The Continuing Story...an Ending and a Beginning

The stories of Snoopy, Jim and Chris along the highways of a three year RV journey, have come to an end.  We are retired.

For those of you who wish to follow the next chapter in our "life's journey" check out our blog, "Old But Free" - the link is also available on the side bar to the right of this screen.

It has been a pleasure telling you about our adventures.  It was truly the trip of a lifetime.  We haven't hung up our spurs, we're just climbing into a different saddle on a new horse.  There will still be tales to tell, photographs to share, and from time-to-time a good laugh, or a subject we hope you find mutually interesting.

Be well, be safe, and most of all be happy - the only elements in life that matter.

Other Worlds to Sing In

I love this story and just had to pass it on.  I hope you enjoy it too.

THE OLD PHONE ON THE WALL.... "INFORMATION PLEASE"

When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.  I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.  I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person.  Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.  Information Please could supply anyone's number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor.  Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.   The pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one at home to give me sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger.  Finally, arriving at the stairway I remembered, "The telephone!"  Quickly I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing.  Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.

"Information, please." I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

"Information."

"I hurt my finger," I wailed into the phone.  The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother at home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.

I said, "I could."

"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything.  I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was located.  She helped me with my math.  She told me my pet chipmunk, which I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died.  I called "Information Please" and told her the sad story.  She listened, and then said the things grown-ups say to soothe a child.  But I was not consoled.  I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all

families, only ended up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please."

"Information," said in the now familiar voice.

"How do I spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston.  I missed my friend very much.

"Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and somehow I never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.  As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.

Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then.  I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle.  I had about a half-hour or so between planes.  I spent 15 minutes on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.  Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.

"Information."

I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"

I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me.  I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later, I was back in Seattle.  A different voice answered, "Information."  I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?" she said.

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick.  She died five weeks ago."

Before I could hang up, she continued, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne ?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Well, Sally left a message for you.  She wrote it down in case you called.  Let me read it to you."

The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.  He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up.  I knew what Sally meant. 

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.  Whose life have you touched today?

Life is a journey... NOT a guided tour.

Winter Day in La Conner

We ventured to La Conner yesterday to drive around Jim’s old neighborhood of Shelter Bay.  This drive was followed by the treat of a delicious, hot lunch downtown.  Both activities were fun.  The weather was cold, and rain fell part of the time, but that did not deter our adventure.

La Conner is a tiny town with a fabulous Main Street shopping venue.  Both sides of the street consist of small galleries and stores purveying upscale and unique clothing, gifts, household décor, furniture and more.  It would take the better part of a day to wander through all of these tempting shops, so already I have put the return trip on my to-do-list.

Outside the café windows, we spied a totem pole, which in all likelihood is an historic and authentic rendition of Native American art situated near a museum overlooking Rainbow Bridge.  Tied up to a dock near the museum, a sailboat acts as a sentry for the bridge in the muted light of the overcast day.  The bridge leads over to Shelter Bay, so we had already driven across it and back before lunch.

In winter, you could toss a ball down Main Street without hitting a soul.  Under a thousand people live here according to the 2010 census.  But in the spring, the town is filled with people coming to view the tulip fields bordering La Conner during the Annual Tulip Festival in April.  The rows of multicolored flowers are grown for their bulbs, which are exported to Holland.

This time of year other visitors come to the same surrounding fields.  These feathered visitors are thousands of snow geese, passing through on their annual migration.  Providing seeds for them to forage on, local farmers welcome these birds.  Sometimes so many birds land on the ground together, their bodies turn the fields white  – matching the snow-covered hills surrounding this flat, farmland.

The rural flavor of the area, the small town feel, and the nearby town of Mount Vernon with every convenience readily available make this an area it would be easy to call home.  The RV is warm and we are booked in a Mount Vernon RV park for a month.  The cozy, stay-inside, hot soup and hot cocoa weather make preparing for another year of work inviting.  I think I can get used to winter again.

Seasons

Today I awake to the sounds of rain hitting the metal roof of our RV before dawn rises in shades of gray and peach.  The rhythmic noise of large drops plopping and smaller drops ticking is like an old, bedside, windup alarm clock.  It is comforting.  The experience draws me back to an earlier time in life when I lay beneath the metal roof of a Key West style home in the South listening to the same song.  This memory of a once loved home brings forth a smile.  I decide to linger longer beneath the sheets to enjoy the gentle awakening.

Traveling north, I am keenly aware of seasons.  The south, with continual mild weather and sunny winter skies, has now been replaced with volatility.  Skies can change from blue to overcast and then to downpours of rain within an hour’s drive along Interstate-5.  Fog weaves its way between fir covered hills evoking comparisons to Japanese landscape paintings.  As we climb to higher elevations, tiny flakes of snow greet our windshield briefly.  Even in winter, however, the greenery of fresh grass, ferns and firs is painted across the gray background, promising spring will eventually prevail.

Now whenever I am outside, the air is brisk and invigorating.  The task of layering clothing against the cold is welcomed.  In the effort to brave the chill, I sense with satisfaction the tugging of my Scandinavian ancestor’s genes.  As we travel, the movement of my fingers with knitting needles to create a scarf to add to these layers is satisfying.  My brother once said, “Winter is a time to enjoy curling up in a warm, comfortable chair with a good book.”  Winter is a time also for indoor creativity and working with your hands.  I feel the urge to tackle a dozen indoor hobbies wash over me.  The pleasure it evokes is immense.

I have missed the seasons.  I am grateful to return to them.

Celia’s Rainbow Gardens

A story is told in Quartzsite, Arizona, of a little girl named Celia Anne Winer.  This community holds the story of her short life close to their hearts – memorialized in a town park named Celia’s Rainbow Gardens. 

Joanne and Paul Winer never expected to have a child.  In fact Joanne had been told she never would have one.  Then at the age of 36, Joanne heard the miracle words, “You are pregnant!”  But her miracle baby would come into the world prematurely at 23 weeks gestation, weighing only 1¼ pounds with a tiny head the size of a lemon.  Never had a baby this size survived here.  But Celia fooled everyone.  She survived, thrived and grew into a very intelligent little girl.

Celia memorized books that were read to her by the age of 2½.  When she learned to read, her quest for knowledge was insatiable.  She loved the world, animals and other children – taking concern for all of these upon her little shoulders. 

Then at the mere age of 8½, Celia fell ill – the victim of a viral infection that ultimately infected her heart.  Her concerned parents took her to the hospital where she soon lost her battle against the infection in 1994. 

Joanne and Paul longed to create a memorial for their little daughter.  Joanne had a vision she wished to create.  First she had all of Celia’s classmates make individual handprints in clay tiles.  Then she commissioned the building of a circular wall where the tiles were mounted in a portion of a town park.  Here also a smaller wall was built naming the spot “Celia’s Rainbow Gardens” bearing the last photo of Celia taken at her school a few days before she fell ill. 

The community has embraced the park, creating a memorial garden for its residents.  No one is buried here.  But in this place anyone may create a remembrance of someone they love, even a beloved pet.  Chimes sing in the wind swinging from tree branches.  Figurines grace cleared patches of desert.  Native plants are planted, nurtured, and watered here.  Whatever creative expression seems fitting to an individual may be designed within the section of this park designated as Celia’s Rainbow Gardens.  It is charming.

Only the sounds of the wind crossing the desert, or tinkling chimes, break the silence.  One can imagine Celia wandering from one bench to another in the light of the moon, or when the park is empty, admiring what has been done in her memory.

The park is a nice place to visit while in Quartzsite.  Next time I will bring a cup of coffee and sit with her awhile.

Ghost of Hotel Del

Built around a central courtyard garden of tropical palms, shrubs, and flowers, west of San Diego Bay on Coronado Island, the Hotel Del Coronado is one of the few remaining wooden, Victorian style hotels to be found in North America.  The hotel is the second largest built in this style still in existence today.

When construction began in March, 1887, all of the essential building elements and utilities had to be imported, or were constructed on the strand.  Prior to this point in time, the strand had been occupied solely by coyotes and rabbits.  Fresh water was piped in from San Diego, lumber was imported from Eureka, California while an electrical plant was constructed on-site.  The electrical plant would eventually supply all of Coronado Island.  People and supplies were ferried across San Diego Bay once a wharf and dock were completed.

I stand at the western side of the huge complex.  The hotel is situated directly on the beach with unobstructed views across the Pacific.  Crashing waves creep up the hotel’s sandy beach, as a breathtaking, crimson sunset favors the hotel’s west facing windows.  Through windows along circular shaped walls, a grand ballroom gazes out to the sea above me.  A veranda before me, furnished with intimate clusters of seating around cocktail tables positioned beneath propane heaters  to ward off the chill, beckons to those returning from the water’s edge.  Laughter rises from the lounge behind me with the scent of a cigar drifting on the evening air.  I see patrons sipping a cocktail and overhear discussions of dinner plans or accounts of adventures of the day.  Hotel Del Coronado is preparing for evening.

“Have you heard the ghost?” asks one of my companions.

“No,” I respond skeptically.

“Oh it is true.  I heard her last night.  First a thumping, then a sound like shuffling cards.  Absolutely startling!  And I guarantee no one else was in the room with me!”

I smile.  The ghost supposedly lives on the third floor.  A jilted woman who came to the Del to meet a lover who never arrived.  She committed suicide over being abandoned and proponents claim she haunts the hotel to this day, waiting for him to return.

The elevator operator who has worked in the hotel for thirty-five years swears the story is true.  I never hear her during our stay.  But the floors creak and doors slam sometimes in the middle of the night.

Might we imagine this tale could be true?

Watching Waves

     

     El Niño is pounding the California coast with rain and wind.  During a lull in the weather, we go down to the beach in search of waves.  We are not alone.  Surfers, spectators and sea birds are all out for the show.  We stand on the bank above the rocky beach blinking at the setting sun across a golden beach.  As brave souls paddle out on surf boards to meet the onslaught of water rising before them like walls, we watch as they slip over the top of each wave to momentarily disappear into the trough beyond our vision.  Shortly, they reappear to begin their struggle again.

     Oblivious to the roaring water the surfers are battling, sea birds scuttle along the edge of each sheet of water that rises and recedes along their sandy, buffet table into which they thrust their probing beaks.  Life here unfolds as it has for eons, and with that recognition comes a serene sense of security.

     

     Below me, at the edge of the bank, extending out to the smooth golden sand are round rocks of every size and color making up the gray, rose, cream and black spectrum.  Pounded by the waves, they have been formed into their smooth shapes, and I long to clamber down the bank to collect a few.  Their presence in my possessions would yield a comforting connection to the sea I crave, whenever I find myself separated from it.  But I restrain my gathering urges.  There is no room in my mobile RV home for them.  A picture will have to do.