The Latest Noël

On August 10th, 1999, Buford O’Neal Furrow shot a Filipino-American postal worker named Joseph Ileto having just driven from the North Valley Jewish Community Center in Los Angeles where he shot and injured three pre-teen children, a teen-aged counselor, and a sixty-plus year old receptionist. The attacks, prosecuted as a Hate Crime, made national (and probably international) news and Furrow is now serving two life sentences without possibility of parole in the United States Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois, the prison built to replace Alcatraz. Other USP-Marion inmates have included John Gotti, Pete Rose, and Leonard Peltier. For a while, the USP at Marion was one of two Super-max prisons in the US system, similar to Pelican Bay State Prison five miles down the road from where I’m typing this blog. In 2006, the prison at Marion was down-graded to a Medium Security Facility.

Why this interest in a nine-year old hate crime? I just finished reading the second novel of Noël Alumit, Talking to the Moon, which is loosely based on the incident. In the actual event, Joseph “JoJo” Ileto was shot nine times and left to die in a driveway in the San Fernando Valley. When the authorities arrived, Ileto was already dead. Surviving family members included his mother and three siblings. Joseph “Jory” Lalaban, the postal worker gunned down in Alumit’s novel, is an orphan raised in a Roman Catholic orphanage in the Philippines, who leaves the orphanage, gives himself a last name based on the first names of four boys buried in the orphanage’s cemetery, and marries the daughter of the highest grande-dame in the area after impregnating the daughter while serving as a novice priest. Fictional postal worker Jory Lalaban does not die in the driveway, but is taken by ambulance to a Los Angeles hospital where he lingers for months while his wife Belen, second son Emerson, and eventually the second son’s lover Michael all visit.

The title of the book comes from the religion that Jory adopts after leaving Roman Catholicism behind. The Igorot people, an indigenous group of Luzon Island, practiced a religion that included speaking to the moon—especially on the winter solstice when the moon is most powerful. Jory lives among the Igorot, learns the Ibaloi language spoken by his wife, and becomes a healer in the Igorot tradition. Cursed by his mother-in-law, Jory takes his wife to California where their sons, Jun-Jun (Joseph Junior) and Emerson, are born.

It’s easy to say that this is a novel of loss and redemption. Certainly there is much lost in the course of the story. The novel opens in October, 1999, with Jory finding himself looking down the barrel of a gun while delivering mail on his route. He’s shot, taken to the hospital, and the story proceeds in a series of flash-backs told from the point of view of each of the four main characters. While Jory is in a coma in the hospital, we learn of his early life in the orphanage, about the beautiful teen-aged girl who becomes enamored of the young priest-in-training at her parish, of the indomitable Ermaline Dubabang, the girl’s mother who has quite specific ideas about who her daughter will marry and how she will take her place in the highest echelons of Philippine society. Let us acknowledge right away that having a daughter pregnant by a novice priest does not figure in Ermaline’s plans.

We learn too of the death of the first child, Jun-Jun, killed by a hit-and-run driver in a Mercury Comet, and the subsequent estrangement of Belen and Emerson. We also learn how Emerson cannot appreciate his own strength and beauty and because of his own fears, he drives his lover Michael away.

Jory and Emerson talk to the moon. Belen talks to the Virgin Mary. Michael, a flight attendant, talks to his fellow Taiwan Airlines crew members. There’s a lot of talking in this novel—but we note that the talking is rarely conversation. It’s more like prayer, and the underlying question throughout the book is which prayers will be answered.

I learned a lot about the Philippines by reading this book. I recommend it highly and plan on reading Alumit’s first novel, Letters to Montgomery Clift, in which the central character is sent from the Philippines at age 8 to live with his aunt in California. Alumit is certainly a writer to watch. I expect much more from him and look forward to deepening my knowledge of both the Philippines and Noël Alumit. Alumit has his own blog at http://thelastnoel.blogspot.com


Below are the links to Amazon.com should you wish to purchase either of Alumit's novels. (If you do buy a book using this link, Amazon gives me a cut--hint, hint.)

You Should, You Really Should

Chrismas Eve on Pelican Bay
Taken 12/24/07 at Smith River, California

I’m in love with Lev Raphael. There, I’ve said it. If you don’t know who he is, you should. And I’m not just saying that because he actually sent me a thank you note. Raphael is the leading gay, Jewish author in America today. I say that unequivocally. If you haven’t read his work, you should. Take my word for it.

Dancing on Tisha B’Av, published in 1990, is a collection of short stories where the central characters are Jewish, children of Holocaust survivors, and, in many instances, gay. I read the book shortly after it first came out and have reread it, or selected stories from the collection, several times since. Once in an on-line discussion group, someone raised the question of being Jewish and gay, and I suggested that he get a copy and read Dancing on Tisha B’Av. It wasn’t long after that my campus mail had a lovely note from the author thanking me for recommending his work.

In January 1997, Raphael published the first of his Nick Hoffman mysteries, Let’s Get Criminal. Because I’m a sucker for mysteries written with a sense of humor, and since I already knew I liked Raphael’s writing, I picked up a copy the first time I saw it. It was an easy read, and very enjoyable. (Note that when I would go to the library as a youngster, Mother would always ask me to bring her back something “light and frivolous.” There are a lot of tensions in our world, and I must say that I have found that “light and frivolous” is often a good way to go.) The Edith Wharton Murders (August 1997) followed Let’s Get Criminal as the second Nick Hoffman mystery, and by that time, I was hooked. I know I’m not alone. Marilyn Stasio, writing in the New York Times Book Review, gave the second book “a flat out rave” according to Raphael. Whenever I’m in Portland, I head to the gay mystery section at Powell’s City of Books to see what new material is out. I’m always pleased to find a new Nick Hoffman book.

This September, as I was beginning the 6,000 Mile Sunday Drive, I stopped at Powell’s to pick up some road reading. I found the seventh and most recent Nick Hoffman mystery, Hot Rocks, and quickly added it to my pile. Now please understand, I read mysteries for the fun of it, not to try to figure out “who dun it.” I am drawn to formulaic mystery series such as the Sneaky Pie Brown books, or Diane Mott Davidson’s cookbook mysteries. I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy a more serious tone, but if the author has a sense of humor that shines through all the murder, I eat the book up. With the Nick Hoffman series, I’m happy to say that Raphael’s humor is fully on. What’s even better, from my perspective, is that Nick Hoffman is a faculty member at Michigan State University, and University politics play a major role in the intrigue. Now maybe I spent too many years in academia, but I’m convinced that academic politics are about the dirtiest in the world, second only to church politics. Nick Hoffman is also gay, Jewish, and living with his tenured faculty member partner, Stefan Borowski. What’s not to like? I would love to have his life—without all the dead bodies, of course.

Whaddya Mean the Hibiscus Isn't a Christmas Plant?
Taken 12/24/07 in Smith River, California

Lev Raphael writes more than just fun mysteries. His novels include Winter Eyes and The German Money. Himself the child of Holocaust survivors, Raphael’s work is usually tied, one way or another, to that seminal event, and often to the secrets and lies that people used to surround and protect themselves. Understand that my own academic background centered on the Fascist movement and National Socialism as it played out in French literature of the mid twentieth century. Secrets and lies are a major force—both for the victims and for the perpetrators. Raphael is an expert at exposing the game for what it is. I highly recommend both Winter Eyes and The German Money—the latter of which was the first of Raphael’s books to be translated into German.

Just last week I ordered (and received) Raphael’s book of memoirs, Writing a Jewish Life. This collection of thirteen essays covers such topics as Raphael’s childhood, purchasing a home in suburban Lansing Michigan with his partner, travels to Israel, book tours, and the unfailing love of a good dog. Reading it last night, I was again struck by just how compelling an author Raphael is. Speaking as a gentile, I can say that Writing a Jewish Life has something in it for all of us. All of us who care about the truth, about good writing, about what makes an author tick. This is an honest and forthright exploration into the mind of a man who has learned how to be authentic.

I must admit that I have not read any of the books Raphael has co-authored with his partner. These books, Stick Up For Yourself!, Dynamics of Power, and Coming Out of Shame have achieved a good bit of critical acclaim and one of these days I will pick them up. But the fiction lover in me is drawn to his works of imagination, of which I have two books yet to read.

There are few writers who grab my attention and keep me with them throughout their oeuvre. Yves Navarre was one. Navarre once told a reporter that every time he published a new book, 20,000 people would buy it. I was one of those 20,000. I pick up and read everything I see by Joanne Harris, Arturo Pérez-Reverte, and Rita Mae Brown. Currently I’m in the midst of reading all of the works of Orhan Pamuk and I will be writing a critical essay on that Turkish Nobel Prize winner’s novels. I’m happy to say that Lev Raphael is part of my personal canon. Besides, as I said at the beginning, I’m in love with him.

You've never seen the Christmas Octopus?
Taken 12/6/2006 in Brookings, Oregon

The Nick Hoffman mysteries don’t have to be read in order, although later books in the series do refer to events recounted in the earlier novels. Should you be interested in checking out Raphael’s work, and you really should, below are some links to Amazon.com where you can order any of the books you want.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace

Well, well, well. What does one talk about when one is no longer on the road, visiting family and friends, and seeing new places? In the past month, I’ve been sitting in Smith River, and yesterday was the first time I’ve driven further than Brookings or Crescent City, 15 miles north and south respectively. Yesterday I drove to Eureka for some last minute Christmas shopping and also to meet a wonderful man, a retired Humboldt State University professor and Shakespeare scholar, with whom I shared lunch and a two hour conversation that covered a vast variety of topics. I look forward to future conversations with Jack.

What I have been doing over the past month is reading. Reading, of course, was my first love, and that love is what drove me to earn a Ph.D. in literature from Berkeley. As many of you know, however, I came to the realization that loving to read and studying literature were antithetical, especially in the day when literary theory was king. Given the choice, I chose reading and thus gave up my dream of being a professor myself. That decision was made thirty some years ago, so I really can’t complain about it at this point.

I’ve also been reading other blogs on line (goes without saying, doesn’t it), and have seen that most people don’t write 2,000 word essays for each posting. For the time being, I, too, will write shorter pieces, and I’ll work on getting them out more often. My thought is to share with you, my faithful readers, my thoughts on the books I’m reading, the movies I’ve seen and the music I’ve been listening to. In short, the blog will become a series of reviews, with one review per blog. I know that this is not what you’re used to seeing from me, and if you wish to be removed from my mailing list, please be sure to let me know. As always, all you have to do is ask and there will be no hard feelings on my part.

With that said, I’d like to start out by talking about Adriana Trigiani’s novel Big Stone Gap. I saw the book on display at Barnes and Noble several years ago, and was intrigued by the title. Big Stone Gap is a location in western Virginia, the narrow neck of the state that separates West Virginia from North Carolina, wholly in the Appalachian mountains. As you know, I have a great interest in all things Appalachian, and Big Stone Gap has a further interest in that a dear friend and former University of Montana colleague followed his heart and married a woman from the area. Last I heard, Bill was mayor of Big Stone Gap.

I didn’t buy the book when it came out in 2000, but have been keeping it on my “to be read” list ever since. When I first met my cousin Ron Stephens in early October, he was reading the book. I asked him if he was enjoying it and let him know that I planned on reading it myself. When he finished the book, he handed it to me. I don’t think he planned on me actually stealing the book, but that’s what I did. While still in West Virginia, I was busy reading other works, preparing for the lecture I would have to give as a candidate for hire at West Virginia University—Parkersburg. The lecture I never had to give, as it turns out. Packing up to leave Ron’s home and return to the West, I packed Trigiani’s book with the intent of reading it and shipping it back to Ron. (Ron, if you’re reading this, it will be coming back to you next week.)

Big Stone Gap is the story of Ave Maria Mulligan, the town pharmacist who also directs the annual community theatrical pageant and serves as an EMT for the region. She is single, newly orphaned, and at one of those turning points we all face in our lives. I had picked the book up because it was set in Appalachia. I didn’t expect to be reading the story of my own life.

Ave Maria grew up knowing that her mother was an immigrant from Italy who had married her Scotch-Irish father and followed him to Appalachia. Mother apparently had secrets that she did not see fit to share with Ave Maria until after her death. These revelations, in the form of a letter given to our heroine by her lawyer, lead Ave Maria to question everything about her existence, and send her on a quest that ultimately brings her Italian family into her life—a family she knew nothing about prior to reading her mother’s letter.

The book is populated by a wonderful cast of characters, most of whom are well fleshed out. These are people we probably know in our own lives. Iva Lou Wade, who drives the Wise County Library bookmobile, is a woman who knows what she wants and goes for it. Jack Mac, the bachelor son of one of the community’s pillars, is the strong, mostly silent coal miner who is proud of his new Ford pickup. Pearl Grimes is the poor and overweight high school girl always put down by the leaders of local high school society.

The book is a great read, one where secrets are revealed and hearts probed. If life is a journey, then Ave Maria embarks on a trip that will sweep you up and take you along for the ride. Once into the book, I had trouble putting it down, and was pleased to learn that Trigiani has written a series of books about Ave Maria and her neighbors and friends in Big Stone Gap. I just picked up the second book in the series, Big Cherry Holler, which I’ll tell you about later. Oh and by the way, most of Ave Maria’s neighbors think her name is Ay-vuh (like Ava Gardner) not Ah-vay (like the prayer).

Should you wish to pick up a copy of Big Stone Gap Amazon.com has it available. Just click on the image below.

I didn’t make it to Big Stone Gap, Virginia while on my travels. The closest I came was Bluefield on the West Virginia/Virginia state line. That means I don’t have any relevant photographs to share at this time. But every now and then you can get along without pictures, right?

Till next time.

The learning curve

I'm evaluating a multi-media course on blogging from the folks at Simpleology. For a while, they're letting you snag it for free if you post about it on your blog.

It covers:

• The best blogging techniques.
• How to get traffic to your blog.
• How to turn your blog into money.

I'll let you know what I think once I've had a chance to check it out. Meanwhile, go grab yours while it's still free.

Nine Thousand, Three Hundred, Eighty-One

If you have any idea what this is, please let me know.
It may have historical significance to my family,
Or it may just be costume jewelry.
Taken 11/26/07 in Smith River, California

After returning from Nashville, I decided to give WVU-P one more chance. On Tuesday I drove out to the campus and went directly to the head of Human Resources. Acknowledging that I was going to ask a question that she probably would not be able to answer, I posed my query: “If I haven’t heard by now, does that mean that I won’t be hearing anything?” After I explained that should the school want to hire me to teach Spring Semester, I would need to drive cross-country twice before the January session opening date. To her credit, while she did not directly answer my question (and I know enough about HR stuff to know that she couldn’t legally answer), she did tell me that phone interviews had been completed the day before and barring any complications with the top five candidates, if I hadn’t already heard from the search committee, I probably wouldn’t be hearing from them.

Ah, so much for my dream position. And there’s one of the biggest problems with American academia today, in my opinion. Our graduate schools are still putting out more PhDs than the market can bear. When a small school, in an out-of-the-way location, does a national search, they get hundreds of applicants. WVU-P had advertised this position in The Chronicle of Higher Education, and you don’t get better national coverage than that. Of the hundreds of applications, few, if any, are from people who have a real interest in teaching in Parkersburg, West Virginia. Instead most are looking for a place to advance their careers, a stepping stone to some larger, more prestigious place. There’s certainly nothing wrong with wanting to move up the ladder. It’s the American way. But ultimately the real losers are the students at these schools who end up with faculty who have no connection and no interest in forming a connection.

Many years ago The Chronicle of Higher Education reported on the way that the University of Georgia was handling exactly this problem. Every fall UGa put the new faculty on a bus and took them on a tour of rural Georgia. The administration felt that the best way to form a connection between new faculty and their students was to introduce that faculty to the families and towns which sent the students to Athens. I don’t know whether UGa is still in the tour business, but the concept makes a great deal of sense. And for those of us who really want to teach at a school like WVU-P, well there’s always the adjunct route—if you have the financial resources to be able to live on the pittance that’s paid these non-tenurable, no benefits provided peons.

The Emerald City--or maybe just Indianapolis in the early morning
Taken 11/19/07 near Indianapolis, Indiana

That said, it became obvious to me that the time for my extended vacation was nearly over. I set up a farewell dinner with Sharon, Ron and Derwin at a location of Sharon’s choosing. She suggested Kokomo’s, a place overlooking the confluence of the Little Kanawha and the Ohio. I had seen the sign for this restaurant many times while visiting the Parkersburg Yacht Club where Sharon keeps her jet ski and her camp trailer. Ron and Derwin seconded the suggestion, so in the midst of the heaviest rain fall I’ve seen in many a year, we set out. Because of the heavy rain, we had the restaurant to ourselves. Also because of the rain, we couldn’t really enjoy the deck and the dock facilities that allow Kokomo’s customers to arrive by boat. We did, however, enjoy the “All You Can Eat” ribs that Kokomo’s offers on Wednesday evenings. Sharon choose the catfish, but the three men had man-sized meals of ribs, pulled pork, buffalo wings and spaghetti. We ended up taking most of it home with us as the portions were so large, we didn’t need to order a second time around. And all this for $7.95. Sharon, Ron and Derwin all agreed that they’d be going back to Kokomo’s which has all you can eat specials several nights a week.

Thursday I began packing up my stuff which had been left partly at Sharon’s and mostly at Ron and Derwin’s home. I’m not sure how I got it all back in the Volvo, but somehow things fit—as long as I didn’t need to get anything out of the big boxes in the back. I planned to speed my way west—taking the Interstates this time instead of the back roads. If I worked it right, I could be back in Missoula in three days.

But there were still two more visits I had to make in West Virginia. I hadn’t seen my cousin Vikki since first arriving in the Mountain State. She had had family matters that had taken her to Texas, and when she returned to her home in Ravenswood, she ended up taking care of her mother who spent the better part of a month in and out of the hospital. I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye for now, so instead of driving west, I began by heading south.

The second stop I had to make was in Charleston, where Robert EagleClaw Parkins lives. I had met Bob at Longfork Campground and we’d shared some good times. Robert is one of the founders of Applachian American Indians of West Virginia, and a published author. He’s written three books and was interested in turning the first into a screen play. I had agreed to look it over and see what, if anything, I might do to help in this endeavor. With this in mind, having left Vikki’s home, I continued south to Charleston and Bob’s place.

An Illinois Rest Area off I-74
Taken 11/19/07

Once again, I had a fine time with Bob, and picked up both the published book and the computer disks with Bob’s first two books ready for my editing. The published novel is titled A Prejudiced Resentment: American Cultures in Recovery and tells the story of how a Native American contractor runs afoul of an unprincipled EPA and lives to tell about it. Based largely on Bob’s own experiences dealing with government bureaucracies, the book has several sections of judicial proceedings inserted directly into the narrative. Bob’s hope was that I could find a way to make these sections more readable. All I can say is that I’ll give it my best shot. The book, by the way, is available through Amazon.com and you can order it here: A Prejudiced Resentment: American Cultures in Recovery

Unable to sleep, I left Bob’s home at 1:30 Saturday morning, heading west on Interstate 64. While still in West Virginia, I turned off the Interstate to drive along the Kanawha River, crossing into Ohio at Gallipolis. US Highway 35 is part of the Applachian Corridor System, and from the state line on west I was on four-lane divided highway all the way to Dayton. The last part of my drive across West Virginia was on the straightest, flattest highway I had driven in that state. I wish I had driven it in daylight as I had no idea what the surrounding countryside was like.

I continued across Ohio, catching up with Interstate 70 at Dayton, and soon crossed over into Indiana. Needing both a rest stop and a geocache, I pulled into the first rest area on the Indiana stretch of I-70, but it was too dark to find any caches in the area. Parking the Volvo, and pulling a pillow from the back, I took a break from the highway. Unfortunately, even with the sun coming up, I was unable to find the cache hidden at this rest stop. Fortunately, there would be others I could find heading west.

Indianapolis rose like the Emerald City over the flat horizon of the Hoosier State. I skirted the city and continued west, now on Interstate 74, toward Illinois where I picked up a few more rest area caches. My ultimate goal for the day was Des Moines, Iowa, where I would spend the night with Fred, Harold and Sadie—friends from my visit to the Raccoon River Resort back in September.

The miles kept accumulating as I crossed Illinois, surely the most monotonous landscape in the country. Mind you, I’ve not driven across either Kansas or Texas, but they couldn’t be any more boring than downstate Illinois. Illinois does have fantastic rest areas, however, and at one I got into a discussion with the caretaker. He had seen the back of my car with all its rainbow and bear flags and my marriage equality bumper sticker. He asked where I was headed, and when I told him Montana, he asked if I were married. When I told him that I had a partner in Montana, he replied that his partner was waiting for him at home and that “he” (the partner) would be very glad to see him (the caretaker) when the workday was done. Goes to show you just never know who or what you might meet while traveling.

Just east of the Illinois/Iowa state line, Interstate 74 merged with Interstate 80, the route I would take across Iowa. A call to Fred to give him an update brought the news that we were all going to see the national touring production of Avenue Q that evening. Mind you, I’ve now been up since midnight Central Time, and on the road since 12:30. I’m not sure just how I’ll handle being in a theatre that evening, but I’ve wanted to see Avenue Q for a long time, so….

I pulled into Fred’s driveway about 5:30 which gave me time to climb in the Jacuzzi for a quick soak before having dinner with Fred and Harold. We arrived at the theatre in time to find our seats—second row right under the speaker system. No chance to fall asleep here, and I did thoroughly enjoy the play. After intermission, however, I was getting a bit drowsy. Fortunately the second act isn’t as long as the first, and in no time I was climbing into bed at Fred’s place. Total mileage for the day was just shy of eight hundred miles, and a long day it was too.

Another view of the same Illinois Rest Stop
Taken 11/19/07

Sunday I followed the Lord’s advice, and rested, but Monday found me driving across Western Iowa, then north on Interstate 29, staying on the Iowa side of the Missouri River until I crossed in South Dakota just below Sioux Falls where I picked up Interstate 90.

Just west of Sioux Falls I pulled off for lunch at a place that advertised buffalo burgers, and while the café itself was closed for the season, the store had a grill and I ordered two burgers. Over lunch I had a fascinating conversation with an old codger who may have owned the place, or maybe just hung out there, sitting by the fire reading. He was heavily into Elaine Pagels’ work and we discussed the history of Christianity, Mormonism, and other facets of Western Civilization. Not quite the lunch time conversation I was expecting, but hey. Remember what I said about the people you meet when traveling.

Driving I-90 across South Dakota was similar to the drive I’d taken three months previously in the other direction on US 14. The temperature was a bit lower, but not much, with daytime readings in the 60s all across the state. It was dark by the time I reached Rapid City, and by the time I got to Belle Fouche (remember the center of the U.S.?), I was ready to eat.

US 212 heads northwest out of Belle Fouche and crosses the northeast corner of Wyoming before entering Montana south of Alzada. My goal for the day was Miles City where I was going to spend the night with Eric Brandt whom I had met on the trip east. He’s the one who made up my business cards, and I still plan on getting him to build my next desktop computer.

Soon after crossing the Montana line I hit snow. Gary had warned me about the snow that had fallen over the weekend in Missoula, and the storm was now on its way east. In addition to the falling snow, I got to contend with more deer along the highway than I’ve ever seen. The rest of the drive to Broadus then north to Miles City had me watching constantly for deer. Somehow I don’t think the hunters in southeastern Montana had done their job well.

I pulled up to Eric’s place (well, his mother’s place to tell the truth) around 11:00 p.m. Mountain Time. Total miles for the day came to just over 850, even longer than Saturday’s drive.

Tuesday morning, Eric and I were joined by my friend Ed, and we had breakfast before the two of them headed to work and I continued driving west. Instead of the balmy 60 degree temperatures I had seen in South Dakota, Montana was white, icy and under 25 degrees. I wondered if I’d be able to drive all the way to Missoula, but my luck held and with one stop in Belgrade for lunch and gas, I pulled up to the Missoula house in the late afternoon. Today’s mileage was a mere four hundred eighty-eight miles, but when you add to it the Montana mileage from Alzada to Miles City, thirty percent of my driving had been in Montana, and all of that involved snow. I was glad to be off the road.

Unfortunately, the strain of driving almost twenty-one hundred miles in four days wore me out. I had no energy, no will, and felt like a bad cold had taken over my body. All I could do was sleep, and with the outside temperature hovering around fifteen degrees, I couldn’t get warm. After spending Thanksgiving with Gary and the kids, Friday morning I had a brief conversation with the man in my life. That discussion led me to believe that I would have to return to California and deal with the property issues there (and, I hoped, warm up in the process). Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, I was back in the car, this time with Gypsy, and heading further west.

Saturday afternoon I pulled the Volvo into the garage in Smith River, and now, over a week later, that’s where I remain (although not in the garage). There are important decisions I have to make, and I appeal to my readers for their help. If you have any suggestions as to what a 58 year old openly gay male should do with the rest of his life, and where he should plant himself, please feel free to let me know. All I know is that I am still feeling down with the cold and am a bit overwhelmed with the prospect of rearranging my life.

The Full Moon Over Smith River
Taken 11/25/07

I’m glad for the trip. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I met fascinating people and visited wonderful places. I look forward to seeing many of them again. If I can find a way to make such trips pay for themselves, I could happily spend six months a year on the road. Drop me a note and invite me to visit. I may just take you up on it.

Oh, and the 6,000 Mile Sunday Drive, well as you may have supposed from the title of today’s blog, the actual mileage was nine thousand, three hundred, eighty-one, from the time I pulled out of the Smith River driveway back on September 4^th, to my pulling back into the garage in Smith River on November 24^th. What a wild trip it’s been.

Nashville Cats

Well, there's thirteen hundred and fifty two
Guitar pickers in Nashville
And they can pick more notes than the number of ants
On a Tennessee anthill

Yeah, there's thirteen hundred and fifty two
Guitar cases in Nashville
And any one that unpacks his guitar could play
Twice as better than I will

--John Sebastian

One of the 1,352 guitar pickers in Nashville
Taken 11/9/07 in downtown Nashville TN

The weekend I intended to leave Parkersburg, Derwin and Cousin Ron decided to take a short vacation to Music City, AKA Nashville Tennessee. Derwin invited me to go along, and as I had never been to Nashville, I readily accepted the invitation. Ron was able to get Thursday, Friday and the following Monday off work, so we had us a nice long weekend for a road trip.

Leaving Parkersburg around noon, Thursday, we drove down Interstate 77 to Charleston, then headed west on Interstate 64. We crossed into Kentucky and continued on toward Lexington. I had driven this stretch of road the last time I visited West Virginia back in 2000. Gary and I had rented a car while attending a New Image conference in Lexington and had driven to Parkersburg to visit with Cousin Sharon. The landscape wasn’t new, but it was nice to be able to sit back and let someone else do the driving.

Mapquest routed us through Lexington on the New Circle Road, which was a different route than Derwin and Ron were used to taking. We had planned on having lunch in Lexington, and I was hoping for some great seafood at Joe’s Crab Shack, but our route took us past a series of low-end chains, and eventually back onto a divided limited access highway, so we didn’t see anything that struck our fancy. By the time we reached Versailles (pronounced Ver-Sales, not Vair-sigh), we were about to turn onto the Blue Grass Parkway which is a long stretch of beautiful scenery but no towns, rest areas, or places to eat. Accordingly, we filled the Chrysler’s gas tank and our bellies in Versailles.

By the time we crossed the Tennessee State Line, it was well after dark. Nashville is only about forty miles south of the line, and soon we were driving past downtown and its illuminated skyscrapers. One really stuck out. I asked what it was and was told, “It’s the batman building.” Indeed that’s what it looked like. Wikipedia informs us that it is indeed called the Batman Building, but the official name is the BellSouth Building. It is currently the tallest building in the state of Tennessee. Soon enough, we checked into our motel out by the airport, emptied the car, and called it a night.

The Batman, er uh, BellSouth Building
Taken 11/9/07 in Nashville TN

On Friday, after having brunch at TGIFriday’s (how appropriate, don’t you think?), we headed downtown to check out the sights and see what fun we might find. I was struck by the juxtaposition of older architecture and stunningly modern buildings that make up the core of the city. While Derwin took the elevator down, Ron and I went up to the roof of the parking structure and started shooting. Lots of reflective glass made for some interesting possibilities, including self-portraits as we saw ourselves reflected in the bank building across the street.

Back on street level, we stopped in a gift store offering all kinds of kitsch. I have to say that wandering around downtown, all I saw for sale was kitsch. Derwin wanted to find a spot where he could sit and people watch, so Ron and I headed first down to the river then over to the state capitol. Along the way we passed the corner where Church Street becomes Gay Street. Can’t say that I saw much that was gay on Gay Street, but there sure are many churches on Church Street.

Nashville is a town with a lot of public art. We saw statues in the darndest places, including one of Chet Atkins sitting and picking his guitar at the entrance to a bank. The requisite equestrian statue was found on the grounds of the state capitol, with Andrew Jackson riding his steed. Also on the capitol grounds were statues for two men I’d never heard of. Tennessee Senator Edward Ward Carmack stands directly in front of the capitol, and the WCTU dedicated his statue with his “Pledge to the South”* inscribed on the base of the plinth. Over toward one corner was the statue of Sam Davis, the “boy hero of the Confederacy,” who, during the Civil War, was executed as a spy by Federal forces, and curiously enough, just beyond his statue is an area dedicated to the African-American population of Tennessee. But there are a lot of strange juxtapositions in Nashville.

The Tennessee State Capitol
Taken 11/9/07 in Nashville TN

Leaving the capitol compound, we headed back toward the parking structure where we had said good-bye to Derwin, and passed by the Ryman Theatre. The former Union Gospel Tabernacle became home to the Grand Ole Opry in 1943 and continued as “The Mother Church of Country Music” until the Opry moved to its new home in 1974. Today the Ryman continues as the premier downtown performance venue. The thing about the Ryman is this—if anyone famous in the arts or politics (or even religion) traveled to Nashville, they probably spoke, sang, danced on the stage of the Ryman. This includes the Rev. Dwight Moody, William Jennings Bryan, the New York Metropolitan Opera, Nellie Melba, Sarah Bernhardt, Teddy Roosevelt, General William Booth, etc. etc. etc. The list goes on and on.

Back with Derwin, we were enjoying coffee and ice cream in a café’s window booth when an elderly black man approached us on the other side of the glass. None of us had a clue what he was going on about, but his gestures made it clear that he really liked Derwin, and really wanted to kill me. Well, how would you interpret it when someone points at you and then slashes his hand down across his neck? We didn’t leave the café until he was long gone.

That evening we were joined for dinner by one of Derwin and Ron’s friends and we ate at Red, a restaurant attached to one of Nashville’s premier gay bars, Tribe (also on Church Street, but several blocks down from where Church becomes Gay). Actually much of Nashville’s gay life is on or near this part of Church Street. Next door to Tribe you’ll find Play Dance Bar, and a couple of blocks further you can enter either Blu or Blue Genes. Outland Books is also on Church and opening soon there will be a GLBT Community Center next door to the bookstore. All in all, this part of Church Street was quite Gay.

I have to say, though, that having a drink in Blue Gene’s proved to me that just because you live in Nashville doesn’t mean that you have any musical ability or talent. It was karaoke night and what a pity. He had no pitch, he had no rhythm, his delivery was pretty much a monotone, and he wasn’t even cute. Is this why I paid $10.00 for one beer and a tonic water? Neither Derwin nor I felt any need to return to Blue Gene’s for a second evening.

There are lots of geocaching opportunities in the Nashville area, and I was able to find several caches within a few miles of our motel. This got me out and exploring the area on foot, and I was able to visit a flea market (you want 3 pairs of white socks for a dollar?), the back of McDonald’s, and an Armory tank. I also made it to one of the oldest log buildings in Tennessee, the Buchanan home built in 1809.

Nashville is also home to the Lane Motor Museum, and Ron and I spent quite the afternoon drooling, wondering, and photographing some of the more bizarre attempts to turn 3, 4 or 12 wheels into transportation. The Museum has the largest collection of Tatras I have seen anywhere. OK. I admit that I’ve never seen even one of these Czech autos anywhere, but the Lane Museum has seven. They also had the original Topolino (the Fiat 500) and several of its descendents. There was a three wheeled Davis convertible that had only one seat—but that bench could hold four adults behind the single front tire. A beautiful Lancia roadster with two windshields (one for the rear seat passengers) stole my heart. The Museum even had my ultimate dream car, a Citroen SM. What can I say, we spent several hours alternating between lust and astonishment. One modern unicycle had the seat inside the tire's rim. The placard warned that the machine was very unstable at speeds below 15 mph, and that it took a lot of practice and patience to be able to ride the thing safely. If you’re headed to Nashville and have any interest in odd automobiles, I heartily recommend a visit to Lane’s. And hey, I even got the senior citizen discount being that I’m over 55.

Who wouldn't love to ride in this 1930s Lancia Roadster?
That's Cousin Ron photographing something bizarre in the background
Taken 11/11/07 at the Lane Motor Museum, Nashville TN

We visited the Opryland Mall. What gay man doesn’t enjoy an afternoon of shopping? While Derwin and Ron perused belts at a kiosk, I headed into the Gibson store and drooled over $6,000 + guitars, mandolins and banjos. No, I didn’t buy one, and I won’t in the near future. But what an emporium of beautiful instruments.

Monday was our day to head home, so we retraced the route we had taken on Thursday. A couple of stops for me to catch some geocaches in Kentucky, and we were soon enough back home in Parkersburg. Not being a country music fanatic, I can’t say that I was overly impressed by Nashville, but I’m glad I had the opportunity to visit it with folks who know and appreciate the city. I’ll close by quoting John Sebastian once more:

And I sure am glad I got a chance to say a word about
The music and the mothers from Nashville.

Sunset over the Nashville (TN) Airport
Taken 11/11/07

*Carmack's Pledge to the South:

"The SOUTH is a land that has known sorrows; it is a land that has broken the ashen crust and moistened it with tears; a land scarred and riven by the plowshare of war and billowed with the graves of her dead; but a land of legend, a land of song, a land of hallowed and heroic memories.

"To that land every drop of my blood, every fiber of my being, every pulsation of my heart, is consecrated forever. I was born of her womb; I was nurtured at her breast; and when my last hour shall come, I pray GOD that I may be pillowed upon her bosom and rocked to sleep within her tender and encircling arms."

--Edward Ward Carmack, in an address to the U.S. House of Representatives

Ten Thanksgiving Prayers

Statue at end of Music Row,
Nashville Tennessee
Taken 11/9/07

Come, ye thankful people come,
raise the song of harvest home;
all is safely gathered in,
ere the winter storms begin.
God our Maker doth provide
for our wants to be supplied;
come to God's own temple, come,
raise the song of harvest home.

--Henry Alford, 1844

This Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful for the following ten people and places, (there are no things on this list) that have had a major impact on my life and well-being.

1) GARY

As we near the end of eight years together, I am profoundly grateful for Gary who has kept the home fires burning during the past two years while I have been everywhere but home. In a sea of adversity, Gary is my rock. He is always there. I cannot, and indeed do not want to, imagine life without him. I fear that over the past decade I have not been as supportive as I should have been. I pray that he will forgive me for my shortcomings.

Gary, I thank you for your love and support, for your patience with my impatience (especially when it relates to computers), for your loving care-giving to our children—all of whom would happily follow you out the gate if you ever decided to leave, and for the beautiful yard you have given our home. I look forward to the next nine, even ninety years with you as my “companion.”

2) MY PARENTS

It has now been a year since Mother died and almost twenty since I lost Father. I am so grateful to have had parents who believed in and honored education. Parents who believed in and honored me. Parents who taught me that there were no barriers I could not surmount. I miss them terribly, but somehow it feels they are still with me in everything I do and everywhere I go. I pray that I can live up to their expectations and put to good use the love and care they gave me.

3) MY FAMILY

By this I mean actual blood relatives. I grew up over two thousand miles away from my aunts, uncles, cousins. I never really got to know any of them, and the only news I had was filtered through my mother. Poppa almost never talked about any of his living kin, and only briefly of his forebears. Momma’s family was more real to me—but now I wonder how colored my perceptions were by whatever colored Momma’s early years. Now that I have begun meeting my kinfolk, there are four in particular I would single out. Vikki and Pat on my father’s side of the family are especially near and dear (even though I’ve only met Pat online or on the phone). On Momma’s side, I couldn’t have a brother closer than Ron nor a sister for whom I care more than Sharon. I don’t mean to slight any family members not mentioned here, but these four have become as close to me as any people I know anywhere. I pray that we continue to grow ever closer and that we are able to spend lots of time together.

4) FRIENDS

Ya gotta have friends, and the Divine Miss M is certainly right about that. I’ve had some wonderful friends over the years, none of whom I will mention by name. If you’re on my mailing list, you know who you are. Some of my friends go back forty or more years. Some are new introductions. They are spread over the world, in California, Oregon, Montana, Iowa, Kentucky, Tennessee, West Virginia, Japan, Finland, Turkey, Hungary, and elsewhere. They have enriched my life immeasurably, and I love them all. I pray that they all have a wonderful Thanksgiving, and that they understand how much they have meant, and continue to mean, to me.

5) MIN-PINS

The king of toys, or so they’re called. The first dog in my life was a Miniature Pinscher, Dinah by name, and of late all the dogs over the past twelve years have been MinPins. This fierce, protective, loyal, loving, yes noisy breed of dog is first and foremost in my mind when I think of dogs I want in my life. Faylene, Rocky, Minnie and Gypsy are all daily reminders of unconditional love and acceptance. They are our children and the light in our eyes. Speedy, JR, and Dinah are all waiting at the Rainbow Bridge and I look forward to walking through the afterlife with all of them. I pray that they have comfortable, loving lives and painless, happy deaths. They deserve no less.

6) MISSOULA

Missoula as seen from Waterworks Hill
Taken 6/22/07

If Momma’s gynecologist had had his way, I would have been born in Missoula, but no, Poppa had been transferred to Laurel and Momma knew she had to be with him. I can’t claim Missoula as my “home town,” but I’ve lived here for the better part of thirty plus years. Missoula has its flaws, as does any place, but it has been a comfortable home and a place I’m proud to call my own. After the past two years in which I’ve been in California or on the road, I no longer feel that Missoula is the only place to live, but I know I could live here happily the rest of my life. I pray that Missoula and Missoulians recognize the problems the city faces and that they have the courage to work to build a more equitable society where all can live in harmony.

7) CALIFORNIA

The state where I grew up is a beautiful, vast, conundrum. Poverty, majesty, slums and glistening skyscrapers all can be found within the borders of the third largest state. It was in California I was educated—both in the formal sense and in the informal way we have of learning about ourselves outside of the classroom. I am grateful for my teachers and classmates at Portola Junior High and El Cerrito High School, and for the chance to attend the University of California during the tumultuous years of the late sixties and early seventies. By the way, there are now ten campuses of The University of California, but only one campus is allowed to call itself “UC” or “Cal.” That’s my campus, and while I’m admittedly prejudiced, it’s the best of the lot. My heart will always hold a place for Berkeley. It’s where I became the man I am today. I pray that California can find its way out of the financial difficulties caused or exacerbated by Proposition 13, and that the state can continue to lead the nation in the area of human rights.

8) WEST VIRGINIA

I have never lived in West Virginia, but the moment I crossed the bridge from Steubenville OH to Wierton WV I knew in my heart I had come home. Most of my family tree is deeply rooted in the hills of the Mountain State, and many of those roots go back two hundred years or more. When I drove east in September, I never expected to fall in love with a new place, but fall I did. I once asked my father why it had taken him thirty years to leave West Virginia, and he said “We didn’t know there was any place better.” Now that I’ve had the chance to experience my ancestral home, I wonder if there is any place any better. Yes, it has its problems. Don’t all places? But for warmth of welcome, and a sense of open arms, I’ve never been anywhere more willing to admit a stranger. I pray that West Virginia find a way to deal with its economic and environmental problems, and that it become a twenty-first century leader in restoring the land and the people.

9) THE MISSOULA GAY MEN’S CHORUS

In my mind, the Missoula Gay Men’s Chorus is the best thing to have come out of the Garden City. I am proud to be a founding member of the Chorus, and for five years, the Chorus was my life. I have missed it more than anything else over the past two years. Here I will name names! Matt, Gary, Emery, John, Fred, Jay, Doug, Mark—what a privilege to tour the state with you. What a privilege to stand with you every Monday night and make music. What a privilege to bask in the warm glow of those audiences in the Wilma or the Crystal. You guys gave me more than I could ever ask, and you’re in my heart forever. As for the others who have come and gone over the years, thanks for your contributions and support. I hope that you can find your way to come back and sing if you have left, or that you will continue to make fun and glorious music while singing out for gay equality. I pray that the Chorus has a long and prosperous life, and that it continues to expand in both numbers and influence.

10) OUT IN MONTANA

Out in Montana is no more, but the influence it brought to gay people across the Treasure State is still being felt in many ways. This group of brave and adventurous men and women forged something almost unheard of in the United States. This was truly a grass-roots organization of gay men and women, working together, in a manner not seen anywhere else in the country. Growing out of a hate-crime incident in Missoula, Out in Montana grew to embrace every corner of the state and all the vast land in between. I dare say that such organizations as Pride! and the Western Montana Gay & Lesbian Community Center would not have the success they now exhibit were it not for the pioneering efforts of the folk of OIM. Some of my nearest and dearest friends were part of that effort. Many are now gone, as is the organization. I pray that the people of Montana come to recognize the gifts that the GLBT community brings to the state, and that the state moves to the forefront in matters of equality.

Sculpture on the banks of the Cumberland River
Head on it looks like a broken circle, but from this angle, it makes me think of a heart
Taken 11/9/07 in Nashville, Tennessee

To all of my dedicated readers, I wish you a warm, cozy Thanksgiving Day, filled with the love of family and friends, and the warmth of good memories. I pray that you all have a truly grace-filled holiday season, and that we can once again connect in real life.

Peace and Blessings on you all!

Goober Say's "Hey!"

The dome of the West Virginia State Capitol
Yes, that's 14 Karat Gold Leaf
Taken 10/20/07 in Charleston, West Virginia

Whether it's hot, whether it's cool, oh what a spot for whistlin' like a fool.

What a fine day to take a stroll and wander by The Fishin' Hole,
I can't think of a better way to pass the time o' day.

--Everett Sloane, Earle Hagen and Herbert Spencer

West Virginia is the land of festivals. Oh, not officially. There was a recent vote taken, and West Virginia, whose welcome signs currently say “Open for Business,” will go back to being “Wild and Wonderful.” But for the six weeks that I’ve been in the Mountain State, I’ve managed to miss the Oglebayfest near Wheeling, the West Virginia Black Walnut Festival at Spencer, the Mountain State Apple Harvest Festival at Martinsburg, not to mention the WV Pumpkin Festival, the WV Turkey Festival, and Autumn Festivals galore. The one I really regret missing is the University Motors Mountaineer Balloon Festival at Morgantown, but then I didn’t know about it until I did my research for this blog. As the website for the West Virginia Association of Fairs and Festivals says, “All roads lead to a West Virginia Fair or Festival….”

The problem is that the roads in West Virginia tend to be narrow, steep and twisting. I passed on the Oglebayfest, even though I wanted to see my friend Bill and his German Folk Dancers perform, because thousands of people were expected to attend, and the mountain ridge road leading to Oglebay Park is only a lane and a half wide. I passed on the West Virginia Black Walnut Festival because that event adds twenty-five thousand people to the usual twenty-five hundred who live in Spencer. But when Cousin Ron suggested attending Bridge Day, I wanted to go.

Bridge Day is held every October in Fayette County, West Virginia, to celebrate the world’s second longest single span bridge, crossing 876’ above the New River. And while we’re talking about the New River, let me recommend Noah Adams’ book In Far Appalachia in which the All Things Considered co-host recounts his travels on and next to the New River from its source in North Carolina to where it flows into the Kanawha in West Virginia. 2007 marked the twenty-ninth New River Gorge Bridge Day, and it sounded like an event to attend. Sharon, Ron and I were all set to go, when Sharon heard that one hundred thousand people were expected at the festivities. She announced that she’d rather go to Tamarack, just outside of Beckley, which she told me was an Arts and Crafts Center. Ron told me that Tamarack was a glorified highway rest area, and he wasn’t particularly interested in going there. I figured the truth was somewhere in the middle of these two assessments and it turned out I was right. But more on that later.

Tamarack, The Best of West Virginia
Taken 10/20/07 in Beckley, West Virginia

Bridge Day is the only day Pedestrian travel is allowed on the New River Gorge Bridge. The bridge itself is over three thousand feet long, or roughly 3/5 of a mile, and replaces miles of twisting mountain road that prior to 1977 were the only way to get from one side to the other. Almost as soon as the bridge was opened, people started base jumping from its sides. With a drop of 876 feet, the lure of adventure just proved too strong for enthusiasts of this extreme sport. Rather than ban jumping outright, the local authorities decided to capitalize on the phenomenon, and this year the official count of Bridge Day visitors showed one hundred fifty-five thousand people attended. Have I told you I’m not into crowds?

Instead, I agreed to go to Tamarack with Sharon, and picked her up bright and early on Saturday morning, October twentieth. Well, early. It wasn’t bright at all, and I began to wonder if we’d see any of the fall color which should be covering the hills. While drinking our morning coffee, Sharon suggested that she wouldn’t mind a longer drive, and as I had already promised Bonnie a visit to Bluefield, we agreed to head even further South. I’m not sure just who suggested North Carolina, but long story short, we aimed the Volvo for Mt Airy, North Carolina, Andy Griffith’s home town and the inspiration for Mayberry RFD. Along the way we stopped at Charleston, Tamarack, Bluefield, and Wytheville Virginia.

Driving south on Interstate 77, we caught glimpses of color through the fog which dissipated as we drove. By the time we reached Charleston, the blue and gold dome of the state capitol was gleaming through the trees. This called for a stop. The capitol complex covers several city blocks. I questioned why a state the size of West Virginia would need such an extensive governmental presence, but why should I be surprised. My study of county court houses across the country has shown again and again that the public suffers from an edifice complex when it comes to government buildings. When the western counties of Virginia were granted statehood status in 1863, Wheeling in the northern panhandle was chosen as the first state capitol. Over the next dozen years, the capitol moved back and forth between Wheeling and Charleston, and in 1877 the voters chose Charleston overwhelmingly to be the permanent capitol of the young state. Several buildings served as capitol over the next fifty years, and in 1932 the current capitol building was completed at a cost of just under ten million dollars. When I think that my father was working in West Virginia for twenty-five cents an hour at the same time, ten million dollars sounds excessive. But it is an impressive building. The dome (seen above) rises 293 feet, or five feet higher than the US Capitol in Washington.

Sharon, viewing the fall foliage
Taken 10/20/07, off Interstate 77, West Virginia

South of Charleston, Interstate 77 becomes the West Virginia Turnpike, and there are three toll booths between Charleston and the Virginia State Line. We exited the highway at Tamarack, just outside Beckley, and I found out the truth. Tamarack, billed as “The Best of West Virginia,” is a showroom and sales center for hand-made arts and crafts from across the state. Arts and crafts include honey, jam, and wine, as well as stained glass, pottery, quilts, and clothing. An Amish man had a booth selling candy just inside the main doors. I turned to Sharon and said, “You’ve brought me to a shopping mall.” She just grinned. I bought a thumb-piano--an African instrument built in Morgantown, some salad dressing, honey, and the one food-stuff I’m really looking forward to trying, “Road Kill Jam.” Tamarack is the brainchild of former governor Gaston Caperton, and I of all the government boondoggles I’ve visited or heard of, an Arts and Crafts Center is one use of tax dollars I can really get behind.

Near the southern end of West Virginia, Sharon and I left the interstate to follow US Highway 19 into Bluefield. My friend John’s sister and mother, who currently live in Florida, have been considering moving to Bluefield and I promised that I’d visit the town and give a report. Bonnie, here’s that report.

Heading south on US 19 and simultaneously north on US 52, Sharon and I drove through a most miserable, downtrodden looking town. Bluefield, West Virginia is the sorriest looking town I’ve ever seen. Sharon and I asked why anyone would want to live here, and as we continued through town, we crossed the state line and found ourselves in Bluefield Virginia. We both agreed that the Virginia side of the town looked better than the part north of the state line, but the difference was minor. We had planned on eating lunch here, but found nothing that looked at all appetizing.

Bluefield, West Virginia
Taken 10/20/07

We turned around and headed back into West Virginia, and I determined I’d have to get off the highway and see if there was anything worthwhile in this poverty-stricken village. Driving up a side street so steep that I worried about the Volvo losing traction, we turned onto a cross street and took the picture showing the hillside across the way. The street became ever narrower, and all side streets bore “Dead End” signs, which seemed to sum up what we were seeing. One road led us up and over the hill, and as we came down on the far side of the hill, we found ourselves in a completely different setting. We crossed a ridge line and moved from the third world into the first. Beautiful, huge homes, on broad, tree-shaded streets, and this was still Bluefield West Virginia. Apparently we had entered the town through the back door, or maybe even through the servants’ entrance. I’ve never before seen such a disparity of wealth in one place. While I wouldn’t mind living on the wealthy side of the hill, I’d feel an overwhelming sense of shame about the conditions of the townsfolk behind the hill. I honestly can’t recommend Bluefield, based on the admittedly limited amount of time Sharon and I spent there.

Back on Interstate 77, two mile long tunnels flank the Virginia/West Virginia state line. The first town in Virginia is Wytheville (pronounced with-ville), and Sharon and I were really feeling hungry. Wytheville has numbered traffic lights, although I’m not sure why, and street signs that tell you where to turn to get to various restaurants. We had decided to try a Mexican restaurant we’d seen advertised, and faithfully followed every instruction we saw to turn right or left as we drove through town. Eventually we found ourselves approaching I-77 again, and we’d never seen the restaurant. Pulling into a parking lot to turn around, I caught a glimpse of our target—down a hill behind several other buildings, and no road connecting us. We couldn’t get there from where we were. Turns out we had missed one sign and that proved to be our undoing. Backtracking got us to the missed turn, and we soon were enjoying massive margaritas (we deserved them at this point) waiting for what proved to be an excellent lunch.

Virginia is relatively narrow at this point, and in no time we were crossing the state line into North Carolina. Apparently the Tarheel State has revoked certain chemical and physical laws, because as we filled the tank at a self-serve station, I couldn’t take my eyes off the attendant who was cleaning up the trash around the pumps with a lit cigarette hanging off her lip. Sharon tells me that this has nothing to do with the revocation of any natural laws. “It’s called ‘stupidity.’”

Yep, this really is Mayberry RFD
Taken 10/20/07 in Mt Airy, North Carolina

Heading east off I-77, we approached Mt. Airy, the seat of Surrey County. We knew we were in trouble when we passed a large billboard with the greeting “Goober Say’s [sic] ‘Hey!’” We also passed billboards directing us to Aunt Bea’s Country Kitchen, and Floyd’s Barber Shop. Mt Airy has become Mayberry RFD. Once upon a time there was a lot of money in this community, as we passed block after block of mini-mansions. These are not the huge homes that are being built today, but rather homes at least a hundred years old, that were built in an age when servants would be the norm. I’d hate to think of trying to heat or cool these homes. What was the source of the original money I have no idea. One friend suggested simply, “Carpet-baggers.”

Main Street holds one Mayberry gift shop after another, but Sharon and I were able to get away without spending any money on life-sized poster portraits of Barney Fife, Mayberry Playing Cards, or Sheriff’s badges. Heading out of town, we drove north on the old highway, crossing back into Virginia and eventually West Virginia. We crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway and saw beautiful countryside. By the time we got back to Parkersburg, we had driven over five hundred miles on this particular “Sunday Drive.” Did we see any color? Sure did. It was a great day.

More Outstanding Fall Color
Taken 10/20/07 at the I-77 Tollbooth, West Virginia