This blog is eye opening. There is so much to write about … and much more NOT to write about! It feels like personal dark matter: there’s an unimaginable amount of it around. Unlike dark matter, however, I can see it, but no one else should. It’s taboo … forbidden. In my case, it isn’t forbidden by anyone, it’s just that I don’t want to go there because it is none of your damn business!  I’ll share it with my wife and my therapist. Period.

A large portion of this adventure is about visiting family. I have this theory about why God invented families: families force us to get to know and spend time with people who we would either never have a chance to get to know or, if we did get to know them, they might never enter into our circle of friends. Family makes us better people despite the craziness.

I think the ratio of dark matter to the observable universe is about 95 : 5. The ratio of stuff I won’t write about to stuff that I will is about the same. Maybe it’s because I don’t think it would be fun or interesting. Mostly, though, I just don’t think it would have any value. If you are interested in the human insanity surrounding me, you shouldn’t be.

My friend/teacher/mentor Howard Zinn once said in an interview that, “All history is subjective, all history represents a point of view. History is always a selection from an infinite number of facts, and everybody makes the selection differently based on their values and what they think is important.”   This blogging experience adds depth and meaning to that already deep and meaningful thought.

Then there is the crossover point of public reflection. If an experience or encounter makes me think of something important, isn’t that worth taking in and perhaps even worth sharing? Maybe so, but carefully. How much transparency is too much? How much honesty? Some people give birth or experience death publicly. Good for them. Others of us hold some things sacred and private. Good for us. I hope that at some point, I make sense out of some of this internal debate. For now, it is what it is: some experiences are just taboo. Maybe at some point, I will figure out why.

 

I reckon that we all have moments in our early years that make indelible marks on who we are. One of those moments for me was the summer of 1964, when I spent six weeks in a YMCA summer camp program and two weeks at the national Boy Scout Jamboree in Valley Forge, PA. That summer just replayed itself as I visited the Okefenokee Swamp in southeast Georgia.

Interestingly, another life changing summer – 1974 – also involved the Boy Scouts. It led to my doctoral research and career. But 1964 was no less significant: it led to my love of the outdoors, my sense of environmentalism, my confidence in the face of utter uncertainty, my sense of social and racial justice, and my love of large communal meals.

I was 15 years old and had always attended summer camp. That summer broke the mold. Instead of “attending” a summer camp, I experienced 8-weeks of summer camp-like activities, all out of a tent.

The first four weeks were with the Y in the north Georgia mountains: One week hiking the Appalachian Trail, one week horseback riding (which included being totally responsible for my horse all week), one week whitewater rafting, and one week on a lake boating, skiing, and fishing. It was exhausting, exhilarating, scary, challenging, memorable, etc., etc.

The 1964 Boy Scout Jamboree filled the next two weeks. We cooked all of our own meals, heard the President speak, met other kids from all over the world, and generally had a wonderful time. One of the best parts was that my father went too, though in a different troop, and my experience of him may be my most indelible memory.

My father only agreed to go because he would have a chance to be the Assistant Scout Master of the first racially integrated troop from the Atlanta Council. To be in that troop, the scouts all agreed to be part of the experience. Together, they elected a black scout — Jimmy Williams — to be the Senior Patrol Leader. My dad and Jimmy fell in love with each other and stayed close for many years! Jimmy paid for his college by working for my dad. Jimmy became my first black friend. I have no clue where he is now or what became of his life, but he humanized an entire race for me, a naïve southern kid from Atlanta. I am deeply grateful for his gift.

After the Jamboree, I returned to the YMCA experience, this time spending two weeks with about 18 other boys and two guides canoeing the Okefenokee Swamp. We carried two week’s worth of food in the canoes. We set up camp each night on firm land, securing our jungle hammocks to pine trees. We fought off mosquitoes, communed with endless alligators, marveled at the wildlife and birds, and hoped that we would not encounter any poisonous snakes.

After two weeks in a swamp, we all emerged as transformed people, with amazing new levels of self-confidence. That might have been the moment when I realized that I really could do virtually anything.

This trip to the Okefenokee was not nearly so adventurous. In fact, it was incredibly tame. Our food entailed two fabulous restaurants: Steamboat Lilly’s in Hilliard, Florida, and the Steeplechase Tavern in Vidalia, Georgia. (Yes, that Vidalia: home of the Georgia Sweet Onion.) Our time outdoors covered a couple of miles of walking along trails and boardwalk. The wildest life we saw was a foraging raccoon and one sunning alligator. We only encountered one carnivorous plant, a lonely but beautiful pitcher plant. A couple of Great Egrets provided terrific entertainment.

Nevertheless, the visit provided a real window into why I am who I am. Not bad for a few hours.

I am so relieved! For my entire life, I have attributed the thought that “golf is a good walk spoiled” to Mark Twain, but thankfully (according to the Web), he apparently never said it. I thought about that quote all morning as I wandered the fairways of Indian Hills, a perfectly average public golf course in Fort Pierce. Mostly I thought about how much I hated the idea of disagreeing with Mark Twain about anything, and golf is assuredly NOT a good walk spoiled. It is a wonderful way to wile away a few hours in a state of blissful relaxation … if you approach it with the right attitude.

The right attitude begins with an acceptance of reality. 1) Golf is hard! Ted Williams once said that he had no idea it could be so hard to hit a ball that isn’t moving. 2) Golf takes practice. At 4 or 5 hours a round and fees of $30 up to hundreds, who has the time or patience to get really good? Not me! 3) Golf requires a fair amount of athleticism: strength, balance, and hand-eye coordination. I possess none of those.

To my friends who have their competitive juices ramp up on the course, my sympathies. (You know who I am talking about, Matt M, but I can’t wait to get back out on the course with you!) The game is simply too hard to master.

My brother Joe calls golf “urban fishing.” I agree wholeheartedly. You don’t go fishing to catch fish. You go fishing to hang out on the water in a state of totally chill relaxation, taking in nature and forgetting about reality. Catching fish is a bonus … a “lagniappe” in the language of south Louisiana.

I have also come to equate golf with a good game of cribbage. Unlike bridge or chess, cribbage players rarely care who wins; the game is a tapestry of beautiful patterns and unexpected combinations. Unlike poker or gin, there is rarely much at stake. A few of my cribbage partners play for $1 a game; the others just play for fun. Rebecca and I try to get in at least one game every day just for the sheer pleasure of it.

Golf is a game to be savored, despite its astounding difficulty. I have been playing for just over 50 years. For all practical purposes, I am no better and no worse than I was 50 years ago. I will never learn how to play the game. On two consecutive holes today, I had short shots to the green, both over sand traps, one about 25 yards and the other about 75 yards. The short one went about 15 yards at a perfect 90˚ angle to the direction of my swing, staying safely on the far side of the trap. The long one stopped 4 inches from the hole. What’s up with that?

The weather was perfect. The birds were plentiful, magnificent, and highly entertaining. The greens were true and in terrific shape. The long walk felt great. The guy I played with, though boring, was really nice. My only complaint is that my right hand started sweating so my grips got slippery. It’s my own damn fault for not having new grips.

I plan to play fairly often on this trip … which in my case means a couple of times a month. My brother Joe and I will do some urban fishing while we are together. My brother-in-law in Arizona lives in a development with 3 courses, so I hope to play there every day.

Many years ago, I realized that I am basically a double-bogey golfer. Today, I shot one-under double bogey … but I had some real beauties, and my putting was deadly: my length was right on, and inside about 2 feet, I couldn’t miss.

Regardless of when or where the next round happens, I am already excited about it. It will be a good walk, and nothing about it will be spoiled, no matter how lousy I shoot.

I have lived my entire life without a plan, taking whatever has come along and making the best of it. No regrets.

Now that we are 2.5 weeks into the transition tour, that lifelong dearth of planning has changed. We planned, and the plans are working out!

Plan 1: Stay off Interstate highways as much as possible and eat local roadside grub

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The title is misleading. Miss Donna has not cut my mother’s hair for fifty years. But she has been involved with my mother’s haircutting for that long. Miss Donna was 22 and my mother 45. At the time, Mom had her hair cut by a man at the salon where Donna worked. He was chronically late. Mom HATES late. One day when her appointment time passed and he still wasn’t there, Miss Donna said to her, “Let’s just get it done.” By the time he arrived, Mom had a new hairdresser. He was history.

My mother has gone to that beauty parlor weekly for my adult life. It is part of her sustenance. A clock hangs on the wall of Donna’s that my mother gave her as a gift when they moved into a new space. Donna has gifts at her house that Mom has brought her from around the world.

These days, Mesha cuts Mom’s hair. Mesha is the newest employee at the salon. She’s only been there 8 years. (Rose, who did Rebecca’s manicure/pedicure, has been there 35.) Mom has a husband and wife housekeeping team, Keena and Dimitri. Keena is Mesha’s mother-in-law. May as well keep it all in the family!

In the late 1970s, my father fought cancer for a few years then died in 1979. Donna came to the house to cut my father’s hair when he was too weak and sick to go out … and never charged Mom for the service.

Donna vividly remembers the day in 1980 when my mother met her second husband, Herman. “On Saturday mornings,” Donna told Rebecca and me, “Shirley would always take our orders, go to a take-out restaurant, and bring us breakfast. When she was here, we would all eat, and she would just cry. Then one Saturday, we all wanted something different to eat, so she went to a new restaurant. When she returned…” Donna grinned and started mimicking Mom by walking on her toes… “your mother had a smile on her face, walked like she was on air, and announced, ‘I just ran into an old friend.'”   Mom and Herman married a year later and stayed married 16 years before he ran out of steam too. She is still going strong!

It’s funny. I know I have met Donna before, but I don’t really remember. Nevertheless, we are very good old friends!

This year, my best pal Smokey was the Grand Marshall of Atlanta’s Gay Pride Parade. The city painted the crosswalks along the parade route in rainbow colors. Thousands of people marched and lined the route, including the Mayor and who knows how many other muckety mucks showing their support for a large and engaged portion of Atlanta’s populace. The south, like the rest of the world, is indeed changing, and sometimes we can grab a glimpse of that hope that Martin Luther King, Jr. described to us as the “arc of the moral universe bending toward justice.”

And sometimes we can’t.

With all of the south’s apparent transformations, I keep hoping that my experience of the south transforms as well. Alas, I am not so lucky.

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Those of you who know me know that I am not very keen on religion, though some people say they think of me as being pretty spiritual. (I guess I’m OK with that, but I’m just not sure what “being spiritual” means.)

Regardless, I have come to love the pagan significance of the Festival of Lights, and since tonight marks the first day of Chanukah, the event deserves recognition.

Today is December 6. The date of the new moon is December 11, so the darkest night of the lunar cycle is also the exact midpoint of the eight nights of Chanukah. The Winter Solstice is December 21, the shortest period of daylight in the year.

Chanukah spans the eight darkest nights of the time of the year when the nights are the longest. What better time to burn candles and celebrate “light” than the eight darkest, longest nights of the year?

Happy Winter Season everyone, regardless of whether it be for Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, the Solstice, or just being alive.

Only two hours north of Atlanta heading south on I-85, I couldn’t resist the lure of visiting Tri-County TEC, five miles west of the Interstate. I had taught psychology there just over a year after finishing my Master’s degree at West Georgia College. In between finishing at West Georgia in March 1973 and starting at Tri-County in August 1974, I had acted in the Legend of Daniel Boone in Harrodsburg, KY, worked as a journeyman actor at Kelly’s Seed and Feed Theater in Atlanta, and Program Directed a Boy Scout camp at the Buckskin Scout Reservation in Marlinton, West Virginia. If it seems like I might have been a bit directionless, your sense is correct. I had no clue what might appear over the next horizon.

I left the scout camp in West Virginia on August 8, 1974. The date is deeply etched since, as we stood in the parking lot bidding each other farewell, Richard Nixon delivered his resignation speech. (I skipped around the lot singing “Ding-dong the witch is dead.”)

From Marlinton, I drove to Atlanta to pick up my brother and head to Florida. My folks were flying to Florida the next day, so we planned to spend a few days hanging out together. During the afternoon as my brother Joe and I were on the road, my mother received a telephone call from a professor from West Georgia, Jim Thomas. Jim told Mom that he had just learned of a teaching opening at a two-year college in South Carolina. The school was rather desperate to fill the position since another classmate had accepted the job several months earlier then backed out that very day to take a position in his native state of Minnesota. School would be starting in a week; they needed someone! Jim told my mother that I should call him as soon as she could get word to me in Florida … which was when we all met up with each other the following day. (No cell phones in 1974, you know!)

I called Jim immediately. He had told the school to “look no further. I have just the person for you.” When I called the school, they were delighted and asked if I could start work tomorrow. I spent all of about 1.5 hours in Florida!

Many hours of driving later, I arrived at Tri-County, got oriented, and started work. What a thrilling job: Tri-County had spent the first ten years of its existence – like all of the “Technical Education Centers” in South Carolina – as a strictly voc-tech school. A decade into that experiment, the state realized that it needed to offer Associate’s Degrees as well. I had the rare opportunity to develop a two-year college-level psychology curriculum including courses in Intro, Abnormal, and Social Psych. I had no clue what I was doing, but OMG I had fun doing it!

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Spotsylvania is a funny name and a cool place to get a marriage license, but it also has a deep and troubling history. As we drove into Spotsylvania on a drizzly afternoon for a lunch-that-didn’t-happen, Rebecca commented on the sense of ghostliness and spirit that permeated the town. No sooner had she said it, than we passed the Confederate Cemetery. The day before, we had driven by Arlington National Cemetery with its austere rows of headstones stretching seemingly forever. Spotsylvania’s Confederate Cemetery looked the same, only smaller. Thousands of lives lost. For what? We didn’t know, so we googled the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House. We still don’t know.

General Ulysses S. Grant led 100,000 Union troops against 52,000 Confederate troops commanded by General Robert E. Lee. They fought for over two weeks, often in mud and driving rain, and often face-to-face. When the battle ended, 4,240 soldiers had died; 18,830 were wounded; and 8,016 were missing or captured. Yet, the battle ­­– the fifth bloodiest of the Civil War ­– was considered inconclusive and resulted in no tactical shift in the progress of the war for either side. No wonder the ghosts seemed so present: they sacrificed so much to gain so little.

Rebecca took time as we drove out of Spotsylvania to muse on paper. In the moment, she wrote, “A mist hangs across silent open fields haunted by the misery of civil war. Palpable.”

With that, Rebecca and I entered a pensive time, realizing the role Virginia has played in our respective lives. I researched my doctoral dissertation in Virginia, in Big Stone Gap on the opposite side of the state. Rebecca’s mother grew up just east of where we were, in the “Middle Peninsula” of the Tidewater, the spit of land between the Rappahanock River and the York River. (The Upper Peninsula lies between the Potomac and the Rappahanock; the Lower Peninsula lies between the York and the James. All four rivers empty into the Chesapeake Bay.)

Rebecca’s mother, Lucy Elizabeth Fary, was born in Adner, Virginia and grew up in Shacklefords. After marrying Arthur Edwin Rowley (“Father Gregory”) and raising a family, they moved back to Shacklefords. Lucy is now buried in a bucolic tiny country cemetery by the Beulah Church near Shacklefords. Her spirit drives our relationship. She is the primary reason we thrive. She is Rebecca’s constant source of strength and serenity. About her burial spot, Rebecca wrote, “A peaceful hillside where light shines softly and bones rest peacefully.” What a contrast to Spotsylvania!

Lucy was a “Fary.” Her mother was a “Hogge.” The Middle Peninsula teems with Farys and Hogges. They’ve populated the area since the 17th Century.

So there we were, happily toodling west on Route 17 when we happened across Farys Mill Road. A perfect photo-op, and why not take a little drive on it just to see what we find? Rebecca’s grandfather had farmed timber near there, so maybe we would make some nifty discovery. There on our right appeared “Fary Brother’s Building Supply,” a large, bustling lumberyard in the middle of nowhere.

Rebecca went in, introduced herself, and proceeded to spend a delightful hour with Joe Fary, one of the owners. They couldn’t trace the overlap of their lineage, but we did learn of the Fary family reunion, which sounds like quite the event and well worth attending. The lumberyard is where it is because that is where the mill was. “No one comes here to window shop,” said Joe, “they come here when they need to buy something.” Rebecca now proudly sports her Fary Brothers sweatshirt every day. (Thanks for the gift Joe!!!!)

From Farys Mill Road, the time seemed right to visit Rebecca’s folks in Beulah. The visit made all of us very happy, especially Rebecca’s brother, Gregory. Lucy’s spirit, like all of the ghosts of Virginia we encountered, is very real and very powerful.

Imagine this: We have been pondering how and what we will be eating on this trip.

Our goal: Good, healthy food all along the way coming from one of three sources: 1) Food fed to us by those who derive the same deep pleasure we do from feeding others. 2) Food we prepare for those who know how much pleasure we derive from preparing food and feeding folks. 3) Amazing food at off-the-beaten-path, family-run eateries.

So far, Days 1 – 4, we are batting 1,000.

Our first stop: Thanksgiving leftovers with the Schachters (Allie’s in-laws, our machatunim*) in Westboro. The food and company were great on Thursday; they were equally good on Saturday.

For those of you who know Allie and Joanna, it will come as no surprise to hear that Joanna needed a snack a few hours later. The matzo ball soup at the Vernon (CT) Diner was so good, she forgot to share.

When we told the Duffy’s they would be our first overnight stop, Jim started planning the menu. Watching 12-year-old twin girls devour cheese fondue is sublime! (Sometime I will write about the rib cook-off Jim and I waged at the lake in Vermont a few years ago, where we both cooked ribs all day, blindfolded the girls, dressed them in giant t-shirt smocks, and made them choose their favorites without knowing which were Daddy’s and which were Uncle Kenny’s. Need I say who won?????)

Joanna planned our first restaurant meal – Fetoosh, in Arlington, VA ­– an amazing Moroccan-Lebanese joint where the owner, Asiz, told us exactly what to order (in my case, lamb tagine with prunes) and hovered to be sure we loved every bite. (http://www.fettoosh.com)

Yesterday, Rebecca and I planned to eat in Spotsylvania, but we followed our instincts and decided that none of the places we found looked interesting enough. (We have plenty of munchies in the car if we get hungry, so restaurants are not just for food, they are for memories and adventures!) We passed a sort-of interesting joint with a 1950’s style gift shop at the intersection of Routes 17 and 301, but again, just not interesting enough. So we forged on to Tappahanock. Paydirt! Lowery’s has been serving seafood in Tappahanock since 1938. The oysters were fresh and plump; the oyster stew was, as Rebecca put it, “exactly like my mother’s.” Next time you are in Tappahanock, Virginia, don’t miss it!

Last night, Rebecca and I made a chicken saag for her sister and brother-in-law. What a thrill watching them both devour it with relish then fill their plates with seconds and devour that plateful too!

Today’s lunch, yet another homerun. Anne wanted stuffed grape leaves for supper. You try finding grape leaves in the Tidewater! We located them at a market in Newport News, 1.25 hours away. So we picked up R’s brother Gregory at his “school,” and headed east. Thirty minutes before Newport News, we passed a brand new organic grocery near Gloucester that had grape leaves! (No way!) As we pulled out of the lot, the sign at the far end of the strip mall reading “Soul Food” grabbed my eye. Hell, we were right there; why not check it out?

Barefoot Soul Food in Hayes, VA rocks! It is 3 weeks old, so no signage, no ads, no Yelp (until today, that is). Being the southern type that I am, I couldn’t decide between fried chicken and fried gizzards, so I asked if they could make a plate with both. They couldn’t. But if I ordered a fried chicken plate ($7.95, including 2 sides), they would just give me an order of gizzards. Sounded good to me, so I went to pee. By the time I returned, there were also 3 containers of dessert sitting on the table. They thought we should try them.   Maybe dining with an effusive, huggy 60-year-old Down’s Syndrome man helps, but whatever it was, we definitely brought out the best in the owner and staff.   Not only were they nice, but the food was terrific. This thought might become a cliché, but the next time you find yourself driving past the strip mall on Route 17 in Hayes, Virginia, you really ought to stop at Barefoot Soul Food.

Oh, and tonight’s stuffed grape leaves, quinoa taboolah, and yogurt went over well too. Of course, even the Patriots lose one once in a while, but so far so good.

*Definitions: Machitunim (Yiddish) Simply translated as the parents — and extended family — of your child’s spouse. English ain’t got no equivalents, so the Schachters would just be our daughter’s in-laws. In Yiddish, we all get to be family!