I Slept Around!

Okay, that’s a provocative title and probably a bit deceitful. But I’m taking a page from Dawn’s blog (The Bohemian Valhalla) on that one. She puts a lot of thought into her post titles, trying to lure unsuspecting readers into her little corner of mayhem, eclectic photographs and the  best food porn in the blogosphere. True, I am going to write about places I’ve slept but not in the true sense of how that slutty phrase is usually used. Not that I didn’t go through a short but memorable phase after a bad break up where I could come up with enough material to write a post like that. But that post will not be forthcoming until a week or two before I die when I’m in a mood to confess all my sins. This time I’m going to walk down Memory Lane to all the TYPES of places I have slept.

The first place I remember sleeping away from home was at a summer camp for Campfire Girls. There were canoes and a bunkhouse involved so I’m thinking it was a camp on lake but my memory isn’t all that clear on the details. I do remember making s’mores and going home with poison ivy and the Campfire Girls’ motto of "WoHeLo" which stood for "work, health, love." I want to believe we also sang the Campfire Girls’ official song back in the day but I just don’t know if memory and wishing I did got mixed up in my brain.

The next memorable place I slept away from home was on a vacation with my parents and I was probably fourteen at the time and we slept in a tourist trap kind of place that had a circle of tepees where travelers spent the night. Not authentic tepees made out of buffalo or deer hides but I was a kid and that didn’t matter in an era when my brother and I probably saw every black and white cowboys and Indians movie ever made. (And now that’s he’s an old man and living in the Memory Care building he’s back to watching them from morning to night. Note to my future cargivers: When I’m too old to remember how to change my TV channel put mine on HGTV or anything other than the old people channels. Why anyone wants to watch black and white after color was invented boggles my mind, but those channels are popular here in independent living, too, so just call me Bogglehead.)

Next up in the I-Slept-Around lineup was back here in Michigan in a cottage on Lake Michigan complete with sandy beaches and a peer where I soon learned that drawing boats coming and going was a great way to meet boys. Like the Campfire Girls' week-in-the-woods this one was also chaperoned by my mom. By then we’d moved up to be Horizon Girls and this was in our senior year. I have many fond and silly memories from that week at the beach but the one I’ll share is of my mom leaning out an attic dormer window with a broom ready to beat off the boys who were dangerously close to using that window to sneak into the house. Crowded behind her was a gaggle of screaming and laughing teenage girls.

Fast forward to a time after meeting my husband and on vacations we started out sleeping in the back of his pickup truck with sleeping bags but we soon graduated to having a camper cab in the back of the Chevy 4x4. (Not sure 'camper cab' is the correct term, but lets go with that for now.) One of those places we slept under the stars in the bed of the pickup truck I wrote about in a post titled The Happiest Day of my Life. It was written in 2012 and it my archive of memories it still lives up to that title. No bait-and-switching with that blog title.

A few years later we invested in a Northface tent that was all trick out with the latest and greatest camping gear. I've always hated cooking for everyday needs but cooking along side the tent on our trips was fun as long as Don lit the stove. One time while camping we woke up surrounded by a herd of deer grazing in the early morning mist. They were so close we could have touched a few of them. By then our dog-at-the-time was so hard of hearing he, thankfully, slept through the enchanted event. Either that or he pretending to sleep through it so he didn’t feel obligated to protect us and where would he started? There must have been twenty of them.

Our cozy little family back in the day.

I don’t remember why or when my husband decided to give up tent camping and buy a motor home. He called it our ‘Rolling Dog House’ and that might give you a clue. The dog we had before Levi and my husband were brothers by different mothers, as they say. And Don didn’t like leaving him at home and I wouldn’t let him take the dog if it was really hot. So even on day trips along Lake Michigan or to go to the heavy equipment bone yards across the state we’d take the motor home so Cooper could ride along. It was also a time in Don’s life when he was heavy into collecting his way across the country and near the end of trips it wasn’t unusual that we’d have to rent motel rooms because he had the motor home too loaded up with things for his gas-and-oil memorabilia collection and for resale in our antique booths. (Think American Pickers. We actually knew those guys before they had that TV show and Don did the same kind of picking as they did.)

 

The last memorable place I slept was in the same inn as Susan B. Anthony stayed in for a month. It’s a bed-and-breakfast in my favorite little tourist town on earth, Saugatuck, and my niece and I had a wonderful weekend that included going to a play at the local theater, driving along Lake Michigan and shopping main street. At one time I did a deep dive into all things related to getting women the right to vote so sleeping in the same place as Susan B. did was an awesome treat. She was the founder of the National Women's Suffrage Association and the bed and breakfast at one time had a bunkhouse wing with 16 bedrooms that housed 100 lumberjacks who worked the vast forest lands in the mid-to-late 1800s. Being in places with historical significance has always energized me a way that is hard to explain...like I'm a spear carrier on the timeline of humanity. Historical place remind us of what past generations have fought for, what we (hopefully) can build on it and then pass it on to the next generation.

There were other memorable place I’ve slept like on a steamship that sailed the Great Lakes and on top of a grave site during a low point in my young life and on a beach in Jamaica with a happy-happy rum buzz going on in my head, but we all have similar places we could catalog when we're as old as I am. And a second post that actually lives up to the title of this one? Don’t hold your breath waiting for it. Until someone gives me an expiration date I won’t be spilling my deepest, darkest secrets. ©

Until Next Wednesday…

* Photo at top is of the Park House Inn Bed and Breakfast in Sautatuck.

                               

Wandering Texas

My living room is one big souvenir box of our many vacations out West. In 1990 we went to Texas and came home with lots of great memories in addition to ‘stuff’ I’m now selling off. I wanted to attend a Book Lover’s Convention in San Antonio that year and Don was more than willing to go along. I was a member of the Romance Writers of America back then and the convention drew 600 ladies and a couple dozen men. Don loved being one of those guys at the book fair portion of the three day event and he was such a good sport. I’d given him an autograph book and a list of author’s tables where I wanted him to visit and he dutifully---probably gleefully---stood in lines while I went to workshops and lectures. He’d never read a romance book in his life, but he could talk the talk; he’d been the proof-reader for my bi-monthly book review newsletter for over a decade. It was a subscription publication that started out as a campaign against rape scenes is books labeled ‘romance' and it grew into a 28 page “newsletter” by the time I had to give it up to make time to share-care my dad.

Wandering the back roads of Texas before and after those days in San Antonio was an eye-opener. We came back knowing that although Affirmative Action seemed to have out-grown its usefulness in Michigan that sure wasn’t the case in Texas. For example, in a town too small for a traffic light we were in a store waiting to pay for something when a siren started blasting. Don asked the shop owner, a man in his mid-forties, what the siren was for and the man laughed and answered: "That’s the siren for the volunteer fire department. One blast for the white side of Main Street, two blasts for the businesses on Main Street and three blasts for the black side of Main Street. That one’s three blasts and no one is going to answer that one.” There was no shame in that admission, no hint that there was anything but delight in the man’s voice. Don and I looked at each other, set our would-be purchase down and walked out.

But we met some great people in Texas, too. One couple who befriended us had invited us to a party and to this day I regret being too chicken or polite or stupid to accept their offer. It was a party for Ann Richards who was elected the governor of Texas the following month. We’d never heard of her before, didn’t know how outrageous and dynamic she was. Didn’t know how important she’d become to the Democratic Party in later years. But I can image what would have happened if Don and Ann had gotten the chance to swap stories. He could out-story anyone and just the thought of those two together makes me grin. 

Texas was full of colorful character back then. Late one afternoon we ran into a guy who owned an antique store and he had a steer head scull on the porch that Don wanted to buy. The guy wouldn’t sell it to him but he said, “Come back tomorrow. I’ve got twenty-five more coming in the morning.” “If you’ve got more coming tomorrow,” Don replied, “why won’t you sell me that one today?” “I can’t”, the guy answered, “if I sell that one, I won’t have any left until tomorrow.” Around and around they went and we left without a bleached-out scull. Up here in Michigan, if you have a customer with cash in hand, you take it. We did get a steer head in our travels that year, probably a slander house special and it still hangs in the living room today. 

Another interesting encounter we had happened when we’d stumbled into a bar full of Native Americans one Saturday night while trying to find a place to get a thermos filled. All I can say is I was glad there was a BIG guy there wearing a badge. He stuck to us like glue until we got our business done and was out of the place. At one point when one of the locals challenged Don to a game of pool the big guy answered for Don that we were just passing through. Under his breath he was probably adding, “just a couple of dumb-ass tourists who think they’re Roy Roger and Dale Evans.’

From the back roads of Texas we picked up a couple of phrases that became part of our permanent vocabularies. One of those phrases we heard repeated by five-six guys was, “I’m a multi-millionaire, you know.” Over the years as Don and I would reminisce about wandering Texas those words would come bubbling out of our mouths. Another phrase we came home with was, “Don’t ever start buying food. Once you start, you’ll never stop!” We had run into a woman picking through garbage cans one night while walking the dog. She liked us and gifted us with that little bit of philosophy and many times over the years when we’d be going into a grocery store, one of us would say, “Muriel was right. Once you start buying food, you can’t stop.” We heard the next day that Muriel owned half the closed-up stores in that tiny town where she ate out of the garbage cans.  

When you go off the beaten tracks of any state you come home with quirky stories to tell and that's the way we always traveled. ©

Photo: That's my living room with cow's scull mixed in with the art work.

The Mini Christmas Trip

My brother had three kids and those three nearly perfect human beings (in my eyes, anyway) had five children between them. As it happens in all families, my brother’s grandchildren grew up, got married and started having babies. Now, our family has eleven little ones under four plus one ready to greet the world any minute now. Counting all the spouses that brings my family up to a grand total of twenty-nine going on thirty. With all those little “activity machines” running around, my nieces have been renting the community hall in a small village for our Christmas Eve parties. Due to Michigan’s snowy weather, the distance and me not driving at night, I don’t always make it out to the party. This year, however, Levi the Mighty Schnauzer and I got an invitation to stay overnight at my oldest niece’s so my drive out of town and back home again could be in the daylight. And with no snow in the forecast, I accepted the invitation, thrilled that I’d actually wake up Christmas morning to a tree standing next to a cut stone fireplace in a log cabin that could easily be featured on the cover of Holiday Magic Magazine. 

Let me tell you, Levi getting invited was a big deal and I wanted to be sure he was on his best behavior with all the comforts he enjoys demands at home. I’d use the same packing list for Levi whether it was for an overnight or a month's stay: a crate, crate pad, blanket, old towel (to clean his feet when coming inside), brush, anti-itch pills, food, water and their dishes, leash, treats, winter coat and microchip information. Sounds simple, doesn’t it, to pack for a dog and it would have been if when I got his travel crate up from the basement I hadn’t discovered that Levi no longer fits unless I could teach him how to imitate a headless sardine in a tin can. (I haven’t used the crate since before my husband died and Levi was still a growing boy.) That crate wasn’t a good option so I made a mad dash to three pet stores in the area and none of them had what he needed. 

Amazon had a soft-sided folding crate in a color I could live with, in a size that I thought would be perfect for him. I ordered it, paid extra for two day shipping and Amazon got it to my door at 9:30 PM the day before I was to leave. I unpacked and set it up, loved the style but it was big enough to hold a whole litter of Levi’s which would have been okay-ish except it didn’t fit in my car which kind of defeated the whole purpose of having a travel crate. Oops. When I called my niece to explain my problem she said she had a baby gate we could use to confine Levi in bathroom while we went to the party. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t push it over trying to escape if not for the fact that my niece has a cat. Worry wart that I am, I had visions of coming back to the log cabin after the party to find out that Levi had busted out of lockdown, chased the cat up the Christmas tree, tipping it over into the fireplace and fire department was just putting out the fire as we drove in. 

Thankfully, the cat---bless her heart---hid out in the basement the entire time we were there and Levi amused himself by letting his nose track the “mythical” cat around the house. But he’s afraid of steps and the cat’s afraid of dogs so it was a match made in heaven. As a house guest, Levi was a model of doggie decorum. He didn’t bark at anything, didn't beg at the table. He didn’t jump on the rich, brown leather furniture grouped in front of the fireplace. And he didn’t pee on the Christmas tree or anything else in or outside the house that wasn’t his designated porta-potty area. 

The photo at the top is of the two youngest babies in the family. They’re not twins but their mom’s accidentally bought them the same party dresses. I don’t believe in putting photos of kids online without parental permission---and I’d never ask---but you can’t really see their sweet little faces and, of course, no one knows who Santa is but one of my niece’s is rumored to sleep with this one. At one point or another both these babies were nursed while their mom’s sat in the mayor’s chair on the dais at the front of the hall.

You’re not supposed to have favorites in a group of babies and toddlers, but one little girl who hasn't been walking very long captured my heart. In my younger days, I would have been down on the floor with my camera following her every move. She has black hair that was caught up into a Peddles from the Flintstones topknot and when she wanted to pick something up from the floor she’d do a sumo wrestler pose that cracked me up. She could hold that pose for the longest time, her dark eyes laughing while her red dress hiked up over her outstretched knees and her diapered bottom nearly touched the floor. Oh course, any toddler who isn't afraid of me is a winner in my book and this year there was quite a few at the party.

Except for the dog crate I have to exchange, it was a wonderful Christmas mini trip. ©

Fourth of July Kisses and Misses

When you’re a septuagenarian the 4th of July comes with many memories. For me those memories usually include bodies of water, family potlucks, small-town or boat parades, fireworks and The Kiss. No one could ever forget their very first kiss if it took place with the whooshes, crackling hisses and booms that come with pops of brilliant colors bursting overhead in the night sky. Oh! My! God! I was fifteen and he was seventeen and when he died nine-ten years ago they had to cut him out of his house because he was so obese. I’m glad that teenage crush burned itself out because I would have hated a life that included cooking for a man who ate himself to death.

How did the crush end? Exactly one year after The Kiss he gave me a line of hickeys that went from my ear all the way down to my cleavage. I was so naïve I didn’t even know what they were until my brother told me I’d better cover those up before our mother saw them. Not an easy thing to do at a lake cottage where we spent half our days in the water, but for the next few days I lived in a flannel shirt and if my mother knew why I was bundled up, she never let on. And thus my very first crush ended. On the next 4th of July when he again came to stay at his friend’s cottage, I was no longer drooling over his beautiful face and taken in by his flattering words. 

 

The year of our bicentennial was another memorable 4th of July. You might remember that year we celebrated the nation’s birthday for the entire summer, not just on the fourth. There were festivals and fairs, synchronized church bells, a flotilla of ships like no other on the Hudson River in Operation Sail, a laser beam via satellite cut a star-spangled ribbon here on earth and a landing pad was built for UFOs to come help us celebrate. Red, white and blue clothing, food and product packaging was everywhere that summer. I even stood in a long line to sign a copy of the Declaration of Independence that was buried in a 100 year time capsule. America’s creativity was in high gear.

 

That was 1976 and Don and I went a little crazy collecting every souvenir we could get our hands on. We were sure saving them for the next fifty years would make us rich. The problem was lots of other people had the same idea and all those special edition postage stamps and coins, glasses, cups, hats, jewelry, newspapers, fast food wrappings, Liberty Bells, quilt patterns and dishes are still in my basement, in a souvenir wooden crate put out by the Anheuser-Busch brewery. My husband didn’t drink but that didn’t stop Don from buying two of those boxes of bicentennial beer, the bottles from which got sold off individually twenty years ago. My all-time favorite bicentennial souvenir, though, is hanging in the back of my closet. It’s a long, loose fitting hippie-style dress with a smocked front that I made out of a light weight “homespun” cream colored fabric with small, 1976 dated flags and fireworks printed all over it. I wore it to every weekend festival, parade and bluegrass jamboree we could find that summer of ’76. Like I said, we went a little overboard and we lapped up all the patriotic theme celebrations within a 100 mile radius. My only regret is that I don’t have a photo of me wearing that dress. It was the best summer of my life. 

 

There were lots of other years when my 4th of July memories all blend into one of two categories: 1) the years when we’d lounge around a lake at either my parent’s cottage or at a cottage with my husband’s family. Food, family and roasting marshmallows over campfires after dark. It doesn’t get much better than that; or 2) the years we’d take off on mini vacations, antique hunting at garage sales and flea markets along Lake Michigan on our way up north. When we’d get there the best part was waking up in a tent pitched in a state park and hearing the waves washing the shore and the seagulls calling us down to the sandy beach. 

 

For my entire life, I’ve claimed the 4th of July as my favorite holiday and I’ve meant it. It represents family, fun, apple pie and patriotism. And now I miss it, the way it used to be. I miss the smell of large bodies of water and fireworks. I miss the family storytellers and jokesters, the ladies who made the best dishes to pass and guys who gave the warmest hugs. I miss how the strangers we met on mini vacations had the time for friendly exchanges. I miss having a president who didn’t embarrass me! I miss the certainty I used to feel that the better, most altruistic side of ourselves and others will always rise to the top and guide our nation down the path our Founding Fathers, in their infinite wisdom, envisioned for us. Hopefully, the checks and balances our constitution promises will kick in with the mid-terms and, like that line of hickeys I got on the Fourth, the current administration’s total lack of credibility and decorum will prove to be an anomaly that will do no permanent damage. ©

 

the beer case, stock photo, mine is in better condition