ONE SHORT OF A LITTER

It must have been 1966, 5 years married, the last two in college, the farthest thing from my mind was replication. In all good faith I think it was Mary Jane K. who put the bug in my wife’s ear. My mother in law was anxious to be a grandma and we weren't moving fast enough. I don’t know exactly what was said. I don’t think I ever broached that gap with my wife but it likely had to do with waiting too long, past those prime, child bearing years when the body and the mind lose their edge after all, you want to live long enough to know your grandchildren. There it was. But she knew as well, no matter how long you wait, save and prepare, you’re never ready to start a family. Every childless couple knows, kids are so expensive and everything changes, maybe not what you really want, at least not just yet.  You can’t return a 2 year-old.

So one evening or afternoon I was informed, “It’s time!” Naturally I needed clarification. “Already,” I asked, “so soon?” Nothing conditional about her reply, “Soon!” I thought we should take a few months to practice but she wasn’t hearing that. Next ovulation was only a few days away and we would find out just what kind of a man I was. No problem; you either pass or fail and we passed on the first try. I never had a problem with dirty diapers or getting up in the middle of the night. I took my turns and our new boy-child grew, developed, conforming to us as much as us to him.  He was so easy I thought I must be a great dad. I was there for all of the thrills but in the end, mothers have the touch while at their best, dads only dodge disaster. All of the axioms are true, your life will never be the same. Like; I remember when we had spare time. 

1970, I was in graduate school in Illinois, our son was just turned three. I got the same, steely eyed look; “It’s time again.” Son needed a sibling, soon! I bet my life on it, Mary Jane K. was at the bottom of that one too but mom’s know best and I can’t say I was surprised. The family thing was going alright, living in hyperdrive wasn’t so bad. It’s the only child who misses out on sibling chaos and nobody wants to miss out on the chaos.  #1 Son would have a sibling in the spring. But that winter, sibling went from singular to plural, twins. It sounds so cool when it’s somebody else. On the refrigerator door, their hand written feeding schedule for the first month resembled a Calcutta train schedule, color coded, it took both of us to do the math. Stored away safely in the family archive, it evokes both chaos and detail. Three little boys. Helter-Skelter was the new normal, From day-one, "Conform" was not in their operating system; we had to adapt. A popular metaphor for long periods of hard work is; “Pushing the rock up the hill.” That’s what we were doing. So many happy, sad, funny, disappointing, surprising stories there; enough for a Ken Burns special. 

After 3 years in Western Colorado we moved on. The man who fired me said he was doing me a favor. Hard to believe at the time but we survive what we can’t repair and he knew better than me. During that last spring I got another surprise. My wife confided in me, #4 was on the way. I thought, “How in the world did we do that?” Had no plan for that but you slip and fall, get back up.  You get some rest, then go out and face the day. The twins started talking by their first birthday but not in English. They had their own language between them and it made us crazy. They understood what we said but not the other way. Difficult yes but never bad, with them every day was a contest and we lost as many as we won. Son #1 would sit in the grocery cart, sounding out words on food labels. He was so easy, I fantasized a multiple mixup at the hospital but I was a biology guy, no mix up, just generics. Same gene pool but very different fish. 

I do not believe in fate or destiny except when viewed through the lens of hindsight. After the fact it doesn’t matter what might have been, you get what you've got and you can’t reboot. The odds against anything happening at a particular place in time are astronomical. But my time between being unemployed and newly hired was only weeks. That summer was a grand but taxing adventure, the five of us living in a 19 ft. camper on a river bank in the mountains. My job was driving tourists up and down the mountain side. My wife was stuck in camp with three little boys and #4 on the way. One day a man sat beside me on the way up the mountain. He listened to my story and offered me a job, a good job. Our #4 would be born in Michigan. 

Mary Jane K. and Grandpa K. were there when we brought Baby Girl home from the hospital in Kalamazoo. M.J.  was delighted. She wanted a granddaughter all along and I was glad she got her wish. After a year in the city we moved out to cornfield county, to a big, yellow farm house just off the highway. #1 Son read relentlessly, pondered snow flakes and memorized large portions of the encyclopedia while #2 & #3 rolled like puppies in mud puddles and mashed ripe mulberries all over each other.  #4 took it all in, she didn’t miss a thing. Potty training, she would not sit down. Standing tall, facing the potty seat she peed her shoes full. She wanted to be one of the boys but they were an army of two with no plans to make it three. Ironically, she became their defender, the one who covered their backs. If you mess with one of her brothers you would have to answer to her.  She is still the family’s Champion. 

Shortly after #4 arrived we cut the cord, one short of a litter, no more surprises. Enough’s enough: they all turned out and good enough is good enough. They pull their own weight, all four and treasure people more than treasure. Maybe no surprise but four kids who fought relentlessly now love each other dearly.  I am familiar with the view, in this life, the measure of success is not in accomplishment but rather in the struggle. I am of that view. A few years ago we were together at a reception.  A friend noted, “You’ve got great kids. What is your secret?” I said, “They were great when we got ’em.”

SOUNDS LIKE BUDDHA

I watch old movies. I suppose it has something to do with growing old, the comfort of things familiar, knowing how it turns out. Then you get to watch your favorite actors when they were young. Last night I watched a film from 1984, The Natural. It’s a baseball story with a plot that could only happen in the movies. Baseball is the context but it’s about people and the timeless struggle between the rich, powerful and those neither rich nor powerful. The movie is about internal struggles that everyone wrestles with. Cast to be in their mid to late 30’s, Robert Redford and Glenn Close are star-crossed lovers whose lives turned unexpectedly and put them on different paths. They reconnect, he an unlikely hero on a major league baseball team and she is raising their teenage son, the one he doesn’t know about. One generation removed, Wilford Brimley is the salty, old manager, trying to coach his team to the pennant. He is cast against character actor Robert Prosky as “The Judge”, the team’s owner, setting his team up to lose, betting against them. In the end, the good guys, the little folks prevail. It’s as corny as it sounds but you love the characters and it ends well, even if it’s all make believe. 

It’s not strange for a single line in a movie to capture me, something philosophical or wise. In this case it was the hook line in a quiet, walking, talking scene.  On paper the script must have sounded melodramatic but Close and Redford took it over the top. They were walking together, trying to find the right words, the right approach to mending old fences. Each fishing a little, wanting to share just enough without tipping the scale. They don’t complain about how unfair life is and obviously it had been unfair. They arrive at a mutual understanding that life sometimes takes you where you didn’t want to go, regardless of how hard you try or how right the choice feels. At this point the star right fielder doesn’t know about his son. She has to go home and he, back to the ball park. She says, “You know, I believe we get two lives; the one we learn from and then the one we live with.”  They turn and go their own ways. Corny or not, I bought in. Maybe that’s why I’ve seen the movie so many times.  

Sometimes, I think, when the window of opportunity opens and closes, you might think you missed it and it’s all your fault. But life doesn’t give up when you fall short or miss the mark, it opens new windows, maybe even a long gone, bygone window.  My little shred of wisdom; I can’t remember the source, maybe it was me. It feels like something I would say; “Sometimes you have a life and sometimes it has you.” I’m flirting with karma. The life you learn from and the life you live with; do you have to be old for this to resinate! Is this Buddha, it sounds like Buddha: “When you fall down, get up. If you keep falling down, keep getting back up.” That’s all there is. Fall down, get back up, that's it. In all my life, it took every big and little thing just the way it happened to get me to this moment. Anything different and who knows where life would have taken me. I don’t really want to know.

BUZZZ

With the Canadian leg of my summer road trip behind me, Michigan is a great place to land. Along the way I am always asked about my home, where I live or where I come from. I hate it when they do that; it’s such a Human, tribal, who’s your mama thing to do. When I was 19 they shaved my head and forgot I had two names; I was just Stevens. They assigned me first to one place, transferred to another, and another, and another. After three years I surprised them all. I took my shaved head and went home. They thought I would reenlist, that living in the outside world would be more than I could manage after all, the Army takes good care of its own. I thanked them and closed the door behind me. But when I got home it wasn’t home any more, everything looked familiar but I didn’t fit. Eventually I came to believe that home was a place in time, as much about being 16 as about coordinates and zip codes. I wasn’t home, just reassigned to a place I’d been before. 

A lifetime later, reassignment has been my way of life, disarming at first but it grows on you. I pitch my tent for a while and strike it as need be. I don’t romanticize human superiority or wallow in civilized hubris but I do ask questions that nobody wants to think about. That bothers folks with a tribal mind set. I love West Michigan. If I have to be from somewhere, and the government requires a legal address where they can deliver mail; it would be near Grand Rapids, Michigan and it is.  I have a house in Missouri and I get mail there too but the Feds only recognize one permanent address. I chose Michigan. Back from Canada, I pulled in our Michigan drive. Duane, my brother by another mother and his son Ben were in their sting proof suits, working with their bees. I kept a safe distance. 

Back Story: Duane started keeping bees a few years back; pollinators for his blueberries. Bees are absolutely incredible. When a bee keeper wants to split one hive into two, one of the new hives keeps the old queen and the other is without a queen. In the bee-keeper culture, propagating and selling new, virgin queens is serious business. So when Duane splits a hive and needs a new queen, he orders one that is shipped UPS, over night, in a little bug-size cage. The new queen has her own pheromones, unique to her. The bees in the queenless hive become aggressive and angry in the absence of a queen but the new one is strange and they will kill her. So the bee keeper leaves the new queen inside her little cage with some food, opens the hive and puts her inside. The worker bees try to get at her but they can’t. In two or three days, they get acclimated to the new queen’s pheromones and they settle down. Then the bee keeper goes back in, frees the new queen and closes  the hive. Once accepted by her new hive, the new queen goes on a mating flight with several hundred drones, returns to the hive and starts laying eggs. The new bee community is happy again. 

Duane and Ben were installing a new queen, in her cage, into a split hive of really aggressive, angry bees. I gave way, maybe 30 yards. When Duane pulled the top off the hive it looked like an erupting volcano. Thousands of bees swarmed up and out, attacking the two men who had to wait for them to disburse, so they could see inside the hive. In the meantime, bees were buzzing around the hive in an expanding swarm, looking for something to attack. They had been several days without a queen and “pissed off” would be an understatement. I heard a buzz that was too close and I beat a hasty retreat. I was wearing a floppy brim hat and sun glasses. When I felt a thump on my back I knew to start running. Two, three thumps on my hat and one got under the brim, hit me on the lens of my glasses. I swear I head a “Pow” sound and felt excruciating pain on the mastoid bone, just behind my ear. Panic is the word. The only thing in my mind was to escape this little, hand full of insects: no plan, no logic, no anger, just get separation. How does that little buzz bomb, whose life span under the best conditions is only a few weeks, how does it totally reduce the world’s most superior creature to a pitiful prey? I was almost to the barn, on the gravel drive, waving my arms, swatting at things I couldn’t see. They gave up or lost interest and it was over. 

          Duane and Ben were still working at the open hive. I could hear their angry buzz. My own adrenalin wore off and the pain surged again. It really hurt. I knew the stinger would be ripped out of the bee and stuck in me. Muscles stay with the stinger so it continues to inject bee venom into the victim. To reach up and try to find it, it would get squeezed or bumped, almost guaranteeing that all of the bee venom would be injected. But it hurts so bad you think it can’t hurt worse so you try to find it and pull it out. You discover you were wrong, it can hurt worse. The pain is full consuming, like being stung all over again. My whole world, my complete existence was fixed on a single bee sting.  I tried to collect myself and I thought, ‘this must be akin to child birth.’ Five minutes later the pain was still intense but I was functioning again. I’m not allergic to bee sting but could’t help agonize; what if the other four or five bees had scored direct hits? Duane and Ben get stung all the time but have developed immunity or resistance. He promised, in 48 hours the bees in that hive would be happy, peaceful as butterflies. I took him at his word; I really do believe him. When he went out to check on them the next day, I stayed in the house. 

THE FAT LADY SINGS

Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario: Nothing’s ever over. Whatever it is just unravels into something else. After the fat lady sings, another fat lady sings a new, slightly different song. Fog was the rule after Marathon, on the water, in the valley, low down just above tree tops. I stopped for the night in Wawa, off the big lake it had a lake of its own. There are far fewer truck stop - travel centers in Canada than the USA so they have parking areas located inconspicuously somewhere off the road or behind a filling station. I found the spot just outside of Wawa. Sleep was uncomfortable, humidity so high there was a ‘Damp’ on everything. Condensation droplets hung from the inside of my camper shell like wannabe stalactites. I reasoned for the sake of good attitude, you need down days or you wouldn’t recognize the great ones. Three restaurants on the same block main street but two out of business. The Embassy had lights on, cars in front. The little, old lady waitress was funny without trying. I doubt she would appreciate my observation but I got the best breakfast there since I left on this cruise.

Wawa visitor center advertised two, scenic waterfalls but the road to them was flooded. No waterfalls today but it rains a lot. Maybe leaving town was all it took for things to look up. Sky cleared, sun shined and pull offs were there for all the scenic spots; not many good photo-scapes but stopping, walking, it was looking up. I stacked stones again, nothing empowering, just ritual for the sake of itself and the task of making something that isn’t supposed to last. Found a great spot on that beach where round to egg shaped (2.5 inch) pebbles were concentrated in a layer above another layer of (10 inch) cobbles. I supposed the wave action from a big blow had simply dropped the cobbles first and pushed the pebbles up a little farther. Gravity, inertia, friction; ain’t it great! 

Early afternoon: you come into Sault Ste. Marie without much warning. It’s summer cottages and boat houses, round a bend, top a hill and you’re in 4 lanes of curbs and stop lights. I could have very easily crossed back into USA then but I wanted to squeeze the lemon dry. For a full week I missed out on Hollywood egos, politician’s bad behavior, wild fires destroying ill conceived, shouldn’t have been there in the first place mini-castles and ESPN’s early predictions on the Super Bowl. So I stopped at a Wal-Mart Super Store. I found a remote corner of the lot and positioned my F-150 for the night. At the McDonald’s inside I caught up on e-mail, edited some photographs and walked isles, pushing a wheel barrow size cart, buying nothing but enjoying the walk. An hour and a half later, my little F-150 was surrounded by a herd of homes on wheels, all settled in for the evening. Wal-Mart allows RV people to camp in the lot as long as they arrive late, park far out and leave early. I thought I’b be left alone but no such luck. 

I closed up the truck and drove back along the route I came in on. Stopped at a combination General store, tourist trap, hunting & fishing center and filling station. Next door was small shopping center, more of the same. So I shopped some and had an ice cream bar. I asked at the General store if it was alright to park overnight at the back of the lot and it was. 

It had been warm and dry all afternoon, just right for sleeping, at least I thought so. I set up the generator in the twilight, organized my sleeping protocol with things put away or at least where they could be found. I noticed a few really big mosquitoes buzzing around my head. By 10:00 it was near dark and I slid into my sleeping bag. I would hear the familiar buzz-buzz and slid deeper into the bag, zipped it up all the way. The mosquito standoff lasted a few minutes and I went under covers completely. That got to be too hot, sweating and generally uncomfortable. So I came out to see what it looked like, turned on my handy LED search light and was taken aback. Neatly buttoned up with all obvious openings sealed off; so much for sealing off, in the beam of my light there must have been (I want to say a thousand but realistically I estimate) 50 or 60 mosquitoes inside the camper shell with me. My first impression was of old World War II newsreels where giant formations of allied bombers flew over Germany. Much of the danger there was manifest in close formation flying and risk of mid air collisions, getting to and from the target. Those mosquitoes were holding formation and I was the target. 

Long story-short; I managed to get repellant applied, grabbed keys, light, jacket and headed out the back. I shut down the generator, unlocked the cab door and slid inside. There, to my surprise, the passenger window had been left open, only an inch or two but enough for the mosquitoes to be waiting. I rolled up the window but there must have been a dozen or more big, really big (expletive- #/@!!*<‘s) who had unexpectedly discovered a target. But the tables were turned. With insect repellant, a bright light and my bare hands I had transmogrified from an outnumbered, vulnerable victim into a death dealing monster. There was a lot of thrashing, light waving and swatting. I uttered words I learned from my father when he didn’t know I was listening. They could duck and hide, temporarily, but they couldn’t escape and I wouldn’t give up. Some top notch repellant had rendered me unappetizing so I didn’t have to duck or dodge any more. My retaliatory, seek & destroy mission lasted about 15 minutes. All quiet, bombers that hadn’t been destroyed were hiding so I turned the light out, waited, listened and I picked off 4 or 5 more in the next half hour. Sleeping in the cab was uncomfortable and I missed the support from my CPAP machine. It got cold and I had to start the motor-run the heater from time to time but I got some sleep. Most of the bombers flew back to where they came from, empty handed. When day light came I had survived with a purpose, to not do that again. I’ll have to plan new strategy and tactics for mosquitoes. Avoiding locations where vegetation and water favor the insects will be a bigger concern. Checking windows and organizing the cab for a speedy retreat will also get some attention. In any case, those big, dry, windswept parking lots are looking better. Even if I have to share space with monster RV’s, they won’t come after me in my sleep. 

NORTH SHORE

Marathon, Ontario: Every wake-up is an adventure, of sorts, I suppose. Two hundred miles east of Thunder Bay, Marathon is off the Trans-Can Highway a couple of km, on the north shore, Lake Superior. Lots of similarity here with Alaska, the way trees struggle agains cold and wind, the way people address necessity. Americans have a reputation for valuing curb appeal more than R-rating on insulation. Here, everything is utilitarian and if it meets the need, that may be good enough. I woke up early, knowing by feel that it was time to get up but the fog had soaked us up like a big sponge. I was in a large parking lot and couldn’t see anything outside other than daylight, diffusing down through the fog. I was warm and dry so I nodded off for another 15 minutes. 

At 9:00 a..m. the fog is still heavy. At one of two local coffee/deli shops, I can see all the way across the parking lot, all the cars, across the street but only shrouded silhouettes of buildings on the other side . Again, very much like Seward, Alaska. Tourism guide recommends the beach here with its beautiful view. You always put your best foot forward and the beach may be Marathon’s only foot. I’ll have to wait for the fog to lift before I can pass judgment. 

I went to church with Unitarians yesterday. What I like is, they are predictable in a good way. Thunder Bay has a small congregation but none the less, two Unitarians together and you have a two hour conversation, 3 or 4 and you can debate all afternoon. Eight of us went to lunch afterward. Scandinavian pan cakes; conversation was better than the food. 

I was surprised even though I’d looked at the map. The highway runs parallel with the shore but there are lots of islands and headlands, too much for any views of the big lake. When there was open water it was obscured by dense stands of trees. From here on, the road turns east and the coast turns south. I want to make it to Wawa today, only 120 miles but I want sunshine for photos at the beach.  No rush so I’ll wait. O.M.G. - it’s almost daylight. I don’t think that light pole really cast a shadow but it will; sort of like Santa coming down the chimney. 

LIKE A MOTH IN ITS COCOON

Thunder Bay, Ontario: It’s taken 4 days, some logic, mostly trial & error but a pattern is coming together. Things have their place and there is an order of doing things that minimizes unnecessary motion. Space is cramped, 40 sq. ft. sounds small but 160 cubic ft. is the tight part. Not complaining, you just acclimate to the situation. Knowing when to drop the tailgate and when to climb over saves energy and avoids the awkward and clumsy, fall on your face, bump your head.

Night before last I woke up cold. I had enough covers but turning in my sleep they end up on the floor. First thing on my agenda yesterday was a Thrift Store, a sleeping bag; $9 Canadian comes to $7 American and small change. Slept really well last night, zipped like a moth in its cocoon.

I haven’t filled up with Canadian gasoline yet. I know it will be culture shock but I see so many big, gas guzzling pickup trucks it must get easier. Yesterday I drove around most of the morning, getting a feel for the city. By afternoon I was saturated with street names and orienting by shadows. I found a Wal*Mart Super Store, not as ostentatious as USA mother stores but it says something about Canada. Without a global conscience, most Americans (I believe) have to keep convincing themselves how special they are. Canadians (collectively) don’t need to prove anything, no evidence of the Kardashian-Trump syndrome here but not to preach. Dark by 10:00 last night, there were 15-20 campers in my corner of the lot. I moved closer to the loading dock so not to bother others with my generator. Sleeping 11:00 to 5:00 I need a good nap in the afternoon. 

The Wal*Mart parking lot has a fresh fruit stand at one end. It’s permanent for the season with a refrigerated semi trailer and make-shift building. The fruit is so ripe and sweet, don’t know where it comes from but I don’t think they grow mangos here. Young people tending the counter, college age I would think. One person’s job is simply cutting samples and feeding faces. There is a long line, all day. I was reminded of zoo keepers feeding the seals. I got enough free bites to stave off hunger. Waited until just before they closed at 9:00 to get a juicy apricot and it was worth the wait.

Saturday a.m. and I’m back at Husky Truck Stop for eggs & ham, not to mention the free wi-fi connection. When I finish here my plan is to explore the waterfront. Yesterday I happened on a Finish Gift Shop. Trivia: Thunder Bay has the largest Fin community outside of Finland. Saw some affordable trinkets there, want to go back today. There is a Unitarian Church here; thought I’d go to their 10:30 service tomorrow. Have no idea how that will go but Unitarians are like family, common values, interesting and engage easily. Depending on what I learn there, what else might keep me here for another day, the plan is to head east. The north shore of Lake Superior is pretty raw. The biggest town between here and Sault Ste Marie is Marathon (population 3,400). I’ll need at least one, maybe two gasoline stops, allowing 2 or 3 days but can stretch it if I get distracted. 

Teaching school, long ago, a lady whose child was unhappy both at home and at school, she was a frequent visitor with both our counselor and principal. Her concerns were not only strange and unfounded but also weird and disturbing. I asked my friend. Asst. Principal Cliff Johnson, what was her hangup. He reminded me; all we have are perceptions. Between the real world and what we make of it are filters that can skew everything. However different one’s perception may be, it is their reality. So you meet the world however you find it and you treat people like you want to be treated. I already knew that but I remember his simple, accommodating attitude, the one he brought to school every day. Even though he wasn't a Unitarian, he behaved like one. With that in mind, we’ll see how the day plays out.

BAD HOP

Thunder Bay, Ontario: you know, life really is pretty good. In baseball, a bad hop is when a batted ball bounces in front of you but not the way it’s supposed to. If you’ve analyzed its trajectory correctly, you get your feet and hands in position to field it cleanly and make a throw. But if the ball has a weird spin or hits a tuft of grass or an unauthorized pebble it can squirt off course and make you look like a fool. You can miss it, bobble it, get hit by it in any number of places, all of which will be painful and embarrassing. With a bad hop, react fast enough and still make the play, it’s high-5 time. I’ve had several bad hops today. But at the end of the day, life is still pretty good. 

I decided to kill this day in Minnesota with water falls and state parks, waiting for the ferry to Isle Royale National Park tomorrow. I thought making a reservation a day ahead would work but no space available until next week. No reason to hang around, they only had one line open at the border and the line was long, Took more time than it should have but then, Oh Canada . . . across the line and up the road I realize my GPS doesn’t know anything. The text message I got yesterday telling me I would have uninterrupted text and phone service at no extra cost was bogus as well. Verizon smart phone is dumb as my Garmin GPS. 

Driving into Thunder Bay, after noon, it’s either find a wi-fi signal and do some computer research or do what I’m told that men never do: stop and ask. I debunked that myth a long time ago, I stop and ask. I saw the Harley Davidson logo and a pulled in. The guy with the most tattoos and the biggest office there helped me analyze the GPS. I replaced an old Garmin I took to Nova Scotia in 2012, from Amazon, figured it was equipped like the old one but it wasn’t. No Canada. What to do! He suggested Best Buy, drew a map and I drive, squinting at street signs, guessing at a high percentage. The Geek at Best Buy throws up his hands and says, “We don’t touch GPS’s.” He starts giving directions, waving his arms: I say, “No, I need a map.” He draws a map and I copy it in my own large font. He said a sporting store across town sold Garmin stuff. D & S Sports: the boss there tells me they don’t sell Garmin any more either; calls a young sales guy over to draw another map: turn right out of the lot, 1st light turn right, go 4 lights and turn right, go 3 Km to the Greyhound bus station, turn left on the small side street before the buss station. Drive to the end of Dead End street, store on the right sells Garmin GPS.

Both guys at the GPS store laugh a lot. Seems Canadians buy from Amazon for the low price and get the USA program but no Canada. I ask if they can download the program and all they can do is laugh more. They need a chip and they don’t stock them, frequent updates make old stuff unsellable. I didn’t need a guru to draw a new map or make a prognosis. I can buy a new GPS that is fully loaded with both programs. I hate to admit it but sometimes, throwing money at the problem actually works. We get the thing installed and tested. It works great. 

I need help finding a truck stop with showers. Josh, the guy who did so well helping me spend money, got on their computer and we got an address for the Husky truck stop, with showers, on Hwy 11. New GPS snaked me through Thunder Bay, onto Hwy 11, east a few miles and announced, 400 yards on the right. It was like InterState, nothing but landscaping and chain link fence. Two miles later I take the exit and head back toward town, see several familiar streets and places I’ve already been. Then, on a corner, a Husky gas station; not a truck stop but at least the name’s right. I stop there and ask a young, cool, middle eastern dude, “Husky Truck Stop, with showers." He gets on his smart phone. Several minutes later, after sales to other customers, he comes up with an address, on Alloy St. This goose chase was like something from Hog Warts. Finally, passing a junk yards, loading docks and a dilapidated ware house, Husky Trucks with semis parked and a full service restaurant. 

Inside I find out, if I buy a meal the shower comes free. So I eat a chicken salad, get my towel and spend the next 20 minutes in hot spray. Now I’m clean, shaved, full, connected to the internet on their complimentary wi-fi signal. I didn’t have time to get money exchanged but the lady said, “We accept USA dollars.” The exchange rate favors American dollars. The lady doesn’t calculate the difference, I just pay the inflated price with stronger dollars than Canadian. But I got a free shower and I’ll take it. I really think, they think one of the big rigs out back is mine. After dark, when I find a place for my F-150 and crank up my generator, someone may squawk. If they do, I’ll play the bad hop. 

GITCHE GOOME

Grand Portage, Minnesota: “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” 1994 - Forrest Gump. I thought it was a pecan-caramel turtle and it turned out coconut cream. I’ve been on the road less than 48 hours and I’m quoting Forrest Gump. I had to drive until dark yesterday but I did land in a Wal*Mart Super Store parking lot for the night. Pine City, Minnesota is about half way between Minneapolis and Duluth. Sleeping in the back of the pickup, under a camper shell is fine, once you get everything else stored, out of the way, with a friendly escape route. Head bumping will prevail for a long time. 

Took my time today, only 240 miles, lots of stops, into Grand Portage, MN. just a stone’s throw from Canadian border. I’m anxious to cross over but want to do a day trip out to Isle Royale National Park in Lake Superior but the next one is Friday and it’s only Wednesday. There is a great State Park just down the road in Grand Marias, MN with big water falls and great reviews. If I do that, cross over on Saturday, I’ll still have more time than money. The rest of my route is supposed to trace the north shore of Lake Superior and drop back down into Michigan at Sault St. Marie. By the time I get to Traverse City I’ll be guessing what’s inside the chocolate again, but it won’t matter, it’s all good. That’s the plan. I’m taking cover in the casino: every border crossing has a casino just over the line. Food is decent and affordable. They let you camp in the parking lot. Fog coming in off the lake, it will be cool. I’ll need my sleeping bag and covers. I’m not making any plans tonight. Whatever feels right in the morning, I’ll go with it. 

Today’s fog and overcast wasn’t ideal for photographs but I practiced steady hands, framing and uploaded maybe 25, kept a dozen. Flowers are tough; critical focus is tricky. Then beach stuff on a gray day is like sugar free cookies. I climbed down big rocks to the shore at one pull off, found stones stacked in several spots. Stacking stones goes way back, all the way to the roots of religion. Primitive altars, sacrifices, the first monuments to sacred ground, some people are moved by the spirit, some generate their own. Gordon Lightfoot wrote and sang   “ the legend lives on from the Chippewa on, of the big lake they call Gitche Goome, - The lake it is said never gives up her dead . . .” Serious shit. So I stacked some stones myself, for the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald, for Gordon, for long dead Chippewa shamans, for Gitche Goome, How long they stay stacked doesn't matter; only that they were. “. . .when the gales of November turn gloomy.” 

PATAGONIA 21 - GESTALT

Ushuaia, Argentina: Traveling alone, faraway, afoot, struggling with the language, never knowing what comes next or how it will unfold; it’s not for everyone. I don’t write about the, being alone or contemplating failure with ill conceived or poorly executed plans. Neither do I share much about trying to find a fit when the fit just isn’t there. It’s like going on a blind date: hope for the best but prepare for the worst. My first strategy for hard times or a bad day was exercise. I needed exercise anyway and walking was the universal cure for every ill. Watching people enjoy each other I might have felt a little left out but I didn’t dwell on the feeling. We are social creatures and we need each other but lonely and lonesome are not the same. Some civilized interplay is not only disappointing but also discouraging. I think, seriously, when I’m by myself I’m in very good company. Then I rationalize, who else gets to do what I do? It means I’m different and I take some comfort there. I don’t want to be like someone else. Creature comforts and perceived security that comes with conformity are terribly overrated: obedience is a disease, not a virtue.

So I’m in Patagonia, coming off of a great day, I wake up to several inches of new snow. I picked up my clean clothes on the way home, the night before. Left them beside my bed, folded in a mesh bag on top of my duffle. Living out of a big canvas bag you have to keep reorganizing the contents. Sliding clean pants down the inside all the way to the bottom I was surprised how warm my clothes were. My bag on the floor was like a sponge, soaking up energy from the heated floor. Repositioning clean jeans to the bottom of the bag, I touched the two pound tin of Bariloche chocolate. If my clothing felt warm, the tin full of chocolate felt hot. 

“Gestalt” is a clinical term, difficult to define but frequently employed. Generally described using examples rather than defining characteristics, Gestalt is the feeling one experiences with an “Ah-haa” or an “Oh My God” moment. It’s when seemingly unrelated elements are connected in a flash of insight and you make new meaning from it, meaning that was not anticipated. My Gestalt experience was delayed about as long as the lag between engaging the blades on my lawnmower and hearing them roar into action: a split second. Chocolate will melt in your hands, I know that from experience; the better the chocolate the faster it melts. By inference I reasoned; the chocolate tin felt hot to my touch thus, instead of 36 individually wrapped, delicate, delicious, confectionary delights, my candy tin would be occupied by a mass of molten chocolate. Hypothesizing; I considered sitting the tin outside on the frozen window ledge. The contents would solidify but the 36 original pieces would firm up as a solid block. Not only that but the block would be contaminated by as many sheets of waxed paper, dispersed throughout the mass. 

I carefully opened the tin. As luck would have it, it had been right side up during the phase change. Chocolate is a good example for demonstrating phase change, the process of changing from gas to liquid to solid or vise versa. In this case it softens to the point where it will over time, take the shape of its container; it will pool but it won’t pour. That’s how I found my candy. I could push my finger down into it with gentle pressure but it wasn’t pudding-sloppy. I had a new dilemma. There was no practical way to restore the gifts I had purchased for my children.”Gestalt !”  Another flash of insight. One could in fact return it to the solid phase, simply put it in a cold place. That posed two new problems if you want to think of them as problems. What to do about gifts, and what to do with the 2 Kg. chunk. 

I bought the chocolate in Bariloche, the chocolate Mecca of South America which was north of Ushuaia and I had to travel north on my return trip to Santiago. If I reroute through Bariloche, I could buy a second round of chocolate gifts, no one the wiser. It would require an out of the way side trip but then impromptu side trips often yield wonderful surprises.   Outside in the cold, the chocolate would lose none of its flavor or texture. Someone would have to dispose of it. My duty was lear and present; I might share a few bites but it was my cross to bear. I could cut it with a knife, into smaller chunks. I could separate chunks into smaller pieces simply by peeling wax paper away from chocolate. It would take at least a week, maybe longer but I had the time. 

Actor George Peppard once stared in a TV adventure, action, comedy, “The A Team” where his patented hook line was, “I love it when a plan comes together.”  I thought of George as I sat there, with a bite of glorious chocolate on my tongue and scraps for seconds or thirds. You don’t devour that stuff like a mini Snickers bar. You savor small samples, even lick your teeth between bites. My blunder had betrayed itself and left me in a state of Grace. Resupply would have to wait but destroying the evidence required immediate action. 

I dropped in at Fireland Institute at lunchtime. Madeleine was happy to see me. She had brought soup and a sandwich for lunch. I had several empanadas in my pocket. She offered instant coffee but I chose water from an upside down water jug that gravity fed to the spigot below. She was interested in grammar; when to use the word “had” with another verb in the past tense. I had to think about it; native speakers don’t usually know what’s coming out of their mouths until they hear it. I supposed the “had” suggest a significant time element between the action and the present. “I had spent my last peso:” It suggests that I spent it some time ago. She was satisfied with that and when Paula came in and agreed, my credibility got a boost. I knew a lady who taught at The English Institute in Santiago who took great pride in her mastery of English. She really worked at it, you could tell she was thinking about the words before she mouthed them. She once tried to tell me about the rest of the faculty saying, “Not many teachers here are English spokers.”  Spokers ! Speak and spoke, present and past, room there for a ride up the learning curve. But I understood and that’s what it’s all about, it’s why we do it. 

Game night was only a day away and I didn’t have a story list yet. I have two stories I can tell in Spanish but I would be working in English. Still, it opens the way to embellish in the language they do know. The “Turnip” is about an old man who tries to pull up a great turnip from the garden. It won’t come so he enlists help from first one family member and then another, then farm animals, little critters and even insects. The audience has to engage by helping the Teller remember the order in which each helper is incorporated into the story. Words, language; without it we would be thumping on our chests, making “Ooh-ooh” sounds, feeling superior no doubt.