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.