The last time we were in Washington, DC was many years ago. I had been here since Diane had as I traveled here for a meeting of the Board of Directors of the Video Software Dealers of America. That was when I worked as Executive VP, Sales And Marketing for Sight and Sound Distributors. Those were good days, but they ended in 2000 when the entire video distribution industry evaporated nearly overnight. That story, the story of the Video Software Industry, is a stark lesson in American business that one day I may get into within this journal. The same holds true for the good ol’ Record Industry. I lived through the earth-shifting changes in that business as well. My time at Sight and Sound was the best job I ever had in my life so far as jobs not called musician. Ha, the old joke comes to mind on that one…
A mother says to her son,” John, What do you want to be when you grow up?”
The boy replies, ‘Mom, I want to be a musician. I want to play music.”
The mother sadly says, “ Well John, I’m afraid you can’t do both.”
So, when I was last in DC I had time outside of my work to visit only Ford’s Theater and the house across the street where they carried President Lincoln after he was shot. He died there the next morning. Brother, I was so very moved by that little tour I took there at Ford’s Theater. When Diane and I were here last together we had a wonderful time touring the White House, the Capitol Building, the Air and Space Museum, and some of the monuments such as the Viet Nam Memorial. There is so much to see and do here in DC it’s amazing. I posit there is no other place on the planet with so much history and culture in one place as DC.
Diane and I took some time during that trip to visit Gettysburg Battlefield. My Great, Great Grandfather Hodges fought for the Union during that terrible time. He was at Shiloh Battle and was with Sherman as he cut his swath through the South to the sea. He left behind written remembrances of his time in the War which I now have courtesy of my second cousin, Beth Anderson Einig. I have the lyrics of a song he wrote as well, though no sheet music. I think of making up a tune to go with the words sometimes. His remembrances, along with my dad’s journal of his time in Alaska during the late 1930’s, are my inspiration for this 50 Amp Vision Quest journal. My hope is that someday my children and grandchildren read some of this blog and gain a glimpse or two of life in America during this age.
We spent the day there in Gettysburg driving from one area to the next studying the lines of battle and looking at the states’ monuments there. We had dinner in town and afterwards we thought we’d drive back through the Battlefield. There was a bright full moon out. It was Autumn and the atmosphere had cooled into the 60’s that night. Slight breezes, enough to make the leaves in the trees talk, were rustling. Funny, as I type this missive it’s 5:00 AM and I am in Texas under a Blood Moon full eclipse. I am at my daughter, Suni’s house, as Nell, our faithful motor home, is undergoing some preventative maintenance. I arose to see the Blood Moon eclipse. It’s a somber sight. Some say it's inspiring. Some might say it’s foreboding.
The neighborhood is dead quiet. Diane and I were the only folks outside this early morn as we stood together gazing up at the red-hued orb. A shooting star briefly blazed across our view distracting us from the Moon’s ghostly visage. It’s easy to understand why ancient peoples felt that eclipses would portend fateful days directly ahead. Today, as a matter of fact, is election day in the USA. I think most people feel that right now the nation is poised for dramatic and historic turns of events. It feels as if we could either get the country back on track and headed towards better days ahead, or, it could all go to hell in a hurry, irretrievably changed for the worse. Imagine how the people of bygone 1863 felt as Civil War raged throughout the nation. Some days it feels as if we are on the cusp of something akin. The Blood Moon eclipse this early morning is indeed summoning something coming just over the horizon. We can’t quite tell just what it is yet. But, it’s coming.
Back at Gettysburg, Diane and I drove into the Battlefield and got out of the car, standing ‘neath the full moon’s light rising in the east. We walked a bit through the grass newly damp with dew. It was unsettling there that night. You could just feel the presence of unsettled spirits. The violence and anxiety, the tension between life and death still permeates the atmosphere on the battlefield. Now, we did not see any vaporous spirits or gray coat soldiers marching towards their ultimate doom on Pickett’s Charge. No moaning of the wounded as they lie gasping was audible. We felt some of that, though, most assuredly. Residual, transcendent energy fights on it feels. We didn’t linger long. We didn’t speak much. But, we both felt ill at ease as we left. Diane shivered just a little as she turned to look over her shoulder back to the gate of the Battlefield. Moon shadows were cast everywhere. The full Moon hung just above the gate seemingly guarding the hallowed fields and hills where restlessness and deadly combat never seems to end.
In my time machine laptop, typing, I now bounce back to early October, 2022. Cherry Hill Park Campground serves the CD area. We chose to stay here due to the fact that it is the closest place to the museums and the monuments of the Capital for us to set up camp. You can drive 10 minutes into College Park, the home of Maryland University, and pick up the metro which takes you into the government area, depositing you smack dab in the middle of downtown DC across the street from the Justice Department. From there you can walk any number of ways to any number of places. The area is super-safe to walk around in and we did so on many days.
Cherry Hill Park Campground is run like a machine. It is huge as RV parks go so organization is paramount to its success. They feature one of, if not the best stocked RV supply stores I have yet seen anywhere. I found a few items I had been looking for as we travel but hadn’t sourced yet. The sites themselves are adequate with a smidgen of privacy thrown in for decent measure. There are several swimming pools on the property and all sorts of things for the kids to do and entertain themselves with. They have a grill on premises and I ate breakfast there one morning while I was doing laundry. There are at least two laundromats there with something like 6 washers and dryers each. That’s always handy. The laundry rooms were kept very clean as well.
Cherry Hill is an RV park set up specifically for those who want to camp closer to the sites in DC than any state parks offer. It is not a serene environment by any standard. Cars and trucks roll by all day, though at night the noise level recedes mostly. The staff is more than friendly. Great customer service seems to be a mantra for the employees and I like that a lot having been in that business for so many years. Reserve early if you come here during peak seasons.
The first order of business for us in DC was to meet up with my brother, Mike, and my nephew who lives in Maryland, Al, his wife Nicole, and their two delightful young boys, Noah and Gabe. As we arrived on a Sunday afternoon and set up our campsite we composed some rough plans for our visit to the Capital City. Nicole had arranged a party for us all. Their family, my brother Mike and his wife, Rosie, and Diane and I, got together for dinner on Monday night. We met my big brother, Mike, who just turned 80, (I can’t believe that!) at the RV park and we all drove over to Al’s together.
Al and his family live in near rural Maryland perhaps 30 minutes from DC and Baltimore, equidistant. They have a beautiful home with more than ample property and an inviting pool. Al is a doctor and his practice these days focuses on vein issues, primarily in the legs. Al still maintains his emergency room work one day a week. He used to work in the emergency room singularly after he earned his doctorate, so he keeps his hand in it even today. I can only imagine how challenging that must be.
Al and Nicole treated us to a gracious and delicious meal complete with Maryland crab cakes and perfectly prepared steaks. Laughter and warm conversation permeated the evening as we caught up with each other after lo, these many years of being apart. It was so good to be with family again. My heart soared like a hawk. After dinner we celebrated Mike’s birthday with scrumptious cake and ice cream and a rousing rendition of the perennial birthday song. Later, we moved into even more singing. Mike and Rosie had worked up a song they sing together in Spanish and I accompanied them on the guitar. Their singing together was delightful. To this day after their decades together they are so much in love. We all sang and I played guitar on several more songs and I have to say that it was as warm and loving as a family reunion could possibly be. Before we all parted ways for the night we called my brother, Norm, back in St Louis and all got on the speaker phone with him, extending the reunion a little while longer. My mom used to always say to me and my brothers,
“Love each other and get together as often as you can.”
She was the one who held all the family together through birthday parties and holiday dinners after we all moved away. She would be so happy to have been with us on that evening. Diane said she felt she was, that she was there with us in spirit. I definitely felt her spirit there with us. Before we left for the evening I played a song I wrote for our mom that I recorded. More than a couple of tears were evident. Anyone who ever met my mom loved her. She was so effervescent, always dressed so well, always so cheerful and happy. I miss her so. I fondly thought of the time we took her to Las Vegas for her 80th birthday. I took her to the Liberace museum, which is his house. She loved Liberace, always marveling at how “flamboyant” he was.
One evening there in Vegas we took mom to the David Cassidy show. The usher took us straight up to a first row table after I whispered to him that it was her 80th birthday. Mom was dressed as elegantly as a First Lady and she moved through the theater with grace and ease, even at 80 years of age. Perhaps midway through the show David Cassidy came down to our table and surprised my mom..and us...with a song. There he was, singing to my mom, fully in the spotlight, her radiant smile beaming in the broad white beam of light shining down from above. She was in heaven for that moment, suspended from the trials and tribulations of so many years caring for others. At song’s end the audience burst into applause as Mr Cassidy blew a farewell kiss to my mom as he made his way back to the stage. It was a perfect evening with a story book ending. A picture that a staff photographer took of my mom at our table remains with us to this day. Her happiness still leaps from the image. I treasure that photo.
Our first foray into the museums and monuments was the National Museum of African American History and Culture...A people’s story, a nation’s history. We rode the metro into DC from College Park, MD and walked from our departure station to the museum, perhaps three quarters of mile give or take. The sun was high and unshaded but the temperatures stayed in the 70’s that day. The atmosphere was brilliant. As we walked we talked about the now infamous January 6th insurrection. It was on our minds as the perpetrators were being found out and exposed on national news. Principal among them in my mind is the disgraced, twice impeached Donald Trump. But I won’t discuss all that here. Suffice to say, it was impossible to walk through downtown Washington, DC without that event coming to mind.
Finally, very near and just northeast of the Washington Monument the Museum burst into view. There it stood, both elegant and regal. It is a six story structure, however, only three of its stories are above ground. The exterior shone like a crown outfitted in Bronze. If you can imagine three crowns placed on top of each other you might visualize this unique building. They say it is modeled after the three-tiered crown used in African Yoruban art. 3,600 panels of shimmering Bronze filigree (imagine the filigree you might see in New Orleans’ plentiful wrought iron fences and balconies) grace the exterior. The museum literally shone and reverberated beauty captured from the Sun’s rays.
Once inside it becomes evident why three of the six stories are underground. Symbolism is highly prevalent here. You are directed down to the lowest level, three stories deep, to begin your journey. At the lowest point of the museum you experience in great detail the beginnings of African slavery. Africans being hunted down and drug from their homes and loaded as so much lumber in the holds of horrible slave ships, all manner of humanity having been removed from their lives. Artifacts from those hideous days are on display unforgivably. The detail given this first section is both extensive and essential. As direct and thorough as the museum details the experience, it is still, for me, a European-descended white male, impossible to fully grasp the horror of slavery in the US. However, unless you are incapable of feeling or emotion, you surely get a good taste.
Next you advance upwards to the second floor. Here, the everyday lives of African American Slaves are relived. Detailed exhibits, artifacts, even actual slave cabins are on display. The taste you get in your mouth and your heart is bitter as you walk from exhibit to exhibit. Even as you begin to receive the history of the Abolitionists and eventual Emancipation, the terrible taste of slavery’s bitter brew yet lingers.
Freed, yet not yet free, you advance to the third floor, still underground and not yet in the full sun of daylight as it were, and literally laid out symbolically in the museum. This third floor covers the Civil Rights Movement and details those struggles in the stark light of true history, history that Diane and I and the balance of our generation lived a portion through; the triumphs and terrible tragedies of that Struggle. We could now recall in our own lifetime certain incidents that were historically preserved here and on ample display. We could recall how we felt during these times.
To be honest, I myself, was not always empathetic or at times even sympathetic to the Movement. I did not understand. Now, to be fair, my parents and my older brothers never, ever professed or even said anything remotely negative about African Americans in my presence. The “N” word, in my family, was never used. My Grandmother once uttered it and my mom chided her for doing it right there in front of me. She did not hold back, though it was her own mother she scolded. I did not learn to be a racist from my family, which is how so many children are introduced to the evil concept. But, there is a thing, Institutionalized Racism, that I regrettably was a part of. I was part of the Us vs Them mindset for a time in my early life. With me there was never any hatred or fear and loathing per se. It was more or less, a...that’s the way things are mentality. That mentality is as deadly as overt racism I believe. I regret ever feeling that way.
The third floor advances you through Jim Crow, the 20th Century, filled with lynchings and continued struggles against Segregation and eventually ends with the legacy of Barack Obama becoming President. It is a fitting close to the underground floors of the Museum. You have literally climbed from the bottom of the Museum where Africans were captured and enslaved, continued upwards through plantation life and the dreams of freedom of this diaspora through slavery, climbed ever more through Emancipation and the demeaning and deadly struggles for equality, to finally, a point where a Black Man was voted in as President of the US. At this point in your museum trek you emerge literally into the light of day.
Throughout the next three floors, above ground now, you are appropriately graced with the cultural and artistic gifts African America has presented us all. These sections of the Museum have permanent exhibits but many exhibits come and go with the months and years as it has become a living museum. New expression of fashion, art, and cultural renaissance yearn for expressive space and are granted just that. In this way one can never say that they have seen everything there is to see at the Museum. One can never say that African American’s contributions to the national spirit have died, have become static, are only relegated to history.
The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum was built just south of the Washington Monument, not too far from the African American Museum. This was a museum in DC that we were not going to miss. In years past we had been to many of the other Smithsonian museums such as the Air and Space Museum. We wanted to visit museums we had not been to before on this trip. Truly, Washington, DC is an area that you could literally spend a month or more exploring and still not see all the interesting and important sites available. America has collected and curated so much culture and history here. If every person in the country could make it here and spend a week becoming educated through experiencing what is readily available, usually free of charge, what a grand difference it might make in our collective consciousness. Such are dreams I suppose.
Contrasting the crown-like architecture of the African American Museum, the Holocaust Memorial Museum’s countenance is stark, angular, dark, foreboding. Concrete walls surround you and offer no windows, no escape into the light. Steel beams, utterly unadorned, combine with iron frames to remind you that this is not a house, not a home, not a refuge. You are a captive here. No softness of any sort allows you comfort or rest.
Nazi Germany and the Final Solution was an industrialized persecution and mass killing of European Jews. Romas, political enemies, people with physical or mental disabilities, and many people who were not deemed of Aryan ancestry also suffered and were murdered along with the 6 million Jews who perished at the hands of the Nazis between 1933 and 1945. This building’s architecture and construction are meant to enforce upon your psyche that mass murder during this era was industrialized so to speak. The victims of this persecution were all part of an assembly line mentality regarding their destruction.
There is no comfort or solace here at this Memorial. There is no way you are going to feel warm and fuzzy, refreshed, rejuvenated, rested. There are no brilliant combinations of colors on canvas to inspire you. There are no sublimely chiseled and refined statues of marble to admire. There aren’t even any windows. The lighting is low. Yet, as I looked upon the other visitors I saw eyes widely open with pupils enlarged. Some folks had their arms wrapped around themselves as they gazed upon the exhibits as if to offer themselves needed reassurance. Some wept...quietly and to themselves.
I had prepared myself beforehand for what I thought would be an onslaught of unspeakable horrors perpetrated on these human beings. I knew that what I was going to see and hear would border on unbearable to witness. Both Diane and I felt we had to come here. We needed to come closer to understanding what some of our friends’ parents had lived through in Europe during this time. We felt sympathy for them, but we needed to feel empathy also. The absolute terror and horror of it all is amply on display. Of that, the Museum does not miss the mark one iota.
Equally necessary and important, however, the Museum details step by step how blame, fear, loathing, and false envy can be systematically built and forged into hatred for a people or segment of society over just a few years. That hatred can be easily manipulated and transformed into unthinkable acts in a frenzy of group think that takes on its own life and momentum, almost unstoppable. It goes on today in nations around the globe at different levels. It’s as if group hatred hopscotches freely and finds purchase almost at will.
So, step by ugly step, we learned as we toured the Museum how the roots of the Holocaust took hold, were nourished, and produced this, the abomination called The Final Solution. A video that plays continuously near the beginning of the Museum tour echoes through my mind as I write today. It’s poignancy haunts me. It describes the transfer and surrender of a nation’s collective free will to that of one person’s most evil influence and manipulation. I will describe it here and paraphrase the audio as closely as I can to the literal words spoken in it.
The video shows Adolph Hitler addressing an Assembly of the Nazi Party just prior to his unleashing of the Final Solution upon Europe and his quest for world domination. As is his wont, he is emotionally charged, unleashing his personal and most electrically foul contagion upon the ranks of his followers, his apostles. He has already taken hold of their will and used that collective power to take them to the brink of total surrender where his bidding, his speech, his ultimate dictation, will determine their next action on his behalf. He needs one last commitment of surrender from them and he will get it with this speech. He shouts as he fixes his fire into their collective consciousness,
“ Some in the Party (Nazi party) talk among themselves and say to each other, ‘ Okay, the Fuhrer..he is the Fuhrer, but the Party...that’s another matter. No gentlemen, The Fuhrer is the Party, and the Party is the Fuhrer.”
Hitler stops fully in his speech and steps back, clearly awaiting the assembly’s response to this, his commandment. His countenance portrays his confidence in this dictum. He means what he has said as law, as if it is an inescapable truth. In his very brief yet powerful silence and stoicism he is creating the crowd response that will take them all, true believers within the Party as well as those not yet fully infused with the poison, over the edge. Applause erupts as a volcano spewing burning lava. Now, there is no turning back. The Earth has opened and swallowed them all en masse into the bowels of Hell.
This is how it happens. In disparate places around the world it goes on still. I have seen it attempted even in America in the past on smaller levels. Take the KKK for instance. Lately, I have seen it attempted on a larger stage, too. I say attempted, not successfully...yet. This Holocaust Memorial stands as a witness and yet a reminder...Lest we forget.
My brother, Mike, wanted to take us on a tour of Washington to see the Memorials there. We jumped at the offer and Diane suggested we do it by night. We had been to the many Memorials before, not that you would ever get tired of visiting them, but she thought and I agreed that seeing the town lit up at night would be beautiful in a totally unique way. We set the date and looked forward in anticipation.
Mike and Rosie arrived the next night and off we went exploring the city with Mike at the wheel. Up and down the now largely empty streets we drove noticing that there were far more folks out walking than cars driving. It’s true. Washington DC looks totally different by night. The Memorials all have lighting and each has its own very creative lighting scheme. The interplay between shadow and light amazed and delighted us all as we drove among them. I recall the United States Capitol building and how it literally shone like a giant diamond, the night sky enveloping it a velveteen pillow. The Washington Monument reached to the sky almost never-ending and appeared as a beacon for lost travelers perhaps seeking refuge.
For the moment I thought about these thousands of Venezuelan refugees on their near endless trek through jungles and deserts trying to escape the violence of their homeland and find some sort of new life here in the US. Maybe they had this very symbol of America embedded in their mind, a sort of true north point to get to. Perhaps they visualized the Statue of Liberty in that way. Probably, they simply want to live in peace. I imagine that the grandiloquence of these Memorials is one thing to them, but simply having a place to live and raise their family in peace and go to work everyday is all they’re searching for. How can we take them all in? How can we not? I don’t have the answers. I pray someone does.
Towards the end of our nocturne Mike turned down a long, rather narrow (for DC), street. He explained that most of the foreign embassies were located along there. Each embassy that Mike would point out had its own very unique architecture. No two buildings, or in my observation, mansions looked anything like the other. I imagine most if not all these mansions were built before they became embassies. You could see where the country who occupied the embassy tried to add a few highlights to the landscaping in a way of national pride. The British Embassy looked as if it were cut out of the English countryside and replanted here. The French Embassy was very large and tastefully minimalistic in its decorum. As we drove on and Mike pointed out each one to us we all laughed and tried to imagine what was going on inside at this hour. As we passed the Russian Embassy we imagined a late night call with Putin was being endured as he railed on about the Ukraine War he had started. We imagined him on the phone asking,
“Does anyone in there have any military experience? Anyone there know how to run an army?”
At the time his lousy Red Army was having their asses handed to them by the Ukranian militias, thanks to their unbridled bravery and a continuous supply of US weaponry. This, despite the Russians daily bombarding of their cities indiscriminate of the civilians living there. In reality, I bet Putin lies in bed at night asking himself why he ever got himself into this mess. Such a terrible waste of people and civilization.
After the two museums we visited, both recounting man’s inhumanity towards man, we felt we needed to see some beauty, some enlightenment. The Smithsonian Museum of American Art and the National Gallery of Art were on our docket now. Off on the train, the Metro, we flew from College Park Station. What a great asset this is for the City. As we rode on we watched folks boarding and getting off at each stop. It’s so interesting to see such diversity. All of these folks from disparate backgrounds and countries of origin living together, studying, working. We never felt any danger or threat here. I wish I could say the same for the public transportation in St Louis, my hometown. I’m afraid to get on that train after hearing so many reports of gang violence and robbery associated with it.
It’s a very short walk from the station we exited in DC to the Art Museums, perhaps a few blocks at most. Once inside our expectations for enlightenment and inspiration were shattered as a dropped dish of porcelain. The halls and exhibits delight beyond imagination.
White, pearlesque statues looked down at us, carved in miraculously smooth detail. Color, light, and darkness were exploding from the canvas and the converted blanks of once empty media. Each room had its own unique period of expression with dozens of paintings and sculptures from the genius’ of the times. It surprised us how little security there was there considering how many people course through on a given day. Visitors behaved without threat or warnings. Each and every room brought delight and amazement and deep thought about the art itself, as many of the artists embedded subtle messages within their work. Symbolism is a large part of art. Often it’s easy to see and interpret a painting, a song, a poem’s deeper meaning. More often for me I miss some of the semi-hidden messages since I don’t have the context from which the deeper message sprang. Thankfully, the Museums provide interactive script that provide insights to help one see the works more deeply. As it is said, every picture tells a story. Sometimes it helps to have a key to unlock it.
Diane and I particularly like and appreciate the Impressionists and the Cubists. Once, while we visited Paris back in 1986 we were fortunate enough to go the Musee d’Orsay, the converted train station that is mostly devoted to Impressionistic art. It was surprising to see so many Impressionistic artist’s work on display here in America. They have a very good representation. The collection of Van Gogh paintings is also impressive. One painting in the Museum that delighted us was titled, “ Ginerva de’ Benci”, a portrait, by Leonardo Da Vinci from the 15th century. It is the only De Vinci painting in the Americas. For a guy whose best drawn art is a stick man, I remain amazed at the talent it takes to conceive and carry out the exquisite visions I witnessed in the Smithsonian Art Museums. Though painted or sculpted lo, these many years and even centuries past, their beauty and compositions remain atemporal, neither of the past or the future, eternally in the present.
Yet another day dawned...Another train ride, another museum to inspect. The Smithsonian Museum of Natural History beckoned. You’ve just gotta see dinosaur skeletons, right? Who doesn’t want to see that? We passed through the metal detectors at the front door and walking into the main lobby were greeted by the massive Bull Elephant whose silent trumpeting as he stood frozen in pose stirred our souls. A thrill ride right off the bat, right from the get-go, right from the jump. Oh yeah, the dinosaur skeletons were still there, immense and threatening. Some were in poses of aggressive attack. Here was a Tyrannosaurus Rex killing a stubborn Triceratops. Over yonder stood a Brontosaurus, big enough to dwarf our 38 foot long motor home. One of my favorites, the Pterodactyl, swooped overhead, forever searching for her next meal of lord knows what. There are the rooms upon rooms dedicated to the other natural wonders of this planet.
I stopped to consider how every little thing we see in our natural lives has come about over millions upon millions of years. The river valleys we love to paddle through...carved through the soil and rock slowly, relentlessly. The evolution of human beings from plucky primate who wanted to walk upright to see the horizon better. The dazzling gems compressed beneath the weight of the Earth so terribly as to consolidate their essence into a new crystalline form, dug up and cut and polished by a human a billion or more years since its crushing and fiery inception.
You go about your daily life trying to make sure you have sustenance and comfort, safety and security, and if you’re lucky as we are in America, a little entertainment… a laugh or two. All of the Earth’s movement, creation and erosion, evolution and extinction, carries on regardless of whether we get a raise in pay or score tickets to the World Series. Perhaps that is what the Museum of Natural History does best. It unapologetically reminds us how truly tiny we are. Yet, at the same time, you come to understand how each and every movement of every particle on this planet effects all the other particles inescapably. Tiny we are as humans, I think. Yet, our very thoughts and actions create so many reverberations that somehow all seem to matter in the broader scheme of things.
I thought of the Biblical Book of Genesis and the creation story. I thought of the creation stories of other cultures I am aware of such as the Maya, or the Sioux, for instance. I thought, they are neither right nor wrong. The stories tell of beginning, a hearkening back to a start time. They attempt to communicate an almost incomprehensible story of our existence. Christian theologians then like to say the Bible, the story of Genesis, is literal and without symbolism. Yet, to me, the story of evolution, from the Big Bang (If that is how it all began) to this very moment I hit this keystroke, is the truly miraculous and unfathomable story of God, the Creator. Would it not be a far greater and more powerful Creator who imagines the evolution of the Universe than a Creator who in one fell swoop puts us all here, the Earth and everything in it, as it stands now, some three or four thousands years ago? With each new discovery that occurs through eyes of the James Webb telescope out in Space, with each new medical breakthrough found by peering into the cellular world through microscopes, the more magnificent Divine Creation becomes.
As we wandered around the Natural History Museum I thought about all this as I looked at the exhibits and read the interactive displays that explained in excellent and easily understood detail the evolution of our planet and all its wondrous treasures. I was reminded. That’s what a great museum is supposed to do after all.
Annapolis, MD and John Paul Jones
Having just recently toured West Point Military Academy, we thought it fitting and proper to visit the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, MD. We wanted to see Annapolis as well having heard how quaint it is. Once again brother Mike and Rosie took us on a tour of the area. It was a week day and the number of tourists hanging around town was very low. We were well into October now and life had settled into its work a day world. Kids were in school, vacations would be taken later.
Annapolis is a seaport town. It’s history is inescapable as you poke around the narrow streets. The historic district where we spent all our time includes 18th century brick houses with inviting front porches seemingly designed for people watching as the streets lend themselves to pedestrian travel. Everywhere people were walking. A few rode bikes. The domed 1700’s state house stood reverently over the surrounding neighborhoods. Without a doubt, this is one of America’s prettiest cities. The Beaux Arts architecture of the Naval Academy certainly cements that and is arguably the most unique feature within the entire city.
We had decided to spend the bulk of our day at the Academy. After dropping Rosie and Diane off at the entrance to the visitor center Mike and I parked the car a good 7 blocks or so away and had a hurried walk through the neighborhood. It was a bit of a blustery day and not many folks were front porch sitting but I couldn’t help but imagine each one we passed by having a couple of folks sitting outside there on a sunnier day. Once inside the grounds of the Academy we booked a tour and proceeded to walk around the campus while seeing and hearing all the historical antidotes that the guide had learned. She explained the architecture, where the students lived, and took us to places we never would have discovered of our own volition. What a place to go to college! What an historical tradition of excellence has been built here! What a challenge it is to succeed here! Most assuredly, the students in our military and naval academies are getting the best all around education this country can offer. And they are expected to excel.
John Paul Jones...it’s a name synonymous with the Navy. We’ve all heard his name growing up. However, I had no idea of the extent of his exploits and contributions to the nation. Jones was the first well-known naval officer of the American Revolution. He’s referred to as the “Father of the American Navy”. He died at the young age of 45 but brother, was his life jam-packed with memorable actions and exploits. Jones was born Scottish and began a sailor’s life at 13. After serving as a commander in the merchant trade for some years he emigrated to Virginia. Here he joined the Continental Navy. He fought and won several tide-turning sea battles, some of which were in English controlled waters in Europe. One one particular six week voyage to Nova Scotia he captured 16 prizes and inflicted massive damage during the Raid on Canso. It was during one of Jones’ naval battles that he is said to have called out while being savagely attacked and nearly defeated, the famous line,
“I have not yet begun to fight!”
This defiant proclamation apparently rallied his crew to save the day and defeat the British warship.
Jones’ exploits, relationships with the designers of the new nation, and his undying admiration by the movers and shakers of Europe afforded him all manner of recognition and awards, yet his life was cut short by a kidney ailment that felled him at age 45 in Paris, France. He was found face down in his apartment. Throughout his life Jones reportedly always sought to pursue honor in his actions. It seems that this high-minded pursuit alienated his peers and so many allegations of impropriety were levied against him. Most, if not all, were simply jealous accusations founded to be untrue after inspection by the powers that be.
While trying to stay employed after the American Revolution when his services could no longer be afforded by the fledgling government he found service in the Russian Navy where he also won some pivotal sea battles. John Paul Jones received rewards and recognition in Russia and France, as well The United States. I think his life story, capsulized most insufficiently here, would be a great read if one were looking to gain perspective on the innermost workings of the early government in the US. I imagine it would read as well as any novel based on behind the scenes intrigue and influence peddling as well as straight ahead strategic and tactical excellence and heroism...both for the Commander Jones as well as his loyal crews.
John Paul Jones’ crypt lies at the Naval Academy. When you first encounter it, securely ensconced beneath the Chapel on campus, one might think at first they were in the presence of sainthood, or at least the shrine of a past President, say George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, for instance. The room that houses the crypt is circular and must be a full 100 feet in diameter. Six majestic marble columns of jet black and ivory color support the cupola that oversees the crypt. Light pours down from the cupola as radiant beams from on high. The crypt itself is made from the same marble as the columns with the ivory veins leaping out to grab your focus. Bronze porpoises swim at the foot of the crypt, forever on guard against a seabound foe. What appears to be wreaths and crepes of polished stone, perhaps more marble, drape reverently across the crypt lid. All around the walls of the circular memorial the momentous exploits of Jones’ life are artfully portrayed.
Here, forever encased in the most extravagant memorial, John Paul Jones receives the respect and honor from his modern peers that he always sought in life from his contemporaries, given now in death’s silent sleep. If the US Navy has a patron saint, one in whom they place their faith seemingly just a step below the Creator, truly it is John Paul Jones.
Highway 70...all the way to The Gateway to the West
And so, this particular chapter of the 50 Amp Vision Quest, March through October, 2022, is fast turning the page. We left Texas in early March, nearly 8 months past and find ourselves turning westward now, back to old St Louis and then on to Texas to camp host yet again for the next 6 months at Cedar Breaks Campground near Austin. Our minds and imaginations bounce between the stored reels of memories from our northeastward trek and the splendid anticipation of seeing family and friends yet again. They’re funny things...memories and anticipation. Both are powerful beyond words. At times they are bound together as we recall times past and anticipate new ones with those close to us. Of course, that door does swing both ways. Dread is the evil twin of joyous anticipation. But, there’s no dread here. Only the warm and fond notion of great times ahead with those whom we love.
Picking up I-70 just outside of Washington DC we will ride it straight on through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and finally Missouri to St Charles, on those muddy banks of the Missouri where Lewis and Clark first lit out to find that passage to the Pacific Ocean. Their journey from Washington, DC to St Louis, their home base for the expedition, was a hell of a lot more challenging and dangerous than our little sojourn down the interstate, although a person’s chances of getting injured or killed driving ain’t zero, if you know what I mean.
Uneventfully, we stayed overnight along the way at a Cracker Barrel and a Harvest Host location. Both were more than adequately fine as resting spots for the three day trip. I had decided to do it in three days versus two. Why rush and push oneself into possible drowsy mistakes while driving a 57’ caravan weighing over 30,000 lbs down the crowded highway at 65-70 MPH?
Once back in St Louis we chose to stay at Sundermeier’s RV Park in the Frenchtown neighborhood of St Charles, MO. We stayed there last year and liked it. Of course, we’d prefer to stay in the woods somewhere, but there’s not a good alternative for us close to town here. One of our first orders of business was to see our son, Eli, and his family. Ruby, our delightful grand daughter, was having her birthday in October and that is the main reason we came back when we did.
The party for Ruby was such a happy event. She was in her glory as we all sang the Birthday Song to her. If there is a Heaven on Earth it is at your children’s, or in this case grandchildren’s, birthday party. At least it was for Diane and me. Young Stanley was having a blast, too. I picked them up and gave them my special Airplane Rides around the house, flying from room to room just avoiding the walls as if they were foreboding mountain cliffs, always crash landing on the couch where they would somersault out of the crashed airplane.
“ Do it again!” they would both exclaim. These days, my back is good for two or three apiece and then I have to rest the old airplane.
Later that week we went to see Matt Lawder’s band, Matty MO and the Hardtail Blues Band perform with my pal, Bob Breidenbach, sitting in on lap steel guitar. Matt is a blues musician par excellence. Matt is as good as any electric blues guitar player in the country in my opinion. I sincerely mean that. Name me your favorite Blues guitar player and Matt is their equal or better. It’s in his genes. Matt is the son of my late, great friend, Bob Lawder. Bob and I played in the Road Apple band for some 20 years or more together, along with Blake Travis and Bob Breidenbach. Bob Lawder is the finest bass player I ever had the honor and pleasure to perform with. Bob is also a great songwriter and I still contend that his song, “I Believe In You”, is one of the greatest love songs I ever heard. When he and Blake would harmonize together on that number it would send chills down your back. It was as if a couple of angels had come down from Heaven and given you a glimpse of paradise through their singing. No lie.
Matt’s got “IT”, that elusive and rare element of musical genius, the combination of technical skill and good taste...heart and soul married with fire and brimstone.
Diane and I met a bunch of our friends there at CJ Muggs where the band was playing. We knew they would be there. CJ Muggs is a Webster Groves hangout. The Road Apples used to perform there. When Matt plays there the same crowd, more or less, shows up. We did, too. As much fun as we had listening, dancing, and catching up with our friends, it was a bit strange for me personally. Here was Bob Lawder’s son, Matt, who I recall as a curious kid hanging around during our band rehearsals at Bob Lawder’s house, now performing with another band mate and best friend, Bob Breidenbach, on the same stage that our old band, the Road Apples used to so frequently perform on. Not only that, Matt’s band was performing many of the Road Apples’ songs...songs we were more or less known for. It was mind-blowing to me. It set me back and it took a few moments for me to take it all in. It was a very personal and emotional evening for me. I only wish Matt had invited me up to perform along with him and Bob Breidenbach. I knew all the songs by more than heart. That would have competed the circle so to speak.
Among the many friends who were at the CJ Muggs “event” were two sets of folks whom I hadn’t seen in a very long time. One was Ralph and Diane Koeppe who came all the way from Vacaville, California near Sacramento. Ralph and Diane have been my friends from all the way back in college days. Diane and I had visited Ralph on our swing through California back in 2019, but it was so great to see their happy faces here in Webster Groves. Ralph, among many things, is a musician and we both share an undying love of the artist, Ry Cooder, whose slide guitar playing and stylistic song construction is unmatched. Ralph, himself, can play the Blues like nobody’s business, but no one knows it. I witnessed his most soulful blues playing late one hot and sultry night as he dug deep into some Delta blues along with Bob Schnieders who sang as if he had inherited the soul of Muddy Waters somehow. It was just we three out there in the darkness on a hillside on the banks of the lower Meramec River in Jefferson County, MO.
These two guys transcended the notes they were playing and singing and became the Blues. I was transfixed as I stood there listening. They had become 1930’s bluesmen out in Mississippi at the Crossroads. They were signifyin’, rhapsodysin’, testifyin’ and truth-tellin’ every song they played together. It was a transfiguration to me. Just me, I was their only audience, and I was damn lucky to hear it. To my knowledge, no one else has ever heard Ralph play before or since...’cept maybe his wife, Diane. I’m not certain even she has heard him play like he did that night.
I reminded Ralph of that night as we laughed over other stories from our pasts. Oh, he remembers it well, too. He knows that night when he and Bob Schnieders summoned up Delta spirits that his music cracked the spirit code. Somehow, some way, Ralph put that genie back in the bottle after that night. Why Ralph won’t play his music in public is a mystery. He won’t do it. He won’t play out. I can’t get him to do it. But, for whatever reason he shields his playing, I know the nature and soul of his art. He revealed it to me that hot and muggy night down by the river when the clouds covered the Moon. Not even she, the night goddess, got to see and hear it. But, I did.
The other friend who just happened to be at CJ Muggs that evening out of sheer coincidence was my neighbor from the 1960’s, Nancy Sonnenshein. The Sonnenshein family lived across the street from my family on Ridge Avenue when I was so very young. I had not seen Nancy since at least high school days, now some 52 years ago. When Diane and I walked into the bar she caught my eye. She looked so familiar to me yet I could not place her. Diane, with her 6th sense, knew instantly that she was a familiar person, someone from our past. She asked who she was. I said I didn’t know but I felt like I knew her. Later, about a half hour or so, Nancy introduced herself and I about fell on the floor. Now, I could recognize those youthful features that I remembered from our childhood days. We spent some time reminiscing about the old neighborhood and had a few laughs. She left not long after that and waved goodbye.
That’s how that night went. It seemed that we were living both in the past and in the present. So many dear friends in one place at the same time. A few were missing. Bob Lawder and Blake Travis most assuredly. But, even Bob and Blake paid a visit through the music and songs we played together, now performed by Bob’s son, Matt and Bob Breidenbach up on stage. I was quietly overwhelmed by the whole scene. So, Diane and I did what we always do when the music is good. We danced. The band played on.
On a Tuesday afternoon, near hidden in a leafy corner of Kirkwood Park under a generous pavilion, me and Diane held what I titled, “The Third Annual Greater Missouri River Valley Steam-Powered Pickin’ and Potluck Party”. That’s a long title that stands for...”Let’s all get together in the sunshine and eat some good food and play some good music together and invite some folks over and have a blast.” We started hosting these parties a few years back. This is our third in a row. We put them on to get all our buddies together in one place and have a party with some music. They are a blast! This year’s was no exception. The weather forecast had called for rain but we decided to hold it anyway as it’s too difficult to get everyone together in one place at one time. Well, the rain held off and it turned out to be a beautiful afternoon. The Autumn colors were very near peak and the temperatures were in the high 60’s. The laughter and the storytellin’ were near peak as well. The musicians were on their toes, relaxed, but playin’ up a storm nonetheless. These are musicians who have played together off and mostly on for the better part of 50 years or so.
One of my old buddies from grade school, Roger Stojeba, joined us and performed solo on some songs from his new album. Roger is not necessarily one of the guys we played with in a band, but he’s a great friend and now that he’s retired he is devoting time and energy to his music. None of us had ever seen him perform per se...and solo at that. He did a fine job. Roger’s original songs are very good and his album was professionally produced at a very fine studio in St Louis. Several excellent St Louis musicians lent a hand on the recordings. Roger, as he has done on everything he puts his mind to, did a masterful and thorough job creating and producing his album. We’re really happy for him. It’s gratifying to see Roger get to focus on what he loves now in our retirement years.
We partied and played music and ate until near dark that afternoon. Fond farewells were given as friends gradually walked off and made their ways to their cars, back into their day to days. It would be a while again until we all get together like this. You never know where you’re headed these days and what’s hanging out around the next bend.
The last person to leave was my old roommate and life-long buddy, Tim Kennedy. Tim’s been through hell these later years as he lost his wonderful partner and wife, Liz, and just a few months ago his dear sister, Terri. Tim’s a tough guy, a union carpenter by trade, a nail punchin’, lumber sawin’ so and so. I wrote about Tim and some of our exploits together in past entries to this journal.
Tim may have had the best time of anyone at the party. As they say, laughter is the best medicine. Tim had the full measure of that tonic that day. Madcap highjinks that he was involved in one way or another were fully retold, story after story. I was so glad to see him out and about after so much tragedy. Despite his rough around the edges, Irish temperament, Tim has a heart as big as all outdoors. He’s an old Irish softee. We hugged like brothers and after a moment, off we went, all the better for this afternoon.
Near the end of our stay in St Louis this round I witnessed something I had never seen before. I took Heidi and Dash, our two intrepid four-legged pack members, on a good walk along the river through the giant Cottonwoods. The trail was dusty and the crisped Autumn leaves rattled in the branches above, rubbing and tumbling against each other as mild breezes cascaded in from the wide Missouri. The air was just cool enough for a flannel shirt. Heidi and Dash were rambunctious, their wilder genes taking control of their emotions as they relished the change of season that was gloriously upon us. I scanned the far river bank as we walked testing for the telltale auburn of Autumnal Maples and brilliant mustard tones of Hickory trees. It seemed to me that it was peak leaf-changing season along the river, that oh, so short period in Missouri that never fails to delight me and rejuvenates my spirits. Truly, I thought, how could my life be better. Though we own very little in terms of material things these days I’ve come to realize that we own our moments...what we see and hear, what we feel, and yes, the space we inhabit, wherever we are.
As we emerged from the woods and came to the small park upriver that serves as a boat ramp and parking lot for fishing folks and such I saw two park rangers huddled together behaving nervously. One, a middle-aged man, was on the phone and his partner, a female ranger, was talking into his free ear. Though this place is technically a state park due to the state-spanning KATY bicycle trail passing through, I’d never seen park rangers here before. As soon as I noticed them an ambulance raced onto the lot. Within a minute several police cars arrived from St Charles and a couple of surrounding towns. Next came a fire engine. A short five minutes later three separate water rescue boats pulled up. Everyone was gathering on the boat ramp. Instead of it being a chaotic scene I noticed that there was a good order to their collective business. One of the policemen immediately took control of the situation and gave commands to everyone there in between his conversation on the phone he was carrying.
My gaze went upriver towards downtown St Charles and the I-70 bridge that spans the river. A large casino fronts the west bank of the river and its lights were just beginning to become noticeable in the dimming evening light. Now I could see a small boat just within my eyes’ vision range a hundred yards or so off that western bank. It didn’t appear to be moving, which is unusual given the speed of the current here, a good 4 or 5 miles per hour I would wager. I could now see the flashing lights of police cars at each end of the bridge span, on the deck. They had stopped all traffic, both east and westbound. I kept my distance from the police and firemen, not wanting to get in their way or distract them.
As there were a couple of fellas who were in the park at the same time, I walked over to talk to them. Maybe they knew what was going down. These guys were fishermen. Their long and wide Jon Boat had all the telltale signs of many fishing trips out on this old man river. Well-used heavy duty fishing rods and reels were at the ready. A bucket of thawing Skip Jack, prime catfish bait, was making its presence well-known as its odor permeated the slight breeze blowing my way. They were dressed for a long night on the river. They were after big cats, the giant Blue Catfish and Gujuon Flatheads that lie in wait in the eddies off the rock wing dams along the river’s edge. They knew what they were doing. But, they weren’t going to launch that Jon Boat for a good while now. The boat ramp was crowded with First Responders.
“What d’ya think?” I shot at them.
“Could be that little boat with all the people in it is stuck on a wing dam and can’t get off.” That’d be my guess.” replied the older fella. I thought he might be the dad and the younger fella, the son.
“Tanner, hand me my binoculars,” he said to the younger.
He scanned upriver with his binoculars now pressed against his eyes.
“Yep, that’s what I think it is. That boat is way overloaded. Too many people in that little dinghy. Hell, if they’d a let us launch we could pull ‘em off there no problem..so long as they all sat still and didn’t tip over. They shouldn’t have that many in such a tiny boat,” the elder posited.
“You guys headin’ upriver or down?” I asked. I was fishing for information. Diane and I were considering bank fishing behind the wing dams and any detail I could get about the conditions and such would be helpful. Plus, I was just plain curious.
“We got some spots off the island past the bridge we like.” offered the younger. The elder frowned just a little. I caught that he didn’t want to give too much detail about where they were catching. Fishermen who are seriously fishing all the time, maybe for some side dough, get jumpy about giving up their haunts. I figured these fellas were not about the sport of fishing so much as the commercial end of it. They had the look.
“Yeah, I think they’re stuck. They ain’t movin’ at all, and they don’t look like they know what they’re doin’. Probably called 911 on their cell phones. Shit, there ain’t no need to get all these firemen and cops out here. One boat could pull ‘em off...so long as they sit still and don’t do nothin’ crazy. Seems like a big waste of taxpayer money,” the elder pronounced.
“Tell you what, when you boys do get out there best of luck to ya. Nice talkin’ with ya.” I offered.
“ See ya around,” the elder shot back.
With that I walked over to small hill that overlooked the boat launch where I was both out of the way and I could watch the scene unfold below me. Now the action below me took on strong, coordinated purpose. Two of the three rescue boats were launched quickly, the third being held in reserve. Off they shot speeding through the swift current cutting deep wakes with their behemoth 200 horse power engines, four-stroke Hondas, as I recall. They shot the mile or so up river full throttle aiming for the bridge and the seemingly stuck Jon Boat. They spoke back and forth to the Captain, the man who had taken charge of things, on radio and I could hear the chatter but couldn’t make out the words. Once they reached the I-70 bridge, though, they ignored the supposedly stuck Jon Boat. In fact, the Jon Boat and its overcrowded cargo of boaters began to motor downstream towards us. They hadn’t been stuck on the wing dam at all. They must have been told to leave the area by the rescue boats.
For what seemed like 15 minutes or more the two rescue boats motored back and forth between the western and eastern shores of the river. The traffic was still being held up above on the bridge by the police and I can only imagine the impossibly long lines of cars and trucks building. There must be tens of thousands of commuters daily between St Louis County to the east and St Charles to the west.
While the rescue boats were searching a small crowd began forming in the little park, all pedestrians as the cops had cordoned off the parking lot. I ambled over to talk to some of them. Perhaps they had picked up some news or might know what had happened up river. One fella said that he had heard someone had fallen from the casino into the river. Well, from my observation, having been up that way a few times bike riding and walking around I knew that if you did indeed fall from the casino you would land on the bank of the river...splat...right on the concrete abutment. I didn’t say anything, but it was clear no one in the small crowd knew more than I about the situation.
Come a sudden, a commotion took over the group of First Responders. They all got feverishly busy. Where they had been more or less huddled and talking things over with each other, they broke their huddle just as a football team does on field, ready to make the next play. The ambulance began backing down the boat ramp right to the edge of the lapping river current. A wide path was secured out of the little park so that the ambulance could shoot out of there. Chatter on the radio became non-stop. I moved back over to my perch on the little hillock where I had been before so I could watch the drama unfold. A few really sketchy guys had also gathered there. They had the street look of hard living. They seemed to have arrived out of nowhere. When I greeted them I couldn’t gain any eye contact. They just looked down and away when they spoke.
Nonetheless, our little group turned to watch one of the rescue boats now start high-tailing on down river towards us, the second rescue boat following some distance behind. Within a couple of minutes the first rescue boat drew close, swung a wide arch in the stiff current and landed dead straight ahead on the boat ramp. They had a woman, drenched, in the bow of the boat. I remember the scene vividly.
As they carefully unloaded her she was immobile. She had on pink shorts and what I thought was a black crop-top. (Diane later said it was probably a shirt of some sort that had simply gathered up around her chest during the rescue) They carefully handed her over to the crew of the ambulance who had a stretcher waiting. A young woman in the crew was examining her as they worked, feeling for a pulse and so on. Then, just as I was wondering if she had died, I saw her leg move. She was moving under her own volition. She was alive! The rescue crew had saved her.
I’ll tell you this...Pulling people out of the Missouri River during a rescue does not usually end well. All the cross-currents can pull you every which way but loose. I’ve known two people who have drowned out there my own self. This rescue crew must have pulled off some kind of miracle, a credit to their training and dedication.
As the ambulance sped off I was left wondering how the woman came to be in the river. Had she jumped from the bridge? Was it an attempt at suicide? I doubt she waded into the river. There’s no place to do that up by the I-70 bridge. I knew she hadn’t fallen out of the Jon Boat that we had thought was stuck on the wing dam. When those folks arrived back on the scene they seemed very calm, collected, and not at all frantic. In fact, they were among the greater crowd watching as the rescue boat arrived.
As I walked back the short distance to the RV park along the KATY trail with Heidi and Dash in tow I was left wondering to myself, if indeed it was a suicide attempt, why would one choose such a hard way to do it. Wouldn’t swallowing a bunch of pills be so much easier? There’s got to be an easier way than walking out on a bridge and leaping 100 some odd feet into a swirling, churling river. I considered the usual question regarding suicide...why? What could have compelled her? Once she gets back on her feet and out of the hospital will she attempt it another way? I flashed back to last year at this time during our visit to this same RV park when I witnessed the the police drag the lifeless body of the naked young woman from the van and tried in vain to revive her. That sad scene was less than 100 yards from this year’s scene. At least this one ended on a happier note.
In the end, I still don’t know how the woman came to be in the river. I scanned the local news that night and the next day and found no mention of it anywhere. However she ended up in the Missouri River, seeking to end it all or by unfortunate accident, she lived through it. What I witnessed that early evening in October as the multi-hued trees rustled gently in the waning breezes was, in its own way inspiring. Years of training, discipline, and teamwork were demonstrated to perfection and the result was saving a life. I hope that team felt their due of satisfaction from this job exceedingly well done. You can’t ask for a better outcome.
A note about the 50 Amp Vision Quest...
You may think, if you’ve read a few of my passages, that because I write about old stories and friends so much that I simply live my present life trying to relive the past. I bring up a lot of stories from bygone days as I write about our travels. I do dwell there from time to time, I’ll admit it. I won’t let go of my friends, I’ve had them for so long now. They’re treasures to me and Diane. But, we live in the here and now more so than most people I know. We seek out new experiences, new relationships, while we steadfastly hold on to those we have acquired.
Because of our travelin’ lifestyle we make new friends all the time and I count them among my very best friends now. The truth is, I love my relationships and I hold onto as many of them as I can for as long as I can. And it’s more than true that everyone has stories to tell. Diane and I are not in any way unique in that. I just write some of them down. I figure someone some day may want to check them out, hopefully relatives down the line whom I’ll never meet in this world. Just as my great great grandfather wrote of his Civil War experiences and my dad wrote of his adventures in Alaska in the 1930’s I get to read them and gain a glimpse of life back then and there, Maybe in my own way I can reach out to someone downstream, around life’s bends in the river after I pull ashore.
The river is eternal, though the rafters and the paddlers, the boaters and the floaters move on.