SOUTH OF THE BORDER, DOWN MEXICO WAY

In 1954 the traveling Butlers struck out for the west. The Butler’s never needed an excuse to travel, but Buddy and wife, Pat were stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. That served as reason-enough and the summer of ‘54 seemed a good time to go west and south of the border into Mexico.

These were the days before interstate highways, and the main road west was US Highway 70 which ran past Carthage along the river bluff. It was just a matter of crossing the Cumberland River and we were on our way.

We arose at four in the morning, gulped down a cup of instant coffee and commenced our southwest adventure. We stopped briefly for bathroom breaks, but meals that mom had prepared, fried chicken, biscuits, apples, and bananas were consumed on the go.

I was fourteen and did not yet have the overpowering urge to drive, and dad would not ride while Anna drove. So, we “made time” with dad at the wheel.

Highway 70 was a two lane paved road that sometimes had a shoulder but more often did not. Being a main thoroughfare there was always oncoming traffic. Granted, it wasn’t traffic like we see today with huge rigs speeding coast to coast, but the driver had to be ever alert. We drove and drove for fourteen hours in our fifty-one Chevy until darkness fell and dad’s fingers refused to bend. We found ourselves in Texarkana, Texas looking for a tourist court.

In 1954, motels had not been invented. Howard Johnson and Holiday Inns came on the scene somewhat later, but back then travelers stayed in tourist courts that usually consisted of an office with several small bungalows. They usually had a bed or maybe two, or a couch that made a bed, a bathroom, usually with a door but sometimes just a curtain hanging from a rod. Some would advertise the type of heat, either steam or electric, and the cleanliness of the rooms. Television, in-room phones, and air conditioning were nonexistent.

I loved going into the restaurant for breakfast and getting anything I wanted to eat. After all, “We were on vacation!” This was my first experience with the small, tourist court soap, the extremely thin wash cloths and towels, and ice machines. That little bar of “French Milled” soap that refuses to lather is still available on the road.

Wherever we stayed, dad would send me to get a bucket of ice. Nothing tasted better after a long day on the highway than several glasses of ice water. It was all new and wonderful to me.

About noon on the second day of our journey we “made” San Antonio. When the ‘Butler’s’ traveled we would “hit” St. Louis on one trip and we “made” Jacksonville on another. We visited for a day or two and saw the army base and ate at a Chinese restaurant. On the third day we all set out for Old Mexico crossing the border at Laredo.

The Mexican customs agents were polite and asked a few questions. An agent placed a decal on our window indicating that we were “Touristas” and bid us Adios. We crossed the Rio Grande and were immediately aware that the whole world had changed!

We had entered a world of desert indians and old school busses careening down the narrow road with people and baggage hanging all over. Where we would have erected wire fences, the Mexican farmers’ fences were one or two strands of barbed wire strung on scraggly tree limbs stuck in the dry earth. We stopped at a house that had crafts for sale and were immediately surrounded by little dark skinned children. They knew one English word, almost: They asked for “nikk-ees” meaning nickels. We distributed coins all around and went on south.

Monterey is one hundred-fifty miles into Mexico. We were about halfway there when we spotted a young man in the right lane in front of us driving a cart full of fire wood pulled by a Burro. We pulled alongside to make his picture. Evidently he did not want it made and attempted to use his donkey whip on my face. I took his picture anyway in the midst of his angry swing. He missed.

We arrived in Monterey and were immediately lost with no idea where to go for lodging and site seeing. While stopped at one of the few traffic lights in Monterey, a Mexican approached my dad and asked if we needed a guide. He had a cap to distinguish himself from other persons on the street, and he had on a clean white shirt. Well, we did need a guide: Dad shifted over, and we were in the hands of a local guide, Carlos.

We had been taking it easy looking at the buildings and carefully crossing intersections. Carlos took off like a dragster and careened around Monterey’s streets. When approaching an intersection he just blew the horn and sped on through. The theory was that “he who blew first had the right of way!”

We visited shops that had impressive silver jewelry and beautifully tooled leather bags, saddles and belts. We visited a Catholic Cathedral and a large jewelry production factory. Our guide Carlos with the Butlers in tow were welcomed inside. While there I met a young Mexican about 18 years old who was learning the silver engraving trade. I had a signet ring with the initial missing. This young Mexican craftsman-in-training took my plain ring and expertly carved my initials on the flat surface. I gave him a fifty-cent coin, and he could not stop thanking me for my generosity. That fifty cents, American, was many Pesos in Mexico.

Our guide took us to the best hotel in all of Monterey. It was very nice with a beautiful pool. However, I was advised not to go swimming there. We were totally unaware of the problems with the Mexican water: Montezuma’s Revenge.

That night we went to the penthouse of the hotel to a high class supper club with a small stage band and a lady singer: professional musicians who worked hard for a very small audience. My older brother, Bud asked the band to play The Anniversary Waltz because mom and dad’s wedding anniversary was eminent. That was the first and last time I ever saw my parents dance.

Everyone got the Mexican Sampler except me: I ordered the hamburger steak with fried potatoes. The other Butlers hungrily eyed my supper because the hot peppers, cumin, and coriander on the sampler were just too much spice. Growing up in Middle Tennessee for the first half of the century they had never come close to any of those tastes, and they did not like them! We did not starve in Mexico, but we ordered carefully.

There were vendors on every corner selling slices of water melon and other tropical melons and fruits. Some sold flavored ice drinks. There were open air markets with stalls selling things that we had no idea what they might have been. None of this was appetizing to us, and we were not tempted to eat anything from the street vendors.

I wore white buck shoes on this trip, and there were boys my age who were constantly after us to let them shine our shoes. The only colors they had were brown and black, so there was no way I was going to get a shoe shine. Dad and Bud dutifully got their shoes shined: a ‘Photo opportunity.’ Just as we were getting loaded into the car for our return trip a particularly persistent youngster raced up to me waving a jar of white shoe polish. I got my shoes “shined” after all, and he got a fifty cent piece and we both went away happy.

The car was loaded and we were saying goodbyes to the hotel staff who had befriended us and watched over us. Even Carlos came by to wish us a happy trip home. He seemed pleased with his twenty dollar reward for services rendered.

Bud got in to drive with Pat in the middle and I took shotgun. Dad got in back and we pulled out. We had to go down the street to make a “U” turn and pass back by the motel on our way north. It seemed longer, but about forty-five seconds after we passed the hotel dad asked, “Aren’t you going to pick up your mother?” She was standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel with a concerned look on her face when we came back for her. She was too glad to be reunited with the other Butlers to be angry. We laughed about that for years. I have often thought how I would have felt in that situation.

We altered our return somewhat and drove up the Gulf Coast to Corpus Christi. We played in the surf on a barrier island one late afternoon until ink-black, jelly fish showed up in the rolling surf. A local resident surf fisherman told us that they were dangerous and that the poison in the tentacles would make one very sick and sore. We whacked a few helpless jelly fish that were stranded on the shore out of curiosity: an unrewarding endeavor.

I have been fortunate to have traveled with my parents and during my college summers. Since becoming more or less gainfully employed I have had the opportunity to travel over most of the country and in every nook and cranny of Tennessee. There are places here where the tourist courts in remote areas are refurbished and the signs along the roadside proclaim such amenities as “D D PHONES” which means ‘direct - dial’ phones. I always look for a place with “D D PHONES!”

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

SLEDDING

The winters of the 1940's were cold and snowy in Middle Tennessee. The Cumberland River froze the year I was born, and a Model-T Ford was driven across under the Carthage bridge. The great freeze visited Tennessee in 1951. It was a massive snow and ice storm. I was ten years old and relishing the opportunities to slide, pellmell down Fisher Hill.

At it's very top Fisher Hill involves a sloping left curve then a hard right turn to the hill-proper which is a descent of about 300 feet in about one eighth of a mile. It makes for spectacular sledding. Since we lived near the crest of Fisher Hill, we were involved in all the winter happenings.

There would be any combination of configurations going full tilt around the curves and down the incline: single sledders, two or three on a sled either sitting toboggan fashion or piled on top of each other. Sometimes a linear linkup was attempted where the toes of one sledder would be hooked into the front of the following sled. This arrangement could grow to seven or eight.

Ramps were constructed for jumping, and old tires were burned near our home on Cullum Street to warm the sledders. This was especially important at night when the temperatures plummeted.

There were the usual mishaps when the sharp curve would be missed and the hapless sledder would clobber a maple tree. He'd soon learn to roll off the sled and dig into the snow with his toes when a crash became eminent. A sled-train would be zig-zagging down the hill when a jack-knife would cause all the sleds to pile up.

Once an older fellow sledder was flying down the slope just about to make the hard right onto the steep hill when he encountered a pickup from Waggoner's Grocery coming up the hill. The sledder performed the correct exit-the-sled maneuver and proceeded to body-slide under the truck with head ducked and tucked!! Trucks and cars were considerably higher off the roadway then than they are these days.

On one particularly cold morning Sonny Apple and I were at the bottom of the hill when Sonny decided that he did not want to pull his own sled up the hill and was imploring me to pull it for him along with mine. I was responding negatively to his incessant whining and was just turning around when Baxter Key Jr. plowed into my shins going full tilt. He hadn't yelled a warning and neither had anyone else.

I was knocked into the air and landed directly on top of my head. I remember my brother, Buddy, picking me up, but then I was out-cold for about three hours. The doctor had been summoned, and I was diagnosed as having a concussion. Every year for about twenty thereafter, a large, sore, pump-knot would arise on my shins to remind me of the Baxter Key encounter.

It was a great life to live at the top of Fisher Hill.

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

Radio Flyer

As a youngster in the 1940’s I was fortunate to live near the top of Fisher Hill in Carthage, TN. There were sledding parties on snowy winter days and nights and other ways to descend the three hundred foot avenue during the warmer months.

It was exciting to descend the hill in a wagon. Usually I and Buddy Stilz were involved since he had the wagon. We would start at the bottom pulling the wagon up the hill as far as we dared. After the climb we would be seated one after the other with each holding the wagon back with a foot firmly planted on the pavement. Then the count began: “One!, Two!, Three!” The feet would be lifted and we were off down the street.

Successive trips were made at ever higher points. The thrill and our fears were tempered by experience. Finally the decision was made to go from the top! That meant that we would climb the hill past the intersection of Fisher Ave. & Cullum St. to the top corner of Walter Moss’s yard. So we were about four hundred feet up the street around two descending curves.

A successful trip required an immediate left turn followed by a sharp right to the main down-hill. By the time we reached the down-hill section our speed was as fast a Radio Flyer with eight inch wheels would go: about 25 mph. From then on it was just a matter of keeping the front wheels straight and praying that a car wasn’t coming up the hill! Braking and swerving were not options.

Buddy and I were making the maximum run, and no cars were ascending Fisher Avenue. We had a clean shot and the ‘Flyer’ was smoking! By the time we passed Papa Gore’s (Senator Albert Gore’s parents) house half-way down we were experiencing several emotions, the primary one being abject terror!

We were almost to the bottom of Fisher Ave. just past Frank Powell’s and in front of Ma. Chisom’s house when Buddy loosened his grip on the tongue, and the front wheels skewed to the side. The wagon flipped forward and we exited the Flyer. We sailed through the air like two rag dolls and sprawled on the pavement dazed and shaken! It was late fall and we both had on our warm coats so the bruises and scrapes were minimal. We figured that our wagon adventures had been satisfied. We were destined to satisfy our future needs for speed in other ways.

PEANUT: BIRD OF PREY

There are a few experiences that are so rare in life that they are special to all who hear of them. Our experience with Peanut was one of those experiences never to be forgotten.

Mid‑Summer in the early eighties found me replacing the brick patio. The brick needed a base of eight inches of gravel and three inches of tamped sand. Twelve tons of crushed limestone had been delivered to the front drive, and I was engaged in moving it by the wheelbarrow load to the patio around back. This was probably when my lower back problems began.

On Saturday afternoon my wife, Judy and daughter, Kelly were in the front yard near the pile of gravel when they were "attacked" by a "vicious" bird! The "dangerous creature" had swooped and dived at them as they played on the gravel mound. The crazed bird dived toward their heads and then he would light on a low limb to shriek loudly right in their faces. He was a relatively small bird sitting on the limb. But when he took flight, his size increased dramatically due to his oversized wings. It turned out to be an injured, starving "Sparrow Hawk.”

The bird was squawking and was unafraid of us. I surmised that it was hungry and maybe accustomed to humans. When hamburger meat was produced, the Sparrow Hawk lit on my hands. Seeing him up close showed me that one leg was not being used because of an injury. We named him Peanut.

While Peanut fed on my hand I made high pitched whistling sounds, something like the screeching Peanut made while he was attracting our attention. I hoped that he would associate my whistling sounds with the food. Peanut flew off my hand several times, but he returned until he was finally satisfied. When Peanut was fed, he retired to a tree in the front yard still unable to put both feet down.

Early the next morning I took some hamburger to the front yard and whistled for Peanut. I tried to match his shrieks from the day before. He was out of sight but it wasn't long before I heard him answer! When I finally did see him, he was coming fast, very fast! He flew from a long way down the street and alighted immediately on my hand to feed. His flight was fluid, and graceful, and his stop was abrupt. He extended his wings and used them like a parachute to slow to landing speed. What a thrill it was to have such a wild creature approach when called.

During the following week we were checking books and articles to learn just what Peanut was and what should be done for him. It turned out that Peanut was a Kestrel, not a hawk. A Kestrel is a Falcon: The only true Falcon indigenous to the United States. Their diet is usually large insects and an occasional field mouse. Our reading indicated that Kestrels and Hummingbirds are the only birds that can truly hover. Kestrels can be trained to hunt from the fist like hawks and falcons. They can often be seen hovering over the interstate median in search of prey.

We learned that The Cumberland Science Museum would take any injured, wild creature and if possible, nurse it back to health without charge. We captured Peanut in an old sock which had the toe cut off to keep him quiet on the way to the museum. The vet determined that Peanut had been shot with two BB's in the leg joint. He had no broken bones and would be good as new about three weeks after removal of the BB's.

When he had fully recovered, we brought Peanut home for release. I whistled the next morning and fed him by hand that day. He returned to sit on a limb but without feeding on three other occasions. I saw Peanut in a tree down the street a few days later but haven't seen him since. I like to think that he has since gone on to do whatever it takes to make Kestrels happy in their lives.

We are not fond of the neighborhood boys who come into our yard attempting to kill any bird in sight. I guess all boys go through that stage of life: I did and became a pretty good shot. In fact I think that a BB gun is a good tool in learning to shoot.

I am reminded of the few times I killed a bird with a BB gun. I realized quickly that holding a dead bird in my hand did not provide any degree of satisfaction. In the space of a split second, a living, vital entity thriving and striving to procreate becomes a lifeless bit of trash, fit only to be cast aside. I regret that sometimes beautiful creatures have to be sacrificed in order for boys and men to learn lessons.

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

TEEN FISTICUFFS

Fights

During the 1950's the motion picture industry recognized the American adolescent as a source of new revenue. Up to that time the movies were oriented toward adults; musicals, mysteries or comedies that appealed to various audiences. The predominant Hollywood, adolescent fare became drag race and "Rumble Movies" where one gang would clash with another. Someone would get "killed" or hurt badly, and the whole situation would get resolved usually within an hour and a half. Needless to say we were influenced by these movies. "Rebel Without a Cause" was the primary influence of the era.

We Carthage "men" carried the pride of the community along with our exploits, or so we thought. "Carthage" rumbled occasionally with Lebanon, Gainesboro and most of all Gordonsville.

On a balmy Saturday night in 1956, Dooty Ballinger and Slop Bucket Turner and I were crossing Main Street in front of the Smith County Courthouse when a carload of Gordonsville rowdy's passed in front of us and uttered the phrase, "Son of a Bitch."

Whether or not it was meant for us was not the question: This behavior was not permitted on the "North side of the river"! The perpetrators were confronted at the entrance of the movie theater and admonished concerning their careless language. I did the talking with back-up, that was questionable in the extreme, by Dooty and Slop Bucket.

Each group, they being surprised by our bravado and we, also being surprised by our bravado went our own way. We three ‘Knights from north of the river’ were swaggering around, otherwise known as cruising, feeling our oats were individuality but silently wondering just what would happen next.

The Gordonsville group was chafing at being so blatantly confronted, and at about 11:00 PM at the Rock City Truck Stop, ten miles west of Carthage we were confronted by the Gordonsville contingent which had grown considerably in number and had a Golden Gloves Champion in-the-fore! (Golden Gloves was an organization which promoted amateur boxing. None of us knew the new guy and only found out later of his boxing expertise.)

Since I had made the original overtures I was encouraged to watch my "ass" by the front-man of the Gordonsville contingent of thugs. To which I asserted that whosoever was thusly inclined could do a much better job while kissing it! Other conversations ensued, but I do not recall the content. We Knights of Carthage retired to a table near the pin-ball machine and nursed our big orange sodas and greasy burgers while covertly watching the Gordonsville thugs.

Upon our attempted exit from said truck stop we were challenged by the Gordonsville contingent with the Golden Glove Champion in the van! Having had a few seconds to reflect upon the potential, forthcoming circumstances I decided that it was time for someone else to take the lead, and Dooty Ballinger was evidently willing to do so. Dooty was bigger than I and one year older, so I figured he knew what he was doing.

The Golden Gloves Champion stepped out in front of the Gordonsville group. Dooty attempted to match his practiced fighting stance and prepared to deliver a telling blow. The Golden Gloves Champion was too fast for Dooty and landed two quick left jabs to Dooty's nose. Dooty took two more fists to the kisser and went down. I and my compatriots advised Dooty to retain the prone position, partially beneath the rear bumper of a Buick. Dooty did so, and just then a waitress came forth with the news that "The cops have been called and they are on their way"! Carthage was about ten miles away, and we could have settled some more hash, however all present made hasty retreats without anyone else becoming involved with fisticuffs.

The Rock City Truck Stop was shrouded in a cloud of dust and flying gravel. We Champions were glad to be out of those circumstances without any significant loss of blood. Our loss of dignity was quickly forgotten, and Dooty’s nose was none the worse for wear.

On a Wednesday evening not far thereafter the Carthage contingent decided to pay a not-so-social visit to the Gordonsville contingent. The Carthage contingent was made up of the usual stalwarts, but on this occasion there were two additional persons of the very large persuasion by the last name of Bowman. It just so happened that these boys relished animated physical contact. These gentlemen were included in order to handle the Golden Glove Champion encountered previously should he be in attendance. And in any case they were included in order to teach the Gordonsville thugs a lesson.

There were a few “sucker-punches” thrown: the Golden Gloves Ringer was not there. No one was eager to engage the Bowman Boys in any extended rhetoric or physical contests.

The Gordonsville bunch was "out-thugged" this time, and since real blood was spilled the fights between towns ceased; Somewhat reminiscent of the Hollywood version. Hindsight also reveals that most of both gangs discovered "girls" soon thereafter and enthusiasm for running in gangs and engaging in fisticuffs waned! Those who maintained a propensity for physical violence usually spent at least thirty days in a restricted environment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One final altercation may be worth mentioning here though the writer was not involved. Gainesboro, Tennessee is in the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains of Middle Tennessee. The country is rough and so are lots of the people. There are many contingencies in being accepted by the local populace of this and other very rural areas. Outsiders are not accepted, and Carthage boys were welcome least of all.

Sonny Apple and Tyrone Pointer continued to attempt to visit girls in Gainesboro, and Sonny's car was well known in the area. One late summer evening Sonny and Tyrone ("Runt") said goodnight to their dates and began their drive back to Carthage. A Gainesboro vehicle passed them and stayed in front and in sight for the next few miles. Sonny and Runt were descending a long hill to a narrow bridge when they spotted the Gainesboro vehicle athwart the bridge.

Two Gainesboro thugs were getting out when Sonny and Runt pulled up. They quickly saw what was afoot. The Gainesboro ruffians wanted to make sure that there was no misunderstandings and admonished Sonny and Tyrone not to come to Gainesboro again. For various reasons Sonny and Runt were not amenable to the suggestion.

Sonny had on a new shirt of which his mother was particularly proud, and he proceeded to remove it before the fisticuffs commenced. However, the Gainesboro toughs seized upon his momentary entrapment and proceeded to box his and Tyrone's ears and to reduce his shirt to tatters. When sufficient blows were struck the way was once again clear and Sonny and Tyrone were allowed to exit. Sonny never told his mother what had happened to his shirt. In fact she was forced to request the information from Sonny's former Gainesboro, girlfriend. But I don't think Mrs. Apple ever found out the truth for sure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

You Can't Go Home!

"You can't go home again," is not original as the reader well knows, but it is absolutely true; You can't go home again.

I left home at age eighteen to go to college, but I always reappeared when my clothes needed washing. My mom spent many a Saturday afternoon with the old ringer-type Maytag getting me ready to return to Tennessee Polytechnic Institute. I attempted my own laundry on occasion, but it was never the same for some reason, and the schedule of a T.P.I. music major was extremely tight.

I had a chance to finish an advanced degree and took it. I didn't go home between the time I finished the first advanced degree and the beginning of the second. However, when halfway through the Specialist in Education from Indiana University I had a couple of weeks and no place to go other than HOME!

IU had a Department of Instructional Technology in the College of Education that required three years experience in the field before conferring an Ed. S. Degree. I had the prospect of a position at The University of Tennessee in Knoxville, and I was awaiting the "word" from them. In the meantime I was stuck at home, ...in Carthage, ...with no money, ... in my parents living room, ...all alone, ...with my mother ... giving me the big-eye!

She didn't have to say a word, and didn't, but the message was loud and clear. Had she voiced it, it might have been, "Now what?"

I soon left; first to Memphis to do nothing more than to get out of Carthage; then on to Knoxville to assume my new position as the Audio Visual guy. Things worked out well after that, and I haven't had to go home again out of necessity, YET!

Actually, never going home particularly applies to going back to your old high school when they are in session and you are waiting for your first college semester to start. I think it is a ploy between your old high school and your new college to stagger the starting times just to humiliate the, soon to be, college freshman!

You're sitting around with nothing in particular to do, just waiting for the day when the college dorms open, and you see all the cars covering the hill at the old high school. You think how great it would be to go over and visit a few minutes with all those "jolly juniors" and "silly sophomores" who will, no doubt, be ecstatic to be in your presence again!

Oh, the temptation, the allure, the irresistible magnetism of it all; it's just too much, TOO MUCH! It is absolutely the smoothest seduction one can perpetuate upon one's self. The outcome is, of course, totally devastating. Those, once "old pals" have now staked out their own turf, and you are a non-entity in everyone's eye. No one has any time to speak to you, and some even show disdain at your presence. Well, I didn't stay long: I'm a fast learner!

There are some who can go back to the old high school and pull it off. They make a grand entrance, determined to make the biggest possible splash! Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn't!

An old girlfriend of mine wanted to make a big splash going back to visit good old Smith County High. She had thought of herself as a big fish in that small pond, and she was determined to dazzle the old crowd.

She arrived driving a white Mustang convertible accompanied by two extremely large, long nosed, Russian Wolfhounds. She was "dressed to the nines" in a white sweater and a very-mini, white skirt, four-inch heels, and a short, white, fur coat; A little warm for the season but image was everything, and it is important to make a fashion statement without becoming a slave to fashion, is it not?

A stunning entrance was made to the main building. She traipsed, strutted and proceeded to overwhelm everyone within visual range. Wolfhounds cavorted and entangled themselves in the throng of students going to their next class. She passed from one group of "admirers" to another with ultimate panache, seemingly oblivious to the smiles and stares.

She went down to the new band room to visit her former, most intimate old friends where another grand entrance was made. Spotting a fully assembled clarinet, her own instrument in past days, she reached down to the case open on the floor to render a timely ditty. While bending over and attempting to escape from an entanglement of leashes, one of the wolfhounds "cold-nosed" her right in the tush! Evidently the crotch panel of LEGGs pantyhose offer insufficient insulation from the ice-cold nose of an inquisitive wolfhound!

The response was extreme to say the least: She let out a “WHOOP” and she would have climbed the concrete block wall had it not been newly painted with a very slick epoxy paint.

Going home? Some times the magic works and sometimes it doesn’t.

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

LEWIS THE ENTERTAINER

My Mother, Bless Her Heart, thought I ought to be an entertainer!

She made me "tap-dance" in the living room even though I knew absolutely nothing about tap-dancing. Thank God I never had to "tap" in front of anyone. Ann Robinson took tap dancing lessons and danced at every opportunity. I would never have been caught dead "tapping!" However when I was a Junior in high school Betty Ann Kemp (Moore) asked me to the Home Economics Square Dance and we won second place because I quickly saw Jimmy West doing a "buck step" and it was very much like tap dancing.

When I was twelve mother insisted that I enter the talent show at school. I had been in the band for two years and had a harmonica; evidently that was sufficient criteria! I played "O'Suzanna" on the harmonica and "Taps" on a rubber hose that was used to drain water from our Maytag. I didn't win the five silver dollars for first place in the ten to twelve category, but I did get a silver dollar for participating. You know it's strange that you never hear any, really good Maytag drain-hose played any more. I guess I was ahead of my time.

With that auspicious beginning I was launched into the world of musical entertainment. I played in the Smith County High School Band, "The Pride of the Upper Cumberland", from grade seven through high school.

Band trips: Ah yes those forays into never never land! I viewed these trips to remote locales such as Lebanon, Lafayette, Cookeville, Livingston, Sparta and Watertown as opportunities to explore the "environment," i.e. GIRLS!

The band bus was a place for singing and cheering and getting "up for the game.” Where in the world did the song, "Salty Dog" come from? Another band bus favorite was "Do Lord." The Majorettes knew all those songs and always led the singing.

On the way home the band buss was a place for demonstrating one's smooching technique! Sophomore girls would kiss the freshmen boys to find out what it felt like since they had never been kissed by anyone. I never really learned how to kiss very well on the band bus. Come to think of it I didn't learn to sing or do anything very well on the band bus!

Da Blues

Here are the fundamental rules for The Blues.

1. Most Blues begin with: "Woke up this mornin'..."

2. "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."

3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes - sort of:

"Got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher and she weigh 500 pounds."

4. The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch ... ain't no way out.

5. Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored
motor pools ain't even in the runnin'. Walkin' plays a major part in the Blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.

6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

7. Blues can take place in big cities like New York , but not in Hawaii or anywhere in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Memphis, and N'awlins are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the Blues
in anyplace that don't get rain.

8. Breaking your leg because you were skiing is not the Blues. Breaking your leg because an alligator be chomping on it is.

9. You can't have the Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is all wrong. Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.

10. Good places for the Blues:
a. highway
b. jailhouse
c. empty bed
d. bottom of a whiskey glass

11. Bad places for the Blues:
a. Starbucks

b. gallery openings

c. Stanford
d. golf courses

12. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be an old person, and you slept in it.

13. Do you have the right to sing the Blues?
Yes, if:

a. you're older than dirt
b. you're blind

c. you shot a man in Memphis
d. you can't be satisfied

No, if:
a. you have all your teeth
b. you were once blind, but now can see
c. the man in Memphis, and alive
d. you have a 401K, 403b, or trust fund

14. Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the Blues. Sonny Liston could have. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the Blues.

15. If you ask for water and your darlin' gives you gasoline, it's the blues. Other acceptable Blues beverages are:
a. cheap wine
b. Glenmore bourbon
c. muddy water
d. black coffee

The following are NOT Blues beverages:
a. Perrier
b. Chardonnay
c. Snapple
d. Latte or espresso

e. Single malt Scotch

16. If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shack, it's a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So are the electric chair, substance abuse, and dying lonely on a broken-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.

17. Some Blues names for women:
a. Sadie
b. Big Mama
c. Bessie
d. Fat River Dumplin'

18. Some Blues names for men:
a. Joe
b. Willie
c. Little or Big Willie

d. Sam Cooke

19. Persons with names like Michelle, Jessica, Jennifer, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis . Add Tiffany to this.

20. Blues Name Starter Kit:

a. name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame, etc.)
b. first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi, etc.)
c. last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.)

For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Pegleg Lemon Johnson or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc. (Well, maybe not that last one.)

21. No matter how tragic your life is: If you own a computer, you cannot sing the Blues, period.

Now, if you'll excuse me; "I hear that whistle blowin'... "

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

Going Fishing

Center Hill Lake

Construction of the dam is a part of my early memory: 1945, I can remember a group of men coming to my grandfather's house in Gordonsville for some first aid! It seems that the group had "been-a-drankin" prior to attempting to cross the dam. Permanent guard rails had not been installed, and the driver was engrossed in the sight of so much water when he veered to the right a little too far and proceeded through the temporary barrier to roll the old Ford over and over down the earthworks side of the dam.

The cars of that day were heavy gauge steel bodies over formidable steel frames. By the time the doors were wrenched off the occupants were probably attempting to crawl under the seats. With the doors removed, the fenders severely rounded, and covered inside and out in dirt and mud, retrieval was questionable.

This unplanned voyage had taken its toll: All three were pretty well sobered up by the time the car came to rest at the side of the river, approximately 350 feet below the top of the dam. And one of the passengers had split his forearm from the wrist to his elbow.

Someone had seen the mishap and rushed the victims fifteen miles to Dr. William Barton Dalton's house in Gordonsville. Dr. Dalton, my Grandpa, proceeded to use a clamps somewhat akin to a "hog ring" about every two inches along the cut. Then he sewed the fissure together between the clamps. All this was not a pretty sight, but I watched most of it until I was shooed away by concerned aunts and parents. The three daredevils survived to live other days.

My Grandpa was the archetypical white haired, country doctor. In his youth he had a shock of brilliant red hair and a red handlebar moustache: A dashing fellow to say the least. The Daltons, William Barton and wife Adi Bertram, with eight children in tow, had moved to Gordonsville floating their possessions down the Obed and Cumberland Rivers from Lillydale to Gordonsville Tennessee. Their’s was a happy household that revered the local Methodist Church, education for the eight children, and provision of high quality medical service to Southern Smith County.

Grandpa served as a leader of the medical community in Tennessee in the early 1900's. Oftentimes he was paid in part in produce or livestock for birthing babies and calming fevered brows. My mother had a son, Buddy, aged nine when she experienced a specific discomfort that had been diagnosed as a possible tumor. But after describing her “tumor” to her father, he said, ”Go home: You are pregnant!”

Going fishing with my dad during the late forties and early fifties was a two day ordeal. The afternoon before the fishing trip we would drive "up the creek" to a settlement known as Pleasant Shade to seine minnows. If a fishing trip was to be productive one was required to have a good stock of live, Tuffy minnows.

We seined minnows on many occasions with varying degrees of success. A few trips were memorable when we had to seine a deep hole filled with half-grown bass and perch jumping high in the air avoiding our net. One time my dad stepped on a rusty wire that pierced his rubber boot right into his instep to a depth of about two inches. The glass iodine stick went all the way in when I administered it. We went right on with our planned trip. He suffered the injury without comment because a day fishing was not to be altered.

Preparations for one trip involved the usual seining trip to Sanderson's Branch. Upon arriving we couldn't see anything but the black creek bottom. We decided to give the net one pull anyway just in case there may be a stray minnow about. What we got was a seine absolutely full of beautiful Tuffys! The bottom had been covered with minnows so that we only thought we were looking at the flat rocks below.

The minnows had to be preserved that night by immersing them in a flowing stream near home then quickly retrieved the following morning. We arose before dawn and collected the minnows. I placed the bucket between my feet and another within easy reach.

Quick access was necessary since we were required to stop at every ford of every roadside stream to freshen the bait water. With even as many as four or five stops during the hour and fifteen minute drive attrition would be great.

The drive was always long in the '51 Chevy and the water sloshed over my feet, but in all the excitement nothing mattered. The only word that comes to mind when attempting to describe the feeling within a youngster when participating in a real, lake, fishing trip with a boat and outboard motor and everything is THRILLING!!

As we neared the lake a fluttering feeling arose in my chest. It was fed by my dad's proclamations about the day, the weather, the water and/or the stories he passed with our usual companion, Bridges Read. Uncle Bridges was a character who loved stories and, jokes, and me. I loved him too without knowing it until later. (It was customary for favorite non-family members to be called “Uncle” or “Aunt” pronounced ‘ain’t’ in Middle Tennessee.)

Uncle Bridges was a “Dough Boy” in World War I and survived in the trenches when “The Hun” (Germans) attacked with chlorine gas. Anyone who has had even a remote experience with tear gas will never forget the occasion. The effects of a chlorine gas attack resulted in Uncle Bridges becoming unable to perform strenuous tasks even after a long period of convalescence.

The gas caused extreme pain for months and even years, and the only treatment for the symptoms was morphine. Uncle Bridges had become addicted to morphine and was covertly ridiculed for it. I only knew how Uncle Bridges delighted me with his sense of great good humor and his apparent love for me.

Forever it seemed we’d be winding our way along the Caney Fork River then suddenly climbing up the side of dam. Sight of the dam was and was awesome and terrible! Suddenly, as we broke out on top into the bright, fully risen sunshine there it was....... ENDLESS sun splashed water. My heart leapt when I saw it! Usually the sky would be a deep vivid blue; the sun sparkling the surface. As we drove on, the view of the water would be blocked for long seconds by trees growing along the road, but in another instant there it was, so blue, so vast, so exciting! I could not get enough!

It always became impossible to take a deep breath. There would something like a tingle or an itch in my body that would make my chin quiver as if I were freezing. If I tried to speak the words became a giggle with an imbedded hiccup. The air would rush in, and the words would get caught in my throat. So, most of the time I just tried to be quiet, do what I was told, and to stay out of the way while the heavy, wooden, rented boat was loaded and the outboard motor manhandled onto the transition.

Once underway my awareness of everything would progress outward from my seat in the boat: From attempting to steady its rocking while Uncle Bridges pushed off and got aboard, to the bow wave and the glint of the sun on it. Then there was the breeze and the sound of the outboard and the smell of its blue-white, smoky exhaust; then the froth on the wake as we picked up speed. I would look back and wonder why the stern was so low and I was sitting up so high. It always amazed me that the water wasn't fast enough to sink the rear of the boat. And when we slowed to a stop I watched for the wave behind to cascade into the back. But it never did.

Finally the craft would plane off and we would really be making time, or so it seemed. The 18 horsepower Johnson outboard made the boat positively glide on the lake surface. That old wooden boat with all the gear, and the three of us aboard probably never got up to 20 miles per hour, but it was exhilarating.

The wind was cool and the sun searing bright, and at this moment when the sensations would be too exciting to endure, dad would lean forward and open the home-made minnow bucket to assess their condition. I calmly watched but my thoughts were, "Oh NO!: What if we ran over something or ran into another boat, or capsized or something while he's looking in those buckets?” Well, we seldom saw another boat and never hit anything of any size. And my distance perception abilities had not matured.

Finally we would be fishing: It would usually be mid-morning, the wind disappearing as we'd pulled into a cove where willow trees stood in the water with tops above the surface. We stuck minnows onto hooks and dropped them down beside the boat, and everyone grew absolutely silent...watching the red and white floats...for a long time...............a very long time. The once warm sunshine became hot, and the refreshing breeze was no longer evident.

There would be an occasional wave against the side of the boat and perhaps on the shore nearby there was a ground hog or small gray squirrel to watch. Often there would be large birds of prey, either large hawks or an eagle and always buzzards to spot.

Soon my perceptions would turn back to myself with thoughts like: "This plank I'm sitting on is hard and hurts my posterior. I wonder when we eat lunch, and what will it be, and can I have a whole Coke by myself. I wonder what would happen if I dangled my hand in the water or maybe my foot would be better. Where am I going to Pee?"

Usually a few bass or crappie would be on the stringer when dad would announce that it was time for lunch. "Oh Boy, Oh Boy", my heart would leap because there would always be those Devil's Food Cookies that had a chocolate center covered completely by a white layer then a solid layer of chocolate! - My Favorite -!

But what came before the cookies was always a mystery. I remembered Vienna Sausage or Baloney (is it really spelled Bologna?) from past trips, but for my most memorable lake-lunch dad had brought yellow cheese warmed by the sun, a pack of saltines, a small jar of pickles, cookies for dessert, Cokes and two cans of Opossum Sardines: TALL BOYS!

I wasn't sure just what sardines were, and I had never tried one.

I looked closely when the can was opened and found that they were fish: Fish without heads that were too large to use for bait and too small to keep. They looked gross and strange and crumbled when manipulated onto a cracker with the large blade of a scout knife.

They were packed in oil and looked positively ...(What's the appropriate word here? What would a 10 year old use to describe the sight of his first Opossum Sardine on a saltine?) ...DESPICABLE!!! (That's probably not THE EXACT WORD, but...) AND, dad expected me to eat that!! Well, I ate them and did pretty well. No gagging or retching or violent regurgitations or anything. As it turned out, what little taste they had wasn't all that bad. However Opossum Sardines aren't a household staple to this day, but they often appear, somehow mysteriously, on fishing trips! That old pocket knife is now in my tackle box.

We would usually catch a respectable number of two pound or smaller large mouth bass or a good number of crappie. On a few trips we "LOADED THE BOAT", or "WE SLAYED 'EM TODAY". (These are nautical terms familiar to all Mid-South fishermen.) I even got my picture in the Nashville Tennessean Newspaper one time with a string of bass. And I remember the greatest trip of all was one were we had a stringer of crappie of twenty fish and weighed forty-two pounds. That's what you call a “Stringer of Slabs"!

Going fishing has changed considerably since those days in the ‘40's and ‘50's; and I can’t say for the better. I know that you can’t go back to simpler times, but in my mind I’ll be fishing on a quiet Center Hill cove with my dad and Uncle Bridges Read.

North to Alaska

We had an inkling that we were onto something different when we passed over the mountains in southeastern Alaska at midnight at 41,000 feet. On any other usual evening we would be contemplating a night's repose. But here we were at nine p.m. in Alaska, midnight in Nashville, an almost-set sun lit the snow covered mountains. We weren't the least bit sleepy. "Wide eyed" would be a more appropriate description.

We picked up our rental car not far from the Anchorage airport and attempted to navigate Anchorage in the lingering twilight. The sun had just gone below the horizon but as it turned out not very far below. It never did get fully dark during our nine days there.

We arrived at our bed and breakfast late because of a wrong turn that took us twenty miles in the wrong direction. I wasn't satisfied with doing it wrong once so we retraced our incorrect route a second time before encountering semi-intelligent life where we got our bearings.

Our room was on the third floor of a private home. The rooms were great and we slept with the windows wide open. We noticed later that none of the dwellings had screens. Since we had heard of monster mosquitoes in Alaska we wondered where the screens were. We were never bothered by mosquitoes during our vacation.

We used this Anchorage B & B as our "home base," and it proved to be a great decision. The family who ran the B & B were the Eidems, Mary and Jerry: both are retired teachers. Mary is a potter and Jerry is a commercial and charter fisherman during the summer and a heavy equipment operator during the cold months. Mary served salmon quiche and various muffins for breakfast. Jerry oriented us to Alaska and to the Keni Peninsula, that he called, “Alaska's essence.”

We "did" Anchorage the first day to get oriented to the state and to get used to the time difference. In years past Alaska and especially Anchorage was choked under a five-inch blanket of fine volcanic ash. The ash was still evident along roadways and in gravel parking lots. We went to the Alaska State Museum and were astounded at the exhibits and art work. We did a few other tourist things, and in the meantime we discovered Ship Creek on the northern edge of town near the harbor.

People were fishing this little creek and soon we spotted what they were after: Salmon were moving upstream; Big salmon; hundreds and hundreds and more kept coming! It was easy to spot the Sockeye. They had turned bright red except for their heads. The pinks and chum were harder to spot because their colors had not changed. The Sockeye were about fifteen pounds and the others were about six pounds each.

Judy got on the phone to try to get reservations on the ferry to Valdez, but she was unsuccessful. A change of plans was in order. Jerry Eidem, being a fisherman contacted a buddy of his in Homer for a charter trip two days hence. We were to stay at his "camp" the night before our big fishing trip. So it was off to Homer after two nights in Anchorage.

It's difficult to miss your road out of Anchorage: There is one going North and one going South! We went south. Leaving Anchorage toward Seward and Portage a mountain range marches along your left side. It has Tanaina Peak, O'Malley Peak, Flattop Mtn., and Suicide Peak. Then along the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet a mountain range appears topped with snow fields and lingering clouds. We were awestruck by their beauty and we used lots of film on these “Porcupine Mountains.”

Tidal fluctuations in Alaskan waters are extreme: twelve to sixteen feet, twice per day. On The Turnagain Arm there are warnings to stay off the tidal sands because some are treacherous quicksand. We were also warned that Cook Inlet is also subject to "Bore Tides": A raging flood tide: a wall of water up to six feet high moving upstream at 40 miles per hour. It’s a fact that sometimes the tide comes in so fast that some hearty folks surf on it!

We went through Tunnel, Snoring Inn and had lunch at a most beautiful spot, Moose Pass. We found a small motel with a restaurant that was superb! We stopped there coming and going.

Turning west at Moose Pass and wending our way through the mountains of the Keni Peninsula through mountain valleys we spotted fast flowing, cold mountain rivers, migrating salmon and FISHERMEN! There were people fishing in tiny rivulets and in mighty rivers. There were people fishing in jet powered boats, oar powered boats and in canoes and kayaks. Most of all there were people fishing in boots standing in the streams attempting to attract salmon. It is called "Alaskan Combat Fishing!"

There are strict limits on how one may catch salmon and how many one may catch. The salmon are not that easy to catch because they have other priorities at this time of year like spawning! There are enough caught however to make the effort worthwhile.

You must like salmon or learn to like salmon if you are to live in Alaska. In downtown Anchorage the offshore netters were giving salmon away rather than sell it at a cheap price to the wholesalers and processors. We heard that one day's give away totaled fifteen thousand pounds. It's hard to pay for a fifty thousand-dollar fishing boat doing that.

We turned south along Cook Inlet and arrived at Homer: "The End Of The World." Alaska has the distinction of having two most famous locations: The Middle of Nowhere and The End of The World. Any number of interior locations could be the Middle of Nowhere, but Homer, Alaska is absolutely the End of The World.

We arrived at our fishing "camp" to find our "crew" busy filleting the day's catch of Halibut. One of the fish weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. The others were just small fish in the forty to sixty pound range. Well, that was the good news: The bad news was that we were to stay in a tiny trailer, a mini-RV, with no water available. The other bad news was that the "crew" would be cooking the crabs caught that day on the stove in our RV. Oh well, we thought it would all be worth it if we were going to catch fish the following day and have Dungenous Crab for supper. We slept fitfully but were ready to go at first light.

We headed out into Cook Inlet about twenty miles to a drop off where the bottom was about one hundred and twenty feet down. The fishing rig was a heavy deep sea rod and reel with three pounds of lead for a sinker. We later found out that a three pound sinker was not enough. When the tide changed it was so fast the bait would not stay on the bottom! The boat swung around on its anchor rope and we were riding a twenty knot tide!

It was a great day: The sun was out and the wind was dead calm. We were in the Gulf of Alaska with Mt. St Augustine, dormant volcano, twenty miles off the stern, glowing pink in the sunrise.

The fishing method was to find the bottom and bounce the herring bait off it. We got bites that swiped our herring, but finally Judy and Kelly each hooked a fish. It was an ordeal reeling up the lead and the darting Halibut, but they each landed their fish. Each weighed about twenty pounds and was rejected by the boat captain as too small. Judy and Kelly hated to see those fish go back in the water, but they continued to fish.

My first fish was a Ling Cod weighing about four pounds. I had made cod for supper about a month before and the smell lingered in the house for days. We kept this one for bait. Kelly and Judy each caught more fish that were returned to grow up. They were frustrated, to say the least. Then finally we began catching "keepers." It seemed fish less than thirty pounds was too small. The crew told us that the object of the day was to catch sufficient fish so that the tourists arms grew so tired that they could no longer comb their hair or scratch: Well, that was us all right!

We kept sixteen fish that averaged forty to fifty pounds each. We caught a great deal of Halibut, but we only brought home to Nashville the filets of six fish. The filets weighed fifty-seven pounds. In all, we caught over five-hundred pounds of Halibut, three large Cod and one huge Stingray. A three-hundred and twenty-five pounder was caught that day by another boat.

Halibut is a flatfish without scales somewhat like a Flounder. Its skin is tough and smooth. Halibut is white on one side and brown on the other. Like a Flounder they start with eyes on each side of their head, but as they lie on the bottom the left side turns white and the eye migrates to the brown, right side. Halibut and Flounder are always white on the same side: the left side.

We could hear Russian fishermen talking on the boat’s radio during our ride back to Homer. We saw Puffins and many other sea birds. Sea Otters drifted on the surface cracking urchins on their bellies and the biggest surprise of all was that a Minike Whale surfaced right beside our boat. He was looking Kelly right in the eye for a split second! What a thrill! What luck?

We had our Halibut processed at dockside and it was flown to the Anchorage airport the day we departed. I worried that our expensive filets would thaw during the flights and layovers in Seattle and Detroit. We worried for nothing: the two-pound hunks were as hard as frozen bricks all the way home.

We declined a second night in the "camp" and climbed a ridge above Homer to a fantastic B & B called appropriately, "Ridgetop B & B." This was our second B & B and like the first we were greeted by a note on the door inviting us to go in and set up since no one was at home.

This place was spectacular! A balcony facing south allowed us to view fields of the last of the summer's Fireweed blossoms along with tall pine spires and the mountains, glaciers and snow fields across Kachemak Bay. Many years ago a glacier pushed a "spit" down Kachemak Bay that became land's end. The Homer Spit is approximately a mile long housing "Spit Rats" camping in one and two-man tents, RV Parks, night clubs, a large marina and port. From our vantage point the spit appeared to be just a spit of rock jutting out into the bay. We were so far away that nothing man-made was visible.

At six p.m. the bright sun was at two o'clock, and the only sounds were the screeches of hawks looking for rodents in the Fireweed and the tall Yarrow. It was a pleasant afternoon of rest in the sun with the world's most wonderful view.

The sunlight there in early August is diffused and pale and reminds you of a sunny winter day in Tennessee. We had four straight days of sunshine, and we learned that on those days Anchorage had set new high temperatures at seventy-four degrees. Cloudy skies are the norm for most Alaskan days because of the clash of the Japanese Current and the Arctic winds.

Clouds made their expected appearance on our drive back to Anchorage. Seeing the mountains from the opposite direction made our spirits soar again: We had missed the grandeur of the snow spotted mountains.

We headed for The Portage Glacier: whatever that was! The clouds scuffed the tops of the six-thousand foot mountains where we turned onto the Portage Access road. We were "all eyes" because of the color of the ice cold rivers, and because not far along the way we spotted our first glacier. Great hunks of blue ice hung on the cloud shrouded mountains. A torrent of murky blue water cascaded down the mountain side. The glaciers grind the rock to a fine powder known as rock flour. All the rivers and streams had varying quantities of rock flour.

We cleared a small rise and before us were icebergs floating on a lake! We parked and promptly donned warm clothing: The air coming down the valley was right off the Portage Glacier, and the icebergs kept the area very cold.

We were struck by the quiet of the area since it was covered in travelers. Like us, they were probably awe struck by the scene. Low clouds obscured the tops of the nearby mountains; the glaciers of blue ice hung in the mountain valleys; the rivulets of glacial melt cascaded down; the ice bergs lolled and tumbled in the lake: and the river was grey-blue made up of thousand-year-old melting ice and ground rock. Like so much of what we had seen in Alaska, this area was unique and spectacular.

We returned to Anchorage to "home base" and rested from our Keni adventure. The next day we took the other road out of Anchorage, North to Healy and Mt. McKinley. We found our B & B in Healy and were greeted with another note welcoming and inviting us in.

Our hostess in Anchorage being a potter, had asked Judy if we would bring some Healy clay. Our Healy hostess supplied a pail and shovel and we were off to the Healy "outback!" We took the road to the Healy landfill. We soon ran out of paved road and passed by a coal processing plant that supplied power to the consumers in Healy.

We could see the clay deposits from the track and we soon spotted a pristine deposit. We put the Jeep into all wheel drive and proceeded through the soft sand over to the clay deposits. The five gallon pail was soon full, and we started exploring the area.

The surface was a conglomeration of rock debris pushed around and ground down by glaciers. The rock flour had long since blown away in the constant winds. What was left was sand and stone of various colors, chunks of marble and granite and other types of rock. We also saw recent evidence of moose in the area; moose-poop. (We later saw moose-poop jewelry and even moose-poop for chapped lips: "It doesn't cure the chapped lips it just keeps you from licking them!")

The next day we had an early ticket for an eight hour bus ride in and out of Denali Park. I had envisioned comfortable tour busses with good seats and large windows for viewing Mt. McKinley. What showed up was a school bus from the Anchorage school system with small windows and with hard-hard bench seats. As it turned out we got no closer than 35 miles to Mt. McKinley. Fortunately, the clouds surrounding the summit parted for about three seconds, and it shown majestically in the sunlight for just long enough to snap one picture.

The track (no-way this could be called a road) was narrow and wound between hills and valleys until it reached the Polychrome Mountains. There it became a very narrow trail four hundred feet up on the side of a precarious incline. It was hard to grip that hard plastic seat with your butt, but Judy did it! The trip was interesting, in that, we saw moose, wolves, ptarmigan, and marmot (Alaskan groundhog).

We transferred to a returning bus after three hours and drove back to Anchorage so that we would have ample time to prepare for our departure and to let Judy attend a training session at the University of Alaska at Anchorage. Kelly and I completed our trinket purchases, and we all looked forward to getting through the "red-eye flight" back to Nashville.

We left at one-forty AM and arrived in Seattle at sunup. We were on the ground about an hour. We took the opportunity to spread out and attempt to nod-off. I was amazed at the number of avid Salmon fishermen getting on the plane to Seattle: They had heard that fishing was better in Washington!

Then it was six hours to Detroit. Neither of us had had any sleep in the preceding 24 hours. We were grounded in Detroit for three hours, and Kelly finally got some sleep. We arrived in Nashville at six PM: walking was a challenge. It is difficult to work out the time changes, but it seems that we lost a whole day somewhere.

It was a great trip: A once in a lifetime trip. There were many other great things we experienced just by pure luck. Judy did all her Christmas shopping at our "home base," and we got some of the most spectacular pictures you can imagine.

I guess the best part of the trip will be our memories of the clear cold ocean water, the temperatures in the sixties and seventies while over one hundred back home, the "Combat Fishing" while fifteen thousand pounds of salmon are given away in the middle of Anchorage every other day. But most of all we were enthralled by the ever-present mountains, rugged, foreboding and cold.

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.