far either to the left or the right.  Passing an oncoming traveler is an adventure in itself.

Beyond Rocky Mountain National Park to the north is Wyoming and the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone with Old Faithful, the geyser of geysers that will not quick--going off into the air every hour for over 80 years.

            We stop at Jackson at the base of the Grand Tetons where a ranger is passing out maps of hiking trails.  Beneath our feet the Snake River, bitter cold fresh from the melting snow, roars full speed ahead.

     In town, residents share the antlers of thousands of elks clustered together to form an arch who have come to graze over the years on the range outside of town.  As many as 10,000 elk graze here from November to May.  At their departure, local scout troops gather up the antlers to sell to tourist shops.

            At the edge of town, we stop to gaze up at the Grand Tetons.  The Tetons are 40 miles long, 10-15 miles wide, and push skyward almost 20,000 feet.  Nothing is more beautiful than the reflection of the Grand Tetons in Jackson Lake, filling most of the valley below (called Jackson Hole), surrounded by wildflower meadows.

            Here are sites more beautiful than the postcards that depict them.  Here, with plenty to eat, a warm cabin with a roaring fireplace, and good friends one could spend the winter, even eternity.

                                          Autumn in New England

         The other night my wife and I drove west toward the setting sun.  There was a large bank of fall clouds in the western sky tainted ever-so slightly along the southern edge with pinks and oranges and reds.  And as the sun set lower, the colors grew brighter and stretched further to the west and even a bit to the northwest, fading out in the southern sky as the sun moved closer to the horizon.

         Suddenly, there was a beautiful sunset, stretching clear across the sky.  Then within a few seconds, a couple minutes at most and a couple miles, it all was gone--like it had never been. 

         The beautiful fall sunsets we are now experiencing always remind me of the time my family and I went to New England.  It was late summer, and fall was already in the air.

          The desire to go to New England kept gnawing away at me until we finally packed the trunk full of clothes and food snacks and headed northeast via Detroit and Windsor, to London, Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal, then diagonally across Vermont and New Hamshire along I-89 to a little place called Hampton Beach, where we swam in the ocean off the coast of New Hamshire, which is quite a feat if you've ever been there or looked at a map to see what an enormous seashore New Hamshire has.

           From there we drove south on I-95 to I-93 and then made the biggest driving misstate we made while in New England--I drove straight into Boston at 4:30 in the afternoon.  Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb! 

          Here we are driving around and around in Boston in the absolute worst traffic you can imagine and I can't begin to find a parking place.  Finally we end up down by the Harbor (right across from where all those angry settlers tax-on-your-tea--not-for-me threw all that tea into the harbor.

          I remember the place as if it were yesterday.  We found a place to park along the Harbor that said, "Cheers Parking Only!  All other vehicles will be towed.”  Here we were parked out on the peer with only one thing to do--we better patronize "Cheers."  Sure enough, once inside, there it was--the bar in the center of the room, just like on TV.  We didn't see Norm on the corner stool or Sam behind the bar, but the food sure was good.

         After the meal, we took a walk around to see where we were. We found the "Freedom Trail," a red brick path which leads to a lot of the historic sites, including the Paul Revere house and the Old North Church, where the lanterns were hung ("one if by land, two if by sea") on April 18, 1775, to warn the colonists that the British were on their way to Lexington and Concord.

         We walked to the Boston Commons and I remember we visited a graveyard along the Freedom Trail called the Granary Burying Ground, which was once the site of Boston's granary.  Here we found the graves of John Hancock, Samuel Adams, Paul Revere, Benjamin Franklin's parents and victims of the infamous Boston Massacre.

         Now I don't know how it was when you were there, but we found the cemetery in terrible disarray with rodent holes dug and around the tombstones which were covered with pigeon droppings.

         Later, when the traffic had at least slowed down enough so we could get back in the street, we headed out to I-95 and found a motel on the edge of the city.

         The next morning we got up early and headed out of there to Concord.  Population about 5000. There we had breakfast and a kind waitress took us to heart and chastised us for driving into Boston.  "Nobody in their right mind does that!  There's no place to park!"

         No kidding.  So we took her advice and rode a train that afternoon back into Boston where we took a tour of all those famous historical sites.  We let the bus driver and train engineer deal with the traffic while we enjoyed the sites.  That evening we returned to Concord--the site of our ultimate destination and what had brought us to New England in the first place.

         What I most wanted to see was Concord area--the countryside and homes of these great writers that I had learned about from Prof and Gertie.

         Decked out in the beauty that only can be found in New England in the fall, we walked around Concord and then drove out to Walden Pond.  And stopped to visit the graves of Thoreau and Emerson.  Nearby also were Emerson House, where Emerson lived from 1835 to 1882; The Old Manse, once home to Nathaniel Hawthorne; and Orchard House, where Louisa Mae Alcott wrote Little Women.

         At the edge of town, we parked our car along the road and there on a hillside was as much proof as I will ever get that there really once was a man named Henry David Thoreau and buried nearby, his friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

         Squirrels scrambled to collect the acorns falling across the graves. Like my furry friends, I collected two acorns from the ground above the grave and buried them deep in my pocket for another time.

         At Waldon Pond we parked the car high above the pond and visited first a replica of the shed where Thoreau carried out his "two-year experiment in essential living."

         As we stood looking over this body of water, it did not seem at first glance a whole lot different than, bodies of water in our own area--Grand Lake, Lake Loramie or Indian Lake, or as far as that goes, the "old North Pond," which we called Forty Acre Pond north of St. Marys.

         Who was this strange man who lived but 45 years and then died from a bad cold he caught while counting the year rings on a fallen oak tree?  (The Park Ranger at Walden Pond set me straight--"that's a common tale.  The truth of the matter is he caught a bad cold from a relative.")

         Then and now come again some of his most famous thoughts, given to us in memorable lines, suggesting still other thoughts in each of our lives.

         First of all, there is perhaps his most famous line—“the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."  Over the years I've thought allot about the line and my mind has shifted back and forth from agreeing with Thoreau and feeling that he was right to disagreeing, wandering how we could survive if we did not have this "boring, desperate routine" of eating, working, sleeping, repeated over and over again.

         Who of us does not enjoy a vacation, but who of us could do what Thoreau said he did--"I found that my working about six weeks a year, I could meet all my expenses."  Today, we work somewhere into May before we even have Uncle Sam taken care of.

         What was it about this one-time teacher, one-time surveyor, one-time pencil maker who left such an impact on the rest of us, even on those who have never heard of him?

         Through his Walks with Nature, he was able to ferret out the real meaning of life.  He knew, what we so often forget, that nature is a healer.  There is a bit of Thoreau in all who walk along the lake, wherever, whenever, and whoever they are.

         Draw now your own mental pictures of past, present, and future as you think about the messages he left for us. 

         “Why should we be in such a desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises?  If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer?"  (Is he talking about you? or me? or us?)

         To which he adds "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours."

         Pretty good career counseling--setting a goal, planning you work, and then working your plan.

         Here are a few more of Thoreau's words of wisdom:

         "A man is rich in terms of the things he can do without."

         "Simplify!  Simplify!"

          "Dreams are the touchstones of our character."

          "In the wilderness is the preservation of the world."

          "Probe the earth and see where you main roots run."

          "There are a thousand hacking at the branch of evil to one who is striking at the root."

          "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in."

          "My life is like a stroll upon the beach."

          "It is not worth the while to go around the world to count the cats in Zanzibar."

          "For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snowstorms and rainstorms and did my duty faithfully."

          "Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only NOT indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."

          "Blessed are those who never read a newspaper, for they shall see Nature, and through her, God."

         For more information about taking a trip to Concord, go to www.concordma.com  

           Of all the places in the city, no place spells the hearts and souls of New York City like Central Park.  For years, three sites not to miss on our regular visits there were the World Trade Center, Times Square, and Central Park. 

            The last time we saw the Twin Towers we were looking up from a tour bus that circled around its base on its way back up town.  It was Thanksgiving, 2000.  The next time we visited New York City in April, 2002, we were looking down where the WTC used to stand.

            But Central Park remains.  And in place of WTC the Empire State Building has regained its status as one of the sites not to miss.  And Times Square, the crossroads of the world is home to America’s theatre and all who love her.

            Here we were—New York City, Central Park in April.  Trees in bud, flowers in bloom.  There’s something about Central Park that stays with you forever.  Once you have been to Central Park, it’s impossible to think of the City the same, of the people the same.

            Here, surrounded by skyscrapers, concrete streets and sidewalks, miles of endless traffic and humanity, is peacefulness, a quiet calm with people enjoying life as it was meant to be.

            Nothing reflects Central Park like the carriages pulled by horses that know their daily routes so well, that drivers turn to talk with visitors as the horses go on without them.  Lined up at Central Park South near 59^th Street, the carriages rent out at $34 for 20 minutes; $54 for 45 minutes.

            Established in 1853, Central Park is celebrating its 150^th anniversary this year.  And though the birthday cake and official “Happy Birthday” was sung on July 20 this year and the official birthday was July 21, the celebrations go on all this fall.

            Covering 843 acres, Central Park was designed by Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux, bringing in 10 million cart loads of soil and underground drainage to transform swamp to park and ponds and lakes.  There are 150 acres of water, 58 miles of pedestrian paths.  A reported 25 million visit the park annually.

            Here New Yorkers and visitors from the world come to picnic, fly kites, throw Frisbees, walk the dog, ride bicycles, row boats, ride the carousel, visit the children’s zoo, and enjoy life as it was meant to be.  People love Central Park.

What to do in Branson

          A few days ago I was talking with some readers about Branson and a younger person asked, “What’s Branson?”  I knew his question was sincere and probably not worth much explaining if he had never heard of Missouri’s entertainment center.  (After all the average age of the people,which includes tourists, in Branson is 55 years old).  It is this statistic which was an important factor for Roy Rogers, Jr. in moving his parents’ (Roy Rogers and Dale Evans) Happy Trails Museum to Branson this last summer.

            Over the last several years, I was amazed at how many people (middle-age and older) friends were making trips to Branson, Missouri.  Many of them more than once.  Some of them many times, some annually.

            In conversations, it was replacing Myrtle Beach and Disney World as the place to go.  A lot of people who once told me about family reunions in a condominium along the Atlantic Ocean now were talking about Branson.  So this summer we decided to check out Branson for ourselves.

            Although the roads are good all the way, it is still about 13 hours from Mercer County, so a stay over night around St. Louis is a good idea.  Take I-70 to St. Louis;  55 and 255 around the southwestern edge of St. Louis; I-44 to Springfield; and then 65 south to Branson.  The Entertainment Center actually lies west of Branson on 76 where most of the theaters are. 

            Historically, Lake Taneycomo drew tourists in the 1930’s, but it was after the construction of the by-pass of  U.S. 65, which connected 76 and 248 and a bridge was built across the lake, that the area began to develop in the 1980’s.  The first performance theatre was established by the Baldknobbers, who continue to entertain the crowds today.

            Now there are over 30 theatres presenting over 70 shows, and over 50 restaurants.  Route 76 winds westward and then north past theaters and theaters with restaurants in between.  Shows run from late morning through afternoon and evening.

            Forget about crossing the street.  As I recall, there are very few crosswalks if any and though most of the drivers are courteous, it’s almost impossible to get across the street, especially during the hours before and after the theaters let out.

            Of course the big attraction this time of year are the Christmas shows including The Andy Williams Christmas Show,  November 1-December 10; Barbara Fairchild Christmas, November 4-November 20; Beyond Dickens Christmas, November 7-December 20; Christmas with the Welk Stars, November 1-December 11; Dino’s Christmas Extravaganza, November 1-December 12; Radio City Christmas Spectacular, October 31-December 6; Sanders Family Christmas, through December 31.

            But, if you only have so much time, start at the very best—schedule to see the following shows first and then work in the rest of them.  Best of the best, no matter what the season is the Shoji  Tabuchi Show, at the Shoji Theatre on route 376 (Shepherd of the Hills Expressway).

            Shoji’s show would excel if all he did was play the fiddle.  He is a master.  But a true showman in addition to his superb fiddling, he goes through a varied repertoire of music with a phenomenal variety of sound, lighting, and theatrics to match them.

            Secondly, take time to enjoy the Show Boat Branson Belle Dinner Show.  Whether moving across Table Rock Lake powered by the giant paddle wheel or docked in port, you are guaranteed  both top-notch entertainment and a first rate meal.

            Other shows get equal top billing, but these two are a must.  Other memorable experiences include Dolly Parton’s “Dixie Stampede,” billed by Parton as an unforgettable experience.  And that it is, with thousands of people seated in a stadium, eating a full course meal without any silverware while a North vs. South competition on horses takes place in the arena.  How long has it been since you ate a full-course meal with your hands?  Different, yes.  Perhaps the best part of the show is the walk to and from the parking lot before and after the show by the beautiful show horses in rows of box stalls waiting for their performance or returning thereafter.

            It is also assumed that anyone who goes to Branson, at some time or other will ride their infamous “Ducks,” modeled after military amphibious trucks, converted to a kind of bus that races along route 76 and up to the top of Flat Top Rock above Table Rock Lake after first plunging into the water along the shore.  The ride assures those sitting in the back will get wet and all riders are provided a duck “call” to blow at any golfers or other Ducks along the way.

            And the latest addition is the Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Happy Trails Theatre, at the junction of 76 and 376 west.

            Finally, while you’re there, stop to eat at the Hard Luck Diner, where meals are served by singing waiters and waitresses, either on their way to being discovered or enjoying the fantasy anyway.  Corey James sings a medley of “Gone Country” and promises you free tickets when he makes it big, if you buy is CD.

            One of the features Branson is most proud and which has helped determined not only who comes, but who stays is that “the entertainment and activities are based on family values.”  All that we experienced there supported this. Going to Branson is like a walk back in time, a last chance to see some of the singing stars you listened to while growing up.

            For more information on the shows, schedules, hotels see www.Branson.com

           Unfortunately, many of these would-be cowboys are senior citizens who will ride into the sunset on imaginary horses and unfulfilled dreams, that is in regards to actually punching cows, chasing wrestlers, strumming a guitar while riding a palomino in the moonlight.

            But thanks to the “King of the Cowboys” the dreams were fulfilled, for in the golden age of youth, we were cowboys, first moms’ brooms and then our bicycles were not only palominos, but many were in fact Trigger.  How many youth who went off to fight the war on ridges named for women first pulled Roy Rogers’ cap guns innocently, only wounding the bad guy on the hand or leg.  

            For that generation, now fast disappearing Roy Rogers and his wife Dale Evans were our role models.  They were our heroes.  And we truly did, in our youth, want to be cowboys, singing good guys on horses, riding into the sunset.  It was a dream we lived everyday in our play.

Our greatest ambitions were to see Roy and Dale, Trigger and Buttermilk, Bullet and Nellybelle, just once—would have made our day.  Now it’s all possible.  Someone once said, “be careful what you wish for—you may get it.

And now, though both Roy Rogers and Dale Evans have ridden into the sunset forever, Trigger, Buttermilk, Trigger Jr., Bullet, and Nellybelle can be seen at the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans museum in Branson, Missouri, just 12 hours from west central Ohio.

In June, 2003, the Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum was opened in Branson, Missouri after being originally located in Victorville, California.  The museum is overseen by their son Roy “Dusty” Rogers, Jr.

The  King of  the Cowboys died on July 6, 1998 at 86 years old.  Dale Evans died on February 7, 2001.  She was 88 years old.  After they passed away the attendance at the museum in Victorville, where they also lived, dropped off, so the Board of Directors chose to move to Branson “where people who loved Roy and Dale vacationed. 

According to biographer David Rothel in his book, The Roy Rogers Book, over 8 million people annually come to Branson with the average age being 55.  Dusty explained to Rothel, “Our responsibility is to carry on what they left to us for as long as we possibly can.”

As my wife and I pulled into the parking lot at the new museum site,  I knew that this was a rare opportunity to see what was left of a childhood hero and the dreams that carried us through our youth to adulthood.

Born in Cincinnati on November 5, 1911, the family moved to Duck Run near Portsmouth, Ohio, when he was eight years old and named Leonard Slye.  When he was 12 years old and a member of 4-H, he won a trip to Columbus with a sow he had raised.  In Columbus, it was reported this farm boy never off the farm, spent his time riding up and down the elevator in the old Neil House across from the capitol.

Rothel said his first acting role was as Santa Claus in a school play and he originally went west with his family to visit his married sister.

So what will you see in the museum, still being completed at the time of our visit in early July?  There is a huge statue of Trigger in that famous rearing scene at the entrance to the parking lot.  In the entrance way to the museum, large colored photographs of Roy, and Roy and Dale hang on either side.

A souvenir shop and ticket counter in the reception area greet visitors.  The museum actually sits beyond a gate where, for us, a small child collects tickets.  The first thing you see as you enter the museum area is Trigger Jr.,  Buttermilk, and Trigger with Bullet, all preserved as best living beings can be—all protected behind fiberglass walls.  From there is the truck Roy drove on his first trip to California, the famous jeep Nellybelle, the yellow convertible (“Roy’s favorite car”) attached to the family boat, ready for a family outing.

Here is his gun collection, saddle collection, and boot collection along with the tools he used to repair them.  There are large collections of family pictures, traditions, and experiences along rows of memorabilia from other famous celebrities and sports figures that they came to know over the years.

Here is the story of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans—from childhood to fame to death.  Everywhere you feel and hear again his parting words as you live the museum—“Happy trails to you and may the Good Lord take a likin to you.” (Accompanying photos were taken at the museum with their permission.)

For more information, visit www.RoyRogers.com   

           When you look at a map of the U.S., there along the east coast, there is this shoelace strip of land, running somewhere east of Virginia Beach and the southeastern corner of Virginia south through Kitty Hawk and outward to Cape Hatteras where it turns abit to the southwest to Cape Lookout.

            A couple of weeks ago we returned again for a vacation without people there on the Outer Banks.  Sand and shells; sea oats and sea. And there off Pea Island, not far from shore lies the Oriental, a Union war ship sunk on these dangerous sand shoals 135 years ago, the top of the boiler and stack visible from the empty shoreland.

            Some view a vacation as a stay along the ocean at Myrtle Beach with the best of both beach and golf, and country and western performances (now called the Branson of the East Coast); others view a vacation as a stay in Smokey Mountains at places like Gatlinburg with endless shops to match the scenery. 

            For some it's a long drive through Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons; for others it's a visit to New York or Chicago or Washington to see the sights, take in a play, eat in a fine restaurant, and enjoy a night on the town.

            For others, a vacation is solitude, peace and quiet away from the madding crowd.  Sometimes, no matter how much you may prefer the vacations listed above, sometimes, you need the place of solitude.  Such is the Outer Banks.

            Fascinated for years by this place called the Outer Banks, by the view on a map of this narrow chain of land, we decided to go, to make real by a visit the enticing names of Cape Hatteras, Cape Hatteras National Seashore, Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, and Nags Head.

            By car, and we chose to travel by car, there is an easy way to get there.  Travel I-70 east out of Columbus to Zanesville. Then south across the mountains of West Virginia along I-77 and then I-64 to Norfolk, Virginia, and then south on 17 to Elizabeth City, North Carolina.

            From Elizabeth City,  it's 158, another "principal highway" which wonders first north, then east, and then south to Point Harbor and Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, Nags Head, Cape Hatteras, and the Cape Hatteras National Seashore.

            The main thought I had once we left the interstate and headed across country to the one bridge that would take us out on the Outer Banks area is "you really have to want to do this." It's a lot easier to stay in an hotel along the beach to the north.

            Once we crossed over into Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, and Nags Head, and then drove on to Cape Hatteras, it was apparent that most tourists and civilization in general really did not prefer to go on beyond Nags Head—here and at Kitty Hawk and Kill Devils Hills are "cottages, fry houses, souvernir shops, and sprawling new strip malls."

            This was definitely not what we had pictured when we visualized the Outer Banks, but it was late and we were tired, so we found a place to stay along the ocean.  Reservations ahead are required, but we lucked out and found a cancellation.

            After a quiet night along the ocean and a good breakfast, we headed south the next morning.  And we drove and we drove and we drove.  One road that twisted and turned at first and then headed southeast and then south--nearly 60 miles until we reached Cape Hatteras.

            Along the way, nothing on either side but sand.  We crossed the Herbert C. Bonner Bridge over the Oregon Inlet and went through little forks in the road, like Waves and Salvo.

            Nearby the hamlets, we saw huge homes, high on platforms, ankered against the storms, unpainted because of the salt-air, and many for sale, or for rent.  Here ahead a small piece of sand, a stone's throw in width, for $75,000 and more--prime real estate waiting to be had, or waiting to had somebody. 

            From time to time, we came across places to pull the car off that werescattered between signs that warned "Do not pull off here," (or you would be stuck in the sand forever).  Locking the car, we walked up the sand dune to the ocean beyond.  Miles and miles of sand, and sea oats and ocean.

            On the Pamlico Sound side were places to climb a short platform to birdwatch--ospreys and herons, egrets and brown peligans.  Pea Island is a birdwatcher's paradise with over 265 species spotted each year.

            We drove on along this narrow highway and saw signs of the shifting sands and water that had washed even this link to civilization away.  We arrived at Cape Hatteras where fisherman had driven their pickups and vans out on the sand to surf fish.  Here on the Outer Banks where the warm northward bound Gulf Stream and the cold, southward tributaries of the Labrador Current come together is "some of the finest fishing in North America."

            We stopped at the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse where a old gentleman, a native, told us of the wild ponies on Ocracoke Island just to the just, and of the Diamond Shoals, eight miles of shallow submerged sandbars jutting seaward, the "nor'easters (strong winds of forty to fifty miles per hour blowing for days at a time, and of the ongoing effort to save the Cape Hatteras lighthouse itself.

            He said that "a slowly rising sea has been rolling the island westward since they were formed 10,000 years ago." The tide is now within 200 feet of the base of the lighthouse, a loss of 1300 feet since the lighthouse was built in 1870.

            All kinds of efforts have been made to win this war with nature--additional sand was pumped onto the beach, walls of sandbags were erected, steel groins were built in the shore waters to trap the sand--everything tried only was temporary in its success.

            Now plans are to build a rail system to move the lighthouse 2500 feet southwest of the present sight, similar to that used for moving the shuttle.

            Before we left, I climbed to the top to take one last look at Cape Hatteras.  I thought about the over 600 shipwrecks at this "Graveyard of the Atlantic."  Here before my eyes, was the first national seashore, established by congress in 1937.

            Here, where four million visitors are reported to come each year, I saw only a group of surf fisherman to the south, and knew the road back we not be crowded, but long. Here "the beaches are open and free, the horizons unbroken." Looking out across the sand and turbulent ocean, I knew something about its wildness and its freedom.  This was the Outer Banks, a vacation of peace and solititude. A place to gather sea shells along an isolated beach, stretching for miles in either direction.