NEW ENGLAND REPORT

BROTHER FRANK TO THE RESCUE ........Just as I was wondering what in the world to write about today and had just about given up, an email arrived with these pictures attached to it.

Photos taken this morning back East  (Western Massachusetts) -- another amazing display thanks to Fred Harwood. 

It brought to mind the two times I've been in New England to witness fall foliage. Once was with a church group. You know how flu can strike you ill suddenly in one moment? That happened to me during lunch one day on the trip and I spent the next two days with my head in Mr. Bob's lap as our bus traveled along country lanes. Every time I opened my eyes it was to the surreal view of passing through a tunnel of blazing red maple leaves. That was the same trip where I saw a Japanese tourist innocently stir his breakfast coffee with a knife. In New York City we were put up in a hotel in the midst of renovations. It was the only time I've ever known Mr. Bob to sleep with his wallet under his pillow. All through the night I heard the bell ring every fifteen minutes on the elevator outside our door and groaning sounds coming from the room on the other side of the wall. The next morning it all made sense when I caught sight of a pair of men's underwear in the standing ashtray. 


It was on the same vacation that as we walked to our hotel after dinner, a teenager snatched a gold necklace off a lady's neck and Mr. Bob took pursuit on foot losing the race, of course, as he was no match for a street smart New York hoodlum. He declined the next time an opportunity to go to the Big Apple arose.

The other autumn trip was  a cruise from Montreal through the Maritime Provinces around to New York City, with a stop in Bar Harbor, Maine. The fall colors absolutely blazed in that little community and I remember after a tour of Acadia National Park, walking into town as the small shops were preparing to close for the winter (what an attractive idea to a retailer!) and we ate delicious lobster rolls in an upstairs room of a restaurant. 


That was in the days of film and any pictures we took are hidden too far away to find. I'm really very tired of our 30,892 photos that live currently on our computer. One of these days I must master the scanner which came housed inside the sophisticated printer Mr. Bob chose to buy when our old one gave out. Then we'll have something new to view and won't that be a nice change?


"Each man reads his own meaning into New York."                                                     
                   Meyer Berger

"DO WE WHAT?"

ONE OF MY FOND MEMORIES from our travels is this pair who made a habit of traveling together. They lived in two different states and rarely did they see each other between trips. As different as their approaches to life were, it worked to be on the road together. The lady on the right was small, wiry, energetic, ready to pound the pavement early in the morning, whereas the woman on the left was a late riser, enjoying her mealtimes; she was utterly laid back.

On a different trip we experienced another sort of alternative travel arrangement. Three seniors had traveled the world together, sharing a room. One was an African-American gentleman and the other two, Caucasian women. They appeared to have the time of their lives, experiencing travel in an affordable manner, in that case, cruising the Mississippi River learning about the music of the area in an Elderhostel program.

I also knew a married couple, both people with successful careers, who lived in two totally separate households, but they enjoyed going to foreign countries together.

Many of you have heard this personal story and I promise I won't repeat it in print ever again. Back in the 1970s I made the largest purchase of my life when I bought two cruise tickets to go to Mexico as a surprise anniversary gift for Mr. Bob. I countered my buyer's remorse by determining to become a good conversationalist before we sailed. My practice area was in doctors' waiting rooms, for young Tim was needing medical attention several days a week. I polished the practice of drawing people out and became so proficient at it that it appeared to be with regret that people pulled themselves away to go in to see their doctor.

Mr. Bob knew nothing of this, not even realizing that he would be leaving the country in the near future. When the departure time arrived friends gathered in our stateroom for a bon voyage celebration (which security no longer allows, more's the pity), after which they disembarked and off we sailed into the sunset. The first night at sea was open seating at dinnertime and we found ourselves with a couple from Barstow, California. I could write a whole piece on my reaction to that town, but won't. Suffice it to say I hope God never puts me there for any length of time.....say, no more that ten minutes. At any rate, we entered into conversation with enthusiasm and I practiced my newly discovered art with gusto, showing honest interest and being just witty enough to keep the laughter and gaiety going. It was a lovely start to our journey or so I thought until the next day, when the Barstow wife approached me after a game of Bingo and in a low voice (surely she didn't really say it out of the side of her mouth, although that's how I remember her words) she whispered, "Do you and Bob trade?"

It was, after all, the Seventies, when something called open marriage was the rage in some sets, but not in our circle. My response was, "Do we what?" And we never saw them again the rest of the voyage. It proved that in conversation, it might be possible to be TOO scintillating. Moderation in all things, was the lesson.

TRUE CONFESSION (archival)

Chris and Frances visited here and told us about it with so much enthusiasm that we, being in our hedonistic phase, called and made reservations for 3 nights in September, 2004.  When the time came to depart, the trip north brought much pleasure as we paused halfway to visit family and friends and then continued north on the winding Highway 1 with its  spectacular views of the California coast.

Upon arrival, we were assigned to Rose Cottage. The rustic exterior

belied what lay within. We opened the door to find a living room with a Franklin wood burning stove, Persian rug, comfy sofa and chair. The tiny kitchen had standing room only for one adult and we ascended the 3 steps to a sleeping area with a queen-size bed.

The bathroom was outfitted with a deep, deep tub, the likes of which we'd never seen. I think it was designed for youthful, limber individuals. We bathed in awe with neither grace nor ease.

The cabin was situated in a meadow populated by friendly, wild turkeys and occasionally we spotted deer. At a distance we could see the Pacific Ocean. There was a fine restaurant on the premises. Everywhere we looked, there were artistic touches added to the beautiful landscape.

We were experiencing perfection, except...................................... we were out of sorts with each other. I can't remember now what the quarrel was about, but I recall knowing full well at the time that we were spoiling our holiday; but neither one of us seemed capable of rising above the small-minded altercation.

Later, into my possession came a greeting card that I'll never send. The message is worth keeping as a reminder for the future. In the words of Ralph Emerson:

"For every minute you are angry you lose 60 seconds of happiness."

We had robbed ourselves of 3 days of happiness by allowing personal turbulence within such supreme tranquility. Near the end of our extremely silent 3 day sojourn, I took my journal and paintbox out onto the deck and recorded the placid view, so I could remember it all.

Of this I am relatively sure; every journey has its own individual character, but it doesn't alleviate the responsibility of bringing our best selves to the experience. Most of our travels have been filled with happy discoveries and good humor, but every once in a while there's a surprise in store. The Gualala cottage episode was one.