West Ginny

I made it to the mountains of West Virginia mid afternoon. There were short bursts of light rain that gave way to warm rays of sunlight which made the lush green hills surrounding me more vibrant. Though the scenery was strikingly beautiful, I have never driven on a road quite like this one. The highway felt like it was touching the sky and it was long and winding. Before every turn, it was hard to predict if I would be going on a steep incline or steep decline. I managed to keep my fear in check. Glancing at the fine mist rising over the hills reminded me to relax and focus. . After a few hours of driving, the hills finally gave way to a small town. I parked Eunice and took a look around. There were several mom & pop stores on the main road, modest homes scattered in the hills, off in the distance and a train going through the center of it all… slowly carrying heaps of coal! I stopped to look at at the endless piles of black rocks.  That’s the stuff that has built our country. It’s something I don’t get to see everyday. I saw a billboard miles back advertising a Shoney’s Restaurant. I’ve always been curious about that chain so I decided to have an early dinner there. It was located by the tracks like everything else. Maybe, I’ll bump into an interesting coal miner to talk to. I walked into Shoneys and was promptly seated. Like many places I’ve been to before, it was a homogeneous crowd. The people were blue-collar and “down home”, what you would expect from a coal mining town. Even though I stuck out, I didn’t feel any eyes on me beyond a passing glance. The people seemed to be just minding their own business and enjoying their meals with friends and loved ones. My waitress quickly came to the table to take my order. I opted for the buffet and got right back up again. When I got to the buffet to fill up a plate, I was pleased with the country-styled selections offered. It was similar to Home Town Buffet, so, I was happy!

As I was piling up with fried chicken and mashed potatoes, one of the young, aproned attendants came out from the kitchen to replace a few entrees that were running low. He was slender, attractive, and mildly effeminate in his bearing. He looked at me with a warm smile and I politely reciprocated before looking at other savory dishes to cover my plate. I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was still looking at me. “How often do you retwist your dreadlocks?” he asked. Puzzled, I stopped what I was doing to take a good look at him. “Once a month” I replied. “They look really pretty!” By this time, he was wiping down the counters. I asked him how did he know about my kind of hair. “I know about dreadlocks, braids, relaxers… I go to cosmetology school when I’m not here.” he said with a hint of pride in his voice. I was impressed… I told him how awesome it was that I came to the middle of West Virginia and bumped into a random white guy who has an interest in black hair care. I could only assume that he will not be staying in this town forever.

After my meal, I hopped back in Eunice and drove to the other side of the state to reach my destination, Point Pleasant… home of the legendary Mothman. It was late in the evening when I got there. Tired from a full day of driving, I checked my navigation system and opted to set up camp in Gallipolis, Ohio, right on the other side of the Ohio river, where they had a Walmart.

When I woke up the next morning, I took out my phone and searched for gyms with a shower that I could grift. There was not a one! I couldn’t say that I was surprised, because though Gallipolis and Point Pleasant were both nice and quaint, they were out of many things that other places have spoiled me with, like free hygiene. I started to search for creative alternatives and found that there was a community pool with showers that would only cost me five dollars for a daily pass.

When I got there, I found that the showers had no stalls or dividers, just clusters of plain, energy efficient shower heads like my old middle school locker room. There was a campground with showers, but the manager wasn’t home, only her killer Chihuahua who growled and followed me around the grounds. Three strikes! I didn’t think I would have to go back to taking sponge baths in my van again, but it would have to do. My only consolation was taking perverse humor in being a naked lady on Main Street in the middle of the day… and nobody knew!

Spot the naked lady!

After grooming, I decided to step out and check out the little shops of Point Pleasant. Main Street had an all-American look and feel, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was lined with prewar brick buildings that housed antique shops and discount boutique stores with walk up apartments on the top floor. I even saw an American flag or two hung outside… and it wasn’t even July! Then I came upon my main attraction, the Mothman Museum.   The Mothman, by local accounts, is a creepy, supernatural creature with a tall, menacing moth-like body and large, glowing red eyes who haunts the area from time to time. People have seen him flying and making high pitched screeches, striking terror in those he chooses to encounter. The Mothman has been linked to several bizarre happenings; most notably, the Silver Bridge collapse in 1967 where 46 people lost their lives. I first learned of the Mothman upon the release of The Mothman Prophecies film in 2002, starring Richard Gere and Laura Linney. Of course, as with any Hollywood movie based on true events, there was a flood of articles, cable shows, and entertainment news segments saturating the media to pique people’s interest in the film and the folklore. Mission accomplished.

When I went into the museum, I was pleasantly surprised that it was like walking into a cool, hole-in-the-wall memorabilia store on Newbury Street in Boston. The atmosphere was quirky, fun and casual just like the patrons who took time from their travels to make the visit. The museum didn’t take itself too seriously and there was a statue of the Mothman hanging overhead to greet all who entered.

All around, there were countless of eerie artifacts, drawings, newspaper clippings, and even props and costumes from the movie. In the back, there was a dark room where you could sit down and watch an hour-long documentary about the Mothman that played on a continuous loop. And of course, tee-shirts were available to buy as a souvenir. By the front counter, there were two maps displayed that encouraged patrons to pincushion where they traveled from… I was amused to see that people people had come from ALL OVER the world! Weird stories reach far.

Film costumes and props

Backroom documentary screenings

Questions will always linger about who or what the Mothman is. There are several paranormal theories. Could he be an extraterrestrial, a ghost, a demon, or something that simply materialized because enough people started believing in him? Does it matter? Since there’s a sizable body count attributed to this entity, I say it’s best to leave it behind as a mystery and simply pray for God’s protection from things such as this!

I spent the next few days darting back and forth between Point Pleasant and Gallipollis. Apart from hanging out at McDonalds to people watch and go online, there really wasn’t that much to do. My only source of excitement was the uneasy feeling I’d get from driving over the Ohio River bridge and then making it safely to the other side. For the first time in my travels, I started to feel restless and bored and decided it was time to quickly move on. It was a bright Sunday afternoon and I figured a dash to the nearest city was what I needed. I couldn’t get on the highway to Dayton fast enough! My impulse was to floor the gas pedal, but I stuck to my rule of never going over 55-65 mph with Eunice. And it was a good thing, too.

Over the Ohio

  Five minutes into my drive, I smelled a very foul odor in the air and wondered if there was a sewage treatment plant nearby. Seconds later, I heard a loud POP and my van suddenly dropped and tilted to one side. My tire blew out. I was able to maintain control and quickly pulled over to the emergency lane. I got out and took a look around my camper. My left, rear tire was half way stripped and the flapping rubber violently cracked my sewer valve and hit the sewer cap clean off. Not that you could call it clean. The sewer I had smelled was my own… and it trailed all down the highway!

I couldn’t believe my luck. It was like something in this town was keeping me from leaving. Of all the tires to blow out, it had to be that one! Of all the times during my travels that this could have happened, it had to be now! Seriously?!

Sidenote: I learned from experts that tires can blow out at any time even ones that are in good condition!  I had mine inspected before hitting the road and it still happened to me.  Never speed with your camper van or RV because it’s heavy and you need to be able to keep control if something unpredictable happens.  Never risk an accident.  For the other person involved, it will be just his car that’s out of commission; for you, it will be your home!  Be safe fellow gypsies!

Kin

By the Boardwalk

My cousin, Mona* was expecting me in Virginia Beach during the week.  I opted to have a few days to myself and do some exploring before visiting her on her day off.  I’ve been to Virginia several times before as a child and I’ve always had fun family memories here.  I decided to hit the beach.

When I arrived at the coast, finding free parking for my van was too much of a hassle.  I caved in and paid five dollars to a Catholic Church that rented out its parking lot to tourists during the week.  Though the weather was very warm, I had no intention of swimming.  Instead, I walked all along the boardwalk to take in the scenery.  I saw families riding together in rented bikes, lovers holding hands, and children running around in the sand.  It felt good being surrounded by so much energy and joy.  I came upon carnival rides, including one of my favorites, the swinging Viking ship, which will turn your stomach inside out.  I considered buying a few tickets, but the zeal quickly passed me.  I don’t want my stomach turned inside out… I guess I am a grown up now!   I wandered off the boardwalk and window shopped at many of the interchangeable souvenir shops in town.

The next day, I visited Edgar Cayce’s Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.).  Edgar Cayce is known as “The Sleeping Prophet” and “The father of Holistic Medicine”.   He has given psychic readings to thousands of clients while in an unconscious state where he would diagnose illnesses and foretell the future.  Visiting A.R.E. was a big deal for me because I’ve been interested in Cayce’s work as a Christian psychic, prophet and healer since I first heard about him on the show, Unsolved Mysteries in the 1980’s.

Edgar Cayce Portrait

I attended their free, guided tour of the visitor center, watched an orientation film and enjoyed two spiritual lectures: Holistic Healing and Spiritual Awareness.  Edgar Cayce believed Virginia Beach was one of the safest places in the world to live because he felt it would be naturally protected from dramatic climate changes.  It was pointed out to us that (unlike other towns in close proximity) the area has yet to be devastated by hurricanes. This wasn’t hard to believe. Virginia Beach, by the water has a very peaceful, dream-like, spiritual vibe to it.  The breeze from the ocean was always warm, soft and regenerating.

Cayce’s reading couch

Library holding 14,000 Cayce readings

Before I left, I decided to walk their outdoor Labyrinth to meditate on a concern I had about Beau* and the direction of our relationship.  I found myself growing suspicious of him. Though we talked twice a day, something wasn’t right.  Questions about him and about us flooded my brain and overwhelmed me. This is normal when you’re away from your man for so long, right?  Before I entered the labyrinth, I took a deep breath and with the warm ocean breeze guiding my back, I meandered along its snakelike path.  I recited the Holy Rosary a dozen times to quiet and focus my anxious mind.  Within 30 minutes, I reached the end and gained clarity but not comfort.

Labyrinth

Edgar Cayce was quoted as saying, “You are your own best psychic.”   As a very intuitive person, I understood.  However, it didn’t stop me from seeking out the services of  a psychic reader affiliated with A.R.E.  I was second guessing myself and needed confirmation that there was, indeed, a sword hanging over my head.

I met Gwen* at her office across town.  She invited me to have a seat in an armchair angled closely towards hers. She had a pen, pad and pendulum ready. I asked her if it was okay to record our session and she was fine with it.  I took out my phone and activated the voice recorder app.  She asked to hold something that belonged to me. I handed her my keys.  I decided to refrain from volunteering any information during my reading and save my specific concerns for last.

It’s understood that no psychic is 100% accurate, but the things Gwen picked up about me were on point.  I asked her about my soul’s purpose (a question A.R.E recommends readees ask).  “To bring joy wherever you go… wherever you are planted.  It doesn’t matter if you’re at your job, at home, or just out gettin’ a burger that’s what you do.” She said with a husky Southern drawl.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not.  Whenever you enter a situation or room, the energy just lifts…. People respond to you.”  No, I haven’t noticed this… I was puzzled because most of the time, I’m rather low-key.  Then I remembered strangers and random people I’ve met over the years making a point to tell me the same thing, that I have a “good spirit” or they felt really good being around me.  I’ll take it!

I asked her about my family.  “You get picked on a lot.” She said plainly.  I surrendered to the fact that she wasn’t speaking in the past tense. “That’s right, I’m the scapegoat.” I confirmed.  She continued, “The reason you’re the scapegoat is because of that special energy you carry.”  “Really?”, I was surprised.  “Seriously.  I’m from the smoky mountains of east Tennessee.  We had chickens running free in the yard during the day.  What amazed me was that there would always be one chicken that would stray farther out in the garden than the others. She was probably looking for juicier worms somewhere else.  The rest of the chickens would attack and peck her because they considered her different!   You’re different.  They perceive you as weak, when you’re actually very highly evolved… and tough.  They can’t see that, so they turn on you.” She explained.  Gwen went on to say that in the last couple of months, my “perceptions” have been getting stronger and stronger.  This also struck me as true… This is the most spiritually intuitive I’ve ever been since I hit puberty.  She advised me to continue listening to the Universe (i.e. God) when it speaks.  As for my concerns about Beau*, she eased my mind by assuring that he deeply loved me.

Later that night, I touched base with my cousin, Mona and made plans to visit her the next day.   I got a little lost finding her place, so she was waiting outside for me when I pulled up to her condo.  Boy, was she was eager to meet Eunice!  Mona is jovial, quick-witted, fiercely independent and boldly assertive… traits not uncommon for women on this side of the family.   She’s also good-looking.  With large, wide-set eyes, high, dimpled cheeks, and square jaw line, she has a resemblance to Helena Bonham Carter.  Every time I see Helena Bonham Carter flash across the screen, I think of cousin Mona, her dark facsimile.

She rushed up to me and gave me a big hug.  I happily gave her a nickel tour of my home.  Mona’s daughter (a gifted violinist) was on a music tour in Europe with her college class.  I was offered her room to stay in and made myself at home. When I was growing up, I would see Mona and my other cousin, Margene* (from Richmond) once a year. They have about 10 years on me, so I was never able to hang out with them as an equal.  My aunt (who was the same age as them) would join them on local excursions and have all the fun instead.  Sometimes, they’d take me along… but it wasn’t “big girl” fun!

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my cousin.  Maybe, the last time I’ve seen her was at a funeral. We sat in her beautifully decorated living room and did a lot of catching up. We talked about our not so great marriages and life after our divorces.  “The women in our family have no luck with marriage.” She said with a bluntness that was softened by the lilt of her Jamaican accent.  “We’re just too hard-headed and strong-willed.” She continued.  I didn’t want that to be true, but I nodded my head in agreement because maybe it was.   I see myself as easygoing, having a softer temperament than most people I know and I don’t consider myself  “a feminist”.  However, I have come to recognize that there is something unyielding in me that cannot be dominated or compromised.  Perhaps we are daughters of Lilith and not Eve.

My great grandmother had 11 children.  With the exception of one, all of her daughters (including my grandmother) had tragically broken marriages or a string of unfortunate romances.  The boy children, however, seemed to have escaped this curse with good wives and intact homes.   But, maybe this is because these women were raised in a third world culture where parents treat female children far more harshly than males.

Mona made plans for us to visit my great aunt Gladis* in Hampton, 45 minutes away.  We drove in her car and had a discussion about our family’s past and there were jokes and laughs sewn in between.  We both hashed out old family secrets before moving on to share our disappointments.  I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who felt abandoned and betrayed by kin at my most vulnerable hour of need.  For her, it was a life-threatening illness… myself, a divorce.   I quickly realized that my experience wasn’t unique to just my immediate family.  I was now able to stand back and see that all the dysfunction that I endured (even into adulthood) had little to do with me.  My familial misfortunes were part of a much bigger problem!  I found this both comforting and disturbing.   Through faith in God, Mona was able to forgive all the wrongs.  I, in contrast, remain less magnanimous.

We pulled up to our aunt’s house and she invited us inside.  Her lovely mirrored living room looked exactly as I remembered it as a child!  Strangely, it did not look or feel outdated.  It was as if time moved on, but didn’t.  After some catching up and joking around, we headed out to have lunch at a near by restaurant.  Before we ate, Mona cued for us to pray grace.  After seeing people publicly praying in restaurants everywhere, it was my turn!

We returned to Aunt Gladis’ house after lunch and retired to her youngest daughter’s bedroom, which was converted into a den.  It was, in reality, the family museum.  All of the walls were covered, top to bottom with framed photos of our clan, spanning six generations.  I even spotted my own picture, a high school senior portrait!

Aunt Gladis gave me four old photo albums to look through.  One of them had black and white pictures that were from the 1950’s and 60’s.  It felt like I should be handling the pages wearing white cotton gloves.  Most of the people in the album I didn’t recognize, but I did get a glimpse of Aunt Gladis’ life as a young nurse living in England.  Roughly half of my large family immigrated to the UK since Jamaica was once under the British crown.

There was one photo of her standing outside her apartment building in a white, buttoned-up nursing uniform.  She had perfectly styled curls, meticulously arched eyebrows and (what I could imagine to be) deep, crimson lips.  It was evident that she had a certain maturity and poise that is rarely seen in young women nowadays. As I continued through the album, I managed to recognize some of my great uncles during the “Madmen days” whose dapper suits and youthful good looks nearly startled me!

Mona and I returned to Virginia Beach to relax for the rest of the evening.  She offered me her washer and dryer to do my laundry and I gladly accepted.  At the end of the night, I went to her daughter’s room to retire.  Looking around, it was easy to tell that this room belongs to someone bright, cheery, and full of life… someone who was raised happy.  She was in Europe living her dream, a dream that her mother lovingly supported since she was a young child.  Destructive patterns of the past doesn’t have to control a family’s future.  I have hope.

Side Note:  My great grandma and grandma loved watching The 700 Club!  In their honor, I went to a taping at CBN studios while I was in town.  You can see more photos on my FaceBook page!

Gordon Robertson after taping

Original 700 Club set from the 1970’s

*Names changed to protect the innocent and infamous.

Roots… of My Country

Townspeople: Free and Otherwise

It was already the last week of June and I finally started to feel the heat of summer as I drove down the interstate into Virginia.  I stopped at the welcome center to stretch my legs and browsed the tourist pamphlets.   I’ve been to Virginia several times before because I have some relatives that I visited throughout my childhood.  Though, the patriot in me was excited to experience reenactments pertaining to the American Revolution at Colonial Williamsburg, I came to Virginia mainly to see my cousins and great aunt.   Since my cousin in Richmond was still on her trip (world travel is her hobby) and the other was way down in Virginia Beach, Williamsburg was slated as the first stop.

The sun was going down when I reached my destination at Walmart.  To my delight, it was close to all the gypsy friendly amenities needed, including gyms!  The idea of sponge bathing no longer appealed to me; I had grown spoiled.  Since truck stop showers can easily add up to a big expense, my strategy for grooming was to find gyms with decent facilities and a free trail period.  I limited my search to local gyms only and avoided large national chains since I haven’t yet decided which one to join.  I chose American Family Fitness because their facilities were very impressive, rivaling L.A. Fitness.

How does one sign up for a temporary pass without a local address or any intention to stay in town?  The answer is to simply have a good story as any novice grifter would! My story was that I recently moved to the area and currently living with a relative until I find a job and my own place.   This explains why I still have a Connecticut driver’s license and no place of employment.  I found the closest apartment complex and committed the street address to memory in order to fill out the visitor form and engage in any “small talk” if asked about where I live.   Was this honest?  No, but my showers were free, clean and accessible.  Hopefully, plugging them in this post will tip my Karmic scale back to a favorable balance.

I took a day to drive around Williamsburg and it’s a very beautiful place.  All the buildings I drove past were newly constructed and well built. It was as if most of the town was created as a planned community.  The people weren’t as friendly and open like the people in Baltimore or Lancaster, but they had a pleasant and welcoming vibe, which was enough for me. The evenings were comfortably warm with a comforting, caressing breeze.  I took half a business day and reserved a two-day pass to visit Colonial Williamsburg for the next day.

I made an effort to arrive early in the morning, since there were a lot of things to do and see.   After I picked up my pass (which was to be worn during my visit), I stopped to look at a scale model of the grounds, which was overwhelmingly huge.  I was glad that I opted to visit for two days instead of just one!  I glanced at my map/schedule and checked off all the available activities I wanted to do.   There was an orientation film, Williamsburg: the story of a Patriot that was starting in the visitor center theater in just a few minutes.  It was shot in the late 1950’s, starring a young and handsome Jack Lord.   The story was about Virginia’s role in America’s independence.  Though the film was dated (longest-running motion picture in history), it primed me for the experience of going back in history.

I left the theater and crossed over the bridge onto the Colonial grounds.  It was like stepping into another time.  There were townspeople in character of every social station of that age, ready to casually interact with visitors at their post or shoppe.  I visited farmers, local tradesmen, homes of nobility, and took a tour of the lavish Governor’s Palace.   Then, I popped into the gunsmith’s shop to see how guns, bullets and silverware were made.   The blacksmith demonstrated how he keeps the fire hot enough for melting iron.  His wife showed me her collection of molds for spoons, pots, and bullets.  Afterwards, I went to the town’s theater and watched a short period comedy and gained insight into the culture of the performing arts during that period.  A tour of the courthouse was open and I witnessed three very entertaining mock trails with some of the visitors playing the role of defendant and plaintiff!  It was all done in a humorous, tongue-in-cheek manner, but you left with an understanding of how everyday disputes were settled.

Governor’s Palace

Governor’s Chef

Cured Meats

Ye Olde Gunsmith

Instruments of Freedom

Parade to Town Square

Declaration of Independence Announcement

The event I wanted to see most and above ALL was the Meeting with a Forefather reenactment, where a founding father performs a speech and interacts with the audience.  Washington, Jefferson, or maybe it will be Benjamin Franklin?  It is not known which forefather will arrive or what he would say.   Being what one would call a rabid “Constitutionalist”, I was thoroughly intrigued!  However, my schedule for the day was already full, so I decided I would save the talk for the next day, which started late afternoon. There was just so much to do and learn; it was nearly overwhelming! I began to have a strong sense of how we, as a people, worked together as a community to sow the revolutionary seeds of our nation.  I am proud to be an American.

Being in such an immersive environment can be an enriching and positive experience.  However, I found that engaging, enriching experiences also cut the other way.  The next morning, I attended an inspiring reenactment of the public reading of The Declaration of Independence.  Afterwards, I looked at my activity sheet and decided to take The Life of a Slave tour.  On the itinerary, it had a disclaimer that it was not suitable for small children.  “Curious.” I thought to myself. Though the slavery of my ancestors was endured in the West Indies and not in America, as a black person, I was compelled to check it out.  Right after this was scheduled to end, it would be time for the Meeting with a Forefather reenactment… Perfect! It wouldn’t start for a few hours, so I decided to attend some vaguely named short play that was about to start on an outdoor stage.  I had no idea what it was going to be about.

As the time drew near, people gathered on benches around the plain wooden stage under a sparse canopy of trees.  I sat in the front row.  Just as everyone settled in, out of nowhere, a rough looking white man in a wide hat and dirty white shirt, holding a rifle carried a young black woman by the arm onto the stage.  She wore a nice yet plain blue housedress covered by an apron… she was a house slave.   He takes her to her place and disdainfully unhands her before turning to leave.  “‘Scuse me, Sir!  When will my babies be commin’ here to be with me?” she desperately asks him with a slave accent.  “Soon.” the overseer says flatly and leaves.

Three other slaves, a woman and two men, whom she knows, are also brought on stage.  It’s apparent that they are in a holding cell to be sold on the auction block, off their plantation.  The mother’s two young boys will soon be joining her in the cell, also be sold.  Her friend, the other female slave, tries to ease her mind that there is hope someone would buy all three of them together and not break up her family.  The mother is still deathly frightened.

One of the male slaves, possessing a rebellious spirit, discouraged the soothsaying between the women and told the mother to accept the reality of what is about to take place… her children would most likely be sold away from her.  The friend starts to see his point of view.  She looks into the mother’s eyes and calmly says, “When your children get here, you have to talk to them.  I know it’s gonna be hard, but you got to let them know what’s gonna happen.”  To which the mother cries, “All they know is this plantation! All they know is me…” her voice trails off.  I saw the anguish streak across her face. “I know, but you got to be strong for your boys.  You’re gonna have to tell them calm and then say your good byes.  Have faith in God.” The friend advises.

The rebellious slave turns his attention to the other male in the cell and picks a fight with him because he failed to hold up his end of the bargain in an escape plot the night before, resulting in both of them being captured and put up for auction.   Just as the two men’s quarrel was about to reach the boiling point, the overseer returns.  He’s accompanied by his armed second to assist him in handling the slaves.  “All of y’all! It’s time to go!” the overseer barks.  Everyone lines up except the mother.  She jumps up, rushes to the front and asks him, “My babies… where are my babies?”  The overseer (annoyed and impatient) says, “What? We done sold them already!”  The mother gasps.  Struck down by shock and loss, she faints, causing her body to fall forward towards the overseer.  “Get up off of me!” he yells in disgust and pushes her away with his arm.  She tumbles off the stage, rolls on the grass and lands just inches from my feet.  Part of her dress rode up, exposing the bottom of her bloomers.  Her friend comes to her aid and helps her up as she sobs into her breast.

Everyone is lead out of the cell to their awaiting fate, in the distance no longer be seen.  The plain wooden stage is left bare. No formal closing, the play had ended as abruptly as it had started.  The audience fell silent and remained seated in bewilderment, trying to absorb what they have just witnessed.  I was left broken and wept.

After I collected myself, I roamed around Revolutionary City in a daze.  I visited some shops, but didn’t buy anything.  The time was getting close for my slave tour.  It was across the city and I didn’t want to walk, so I decided to use the free shuttle service.  I met a middle-aged black couple with their teenagers while waiting at the shuttle stop.  I’ve seen them around the day before.  We nodded at each other in acknowledgment as we passed by on a wooded path… as if we were in a secret club.  The same thing happens whenever I pass by another person with dreadlocks.  I wonder if white people do the same thing.

We struck up a conversation, telling the couple about the play I had just seen and the powerful impact it had.  “Nah, I’m not going to see that! I’m not going to work myself up and get angry around here!” the husband said in a half joking tone.  But, I knew he was serious at his core.  I couldn’t blame him for passing on such an emotionally raw exhibition.  I know, first hand, that the line between making peace with the past and being completely consumed with rage is a broken fence.

I made it just in time for the slave tour.  A group of people sat in an enclosed area under a tree.  There was a slave woman at the gate and I had shown her my pass to join the others.  Looking around, I saw that it was a diverse group of people, both black and white families of varying ages and classes. The benches we sat on were nothing more than logs on the ground in a circle formation.  In the center of that circle was a tall and robust field hand who was slowly pacing around and waiting for any remaining stragglers to arrive.  By his side, were a few tree stumps with a stack of papers and curious artifacts on top of them.  We waited patiently for his presentation to start.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” he said looking around his audience.  “I’m a an African-American historian and I’m here to give you a glimpse into the everyday life of American slaves.” He continued.  The field hand’s casual yet commanding presence had everyone perked up in their seat.   “It’s good that you’re all enjoying your time here at Colonial Williamsburg and experiencing some patriotic pride in our American heritage.”   Was he reading my mind?  He went on, “All of that is important, but there is another side to this story and that is slavery.”  He continued with his presentation, passing around copies of wanted posters for runaway slaves and Victorian photos of people with whip-scared backs.  Afterwards he passed around replicas of black iron tools used to keep people in bondage: shackles, locks, and spiked neck collars… used to “break” the most willful of Negroes.  The replicas were heavy, cold, and dreadful to hold in my hands.

Paper Clipping

Whip scars of a slave

Afterwards, he went on to explain the next segment of his presentation, “We will now begin the tour.  This will be a hands-on type of thing… How it was like to be a slave.  When slaves were called to work early in the morning, they weren’t treated with any type of respect.  They weren’t spoken to nicely.  It’s time to head out to work in the tobacco fields.”  Then something in the air quickly shifted.  “Now, git up… I says, GIT UP!” he shouted as the shackles made a clanking noise in his hand.  We were startled and all glanced at each other before quickly raising to our feet.

The field hand walked us out to the tobacco fields.  He assigned each of us a plant and ordered us to inspect under each leaf for any insects and eggs.   Whatever was found, we were to grind them up between our fingers. This was very important because they could destroy the leaves and each leaf was money for the master.  We had to be very careful not to break a leaf because that would warrant a whipping.  The same if the overseer checked our work and saw any bugs or eggs left behind.  Since the plants were short, we had to bend over to do our job… after a few minutes, it started to get very uncomfortable for my thighs and back.  And then it started to rain!  Everyone started to straighten up, intending to leave and take cover somewhere.  “Keep working! Slaves don’t get to sit out from the rain!” he ordered sternly.  We did what he said and kept tending to the tobacco… in the rain.  This went on for only fifteen or twenty minutes, but it felt much longer.  I couldn’t do this all day, everyday.  I just couldn’t.

Tobacco Fields

Explaining as it was

When we were done, he told us how Thomas Jefferson had a tobacco farm just like this one.  He went on to explain that Jefferson wrote in his journal that he had some profitable years and some lean years in selling his crops.  He bragged that whenever he had a lean year, he would easily recover his business losses by simply selling off one or two of his female slaves at a handsome profit.  We all just stood there, silent.

The field hand finally took us to the slave house, where slaves slept.  It seemed like a nice enough little cottage, until we were told that it usually housed up to 15 slaves!  He explained that it was usual for overseers to lock them all in at night so they wouldn’t escape or take revenge on their masters at the big house.

Slave House

Hearth and root storage

Stairs to the attic

Sexual exploitation of female slaves by overseers and masters were a common thing.  I asked him where did these atrocious occurrences usually take place since there was no privacy in the house.  He explained that it was not uncommon for these rapes to be committed in the presence of other slaves in the house, including the children.  This was the fact from the tour that I have found most disturbing.

Everything came to a close and he shared some things for us to put in perspective.  “Our forefathers, though noble, were what we call today the 1%.  If you lived back then, chances are they wouldn’t even talk to you.  The average white during the revolutionary period was illiterate, working-class, and just a step or two above a slave.  They didn’t have a voice to rise up, either.  They were too busy trying to keep their six or seven children fed.  It’s about money!” he casually declared.  “The establishment found ways to keep both whites and blacks slaves in the South, into the 1950’s.  That’s what systems like sharecropping and Company stores were all about!”  Older people in the group (who may have remembered these times) nodded in agreement.  Understanding that most Americans are now living paycheck to paycheck and enslaved by debt, the past still rings true today.

In closing he continued, “Have pride in your country and honor our forefathers for the good that they have done, but never forget the truth and the contributions made by the slaves and others who have toiled and suffered. If not for them, these men wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything.  Black or white, know that you are descendants of survivors… they were some tough people!”

End of the line

Afterwards, most of the people approached him to shake his hand in gratitude and to ask more questions.  Participating in this tour, we were broken down and built up again with a new perspective.  For reasons one may have deduced, I was no longer in the mood to attend the Meeting with a Forefather presentation and left… with my patriotism still intact, less my idealism.

Baltimore! Oh, Baltimore…

Monseiur Waters

It was late at night when I reached Baltimore.  I pulled into a Travel Center America truck stop and went inside for dinner at Iron Skillet.  I’ve been to Baltimore once, when I was twelve.  My family was traveling back home from Florida when my mother got tired and we stopped at an Econolodge.  I remember getting a decent night view of the city from the highway before getting off the exit.  There was an outline of dark, sinister looking towers spewing stacks of smoke.  It reminded me of the city of OZ… if the Wicked Witch had won.  It felt depressing.  When I walked into Iron Skillet, the old feelings somehow all came back.

The restaurant was a frozen snapshot of the late 1980’s with light maple wood booths and drab brown carpeting.  Maybe it wasn’t so much the decor that was 1980s , but how the place made me feel.  That decade was the most hopelessly melancholy time in my life and standing there, at the entrance waiting to be seated, transported me back.  “Take any seat you want, Honey.” A worn out looking black waitress motioned to me before heading to a table.  My impulse was to turn around and walk out, but my curiosity about this restaurant chain (spotted too many of their billboards) made me choose a two-person booth by the kitchen.

I scanned the room and noticed that almost all the patrons were truckers.   Most of them looked the part: late side of middle-age, bearded, tattooed and rough-necked.  A few were young, but still rough looking around the edges.  You have to start somewhere.  The only other female dining was a young woman seated by the counter near me.  She was “made-up” yet not put together.   She was noticeably a little too skinny.  I think she was a prostitute.  She was pleasantly boisterous and chatting with the truckers at the counter, perhaps to draw attention for business.

My waitress came by after making her rounds and I ordered a fried chicken dinner.  A fight between two unseen waitresses burst out in the kitchen.  At first, it seemed like it would be only be a brief disturbance like the startling screech of a car in the distance.  Instead, the quarrel continued to roll forward uncomfortably like two alley cats trying to kill each other.   “Yo, this is the most JACKED up TA Center I ever been to!” blurted out one of the truckers in a long Midwestern drawl.  The other men around him chuckled in agreement.   A few of the other waitresses walking around stopped intermittently to gossip about what brought these two women to the boiling point.  “When the manager finds out about this, she’s fired!” one the waitresses blurted.  “She’s young.” The other said in defense.   “She’s unprofessional!” the first waitress replied.   Usually, when witnessing this type of drama, I try to piece together a whole scenario in my head.   Tonight, I was just hoping they weren’t in the back spitting and yelling all over my food!  Either way, it was all well because my chicken was dry, stringy and overcooked.   I barely touched it…  and almost didn’t touch my $15 check, either!

I left and thought about my game plan for the night, forcing the pleasant dining experience out of my mind.   It was SHOWER TIME!  It’s been a week and I haven’t taken a shower since I left Connecticut.   I don’t use my camper’s shower because it’s cramped and you’d have to awkwardly sit down to use it.  Instead, I’d take what I like to call a “deep clean” sponge bath, a technique I developed to get me between showers in hot weather without feeling and smelling gross. I may cover more about this technique in another “good grooming” post.

I went to the front desk of the travel center and rented a public shower.  I never rented one before, so when the cashier just gave me a receipt and walked away, I was confused.  An older black trucker wearing a red football jersey came to my side and asked if I needed help.  “This is what you do…” He said with a deep smoky voice.  “This here, on your receipt is your shower number and you look on that monitor up there to see if your shower’s ready.  When you get to your shower, punch in this other number; that’s your key code for the door.  See there, your shower’s ready!”  I thanked him and went on my way.  When I got to my shower down the hall, I braced myself for whatever would be on the other end of the door.  I was pleasantly surprised that my shower was like a nice motel room… without the bedroom area!  It had a Corian counter sink, large American Standard toilet, a walk-in shower with top to bottom ceramic tiles and new chrome fixtures.  The only offense was the stack of old bright orange towels folded on a bench.  It had a paper wrapped bar of hotel soap resting on top of it.  I was thankful that I brought my own towel in with me.   My shower was long, hot and satisfying.   I was grateful.

The next day, I decided to take a business day at McDonalds.  Wherever you are, there’s always a McDonalds near by.   I chose to center my stay around paying homage to one of my favorite underground film directors, John Waters.   Baltimore was not only his hometown, but it also served as the backdrop to most of his films!  Desperate Living, Polyester, Cry Baby, and Hairspray are top on my list of cinematic guilty pleasures. There had to be attractions in town with connections to him.  With the help of Google, I managed to flesh out a decent three-day itinerary.

I was typing away at my computer when an elderly couple approached my table and started a conversation.   They were curious about Eunice.   “That’s a small RV… is it fully self-contained?” the husband asked.  His better half asked me about safety issues, but I assured her that I didn’t travel in fear.  “My wife and I had a big travel trailer years ago and traveled a lot.  But we had to get rid of it.  It became too much of a bother now that we’re old” he said in an easy, playful tone.  “Something like your camper seems easy to care for.  We could still travel in that.  How much does it cost?” he continued.  After I told him, I went on to tell him how he could find campers like mine on Craig’s list and other resources.   I noticed as I was speaking that his gaze shifted and he looked a little uncomfortable. I realized that he wasn’t really interested in buying a camper, but just wanted conversation for the sake of it.  I looked around and other strangers were casually talking and joking around with each other… Baltimore people sure are friendly!

When my business day came to a close, I did a little exploring.  The city has a vibe I could only describe as depressing.   I went to the grocery store to pick up some snacks and then picked up some overpriced Chinese take-out.   I noticed that most of the people I observed around me (both black and white) looked rough.   Sullen expressions, worn clothes, and bad tattoos; the average person seemed to only be a half step above a drug addict in appearance.  Not that I’m all that snazzy myself! Paradoxically, these people were amazingly open and friendly when casually interacting with each other.  Their bright and sunny inside didn’t match what was presented to the world outside… It was perplexing to make sense of it.

The next day, less than 48 hours of being in Baltimore, I started feeling… depressed.   The dour vibe in the air, the aesthetically challenged streets, and seemingly defeated people all around me weighed down on my spirit like a heavy blanket.  My only consolation was speaking with Beau on the phone.  For my safety, we agreed to speak twice a day, once in the morning and once when I turn in for the night.  Now, I was looking forward to his calls more than ever.  Hearing his voice raised my mood, but the darkness still lingered. There was no way I could stay in Baltimore for most of the week.  I felt conflicted about leaving earlier than planned.  I felt like I was quitting something.   Nevertheless, I decided I would leave the next day right after visiting some of the choice sights I had on my schedule.

I got up early and looked over my list of attractions, which were all ordered by proximity to each other to save gas.  First would be Killer Trash, a trendy thrift store that has provided the wardrobe to many of John Waters’ films. Following that, the American Visionary Art Museum, which exhibits outsider art created mainly by self-taught artist who are bipolar, schizophrenic or disabled.  Its centerpiece is a 10-foot statue of Divine, the late drag queen icon who starred in several of Waters’ earlier films.  Afterwards, a quick breeze-through the Baltimore Tattoo Museum.  Finally, I’d visit Edgar Allen Poe’s grave… just for the heck of it!  Most of my stops were located downtown and I figured my travel time wouldn’t take long.

I punched in the first location into my navigation system and placed it snuggly in the beverage holder.  When I entered downtown, I was pleasantly surprised at its urban quaintness.  With mid-sized buildings mixed with historical sites, and traveling packs of business people who take themselves too seriously, it could easily pass for Hartford’s twin!  I reached Killer Trash and found a great parking spot a half block away.   When I approached the store I could see brightly colored trinkets and other curious finds displayed in the window.  I was eager to see what was inside, but when I got to the door, I discovered the shop was closed!  They open at noon and it was only 9AM.  It was a wrench in my tight schedule, I figured.  I’d remedy the situation by going to my next stop, the museum and simply swing back to the store later.  I hopped back into my van, punched in a new address and headed to my next destination.   “Turn left onto Lafayette”, the navigation instructed.  I turn onto Lafayette and all the other streets she told me to… until I realized she sent me in a circle!  I went off route, to have her recalculate, but that only made her more confused.  She’d tell me to turn on streets that weren’t there and the streets that were there, she’d change the route on me when I got there.  At one point, during an erratic route change, a work truck passing my van almost swiped me! It’s not fun to be lost while driving your home through congested traffic.

My navigation system is new and up until this point, had always been reliable.  I couldn’t understand what was going on since the buildings weren’t that tall to interfere with the GPS system.  My chest felt tight, my face became hot and my temper finally spun out. “F*ck this!  I’ll go to Poe’s grave.” I grunted under my breath.  I punched in the address during a red light, figuring it would take me straight there since this site was outside of the downtown area… But the same thing happened again!  By this time, I was fed up and gave up!  I put in my next destination, Williamsburg, Virginia.  As if by divine intervention, my navigation took me straight out of there without a problem.  Baltimore! Oh, Baltimore… How I wanted to love you.

SIDE NOTE: I’m in still in Oklahoma.  The above events happened during the Summer. I’m catching up… More to come!

A New Spirit in Gettysburg

I headed south and arrived in Gettysburg.  I stopped at a McDonald’s next to the Walmart where I planned to stay overnight.  I found a good table and set up my laptop for a long visit.  I cable locked it to the table stand (keep it secure for when I have to run to the bathroom) and took out a pen and pad to take notes for affordable things to do while in town.   I also use this time to do my online banking, check my emails, apply for jobs in Texas, read the news and of course, mess around on Facebook.  I like to call this taking a “business day”.   I have to say that McDonald’s has become gypsy friendly since they have decided to become a part-time coffee house, rivaling Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks.  It’s just a matter of finding one with available power outlets.

After I got settled in at my table, I went up to the counter to order a few Dollar Menu items.  On the way back, I noticed a blonde woman and her college-aged daughter praying grace over their food.  They weren’t doing one of those quick “Thanks for the grub” prayers.  They made time for what they were doing.  Their backs were straight and their eyes were closed as they held hands across the small table in plain view of everyone in line at the counter.   I’ve never seen anyone pray grace at a McDonalds, better yet, I’ve never seen anyone pray grace at any restaurant. I searched online looking for interesting things to do.  Being the patriot that I am, Gettysburg was full of American history that I wanted to experience.

It was late and my business day came to a close.  I parked at Walmart and went inside to pick up a few things.  It was kind of run down for a tourist area; small, low ceilings and poorly lit.  When I brought my things to the check out counter, I was tired and ready to sleep.  Since their parking lot was relatively small, I decided to do something that I usually don’t do.  I asked the associate if it was okay to park overnight.  At most Walmarts, RV and Truck parking overnight is allowed, but it’s recommended to ask as a courtesy.   The associate told me that she had to ask the assistant manager on shift since the manager was out for the night.  After she checked out my items she turned to the Assistant Manager, who happened to be working in the next isle.  “No, absolutely, no! It’s prohibited because of the townships!”, she said with an odd and off-putting zeal.  Now, I was tired and angry.  I could’ve just not asked permission, blended in with the rest of the vehicles in the parking lot and they wouldn’t have known the difference.   Since I already “flagged” myself by asking, I opted to stay in the parking lot of a neighboring inn.   Since the only Walmart in town wasn’t gypsy friendly, I decided that this would be my last and only night in Gettysburg.  Apart from a few choice attractions, why pump any more of my money into a town that doesn’t support me?

The next morning, I went to the Gettysburg National Cemetery.   It was a beautiful day as I walked through the gates.  I first stopped at the Lincoln Monument; it was near the spot where Lincoln had given the Gettysburg Address.   I continued on to visit some of the final resting places of the Civil War dead.  The battle of Gettysburg, lasting only three days, was one of the bloodiest battles in our nation’s history and a turning point for Union victory.  Yet, nothing prepared me for seeing the overwhelming number of headstones of these poor souls lost during this short time.  As I walked in between graves, both marked and unmarked, the history of this event became more to me than just writing on a texbook page.

Afterwards, I went down the street to the Gettysburg National Military Park Museum.  It features a restored cyclorama from 1884 of the Battle of Gettysburg, an unbelievably large exhibit (almost half the size of a football field) displaying valuable relics and interactive media presentations covering the Civil War from beginning to end, including the assassination of President Lincoln and the reformation.  I have to say that it was the best exhibit I have visited thus far!  The museum also features a short film produced by the History Channel, that artfully framed the Civil War and it’s aftermath called, “A New Birth of Freedom”, narrated by Morgan Freeman, which was powerful enough to leave me in tears.  The way the actor, portraying Lincoln, delivered his famous closing phrase of the Gettysburg Address, “…that government of the PEOPLE, by the PEOPLE, for the PEOPLE…” with his verbal emphasis on the people (rather than the overused emphasis on the prepositions, “of”, “by”, and “for”) really hit it home for me.  It gave Abraham Lincoln’s words and the foundation of what our government is about true meaning for me.    At that moment, a new spirit of inspiration arose in me.  I decided that I would head to Springfield, Illinois to visit Lincoln’s Presidential Museum and anything else historically tangible that I could experience of him!

Gettysburg National Military Park Museum

Gettysburg Cyclorama surrounds the entire room!

When I was through visiting the Museum, I found that only half of my day was spent.  I decided to go to the town center and have a Civil War era photo taken at Victorian Photography Studio.  They don’t do the tongue-in-cheek pictures people have taken at carnivals and fairs.  These folks use the same wet plate technique that was used in the 1850’s!  I learned of this studio online over a year ago and was excited to finally have a real old tymie photo taken!  A husband and wife team runs the studio and they were very  pleasant to work with.  They weren’t what most people would expect of modern day Victorian photographers.  I imagined that their dress and attitude would be stiflingly prim, nostalgically echoing a bygone era.  Instead, they were humorous, down to Earth and casual.  I also spotted a quite a few cool, badass tattoos on them… I have a hunch that they like to go biking (Harley, not 10-speed).  After I selected my package (a small tin type for around $40), I told them of my gypsy lifestyle.  “You’re man is letting you travel by yourself?”, the husband half of the duo asked.  “I’m meeting up with him in Texas at the end of the summer, where we’ll most likely make our residence.” I replied.  His concern quickly subsided.  I’m starting to see a trend here.  I never thought people would see me traveling on my own as a big deal, but they often do.

His wife brought me upstairs to the studio to help me pick out a costume and set up the shot.  Usually, they work together, but since it was just myself and not a larger party, she was able to take care of me herself.   When she asked me what I had in mind, I told her that I wanted something that the average, everyday black woman would wear in that time.  Since the costumes were authentic Victorian pieces, she dressed me herself to avoid any rips and tears that may occur from misfits.  The first two garments couldn’t button over my “girls”.  With me being a size 14 at 5’6, they are quite ample.  The third garment, luckily, fit perfectly.  She then picked out a nice cameo broach and clip on earrings from her accessory bin to complete the look.  My pink, woven hair net for my dreadlocks, coincidently were time-appropriate, so we kept that on.

We had good conversation while we were getting ready for my shoot.  It turns out that she’s Christian and met her husband at church.  We both had been married before and shared similar views about commitment.  We both agreed that: 1. Commitment means that giving up is not an option… and 2. It takes two people with that mindset to keep that commitment.  She positioned me on a chair in front of the large, wooden camera then placed a U-shaped metal headrest behind my head to keep me still.  Using headrests were common for Victorian photographers.  Since the shutter speed of their cameras is slow, the slightest move could result in a blurry picture.

When it was time to take my photo, she slid the tin in the camera and removed the light block from behind the lense.  I had to stay still for about one minute.  Afterwards, she removed the plate with my captured my image, which was barely visible.  She carefully brought it to a nearby table to process it.  She explained the process to me as she worked the plate.  I saw that the tin was very light and faintly had my image as a negative as she placed it in a dish of water.  “Now, when I place it in the next dish, your picture will develop right before your eyes.”, she said.  Then she placed it in a dish of cyanide. Slowly, an image of me appeared, quickly starting at the edges like paper consumed by fire.  “Wow, this is Victorian me!” I thought in amusement.  The second thought I had was how aged and worn I appeared!  So here’s what I figured out… Tin plate Victorian photography is harsh and unkind.  When taken up close, it emphasizes every fold and crease.  Have you ever seen a photograph of a historical figure (when they were relatively young) and thought to yourself, “Goodness… Life must’ve been hard back in the day!”?  This type of photography, though nostalgically dignified, can add a good 10 – 20 years on anyone over the age of 17!  Well, that’s what I told myself.  Also, if your skin is deeper than olive, you may come out five times darker than you actually are regardless of lighting.  Having said that, I really dig my Victorian photo!

I am my own great grandma!

Next up… Baltimore!

Side note:  My original photo is actually clearer (harsh) and sepia colored.  Since the photo was processed on tin, it didn’t transfer well when I tried to have it scanned.  I had to take a picture of my picture with my phone!

Dearest Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania Dutch Country was my destination right after leaving my friend’s show in Astoria, Queens.   I plowed through New Jersey and a good part of Pennsylvania until midnight, when I started to get tired.   I found a Waffle House where I decided to have a late night “dinner”.  There was a busy inn next door, so I discretely parked in their lot for the night.

The next morning, I finally made it into town.  Lancaster is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to!  Sprawling farms with bright green mounds of grass at almost every turn.  There were cows and finely bred horses basking in the pastures.  I visited this area once before, as a child, but there’s a difference between seeing it from a crowded chartered tour bus and your own RV.

I had set my navigation to a beacon location (any national chain that can offer free camping, wi-fi, or some other gypsy necessity), a Super Walmart to camp.  I was surprised that, their main roads were hectic and busy.  I guess that’s expected when you’re in the middle of a huge tourist destination.  The Amish community is the center of it.  They live on their farms, separate from the modern world, but you randomly see them as you move about town.  They are riding on their horse buggies along the roads, selling baked and handmade goods at stands on their property, I’ve even seen Amish men and women shopping at Walmart!

The Amish way of life is simple, full of contentment, and God-centered… and it shows!  I’ve noticed that when I am around Amish women, in particular, I sense what I can only describe as ”Purity of Presence”.  Plainly dressed, silent, and detached from everyone around them, I’m compelled to have a deep respect for them.  It’s almost like how I feel being around a nun (as someone who never attended Catholic school).

During my visit, I ate… a lot!  I went to the lunch buffet at Bird in Hand Restaurant, owned by the Smucker Family (distant relatives of the folks who make jam).  Their food, had traditional Dutch fare such as fried chicken, buttered noodles, apple dumplings and shoofly pie which was amazing.  Their meat, fish and produce all came from local farms and hatcheries, if not their own.  How did I know this?  My waitress, Leisa actually started a pleasant, full-length conversation with me!  Folks are genuinely friendly here.  Let me list what usually passes as friendly service where I’m from: 1. Saying “hello”. 2. Smiling (real or plastic).  3.  Refraining from spitting in your food.   I also, remember another waitress, Stacy at the second Waffle House I visited in Pennsylvania.  I was sitting at the counter and we had a conversation about the unexpected paths that God has us take in life.  It’s been two weeks now and I still remember their names and it’s not because I wrote them down somewhere.  In contrast, I can’t remember the names of any of the servers I’ve had in living in Connecticut.  Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a stranger about God either.

Speaking of God, I had noticed right away that the culture here skews religious.   Two DJ’s on the classic rock station casually quoted The Bible in a humorous conversation about an argument one of them had with a friend.   On the community board at Dunkin’ Donuts, there were a few business cards that included Bible passages as their tag line.  Some of you reading this may be puzzled about why I’m pointing this out, but I was raised in a place that is very much secular in spirit.

There were many good and free (and close to free) things to do in Lancaster.  I took a tour at Mascot Roller Mills and Ressler Family Home, a completely water-powered grain mill that was run by three generations of the Ressler family.  Though the mill is still fully functional, it’s preserved as a museum.  The tour started off with a ten minute video interview with the last Ressler to run the mill (who has passed on in the early 90’s).  During the tour, the guide turned the mill machines on and demonstrated how the grains were processed.  I’m embarrassed to say that before I had taken this tour, I had no understanding of how flour was made.  Now I can tell you the different processes of making whole wheat flour, white flour, pastry flour, and which part of the wheat plant makes bran, and wheat germ!

Water-powered Mill

Next stop was the Mennonite information Center, where I took a guided tour of The Biblical Tabernacle, a beautifully designed reproduction of the tabernacle in the Old Testament.  A Baptist minister in Florida originally built the exhibit in the 1940’s.  The Mennonites later purchased it for public display and for students of Biblical and cultural studies.  The tour guide (who I can only guess is a minister) gave such a gentle, plain, and impassioned presentation, that some of the visitors (me included) were moved to tears.  What touched me the most was when she explained a common ritual practiced by the Hebrews exiled in the desert, outside the Tabernacle.  Once a year, they would pray all their sins unto an unblemished lamb before sacrificing it since only the shedding of blood could atone for wrong doings against God.  She went on to artfully weave this into the meaning of the sacrifice of Christ.  I was pleasantly surprised by poignancy of this experience.

Tabernacle Replica

After the tour, I watch two short films in their screening room, “Who are the Amish?”, a documentary about the Amish way of life and “Postcards from a Heritage of Faith”, a documentary about Mennonites faith, history and how they differ from the Amish.  Though a little dated, they were well made, entertaining and informative.  Though the Amish film was beautiful and quaint, I feel that I got the most out of watching the Mennonite film.  In the late 1600’s a group split from the Mennonites because they felt they were being too worldly and receptive to change.  Those folks who split are whom we know as the Amish.  The Mennonites see change as inevitable, live modern and actively reach out to other communities and countries to spread their faith.  The split must’ve been for the best.  The film featured Mellinger Church located in town.  Seeing several brown faces in the pews aroused my curiosity.  In Dutch Country, the Amish get all the attention, but the Mennonites are way cooler!  I planned to pay that church a visit!

I arrived bright and early Sunday morning for their 8:30AM coffee and fellowship.  There was a greeter at the door who asked me if I’d be attending Sunday School.  “Isn’t that for children?” I asked.  She told me that in this church, they have it for all age groups then handed me information pamphlets.  I took three steps into the lobby before I was approached by a well-dressed, sweet-faced elderly woman named Maye* who introduced herself and asked if I was just visiting or looking for a new church home.   I told her that I was only passing through and wanted to visit before leaving Lancaster County.

Maye brought me downstairs to the kitchen and banquet area where parishioners were having coffee before class started.  The room was large with round covered tables and a kitchen window towards the back where refreshments were served.  She enthusiastically introduced me to everyone who crossed our path on the way to the kitchen.  The counter had a full spread of coffee, teas, and condiments.  The group of men behind the counter was friendly and jovial.  I helped myself to some lemon-ginger tea and sat down with Maye and five of her friends.  It was then that I noticed that the men and women sat at separate tables.  I didn’t see this as a bad thing.  If you’re retiree who spends most of your time with your spouse, “girl and guy talk” should be taken at every opportunity!  Maye’s friends were pleasant to chat with and made an effort to make me feel welcomed… Which I did.

A good-looking man with dark features in his late thirties approached our table and Maye introduced us.   Dave* is a Deacon at the church and she told me that I’ll be going to his Sunday School class across the hall (classes are divided by age groups).  “Don’t worry, he’s safe… He’s married!”, Maye chuckled… half jokingly.   Dave laughed as a blush washed over his face, “Of, course I’m safe!”  Maye’s words struck me as quaint.  It allowed me to imagine a time when women were more protected from wolves, cads and humiliation.  An electronic bell chimed and everyone went to class.

In Dave’s class they discussed the book, “Just Walk Across the Room”.  It’s a guide about evangelizing the people you come across by simply connecting to them.  Dave handed me his copy to follow along.  There were seven of us in all, sitting in a circle, including Dave’s wife, Melony* who was sitting next to me. Everyone was attractive, wholesome and fashionable in a J.C. Penny sort of way. There was some small talk about what I thought of my visit and the sights around town, etc.  Everyone seemed a little surprised about my solo RV trip.  “You’re doing this alone?!”, Dave asked.   I couldn’t help but feel that the men in the group were hoping their wives wouldn’t get any funny ideas!  They were warm and friendly enough, but I did feel low-grade tension and I couldn’t place the reason.   I don’t think it was because I was black (that’s a totally different vibe).  Maybe, they’re not used to uppity women.  Maybe they rarely have visitors under 65… I don’t know.  At the end of class, they prayed for me to have a safe trip.

Dave and Melony invited me to sit with them during the service and Dave let me keep his book.  Their beautiful daughters, aged 8 and 10, sat in the pew behind us.   I was a little surprised to see that the Mennonite style of worship was no different than a white Baptist service.  There was a band that played contemporary Christian music as parishioners followed the lyrics on a large screen.  Some people, Dave included, raised their hands up in the air as they sang to receive the Holy Spirit. The older folks dressed more formal.  Some of the older women wore traditional white bonnets on their heads.  The younger people dressed casual.  Since I was wearing my long summer skirt and Teva sandals, I did not feel out of place.    One thing disappointed me.  I didn’t see any black faces as shown in the documentary… Where the hell did they go???

As the service came to a close, I wondered if I would be invited to go out somewhere afterwards as church folks often do for newcomers.  I quickly started going through a list of excuses to give because I was in a hurry to move on to my next spot.  Also, Melony didn’t seem comfortable sitting next to me; she had her arms folded the whole time.   At the end of the benediction, everyone stood up to leave.  Melony turn to me and said, “It was really nice meeting you, have a safe journey.”  I thanked her and extended my hand.  She reached out to give me a hug…. Seriously?  Dave, who was sitting on the other side of her reached over to shake my hand.  “It was really nice meeting you.  Thank you for visiting us.”  I felt his sincerity.

I rushed out to the lobby and briefly scanned the room for Maye, but did not see her so I quickly left. Feelings of guilt lingered as I sped down the highway for not waiting around to say goodbye to her.  She was so nice and welcoming to me, but I felt compelled to leave right away.   My guilt has since subsided.  I’ve decided that since my gut told me to leave, it was simply the right thing to do.

Up next… Gettysburg!

Side Note:  It’s been a month since liftoff!  With writing, I have a lot of catching up to do!

*Names changed to protect the innocent and infamous.

Pink Slipped!

 

Last week Wednesday, I got laid off.  I wasn’t especially surprised since Tim*, the COO hired the web marketing services of Mr. Smythe* (a former employee) as a consultant a few months back.   I was to work directly with him as he undertook some of my key responsibilities.

It was the day of my weekly one on one meeting with Tim and he emailed me to meet with him at 11AM instead of 2:30pm.  Moving up meetings at a whim was usual for Tim, so I didn’t think anything of it.  I enthusiastically walked in his office carrying a new poster I designed for our dealership.  Then I noticed the HR Administrator sitting off to the side of his desk.  Tim sprouted up to greet me at the door, which he quickly closed behind me.  “Hey, I have some bad news to tell you”, he said in his usual chipper tone.  He continued behind me before I sat down, “We have to lay you off.  Your position has been terminated.”  I always knew that would be the excuse used if they wanted to fire me since my work reviews were great.

Tim is not your typical COO, or at least, what I think of one to be.  He’s jovial, lighthearted and funny enough to hold his own against any stand up comic.   His composure suddenly changed when he sat across the desk from me.  Tim’s eyes were moist and his voice barely carried over with a less than solid timber.  “With Mr. Smythe here, we just didn’t have enough work for you.  I’m sorry.”, he said as he gave me a soft paternal look with his dark Irish eyes… I remembered that same look when he told me my job would be safe just two months earlier.

In the car business, it’s not only the automobiles that are lean and mean.  It’s good to make and keep money, but is there a line to be crossed when dealing with people? When everything comes down to black and white on a financial report, the facts are cold.  It’s one more thing that makes me realize that having love in one’s life is more important than ever.

I was actually relieved by getting canned because I originally planned to leave my job around this time of year.  However, I was starting to get complacent in my position.  I was relocated out of the Petri Dish and moved into a bright, spacious office with my two favorite co-workers.  More importantly, I have become closer to Beau and wasn’t sure how to go forward with what I wanted to do.   In my comfort, I was going to defer my dream another six months.  Obviously, the universe had other plans.  Funny enough, I secretly wished to be laid off months ago and now it has happened.  Perhaps I inadvertently used the “power of imagination”, as prescribed in Neville Goddard’s Resurrection (which predates The Secret).

My unemployment benefits, though modest, are just enough for me to live on… having no rent has its advantages.  Now, I’m finally free to go full nomad and hit the road!  I have a year to play with, I mean, use constructively… Yeah, that’s it.  Maybe, while I’m looking for another 9 to 5 <SMILE>, I’ll  volunteer** around in order to “enrich” my life as I travel.

Meeting Beau made me think about where I’d like to nest and set up a home base.  Getting a good patch of land to live off the grid appeals to me.  I want to live in a place that is warm year round, feeds my sense of adventure, and has small government ideals.   I have my eye on Texas!

Beau, luckily, also has a gypsy spirit and open to being a full-time RVer.  Coincidentally,  his mother and two sisters recently decided to move to Texas with their families.  Seriously, what were the chances?!  Safe to say that Beau is open to settling down there, as well.  There goes God’s invisible hand again.

Rejection stings, but I turned that frown upside down because I quickly realized that a pink slip is a gypsy’s best friend… Oh, sweet, sweet FREEDOM!

Side Note: Happy Mother’s Day!

* *On the D.L. legal tip: That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!

*Names changed to protect the innocent and infamous.

Gimme Shelter

Old school, one story motor lodge (Bates Style)!

As most of you already know, Nemo, the great blizzard of 2013 has fallen upon us in the Northeast.  Though I had a full tank of propane, gas, and a cupboard of canned goods, I dared not brave the weather with Eunice alone.  God forbid I get trapped inside my rig with the snow so high that it blocks up my exhaust systems, leaving me to choose between suffocating or freezing to death.  How’s about choosing between watching cable T.V. in my bathrobe or downloading shows with free wifi instead?

I went to seek out “traditional shelter” by booking a room at an inn for the weekend.  I stayed at Americas Best Value Inn in Manchester.  I found them through Hotels.com after searching for some place good, clean, cheap, and comfortable… and that they were!  A big added bonus was that the building was situated on top of a high hill, so the snow did not reach as high as the lower, surrounding areas.  It was also super close to the highway and a supermarket, which managed to be opened the day after by putting up employees in the inn next to mine.

Eunice in the beginning of the blizzard

Eunice afterwards

Snow to the left of me

Snow to the right

Cozy accommodations

Staying at an inn was a fun little break in my routine.  I had my own shower, a plush bed, and more personal space than I knew what to do with.  I almost forgot how time consuming mindlessly flipping through channels could be.  By the second night, I was ready to go… cabin fever was already starting to creep down the back of my collar.  Fortunately, the inn keepers had their plow and maintenance guys on the ready and I was able to leave when I needed to.  There are many in my region who are still stuck in their homes or workplaces as I write this… I feel really lucky.  The main roads in my area are still pretty rough, but drivable and most businesses are closed. Thankfully, not my Dunkin’ Donuts!

Side note: I’ve been getting a few posts on Facebook and on here suggesting that I should move me and my rig to a place with a warmer a climate… Trust, I’m workin’ on it!

Good Groomin’

I’m a woman living a camper van without running water in the dead of winter.  How do I do it and still be fresh and well groomed for a 9 to 5 job?  It’s time to talk logistics.  I’m not only going to talk about grooming, but also matters of functional sanitation and the like.  So if your sensibilities are especially delicate, I suggest you refrain from reading the rest of this post and patiently await the next one.  Otherwise, brace yourself for a little TMI.

My RV is fully winterized, meaning that all the tanks and lines have been drained and replaced with antifreeze.  This protects pipes and tanks against freezing which would result in expensive damages to my system and ruin my Spring.  After an RV is winterized, it is usually at this point that owners put their RV into storage or park it in their yard until the weather gets warm.  Not me!

Since I do not have the luxury and convenience of indoor plumbing, I have quickly found ways to get around it.  For showers, I go to the gym six days a week.   I make the most of my time there by going extra early to exercise for 30 minutes to an hour.  After my shower, I bake myself in the sauna to clear my head for 10 – 15 minutes and usually pray at least one Hail Mary and Our Father for the last five.  It keeps me grounded for the day.  Then I head back into the shower for a one-minute Arctic blast to cool down my system.  I get dressed and head off to work, right around the corner.

I must say that in choosing this lifestyle, you can’t be germaphobic or unwilling to shed some germaphobic tendencies that you may harbor.  With the exception of the occasional visit to friends and family, all of the toilets, sinks and showers I have used have been public.  This is not to say that I have absolutely no fear of germs and pathogens.  I do. I just take simple steps to avoid excessive contact with either of them.  Outside of work and the gym, I only go to public restrooms that are clean and well maintained.  A double layer of toilet paper line the seats and a few squares in the bowl to avoid splash backs… My apologies to tree lovers!  I always wash my hands afterwards and never grip any handles or doorknobs without paper.

At the gym, I bring along a strong water-bleach solution in a spray bottle to sanitize my usual shower stall, towel hangers, and sauna bench before I go upstairs to work out.   Most of the bad germies are dead by the time I return to lather up.   The idea came to me when I couldn’t find flip-flops in stores during the cold season to use in the showers.  I’m much happier with using bleach spray instead.  So far, no athlete’s foot… Win!

Late at night when most places are closed, I do not venture outside my camper to find a public restroom.  It’s not safe and it’s super inconvenient, especially if I’m already in my pajamas.  That’s why I have instituted third world techniques to get my business done.  In my sink, is a gallon jug of spring water for drinking and oral hygiene and a container of antibacterial hand wipes.  Hidden under my sink are two 64oz plastic containers from the local dollar store that act as substitute “liquid waste” tanks for my rig.   That’s right… pee jugs.  This is something that men have been using in cars since the creation of plastic bottles.

Since I am female and not male, putting my little tanks to use in the same manner as a man would pose a challenge.   I first tried using a Go Girl, an apparatus that would allow for a woman to go like a man, but I couldn’t bring myself to stand and go.  It just felt so unnatural… I may be a little rough around the edges, but I’m still a woman, damn it!  Also, I feared to have urine roll down my legs and unto my stain free carpet.

A solution was found to my problem.  I went out to a medical supply store and bought a pink fracture bed pan.  When nature calls (numero uno), I place it on the floor in a medium sized, rectangular plastic wash basin and then crouch over it like a cat in a litter box.  When I am done, used toilet paper gets tossed in the garbage and the contents of the bed pan get carefully poured into one of the holding containers.  This is done over the washbasin to avoid any spills on the carpet.  The bedpan is sprayed down with white vinegar solution, wiped dry and stored away.  I clean my hands with sanitary wipes and continue on with my evening.  I empty the containers as needed (usually every 5 days) at the dump station or a secluded bush under the cloak of night.  I like to replace the containers with new ones at least once a month.

For bathroom emergencies (the dreaded numero duet), I just go ahead and use my toilet… GASP!  I make sure that afterwards, I flush everything down with a good amount of antifreeze, which I have handy to prevent the waste from freezing.  I picked up this very helpful tip from JC at Longview the day I had my rig winterized.  I only had to resort to this twice, coincidently around my indulgences the week of Thanksgiving.

That time of the month isn’t as difficult to handle as I thought it would be.   The chance for messy mistakes can be high if I’m not on top of things during my heavy days.  Since I love the aqua velour upholstery throughout my camper, ruining it would be unacceptable! I usually like to use a super plus tampon in tandem with a pad, but I’ve been using a Diva Cup instead since moving into my van.  I find that using one really simplifies things and is way more economical.  It holds more liquid for longer periods of time and therefore, less bathroom changes are needed during the day and night.   The downside is that they can take getting used to in the beginning, but by the next cycle, you’ll find them easier to use.  There is also a chance of leakage if you don’t insert them properly or leave them in for too long.  It’s always a good idea to wear a pad as a back up when your flow is heavy.  I also like to place a towel under me when I go to sleep.

Keeping my beauty routine was easy.  I kept my hair’s natural, African texture and had it dreadlocked in a feminine style.  Though I choose to go to the salon once a month, it’s a simple style that I could maintain myself when I finally go on the road.  I find this style more favorable than when I had my hair chemically straightened years ago.  Simple is always best.  Woe to the black gypsy with high-maintenance hair who finds herself without a qualified salon in the remote corners of South Dakota!

My skincare is low-maintenance, as well.  I like to shower with Suave shampoo because it’s chemically identical to body wash, only cheaper!  I tone my skin with witch hazel and moisturize with facial lotion by Lacura, a low cost, high quality skincare line that can be found at any Aldi’s grocery store.  I then lotion my body from the neck down using a somewhat pricey body cream, CeraVe… my one “splurge”.   I mix in as much liquid MSM in the jar as I can get away with to keep my skin tight during weight loss.

Day & night Cream and a water optional cleanser

I usually don’t wear a lot of make-up.  I’ll fill in my eyebrows, line my eyelids and apply some mascara.  I dust my cheeks with blush in a natural hue and put on some lipstick… usually coral pink.  Yes, pink can really look beautiful on women of darker shades, especially mocha ones!   I find that it gives me a youthful glow, so I stick with it.  At night, I use eye make-up remover for my mascara and Walgreens make-up remover wipes for the rest of my face.  I’ll follow up with cleansing using Walmart’s version of Cetphil Gentle Skin Cleanser, tissue it all off, tone with witch hazel and moisturize with Lacura night cream.  The routine is easy and effective, no running water needed!

Side note:  Going to the gym regularly is an unexpected benefit of my new lifestyle.  I’ve never consistently gone to the gym for this length of time before.  I do so because I have to and I am glad for it!  I have so much energy at work and my body is much stronger and supple.  I’d like to add that anyone living in a camper would have a lot to gain from working out.  At least twice a day, I have to stretch my whole body over into the cockpit to pick up my 25 pound gym bag on the passenger side floor and it feels easy to do so.  I’m 40 pounds overweight and there was a time picking up a bag in this manner would feel like a strain.  Since I rarely enter and exit my home via the side door, I constantly have to jump back and forth over my storage box between the seats, which separate the cockpit from the house part of the van.  I always have to keep good balance while hopping in and out of my vehicle, which is somewhat high off the ground.  It is important to be able to easily navigate in and around my rig.  I also have changed my eating habits by eating low-carb.  Though I’ve cheated several times, I still feel great.  Simplified life realization: Our health is our wealth!

Reunion in Rhode Island

Drivin’ on up!

Eunice and I  went on our very first weekend road trip last week!  We went up to visit my Godfather, David who I reconnected with via the power of Facebook.  I haven’t seen him since I was a very young child.  He and his brother moved out to the west coast to pursue a career in bodybuilding.  David has been back in the east coast for an artistic endeavor that’s nearing completion.

As a child, I would occasionally see him in magazines or on television and be so proud to be connected to him in some way even though he was never in my life the way Godfathers were supposed to be.   He was a free-spirited young man living out his dream in L.A. and wasn’t very concerned at that point with fulfilling such a role for a little girl.  It was a great disappointment growing up.

I’m no longer eight years old and since then, had suffered much deeper blows at the hands of family, thus making it easier to put past hurts behind me and reach out to him.  After all, I was still so very intrigued and curious about this distant, mysterious figure that lingered in the background of my life.

I was nervous (something that rarely happens to me anymore), but when I finally saw him, he gave me a warm hug and that feeling quickly went away.  David is definitely what someone would describe as “a character”… charismatic, light-hearted and somewhat eccentric.  People around Providence call him “The Cowboy” because in a sea of conservatively dressed New Englanders, he stands out where ever he goes.

We took his Great Dane out for a long walk and had a good talk about his photography, my plans to venture west, and about the mechanics of life.   He opened his home to me, made me awesome vegan dishes, baked for me, took me out to dinner, took me to the movies… and even made me the subject of an impromptu photo shoot!  David spoiled me rotten the entire weekend.  It was the first time in a very long time that I felt like the center of someone’s attention… almost like a kid!  It was very well needed.

David and his dog Cowboy

After my weekender, I couldn’t help but feel that some sort of karma had been released from this experience, as I felt so much “lighter and brighter”.  It was a rewarding  first trip in which a connection was reestablished.  It makes me wonder what other connections will be made in the time to come…

Side note:  David may seem familiar to many of you (especially those of  you who came of age during the 80’s & 90’s).  That’s because he’s one half of The Barbarian Brothers!