tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40168996921209749232024-03-13T08:19:29.187-07:00Sanders LaMontLife in the mountains, travel, retirement, music, journalism, family, politics, parks, sailing and a few brain drippings.slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-77156777818007253892023-12-14T12:15:00.000-08:002023-12-14T12:15:24.168-08:002023 -- Doing good (for people our age)Summing up the LaMont family adventures and misadventures for the year 2023 is no easy task.
We had many glad times and we had a few bad times. There is a certain balance to life.
Overall: we are good.
We survived as we moved further into our ninth decade on the planet. We are still vertical.
There were a few bumps along the way.
But first, the good stuff.
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Above: Zack and Katie in Spokane. Below: us with great granddaughter Jamie
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We were blessed this year to be able to spend time with our children, grandchildren, and our great-grandchildren. Nothing is better than being entertained by the great-grands during a visit to Spokane, our cheering for our now-grown grands who are finding their way in a challenging world.
And we are particularly lucky to live near daughter Ruth and her husband Brian. Every time we visit with them and their menagerie of cats and dogs is a joy that lights up our days. Their daughter Delaney and husband are still in the Boston area working on post-graduate education, and loving the new experiences. And son Connor is home again after four years in Southern California.
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And we made it back to Spokane in the Fall to see son Zack, his daughter Katie and the greatgrands. Katie is enjoying her new apartment and her two precious children. Such visits are treasures even if it does seem to snow every year when we drive north.
Pat and I are blessed with good health, "for people your age" as our doctors say, and manage to stay active in different pursuits.
Pat spends much of her days helping people, keeping me on track and looking out for the less fortunate or those that just need a bit of help or a smile. I spend my time reading, puttering in the yard, hiking at the state park, or finding an excuse to do music with friends.
music or a meal
We find that sharing meals with friends is great entertainment.
We traveled some.
The highlight was a first-ever trip to Alaska, where we used the efficient rail service to get around, and finally got to see the splendor of that great state.
Alaska as seen from the domed train car.
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And we made our annual trek to the Northwest Coast for a week of camping with family, and managed to spend a few days close to the ocean, something we require to replenish our spirits.
We also got to visit our friends Warren and Marsha in Seattle, which is always a joy to us, and will reunited with sailing buddies Michael and Sylvia next week in the Bay Area.
We had a few challenges and losses. As we and our friends age, some inevitably are lost. This year it was our old TODAY newspaper pal Ron Caylor, who had retired gracefully in the Smoky Mountains where he made wine and raised Border Collies. Ron was a member of our first "band," three colleagues who won a prize doing folk music at a company picnic in 1967. He was still making music. I imagine his Heaven has music, a glass of wine, dogs around his feet and a view of the mountains.
I took a bad fall in the spring, and was very lucky I did not break anything. I worked my way back in time for the Alaska trip, and got Covid (again) on the way home. I heal, just a little slower than in past years.
Then during the trip home from Spokane I managed to get Shingles -- something new-- but it was a mild case.
Good medical care took care of all that and we are looking forward to more adventures -- with family and friends -- in 2024.
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The goal for 2024 is the same as always: stay healthy, spend time with family and friends and keep moving.
slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-72638170340110582322023-07-02T14:07:00.000-07:002023-07-02T14:07:13.081-07:00Alaska 2023
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Our goal was to see Alaska.
We saw Alaska, and are glad we did.
We have posted lots of pictures recently, some of which I will include in this blog, but I wanted to give friends a better report on our trip to Alaska last week. We are still getting over the constant motion on trains planes and buses, feeling the solid ground underfoot is strange.
We began planning months ago, and discovered that the Alaska Railway put together packages that included many beautiful places and interesting stops. We even watched a video of some of the train travel by independent videographers, and it was very appealing.
We wanted to get a good taste, an overview, of Alaska.
We did not want anything to do with large tour groups, or cruise ships. We knew everything would be expensive in Alaska, and decided it was worth it. I don't know how to do Alaska on the cheap.
Alaska Rail offered several options. We chose what they call the Gold Star Option, which means most of the rail travel was essentially first class in domed cars, some meals and drinks, hotels and specific tours were included. Our trip was June 21 to 28, beginning and ending in Anchorage, a town we wanted to see because it had been home to our old friends.
We flew in one day early and stayed at a less expensive hotel, a decision that saved about $300, and used that extra day to explore Anchorage, an interesting town in a beautiful setting.
Highlight: the Anchorage Museum, with a world class exhibit of native Alaskan cultures and more, only two blocks from our hotel.
Lowlight: The Anchorage Hilton did not have shuttle from the airport ($25) or to the train station. Our room was not ready when we arrived, or when we came back later as instructed. The desk clerk sent us to the wrong room, without luggage which they temporarily lost when we checked it, meaning we were grumpy and tired on our first night. (The good news, cheerful and helpful bellmen saved the day. Big tips.)
Note: Our first day in Alaska was Solstice, the longest day of the year, which means we had almost 20 hours of daylight every day.
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Day Two: we took a cab to the train station and Alaska Rail made us feel better. They had tickets ready, clear instructions, and checked our bags through to the hotel we would stay in that night.
The trip was a short one to Girdwood but we saw eagles, moose and bear and mountains and rivers along the way.
At the Girdwood stop, we were picked up by a knowledgable and cheerful guide for a visit to the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center at the top of Turnagin Arm. She walked us through the center, explaining the animals and why they were there (rehab or re-establishment). They included wolves, musk ox, bison, moose, reindeer, wolves, fox, coyote and both black and brown (grizzly) bears. We had plenty of time before being led back to the train stop for lunch which was waiting for us.
Then she handed us over to our next guide, Jack, who would be our river guide and host for the next several hours. We put on waterproof boots and reboarded the train for a short ride to a drop off for us, the rubber rafts and guides.
We were at the Spencer Glacier where we began an afternoon of river rafting and stunning scenery.
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The train pulled up alongside the river when we gout out of the boats just long enough to pick us all up and head back down the tracks to Girdwood, and the Alyeska Resort, a first class hotel that serves the areas' only ski resort. We had no time to look around.
After a very long day we had a quick meal and got up early to catch a shuttle back to the train stop. While standing by the tracks a railroad employee showed up, took charge of all our luggage and checked it through to our next htoel -- in Seward at the end of the line.
All along the route there was wildlife, stunning scenery and mountains and rivers everywhere.
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We arrived in Seward just in time to walk one block to the marina and the beginning of a six hour offshore boat tour of Kenai Fjords National Park. The captain was clearly an expert naturalist as well as captain, and she talked about the wildlife, the geology, and the park as we rode out into the Gulf of Alaska to look for whales.
She found Orcas and we watched for a while, and then went further out to see even bigger whales. The weather was cold and rainy, but we were inside most of the time except when we chose to go out for picture taking.
They served lunch while under way, and we looked up and found we were at the face of a stunning glacier, the kind that drops directly into the sea. It was amazing how close we were and the mass of ice before us.
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On the way back we came in close to landforms rising from the seabed, covered with thousands of birds including Puffins and all sort of sea birds.
It was almosy 7 p.m. by the time we reached the Seward Windsong Lodge, a beautiful place nestled in the woods just on the edge of town. By this time we were pretty worn out and decided to take a break from the scheduled tour of Seward the next day. We slept in, checked our bags through to Anchorage, and spent the free day wandering around the town, the waterfront, and learning history in the local museum/library.
The trip back over to Anchorage was again in a domed car, with meals and drinks and scenery and animals all along the way.
We ended up back at the Hilton for the night, unfortunately. The air conditioner would not work so we had to leave the window open. Turns out Anchorage downtown on Saturday night never quiets down even when you are 11 stories up.
Sunday we were back up at the crack of dawn, and on the train heading for Denali National Park in our first class train. We rode through Wasilla, but Sarah was not home and we did not see Russia from her porch. The then on through Talkeetna and hurricane gulch and the Chugach Mountains.
A lot of our arrivals were "late" by normal standards, but the sun rarely went down in Alaska during our trip before midnight and we got used to constant day. It made for long days.
The Grande Denali Lodge is located on Sugarloaf Mountain just outside the national park border. It was peak season for the park, and tours run anytime there is daylight. Ours began at 6:45 a.m. and took us about 40 miles inside the park, a shortened tour because of winter road damage. The ride into the park was as spectacular as you would expect, with eveyone wondering if we would get to see the big mountain. 70% of the time it is hidden behind clouds and that had been the case for some time.
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When we got to the end of our road we actually could see portions of the mountain side white in the distance, with clouds hiding the peaks.
The tour guide suggested "photoshopping" our pictures if we chose by snapping a picture of a post card from a clear day.
A local tribal member met us in the park for a talk about the native cultures, and we visited one of the pioneer cabins along the way once used by railroad builders and hunters.
On Tuesday we had the morning to check out the park Visitor Center and get back on the train for our last trip to Anchorage.
The lodge took care of our bags and checked them through for us.
One more grand train excursion through the wild country and we were back in the Hilton for our last night. They could not find the reservation for a while, which was about what I had come to expect.
On Wednesday we got a cab to the airport, where the efficiency of Alaska Airlines was a welcome contrast to the confusion of the Hilton.
One night spent at the San Francisco Airport, and we had an easy drive home.
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Observations:
Alaska Airlines was a pleasure to deal with. They have gone iPhone crazy (check in online) but it works, the staff was helpful and even the airport food was decent. We would use them again.
America Rail Tours that put together the package, travel, small tours, hotels, was well cordinated and planned. We would use them again.
The best hotel, probably, was the Alyeska Lodge, where we barely had time to sleep. Apparently a room for the night costs about $600.
The worst hotel was the Hilton. No shuttles. Poorly trained desk clerks, who made mistakes that costs us time. No shuttle service, which costs even more money.
Our favorite hotel was the Seward Windsong Lodge. Quiet, Nestled in the spruce trees and cheerful and helpful staff.
Alaska Railway is a gem, an example of how a passenger railroad could be run if American cared less about cars. Food wasn't terrific, but certainly adequate. The staff was always ready to help, explain, answer or even entertain. Charming young people from all over the world.
The ability to get up and move around, visit with your neighbors, and take pictures or just watch for wildlife, made it great. We met a lot of interesting people.
Hard to compare the different tours since some were on river rafts, some on the ocean and some in small buses. All were good. All worthwhile. We learned something everytime.
We crammed a lot into seven/eight days and perhaps should have done a bit less. But then a dinner companion said he and his wife were setting out to see every national park in Alaska, a trip that would take at least two weeks, and one of the bids from a tour company had been about$30,000. He found a better way. So did we.
Our goal was to see Alaska.
We saw Alaska and are glad we did.
More pictures.
On the river at Spencer Glacier.
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slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-91224400558201608152022-12-30T14:30:00.004-08:002022-12-30T14:30:46.854-08:002022The year 2022 seemed to just flow by for the LaMont family. Looking back we did a lot of what we wanted to do: spend time with family, travel, play music, eat well, serve others and stay healthy.
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And there were a few things we'd prefer to avoid: frequent doctor appointments and a continuation of Covid in our community. That's the price you pay for living.
Pat celebrated her 80th birthday and I somehow made it to 82. We still think we are around 30, still good looking (Pat)but just a bit slower (me).
The good news is that we did not have to give up anything, just made the minor adjustments that come with aging.
Here's a look back at our year:
Our routine usually includes dinner with the next-door-neighbors and close friends Gary and Jeri. They are theoretically retired, but both work a few days a week, and volunteer even more. They are people with good hearts, and who act on the needs they see around them. We met a decade ago, probably through volunteer work at Habitat for Humanity or church, and have been close ever since.
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We host music jams at our house on Tuesday nights with George Haskell(banjo/guitar), John Randlett (guitar), Kylee Harrison(guitar) and Beth Gaisford(guitar/mandolin), and me(mandolin/guitar). We play and sing for fun, but once in a while play at church or the local farmer's market.
I participate in a weekly poker game on Thursday afternoons, a tradition that started with my late friend Ken Grassmyer almost 20 years ago. I refer to the players as my "fellowship group" because most of us attended church together. As the years pass, the players change but the $20 buy-in remains the same. We are mostly veterans and retirees and enjoy the talk, laughing and winning. And all are good losers.
We have a weekly dinner gathering with five friends (George and Patty Haskell, Joe and Teddi Jackson and John Randlett). Sometimes we eat out, particularly a local Mexican place with outdoor dining (safe during Covid), or at each other's homes.
Pat does whatever needs to be done all year for her Parish Care group, often filling her week with helping other people.
Parish Care is a team from our First Congregational Church that includes four or so women who take care of people. It may invove a ride to the doctor, delivering meals or just a friendly conversation on the phone. If people need something, they find a way to respond. Her weekly routine includes helping a handicapped neighbor who needs transportation or prescription pickups.
One of the disadvantages of our otherwise wonderful town is we have no drug store, no viable public transportation, and limited medical care so that creates a lot of needs.
A drug store run involves a round trip of about 20 miles. A trip to pick up someone at the hospital requires about 30 miles.
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We try to spend Sundays at church at the First Congregational United Church of Christ, the longest-named church we have ever belonged to, with a small and older congregation that is at the heart of our community. It is the only progressive church in our community of Murphys, a gold rush town turned touristy, which tends toward no-church folks or conservative congregations. We have a few LBGTA+ members, and a lot of mainstream types. In a normal year, which 2022 was not, I would be singing in the choir. This year no choir, and we all wore masks for most of the year due to several friends who are immuno-compromised.
That's the routine stuff.
This year we got back to travel, starting in early Spring with a long trip in our 2002 VW Camper. We drove an inland route to Spokane, which took us by our old neighbors' home in Idaho. Alan and Ann Christie, and daughter, treated us like -- well, old friends.
We camped along the way at a RV resort with a hot spring, breaking up the long journey through the beautiful farmlands of Oregon and Washington.
Zack showed us the sites in Spokane, along with several very good places to eat. We met some of his friends and got a feel for his new home.
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We headed homeward with no particular path in mind, except I wanted to actually see the historic Columbia River. We hit the river and turned west on the south shore, following the Lewis and Clark route, and camped along the river. We got to see the grand dams Woody Gurthrie wrote songs about ("Roll On Columbia") and scooted past Portland and ended up on the Pacific Ocean camped out along the beach at Cape Lookout.
We were working our way South along the coast when our old sailing buddies Michael and Sylvia sent us a text inviting us to come by and see them in their new floating home at Scapoose, Oregon. They have always been, and remain, water people. The home sits atop floating redwood logs on a backwater of the Columbia. he teaches online and he writes and they have added a dog named Biscuit to the family.
We went back to the coastal route to Cape Blanco. Those great Oregon parks were detailed in an earlier blog, but in the Spring without crowds it was a wonderful place to be.
Summer brought trips to the mountains and the north coast with family and friends, getting as much use out of our VW van as we can.
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Late summer brought more camping trips, with friends and family.
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Fall brought a trip to Santa Cruz for a wonderful relaxed week watching the surf and surfers, cathing the slightly weird vibe at a beach happening where people played body harps, and eating very well. That whole section of beach towns, including Capitola, has become a favorite for us.
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Christmas at home was low key, and we spent a day at Ruth and Brian's home just two miles away and celebrated with grandson Connor, pictured with Ruth in Christmas attire, and granddaughter Delaney and husband Cooper who came west from Boston where he is in medical school and she is working on her PHD in bioengineering.
Our final plan for 2022 is a multi-generational New Years Eve celebration at our church, welcome the New Year at 9 p.m., and tuck in to get ready for a wonderful 2023.
Have a great year.
slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-33235840296244781702022-11-10T11:30:00.000-08:002022-11-10T11:30:14.237-08:00Great editors rememberedFifty years ago I was enjoying myself immensely. And a bit nervous.
I had accepted a new job, and a completely different role, moving from being newspaper chain's writing bureau chief to an editor at a newspaper. After more than ten years of reporting and writing stories and loving it, I was taking the chance that being an editor -- stuck inside the building instead of pounding the streets -- would hold personal and professional satisfaction.
It worked out well.
I was asked to move from Tallahassee, Florida, where I was the bureau chief for the six Gannett newspapers in the state, to the Southwest Florida community of Fort Myers and it's daily newspaper the News-Press.
My job description was initially vague -- I was a "senior editor" despite being 32 years old-- which corporate Gannett's way of saying I might end up in charge if I didn't fail.
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My boss was the Managing Editor Bob Bentley, (pictured above with daughter Reid) in charge of the news operations and sent in by corporate to build the paper into something great. I had worked for Bob at TODAY, where he was in charge of the newspaper's coverage in the late 1960s. When I asked him about the Fort Myers publisher, a conservative holdover near 70 from the old ownership whose claim to fame was that he was commodore of the local yacht club, Bentley said "Ignore him. We can do what we need to do." And we did.
Bentley had corporate's blessings and money to increase the staff, be more aggressive in coverage, and look for exceptional talents among young journalists coming out of colleges or wherever he could find them. He already had significant success at Florida's TODAY newspaper earlier, leading the staff through the Apollo moon landing years, and building that paper into a significant force in Florida.
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He was 33, a star in Florida journalism.
The first person Bob introduced me to was Joe Workman, then city editor, and the very best of a local staff that had struggled for several years. He was, a Bentley said, a great city editor who simply needed editors who did not get in his way and reporters willing to learn. He fit into the "Lou Grant" model: tough, smart, skilled, hard drinking and he knew where all the bodies were buried. He was a West Virginia native, who relished in pretending he was just a poor country boy. Years later he made a post-retirement fortune in Florida beach real estate, outsmarting lots of city slickers.
Bentley and Workman each decided that sharing what they knew about newspapering, was the most important thing they could do. The dividends came to me. Joe taught me how to deal with all kinds of people, from irritating car dealers to crooked politicians. Bentley taught me how to spot and develop talent in young people, hiring only the best from good schools and smaller newspapers, selling them on the idea that living on the beach and working for a good newspaper in Florida was worth accepting the low wages we could offer. He also encouraged people to move outward and upoward when their chances came along.
Bentley's particular skills were as an editor who controlled the design and stucture of the paper, skills he learned earlier at The Miami Herlad and TODAY. He was always open to good ideas, even if crazy, and knew how to put the right people in the right spot. When there were failures, and some happened, he knew how to cut his losses. He once convinced the advertising department to take a news photographer (who had zero news photo sense) into the ad staff where he was happy for years. He was also willing to tell people who struggled unsuccesfully that they would be happier elsewhere, and they usually were. He rarely fired anyone, usually just pointed them in a better diretion and they left.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PMsAxPlhjUQYG_f4Laxr8kis5x75SkY5l0609X2slPz3VgV0bJMNG9VaLu9yhQsA8RJA7BK7jeJ-aoyrtYUMKcxKYcJOAR2uesDDeI6tzDpCfe9oLURlA7U4GxJa0hCb2fYZjytAaGHdehY9j5MS2abZjD_b-AlhxzyEWfdlD-GCw-7kN6OeqT89/s1011/whitesandersworkman.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="1011" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PMsAxPlhjUQYG_f4Laxr8kis5x75SkY5l0609X2slPz3VgV0bJMNG9VaLu9yhQsA8RJA7BK7jeJ-aoyrtYUMKcxKYcJOAR2uesDDeI6tzDpCfe9oLURlA7U4GxJa0hCb2fYZjytAaGHdehY9j5MS2abZjD_b-AlhxzyEWfdlD-GCw-7kN6OeqT89/s400/whitesandersworkman.jpg"/></a></div>
He could spot talent. He always claimed that he spotted the talent of Randy Wayne White, pictured above with Joe and me at a reunion, while Randy was working climbing power poles -- a kid from the mid-west who could not find a job. Randy has since written more than 60 novels.
Working at the News-Press was a crazy experience in many ways. Many of us worked very long hours, from 9 a.m. to midnight. Once the presses started rolling we would adjourn together to our favorite local bar Pate's for a few drinks and food. Once he warmed up Bentley would take over the piano and start leading the singing: "Delta Dawn" was a favorite.
Workman would tell West Virginia stories, tall tales we never knew if trhey were true. It was true he had one glass eye, which he occasionally would put on the bar to provoke a reactio. Other nights he would bet some younger staffer he would eat a light bulb, which they could not believe until they witnessed it and paid Joe.
Sometimes as many as a dozen people would close the bar at 2 a.m. and move elsewhere to drink till dawn.
We all worked very hard. The paper got better every year, began winning awards and gaining circulation and profits.
Despite the differences between the staff's generation and that of the local population -- even then mostly elderly retirees from the Mid-West -- we were honest and fearless, and it succeeded with readers. Old-time elected officials, who once had there way in the community, were being watched closely and their activities exposed, which they did not like. A county commission chairman scolded a News-Press reporter during a meeting because he thought her skirt was too short. Bentley called him up and scolded him for abusing his power.
A note about the culture of the early 70s, and Fort Myers in particular. Most of the staff was under 30, single and socially -- what should I say -- unrestrained. With the college hires came some drugs, most of which I knew nothing about, but pot smoking was known to happen and a few of the younger staffers ended up living together. Bentley was divorced by that time and the local ladies responded to his movie star good looks. He delighted in living in a "singles apartment complex" where naked swim parties we known to happen.
I was something of an exception-- though not the only one -- being happily married and with two young children at home. I simply could not keep up the pace of late-night drinking. Our mutual friend at corporate, who had been instrumental in both Bob and I coming to the News-Press, once suggested subtly that I was right for the job because I was more normal, less "colorful" than Bob.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI-bvKoiC68R1Pxpar90kwzZjI24vteuJXvFJqhMnpHNV_3ZwUFt-c4u-cUsFcQWhliS1A6f02OWRnhRitkSBiUzjWAaT4R1m9twC7V9nfsyb3fthabABKROx-VxM4i_0FHViAZt3vn2quBqdJ5LeczhsXw0wUhkNsc-TaBZym5KvaufPmM1rxWsz/s1648/groupannounce.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1648" data-original-width="1273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI-bvKoiC68R1Pxpar90kwzZjI24vteuJXvFJqhMnpHNV_3ZwUFt-c4u-cUsFcQWhliS1A6f02OWRnhRitkSBiUzjWAaT4R1m9twC7V9nfsyb3fthabABKROx-VxM4i_0FHViAZt3vn2quBqdJ5LeczhsXw0wUhkNsc-TaBZym5KvaufPmM1rxWsz/s400/groupannounce.jpg"/></a></div>
Regardless of our differences, we shared a love for the work and particularly the people.
As always happens, things changed over a few years.
Bentley was promoted and moved to run the ElPaso paper in Texas, and a few staffers followed him there. (A local car dealer called me the day after Bob left to tell me his much-younger wife had left for Texas with Bob and when he caught up with them he was going to shoot Bob. The wife came home, and the guy never shot anyone.)
Bob moved from Texas to Atlanta to California and back to his native South Carolina, happily married before cancer caught up with him. He lived his life with passion and was an honest journalist.
Joe Workman stayed on at the News-Press, never quite fitting in with the corporate style of Gannett, but becoming a polular local columnist, living out his life in his beloved Fort Myers Beach with his beloved wife Grace, daughter of an Episcopal priest.
We remained friends for 40 years.
Before my time in Fort Myers came toward the end, I was promoted to be the editor, replacing Bob.
The old publisher retired and a new corporate-appointed publisher came to town. He was a classic Gannett publisher from that era, driven by ambition, a desire to always look good to corporate, and in his case -- dishonest. We immediately came into conflict when he continually tried to influence the newsroom staff to be "more business friendly."
I ended up leaving within about a year, taking a graceful exit to a Humanities Fellowship at Michigan with John Quinn's support, in 1977. (I left Gannett in 1980, moving to The Bee in California.)
But the years in Fort Myers and the people there were among the best and the brightest I have ever worked with, and together we did good work.
We sent reporter/photographer teams to big rock festivals in New Orleans, another team to Central America to cover an earthquake, people to the Olympics and always sent people to the nation political conventions. No one ever told us we could not do that, and readers loved it.
I learned a lot of about how to be an editor from both Bentley and Workman, and have always felt they are among the very best journalists I have encountered in 45 working years.
Newspapers have changed so much in the past 20 years, it is hard to imagine such transformative journalism happening again.
But I remind myself that a few dedicated people brought together by common ideals, can make change for the better. Bob and Joe did that for me, and I am forever grateful.
slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-37901290956259529432022-08-04T17:04:00.002-07:002022-08-04T17:04:54.094-07:00Newspaper reporters have the best time<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-_fGEVvnQUu5klw9ONZjdKPcFo862sWUgThKqtbmpVjRMp_-cKig_miRk8hqCdLB_5-gBOuSoSlaOUGSt1zB_yCfnUaeAuSRSh7tMNbi9-Oq2dDdM9P4zVcbMRionbUzVrbXCi3H6W9p8pV3P_r-pb_0jb-_IvgPgRRQKtDV4D5FWLEowFcqfLTMi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-_fGEVvnQUu5klw9ONZjdKPcFo862sWUgThKqtbmpVjRMp_-cKig_miRk8hqCdLB_5-gBOuSoSlaOUGSt1zB_yCfnUaeAuSRSh7tMNbi9-Oq2dDdM9P4zVcbMRionbUzVrbXCi3H6W9p8pV3P_r-pb_0jb-_IvgPgRRQKtDV4D5FWLEowFcqfLTMi=w229-h305" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working as a reporter, somewhere around 1970</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> ===============</span><br /></p><p>My nephew Ben asked to hear stories about the good old days when I was a newspaper reporter. </p><p>They were good. So here goes.</p><p>I was lucky enough to be present to witness and report on a lot of different stories from 1960 to the mid-1970s: Civil Rights activities in the South, hurricanes, politics, science and particularly the manned space program including the first landing on the moon. My journalism years included a era when newspapers were healthy, and growing and trusted -- the last decades of the 20th Century.</p><p>My interest in journalism began while a student at the University of Alabama during my last two years of college in the early 1960s. I was a transfer student, got into a journalism major by accident and discovered a whole new world I came to love.</p><p>For something to do I volunteered at the Crimson-White, the campus newspaper. This was in the era of big-time football and just before the University was forced to follow the law and integrate. Bear Bryant was the coach and Joe Namath was our quarterback. The school was all-white, dominated by fraternities I was not interested in. The paper was a hangout for independent folk, and I liked that.</p><p>The idea that as a "journalist" I could go almost anywhere, ask question of anyone, and then write about what saw and heard, captured me quickly: A license to be nosy, in a polite way of course, and win approval. </p><p>The big story in those years was the expose' by the paper of a campus political machine, based on the fraternity/sorority system, which ran everything on campus. Not much changed, but we felt we were on the side of truth and justice. But we also covered courts, cops, and everyday people. </p><p>We were not very sophisticated, and marginally effective, but we had a good time, even suggesting in an editorial that the school emphasised football too much. My writing was sincere, but amateurish. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj13HwqVSoDJBoOGXINPORterMjXOL9MCWH9jWVRaPeQhTJcKOKH17EyAN8lw8gTK4Za9weGJbksNotIUcYuin_wgJRkHl0QwR0eR-JvYtbAtdn2Vcddiipsa8uER-2gFdXUMewPMcDkRJxPt0fRXv0tgj33UzykIWASw4E-hXLL6QdFs3zj2pXpRJM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj13HwqVSoDJBoOGXINPORterMjXOL9MCWH9jWVRaPeQhTJcKOKH17EyAN8lw8gTK4Za9weGJbksNotIUcYuin_wgJRkHl0QwR0eR-JvYtbAtdn2Vcddiipsa8uER-2gFdXUMewPMcDkRJxPt0fRXv0tgj33UzykIWASw4E-hXLL6QdFs3zj2pXpRJM=w230-h307" width="230" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>My first real professional break came as I was winding up my junior year, by then working as managing editor of the campus paper. A senior friend Pat Potter suggested I apply for an internship at the Atlanta newspapers, at that time the biggest and best in the South. (Pat went on to become a very successful romance novelist, but that's another story.) It was a great opportunity. I grabbed it.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8Dn_QqbVRbv400iZ3FfokHe_B9Nn4AwYGUz1SRQ9YI9BFSdfUy1yAgYdTqqV3gxprBqxKS1uxwpdRzkM6bzWZpz1Ig73gBEdevymlV_W_67yd5TWwoc-RL41y1PwiVFLvABKIzNKgX7p9dRHFh94538_uOZYjU-eH-qX68BR0rf6HaNwgHpjuz2LL" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="455" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8Dn_QqbVRbv400iZ3FfokHe_B9Nn4AwYGUz1SRQ9YI9BFSdfUy1yAgYdTqqV3gxprBqxKS1uxwpdRzkM6bzWZpz1Ig73gBEdevymlV_W_67yd5TWwoc-RL41y1PwiVFLvABKIzNKgX7p9dRHFh94538_uOZYjU-eH-qX68BR0rf6HaNwgHpjuz2LL=w317-h455" width="317" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me, upper left in the trench coat, covering people the FBI said were Communists, and counter protestors, protesting Kennedy's Cuban blockade<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Working as a cub reporter that summer on the streets in Atlanta, then the acknowledged leader of the "new" South, was the most exciting thing I had ever done. It did not matter that I was immediately assigned the six weeks of writing obituaries (great training and discipline) or one of five interns. I learned basics that stayed with me: ask the right questions; assume nothing; organize your notes; keep asking and then write very fast for the early morning deadlines of an afternoon newspaper. </p><p>I made $45 a week, $5 more than minimum wage, and considered myself lucky. The low pay meant I had to be creative, boarding at the Sigma Chi fraternity house at Emory University even though I was a not a member or a student there. It was cheap and near the bus line.</p><p>Before the summer was over I got to cover police, fire, street protests, klan rallies, general assignment and even was sent out of town to follow a historical re-enactment through the hills of North Georgia on expense account! And the final week I was there was the week in which the Atlanta public school system integrated for the first time, and did so peacefully. Just being there to watch history being made forever cemented my commitment to newspaper work as the only job I would ever want. </p><p>My senior year in school flew by. I was commissioned in the Infantry on graduation in 1962, but had a one year gap before reporting for active duty. </p><p>The Atlanta Journal ("Covers Dixie Like the Dew") hired me back for that year as a staff reporter: at 21 years old and I had my dream job. I was assigned cover government and everything else north of the city, and spent most of year learning how to cover county and state officials. It was a year of change and turmoil in the South.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjN_16sYcuLem3DCSUlb9Vj4JrPDKxndOTMEUREDELrybUbkU71WEpwiPJq3hgEV3E_ydY_MoO478cQRUFMl_ceDFKTEjPYolfo6LErQj_kIQeJ5soKpAS3ZdhGTxhtXW6HvX0pKIp0TzNkhw8AGytCenzam7c47FdV-Skxpf_cPmz2bNI-wvL8uPnN" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjN_16sYcuLem3DCSUlb9Vj4JrPDKxndOTMEUREDELrybUbkU71WEpwiPJq3hgEV3E_ydY_MoO478cQRUFMl_ceDFKTEjPYolfo6LErQj_kIQeJ5soKpAS3ZdhGTxhtXW6HvX0pKIp0TzNkhw8AGytCenzam7c47FdV-Skxpf_cPmz2bNI-wvL8uPnN=w254-h339" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A train wreck was "good news" for a young reporter</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />I even got one choice assignment to cover a little piece of the governor's race, in which a local restaurant owner and well-know racist named Lester Maddox ran for office the first time, unsuccessfully. I also covered sit-ins at local eating places, and the first-ever NAACP convention held in the South.</p><p>I also recall standing in the newsroom watching the Cuban missile crisis develop on TV, wondering if we would survive the next year. We did. And I was out on the street covering the protest marchers.</p><p>I had an apartment right on Peachtree Street, began to have a social life, and even bought a brand new car, a 62 VW bug.</p><p>Then the Army called and in May of 1963 I started two years of active duty at Fort Benning, Georgia, about 90 miles from Atlanta. I joined the Army to see the world, but never got out of Georgia. After training I was assigned to be editor of the base newspaper, not the most exciting journalism. </p><p>It was easy duty, with golf breaks at mid-week, so much so I volunteered to become the official Radio/TV Officer for the base. I did daily radio broadcasts, and a weekly television show. I even worked part-time at night for the Columbus Enquirer covering cop stories, until I made enough money ($130 after several months) to buy a decent guitar. Then I quit.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgElE02LfYjICoSSfqknDwwWL2jilxAOsObjrnh15HKQPSj2qJ0NB_7FSjIaUtSzDT0zrFbuqxwrPapjABxy5Keo6lVab7w3Z1y9YYgYexpl0QCjIjGWQ7fQwERYpCZ2YETpwiYXfkHFNAYh6qD6EwwbPb3Nlkf87AM25shkvBNOn6bzHHLhm-TNAzV" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgElE02LfYjICoSSfqknDwwWL2jilxAOsObjrnh15HKQPSj2qJ0NB_7FSjIaUtSzDT0zrFbuqxwrPapjABxy5Keo6lVab7w3Z1y9YYgYexpl0QCjIjGWQ7fQwERYpCZ2YETpwiYXfkHFNAYh6qD6EwwbPb3Nlkf87AM25shkvBNOn6bzHHLhm-TNAzV=w288-h383" width="288" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The haircut was for the Army. The skinny tie for the newspaper.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Then a friendly colonel invited me to join an Infantry Company to see what the "real" Army was like. I did, and found that six-days-a-week and 18 hours a day were not that unusual when you are training troops and a platoon leader of an Infantry Company. Vietnam was just a word in the back pages of the New York Times but we worked hard. </p><p>And I learned a lot.</p><p>The "real" Army was something I did not want, and reminded me I really loved working for daily newspapers. So I mailed letters to the top journalism/news operations in the country. I did not hear back from Walter Cronkite at CBS or the New York Times, but The Miami Herald called, and the editor eventually hired me on the phone to come to Florida. (During my last week in </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglsdLyekTuA3PYRC1glzGx-zMrDR7QqsKX1QUf4jZzlUgP0KzIFKpEjaqQrgIbQUOhLilJZfdp3k-fK6EFP8Ngj6ywf4EwCSZdbRLV2tQbaLApiBzjTuuImvzo2Z3P-tHxyFYmF2a6OaAq429Vw_fWEjqiVm1F-EtLa2mDjc2L4rWCkY52uGxGWAzQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglsdLyekTuA3PYRC1glzGx-zMrDR7QqsKX1QUf4jZzlUgP0KzIFKpEjaqQrgIbQUOhLilJZfdp3k-fK6EFP8Ngj6ywf4EwCSZdbRLV2tQbaLApiBzjTuuImvzo2Z3P-tHxyFYmF2a6OaAq429Vw_fWEjqiVm1F-EtLa2mDjc2L4rWCkY52uGxGWAzQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /> the Army, I also heard back from the Associated Press, but I turned down what looked like a job in the mid-west doing rewrites on hog futures on a night desk.)<p></p><p>The Herald had two rules in the newsroom operation at the time: the first, which I dodged, was that you could only be hired after Human Relations Department approved your scores on a battery of psychological tests. When I showed up, the HR people were unhappy but the editor was firm. I skipped the tests.</p><p>The second was that new reporters, even with experience like mine, were sent to the bureau system scattered over the state. I was assigned to the Cocoa Bureau, which I had to look up on a map. It was 50 miles east of Orlando, on the coast and next door to Cape Canaveral. The middle of nowhere in pre-Disney Florida. But is was near the beach.</p><p>I got an small apartment, traded my VW for a Triumph Spitfire sports car, and went to work as part of a team that was the northernmost outpost of the Herald, then the state's largest newspaper. I was expected to cover everything, take pictures of everything, and write multiple stories a day and get all to Miami by teletype (stories) or Greyhound bus (photos) by early evening. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFFI0yy5O-sCoONWmzguofXCbYOhVHwVMVPxKV5-kn59TivSwaolXPDCA176hB6Eb_r7F9AP_Zoju2c_VypB0kFCeczsbzG6aARmmJCRmYrkQvcphtlSu0N-DFtZXsXeEvh7iunhzMdxUtK-U2R2wTlSqpp0Qc74LtFxHbjS0YlLZlbj2wfzftrSLM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFFI0yy5O-sCoONWmzguofXCbYOhVHwVMVPxKV5-kn59TivSwaolXPDCA176hB6Eb_r7F9AP_Zoju2c_VypB0kFCeczsbzG6aARmmJCRmYrkQvcphtlSu0N-DFtZXsXeEvh7iunhzMdxUtK-U2R2wTlSqpp0Qc74LtFxHbjS0YlLZlbj2wfzftrSLM" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyB0is7bWLy2v6c_DDaHdNhDS-5oWaQBoNg-Tgcsn1uP0Lk9tyHRplt-4WwGMH2pwWKRE0ucGKFp4I9qQiVRxaDiE3DNvs_7KTWYb2oX8iMmXsrW6bbXtQi5xcQt206iFGWZTsVN7yfNkOP0pqOvku6kFbim6SNxYlmsKGdNm_z1mU1NNsEHs2A18S" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyB0is7bWLy2v6c_DDaHdNhDS-5oWaQBoNg-Tgcsn1uP0Lk9tyHRplt-4WwGMH2pwWKRE0ucGKFp4I9qQiVRxaDiE3DNvs_7KTWYb2oX8iMmXsrW6bbXtQi5xcQt206iFGWZTsVN7yfNkOP0pqOvku6kFbim6SNxYlmsKGdNm_z1mU1NNsEHs2A18S" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>I even was required to take pictures of local, mostly teenaged, bathing beauties, for "filler" material. I was not good at it.</p><p>It was a great place to continue learning, including lessons not taught in journalism school. From one colleague I learned how to write features, with photos, quickly and with community interests. From another colleague, who had a serious drinking problem at the time, I learned how to move very fast to make sure the regional news page was filled, whether he showed up or not.</p><p>I accompanied an Air Force relief flight to post-hurricane Mississippi. But mostly, it was close to home stories. Cops. County government. Surfing contests.</p><p>Within a month I discovered I was also expected to report on major events at the then-building space center at Cape Canaveral. The idea of being paid to go watch missiles and rockets launch into space, and write about it, was like dying and going to heaven. My first big assignment was to cover the launch and flight of Gemini 4, in June 1966, the mission during which astronaut Ed White made America's first space walk. </p><p>A beautiful young woman was working at the reception desk at the press center. I later married her. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilQlk_Opgd8g7JP5X7f6vUA1q32uq1NvTq17CaKreWZlWsQWXAZeg7KAufhucv8MPdsSGqevAMHpDfirj3My9BRQLmPVHP77yOJob2K6TyLXpFVnN2EWefI7hKRwkn7V473HUxwXKLGQddiQ9oxhNd1JNLCsYBJ1OL6HEpaiEcbcbNDIQirkiJJPcP" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilQlk_Opgd8g7JP5X7f6vUA1q32uq1NvTq17CaKreWZlWsQWXAZeg7KAufhucv8MPdsSGqevAMHpDfirj3My9BRQLmPVHP77yOJob2K6TyLXpFVnN2EWefI7hKRwkn7V473HUxwXKLGQddiQ9oxhNd1JNLCsYBJ1OL6HEpaiEcbcbNDIQirkiJJPcP=w272-h363" width="272" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical Herald assignment.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>Over the next year between military launches and manned space launches by NASA, I was at Cape Canaveral several days a week reporting. I found that by being at the Cape I had an advantage over the other press that only flew in for a few days, and began to try and convince the editors in Miami that should be my full-time assignment. They were not interested.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIECYFf_V2Kz3SIqGGRMo_0QrzBWHQIZSSo0Inu7M920bQuyEly1UGO33aWlGKTILRO2LDESiuf7AvQTHU8HzU2HkmbnPOl1LDXZpo5nFVsWyV7lTwSAmgkljCV6IC9Oc6-h7Rjn5LLeX_Q2oq0wMYajKzXxoGJuszJ5HWtFS1t1KzEH0zfoloy4Of" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIECYFf_V2Kz3SIqGGRMo_0QrzBWHQIZSSo0Inu7M920bQuyEly1UGO33aWlGKTILRO2LDESiuf7AvQTHU8HzU2HkmbnPOl1LDXZpo5nFVsWyV7lTwSAmgkljCV6IC9Oc6-h7Rjn5LLeX_Q2oq0wMYajKzXxoGJuszJ5HWtFS1t1KzEH0zfoloy4Of" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Passes for the Gemini Program</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />I loved working for the Herald, a great newspaper, but was frustrated at the short-sightedness. Apollo was coming, and they did not understand how important that was. I was running back and forth between the build-up of the Kennedy Space Center, where millions of tax dollars were spent on a national goal of a moon landing, and making sure I checked the police reports at Rockledge City Hall.</p><p>Things were changing in other ways. First, I had met my wife Pat, who worked for NASA, and we were engaged. Second, the Army tried to call me back to active duty which I politely declined. Third, a newspaper company called Gannett bought the three biggest weeklies in the county adjacent to Cape Canaveral and announced they were going to start a brand new daily newspaper to cover the area around the Cape. </p><p>I was invited to interview for a job, and was offered a job by the corporation president, a guy named Al Neuharth, but he told me the space program was already assigned. It was the only assignment I was interested in. I turned him down and went back to the Herald's routine.</p><p>The first week of the new publication, the TODAY newspaper, the new editor Jim Head called and offered me the job of Aerospace Writer for the paper and the parent company's Gannett News Service, at a considerably better salary than the Herald. I accepted and gave two weeks notice, with the agreement I could have a week off to get married in August<br />and two weeks in June for the Army. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUN7xvAJE-DIGqjTngQNsbaoMNQ4yrgBYfytH14oCOZ7m9k0Y5EMNQ6Ctsf-GwaZ3Mb3rpZmE8dYRL3YJXTq24lfqjTppz9pOlEkdibwaT3E4HXQRtw0yiRlI4vudcpMwHKYvuX6GCEN9X-mXZwhFlZH8zBZjh1mmTJ1JwaUM96b7xr0Bk8LJ_Gkjr" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUN7xvAJE-DIGqjTngQNsbaoMNQ4yrgBYfytH14oCOZ7m9k0Y5EMNQ6Ctsf-GwaZ3Mb3rpZmE8dYRL3YJXTq24lfqjTppz9pOlEkdibwaT3E4HXQRtw0yiRlI4vudcpMwHKYvuX6GCEN9X-mXZwhFlZH8zBZjh1mmTJ1JwaUM96b7xr0Bk8LJ_Gkjr=w463-h348" width="463" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pat talking with Editor Jim Head, one of the great Florida editors at TODAY</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Almost exactly one year after joining the Herald I joined the staff of Today/Gannett. </p><p>The new assignment was a dramatic change. I was in charge of my time, the stories I chose to do, and how I went about it. As a first step I began spending a lot more time at the space center, or the adjacent Air Force station, meeting more people, building contacts and covering more minor stories -- way to build contacts for the future. In the mid-60s NASA was building up, and the Defense Department was also developing missile programs of their own. There were launches from the Cape at a rate of one or more per week. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRmbSifA_-BTu5tOCxMPVj9xhjalX5mQ1L805Pl-JVa8uxGtCoqTtiiGIafrijoeQhyl6Fb9EY5XisYbOhVuwHQ2_Ae40SB6MNtwqkZv9I2upPDbInVkMZ-KfHto4rKkX3Q9MgrV9D12EtGOThK98zhr7JW-jtB0wbp6vAj1OWqRwfZ0Hl5hfxw_c6" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRmbSifA_-BTu5tOCxMPVj9xhjalX5mQ1L805Pl-JVa8uxGtCoqTtiiGIafrijoeQhyl6Fb9EY5XisYbOhVuwHQ2_Ae40SB6MNtwqkZv9I2upPDbInVkMZ-KfHto4rKkX3Q9MgrV9D12EtGOThK98zhr7JW-jtB0wbp6vAj1OWqRwfZ0Hl5hfxw_c6=w232-h309" width="232" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running to the TODAY office after a day at The Cape<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The city editor, my nominal boss, suggested I should just report to the news editor who dealt with page one because that's where most of my stories were going. I just told that editor what I was doing, and he said go do it. A reporter's dream.</p><p>The Army got two more weeks of my time that summer, assigning me to the North Carolina National Guard as air liaison officer, a rather odd assignment, but I was finally done with the Army.</p><p>Gannett was pouring money into TODAY to make it a success. All of a sudden I had the ability to travel, including other major space centers around the country and aerospace contractors on the West Coast. They gave me the opportunity not only to cover the events, but to get to know many of the people -- astronauts, flight controllers and others who made the moon landing possible.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJolsW2hfGETPXPkXCmMfKMxy0khKVAH6lcRD5vcPx08GJhLPNfoLI4MykMWmKkYbESW1rmd0Ad9OYLOS8xd9pG-yd574kVjkzRr1-FFmBBLpfAUGFqtl6zzdMhpQRf0wbrOMDLtizQCoQe9mSI2UEe_lwGkihuQNmDzNwKKUV4aZWZZ4IYqAiiGBo" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJolsW2hfGETPXPkXCmMfKMxy0khKVAH6lcRD5vcPx08GJhLPNfoLI4MykMWmKkYbESW1rmd0Ad9OYLOS8xd9pG-yd574kVjkzRr1-FFmBBLpfAUGFqtl6zzdMhpQRf0wbrOMDLtizQCoQe9mSI2UEe_lwGkihuQNmDzNwKKUV4aZWZZ4IYqAiiGBo=w393-h295" width="393" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The Gemini Program ended in Fall 1966, and all the effort was looking ahead to Apollo's goal of landing on the moon by 1970.</p><p>In between launches I covered other stories, like a hurricane on the Gulf Coast near where I grew up.</p><p><br /></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnLu2FFfRyPfliF0kVOTDY6FZ7aGXbme3vuKCfHW8FGiop-Vaw-F7sp3YzFGkjqeBBDfIbOfHsKhHUjQo_lKWPP2F89reTGPN935R6DMP_ZU3DlKydRB-hKS7Ek3iwqfnKIJkNOC9gaHIIXKiwzvh9F06q04vWDj2HNAKhtHgMJGiivOzRy-djL2ie" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnLu2FFfRyPfliF0kVOTDY6FZ7aGXbme3vuKCfHW8FGiop-Vaw-F7sp3YzFGkjqeBBDfIbOfHsKhHUjQo_lKWPP2F89reTGPN935R6DMP_ZU3DlKydRB-hKS7Ek3iwqfnKIJkNOC9gaHIIXKiwzvh9F06q04vWDj2HNAKhtHgMJGiivOzRy-djL2ie=w372-h279" width="372" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the levees in Louisiana after the hurricane<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq-8Jbv56GvUM6FTTJJtf7DXCcHpjU5t0tDwOvVS3XordgleTcUygawLF5-lxhMll0_53inosy7jZuU65SOuQM-liBOs2HZWFHZ1gFXjYp2n82J8_iNmZxxnGLAVD75PM4FBS3hQwvcvZMhSbwgKWCgXAZ9iwCS3IHzU9hRDrr2dTyxznMVmwdjsZc" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="461" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq-8Jbv56GvUM6FTTJJtf7DXCcHpjU5t0tDwOvVS3XordgleTcUygawLF5-lxhMll0_53inosy7jZuU65SOuQM-liBOs2HZWFHZ1gFXjYp2n82J8_iNmZxxnGLAVD75PM4FBS3hQwvcvZMhSbwgKWCgXAZ9iwCS3IHzU9hRDrr2dTyxznMVmwdjsZc=w615-h461" width="615" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere near Biloxi after the storm<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Then tragedy struck at the Cape in January 1967. The phone rang and a friend who worked for NASA said "You better get to our office right now." </p><p>The big story was the launch pad fire that killed three astronauts, and put the entire program in limbo. NASA's reaction and investigation took up much of the next six months. These were people we knew, and it was emotionally wrenching. Some nights I would finish writing a story, and then weep in my car before driving home.</p><p>I spent the summer of 1967 reporting from the Washington Bureau, an assignment designed to help build contacts with senior NASA officials. (When I complained about being away from my new wife, the company sent her to join me for the summer. We lived in the then-dilapidated Willard Hotel.)</p><p>Most of the reporting that year was on the aftermath of the fatal fire, and the changes that had to me made. Every detail seemed newsworthy, and more and more of the public was paying attention.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhP5JL7FfCLy7SREGKRDDdG_HLudHDnItd9WB992mIWS4O7Fsv50VXKc0uPKWvLlh2EfRvim6UEM-lYFxytsGrQEMqQ-hKoyQSbYAAZOsTGMdWHehb8v1jfGVcfeHpW5juLrNSzvckoP3CbIjgWBuakg3oQTa71yt9Rm7IfDUgbLyoBctuJhpi0OVal" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhP5JL7FfCLy7SREGKRDDdG_HLudHDnItd9WB992mIWS4O7Fsv50VXKc0uPKWvLlh2EfRvim6UEM-lYFxytsGrQEMqQ-hKoyQSbYAAZOsTGMdWHehb8v1jfGVcfeHpW5juLrNSzvckoP3CbIjgWBuakg3oQTa71yt9Rm7IfDUgbLyoBctuJhpi0OVal=w490-h367" width="490" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the NORAD facility in Colorado; That's Milt Sosin on left, a famous reporter from the Miami News, me in the middle, and George Alexander later of the L.A. Times on the right.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>Another focus from the Washington assignment, was a series on the impact of space technology across the nation. (I reworked it into a free-lance story for the Washington Post later. That brought in extra income, and my TODAY bosses approved.)</p><p>By this time we were building relations with the other Gannett newspapers around the country, meaning that the stories I wrote were on the national wire service and began showing up in papers in New York. Illinois and elsewhere.</p><p>In addition to manned flights, I also covered the development of military missiles, including the submarine launched Poseidon. We watched from a Navy vessel offshore as the submarine launched, but it turned out the Russians were interested too and stationed what they called a "trawler" near us to watch and collect data. We had a close encounter of the Cold War kind when the trawler ignored warnings and came within 100 yards of us. Nothing bad happened, but it made an interesting day.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinYymktRo-YBs-XSlDeoaagT-LUfV8yel2Eb_YswK-4_mEQ_oVxiFUjiDVEuVRU9VgheXqSa3tGgOQTcd0WseFpbdqIqayE7V4rTM0EuFrDxQWndJeCHBBG_4ofDaREMIRdXtUKOekr4orwHITWjKSRK-YtAFdKAe5961YX7lVrXTqKPxVoTR3ovgq" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinYymktRo-YBs-XSlDeoaagT-LUfV8yel2Eb_YswK-4_mEQ_oVxiFUjiDVEuVRU9VgheXqSa3tGgOQTcd0WseFpbdqIqayE7V4rTM0EuFrDxQWndJeCHBBG_4ofDaREMIRdXtUKOekr4orwHITWjKSRK-YtAFdKAe5961YX7lVrXTqKPxVoTR3ovgq=w454-h341" width="454" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once we understood they were not going to ram us, the close encounter with the Soviets was amusing.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>The Apollo program got back on track and by December of 1968 Apollo 8 had circled the moon, and given the nation confidence the goal might be reached. Our Christmas tree was never fully decorated that year because I had to back to work.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6WW5SOW_k9TY3G8V6n7O8qtSY1EWWIpgvCCCRLV5mkwd097jBgB1CKfOXuQ1iu2QvTc9VStudif-eRfmHtFVsEj6Px2wRrncv843fYsXO2xG3y0BPQdd3gnrxr9yRyjP2eaometvLzlWZXQhHrEdGltmWt_Hw18KdMF4_PSaY15gNGlHmAT9ZcfV7" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1041" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6WW5SOW_k9TY3G8V6n7O8qtSY1EWWIpgvCCCRLV5mkwd097jBgB1CKfOXuQ1iu2QvTc9VStudif-eRfmHtFVsEj6Px2wRrncv843fYsXO2xG3y0BPQdd3gnrxr9yRyjP2eaometvLzlWZXQhHrEdGltmWt_Hw18KdMF4_PSaY15gNGlHmAT9ZcfV7=w483-h464" width="483" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earth as seen by the Apollo 8 crew; a photo that changed things<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>That was the last mission I covered just from Florida, as Mission Control had moved to Texas. That began a routine of trips to Houston with every flight, working very long days, and living in a motel for two weeks or so at a time.</p><p>By May of 1969 Apollo 10 was orbiting the moon in a dress rehearsal for the first landing.</p><p><br /></p><p>By this time the launches were attracting world wide attention, and large crowds. The demand for information was such that I was getting calls from news agencies wanting to buy stories on a freelance basis. In the course of six months or so before the Apollo 11 launch to the moon landing, I had stories appear in the French Press Agency, Paris Match Magazine, the Washington Post, an encyclopedia and several smaller magazines. I was also doing radio shows from the launch pad, providing "expertise" to the Gannett owned local station.</p><p>Our lives at home were built around launch dates, space missions. And a pregnant Pat. She quit her job at NASA and stayed at home.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpkWzDy2mYdkP-XYFEP9xNVIOt_AuR7Ea9A1iQBirxeiQNKoQSx7JIPw41nFLOztkOVYADPMtRyyXe80YiZ4e9It5UQlzqaK_ZB_FYhVdcwTtJWxFzpj_glvjVqpto6PHtAE34kvp8iw5JrEheSmL45wgS2A2A4SgHLYyL8zxiEenoOTJJO6B77Xiz" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpkWzDy2mYdkP-XYFEP9xNVIOt_AuR7Ea9A1iQBirxeiQNKoQSx7JIPw41nFLOztkOVYADPMtRyyXe80YiZ4e9It5UQlzqaK_ZB_FYhVdcwTtJWxFzpj_glvjVqpto6PHtAE34kvp8iw5JrEheSmL45wgS2A2A4SgHLYyL8zxiEenoOTJJO6B77Xiz=w256-h328" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the press bleachers for Apollo 11</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>Apollo 11 was unlike any story anyone could remember. There were more than 4,000 accredited press people present for the launch. The permanent press corps at the Cape, of which I was a part, probably had no more than 20 people assigned.</p><p>By July 1969 I was spending about 80 hours a week at work, and writing three or more stories a day, all about Apollo. The entire staff of TODAY was involved, and beefed up with editors and writers on loan from Washington and New York. Endless planning sessions, trying to cover every possible angle and possibility, ate up our time.</p><p>NASA hosted a dinner one night prior to the launch which I was invited to attend. Present were the usual NASA bigwigs like von Braun and a few astronauts, but Walter Cronkite was across the table and a writer named John Dos Passos was in the seat to my left. The room was crammed with people I had only heard of. I was a 28 year old newspaper reporter. And I worked for the largest newspaper chain in the country. Life was good. I listened, and kept quiet.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWssA-NCwzkGxRqDGJURTDl95mIHqnUTWPoXqDrE1O0-iVainy4-k95GpXVlrtSiMpKCbVIfCSo022061UgLsQ4dQs_UHNLx5A5aIJqpO1imZ41I36JLLqHdI0OLF5nL5lmbmDbb0qvX8jmDkgrH4nSzTWf2DN_Y4E5aeeYH4H0b2Z84d0q1l1A1U1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWssA-NCwzkGxRqDGJURTDl95mIHqnUTWPoXqDrE1O0-iVainy4-k95GpXVlrtSiMpKCbVIfCSo022061UgLsQ4dQs_UHNLx5A5aIJqpO1imZ41I36JLLqHdI0OLF5nL5lmbmDbb0qvX8jmDkgrH4nSzTWf2DN_Y4E5aeeYH4H0b2Z84d0q1l1A1U1" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing radio "color" at the Cape.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>When the launch finally took place, I had been at my desk at the Kennedy Space Center launch site since before dawn. The press area was a giant bleacher, with built in desks, phones and whatever else we needed. The television networks had their own portable studios in trailers on site. The enormous press contingent overflowed onto the grass and all around the official site.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXsGydDdAVnrQp-aKBLeJrPFxNp6P3NiX8van5qfJpN_Fpm-8Jip19dzR0voOsH4jL1NdbL-rKuO35tOu-BRI7Hse0jRMPaZN68SPBKf9BMyNbx4aE26CbTSoJ1nJ3mOgB4-yp8ny-62f6MUWHcfTIrJ_-OMXntQa71qyJKp9GsU4RvMC4P1gqCbnR" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="119" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXsGydDdAVnrQp-aKBLeJrPFxNp6P3NiX8van5qfJpN_Fpm-8Jip19dzR0voOsH4jL1NdbL-rKuO35tOu-BRI7Hse0jRMPaZN68SPBKf9BMyNbx4aE26CbTSoJ1nJ3mOgB4-yp8ny-62f6MUWHcfTIrJ_-OMXntQa71qyJKp9GsU4RvMC4P1gqCbnR=w277-h350" width="277" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apollo 11<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>When the launch finally came the morning of July 16, it was both powerful and awe-inspiring. More than one jaded journalist said a quiet prayer because we knew how very dangerous it was for the crew. The light fixtures in the roof of the stands rattled and swayed and the low pressure waves beat against our chests. Uncharacteristically, many of the "press corp" cheered. Pat, pregnant and retired from NASA, watched from the causeway and munched on soda crackers.</p><p>At the press site I took notes on my portable Underwood typewriter, and provided some radio comments for broadcast colleagues.</p><p>I had already written what we called "'A' matter" for the wire service story, so I dictated a lead for the Gannett News Service that said men had headed for the moon.</p><p>Several of us waited until the crew was safely in orbit before heading to a post-launch press conference, and then back to the office on the mainland to write more detailed stories about the day. At my desk in the TODAY office I had wired a communications box so I could hear all the NASA commentary and as much of the astronaut conversations as they would let through.</p><p>Because of multiple deadlines I wrote several versions of the launch-day story that afternoon and night, before heading home to pack a bag for a flight to Mission Control in Houston the next morning. I was at my other work desk, at the Mission Control Center in Houston, by afternoon writing the next in a stream of stories from that week.</p><p>I worked from my Houston desk, usually wearing headphones to listen to the astronauts. Nearby were friends from Newhouse Newspapers and the French Press Agency. We would back each other up if someone was away for a few moments.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEierdJ-MGa9FIPRBXxgh2Jv1EnfCtr9SVZkbLqoVpXo-lUZANEQYc_PBTgN1ZaJTvGIIoWTKgUgf55TfADruNjW5iyCkKA5I4RReQw-M2Bh8CO35zuzcAAJPWAPK-Y5mSrgPXHUv1zfUG1UnYp7XyY4MYHu5LZa_id1I--vxhwC6lQvgpV8EOWdxjgX" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="188" height="407" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEierdJ-MGa9FIPRBXxgh2Jv1EnfCtr9SVZkbLqoVpXo-lUZANEQYc_PBTgN1ZaJTvGIIoWTKgUgf55TfADruNjW5iyCkKA5I4RReQw-M2Bh8CO35zuzcAAJPWAPK-Y5mSrgPXHUv1zfUG1UnYp7XyY4MYHu5LZa_id1I--vxhwC6lQvgpV8EOWdxjgX=w511-h407" width="511" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buzz Aldrin on the moon<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I had a copy of the official Flight Plan on my desk so I could see what the astronauts were supposed to be doing every moment. I would write an early version of stories for afternoon newspapers, handing copies to a Western Union runner who would take them to the nearby office inside the building and send the stories by teletype to New York, the base for Gannett.</p><p>After the landing took place safely, my friend from the French Press Agency pulled out a bottle of wine, and toasted America. "You Americans," he said, "do not understand how important this is."</p><p> Stories were constructed in parts, with background or filler material going out first, and then new "leads" as events progressed through the day. I kept a set of carbon copies on my desk to keep track of everything. For the next eight days I wrote about three stories a day, and then I stayed until the astronauts came back to Houston for quarantine in their specially</p><p>constructed Airstream quarantine trailer.</p><p><br /></p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWR-MBN3ZzYLPBgL1zLkrROhF8Mp-jld-VTltAs1AuAl1p3k0_0jBoxFhsKjziCo6gdV_vH1QthdDzWxFdkb311YNcyDud7Nukqw3aYheZZWBSR34Hap49lx2pZNFhwlfeSBuOqU64YNRd-_JmcY0Okcp4_dCtrbjfL9qRrNQACn2CwEx4dh4dj4Pe" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1041" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWR-MBN3ZzYLPBgL1zLkrROhF8Mp-jld-VTltAs1AuAl1p3k0_0jBoxFhsKjziCo6gdV_vH1QthdDzWxFdkb311YNcyDud7Nukqw3aYheZZWBSR34Hap49lx2pZNFhwlfeSBuOqU64YNRd-_JmcY0Okcp4_dCtrbjfL9qRrNQACn2CwEx4dh4dj4Pe=w464-h312" width="464" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Safely onboard the aircraft carrier<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>The Apollo 11 mission required all the expertise the nation could provide, and very long days and nights for everyone involved. There was a sense of accomplishment, and exhaustion. And the public immediately lost interest.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaGtmcCm2WST4gyqlpSDAi38Qg27GpDgSdoJ8iD76rjuFeW4nU-wjlDHnOgxzcovq2XLb8CcQ7juHx9Bdk5fA4-47PI62DJs-d7QL9MJyULVNd3QUuxU4S7UqOMR1JWkJCovgE2NNNq3uipRVTBG_g2KRqz8NkG2xB-Kaa07GpqpyI2Aa3Ov7DoPoZ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaGtmcCm2WST4gyqlpSDAi38Qg27GpDgSdoJ8iD76rjuFeW4nU-wjlDHnOgxzcovq2XLb8CcQ7juHx9Bdk5fA4-47PI62DJs-d7QL9MJyULVNd3QUuxU4S7UqOMR1JWkJCovgE2NNNq3uipRVTBG_g2KRqz8NkG2xB-Kaa07GpqpyI2Aa3Ov7DoPoZ=w435-h326" width="435" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Benefit of being a reporter: you get a ride in a moon car<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>For most of the next year I spent my time going back and forth from Cape Kennedy to Houston, covering the subsequent Apollo flights. The scariest was Apollo 13, when no one was really sure the astronauts would survive. The most forgettable was Apollo 17, the last mission in 1972. By then the public had lost interest and stories were mostly back page or inside.</p><p>During the time after Apollo 11 I expanded my reporting role to include more science writing, specifically the then-developing world of oceanography. I took a scuba course and talked my editor and friend Bob Bentley into letting me travel and do interesting stories. In between Apollo launches.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLA44iqKCexV4vxJSOW3Yz3pQIss8rqap8Vk-L--NNQ2hbNyH-RHwpv7DwyxOaH1dxsfzTJgUZdq2gcgN9P8bmPM4o0v3BNhyFY171PVDHtVMw7SF6EOqX58xHpjGFUWXv_6VE14xpJTBVyxaGF_YUJS1onAzQx0Mwg3C0HN5OulzAhrZ0xh_N4s5d" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLA44iqKCexV4vxJSOW3Yz3pQIss8rqap8Vk-L--NNQ2hbNyH-RHwpv7DwyxOaH1dxsfzTJgUZdq2gcgN9P8bmPM4o0v3BNhyFY171PVDHtVMw7SF6EOqX58xHpjGFUWXv_6VE14xpJTBVyxaGF_YUJS1onAzQx0Mwg3C0HN5OulzAhrZ0xh_N4s5d=w284-h379" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diving to write stories in the Florida Keys and Bahamas was just part of the science writing job.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>That led to trips to the Virgin Islands to write about an underwater habitat, the Bahamas for a story on mini-submarines, and the Florida Keys for stories on the environment and other fun stuff.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJyejd7mtugYCF8WrEAAKxiyFL_amgUhkFv9wIBP9IPNk2kv5kVMFS8smyhe8cYBhBEzk4kvv7xYaGdk0NKuyli9VMgyerHE_-jpUBNF6Ch9eY3isVVinnGHxTTokrPduG-3WTyAKrx6fdSbeW1YIN2cNVP5shF2P_Bv55SHp-FSNhIcnZ6S-YcTLi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJyejd7mtugYCF8WrEAAKxiyFL_amgUhkFv9wIBP9IPNk2kv5kVMFS8smyhe8cYBhBEzk4kvv7xYaGdk0NKuyli9VMgyerHE_-jpUBNF6Ch9eY3isVVinnGHxTTokrPduG-3WTyAKrx6fdSbeW1YIN2cNVP5shF2P_Bv55SHp-FSNhIcnZ6S-YcTLi=w295-h393" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Virgin Islands to dive on an underwater habitat.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I left the space coast, and the full-time assignment of covering the space program, and science, when Bentley asked me to move to Tallahassee, Florida, as the chief of bureau for Gannett News Service. We were to cover state government, with emphasis on items of high interest to the Florida newspapers (seven at that time). My new boss was John Quinn, then head of GNS, and one of the best newsmen in America. In a famous encounter, in answer to a question from John, then President Richard Nixon announced "I am not a crook." Events proved he was.</p><p>I continued to write news stories on a daily basis, usually about the workings of state government and what the elected representatives were up to. It was a fun assignment, with competition always present and some Florida scoundrel in public office usually available to make a good story.</p><p>I was lucky enough to cover three major events in that time period: the 1972 presidential nominating conventions in Miami; the return of the Prisons of War from Vietnam, and Southern politics, including the early skirmishes between Jimmy Carter and George Wallace.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU4OAYpjLnFFgH-TcI8cGPL4zEH4xh7GBOBH6KtlVc57Vo8j6c771gx9LJC3Jgp1pZUk07aKOWHMxSCXUG3V0mTqO5EJFnmDjfvCfJPAnf9sQMT-ffjeY3Im9PbCDX-ABg8dHgyzRIm1ibbxWKIaLyDGjgZVDU0XnihlWvjDAw5WhbaejxFBpfJzmL" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU4OAYpjLnFFgH-TcI8cGPL4zEH4xh7GBOBH6KtlVc57Vo8j6c771gx9LJC3Jgp1pZUk07aKOWHMxSCXUG3V0mTqO5EJFnmDjfvCfJPAnf9sQMT-ffjeY3Im9PbCDX-ABg8dHgyzRIm1ibbxWKIaLyDGjgZVDU0XnihlWvjDAw5WhbaejxFBpfJzmL=w325-h433" width="325" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stuff of covering the legislature.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>And it was in Tallahassee that I met a political leader who proved to be honest, and principled, in all the years he served. Reuben Askew, whose campaign for governor I covered around the state, still stands as a public servant who deserved the admiration he gained, and who should have been taken more seriously.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3TMeaIHF7w0MTC0Ftys_MCTYLogoSKt31EmBIEylWqTzOqjGXiXpIsl9-QTUxc8H1WyeNm4wvx4yGpoYOoTd6R5xkibcw9QgU-q_t79GSsb8BLccBQBwP_dd-XlFJyinGz824prX4aMQWRVz29tfMpbEpItSkx7F3EivkvUDNYFOjBz23cMAcGsFg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="441" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3TMeaIHF7w0MTC0Ftys_MCTYLogoSKt31EmBIEylWqTzOqjGXiXpIsl9-QTUxc8H1WyeNm4wvx4yGpoYOoTd6R5xkibcw9QgU-q_t79GSsb8BLccBQBwP_dd-XlFJyinGz824prX4aMQWRVz29tfMpbEpItSkx7F3EivkvUDNYFOjBz23cMAcGsFg=w331-h441" width="331" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did a lampoon of the press secretary "polishing" his image, but the governor won the night by singing "An Okie from Muscogee."</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I will always be grateful that I happened to be in the right place at the right time as a journalist. I met some great people, like Martin Luther King Senior, or "Daddy King" as he was known, and people working inside the space program whose names never made the news. </p><p>I met and covered some small-minded jerks, like George Wallace and the Klan leaders on Stone Mountain in Georgia and a few of the Panhandle legislators who made money off public office.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8wTYMu8zzfO4k433IR6HS9finFZc316pj8m31zLWVScSSgl2PYzgfl52Rn_K8KA9cJypzj4oaCBfzAQ_WjTq4bVM8mvb5irVInUaqRkFebTD--y_3thWTpxFNft9b4vvz1KnEa877JsfdjkJnYt9NkOu0QM8kulvMuBVDtA8XvGuFI6QrPYoWlGbJ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8wTYMu8zzfO4k433IR6HS9finFZc316pj8m31zLWVScSSgl2PYzgfl52Rn_K8KA9cJypzj4oaCBfzAQ_WjTq4bVM8mvb5irVInUaqRkFebTD--y_3thWTpxFNft9b4vvz1KnEa877JsfdjkJnYt9NkOu0QM8kulvMuBVDtA8XvGuFI6QrPYoWlGbJ=w445-h334" width="445" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's President Ford on the right, and me peeking out in the center, at the White House</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>I met some Presidents, great or maybe not, like Johnson, Ford and Carter, all people who sacrificed for the public.</p><p>I met some arrogant, but smart, people like Wernher von Braun and Al Neuharth. </p><p>And I met many brave and dedicated people like the astronauts that risked their lives for the sake of exploration and adventure and science and their country, and the people that supported them.</p><p>My career as a reporter pretty much ended in 1973, about a decade after it began, and Al Neuharth gets the credit or blame. After I had been bureau chief for a couple of years, I attended a gathering of news executives in Pensacola. It was a routine gathering editors and publishers and corporate executives, with too much to eat and drink, and little real work. </p><p>As I was heading for the airport to leave, I ran into Al in the lobby that morning. We chatted about nothing special, and then he casually asked me if I ever considered being the editor of a newspaper. Our mutual friend Bob Bentley was in the process of remaking the Fort Myers News-Press, and could use some help. I was not overly charmed with the idea, and quickly forgot the conversation. A few days later Bob Bentley called and asked me to come be his assistant in Fort Myers, with a vague job description and more money.</p><p>Once I made that move, I was an editor, a title I held for the next 25 years in three states. </p><p>It took a while to adjust to the idea of working with other writers, and photographers, and page designers. But I liked it. I particularly enjoyed the fact that in my editor years, which covered the next 3 decades or so, I was able to look for and recruit great journalists, often in the first years of their careers, people who would later go on to do truly great work. I knew great writers. Great page designers and photographers. Great editors. The talent within the big room of journalism at newspapers, comes in many forms. What they have in common is curiosity, honesty and talent.</p><p>I love the fact that so many people I hired when they were young are doing well, some as novelists, some as magazine writers and some as newspaper editors. Many moved into other fields with great success.</p><p> I love the idea that while I started at two of the largest papers in the country, it was at mid-sized papers that I had a chance to help develop such great young talents.</p><p>And I love the fact that when, after more than a dozen years working for a fast-growing corporation Gannett that I got a chance to be an editor for a family run company -- McClatchy -- led by people of principle and integrity.</p><p>Nothing lasts forever, or course, and things are always changing. Journalism is always changing.</p><p>But nothing beat the fun of being a reporter, out there on the streets, gathering the news and putting it down on paper, and seeing it on the front page the next morning. I am jealous of those who still do that. The tools may be different -- iPhones and computers instead of a notebook and pencil and access to a pay phone -- but it remains one of the great professions in the world.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-21773687084567496572022-06-14T14:36:00.001-07:002022-06-14T14:36:25.942-07:00The Great Northwest: Part Two -- along the coastThe second part of our recent travels took us from the Oregon Coast, down through California's Redwood coast and ended up at a great County Park at Mount Madonna. <div><br /></div><div>We left the Columbia River Gorge, zipped by Portland, and started a week of exploring what was mostly new territory for us.
We talked with the Oregon State Park folks on the phone, and took a chance on arriving at a popular beach park without reservations for the night.
We were welcomed with a smile, and private campsite surrounded by shrubbery just behind the beach dunes. Cape Lookout State Park occupies a stretch of coast almost due east of Portland, and it was busy but not crowded.
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzf9qTLiym8s0S_cn6VAXGam5L3vdQ3-GpvDB0sVNObh_e899Gsdunw7oWgbedlXJoYdGMMfXWV3mXVngC9ir-5KGWr0Fdyc_6GMMvWiTyqdVTeYki3owJvAdSc0R3MiFyhxaPBQtIMR3zx07TvLMVKarOn47sm9aYUvputRbftUk-U_lRj6G_Cqf/s3264/IMG_9024.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzf9qTLiym8s0S_cn6VAXGam5L3vdQ3-GpvDB0sVNObh_e899Gsdunw7oWgbedlXJoYdGMMfXWV3mXVngC9ir-5KGWr0Fdyc_6GMMvWiTyqdVTeYki3owJvAdSc0R3MiFyhxaPBQtIMR3zx07TvLMVKarOn47sm9aYUvputRbftUk-U_lRj6G_Cqf/s320/IMG_9024.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning coffee in "Snowflake"<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLoi_lbugnq3Ybr9FcpJWikxvFAEGQJwLHacZdw0IkTIIvLXKaw4P6WCX04TLXV2QSmCsTJOV9myMMVYmfb9hPUINpPW3tQzu4CHeQwaJ89ElY4tlUv6wQSV_1f_u69tQWZPGlgHDp5Tr2T6uF-Aqc_vHmARw36jyfafE4kmdLxae8qE_ggBGPQsuH/s3264/IMG_9110.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: left;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLoi_lbugnq3Ybr9FcpJWikxvFAEGQJwLHacZdw0IkTIIvLXKaw4P6WCX04TLXV2QSmCsTJOV9myMMVYmfb9hPUINpPW3tQzu4CHeQwaJ89ElY4tlUv6wQSV_1f_u69tQWZPGlgHDp5Tr2T6uF-Aqc_vHmARw36jyfafE4kmdLxae8qE_ggBGPQsuH/s320/IMG_9110.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch in a diner at Tillamook<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />Cape Lookout was just one of the many state parks scattered along the coast for the entire length of the state. We picked it because we had never seen it before, and we were able to get in! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsylLt9gMhUKAWc5P_1eCnlAX4giUsmqTyjKdIwTsVCUtxHGvd7Fclo6Uq_baJbsYtrxivFr1s0WMSio8He8W-CfSpFlRoTmryWbn4-jjQW98o7Iu7PAtvJLvD8tp5tHHHgotFBW-LfP-DHWhuisZHj7yWMypKOzvasquh0dM5ZBMwDLTscWcNmmCy/s4032/IMG_1841.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsylLt9gMhUKAWc5P_1eCnlAX4giUsmqTyjKdIwTsVCUtxHGvd7Fclo6Uq_baJbsYtrxivFr1s0WMSio8He8W-CfSpFlRoTmryWbn4-jjQW98o7Iu7PAtvJLvD8tp5tHHHgotFBW-LfP-DHWhuisZHj7yWMypKOzvasquh0dM5ZBMwDLTscWcNmmCy/s320/IMG_1841.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">On the approach from the highway it was not all that impressive, but the campground turned out to be excellent, like all Oregon parks, with hookups available for those who want them and more open/isolated sites for tent campers who those who don't. Predictably, the section with electrical hookups where we stayed tended to be mostly retired or older travelers, and the tent area was full of younger couple and families.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj3Tkfi25OoSMoc-I8N-s1QMDb1iQ3Dm2ZuU2-p8D4MdEvHcpH0zy4-13MnPdvBEQS_UMzaS0yPORgfCs_xE0lebLMlfPAu-9G0hmFLX0rqwaOjro6TArm8u5_NDx4aQr93pqqk9Icgpzp8838JwTQGrCTI2CLkclb9AIMmQsmcvpfS-Fp3uSIug2/s4032/IMG_1867.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj3Tkfi25OoSMoc-I8N-s1QMDb1iQ3Dm2ZuU2-p8D4MdEvHcpH0zy4-13MnPdvBEQS_UMzaS0yPORgfCs_xE0lebLMlfPAu-9G0hmFLX0rqwaOjro6TArm8u5_NDx4aQr93pqqk9Icgpzp8838JwTQGrCTI2CLkclb9AIMmQsmcvpfS-Fp3uSIug2/w426-h326/IMG_1867.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But we were alone on the beach for sunset<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw4HSwzFcQ90HQGspulLH_hlBv2xVbQw_FAc95KsuvaF6b3izdHtw4PbbKylM8fV0O71DLLMnqNhc2DzI4mWqi4Ak5408P14kXfjZAget0AIC6XryJVYpCXfbvQPvKQv8B7zsbpw6EIkZNjDuAbUzks6-15Ge_IuFIW27rsWkpbpSE97B_jV49_b_/s4032/IMG_1850.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw4HSwzFcQ90HQGspulLH_hlBv2xVbQw_FAc95KsuvaF6b3izdHtw4PbbKylM8fV0O71DLLMnqNhc2DzI4mWqi4Ak5408P14kXfjZAget0AIC6XryJVYpCXfbvQPvKQv8B7zsbpw6EIkZNjDuAbUzks6-15Ge_IuFIW27rsWkpbpSE97B_jV49_b_/s320/IMG_1850.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And one dog walker<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaqv8oALt7Acz1XeMHY3GuYD2K3Lnp6koFdOhrrLrk165ldSeREu5ISF_EyqkDSbGJzkuEbM0fI9R9dU9nsa2Y6djwd9vRF5oB9E6qNMUm62w9iT-x9-OGqiggpJlayEMcTEbLF8mwmcSy8H1jwat_Kci3kqSWX_FX-zIJSIiSa7XfWgmGYXfePu2/s4032/IMG_1843%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaqv8oALt7Acz1XeMHY3GuYD2K3Lnp6koFdOhrrLrk165ldSeREu5ISF_EyqkDSbGJzkuEbM0fI9R9dU9nsa2Y6djwd9vRF5oB9E6qNMUm62w9iT-x9-OGqiggpJlayEMcTEbLF8mwmcSy8H1jwat_Kci3kqSWX_FX-zIJSIiSa7XfWgmGYXfePu2/s320/IMG_1843%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this little girl had all that sand to play with<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKvW8kEH2H4zgvKqspoA3D1T6vUe5XFqH8sBcJoL1RJwe6u_pf1lmXc3tnPkuSONLTER4hCHkkBHXLlYjCEyPnxOvt77K5Gopit4gwCfopLm5Ovy3YNQ91Kvhg8572mbgyE74HjoPCONOintYwbO6e1lxbV_RK6ijmTIu2YdDhUqkagvKQqdfGRvg/s4032/IMG_1875.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKvW8kEH2H4zgvKqspoA3D1T6vUe5XFqH8sBcJoL1RJwe6u_pf1lmXc3tnPkuSONLTER4hCHkkBHXLlYjCEyPnxOvt77K5Gopit4gwCfopLm5Ovy3YNQ91Kvhg8572mbgyE74HjoPCONOintYwbO6e1lxbV_RK6ijmTIu2YdDhUqkagvKQqdfGRvg/s320/IMG_1875.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And Pat explored the stream flowing into the sea<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkziXHLDMg8ad_ICywne-QzXwAUxirUeglEoAsEmccqW0H3aH8sd4MNtD5ln_SDzP4MabsHR8z_LLgKEWFXrwwP0M-_YQfWwFUQiuoTelRDPbAQO9zIKFV8Ajf_0Kdz5rN4NpsMnyxVDwCyr7Firnt-xYHw_RY8djEchvArvBFjgtMz-LQTvZloQf4/s4032/IMG_1863%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkziXHLDMg8ad_ICywne-QzXwAUxirUeglEoAsEmccqW0H3aH8sd4MNtD5ln_SDzP4MabsHR8z_LLgKEWFXrwwP0M-_YQfWwFUQiuoTelRDPbAQO9zIKFV8Ajf_0Kdz5rN4NpsMnyxVDwCyr7Firnt-xYHw_RY8djEchvArvBFjgtMz-LQTvZloQf4/s320/IMG_1863%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our only company was young people stacking rocks<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJowRyZpl4nvY7U6PTLbv8pKokfBDtjg7ovpKtrSOMe-2npAhswPg4wXAoOTFitYRc7PkgXeCntpUblaY77gUFUuALSiuGIX21w08NxWqvrllNaspEnpKofJk498OWi_XNUq4Kbz1OrGWQgX9QUGTLYUq5ME2YSMP_E-As_u9VAAF-3TUkGLta9kLr/s4032/IMG_1845%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJowRyZpl4nvY7U6PTLbv8pKokfBDtjg7ovpKtrSOMe-2npAhswPg4wXAoOTFitYRc7PkgXeCntpUblaY77gUFUuALSiuGIX21w08NxWqvrllNaspEnpKofJk498OWi_XNUq4Kbz1OrGWQgX9QUGTLYUq5ME2YSMP_E-As_u9VAAF-3TUkGLta9kLr/w372-h376/IMG_1845%20(1).jpg" width="372" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many arch rocks offshore<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXEeGbXtMz9SKxTuN2gTv05UyfMINGiwSyv3PWij3xJyvUGx1nP2XW3EFdepb4Acff3zPKjxHEbtCfm9KXWeRvoqJcG5lpb3cHBv8SUxg5kTk95iWJTXEIxZUkcrWHb5VBus3FhHJGFBAvM5gII86sC7zVLSxw1CGDSWc_iKzWnDloxjR-HQO0XRd/s4032/IMG_1847.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXEeGbXtMz9SKxTuN2gTv05UyfMINGiwSyv3PWij3xJyvUGx1nP2XW3EFdepb4Acff3zPKjxHEbtCfm9KXWeRvoqJcG5lpb3cHBv8SUxg5kTk95iWJTXEIxZUkcrWHb5VBus3FhHJGFBAvM5gII86sC7zVLSxw1CGDSWc_iKzWnDloxjR-HQO0XRd/s320/IMG_1847.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And lots of plants along the trails<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />After two days lazing on the beach, and enjoying the cool weather, we were lured to our friends' home at Scapoose, on a tributary of the Columbia River, near Portland.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Michael and Sylvia have been friends since Sacramento, when we all sailed, camped, ate, drank wine and traveled the Mexican coast with them in their sailboat. After retiring from Sac State they dropped anchor on San Francisco Bay for a while at Point Richmond, then cashed out their condo and bought a floating home in Oregon. It is a three-bedroom house that floats, not a houseboat. Complete with decks, great views, a nature sanctuary across the waterway, and neighbors who paddle by. Michael is still a journalist, writing columns for a New York newspaper and other stuff, and Sylvia has re-invented herself from her original professor role through Zumba and Yoga teacher, and now has a life coaching business based on the Internet. The only thing they've done that surprised me is added a lovely dog to the family. Turns out a floating home is safer than a sailboat on the ocean.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3gSZG8bJLw6v9zK9rM1Sv1uxkuZSOpbRRUUcanK2CJ67Hj66L7OkIjoZdY9oE9nsnBiE9nG_ytX_OonvlGlWthda_y_EyTaW0dSYH7YbtUizF-W9uRvg5TzjMkTXymcuTcZX1jdBDWKnhD5CuPFqIxwxh26n_r04gHEiYPU0bfsNuol9xnXeleZa/s3264/IMG_9143.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3gSZG8bJLw6v9zK9rM1Sv1uxkuZSOpbRRUUcanK2CJ67Hj66L7OkIjoZdY9oE9nsnBiE9nG_ytX_OonvlGlWthda_y_EyTaW0dSYH7YbtUizF-W9uRvg5TzjMkTXymcuTcZX1jdBDWKnhD5CuPFqIxwxh26n_r04gHEiYPU0bfsNuol9xnXeleZa/s320/IMG_9143.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catching up on the front deck<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEittcxGAismrYwZOQuepBE8Mg1A29gTwrECtndRQDapVVX5ThjUIxQeiqKE14wPD8itHAtQDCq4ddO_N1QbQBloDcxByxZpf3r9kvv4MTEfAEiEnwsbJOpsfFEMhWkHtoTgOMpgC0mtmo0IEGOPXlssRZFwmtZSBq1yEMoeBj_B0zQ8k5aopLLksKQU/s3264/IMG_9146.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEittcxGAismrYwZOQuepBE8Mg1A29gTwrECtndRQDapVVX5ThjUIxQeiqKE14wPD8itHAtQDCq4ddO_N1QbQBloDcxByxZpf3r9kvv4MTEfAEiEnwsbJOpsfFEMhWkHtoTgOMpgC0mtmo0IEGOPXlssRZFwmtZSBq1yEMoeBj_B0zQ8k5aopLLksKQU/s320/IMG_9146.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The neighbor, who provided salmon earlier, paddles by with his dog<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-Rao-H2Z52ykNVt2ske8ksr10zZbRMhBiWFeaMEFrQV-gaZWWdU7Y95BzNNs9eXtMB656VHV6zvbFQU3zIWOf3rXJbCi6x8oMICTpgyaM8UrFUFh__RYbpL9ihAogiCgrElXjJ6voGjGiCg3t8s626J0xu4AQxECqxGIhtX86bcpLHNkE15vm_hb/s3264/IMG_9149.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-Rao-H2Z52ykNVt2ske8ksr10zZbRMhBiWFeaMEFrQV-gaZWWdU7Y95BzNNs9eXtMB656VHV6zvbFQU3zIWOf3rXJbCi6x8oMICTpgyaM8UrFUFh__RYbpL9ihAogiCgrElXjJ6voGjGiCg3t8s626J0xu4AQxECqxGIhtX86bcpLHNkE15vm_hb/s3264/IMG_9149.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-Rao-H2Z52ykNVt2ske8ksr10zZbRMhBiWFeaMEFrQV-gaZWWdU7Y95BzNNs9eXtMB656VHV6zvbFQU3zIWOf3rXJbCi6x8oMICTpgyaM8UrFUFh__RYbpL9ihAogiCgrElXjJ6voGjGiCg3t8s626J0xu4AQxECqxGIhtX86bcpLHNkE15vm_hb/s320/IMG_9149.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view out the back door. <br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The greenery out back is vegetation growing on floating logs, the base for all the floating homes. It is old growth wood that has been wet for years, and does not sink. If you don't set a house on top, you get a garden every Spring.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-Rao-H2Z52ykNVt2ske8ksr10zZbRMhBiWFeaMEFrQV-gaZWWdU7Y95BzNNs9eXtMB656VHV6zvbFQU3zIWOf3rXJbCi6x8oMICTpgyaM8UrFUFh__RYbpL9ihAogiCgrElXjJ6voGjGiCg3t8s626J0xu4AQxECqxGIhtX86bcpLHNkE15vm_hb/s3264/IMG_9149.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISroDBQlnBTl3NbcsMR-JVR0rfHvOx_mNNcIXQJenkPtxvESuJxhQKzubN4vMGpRR_NSquNJAtWldvPJOw3HidDJwao8Xfgl0JXhzYjWxyosS-GWu_j8CCu36gQf73dLBj2Q0TV6vFpuiboEc9Fu67G5s2L00a7yk2BKmtmRssE_M2IE-izwcWsj9/s3264/IMG_9150.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISroDBQlnBTl3NbcsMR-JVR0rfHvOx_mNNcIXQJenkPtxvESuJxhQKzubN4vMGpRR_NSquNJAtWldvPJOw3HidDJwao8Xfgl0JXhzYjWxyosS-GWu_j8CCu36gQf73dLBj2Q0TV6vFpuiboEc9Fu67G5s2L00a7yk2BKmtmRssE_M2IE-izwcWsj9/s320/IMG_9150.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The neighbor and his boat<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DqFGFkLb_GuekDaMt_c1pazz9NWT9ujLZO3-cM08URxSNn4viJORhBtHvYeGKs5edIJhSDH01iUIMxRWj3MUPf-taXF4Ib0yL2qrR_NkeG6frRMKW441QyUuXjeXhOMoP3w6j7Dy13t8M7ZGc_mEv0Y7ZoEVlZp8ZW2q6vq2IB9RGCO3cz1nJkgo/s3264/IMG_9155.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DqFGFkLb_GuekDaMt_c1pazz9NWT9ujLZO3-cM08URxSNn4viJORhBtHvYeGKs5edIJhSDH01iUIMxRWj3MUPf-taXF4Ib0yL2qrR_NkeG6frRMKW441QyUuXjeXhOMoP3w6j7Dy13t8M7ZGc_mEv0Y7ZoEVlZp8ZW2q6vq2IB9RGCO3cz1nJkgo/s320/IMG_9155.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even I eat vegetarian when they cook.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Cape Blanco near Port Orford, Oregon, was our next stop after a boat tour of the neighboring houses in the area.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> The park at Cape Blanco may have been the best we experienced, but with so many good places it is hard to choose.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKvYX2JTF_uHVZe0kVkxynHVZapcaxJjOIt5wKRPnzG_DK8dbBlqSFLTH9bPBqx6eTXEWiTBFNjQH4Dq6WL6hm-zQ3qIO0yx7uk-Q2Berc-WghU_ArulcjXCwBLxBVpFPcqh5x9ay4YX658Kqlb_FnKH-32drBr4nUdc8WoMUROKYO0k7VRT0CRoN/s3264/IMG_9161.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKvYX2JTF_uHVZe0kVkxynHVZapcaxJjOIt5wKRPnzG_DK8dbBlqSFLTH9bPBqx6eTXEWiTBFNjQH4Dq6WL6hm-zQ3qIO0yx7uk-Q2Berc-WghU_ArulcjXCwBLxBVpFPcqh5x9ay4YX658Kqlb_FnKH-32drBr4nUdc8WoMUROKYO0k7VRT0CRoN/s320/IMG_9161.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another extraordinary place<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The day we arrived it was storming, with what was initially a cool rain off the ocean that by morning turned into a howling gale -- for just a short while.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The campsite was tucked into the trees back from the edge of the bluff over the ocean. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ARInx2hluSQF5DeMXIm0NCRWmPj3w4wlWWLcCLmZ3vfUd9IW0uAnjRK21YFPAfDWiL17IXeKBMnLQjlATop_MTRsj8Wz24rKxn0civFerMqVA5uZzWJkEUzaJpPmlue959-joeKn1CZbbCLAOPUd6SOBIa7Hi2BMSF0vf5NxF0n17eH2l1XTRKbt/s4032/IMG_1901.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ARInx2hluSQF5DeMXIm0NCRWmPj3w4wlWWLcCLmZ3vfUd9IW0uAnjRK21YFPAfDWiL17IXeKBMnLQjlATop_MTRsj8Wz24rKxn0civFerMqVA5uZzWJkEUzaJpPmlue959-joeKn1CZbbCLAOPUd6SOBIa7Hi2BMSF0vf5NxF0n17eH2l1XTRKbt/s320/IMG_1901.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A good fire helped keep us warm, and the camper kept us dry.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='319' height='253' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwm4DTH2JIxTALJ5o61nNU0N8TzGAecKSkUsc5SQ9MTpEB2GKQo8NnLh6u5RN-5DxNLevz3nyKfvWcnM5XmkQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">About a half-mile to the North was the Cape Blanco lighthouse, a popular site and destination for visitors.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Fv1br--UYAhtNoRQkRsS6DEr5Nr9aL0DNbxMiMOVdbYZMGgDQIqmGL_pQpjDHOcp0OtYxYYp7Uw3PwG9-IHwdalx-xR2ffQYa2xjRdJDQOmRWRKmvYDfQipOm0UXW_nqjVZxtOOTH_vn3fGIlTdGIjCJeB5jhJHB-sBcDR2CIhRR3UmIw3cjRDZI/s3264/IMG_9179.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Fv1br--UYAhtNoRQkRsS6DEr5Nr9aL0DNbxMiMOVdbYZMGgDQIqmGL_pQpjDHOcp0OtYxYYp7Uw3PwG9-IHwdalx-xR2ffQYa2xjRdJDQOmRWRKmvYDfQipOm0UXW_nqjVZxtOOTH_vn3fGIlTdGIjCJeB5jhJHB-sBcDR2CIhRR3UmIw3cjRDZI/s320/IMG_9179.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lighthouse was closed due to high winds<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But the park was still stunning, including a taste of real Northwest weather. No captions needed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaJnsyScwhDh5AoTSj5QiO23Ck06U09yoBxFwDqNx1k3HLgS0VanxtTWNR3FiEyIjOG2oyP7iALYakSu2WIbyWpz56Yc3f0QMzvYeAMM3Q2sClK6zBQ49SjX4ms7wS_LG1K3sbPi9KOfCkx5NosQYZM7fyhdzZOgNAu3WPOqe6-buNdXTTuffX3N3/s4032/IMG_1908.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaJnsyScwhDh5AoTSj5QiO23Ck06U09yoBxFwDqNx1k3HLgS0VanxtTWNR3FiEyIjOG2oyP7iALYakSu2WIbyWpz56Yc3f0QMzvYeAMM3Q2sClK6zBQ49SjX4ms7wS_LG1K3sbPi9KOfCkx5NosQYZM7fyhdzZOgNAu3WPOqe6-buNdXTTuffX3N3/s320/IMG_1908.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MnQ30WHU4ojpg_LdzB2BpbvJUNF0qub9TuUzYkHak_jKbxs1Jueky0UrgF1YXRZUiB_vEi0pf1rB5aiDteXQzgD5WK0ZXSey4wpUZx5Y1h6kc7O_O4S08gCBM95HD4mtaqH-MLMtunHfiy8mYk0_DQS66bIDGMMT2Gj80a8ANoTy8j9FQtepj2jR/s4032/IMG_1899.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MnQ30WHU4ojpg_LdzB2BpbvJUNF0qub9TuUzYkHak_jKbxs1Jueky0UrgF1YXRZUiB_vEi0pf1rB5aiDteXQzgD5WK0ZXSey4wpUZx5Y1h6kc7O_O4S08gCBM95HD4mtaqH-MLMtunHfiy8mYk0_DQS66bIDGMMT2Gj80a8ANoTy8j9FQtepj2jR/s320/IMG_1899.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" div="" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We went into Port Orford for some clam chowder at the Crazy Norwegian, and discovered a treasure: a 1930s-40s Coast Guard coastal watch station museum, with a great trail, big trees, views of the ocean, and a reminder that in this place the United States was attacked by a submarine-based airplane during WW2. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_v_dpsGcdxE8ToUutses44RPE3YU0IUSOJ1Uw1oUVVS3cWAucOzO119WHht78wjx1FpEVTD4l33XqIsj6fR_UfC8PR452bxdE_j6LDqmfeiFnZTn924edH0SfuUXGvLCLP3O50U4Q6X7d_GlGKQMcTwIXnP-Q9jWzjwCqf6jxDSzuzNZlpViVHq3l/s4032/IMG_1914.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_v_dpsGcdxE8ToUutses44RPE3YU0IUSOJ1Uw1oUVVS3cWAucOzO119WHht78wjx1FpEVTD4l33XqIsj6fR_UfC8PR452bxdE_j6LDqmfeiFnZTn924edH0SfuUXGvLCLP3O50U4Q6X7d_GlGKQMcTwIXnP-Q9jWzjwCqf6jxDSzuzNZlpViVHq3l/s320/IMG_1914.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" div="" style="clear: both;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGyQ5f2LlF1ZGdY6PXfUtKagxWiehu-ekRCKjME2E-q-ScZWX8kbxCsk15Y_uZdkjCNOgVoCToaP6ESExnKFyLVdwnwuKU9Etapf6zO-oRp7GvxdasjhOH9xqgSmm-PianmjZergG0yK-qBOsfndzBRUs6VPp-0RTLvffYMCjkQOyqDpXdYfLE3Y0/s4032/IMG_1915.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGyQ5f2LlF1ZGdY6PXfUtKagxWiehu-ekRCKjME2E-q-ScZWX8kbxCsk15Y_uZdkjCNOgVoCToaP6ESExnKFyLVdwnwuKU9Etapf6zO-oRp7GvxdasjhOH9xqgSmm-PianmjZergG0yK-qBOsfndzBRUs6VPp-0RTLvffYMCjkQOyqDpXdYfLE3Y0/s320/IMG_1915.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTst-mf6s2commxxOr0p8LtiLeMLjFAQndwcwXqiagLBnQN7x06R1ATrhKRh9zmjj_IxvbUa5WhQllrb8P4jTwOidXOyrMOHgnolAvX77PpIx0yIKmfZV6ch81oRiuCJ_hsAKg-LlEotgTOeWzW6xYiBxLzqEXaF7dxnaVvt-DjHhA-2_wH4ioSVD/s4032/IMG_1927.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTst-mf6s2commxxOr0p8LtiLeMLjFAQndwcwXqiagLBnQN7x06R1ATrhKRh9zmjj_IxvbUa5WhQllrb8P4jTwOidXOyrMOHgnolAvX77PpIx0yIKmfZV6ch81oRiuCJ_hsAKg-LlEotgTOeWzW6xYiBxLzqEXaF7dxnaVvt-DjHhA-2_wH4ioSVD/s320/IMG_1927.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqGVFjRSKxDbrrcneUjc0tMHuh-5A_v14ukopoNE6hIi7DRkJn8pfx3rflEZfr4ZDUPuOn0ClcJR6B1Q2LnFFQleGiu6Q1yeMPAEuMQq-b1lqHWNrpRpEJrp16REwei0Yqk63Y1gHEUpUzHFe2z3clTFj9uMs6KTCkUZFmDRlEHI_hao9r-Z5RkNV/s4032/IMG_1930.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqGVFjRSKxDbrrcneUjc0tMHuh-5A_v14ukopoNE6hIi7DRkJn8pfx3rflEZfr4ZDUPuOn0ClcJR6B1Q2LnFFQleGiu6Q1yeMPAEuMQq-b1lqHWNrpRpEJrp16REwei0Yqk63Y1gHEUpUzHFe2z3clTFj9uMs6KTCkUZFmDRlEHI_hao9r-Z5RkNV/s320/IMG_1930.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRNAUNWnlh94MX3pnM4IWHXKAaQBbyPTEkpPvlbXVQDnaRb-UiWQIPH4F76FPMXVpfvwS_x8zOk16VvsuDWf8T3RYgOtHSosY6PqjnphEE35YY2iC7WD4PtR1JsRTKuDTUF2qvwkc1rMQc3OStcgsmolwzKyyMK79MWs-FSTVPYbbHMA2-vc3kcpAm/s4032/IMG_1919.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRNAUNWnlh94MX3pnM4IWHXKAaQBbyPTEkpPvlbXVQDnaRb-UiWQIPH4F76FPMXVpfvwS_x8zOk16VvsuDWf8T3RYgOtHSosY6PqjnphEE35YY2iC7WD4PtR1JsRTKuDTUF2qvwkc1rMQc3OStcgsmolwzKyyMK79MWs-FSTVPYbbHMA2-vc3kcpAm/w401-h283/IMG_1919.jpg" width="401" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6zGTuE9si5MNSducXRPTmRpK866TgBGcU-emBVWF-e9i6x6Jacn-im0aCpFYugbGmhv4xFLsZ-zsb5siK4-Plu-ehIPc45-wTPfZqZ9sWIeC2fYo38A63GI3L_BkyVQOVVYrm-7guwACSG78bfushq-42OdCVN7hcczWwASJo1ss9kmIC886LO4e/s4032/IMG_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6zGTuE9si5MNSducXRPTmRpK866TgBGcU-emBVWF-e9i6x6Jacn-im0aCpFYugbGmhv4xFLsZ-zsb5siK4-Plu-ehIPc45-wTPfZqZ9sWIeC2fYo38A63GI3L_BkyVQOVVYrm-7guwACSG78bfushq-42OdCVN7hcczWwASJo1ss9kmIC886LO4e/s320/IMG_1920.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coast Guard crews launched rescue boats from this cove.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And then back to the beach.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Taking the same bluff-top trail to the South we came to the road down to the beach, one of most unusual we former Floridians have seen. It was almost paved with giant bleached logs, washed out the the rivers into the sea during winter storms, and then carried up on the beach by high tides.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxeXDY2WEOaAqe9-BlliYlWT5IB_Bq2NzOleooC8E3Ad5Pb0zMqYkIE-K1nhAh6dhqT3IRsyuxOgf5HcoH1VSUL4d61urBZdcUM10OLJhPTZQwwMJan02hQWJMHO3rjO4Qmv-U2mX15krEDB4w7M5u1UXor8iGpW-W3ip7L8w_-MXQL2a2a8_Ysfmm/s4032/IMG_1932.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxeXDY2WEOaAqe9-BlliYlWT5IB_Bq2NzOleooC8E3Ad5Pb0zMqYkIE-K1nhAh6dhqT3IRsyuxOgf5HcoH1VSUL4d61urBZdcUM10OLJhPTZQwwMJan02hQWJMHO3rjO4Qmv-U2mX15krEDB4w7M5u1UXor8iGpW-W3ip7L8w_-MXQL2a2a8_Ysfmm/s320/IMG_1932.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCsgTzo6GYlGfovwz-hESiPwY65cwDpVMNtW2T4l1iNvn-MC492-ZgYe-eWq5ZVSd9u3w7-LIWObybeNw0i1ujWE8STwoTAqAT1fBJkiGSZIHX4firz0xyc-UUVoZV1Icpm6M0tMCPfmOtZCKnFAjE-AFSH2M63-ZeadHEAYS2lURoYLo1K4vO6H7R/s4032/IMG_1942%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCsgTzo6GYlGfovwz-hESiPwY65cwDpVMNtW2T4l1iNvn-MC492-ZgYe-eWq5ZVSd9u3w7-LIWObybeNw0i1ujWE8STwoTAqAT1fBJkiGSZIHX4firz0xyc-UUVoZV1Icpm6M0tMCPfmOtZCKnFAjE-AFSH2M63-ZeadHEAYS2lURoYLo1K4vO6H7R/w400-h372/IMG_1942%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtEbRlw0nguQlFyaIh5vQRc8XcdFpGt0Hln9us1v3uHQwfxa-FL7xA9g7cu1dVERi2PapQfxCyiUCeUD5cRQ5-iGhMQfGOKtpvolJmdbVrDYpTpFn4AL0A2aWJ0NjGUZyrXKqWcK5yCOQPw6AM6pDPmUj9OsRKlwQnwWybuckKSdk-9LarESD-8yg/s4032/IMG_1945.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtEbRlw0nguQlFyaIh5vQRc8XcdFpGt0Hln9us1v3uHQwfxa-FL7xA9g7cu1dVERi2PapQfxCyiUCeUD5cRQ5-iGhMQfGOKtpvolJmdbVrDYpTpFn4AL0A2aWJ0NjGUZyrXKqWcK5yCOQPw6AM6pDPmUj9OsRKlwQnwWybuckKSdk-9LarESD-8yg/w301-h354/IMG_1945.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Cape Blanco was a hard place to leave, but we had been on the road two weeks and had a family gathering further south.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But not before one-night stop at Gold Bluff campground at Prairie Creek State Park, back in California. Where the elk, not the deer, enjoy beachfront campground privileges.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNW8q3vK2YFT5YXvAKiwBWfEypnmQdU-7kxwG2lnQhToYafnuS6dCoF0Hh_zY4932AR9unjQprCAZZYA-0nvuSF8aTMtN1G-YOWFY9OKqeQgEjICVVlTXGlK0_zO0NDNq4koMTfHvTuJ0WzSDF7_FfZP-0IgPFRiqemtDGQ_2Mt0ymI4UQlnXP029/s4032/IMG_1962.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNW8q3vK2YFT5YXvAKiwBWfEypnmQdU-7kxwG2lnQhToYafnuS6dCoF0Hh_zY4932AR9unjQprCAZZYA-0nvuSF8aTMtN1G-YOWFY9OKqeQgEjICVVlTXGlK0_zO0NDNq4koMTfHvTuJ0WzSDF7_FfZP-0IgPFRiqemtDGQ_2Mt0ymI4UQlnXP029/s320/IMG_1962.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LT8JBOPjTQ0D13usvuTNdJ9VQ6qlh_pXDcfkgv7NA-tdLoMPiRatsYylhDECoSV1DXYFdyuiDRxWLeapjpwD0NqlsAoIZonwc7rK6nmhiVz3Pft0CKCkjAiqf7pvbCVJ3eESAD8h-YIyOSs1zM1xJv2uIwjtHEUeDiKARzX8XbdchH0eV8I7MgT0/s4032/IMG_1963.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LT8JBOPjTQ0D13usvuTNdJ9VQ6qlh_pXDcfkgv7NA-tdLoMPiRatsYylhDECoSV1DXYFdyuiDRxWLeapjpwD0NqlsAoIZonwc7rK6nmhiVz3Pft0CKCkjAiqf7pvbCVJ3eESAD8h-YIyOSs1zM1xJv2uIwjtHEUeDiKARzX8XbdchH0eV8I7MgT0/s320/IMG_1963.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FV6dAlj6QDq6lLdz7QWXlwigdwqUb6tt_E-ud7ntsy8OarFiVppwWqnVJzKnzZwzw410a2ypNAEssf6ss-ButgBjEAGUiLwk-WLlytJIks_pZTnvb-3BDFPzdRCWs2k87wPBgNlRWA_x7CU2MJM40RzLJUxjFD3OfqvHfhhu6j33H7QwmDqNDbww/s3264/IMG_9186.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FV6dAlj6QDq6lLdz7QWXlwigdwqUb6tt_E-ud7ntsy8OarFiVppwWqnVJzKnzZwzw410a2ypNAEssf6ss-ButgBjEAGUiLwk-WLlytJIks_pZTnvb-3BDFPzdRCWs2k87wPBgNlRWA_x7CU2MJM40RzLJUxjFD3OfqvHfhhu6j33H7QwmDqNDbww/s320/IMG_9186.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHLay-9tCiR-7E5rovm2zH5ex7zJlKIabFEZ48FnjoIJuItA6H67sDWtH0F72KIEDibYKxhXRNrUrEe7WasNBbfPrnF8q1xzt9MlGMT037ZzOyx151it7Fnph-G8Za4j1QaCxRFhE4CoT4-PnJ65_k9OhRw_8zFh6NkApmYx8hB6MKAkEiJXZ4tRZ/s3264/IMG_9195.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWTG-XxadWuIdPCIEleqb5d1frlT1105PlnFQscw9lSRMvuHzB6qCEEuMluWZtgowxZBKUlU_F1VkUXoARcfr-FL-dRVKVPxZicsjn4dSBPy3DCRVgwQ2vy_Iz5--jhqVr21wJRtEtZDhaAEf242KkAKT--x1BsdgZuBZpwdOUUruFYLyeXjFoicE/s320/IMG_9206.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traffic was unpredictable<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We moved further south, discovering a great park we had never visited: MacKirchener State Park near Fort Bragg. Great beaches. Great campground. Lots of trails and chances to watch for whales along the coast. Plus tide pools and sea lions.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfAEExJ3m8goWKy-5rRwdbidodatcAvErcrSEvg27t163u0eZ0zhBN-EkKWpLzHCaC9ZCysxo_psRU28OSuJNn0gGxFfPMYZayJ1JgbxtgmYIqIgy85XrnRfhZVr_Kzoa7Grmmd7wpV8w7m1KHXkD40aN3NQaGJ_NUdeLUh6B4L3rO9mUvJD8Ghuq/s4032/IMG_2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfAEExJ3m8goWKy-5rRwdbidodatcAvErcrSEvg27t163u0eZ0zhBN-EkKWpLzHCaC9ZCysxo_psRU28OSuJNn0gGxFfPMYZayJ1JgbxtgmYIqIgy85XrnRfhZVr_Kzoa7Grmmd7wpV8w7m1KHXkD40aN3NQaGJ_NUdeLUh6B4L3rO9mUvJD8Ghuq/s320/IMG_2011.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIiyftgNuGordDqZTzuzRRN4nub46PUli-4A1qzrDlVTNgruCRa156I1mk8yICwaE4HcWAHPtlodT20SmhZT-CBpkdpCwCVIqNqyiHpo1lNO5M_bXmqdyAk1fz7Hkc37dYDRnFGRDx9gVegU8Znc_fBcpSNVvka-vSU0PuAD9S5Lmb0dW2EAQipKG/s3264/IMG_9214.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIiyftgNuGordDqZTzuzRRN4nub46PUli-4A1qzrDlVTNgruCRa156I1mk8yICwaE4HcWAHPtlodT20SmhZT-CBpkdpCwCVIqNqyiHpo1lNO5M_bXmqdyAk1fz7Hkc37dYDRnFGRDx9gVegU8Znc_fBcpSNVvka-vSU0PuAD9S5Lmb0dW2EAQipKG/s320/IMG_9214.jpg" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvMEOncxSniGH5pZTh1Jt1gJJUrbImVLN1iKsB1QJOJJlZ5i_K6-FyDuCPX4jALBl1h3yWjNz6weUxkXCEHyu0MLrlbSjwTiZexf2VNXUaM7rU3JOmTz3_x6Q3am5NBwRkeYIfPapJGmiJi4YMeIunkm3Qd0KA11KYbeTz2nUjYHxSIjpRNWJV-o_/s3264/IMG_9221.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvMEOncxSniGH5pZTh1Jt1gJJUrbImVLN1iKsB1QJOJJlZ5i_K6-FyDuCPX4jALBl1h3yWjNz6weUxkXCEHyu0MLrlbSjwTiZexf2VNXUaM7rU3JOmTz3_x6Q3am5NBwRkeYIfPapJGmiJi4YMeIunkm3Qd0KA11KYbeTz2nUjYHxSIjpRNWJV-o_/s320/IMG_9221.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The state park is on the right and runs for miles along the beach<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1Im9NhVvisxpmtjB0RfG1hsm95jq9xqDlRL0UMQ4zbR4Jude89VyXfFWgIOESEj--BWn5_RRCOvjNIBHZPP1zQjnp_GXdwwcZCkg3PKZCWIHjfXlY3ianZt1VKMNTfnBGEebF70U-88Z9q14RYHjGJX090kH_SGuHcMzO90CY5oOXKmP3QTof2cj/s3264/IMG_9222.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1Im9NhVvisxpmtjB0RfG1hsm95jq9xqDlRL0UMQ4zbR4Jude89VyXfFWgIOESEj--BWn5_RRCOvjNIBHZPP1zQjnp_GXdwwcZCkg3PKZCWIHjfXlY3ianZt1VKMNTfnBGEebF70U-88Z9q14RYHjGJX090kH_SGuHcMzO90CY5oOXKmP3QTof2cj/s320/IMG_9222.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A segment of Glass Beach at Fort Bragg<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Our final stop on the 3,000 mile trip was at Mount Madonna County Park in the Santa Cruz mountains south of San Francisco.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our daughter and son-in-law have been camping here for decades, and his family long before that. It is a quiet spot created on the former summer estate of a California land baron/cattlemen named Miller. Miller once owned more than a million acres stretching from Gilroy way into the San Joaquin Valley, and even up into Oregon and Washington.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The county has turned it into a place of respite. with emphasis on hiking trails, easy walks, an archery course and the ruins of the Miller summer home.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The pictures speak:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3jfBg3tJF4XazlG-IQwm7EtPqD-0yKORA8XKK7apILlbrcIvm8wpS5VODKZ3-qXxcphbZZygPSHagCrV6mErvgKtM30AU4lAxyVlUs2lLXVxyivH_8dhvVxGS-j7e1WoT9u8ad2mtJXgHGJ4vyaroUoTHp4m311prtqtyo3qhFwXzsxykDZ9bvvk/s4032/IMG_2013%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3jfBg3tJF4XazlG-IQwm7EtPqD-0yKORA8XKK7apILlbrcIvm8wpS5VODKZ3-qXxcphbZZygPSHagCrV6mErvgKtM30AU4lAxyVlUs2lLXVxyivH_8dhvVxGS-j7e1WoT9u8ad2mtJXgHGJ4vyaroUoTHp4m311prtqtyo3qhFwXzsxykDZ9bvvk/s320/IMG_2013%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFXx2lzVJVDOZS2Drd8egxeezaVn9msq-VvSJ_djHe8Ka-6qhOFMYah6rAOACxPn-HHHl56t8HoD-bxz7Bo1e1xrlqqi_w3rJcFJYelJqcU52_hyjHQzhqtLDGKhXM8bwNVp4-VPAzqRgvbZaABcxQzVGHdHbrQmOGFrY4W-TKmPJZOdIKDgtxNFF/s4032/IMG_2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFXx2lzVJVDOZS2Drd8egxeezaVn9msq-VvSJ_djHe8Ka-6qhOFMYah6rAOACxPn-HHHl56t8HoD-bxz7Bo1e1xrlqqi_w3rJcFJYelJqcU52_hyjHQzhqtLDGKhXM8bwNVp4-VPAzqRgvbZaABcxQzVGHdHbrQmOGFrY4W-TKmPJZOdIKDgtxNFF/s320/IMG_2014.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOviFcFXhPKRAqLeN71ubxAUYSIGs2eMPTsqhq1ZNqdNcuYZio6wwkIpaJfCntHiSpm8VRl7zd7d0qwBPDadxQio2QuUqBPcUqwGgkFfmPYD9SAcyZQK7LJosgY43C8d0R_wSnJAtctpCVfArId5XohVGXHhnVfDFIKDop3l4qyE3iVVK1V7fq9W_/s320/IMG_2027.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZ0uLZo2nFfoTxXSIZOjQISHUpUpwhr27CDF3t36wM-o35uKfMw-aYGLWbA2jwAJtd53N8Y1jJFtf0hRN6SloNW5t_MvDf8ykKJMlsMR8InyNE0ozqTrImzKktW_2TW6U4nrzAXO39T_QIn7U2_ejm9oI2B4z0-x8rovbZCtL_-53OwfzdEEr4VSB/s3264/IMG_9086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZ0uLZo2nFfoTxXSIZOjQISHUpUpwhr27CDF3t36wM-o35uKfMw-aYGLWbA2jwAJtd53N8Y1jJFtf0hRN6SloNW5t_MvDf8ykKJMlsMR8InyNE0ozqTrImzKktW_2TW6U4nrzAXO39T_QIn7U2_ejm9oI2B4z0-x8rovbZCtL_-53OwfzdEEr4VSB/s320/IMG_9086.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy-LdfjP9Is28SqixLWGtyISzyvpXQCUNuEYQpjcXxT976rtTUT4LG-AUDKs8ED7VJujBqZnmsoInDwtP54h9_i5lBKbvCXuVacsQW6xzWqGhtpoEvAi5zxX5BPoB-2RGen5yuzdrEJr8aN3REagwDwp-A3w7_B4hNCi2-88PvVNlruj7uAq48yUjB/s320/IMG_9022.jpg" width="240" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQD__R0AuvbXguLric3-DjyPJ3zZ0q14JbIPwX9B9b9PYMZQl8nh6CVqs6_5P20GP5TGcQENw1D7D34s5EIDrzDK0eaXvq7CMxKY4L8JrnBXudSXwWfi621YPhaF30MF4BrrtdTEJrebPqB1CnFDl9OrU4oShBNP6inAdKki7ZwW1SZRAP-VAC4n8H/s4032/IMG_1983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQD__R0AuvbXguLric3-DjyPJ3zZ0q14JbIPwX9B9b9PYMZQl8nh6CVqs6_5P20GP5TGcQENw1D7D34s5EIDrzDK0eaXvq7CMxKY4L8JrnBXudSXwWfi621YPhaF30MF4BrrtdTEJrebPqB1CnFDl9OrU4oShBNP6inAdKki7ZwW1SZRAP-VAC4n8H/w492-h413/IMG_1983.jpg" width="492" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Footnote: sorry about the overload (tmi) but I could not help myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Safe travels.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table>
</div></div></div>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-41503155471582321782022-06-10T22:20:00.002-07:002022-06-14T13:43:54.692-07:00The Great Northwest -- a trip -- Part One<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaqozXpjB3w4mX8KAu-LeeUxXc36bniL4dGjsVVggGj6DkWQ0wx-R929fQwxSKtV4B6ma_tPZ92NW3ymHQIaBvjgSLCoLb9K30SjuWkvxCSzmffT3VqfCxkoIiDV-zInj7wUUxO6gUq41NALdQt9c03eHW13plxk5aAuRcpmpsDj9Dp2izbnb4cDv/s3088/IMG_1813.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaqozXpjB3w4mX8KAu-LeeUxXc36bniL4dGjsVVggGj6DkWQ0wx-R929fQwxSKtV4B6ma_tPZ92NW3ymHQIaBvjgSLCoLb9K30SjuWkvxCSzmffT3VqfCxkoIiDV-zInj7wUUxO6gUq41NALdQt9c03eHW13plxk5aAuRcpmpsDj9Dp2izbnb4cDv/w380-h299/IMG_1813.jpg" width="380" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the river park in Spokane<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p>Back home in Murphys after 20 days on the road, we are amazed at how easy it really was to travel 3,000 miles in our 2002 VW camper. And we saw some of the most beautiful parts of the country, particularly along the upper west coasts. </p><p>Our goal was simple: go to Spokane, Washington, and visit with our son. We took advantage of the route, and the country on the way up and back.</p><p>We went through five states -- California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho and Nevada. We spent 14 nights in campgrounds, and six in motels. The camping was all five star experience, and the motels not that interesting (but we had hot showers and laundry facilities).</p><p>We ate what we wanted, when we wanted, including a lot of clam chowder and very little fast food. I lost one pound and Pat may have gained one. </p><p><br /></p><p>We spent some quality time with both our grown children, Zack and Ruth, and saw several old friends. </p><p>Yes, gas was expensive, ranging from a low of $4.99 to $6.99 a gallon. Touristy areas and big cities cost more than small towns and places along the highway. Everybody complains. </p><p><br /></p><p>The bills have not all come in but because we camped most of the time, and ate at good small town cafes instead of 5-star spots, it was reasonable. </p><p>We would do it again.</p><p>Here's how it went:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8YnPONHPPMTcngkXVUdtPnHPeH_VyICCqZmiWdmlZkl1rSL8so_4vUH3Cy8KIIwwLMESmDC6y1XDIsYRz-mkPbVVDXAg9HUIzwA2lwOD3k79tg92ymJ_HeJrzTRbEWOaLvoL71N-CdTpVgNdrFUXRP5Tt6Nl0DFkGVCtuD3MU02yVTiY_2RY9Vwh/s4032/IMG_1768.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8YnPONHPPMTcngkXVUdtPnHPeH_VyICCqZmiWdmlZkl1rSL8so_4vUH3Cy8KIIwwLMESmDC6y1XDIsYRz-mkPbVVDXAg9HUIzwA2lwOD3k79tg92ymJ_HeJrzTRbEWOaLvoL71N-CdTpVgNdrFUXRP5Tt6Nl0DFkGVCtuD3MU02yVTiY_2RY9Vwh/w450-h281/IMG_1768.jpg" width="450" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ebbetts Pass/Hermit Valley with some snow remaining<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>DAY ONE</p><p>We left Murphys after lunch, drove across Ebbetts Pass which had just been cleared of snow the previous week, and headed north through Nevada. We've been there many times, and the high spot remains seeing herds of wild horses out on the hills, and passing through Fernley, Nevada, home town of my late friend and a great journalist Frank McCullough. Frank was one of the best bosses I ever had. No matter what you faced, he had been there and done that and offered gentle counsel. He started in Fernley, and went on to play professional baseball, joined the Marines, got more education and became a star covering the Vietnam War, and senior editor of the three biggest newspapers in California.</p><p>We flew right past Fernley.</p><p>We had set our first night goal as Winnemucca, but came up short in Lovelock. We checked out an RV Park, which turned out to be a shabby unattended spot for seasonal workers, so opted for the town's biggest motel. The highlight was me winning $25 on the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. The low-light was the dog that barked outside the room all night long. A bed. Two stars at best. Moving on.</p><p><br /></p><p>DAY TWO</p><p>Because we were not in a hurry, we stopped the next morning at The Grill in Winnemucca for a massive breakfast, and then drove north through the rolling farmlands of Eastern Oregon, with a quick look at the area where Lewis and Clark explored along the Columbia River. </p><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb6WOiuehWejRjcjyMktztryDccyVgcsJqDr5BGjkNYPV_rbA9XD6o8yCnmUMVndYME0dLlKAjjBn8NzGdflK1ferYl1MjxKMVAKbpbMk2a8XJJjDl24Fbdv_iUcswMgKQxOSRu6LK5ORAB1sHB_K1M4aA-oIdhmHcAxJdqkTPLxp7a7okAcExjx2/s4032/IMG_1806.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb6WOiuehWejRjcjyMktztryDccyVgcsJqDr5BGjkNYPV_rbA9XD6o8yCnmUMVndYME0dLlKAjjBn8NzGdflK1ferYl1MjxKMVAKbpbMk2a8XJJjDl24Fbdv_iUcswMgKQxOSRu6LK5ORAB1sHB_K1M4aA-oIdhmHcAxJdqkTPLxp7a7okAcExjx2/w405-h279/IMG_1806.jpg" width="405" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Columbia below the Tri-Cities<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPgL5XZorUSh09md-7OlHBzPZaB4GoRYyahLm0ZFZXw3UzweY6nzBim39aBzSrNJNnShitaor1uTmySnSIB5xgZ7ovnKPbuvtlQlFk-5yTDKsDv5_rOY5SC0vAkLIzz9RIdMyS_14C0Anfx7z429ZcrbQuuzLU1KMx6s0NvXQJVNCcfq1MsaSxOikk/s3264/IMG_9050.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPgL5XZorUSh09md-7OlHBzPZaB4GoRYyahLm0ZFZXw3UzweY6nzBim39aBzSrNJNnShitaor1uTmySnSIB5xgZ7ovnKPbuvtlQlFk-5yTDKsDv5_rOY5SC0vAkLIzz9RIdMyS_14C0Anfx7z429ZcrbQuuzLU1KMx6s0NvXQJVNCcfq1MsaSxOikk/s320/IMG_9050.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eastern Washington in the Spring is Green<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The destination for our second night was Boise, Idaho, where our friends Anne and Alan Christie have retired. We were neighbors in Modesto in the 80s, and they were the people who fed us our first Thanksgiving dinner in California and introduced us to hot tubs. Alan and a friend taught me to drink beer in the hot tub and toss the empties into the trash can. </p><p> Our children attended school together, and we all camped and skied and hiked in the Sierra.They were the people you never forget: they made us welcome in a new home.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBTidOR9yB3Hn2L98-E7Lc68A4XJ9B4SqpFPkbN62z0B1ZRgFNCaeZyYXRCduzYqUD7X_vbHdqEdx5mtvLl2JIlWi87OFOPL9ck6d6N5Cb7xCq6yboLRaOsY28Csd0yrcBOgVHnXYWqwv6TE_gt6xPgt037dtgS3ZhVQ3QEJsfYFWIs5hp6WkfJoW/s3264/IMG_9005.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBTidOR9yB3Hn2L98-E7Lc68A4XJ9B4SqpFPkbN62z0B1ZRgFNCaeZyYXRCduzYqUD7X_vbHdqEdx5mtvLl2JIlWi87OFOPL9ck6d6N5Cb7xCq6yboLRaOsY28Csd0yrcBOgVHnXYWqwv6TE_gt6xPgt037dtgS3ZhVQ3QEJsfYFWIs5hp6WkfJoW/s320/IMG_9005.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Boise believes in art<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We stayed at a Red Lion near the Boise airport. A good place, but noisy due to the Interstate outside the window.</p><p>We visited their home, under renovation, and shared a meal and a tour that included seeing their daughter Andrea for the first time in at least 20 years. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbl9I0ecmNN8fw7bH2x0WsukDbou4W7Oh_YE8_wFsixLaSY9EgSMkCApwIcUGmSqNAP-ql2xDUv08xsEG4rtfs8De8-ILgqCKU2usKbIxV66B-OPu5p9lsF4807n_X3ORLux-W2jvZO5CgqsE7T5mCSBaVZunOl9BptWrqUhzXnwjXxB2G1ini0_5/s3264/IMG_9010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbl9I0ecmNN8fw7bH2x0WsukDbou4W7Oh_YE8_wFsixLaSY9EgSMkCApwIcUGmSqNAP-ql2xDUv08xsEG4rtfs8De8-ILgqCKU2usKbIxV66B-OPu5p9lsF4807n_X3ORLux-W2jvZO5CgqsE7T5mCSBaVZunOl9BptWrqUhzXnwjXxB2G1ini0_5/s320/IMG_9010.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reunion time with Christies</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAQc6SIlNRfl2De8peIAmXprHzQso_WxPx_yZ63fvudsaZ4pTx6hfELZTXxW26POUvHbnv1BRboy0tlvTW2EpSHj39sesdWOZykkt65Yh4dFikON8qfkG1VmBCR2nvS86OKXAAofGj-q6jPeut1TFpRSUabJABUqbgClH44fEB4nIzTXfI33LSSZsL/s3264/IMG_9011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAQc6SIlNRfl2De8peIAmXprHzQso_WxPx_yZ63fvudsaZ4pTx6hfELZTXxW26POUvHbnv1BRboy0tlvTW2EpSHj39sesdWOZykkt65Yh4dFikON8qfkG1VmBCR2nvS86OKXAAofGj-q6jPeut1TFpRSUabJABUqbgClH44fEB4nIzTXfI33LSSZsL/s320/IMG_9011.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daughter Andrea at her work<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>A quick look affirmed what they told us: Boise is a beautiful town, worth a longer stay.</p><p>But we pushed on to a spot the Christies told us about, a campground/RV Park near the town of Lagrande, located at the foot of a hill beside a natural hot spring. Trees. Grass. Plenty of room and the bonus of a the hot springs pools on the property. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7UW_NCzbmdD1YyByUCT8AYb9cFVo8dxfvVx7sGNnJubd3a7aeQdV2hdp1TY3ORLRjYnWGozK2_4spWfEZKjXa4kikX1pObLNquJTSI31-Cbz_IWpf4XVqoqNFhazGPSk8t6Ou0rnR2PRcSwWDb0Kdvv_0yLDqFI0hSKGOcJvboxn4sbikefvX-02/s4032/IMG_1795.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7UW_NCzbmdD1YyByUCT8AYb9cFVo8dxfvVx7sGNnJubd3a7aeQdV2hdp1TY3ORLRjYnWGozK2_4spWfEZKjXa4kikX1pObLNquJTSI31-Cbz_IWpf4XVqoqNFhazGPSk8t6Ou0rnR2PRcSwWDb0Kdvv_0yLDqFI0hSKGOcJvboxn4sbikefvX-02/w329-h395/IMG_1795.jpg" width="329" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">103 degrees and happy<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>We remembered our bathing suits, and jumped in for a long soak.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiN93ZpwMrmhmnWnwOieHf7Zm-T0scxISNxvBXB-TCX4MjfiU8twHnIplyKQ6zE6zTtFz3M7JWgW1jV3sRim85cV5OjKW55lYVeZsOG66b-_CIn7YAwIkEui31sfe8I3_j92Uomgow6l_S89kd10wFCdRG-El12JBNH4QSme0LIhIKSx9-OLX1NCs/s4032/IMG_1785.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiN93ZpwMrmhmnWnwOieHf7Zm-T0scxISNxvBXB-TCX4MjfiU8twHnIplyKQ6zE6zTtFz3M7JWgW1jV3sRim85cV5OjKW55lYVeZsOG66b-_CIn7YAwIkEui31sfe8I3_j92Uomgow6l_S89kd10wFCdRG-El12JBNH4QSme0LIhIKSx9-OLX1NCs/w363-h393/IMG_1785.jpg" width="363" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plenty of space, cool night and a few raindrops<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>It looked like rain but the folks there said if anything we might get some snow.</p><p>It was a good, chilly night.</p><p><br /></p><p>DAY THREE</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn--QgDSB1zbvWZoRuT7i5ZR6HWrSBJn7EBFs1EmUefcVD3trh4JEAw7O9-LC7jeehEESPqZM_ALwPHFfIJsv7b3kQCfLL5QI6qpXdZpVkBiSugfpbZdnI9riPxcFqVpMoXIRGuft-Dw72YWSlUQvs3fNIY1EiSvUDi-K1Pz4PkKFOnqfcCmW-p_Ve/s4032/IMG_1783.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn--QgDSB1zbvWZoRuT7i5ZR6HWrSBJn7EBFs1EmUefcVD3trh4JEAw7O9-LC7jeehEESPqZM_ALwPHFfIJsv7b3kQCfLL5QI6qpXdZpVkBiSugfpbZdnI9riPxcFqVpMoXIRGuft-Dw72YWSlUQvs3fNIY1EiSvUDi-K1Pz4PkKFOnqfcCmW-p_Ve/w284-h374/IMG_1783.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning in the VW Eurovan<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>A Friday: A quick drive north and we arrived in Spokane in mid-afternoon, called Zack, and checked into the airport Best Western Motel. (All the downtown hotels were filled with people who came from all over to see/hear "Hamilton" playing at the big theater downtown.) </p><p>The motel was a good choice: quiet and less than 10 minutes from Zack's house.</p><p>We ate nearby, had a good long visit, and got ready to see the town on Saturday with him as our tour guide.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPifsw3dUS4pT36WoB1fMYWW-ADjSIzEzZats7tVR7GGcV69_vxa7xa-N7b5GezUn1Z_o31N30z4V9xMwuyTtcBAcF1Ygn8E0nF7mPVbbjKBd5UFIDV6OniMNJTGyw3QQvlEk-rb2w7VqL0Uh8dyRz91rWt20YVyikim8VsPQhyE1tRah92SCkXcqY/s4032/IMG_1817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPifsw3dUS4pT36WoB1fMYWW-ADjSIzEzZats7tVR7GGcV69_vxa7xa-N7b5GezUn1Z_o31N30z4V9xMwuyTtcBAcF1Ygn8E0nF7mPVbbjKBd5UFIDV6OniMNJTGyw3QQvlEk-rb2w7VqL0Uh8dyRz91rWt20YVyikim8VsPQhyE1tRah92SCkXcqY/s320/IMG_1817.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zack's home<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>DAY FOUR</p><p>Pat and took off early to see the famous river parks in downtown Spokane. The town is essentially split by the river and its rapids, and they have taken advantage of it and created parks that are easy to access. One part is dedicated to families with children, and has ever imaginable swing and toy to play on, and it was packed with young families.</p><p>Another section uses the old river bridge as a walkway, and you can stand right over the rapids and look down on the cascade.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='324' height='269' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxSQYbV1UVhF6J0A4qoCYy9OFLthFZ70ufAccH0yGbYp8xReOd2K-5j7Pi_oFnhGhqNLUqUphPNUG2KvMVj0w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p><br /></p><p>Zack then took us around the town, showing us the artsy section, the heart of town and then a drive through the rich neigborhoods. When we got hungry he flipped out his phone and found a delightful small cafe, the South Hill Grill, with a line of people waiting to get in. Pat interviewed the locals while waiting and had the best meal of the entire tip. Her's included roasted avocados, he had Sushi rolls. I just recall mine was really good. More visiting back at the hotel and we called it a night.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFT1812p5BDmhnQpKFq8D-xWNy7lpor25GdFZzurMCfaRwlCFqldPCg9bsn2dQ0AciHsv2jUj5USYxTMxuuotwcx4l3yZZN7E4TKfBAjOfnz9B29V9ea8Vf5bqZiHwGCBqV6EmmBXr0rhiLXe8QoKB1rZNLSreIoVX0jotDyjeY85jDKjifrTFm_H/s3264/IMG_9035.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFT1812p5BDmhnQpKFq8D-xWNy7lpor25GdFZzurMCfaRwlCFqldPCg9bsn2dQ0AciHsv2jUj5USYxTMxuuotwcx4l3yZZN7E4TKfBAjOfnz9B29V9ea8Vf5bqZiHwGCBqV6EmmBXr0rhiLXe8QoKB1rZNLSreIoVX0jotDyjeY85jDKjifrTFm_H/s320/IMG_9035.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zack<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>DAY FIVE</p><p>On Sunday we went for a long drive in the country, traveling south of Spokane to the college town of Pullman, to see an old friend of Zack's who moved there in the past year. </p><p>The drive down was through rolling farm country, with everything an incredible shade of bright green. The scenic beauty of the farmlands in eastern Washington and Oregon is stunning. </p><p>At Pullman we picked up Brett and checked out the town, including a thrift store they both like, and had coffee on the patio by the creek before heading back to Spokane.</p><p>For dinner Zack suggested Frank's Diner, a popular restaurant built into railroad cars. We sat at the counter and watched the cooks do their magic. I had something called Meatloaf Benedict, Zack had a big steak and Pat had French Toast on cranberry orange bread. All the food was excellent.</p><p>DAY SIX</p><p>It was Monday and Zack had to go back to work, so we made a decision to head for the coast to enjoy the cool weather and fantastic beaches. (We had planned to come back through Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to see my niece, but she was tied up and we promised to come back another time.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCp5H1kYNus1e4_sU79eRBVU3ATu1WByff-UJn1BrEe2IDBP9E3bfUcXsAjx2U15HjFr93gd2cxM6Y2d9FQk2NGb7ydwaESVKIRvU7IvjTpmjpVIRujt9K91gGYQIMPBJymJjyeRzB0juFpft1hnK9QjDfP8FSH1kXzr_goI-71YYPsUaMZ_1CBHkj/s3264/IMG_9074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCp5H1kYNus1e4_sU79eRBVU3ATu1WByff-UJn1BrEe2IDBP9E3bfUcXsAjx2U15HjFr93gd2cxM6Y2d9FQk2NGb7ydwaESVKIRvU7IvjTpmjpVIRujt9K91gGYQIMPBJymJjyeRzB0juFpft1hnK9QjDfP8FSH1kXzr_goI-71YYPsUaMZ_1CBHkj/s320/IMG_9074.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking for Woody <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>The route we chose followed the Lewis and Clark Trail along the Columbia River. The river is legendary, partly because the WPA hired a song writer named Woody Guthrie to write about it as a way to promote the recovery from the Depression. He captured the moment in his lyrics:</p><p>At Bonneville now there are ships in the locks</p><p>The waters have risen and cleared all the rocks</p><p>Shiploads of plenty will steam past the docks</p><p>So roll on, Columbia, roll on</p><p>And on up the river is Grand Coulee Dam</p><p>The mightiest thing ever built by a man</p><p>To run the great factories and water the land</p><p>So roll on, Columbia, roll on</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgGkHDpcNMlKUqF6PP_wFwAhq50OeIdm4afvg5KDdwVEn_UB91m2xba1ywLugBMGHy3J9REfHYpKwIItGjaUCHc50f0c1BkKOLby7csKJTEEuvD45tZBGSTd6V6klRjwjfXgKWx7nQjMf9iaiDRPwSKp5RjLUjCy6coe-vdXzUKlF4istJQeqblWE/s4032/IMG_1837.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgGkHDpcNMlKUqF6PP_wFwAhq50OeIdm4afvg5KDdwVEn_UB91m2xba1ywLugBMGHy3J9REfHYpKwIItGjaUCHc50f0c1BkKOLby7csKJTEEuvD45tZBGSTd6V6klRjwjfXgKWx7nQjMf9iaiDRPwSKp5RjLUjCy6coe-vdXzUKlF4istJQeqblWE/w359-h277/IMG_1837.jpg" width="359" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bonneville Dam today<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">We stayed at an Oregon state park alongside the river, actually tucked in between the Interstate and the railroad track. The good news was that the railroad. while busy, was in a cut below us and the sound of the trains was soothing. The highway was a bit loud, but more than made up for it in the beauty of the campground: oak trees and grass and flowers, spread out with views of the Columbia rolling buy on downstream to Bonneville and Portland. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Here's a couple of views from the campground.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjSyMZqRpIQQp85TG6e07O1BtnMtWqZ7BY-j2K8yHa6NtYz-Fgh5ygVa4tb1wQa8ii7z5iowRFcntxd3MPL9aE5zDtcnmnsvNuLt4tSsLZbIfk_nh4JifeONkr4x58qQkOzX3kgptoLEg2W2YDwdn0OAWSdS2i7vR14hyZTpepRM_KWgB_Ah1ZPAN/s4032/IMG_1822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjSyMZqRpIQQp85TG6e07O1BtnMtWqZ7BY-j2K8yHa6NtYz-Fgh5ygVa4tb1wQa8ii7z5iowRFcntxd3MPL9aE5zDtcnmnsvNuLt4tSsLZbIfk_nh4JifeONkr4x58qQkOzX3kgptoLEg2W2YDwdn0OAWSdS2i7vR14hyZTpepRM_KWgB_Ah1ZPAN/w417-h280/IMG_1822.jpg" width="417" /></a></div>The view from the campground to the east</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMG2Q-Cv9GEYbqK2I0aqQk-n-R8unPL9pSmXTHSS8f94vWZagynBtUZvKawgUul6kWuIdiBJwFT2RJE2POmC0oYrbT-8xIv6PL2dPMFBKC8zo6Xq5u7FIPfCeCXCeX3tAwa71kctLafY6SV0W4uCW6D5oqZW_ddU1o3pKiE7vZVNITods0zSWESwq/s4032/IMG_1827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMG2Q-Cv9GEYbqK2I0aqQk-n-R8unPL9pSmXTHSS8f94vWZagynBtUZvKawgUul6kWuIdiBJwFT2RJE2POmC0oYrbT-8xIv6PL2dPMFBKC8zo6Xq5u7FIPfCeCXCeX3tAwa71kctLafY6SV0W4uCW6D5oqZW_ddU1o3pKiE7vZVNITods0zSWESwq/s320/IMG_1827.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Pat enjoying the green all around</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcGAdxXe3bprbP4bRgj5GzH-3vABxXYN1DzAi5Wyz-IbUOZMjlj02OhZ7P-QgLYoeLscSXkVv_CxPCuANlXB753jWmh-TmGjed1rH91XaIXJ3boovSOkcRp6BWcOffrRJHFye-2RbRjScP6Ubd4A5F6f18jKNQQbNHHI-wbosqj0ODX9lF02CigbE/s4032/IMG_1831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifcGAdxXe3bprbP4bRgj5GzH-3vABxXYN1DzAi5Wyz-IbUOZMjlj02OhZ7P-QgLYoeLscSXkVv_CxPCuANlXB753jWmh-TmGjed1rH91XaIXJ3boovSOkcRp6BWcOffrRJHFye-2RbRjScP6Ubd4A5F6f18jKNQQbNHHI-wbosqj0ODX9lF02CigbE/s320/IMG_1831.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uninvited guest at the table<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The next stop of the journey took us to the Northern Coast of Oregon, a place we'd never stayed before, a detour to visit friends is a town named Scapoose, and a wonderful week down the coasts of Oregon and California until we joined our daughter and son-in-law and extended family.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">That, with lost of beach pictures, will be in Part Two of the Great Northwest.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-64796534235934301642022-01-10T15:34:00.000-08:002022-01-10T15:34:36.862-08:00Year in review - kinda<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">Blessed in Many Ways</b></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b></b></span><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We survived 2021 well, as did most of our friends and family.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><br /></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DVNseQ2Mhwg/Ydy9wR8aBMI/AAAAAAAAFGU/_DD9GtjOT7g3JpvjUAi9XITqJpeQZAS5ACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_7283.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="144" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DVNseQ2Mhwg/Ydy9wR8aBMI/AAAAAAAAFGU/_DD9GtjOT7g3JpvjUAi9XITqJpeQZAS5ACNcBGAsYHQ/w133-h144/IMG_7283.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We sheltered from the epidemic, read good books, ate home-cooked meals, watched old movies on Netflix, but missed out on gatherings around which we normally built our lives. Eating out is no longer normal.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We got our vaccines early and the boosters as well. We remain cautious, avoiding places that are sloppy with health regulations. We wear masks.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kzU0KCzpPWE/Ydy-YIZRlDI/AAAAAAAAFGg/5XKenUpGRjsOhoPYmCXApBNkZGrPb9XHACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0734.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kzU0KCzpPWE/Ydy-YIZRlDI/AAAAAAAAFGg/5XKenUpGRjsOhoPYmCXApBNkZGrPb9XHACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0734.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gathering with friends -- outdoors<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We both played more music and spent a lot of time on the computers,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>reading newspapers or playing games. By year’s end we were reviving some gatherings with small groups of friends and neighbors. Will life ever be the “old” normal?</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sanders’ back surgery was delayed until April, but then was easy (relatively speaking) and recovery has gone well. Pat had<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>similar surgery with the same surgeon at Stanford the year before, and she feels great.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By January we had been vaccinated, sure the end of Covid was in sight. Unrelated, the first part of the year seemed to be filled with doctor appointments, testing, back surgery and even one quick trip to emergency room where I was treated successfully for diverticulitis.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span>Spring was glorious as usual here in the foothills.</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5XWuMlAqwek/Ydy-uTybbZI/AAAAAAAAFG0/M2S7G_M5yKg3Q5R-p4qlme3kAXyYlgM0wCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0767.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5XWuMlAqwek/Ydy-uTybbZI/AAAAAAAAFG0/M2S7G_M5yKg3Q5R-p4qlme3kAXyYlgM0wCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0767.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The back yard garden<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ds53QZ7LA-E/Ydy-s5TfBbI/AAAAAAAAFGw/xCBKcwxZwjobyv9tsEEjJGB4IYbcdWluACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0763.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ds53QZ7LA-E/Ydy-s5TfBbI/AAAAAAAAFGw/xCBKcwxZwjobyv9tsEEjJGB4IYbcdWluACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0763.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out front</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wDCsSK3XsoE/Ydy-r7a69oI/AAAAAAAAFGs/-OeyQnek-OsITIjs1wdOvN71Qs8t3bHpgCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0761.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wDCsSK3XsoE/Ydy-r7a69oI/AAAAAAAAFGs/-OeyQnek-OsITIjs1wdOvN71Qs8t3bHpgCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0761.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roses in Spring</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Y8Jg6EEp98c/Ydy-p9seqTI/AAAAAAAAFGo/4LRIhgk8wygJO22ar8bre0IQy5DGRuCMQCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0752.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Y8Jg6EEp98c/Ydy-p9seqTI/AAAAAAAAFGo/4LRIhgk8wygJO22ar8bre0IQy5DGRuCMQCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0752.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By May we were able to take off camping on the north coast with Ruth and Brian and their kids. A nice break in the Redwoods. </span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-R_eKjLjJi-g/Ydy_1X6XluI/AAAAAAAAFHw/t0Q3bJPcuz0dZ4EFB8GQDWydD5NBduscwCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_7400.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-R_eKjLjJi-g/Ydy_1X6XluI/AAAAAAAAFHw/t0Q3bJPcuz0dZ4EFB8GQDWydD5NBduscwCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_7400.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "fake it school" of mandolin<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LVhA7E1FxTc/Ydy_z-VRHyI/AAAAAAAAFHs/-NqDQO0HGsYtVnXkAKtW0NSX-swNt3dLQCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1464.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LVhA7E1FxTc/Ydy_z-VRHyI/AAAAAAAAFHs/-NqDQO0HGsYtVnXkAKtW0NSX-swNt3dLQCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1464.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last day of our long trip<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By August we were dodging smoke, and one fire that came too close.</span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-U3WkGsL2TT0/Ydy_U3_f_CI/AAAAAAAAFHY/Bp5ELhKeO_0IeZDfZ4oPzOqCLqJVvKcBACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1076.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-U3WkGsL2TT0/Ydy_U3_f_CI/AAAAAAAAFHY/Bp5ELhKeO_0IeZDfZ4oPzOqCLqJVvKcBACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1076.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were ready to leave when they got it under control</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the Fall we made a two week trip in our old VW camper to Monument Valley and Utah, Colorado and Nevada.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kqNa8u9Weh8/Ydy_6EP5IdI/AAAAAAAAFH4/LtxbC_OgWY8hVAQQQRdhynIP1Su5zc1hgCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_7928.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kqNa8u9Weh8/Ydy_6EP5IdI/AAAAAAAAFH4/LtxbC_OgWY8hVAQQQRdhynIP1Su5zc1hgCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_7928.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our humble cabin in Navajo Country<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />And a short day trip to Yosemite, to make sure it was still there.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8zrHwCWAL5I/YdzADFAqueI/AAAAAAAAFIA/-2rMFdGtt50yYXgc3wfOWUHs-hI0KNdcACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_8173.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8zrHwCWAL5I/YdzADFAqueI/AAAAAAAAFIA/-2rMFdGtt50yYXgc3wfOWUHs-hI0KNdcACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_8173.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fancy lunch came in a box<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pat stays very busy as a key member of our church’s Parish Care group. She delivers food, provides rides but most important shares friendship and love — something at which she is an expert. She has resumed playing her psaltry.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sanders slowly resumed important activities such as poker with friends, music every Tuesday night, and getting back to volunteering at the state park. His music friends even performed several weekends at the local farmer’s market. “Home Grown Tomatoes” was his big hit.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--bEqtDnhrSk/Ydy_s4DDp9I/AAAAAAAAFHo/D9rmOdQtX44dvnNfZMbhLXL7rdHoutjggCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0940.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--bEqtDnhrSk/Ydy_s4DDp9I/AAAAAAAAFHo/D9rmOdQtX44dvnNfZMbhLXL7rdHoutjggCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_0940.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Son Zack lives in Spokane, Washington. He caught Covid, ended up in the hospital for several scary days, but survived it well and joined us at Christmas. He has a new job, and great attitude about taking care of his health and is very upbeat. His daughter lives near him and he is now a grandfather.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Xfu70NIOwQA/Ydy-9iLkN_I/AAAAAAAAFHA/AgOSq9o7Ang7D_wcLIQSy6ZL_umRkgpnACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_8371.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Xfu70NIOwQA/Ydy-9iLkN_I/AAAAAAAAFHA/AgOSq9o7Ang7D_wcLIQSy6ZL_umRkgpnACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_8371.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><p></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Daughter Ruth and her husband Brian continue to live near us, and are learning how to adjust to an empty nest: improving their home, working<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>but mostly getting ready for their daughter Delaney’s wedding in the Spring. Delaney moved to the Boston area where she is a doctoral candidate in bio-engineering and her husband-to-be is a medical student. Connor is a now senior at UC Irvine.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0ysKWo29d1w/Ydy_JubAwWI/AAAAAAAAFHM/7CrDEN2naTwoCxuWWvY5SBn_EKudt3q1QCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1419.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0ysKWo29d1w/Ydy_JubAwWI/AAAAAAAAFHM/7CrDEN2naTwoCxuWWvY5SBn_EKudt3q1QCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1419.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FgE4Y5cUXPM/YdzALshoqJI/AAAAAAAAFII/WnnQd1lDVPUNB2Mxjz-4TQsvmULqKoVEACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1416.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FgE4Y5cUXPM/YdzALshoqJI/AAAAAAAAFII/WnnQd1lDVPUNB2Mxjz-4TQsvmULqKoVEACNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_1416.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soon to be inlaws<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_keVOc2qCgg/Ydy_md5tiDI/AAAAAAAAFHk/U9Gbu3uKeS8KeSa-7YgsiCCfZ2dzj8_tQCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_8396.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_keVOc2qCgg/Ydy_md5tiDI/AAAAAAAAFHk/U9Gbu3uKeS8KeSa-7YgsiCCfZ2dzj8_tQCNcBGAsYHQ/IMG_8396.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas week turned white<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our wish for you in this New Year is good health, and joy to share..<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;">God Bless you every one.</span></span></p>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-89692551717242758692021-11-12T12:29:00.004-08:002021-11-13T16:37:19.445-08:00Yosemite -- Beautiful and Expensive
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C5dd47JHx6w/YYbQ6bVEJuI/AAAAAAAAFBQ/nXNqEXzKV0A1GsZ2s7LJPFWWvjKAgt92ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/1..jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C5dd47JHx6w/YYbQ6bVEJuI/AAAAAAAAFBQ/nXNqEXzKV0A1GsZ2s7LJPFWWvjKAgt92ACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/1..jpg" /></a></div>Yosemite National Park -- My family has visited dozens of great national parks through the years, from the Everglades to the Olympic, but Yosemite will always be my favorite.
The scenery, even when stuck in heavy traffic, is beyond stunning. <div><br /><div>Get out and hike -- if you can find a place to park-- and you will never forget the experience.</div><div><br /></div><div>As beautiful as it is, sometimes visiting there can be troubling. Particularly if you arrive during peak summer months or happen to be a low income family. Be prepared to pay a lot, and be crowded.<div><br /></div><div>With crowds, cars, past management decisions and global warming the park now can be a nightmare on a hot August day. </div><div><br /></div><div> It is no bargain anytime for average American families. </div><div>And beyond the reach of the truly poor. </div><div><br /></div><div>A minimum wage worker in America would have to spend a full day's wages, even bringing a picnic, just to be there for one day.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is essentially a park where the wealthy, including foreign visitors, are treated as special guests and encouraged to stay. And that is entirely consistent with the park's history. When first discovered only the very rich from San Francisco, the east coast and Europe, could afford the expensive journey. It was a special place, mostly for the elite. Still is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today getting there is not the problem. Staying there is.</div><div><br /></div><div> One week at the Yosemite Lodge -- the only basic ""motel" inside the park -- would cost a family of four between $1,400 and $2,100 dollars, probably more. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you can get in.</div><div><br /></div><div> Meals at the limited eating places near the hotels could cost another $1,000 or so.</div><div><br /></div><div>One week at the Ahwahnee Hotel, the park's iconic lodging place, today can cost a couple between $4,000 and $5,000. It is a grand looking hotel, even if the rooms are not special and the service lacking. Our recent lunch of hamburgers was $50.</div><div><br /></div><div>In theory the rates are supposed to be comparable to facilities near the park. In reality park administrators have used destination resort areas like Tahoe and San Francisco, even Disney, not Mariposa or Merced. It is a stupid system.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FbLaUD_910/YYbQ9J5DmBI/AAAAAAAAFBc/q4LbtlTv2wYuS0u0XueO_T-1r5wWvYoZgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/13.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FbLaUD_910/YYbQ9J5DmBI/AAAAAAAAFBc/q4LbtlTv2wYuS0u0XueO_T-1r5wWvYoZgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/13.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grand lobby of the Ahwahnee<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Agsp5mE3i54/YYbQ9Oed7QI/AAAAAAAAFBg/rHq0XHdkviMyWwZPwTuR2gixv-85GvSawCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/14.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Agsp5mE3i54/YYbQ9Oed7QI/AAAAAAAAFBg/rHq0XHdkviMyWwZPwTuR2gixv-85GvSawCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/14.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dining hall--bring money<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Other housing in Yosemite is available only if you are lucky and diligent. There are campgrounds, housekeeping units (a three-sided canvas shelter), tent cabins, and a very few real cabins. You have to plan months ahead. Demand always outweighs capacity. Most are unavailable half the year.</div><div><br /></div><div> Campground spots are so competitive that experienced visitors typically set the alarm clock and jump on the Internet the moment the window for reservations opens -- several months ahead. </div><div><br /></div><div>Half the year the vast majority of campsites are completely closed while the most expensive lodge rooms and hotel remain open and operating. The limited camping spots are almost always booked way ahead, including the very few available in winter in the Valley. </div><div><br /></div><div>At a time when there are normally no crowds -- a relative term -- the park service jams people into less and less space. My estimate is that non-luxury available housing in the Valley is reduced about 90% for six months of the year.</div><div><br /></div><div>The park service web site claims more than 1,500 campsites are available in the park, capable of housing almost 9,000 people. </div><div><br /></div><div>That is misleading. Perhaps deliberately. </div><div><br /></div><div>That number of people assumes most campsites average six people, an unrealistic number. Three to four is probably accurate.</div><div>And then most are closed for half the year.</div><div>This November only one campground was open for car campers in the Valley, plus the small mountain climber's camp, probably with less than 100 total sites and room for about 400 people total. Other campgrounds, including many below the snow line, were closed for the season. </div><div><br /></div><div>A lack of employees due to Covid restrictions affected 2021 numbers.</div><div>But Covid is not the real problem. Population growth and management decisions are. </div><div><br /></div><div> The trend throughout the last four decades consistently has been to shut down the least expensive places to stay the night, and maintain the most expensive. It's all about revenue, a position the park service finds itself in due to a lack of congressional support and pressure from concessionaires and politicians.</div><div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V2caQGe03VA/YYbQ63vWZtI/AAAAAAAAFBU/_T6p4UCM-AQgVhRsklBNT1GqcvBDTBb0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/10.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V2caQGe03VA/YYbQ63vWZtI/AAAAAAAAFBU/_T6p4UCM-AQgVhRsklBNT1GqcvBDTBb0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not far from the Ahwahnee, a resident bear<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
The 150 year history of Yosemite is a classic American tale, including greed, failures, violence, triumph and some success.
In the 1800s it was the natives who lived there that were run off. Today it is average American families who pay taxes. And increasingly, it is the people who drive up to the gate, willing to pay to get in. </div><div>Tour groups and people who use travel agencies get access. They pay more.</div><div><br /></div><div> Deciding how the park should operate in the interest of the public has always been a challenge. It remains so today.
In the 1800s, prompted by glorious paintings and photographs, Abraham Lincoln set the space aside -- preserving it forever -- and asked California to manage it.
The state chased off the early settlers, ignored the natives, and mismanaged it to the point the federal government finally took it back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually the National Park Service was given the responsibility to manage Yosemite.<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hXA7Qp1SqJ0/YYbROATzXyI/AAAAAAAAFCU/7RLo1uBUp-Y1d3GlWO8OT7Fq9NN-j6vcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/6.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hXA7Qp1SqJ0/YYbROATzXyI/AAAAAAAAFCU/7RLo1uBUp-Y1d3GlWO8OT7Fq9NN-j6vcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/6.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking toward Mirror Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div>It has never been an easy task, and even today there are so many competing voices the future of the park remains uncertain.
Congress pats itself on the back for supporting national parks, but provides so little funding the public is asked to pay constantly increasing fees for everything from entrance fees to places to stay to hamburgers. </div><div><br /></div><div>The congressional representative of the district that includes the park generally opposes spending any money on anything to make the situation better. </div><div><br /></div><div>Outside of a few urban-based environmental non-profits and some employee groups, the park has no effective advocates.</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4vYYmKBmQk/YYbROKy6shI/AAAAAAAAFCQ/z8gRi-IQvtk5eh7BGJ1jYLW2VCrzlat8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4vYYmKBmQk/YYbROKy6shI/AAAAAAAAFCQ/z8gRi-IQvtk5eh7BGJ1jYLW2VCrzlat8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/7.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close to the old stables<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div> The park's senior management has historically struggled, often forced to make hard choices between protecting the park for the public and bowing to the commercial interests who make money on it. </div><div><br /></div><div> Part of the problem is the mission to "preserve and protect" both the natural wonders and the public's access. </div><div>Too often the natural wonders are protected, but access for the very people who pay for the park is increasingly difficult. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4VDBjMDkgQE/YYbQ8pGe9BI/AAAAAAAAFBY/_0tWVk5CUzAaiguq1ImRw_CZw2GAQ39LACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/12.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4VDBjMDkgQE/YYbQ8pGe9BI/AAAAAAAAFBY/_0tWVk5CUzAaiguq1ImRw_CZw2GAQ39LACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where you can wait for dinner<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div>Next: More history of the struggles of the park</div><div><br /></div><div>-------------------------------------------</div><div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Note: Data from NPS:</span></div><div><h3 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-weight: 500; letter-spacing: -0.25px; line-height: 1.2; margin: 2.5rem 0px 0.625rem; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Campgrounds</span></h3><ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #555555; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: outside; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0px; overflow: hidden;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.7; margin-bottom: 15px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Yosemite Valley Family Sites: 459 sites accommodating 2,754 people (Note: only <u>one</u> Valley family campground is open for six months of the year)</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.7; margin-bottom: 15px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Tioga Road/Big Oak Flat/Hetch Hetchy: 856 sites for 5,136 people (Note: <u>All</u> of these sites are closed.)</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.7; margin-bottom: 15px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.7; margin-bottom: 15px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Glacier Point/Wawona: 206 sites for 1,236 people (now closed)</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.7; margin-bottom: 15px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Group campsites: 14 group campsites (for 420 people); and 9 horse campsites (54 people) (Closed)</span></li></ul></div></div><div>Source: NPS website</div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-81544381668973220682021-10-10T20:20:00.000-07:002021-10-10T20:20:24.784-07:00Part Four -- end of the trip<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m4z6GjiHHX8/YWNUptR4ppI/AAAAAAAAE9s/ViYRy-uN2j8_XJ_djgdJ-Yyo38m5CAUigCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7954.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m4z6GjiHHX8/YWNUptR4ppI/AAAAAAAAE9s/ViYRy-uN2j8_XJ_djgdJ-Yyo38m5CAUigCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/IMG_7954.jpg"/></a>
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We left Monument Vallewy and drove through the Four Corners area touching Arizona, Utah and finally our destination Colorado.
Our travel "goal" was a vague idea that we wanted to get back to the Rocky Mountains. We figured out, with encouragement from a friend, that Durango in Southwestern Colorado would be a good destination.
And we wanted to see new places.
It was a good plan, but things did not quite turn out the way we expected.
We were going to drive north through the Rockies from Durango and visit some of the area we had seen briefly decades ago just West of Denver.
When we got to Durango we learned three things:
1. Durango was jammed with tourists, and even in paid RV parks we could only find space for one night.
2. The highway we had planned to travel was closed during the day for construction, leaving us with a choice of sitting and waiting for hours, or finding another route. There was no other route that would not add several days of highway travel.
3. We were getting tired after more than a week on the road, and beginning to think of home.
So we fought the traffic in Durango long enough to get into a grocery store and replenish our supplies, and then found a commercial RV park just outside of town overlooking the Animas River and the famous Durango-to-Silverton Railroad.
Here is the a picture from the RV park, as Pat is sitting and visiting with a very interesting neighbor.
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<img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mw2vTm7qnAA/YWDafop2ebI/AAAAAAAAE9c/pubK2d5Px_4asNaYUjFP7uL4URzTbHVnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/9.jpg"/></a></div>
He is a professional musician and teacher named Bud Preston, who travels almost fulltime, but does his classes by Zoom from wherever he parks his home-made trailer that looks like a caboose. His RV spot was ideal, overlooking the tracks so he could see the steam engines puff by twice a day, with the river off in the distance.
Ours little van was wedged between two rather large RVs, with just enough room for a picnic table.
We have always preferred campgrounds to RV Parks, with few exceptions. This was a nice place and well run but just too close for us to relax.
So we made a new plan, took a different route back to the West through the Colorado plains and back into Utah. That took us through Mexican Hat, Bluff and Monticello. We rode along the banks of the Colorado River briefly, and spotted Sand Island Park, home to these petroglyphys.
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No matter where you go traveling, you find plenty of signs that you are not the first to pass this way. Because of the dry climate in the West, you get a much better view.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We wanted to see new places, which is why we did not return to Bryce Canyon and other most-popular parks, but since we were driving right by Arches National Park again we thought it was time to stop and check it out.
We had learned that it was a highly impacted park, sometimes with lines backing out from the single entry gate, so we started early and arrived at the entrance around 8 a.m., in time to notice that the "CHECK ENGINE LIGHT" was illuminated on the VW dash board.
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On a 2002 Volkswagen that can mean an impending disaster, so I tried to find a reason, pulled out the manual and read that and in a stroke of wisdom called my son-in-law Brian who not only owns a VW-based camper (A Rialta) he is also a good mechanic. Brian sent me to the closest car parts store.
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After an anxious minute or two the helpful young guy at the store in Moab plugged in his computer device paused, and then asked where my gas cap was located. He twisted it tight and the warning light instantly disappeared. Turns out the most common cause of the check engine light is a loose gas cap.
Back to the park entrance, and only a short wait and we got in for the drive through another of America's wonders.
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The Visitor Center was partially open, and we spent a few minutes admiring the sculptures. And a friendly tourist captured our photo.
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And then we we off on the sometimes steep sometimes crowded road deep into the park. It is a one-way-in-and-out drive, and many of scenic overlooks were beginning to get crowded as were the hiking trails. We can vouch for the beauty of the park, and the fact that there are a potful of arches in every direction. Beauty was all around us.
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Then we stopped for lunch on the "lonliest highway" at the Utah/Nevada border where, as you would expect, there is a cafe, motel and casino. You are back in Nevada.
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On the way home we camped at Cold Springs in Nevada.
This is in the middle of nowhere, on the lonliest road, somewhere east of Fallon. The place was near an old pony express station where a big fight took place in the 1800s. Nothing much has happened since then, but lots of people like the area for the wide-open BLM lands where you can drive your four-wheel cars and carts in every direction.
We stayed in what they call the "dry camp" section, a polite way of saying we were up against the barbed wire fence with a view of cows, and the fence, and the desert. It was actually lovely, a billions stars at nights and very quiet. Plus good hot showers and a decent cafe.
People in the cafe may look like desert rats, but they most likely work for the military on one of the bases scattered throughout the region. The military used to test nukes nearby.
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Our last night on the road was in the Sierra Nevada, 7,000 feet up, in our favorite spot.
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We were on the road two weeks, had no serious problems, and were reminded how much we love traveling in the West, or anywhere for that matter.
The map gives you an idea, sloppily, of where we went. It doesn't look like much but it required 2,272 miles in a VW bus camper, technically a Eurovan. We were on wide open highways much of the time, able to travel at legal highway speeds. Despite running at 75 mph with the air conditioning on, it appears we averaged about 22 miles per gallon.
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What would we do differently? Not much. The pace of travel was about right for us. We could spend more nights in one place but we were traveling to see the country and that required movement. And maybe pay more attention to finding good food, as we winged it in indifferent cafes and easy stuff to cook in camp.
But the company was perfect, the scenery divine and we made it home safely.
Send me ideas for our next trip!slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-72616427055604927802021-10-08T22:23:00.000-07:002021-10-08T22:23:53.401-07:00Part Three: Roadtrip in SnowflakeWe planned our eighth day of travel to be in Moument Valley, to wake up early and beat the crowds to take the self-guided car tour of Monument Valley.
We were up well before dawn, grabbed coffee, and were third in the short line to enter the loop rode by 6:30 a.m. just before the sun came up. (To minimize impacts, and due to Covid, only 15 cars are allowed at one time to be on the two-hour loop. You could drive it faster, but why would you?)
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Even with a lot of pretty good pictures, it is impossible to catch the beauty of the place. We kept trying, with Cell Phones and my daughter's loaned Canon camera. Every few hundred yards one of us would go "Oh!. Look at that!"
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And then we would go around a bend in the dirt road, and the view would change. Like this.
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And then a new vista would appear, with the sun climbing slowly everything changed every minute.
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I suspect this photo is out of sequence, as it looks a lot like the moonrise the evening before.
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And then we would have to take pictures of each other just to prove we were there.
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The scale of the monuments is such that you hardly have time to consider the geological changes that took place over millions of years.
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Whether far away.....
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Or nearby.
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When we finished the drive through the Monuments, we went back up to the Visitor Center atop the ridge looking east. The information center was closed, but the gift shop was open. It proved to be a good stop. Everything they offer is carefully labled, and one entire section is devoted to native-made items, from large expensive pottery to small souvenirs. They had a lot of Navajo silver and jade jewelry, not something we collect, but we could admire the workmanship.
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One more view from the ridge looking east.
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The Navajo people, who call themselves "Dine'", have done an excellent job protecting and sharing this national treasure. They not only manage the resort and visitor experiences, they also live in the valley among all this beauty. Side roads, marked "private" lead off to small ranches and homes and hogans tucked in among the towers. A few horses and sheep are always visible, and you can get a feel for what it is like for people who have lived here for hundreds or thousands of years.
The people we encountered were friendly and helpful. The best example was when we had trouble with a tire, and were considering calling AAA from a town 100 miles away. At the trading post gas station, the air pump was broken and they said there was no help anywhere nearby.
But a shop keeper in the native market told us about a local man who had a tire shop, and gave us directions. In this area, the directions were to go along the road past the commercial RV park, expect the road to be narrow and maybe dirt, but look for a home off to the right with tires stacked outside a small wooden garage. We pulled into the yard, and the man stopped what he was doing, helped us immediately, and fixed the problem.
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And so, as the old travelogue movies used to say, we bid farewell to the incredible Monument Valley.
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Go visit this place. It should be on every bucket list.
Next and finally: On to Colorado. Briefly.
slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-54471187375045873272021-10-07T11:23:00.001-07:002021-10-07T11:24:24.593-07:00Part Two -- Travels with Snowflake<p> Day Five began on the road from Great Basin National Park in Nevada, driving east across Utah and then south through Moab and on to Blanding, a small town in the middle of some of the prettiest country you will ever see.
And it ended in the stupendous collosal Monument Valley
</p><p>To get there we started east along Highway 50, joined Interstate 70, and then turned south on 191.</p><p>The western side of Utah starts out in dry brushy rolling hills, then comes into large dry valleys and finally through farming towns like Hinkley, where we finally saw some green, and through the little farm town Delta. Breakfast in the cafe there included a conversation overheard that ranged from the Mormon church leadership's recent pro-mask announcement for Covid prevention, to one farmer telling another to never quit his job working for someone. Let them fire you, and you can either collect benefits or sue, he said.</p><p>Very few people in rural Utah towns wear masks.</p><p>(Note: I read that every town and county in Utah except Salt Lake City has a large majority of Mormons in residence, including places like Hinkley and Delta. Probably true, but for they seem to have the same concerns, manners and politics as almost any other rural areas.)</p><p>A word about the Interstate 70 route across Utah. It has to be one of the most beautiful stretches of Interstate Highway in the nation . </p><p><span style="text-align: center;"> Hidden back in the canyons are miles of off-road trails, and you can see evidence in hundreds of off-road vehicles with roll-bar cages and open sides at a scattering of towns and trailer parks. The roads follow the old Pony Express route, and some places brag about that brief moment in Western history. Mostly it is seen through a series of "historical markers," several pointing out that just over the hills the intruding pony riders encountered hostility from the natives.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">Also off the road a few miles are major fossil sites, where dinosaur bones can be seen if your vehicle can handle the back roads.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">Once we left the Interstate highway, where the speed limit was 80 mph, traffic slowed slightly as we drove south by Arches National Park where cars were backed up waiting to get in, through Moab which is always jammed with tourists and four-wheeled contraptions of every kind.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">We landed for a couple of nights at an older motel in Blanding, Utah, just north of the Navajo Reservation and near Bear's Ears National Monument,</span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">Blanding is a comfortable town, with a large Native American population and a couple of good places to eat, and a laundromat where we refreshed our limited clean clothes.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;">We discovered a wonderful museum at the Edge of the Cedars State park, right on the edge of town. The park has an excavated pueblo dwelling site, complete with kiva, but it was the collection inside that was so fascinating. They had Anasazi pottery and basketry, some items a thousand years old, and all found nearby, all of them very rare. The displays contained a lot of information, interestingly presented. It is a must-see museum if you travel that way.</span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6qzsp0VSsc/YVjPst7UmII/AAAAAAAAE5U/-IMya-APS-wPR7RMjrr3VGsYSmcVu_ZkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="384" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6qzsp0VSsc/YVjPst7UmII/AAAAAAAAE5U/-IMya-APS-wPR7RMjrr3VGsYSmcVu_ZkwCLcBGAsYHQ/w328-h384/5.jpg" width="328" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pat taking in some of the upper floor exhibits.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yVycDwRgkIQ/YVjP0NWH4kI/AAAAAAAAE5c/zt3T4eZjw5gCGB3fTd_l50wcOLel1-HWACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/5.1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yVycDwRgkIQ/YVjP0NWH4kI/AAAAAAAAE5c/zt3T4eZjw5gCGB3fTd_l50wcOLel1-HWACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A native flute, a woven water jug and what have been children's arrows.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uW3G8PfX3tA/YVjPz3ikiII/AAAAAAAAE5Y/QcG0AnHbQAYQT2MpOSB1CMq6bL0sttZiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uW3G8PfX3tA/YVjPz3ikiII/AAAAAAAAE5Y/QcG0AnHbQAYQT2MpOSB1CMq6bL0sttZiQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And Kiva to explore.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p>We ended the day at our cabin at Monument Valley. The Navajo Nation's Monument Valley. It looks and feels like a national park, but is located on and run very well by the Navajo Nation.
The series of photos below are all from our first afternoon. We arrived too early to check into our cabin or take the long car tour through the valley so we rode around, checking out Goulding's Trading Post a few miles away, the only open place to eat, a gas station and the gift shop.
The pictures are mixed due to editing problems but you can tell that once we got into our cabin we were more than happy with the view right out the front window.
The cabins are located on two rows, ours in the back but at a higher elevation, so every cabin has the spectacular view of the Valley spread out below.
The giant monuments, buttes and mesas, dominate everything. At the time it was sunset so the colors were even more fantastic.
The "resort" is called "The View" and is operated by the Navajo. Normally it has everything you would need: hotel, cabins, RV park, Visitor Center, a choice of tours (guided or not)cafe and gift shop.
Due to Covid the only things open were the tours, gift shop, hotel and cabins.
The cabins where we stayed are modern and clean, have a refrigerator and microwave, good beds, and a tiny extra room with two extra (bunk) beds. It is not cheap (about $200 a day) but you get a thousand dollar view plus comfort.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1LnmXQ-Izkc/YVjQO6V7LcI/AAAAAAAAE50/elmoZoyA8EIz6a3iDpFhsc7dSwSjbZhXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1LnmXQ-Izkc/YVjQO6V7LcI/AAAAAAAAE50/elmoZoyA8EIz6a3iDpFhsc7dSwSjbZhXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-72oRazS3XWg/YVjQNFqHgVI/AAAAAAAAE5w/-afwQmOaQ2Mahtc0G3HxAve-wyi4c8q1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7.2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-72oRazS3XWg/YVjQNFqHgVI/AAAAAAAAE5w/-afwQmOaQ2Mahtc0G3HxAve-wyi4c8q1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nas6O2RbpRQ/YVjQ7LSIZkI/AAAAAAAAE7M/hIY2hj-XcOEtqsVyabBRZk6RdI_FR3FbwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7.14.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mUtSORkLecU/YVjQn0YDUOI/AAAAAAAAE6k/BD2SqoAiGswgItY0T2yslRmN9cB14p5BACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7.9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mUtSORkLecU/YVjQn0YDUOI/AAAAAAAAE6k/BD2SqoAiGswgItY0T2yslRmN9cB14p5BACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7.9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vS-uUkfIiG4/YVjQQseZvgI/AAAAAAAAE6A/FEmMfzFWWL8lgWHCiUcqIvk100FqmWkZgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vS-uUkfIiG4/YVjQQseZvgI/AAAAAAAAE6A/FEmMfzFWWL8lgWHCiUcqIvk100FqmWkZgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
John Wayne's cabin was on the Goulding Trading Post property, a reminder of when western movies were made in the area.
Next: More Monument Valley.
slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com2Utah, USA39.3209801 -111.093731111.010746263821154 -146.2499811 67.631213936178852 -75.9374811tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-37846387814250297042021-10-02T12:22:00.000-07:002021-10-02T12:22:56.797-07:00Part 1 -- Road Trip with Snowflake-- 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T1C5EkeBiK4/YVOWhmDyJzI/AAAAAAAAE2U/g4sabVG_M34Ipm2j_ln3Uo6sEI04gfi1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/8.15.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="465" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T1C5EkeBiK4/YVOWhmDyJzI/AAAAAAAAE2U/g4sabVG_M34Ipm2j_ln3Uo6sEI04gfi1gCLcBGAsYHQ/w452-h465/8.15.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(A preview of Monument Valley at Dawn)</div> <br />Our September journey of 2,272 miles began about one hour later than planned, our normal pace, and we arrived back home pretty much on schedule. <div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We found the pleasures of travel are still there when you go out looking. There is beauty just waiting for us to seek it.<p></p><p>We traveled five Western states in two weeks starting at our California home and going across back roads in Nevada and Utah, and looping through Arizona and Colorado.</p><p>We did not have a precise plan, just a vague destination, and that worked out very well. This was a road trip: part camping, lots of driving, and part resting in places along the way.</p><p>There is beauty to be found everywhere. But the highlights were the Navajo's Monument Valley, Arches National Park, Great Basin National Park, the southern end of the Rockies at Durango, plus miles and miles of beautiful open country across Utah and Nevada. Lots of geology everywhere.</p><p>A few basics: </p><p>--We traveled in "Snowflake," our 2002 Volkswagen Eurovan. and the odometer passed 100,000 miles during the trip. A few times the speedometer went over 80 mph. We averaged about 20 miles per gallon.</p><p>--We were on the road 14 days.</p><p>--We camped in our van seven days, stayed in a cabin for two, and spent four nights in motels.</p><p>Our route took us from home in Murphys, Ca., across Ebbetts Pass into Nevada, and then south through Moab, Utah to Monument Valley on the Arizona line. From there we drove into Colorado, and then homeward along essentially the same path.</p><p>The Covid pandemic effect was everywhere, but we were cautious, wore our masks, and honored the businesses and sites that took it seriously. </p><p>What follows is a day-by-day log and where we were and what we saw.</p><p>Days 1 and 2 </p><p>We pulled out of our driveway in Murphys on a Monday morning fortified with coffee, drove east across Highway 4 (Ebbetts Pass Scenic Highway-- elevation over 9,000 feet), through the town of Markleeville and on into the high plains of Nevada.</p><p><br /></p><p>Across Nevada we avoided Interstates and traveled the "loneliest highway" -- US 50 -- which runs due east from Carson City. It isn't really all that lonely, but traffic and towns are sparse and even in a Volkswagen van you can cruise along at 75 and make good time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_mWHiwOh6CI/YVOXaochIVI/AAAAAAAAE2c/AQ7lSuo7QV4XMgONA0DhRmCuX7kCqZ9igCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/1.3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="364" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_mWHiwOh6CI/YVOXaochIVI/AAAAAAAAE2c/AQ7lSuo7QV4XMgONA0DhRmCuX7kCqZ9igCLcBGAsYHQ/w274-h364/1.3.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Beauty is in the eye of the beholder in Nevada</div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Once you leave the high plains of western Nevada, where wild horses really do roam alongside the highways, you come into a widely spaced series of old mining towns in the mountains. Before you get there you pass through Fallon, a town that proclaims itself an "oasis," and is fueled by military installations scattered throughout the desert. There is a Naval Air Station (think "Top Gun" stuff), a bombing range, and even the site of underground nuclear test sites. One suspects a lot of UFO sitings happen nearby.</p><p><br /></p><p>At the mining towns you can sometimes find breakfast, but sometimes everything seems closed down. Even the Owl Casino and Cafe was closed, along with everything else, when we passed through Eureka. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gehSjBhV8HE/YVOX6yEfjeI/AAAAAAAAE2k/JOoHr1iMJrQ4MWypGXLWTPOyKLQEdhHPACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="241" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gehSjBhV8HE/YVOX6yEfjeI/AAAAAAAAE2k/JOoHr1iMJrQ4MWypGXLWTPOyKLQEdhHPACLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h241/2.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We stop when it is interesting: Frequently.</div><p>We stopped for the night, as planned, at a beautiful campsite at the Hickison Petroglyphs near Austin, a site managed by the Bureau of Land Management. There are only 16 sites, but the campground is rarely full unless it is time for local native Americans to collect pine nuts -- a local tradition.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rbIPFYu_G4g/YVOYWLZHPKI/AAAAAAAAE2s/ElXtxs9my48_IVOEJ07FCiu1evLrfeMZACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/1.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="269" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rbIPFYu_G4g/YVOYWLZHPKI/AAAAAAAAE2s/ElXtxs9my48_IVOEJ07FCiu1evLrfeMZACLcBGAsYHQ/w414-h269/1.1.jpg" width="414" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The only noise was coyotes howling at night in the distance.<br /><p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-daD0G3vHo48/YVOYWVTfQtI/AAAAAAAAE2w/HfPJJtkicTAwjF6eQBpnTv-pw4G5AFtogCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="274" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-daD0G3vHo48/YVOYWVTfQtI/AAAAAAAAE2w/HfPJJtkicTAwjF6eQBpnTv-pw4G5AFtogCLcBGAsYHQ/w311-h274/1.jpg" width="311" /></a></p><p>The view of the high desert was better than my photo.</p></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NQvKGWFUuac/YVOY6061rnI/AAAAAAAAE28/xQEkeeSOmiIEHK_yVt-IbTSr87W4JeEYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NQvKGWFUuac/YVOY6061rnI/AAAAAAAAE28/xQEkeeSOmiIEHK_yVt-IbTSr87W4JeEYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Reading.</div><br /><p><br /></p><p>We stayed there two nights, just because we could, taking short walks, overlooking high desert and listening for coyotes at night. </p><p>The petroglyphs are along a short trail adjacent to the campground, with symbols and carvings chipped into the canyon walls.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n8dS4IwTAqE/YVOZHtDl3xI/AAAAAAAAE3A/4amY8me18yMZbRImjjjRlCC09Aplm0xpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/1.2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n8dS4IwTAqE/YVOZHtDl3xI/AAAAAAAAE3A/4amY8me18yMZbRImjjjRlCC09Aplm0xpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1.2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pat checking the Petroglyphs.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>It is a nice quiet spot to stay, but it is "dry" camping: clean pit toilets, but no water or electricity. But we had a quiet well-designed campsite with a shelter, picnic table and a fire pit. (Because of the fire season we did not have a campfire anywhere during the trip.) </p><p>As a place to camp, without urban amenities, I give it five stars.</p><p><br /></p><p>Day 3 and 4: We had an early breakfast at Ely, Nevada, landed later at Big Basin National Park, almost into Utah, one of the few western national parks we had never seen.</p><p>It is a beautiful park, reaching from the desert basins to the peak of the mountains. A major feature of the park is a large cave, where tours are booked well ahead, so we missed that. (The Visitor Center gave us an introduction.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cEBXN0ghbvk/YVimT4rt-3I/AAAAAAAAE3k/iejaoe9Op_0bI4h5IGtBzmUjNuZFQtiBgCLcBGAsYHQ/3.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cEBXN0ghbvk/YVimT4rt-3I/AAAAAAAAE3k/iejaoe9Op_0bI4h5IGtBzmUjNuZFQtiBgCLcBGAsYHQ/3.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Lunch at the only open place in the town of Baker: Sandra's</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RIf4D4SNPTk/YVinLeKse9I/AAAAAAAAE4g/Lgg-NS2t6IA9431zEN_LWo3jldKDwrGQACLcBGAsYHQ/4.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RIf4D4SNPTk/YVinLeKse9I/AAAAAAAAE4g/Lgg-NS2t6IA9431zEN_LWo3jldKDwrGQACLcBGAsYHQ/4.1.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>I was allowed to serve the meal</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T_DAbHFfUII/YVimT8ia1oI/AAAAAAAAE3o/-JO-hH5utVsFtn0N6iBO91UfpiKKGPxpACLcBGAsYHQ/3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T_DAbHFfUII/YVimT8ia1oI/AAAAAAAAE3o/-JO-hH5utVsFtn0N6iBO91UfpiKKGPxpACLcBGAsYHQ/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The campite inside the park came with deer and turkey, and was full every evening. It was very quiet, the sites were wide-spread. Because of the demand we shared our campsite with a couple camping out of the back of their truck. She paid us with a jar of home-made jam.</div><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zBpDO0YrewE/YVinIZNCW0I/AAAAAAAAE4Y/6qzre7XizC80JtykiV-Jf6-qdJQ0NNQjQCLcBGAsYHQ/4.6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zBpDO0YrewE/YVinIZNCW0I/AAAAAAAAE4Y/6qzre7XizC80JtykiV-Jf6-qdJQ0NNQjQCLcBGAsYHQ/4.6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Pat had time to practice music</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-npOuibO0snk/YVinIrlKXuI/AAAAAAAAE4c/LIBV05s8zn4lm-suhrviaeH2yABtRZP_gCLcBGAsYHQ/4.5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-npOuibO0snk/YVinIrlKXuI/AAAAAAAAE4c/LIBV05s8zn4lm-suhrviaeH2yABtRZP_gCLcBGAsYHQ/4.5.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I had time to read. I think I finished about six novels during the tip, several by Bernard Cornwell, and one by park ranger Nevada Barr and one mystery from James Patterson. Reading at night was helped by our new LED lights inside the camper, augmented by solar lamps we carry everywhere.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-agnFvx6MpFI/YVinIIlvlDI/AAAAAAAAE4U/hGlQUf_Ry7Yg7GoH6E2-N7Jp6gEsN7rFwCLcBGAsYHQ/4.3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="302" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-agnFvx6MpFI/YVinIIlvlDI/AAAAAAAAE4U/hGlQUf_Ry7Yg7GoH6E2-N7Jp6gEsN7rFwCLcBGAsYHQ/w328-h302/4.3.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Aspen were turning along the hiking trails. In mid-September the leaves were just beginning to turn, but only above 9,000 feet. But it still felt like Fall.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><p><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dJFOZLVYlSU/YVimUiO0YcI/AAAAAAAAE3s/p9gN9ha7kwcqWknmSNrAoxPFIJTMKoYqgCLcBGAsYHQ/3.2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="393" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dJFOZLVYlSU/YVimUiO0YcI/AAAAAAAAE3s/p9gN9ha7kwcqWknmSNrAoxPFIJTMKoYqgCLcBGAsYHQ/w287-h393/3.2.jpg" width="287" /></a></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This was the easy hike, where we met an artist... Notice the hiking trail is handicap accessible by using rubber mats over small stones, a clever idea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>Next: On to Utah and Monument Valley</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-6473120209919510412020-11-06T12:41:00.003-08:002020-11-06T12:41:46.826-08:00Visiting Yosemite History<p><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Yosemite National Park -- To avoid the TV and the worries of 2020 we spent election day in Yosemite National Park. Looking for history.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMFrXGnSw8g/X6W0nb9Xj8I/AAAAAAAAEog/L0P-Y8dE82cQiMeIzHcyxk5YC1RpxKXYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/graveyard%2Blooking%2Bnorth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMFrXGnSw8g/X6W0nb9Xj8I/AAAAAAAAEog/L0P-Y8dE82cQiMeIzHcyxk5YC1RpxKXYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/graveyard%2Blooking%2Bnorth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The visit marked 40 years since my first visit after we moved west in 1980. That visit was with two then-small children (Pat was traveling back east) in our bright orange VW Westfalia camper. I got slightly lost driving to the park, but eventually found our way. It cost $5 to get into the park. Much to my surprise it was crowded and the only camping spot we could find was on the Tioga Pass Road at a place called Smokey Jack Campground. We woke up to snow on the ground, both a delight and a concern. (The campground no longer exists, a victim of NPS policy to concentrate visitors and eliminate low-cost lodging.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Forty years later Pat and I drove into Yosemite early, arriving around 9 a.m. in time to see the sun coating the north said granite walls with light. It was a cool but beautiful morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">We visited a few of the scenic sites, admired the surroundings, but spent the best part of our day in the Pioneer Cemetery, reading tombstones and remembering the people who were here 150 years ago.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">James Lamon (no relation) was the first white settler in Yosemite. He homesteaded before Abraham Lincoln declared the valley a national treasure, then Lamon built a log cabin and established a farm with crops and orchards. The local Indians had been run off or killed less than 10 years earlier, and he got along with the few who had returned. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xwbJ3el9TB8/X6Wv4Iy8T0I/AAAAAAAAEnk/fOBFItS7pZY5XBgWZgPFebFdlEhHP96iwCLcBGAsYHQ/s408/lamoncabin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="408" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xwbJ3el9TB8/X6Wv4Iy8T0I/AAAAAAAAEnk/fOBFItS7pZY5XBgWZgPFebFdlEhHP96iwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/lamoncabin.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Like many men of that era he had come west for gold, didn't find much, and located a place to call home. His cabin was located in the upper or Eastern end of the valley, near what is now used for a horse stable and tourist parking. Some of his trees survive to this day, and volunteers come in and pick the fruit so they will not attract bears.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">We drove into the area where his cabin was located, and then went to the cemetery to pay our respects.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0M0lS4Qa4Ts/X6WjBTFbXXI/AAAAAAAAEmg/eR0RcMnYdIwWd_iofQ0a1_Z3Cfbr0xDYgCLcBGAsYHQ/Lamon%2Bspire2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0M0lS4Qa4Ts/X6WjBTFbXXI/AAAAAAAAEmg/eR0RcMnYdIwWd_iofQ0a1_Z3Cfbr0xDYgCLcBGAsYHQ/Lamon%2Bspire2.jpg" width="180" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Lamon's grave</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />Here is a link to Lamon and the park: <a href="https://www.nps.gov/yose/blogs/the-first-pioneer-settler-of-yosemite-valley.htm" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">https://www.nps.gov/yose/blogs/the-first-pioneer-settler-of-yosemite-valley.htm</a></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The Pioneer Cemetery in Yosemite includes the graves of many pioneers and early settlers, and victims of the then-harsh lives they lived. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> John Muir is not buried here but near his home in Martinez, Ca. But if you want a glimpse of Muir in Yosemite you can hike the paved trail below Yosemite Falls and see the site of the lumber mill where he lived and worked when he first arrived. It is marked by a hard-to-spot stone bench alongside the creek.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Muir was hired to produce lumber by a pioneer entrepreneur and resident named James Mason Hutchings, who has not one but two tombstones marking his grave in Yosemite. The larger stone, a chunk of granite, was apparently put in place when his teenage daughter Florence, the first white child born in the Valley, died in an accident on the trail while leading a group of tourists up a steep trail. Mount Florence is named for her. The inscription for her is located on the top side of the granite.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dT0bVXTTP6U/X6WjWoXo16I/AAAAAAAAEmo/v2nYnYQWXhcPJ0tmkR-qA5IQzHodRlD6gCLcBGAsYHQ/Hutchings%2BFlorence%2Bside%2Bcarving.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dT0bVXTTP6U/X6WjWoXo16I/AAAAAAAAEmo/v2nYnYQWXhcPJ0tmkR-qA5IQzHodRlD6gCLcBGAsYHQ/Hutchings%2BFlorence%2Bside%2Bcarving.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hutchings is not what you could call a popular hero of the early days. He was apparently a rather stuffy Englishman, with opinions about everything. By trade he was a publisher, and that led him to come to Yosemite very early leading a tourist group that included artists, and then deciding to promote Yosemite as a destination. He bought a partially-completed hotel/cottage near the Merced River with a view of the tall waterfall, promoted the Valley through magazine articles and books, and saw himself as the "father of Yosemite." In stereographic pictures from 1860 he shows up in almost every photo, posing in a boat on the river or on horseback in a meadow. He would hire the photographer, and then be the model.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Here is his history from the park service site: <a href="https://www.nps.gov/yose/learn/historyculture/hutchings.htm" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">https://www.nps.gov/yose/learn/historyculture/hutchings.htm</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">He picked the site for his grave, and I suspect dictated the carving which says:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Hb7JlhCZwAY/X6WhmNMxhsI/AAAAAAAAEmU/GDgp8rQY8rc8V6K35nPWyt95K63sBVubwCLcBGAsYHQ/Hutchings%2Bstone%2Bback%2Bcarving.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Hb7JlhCZwAY/X6WhmNMxhsI/AAAAAAAAEmU/GDgp8rQY8rc8V6K35nPWyt95K63sBVubwCLcBGAsYHQ/Hutchings%2Bstone%2Bback%2Bcarving.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Father of Yosemite</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Builder of the first trails, roads, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">bridges and dwellings of this</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">valley</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;">In the same plot are his daughters and his second wife. It has been rumored for years that Hutchings and Muir did not like each other, perhaps because Muir was well liked by the ladies in his family. Whatever the truth, neither man ever really mentioned the other in their extensive writings about Yosemite.<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hutchings fought the federal and state governments for years, disputing the claim </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">he was on public land. He eventually lost the argument, but won some money for his trouble.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hutchings "hotel" was a rustic place on the south side of the river looking at the waterfall. He improved it and it grew through the years, notably with an enclosed back porch that featured a giant cedar tree in the middle of the room. He added glass to the windows, which had been holes, and partitions inside instead of sheets hanging from the rafters.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Today, the site of the hotel can be located by crossing the south side road at the Sentinel Bridge, directly across from the stop sign is a broken tree in a small clearing.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pR-0oOU6YGs/X6Wl_FcendI/AAAAAAAAEm0/pddEZyHW9ckMA5f9rPAZjPVKuWo8WIHTgCLcBGAsYHQ/Cedar%2Bstump%2Bbroken.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pR-0oOU6YGs/X6Wl_FcendI/AAAAAAAAEm0/pddEZyHW9ckMA5f9rPAZjPVKuWo8WIHTgCLcBGAsYHQ/Cedar%2Bstump%2Bbroken.jpg" width="160" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />That's what remains of Hutchings' once-famous hotel, along with a flat stone that may have been a fireplace hearth. Look up about ten feet and you can see wire which apparently supported part of the porch roof, and marks in the back left from where the roof was attached to the tree.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wVHxIDJAai4/X6Wm2-ZnZCI/AAAAAAAAEm8/gPQm63MlKUI2RCeXAlj5KeJf-gLaNrxPgCLcBGAsYHQ/Cedar%2Bstump%2Bwith%2Bwire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wVHxIDJAai4/X6Wm2-ZnZCI/AAAAAAAAEm8/gPQm63MlKUI2RCeXAlj5KeJf-gLaNrxPgCLcBGAsYHQ/Cedar%2Bstump%2Bwith%2Bwire.jpg" width="160" /></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jZTIGphYscw/X6Wm8jkGEnI/AAAAAAAAEnA/a6gwmoDzSlExaNmuB4sTrHRuyWAWLbK0QCLcBGAsYHQ/Cedar%2Bstump%2Bwear%2Bmarks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="161" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jZTIGphYscw/X6Wm8jkGEnI/AAAAAAAAEnA/a6gwmoDzSlExaNmuB4sTrHRuyWAWLbK0QCLcBGAsYHQ/w242-h161/Cedar%2Bstump%2Bwear%2Bmarks.jpg" width="242" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />Hutchings essentially was kicked out of Yosemite when the settlement was done, but he came back after a political change in the commissioners who "ran" the valley fired the first guardian, Galen Clark, and replaced him with Hutchings. That didn't last, and Hutchings eventually gto the job of managing a tourist attraction in Calaveras County, at Calaveras Big Trees. He died at 84 while driving a buggy on the Big Oak Flat Road heading for a visit to Yosemite.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hutchings legacy has always been clouded by his less-than-popular style. He was identified by one pioneer as grumpy. But he was the person more than any other who promoted the beauty of the valley, brought artists and authors and photographers into the valley to spread its fame, and played a significant role in making Yosemite known to the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Galen Clark, on the other hand, was a competent quiet man who had come to the Wawona area to escape to the woods for his failing health. Clark's Station was a popular stage stop on the route into the park in the 1800s, and he had a reputation as a warm host. His experience in the area led to his being named the first guardian of Yosemite once the state took control, a role he fulfilled for decades. He was, as the state likes to point out, the very first park ranger.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Unlike Hutchings, Clark made friends, did what he was asked, and when he got older voluntarily stepped down from his guardian role, suggesting that a younger man would be better for the demanding job. Here is a site with a lot more detail: </span><a href="https://www.nps.gov/yose/learn/historyculture/galen-clark.htm" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">https://www.nps.gov/yose/learn/historyculture/galen-clark.htm</a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XFirFE8q-Ro/X6Wt67w7Y_I/AAAAAAAAEnQ/YDhtTpr49t0ovmoR8nZBKEz9RqK6ti1ogCLcBGAsYHQ/Galen%2BClark%2Bgravesite.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XFirFE8q-Ro/X6Wt67w7Y_I/AAAAAAAAEnQ/YDhtTpr49t0ovmoR8nZBKEz9RqK6ti1ogCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h210/Galen%2BClark%2Bgravesite.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Clark's Grave</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Clark selected his gravesite and planted four Giant Sequoia seedlings at the corners. Today they mark his gravesite, along with one new tree that has sprung up.</span><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">He originally came to the area because his health was failing, and he decided the mountains would either kill him or cure him. Like Hutchings, he lived a very long life.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Every graveyard has stories to tell, and Yosemite's are compelling even when incomplete. How did John Anderson get killed by a horse? He was best known as one of the earliest people to climb Half Dome. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--0nF0gZwIFg/X6Wyp4jEmUI/AAAAAAAAEoM/Tq9sgWO6E7oE5szXTBOfVwv774rJnfpTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/John%2BAnderson%2B-%2Bhorse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--0nF0gZwIFg/X6Wyp4jEmUI/AAAAAAAAEoM/Tq9sgWO6E7oE5szXTBOfVwv774rJnfpTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/John%2BAnderson%2B-%2Bhorse.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Who exactly were the dozen or more native Americans buried in the graveyard and what sort of lives did they lead?</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IbxLrGA2q1o/X6Wy4VG0aXI/AAAAAAAAEoQ/RBTG0DPkzpkCM0-EYZbxG2Fyp6xvEv4dQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Native%2BAmerican%2Bmarkers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IbxLrGA2q1o/X6Wy4VG0aXI/AAAAAAAAEoQ/RBTG0DPkzpkCM0-EYZbxG2Fyp6xvEv4dQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Native%2BAmerican%2Bmarkers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">The cemetery is a place that speaks through the decades of triumphs and tragedies. It is a good place to spend a little time. Read more at: </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">https://www.yosemite.ca.us/library/yosemite_indians_and_other_sketches/cemetery.htm</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div></div>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-80308372751491423182020-11-06T10:46:00.000-08:002020-11-06T10:46:09.586-08:00Chapter Two -- Waiting on the VirusMurphys, Ca. , March 27, 2020 -- We are not isolated, but we are living a totally different life than just two weeks ago.<br />
We live in a small subdivision (Teeny Town) occupied primarily by retired or near-retired folks. A few still work every day, either from home or a strictly isolated office environment, but we also have a good number of retired people between 75 and 90, all within a block of us.<br />
<br />
Our weeks used to be defined by meetings and gatherings with friends, all gone now.<br />
Doctor appointments have been cancelled or postponed. <br />
Pat's routine gathering with a group of women friends postponed.<br />
My trips to the state park to volunteer are postponed.<br />
Our church "small group" meeting postponed.<br />
Music jams on Mondays and choir practice on Wednesdays postponed.<br />
My occasional trips with friends to the local casino postponed, as are my weekly poker games with neighbors.<br />
Frequent visits and shared meals with our neighbors are postponed. We have figured out we can share food without direct contact, and a lot of that goes on. Last night our neighbor provided steak, which I grilled, and a salad. Pat made wild rice and other sides, and we carried them across the street and left them on the porch.<br />
Church is postponed, though an online version is available which we watch.<br />
It is a very different way to be.<br />
<br />
We set up a daily schedule for ourselves, which is rarely precise, but it is something like this:<br />
8-10 a.m. Get up, stagger around, make coffee, drink coffee, and then decide if breakfast is a real production or a Granola bar. Pat almost always gets up early, and me late, because I usually stay up later.<br />
10 a.m. Exercise. This may be a walk around the block, further if the weather is good, or Tai Chi in the living room (nor far from the coffee pot), or both. Pat is recovering from back surgery, doing well after about eight weeks, and my tender back is improving to the point our daily mileage is increasing slowly from a short block, to more distant spots.<br />
We eat, exercise and walk just the two of us. We may chat with a neighbor who is out doing the same thing or on the porch, but always from a distance and not for very long. We do not go into anyone else's house.<br />
11a.m. to 1 p.m. This is chore time. We try to have one household chore lined up every day, but we get sloppy. The idea is good though. We have reorganized kitchen cabinets, sewed some drapes, written to friends, gone through a few old photo albums (we threw nothing out). Pat spends some of her time on the phone and computer dealing with the church's Parish Care system, checking on people by phone, arranging food deliveries etc., and I spend some of my time dealing with the state park's non-profit organization, which has five employees, and is the major source of money for educational programs during normal times.<br />
1 p.m. to 2 p.m. We have lunch, either leftovers or something light, at the kitchen counter.<br />
2 p.m. till 5 p.m. We may keep working on chores, or move on to reading a book or playing games on the computer. I spend more time than necessary on Facebook, chatting with friends and trying not to be nasty to politicians I despise.<br />
We may sneak in a nap, usually an hour, and take another walk if the weather is good.<br />
5 p.m. 7 p.m. is taken up with dinner. We are well stocked, which was sort of an accident because I made big run before the virus hit. Normally we would eat out a lot but that is on hold.<div>7 p.m. to bedtime. We choose up sides and go to our computers for a while, reading or playing card games. Or read in a chair. We rarely watch TV but have signed up for Netflix at the urging of our children.</div><div><br /></div>slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-9933581720910401422020-07-26T13:32:00.000-07:002020-07-26T13:32:00.514-07:00Sailing ... Part 1 ... Getting started<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RXMs5-h4cjg/Xx3j1PtRsxI/AAAAAAAAEhg/Y44Xha1DpOAQPKhncQKevLft4jEGtNEGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_0040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RXMs5-h4cjg/Xx3j1PtRsxI/AAAAAAAAEhg/Y44Xha1DpOAQPKhncQKevLft4jEGtNEGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/IMG_0040.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the dock of the Oakland Yacht Club around 2010<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As a teenager I lived on or near the Gulf of Mexico and spent most summers hanging out with friends on the waters of Mobile Bay and beaches of the coast. One hot afternoon in 1966, lounging on the end of a pier at Point Clear on the bay, two of us decided to take my friend's parent's Sunfish -- a tiny "sailboat" built for single-handing -- off the dock and learn how to sail.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBb_kUrDXZM/Xx3h6o1k3jI/AAAAAAAAEhI/Urh-z6I1cLgaQee7JT9Enk-5ZhZsWVTCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/5881b74d6454d65472c529f6ba972d32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="600" height="202" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBb_kUrDXZM/Xx3h6o1k3jI/AAAAAAAAEhI/Urh-z6I1cLgaQee7JT9Enk-5ZhZsWVTCACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5881b74d6454d65472c529f6ba972d32.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Point Clear, on Mobile Bay<br /></td></tr>
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<br />We knew nothing but we were 16, confident, tanned and competent swimmers.<br />
So we took the boat, let the wind fill the single sail, and went off into the middle of the bay with the wind hard at our backs. Maybe a mile or two offshore the water became a bit rougher, the wind harder, and the ship channel busier.<br />
Time to turn back: we pointed the boat to land, and the boat stopped. The wind was on our nose and we began to figure out that the wind and tide was slowly pushing us toward the Gulf of Mexico, not our preferred destination. Freighters were passing us, heading toward South America.<br />
We had never heard of "tacking."<br />
I would not say we panicked, but we began to express some concern to each other. We gave up on the sail, got on our knees and began paddling by hand toward the shore. Eventually we were within hailing distance of the end of the pier where my friend's younger brother was watching from a canvas chair.<br />
We yelled. He ignored us. The wind blew us further offshore. We yelled more, He laughed and ignored us more.<br />
Finally an adult heard the noise, ordered the brother to crank up a ski boat and tow us back to the dock. The brother was amused, but we were not. We received specific instructions from parents that night on the folly of our ways, and gave up sailing a Sunfish.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w6JZ2N5rdX4/Xx3jLewS7KI/AAAAAAAAEhY/6dGyxLwM1f0ZLz7jmui9HEj-EbCgJsilQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="252" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w6JZ2N5rdX4/Xx3jLewS7KI/AAAAAAAAEhY/6dGyxLwM1f0ZLz7jmui9HEj-EbCgJsilQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/th.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sunfish, competently controlled<br /></td></tr>
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<br />By the time the next sailing opportunity happened, I was a mature married man with a wife and baby, in my late 20s, and better adept at avoiding trouble. An older co-worker named Burke Edwards had purchased an older sailboat, a 32 foot Islander designed for bays and coasts near Cocoa Beach. We rode along with Burke and his wife Beth in the lagoons of the Indian River, maybe twice when he offered us an invitation. Would we like to go the Bahamas with them on vacation? The Bahamas were about 90 miles away from the Florida coast, across the Gulf Stream, in an area affectionately known as the Bermuda Triangle.<br />
Burke was older, and had some sailing and navigation experience, and we learned later could not see well. Plus, in his 60s, he wanted a younger helper along.<br />
Pat's parents lived nearby and volunteered to babysit our less than one-year-old daughter for us to accept the chance of a lifetime.<br />
I figured we would learn as we went. And we did.<br />
We motorsailed down the Intercoastal Waterway for a couple of days, getting used to the boat and the tight quarters. The night before we were to leave at dawn to cross the Gulf Stream, I tried to go to bed early on the dining table bed, but the others were so excited they stayed up, standing near ny bunk, talking loudly. Finally, around midnight I gave us and suggested we leave. And we did.<br />
Leaving the Port of Palm Beach was easy, even at night, but the moment we were on the ocean things changed. There were lights everywhere from fishing boats and freighters going up and down the coast. For three or so hours we were dodging traffic.<br />
Then when things calmed down Burke announced he was going to bed and I was in charge at the helm. His instructions were to point the boat at a certain fuzzy star off to east, don't hit anything, and call him if I needed help.<br />
Before dawn he got up and checked his primary navigation tool, a radio direction finder that could just barely notice the signal from a radio tower at Grand Bahama Island's east end.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The marina at Jack Tar Resort Bahamas<br /></td></tr>
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<br />
Amazingly, around 9 a.m. we spotted the island and the the entrance to the harbor. We felt we had conquered the vast ocean, or at least apart of it. and discovered paradise. We cleared customs, tied up at a dock, cleaned up the boat and broke out the beer. Over the next few days we found beautiful beaches, clear waters, caught lobster off the back end of the boat for lunch and lived the good life.<br />
We sailed down to Freeport, a queasy and rough trip, to get our little stove repaired and then sailed across the shallow banks toward West End, the northernmost Bahama Island known mostly for deep sea fishing in the Atlantic. We ran aground en route, which it turns out is a routine exercise while sailing there, and finally got unstruck when some friendly Bahamians dragged us off the sandbar. A Tropical Depression moved into the area with rain and wind, so we stayed tied up at the dock within easy reach of the beer bar and pool table.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walker Key as it looked before developers<br /></td></tr>
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<br />We sailed by West End, and in fairly rough seas started back to Florida. The currents are so strong that to get to Palm Beach we had to aim for Miami, and let the tide push us north. We were doing well despite heavy swells, when the dinghy broke loose and we performed a "man overboard" rescue to retrieve it, and then lost our engine just as the wind picked up while approaching the inlet. We checked in with the Coast Guard and they assured us they would watch us, and then Burke put me at the helm and stood on the bow and directed us through the rolling breakers, surfing our way neatly into port as if we knew what we were doing.<br />
Three weeks aboard a 32 foot boat with friends, we had salt in our veins. It took a while, but we came back to it.<br />
<br />
(More to come)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-12126647956888232042020-06-19T11:02:00.000-07:002020-06-19T11:02:18.381-07:00Remembering my father Louis Ernest “Lep” LaMont<br />
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<br />
<br />
Louis Ernest LaMont was born at his grandparents’ home in Montgomery, Alabama, on Feb. 17, 1892.<br />
<br />
An only child, his mother was 37 when he was born. His mother’s family had deep roots in the South and his father was a relative newcomer from the North.<br />
<br />
Montgomery was the capitol of the state, a major river shipping point for crops from the Black Belt region and at the time proud to have been “The First Capitol of the Confederacy.”<br />
<br />
The South in this era was caught between memories of the Civil War, which most of the adults in the family had lived through, and the worst of Jim Crow years that followed. The 1890s were relatively prosperous, and peaceful.<br />
<br />
Ernest was christened in the Methodist Church where his grandfather was a lay leader. He wore a long white dress made by his mother from a<br />
pattern she found in a popular magazine.<br />
<br />
Their lifestyle was “old fashioned” even a bit Victorian. Men worked in trades in town. Entertainment centered around socials and theatrical and musical performances, often at church or in the home.<br />
<br />
The men in Ernest’s extended family were printers and union supporters. Ernest’s grandfather had been a foreman at the Montgomery Advertiser since before the Civil War, and his uncles had worked there or at the Paragon Press, a local printing company. His parents, Roswell DeEstra LaMont and Mary “Mollie” Barry LaMont, had met when Ernest’s father (known as R.D.) was working as a printer with his grandfather.<br />
<br />
The home Ernest was born in was built before the Civil War. It was a log cabin that had been added to over the years until it had a shaded porch on the front and planked outside. It looked like a frame house, facing Whitman Street, rather than a cabin. A garden was planted out front, and they had a milk cow in a shed. The home was located on a hill above downtown Montgomery, what was then the edge of town. It is now called the Cottage Hill historical district.<br />
<br />
Ernest’ parents had lived briefly in Birmingham, where his father was working for the Birmingham News, but returned to the Barry home in Montgomery for the birth.<br />
<br />
His father Roswell had moved south from Michigan in the 1880s. Ernest’ mother Mollie was a native of Lowndes County southwest of Montgomery, where her grandparents and cousins (named Pruitt) still lived.<br />
<br />
Ernest always considered Montgomery his home even though the family moved away briefly. When he was eight years old they lived in Geneva, Alabama long enough for him to take part in a Sunday School pageant. But Ernest attended public schools in Montgomery and lived in the Barry family home for most of his childhood.<br />
<br />
The Barry family was reasonably prosperous. They lived in town, owned their own house and acquired some symbols of success: a large piano, custom-built furniture, a library of classic books, oil paintings and needlepoint on the wall and a Tiffany lamp in the parlor. They traveled to the Gulf Coast for fishing trips and vacations, and owned some land outside Montgomery at a place called Mountain Creek.<br />
<br />
No LaMont relatives lived nearby, having remained up North.<br />
<br />
Ernest was raised in town. Social life centered on the family, church and school. He was an only child, born relatively late in his parents’ lives, and was surrounded by Barry family members. His three aunts remained single and at home. He had numerous Barry cousins his age nearby to play with.<br />
<br />
Early photos of him show thin hair, a narrow face, a prominent nose, and<br />
stiff formal collar.<br />
<br />
<br />
His life began in the oil lamp and horse and buggy era, but evolved to include radio, electricity, telephones and automobiles.<br />
<br />
People moved around by walking or riding horse-drawn streetcars. Cotton bales were brought to the market in the heart of town by black men, many the sons of former slaves, in mule-draw wagons.<br />
<br />
As a teenager he saw the first automobiles drive through town,<br />
and watched his first airplane fly overhead.<br />
<br />
At about 18 years old Ernest and a friend built a crystal receiver radio set and were able to listen to radio signals for the first time. The event was written up as news in the local newspaper.<br />
<br />
While he was a child his parents and grandparents rebuilt the family home. The original log home sat facing Whitman. They built a new Victorian-style house on the same lot but facing 508 Clayton Street. Builders incorporated the original log building into the back of the new house. The old log house served as the kitchen of the home.<br />
<br />
<br />
Family photo albums include pictures of what his mother called “the old home place” and the new home built around 1905. (She sold that home in the 1930s. The current owner discovered the old cabin section and stripped away the interior walls that hid the logs in the kitchen to reveal the history of the home.)<br />
<br />
Ernest attended an all-male school called Boys High School. The curriculum included Latin and Greek and every student was trained in formal penmanship and studied classic literature.<br />
<br />
In a school play he acted the part of a leopard, and was given the nickname “Lep.” His friends called him that for the rest of his life.<br />
<br />
Around 1910 Ernest briefly attended college at Auburn University.<br />
<br />
Around that time he and several friends plotted to get rich by going to Central<br />
America, then known as the Banana Republics, to make their fortunes.<br />
He claimed they saved enough money for passage, but spent it all when<br />
they got to New Orleans and never got on the boat. They were forced to come<br />
home and go to work.<br />
<br />
Ernest worked at a variety of jobs in Montgomery. He worked at a local<br />
florist shop, loaded gold and silver coins at the Fourth National Bank,<br />
and became an accounting clerk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When World War One began he was a florist, and then joined the Alabama National Guard. He then worked as a civilian for the Adjutant General of the State of Alabama as disbursing officer for the state’s military department, responsible for delivering supplies and troops being moved to training posts and to ports bound for Europe. He was paid $4 a day.<br />
<br />
He then went to work for the state draft board office while waiting to go on active duty in the Army.<br />
<br />
Ernest formally enlisted in the Army on July 4, 1917, and was assigned as a PFC in the Quartermaster Corps. But he was not called up for duty until December. While waiting he ran the state’s draft board office, replacing his boss, an Army officer who had been reassigned.<br />
<br />
Late in 1917 the Army sent him to train with the Quartermaster Corps at Camp Joseph E. Johnson in Jacksonville, Florida. He was paid $30 a month.<br />
<br />
In early 1918 Ernest was on a troop train heading for the port at Newport News, Virginia, to sail on a troop ship to Europe. The railroad tracks were blocked by a derailment and his unit was pulled off the train and put to work cleaning up the mess left behind.<br />
<br />
<br />
By the time his unit was ready to go new orders caught up with him ordering him home.<br />
<br />
The Army was told by state officials — including his old boss — that he was “irreplaceable” at the draft office in Montgomery, and he was released from the Signal Corps and sent back to Montgomery and formally appointed Adjutant General of the state.<br />
<br />
He returned a few days before his birthday in 1918 and took over as executive of the draft board He was in charge of the military draft for the entire state, with the Army rank of Major.<br />
<br />
That summer the Butler Alabama Choctaw Weekly Banner weekly newspaper blasted him in an editorial, “A Call to Americanism!!”and attacked “this Frenchman Monsieur LaMont ” for sending American boys off to war.<br />
The newspaper did not know his Scottish ancestors had fought in the Revolution, he had enlisted and served in the Army and was a native of Alabama. He found the fiery editorial amusing, and kept a clipping in his papers.<br />
<br />
That summer a severe flu epidemic swept the nation, killing thousands, and threatening every city. A photograph of Montgomery’s Fourth of July celebration shows crowds of people wearing protective face masks to avoid spreading infection. He stayed healthy.<br />
<br />
Ernest remained at the Draft Board job until Spring of 1919, closing out the office after the end of the war. His mementoes of the Army were commendations from the state and the Army, a Colt 38 Special revolver which had been his sidearm in the service, and photos from the training camp in Jacksonville.<br />
<br />
When the Roaring 20s began he was a 27 year-old bachelor from an “acceptable” local family and knew everybody in what was then a small but prosperous town. He was a 32nd degree Mason and joined the American Legion. One of his classmates became Montgomery mayor. Another became a U.S. Senator. Another a judge. His best friend owned a jewelry store downtown.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He kept several photo albums from that time filled with pictures of social<br />
events, summer camping outings at Mountain Creek and fishing trips with his family to Perdido Bay and Pensacola, Florida.<br />
At the wheel at a fair with friends in the 1920s<br />
<br />
He kept a notebook of poetry, some copied from things he liked and some apparently that he wrote. He shared poems with friends, and joined book clubs and began to build a library including Dickens and the complete works of O. Henry.<br />
<br />
Ernest was a charter member of Montgomery’s Beauvoir Country Club. Though he never cared much for golf, he enjoyed the social life. He attended, as did his family, the local Methodist church on Court Street that his grandfather Barry had helped establish in the 1800s.<br />
<br />
He was arrested once during Prohibition for drinking from a flask at an Auburn Football game. He laughed about it when he told the story later.<br />
<br />
A good friend in the 1920s chided him in a letter for a lack of ambition, encouraging him to “do great things.” Ernest always worked in the years following the war, but never seemed ambitious. People who knew him in the 1920s and 1930s remembered him as a man with “perfect manners,” honest, a charming companion and good friend. He was “dapper” in a way that people understood in the 1920s and 1930s.<br />
My mother said that that during the Roaring 20s he “knew everybody” in Montgomery and Atlanta. He was acquainted with people like Zelda Sayre, whose family lived nearby. Zelda later married F. Scott Fitzgerald, a frequent Montgomery visitor during the war. There is a photo in his papers of Zelda, about age 16, along with young adults all in their 20s, at a creek-side swimming party with Ernest’s friends.<br />
<br />
Social life in that time and place included a lot of social drinking-- he preferred Four Roses blended whiskey -- and at least two of his close friends died alcoholics. Social events called for cocktails, but drunkenness was considered unfortunate or bad manners.<br />
<br />
Photos show him to be neat and precise in appearance and dress, and unmarked by age. He was 5 foot 7 inches tall, and was thin his entire life. Photographs of him from that era resemble photos of the dancer Fred Astaire.<br />
Letters to his mother indicate he enjoyed being single, traveling and working at different places throughout the South.<br />
<br />
By 1927 he lived in Charlotte, N.C., and worked for an insurance company traveling the South. He wrote his mother regularly and visited Montgomery in a brand new 1927 Chevrolet Coupe which he bought for $540.<br />
<br />
He left Charlotte when his father had a heart attack in Miami. When his father died that Spring, Ernest corresponded the details of the burial and the small estate to his mother and then visited her by train before returning to Charlotte. He liked the climate and surroundings in the Miami area. He never forgot that lure of South Florida.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Around 1930 he moved to Atlanta, Georgia, to live and work. Three of his best friends from a Montgomery family lived there -- Richard, Ed and Sanders Hickey. Ernest had been particularly close to Sanders, who died young, and he eventually named his son for him. He became good friends with Richard during the early 1930s, the last years of prohibition. (Richard later became my godfather.)<br />
<br />
Ernest shared an apartment during Prohibition with Richard, who was an attorney, in the Cox-Carlton Hotel , near the corner of Ponce DeLeon and Peachtree streets. Friends stored kegs of illegal whiskey in their big cedar closet in their apartment, a service they were willing to render for a small “evaporation tax.”<br />
<br />
Ernest traveled the South for insurance companies, auditing claims and payments from firms, including the coal industry. A pattern of work was established that was followed for 25 years: traveling constantly by automobile throughout the South; staying in business-oriented hotels, and always keeping his roots in Montgomery. (When I was a child I thought my father knew every hotel manager and desk clerk in five states.)<br />
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<br />
Ernest was 40 and living a happy bachelor life in booming Atlanta when he met Dorothy Strickland, a 20-year-old nurse from North Georgia. They met through a mutual friend who had a detective agency and whose girl friend ran<br />
the women’s boarding house where Dorothy and her sister Elizabeth lived, not<br />
far off Peachtree Street.<br />
<br />
Dorothy described Ernest, whom she always called “Lep,” as “charming and good looking” an said he had almost courtly good manners.<br />
<br />
They went back to the Barry home on Clayton in Montgomery for the wedding on April 8, 1933, the height of the Great Depression. Times were difficult all over the country but they survived reasonably well. Dorothy always had work at local hospitals.<br />
Ernest changed jobs several times in the 1930s, but was able to work despite the Depression. He continued to travel.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
They moved several times. They rented an apartment on Peachtree Street,<br />
and then moved to a rented house in Decatur in the late 1930s.<br />
<br />
Money was an issue for Dorothy, but the lack of it never seemed to bother Ernest. He once wrote a letter to his mother that he would come to visit here when he could raise enough money for a $5 train ticket.<br />
<br />
During the late 30s they dealt with big changes in their new lives together.<br />
In February 1937 their first child, Mary Elizabeth LaMont, was born in Atlanta.<br />
<br />
Then Dorothy’s much-admired older brother was killed while training pilots at the Atlanta Air Field south of town. Her father had an severe heart attack after hearing the news, and ended up living with them during his recovery. He died within a year.<br />
<br />
Shortly after that Ernest’s mother Mollie, in her 80s, sold her Montgomery home and moved in briefly with Ernest and Dorothy in Atlanta. She died in their home.<br />
<br />
That year Ernest bought a Plymouth Coupe for business and family. That car stayed in the family through the war years and beyond and he called it “Old Betsy.”<br />
<br />
In November 1940 I was born while the family was living in a small house just off the golf course near East Lake Country Club on the outskirts of Atlanta.<br />
<br />
As World War Two began to reshape the country Ernest and Dorothy moved the family to Mobile, Alabama in 1942. He continued to work and travel for Bituminous Casualty Company, but in a different territory. Dorothy took a job working as a nurse in the county welfare clinic.<br />
<br />
The family lived in an area known as Spring Hill in a development built to handle the crowds of war workers that flooded the town. The rented house was small, wood-framed, in a hilly area covered by pine trees. Most neighbors were young couples who had come to town to work for war industries. Single men lived in dormitories near war plants, or rented rooms in crowded homes downtown. Mobile at that time was one of the fastest growing towns in the country.<br />
<br />
The housing area the family lived in provided outdoor movies on summer<br />
nights, sitting on blankets under the pine trees swatting mosquitoes.<br />
<br />
Entertainment included going down to the shipyards for the launching of<br />
Liberty Ships. Mardi Gras, a weeks-long festival more family oriented<br />
than in neighboring New Orleans, was a major annual entertainment.<br />
<br />
In 1944 the family moved closer into town, to a downstairs duplex carved from a large home on the main street of town. They lived at 1214 Government street, the east-west thoroughfare which also served as U.S. Highway 90. The big pale yellow house had a large front porch, giant oak trees, azaleas in the front yard and pecan trees and collapsed servant quarters in the back. Rent was $40 a month.<br />
<br />
Ernest traveled constantly, and was seldom at home. Money seemed to be an constant issue between husband and wife.<br />
<br />
One day in 1948 my father came by my elementary school to tell me that he and mother were getting divorce and he would not be living with us anymore. He was full of reassurances, but was clearly unhappy. The marriage was over, and a new lonesome chapter in my father’s life began.<br />
<br />
Neither Ernest or Dorothy ever explained exactly what happened, if they understood it. The legal reasons for the divorce were “irreconcilable differences.” She acknowledged later that she had expectations he could not meet. He never talked about it.<br />
<br />
He also never changed his lifestyle much. He still was traveling, living in hotels and eating in restaurants. He was caring, kind and loving, but we did not expect him to show up for scout outings, formal dances at school, swimming lessons or baseball games. We got encouraging letters and brief visits instead.<br />
<br />
<br />
In 1948 Ernest moved his few personal belongings, including an Army trunk<br />
filled with family papers and photo albums, to the basement of his cousin John Barry’s house on Cherry Street in Montgomery 200 miles away. That remained his base for travel and work for the next few years.<br />
<br />
He visited Mobile frequently and wrote letters constantly, making sure my sister and I knew of his attention and affection. He and Dorothy were cordial but distant. Both insisted that my sister and I respect and obey the other parent. He never spoke an ill word about my mother.<br />
<br />
The next few years were difficult for him, because of declining health and finances, but he always worked hard to remain in close touch with my sister and me.<br />
<br />
He wrote at least one letter every week to both of us children for almost a decade. He would often tell funny stories or relate small events from his life. He reported on a trip to the race track, where he lost on a two dollar bet, and he wrote us about fishing in the Florida Keys. He made up bedtime stories for us, in which we played starring roles, all typed meticulously onto hotel stationary on his Royal portable he used for business. He planned trips we could make together to interesting places. He monitored our progress in school. Sometimes he wrote lonely letters asking us to write more often, wanting to know what were we doing and why we didn’t let him know what was going on. Once in a while his frustration would show and he would threaten, gently, to withhold our $1 allowance until he heard from us.<br />
(We were both poor letter writers.)<br />
<br />
During the first few years after the divorce Ernest would travel often to Mobile<br />
and stay at the Battle House Hotel, and we children would visit or stay with him there. He insisted on being filled in on details of my sister’s increasingly active social life, and approved of most of her boyfriends and all of her school activities. Once when he did not approve of a boyfriend he wrote her a long thoughtful letter acknowledging her right to choose her friends but firmly stating his reasons for concern.<br />
<br />
He taught Mary how to drive, and showed me how to to shoot his Army<br />
pistol. He bought me a shotgun for hunting and taught me how to use it<br />
safely. He rented a small boat so we could go fishing.<br />
<br />
In the summers my sister and I took turns spending several weeks with<br />
him while he worked, and we got to see a lot of the South from his un-air-<br />
conditioned car. We would travel with him, piling up in the back seat of the car with comic books and a candy bar. We waited in the car outside the offices of coal mines near Birmingham, and plants in Tennessee and Georgia, while he did audits inside.<br />
<br />
We would ride down the highways with the windows wide open, summer heat blasting through, loudly singing songs he had known from his youth. When we would approach a town he would suggest we quiet down a bit so we would not shock the local residents.<br />
<br />
My father made travel fun. We got to see Rock City, Ruby Falls, Civil War battlefields, Silver Springs, Seminole villages and large public swimming pools all over the South. He showed us a Confederate flag his aunts had sewn for<br />
the burial casket for Jefferson Davis in a museum. If there was a beach nearby, we would detour for a quick visit.<br />
<br />
He introduced us to his friends along the way, people he had known from decades of travel, or family friends from Montgomery and Atlanta.<br />
<br />
He was lonely outside the summers, and his health grew steadily worse. Even in the South the wet cold winters were brutal on his arthritis. Doctors kept trying different treatments and medicines that did not ease the increasing pain. One doctor told my father the source of his pain was his teeth, and so he had all of his teeth pulled. He got no relief. He tried numerous strong medications, some of which made him ill.<br />
<br />
In 1952 he announced to us in a letter that his “prayers had been answered”<br />
and he had been able to find a job in Miami, Florida, where it was warm, he<br />
had friends and little travel would be required.<br />
<br />
His health had not been good for a decade. He smoked Camel cigarettes constantly, and the years of constant travel were wearing on him. He was in pain much of the time. He had rheumatoid arthritis, was underweight and he was almost completely bald.<br />
<br />
But he wrote hopeful cheerful letters about finding an apartment in Coral Gables that was near his work, close to fun things to do when we visited and not too expensive. The Florida job provided a regular salary, with a company car and benefits. The winters were mild, he had good friends who lived nearby, and he had a place to call home after living out of hotels for years.<br />
<br />
<br />
During the years he lived in South Florida my sister and I spent summers with him and would see him on some holidays during the school year. He could not see us often because of the distance and expense. But he kept up the steady stream of letters reporting on his life and asking about ours. Long distance telephone phone calls were used only in emergencies in the early 1950s, and travel by airplane was a luxury affordable to few.<br />
<br />
During Christmas breaks my father would drive 800 miles to see us, or we would take an overnight train trip to Miami via Jacksonville for a quick visit.<br />
<br />
Letters were our primary connection, and my father was faithful and consistent. Every week brought a personal letter, often detailed. Every accomplishment or concern brought a quick response, by mail. My sister and I were not good letter writers despite encouragement from our mother, but our father never stopped writing to us no matter where he was. I have more than 200 letters from those years.<br />
<br />
Summers together in Florida were fun for us and for him. The beaches were not far away. We explored the Everglades and the Florida Keys, places my father had been with his father in the 1920s, and much of the rest of Florida. He knew how to catch fish.<br />
<br />
He took us to the Methodist Church near the University of Miami on<br />
Sundays. He read a Bible chapter aloud to us every night at bedtime, and marked each chapter off with a Number Two yellow pencil. He had read through the entire book several times, and the marks were adding up.<br />
<br />
He took us to every big tourist attraction in the state: Silver Springs, Monkey Jungle, Gatorland and his favorite, Ross Allen’s Reptile Institute where we watched “explorers” milk rattlesnakes for venom. Every Fourth of July we vacationed at inexpensive motels on the north end of Miami Beach, where the rooms were affordable, and we spent the long weekend in beach-front bliss.<br />
<br />
My sister and I were able to help my father with household tasks during the summers, but his health continued to fail.<br />
<br />
In the Spring of 1955, while we were back in school in Mobile, my father wrote asking for help. His health was getting worse, and he could barely work part-time. His arthritis was crippling him to the point it was very painful to dress or shave or bathe.<br />
<br />
My sister, Mary, a senior in high school, decided that she should attend college at the University of Miami and help our father manage.<br />
<br />
<br />
I spent that summer in Florida with my father, and then my sister arrived and enrolled as a college freshman at the beginning of Fall semester.<br />
By the time Mary moved to Florida to help, our father’s health was so poor he was no longer able to work much. He had little or no savings. She became his caregiver and a full time student.<br />
<br />
<br />
I joined them in Florida in January of 1956, transferring to Coral Gables<br />
High School for the second semester that year. The three of us got along<br />
well.<br />
<br />
Late that Spring my father decided he wanted to move back to Montgomery.<br />
He was 64 years old, unemployed, emaciated, crippled to the point he could no longer type or put a shirt on by himself. He needed medical care and felt he could get it easier at the Veterans’ Administration Hospital in Montgomery.<br />
<br />
He was stooped, frail, and tired. He looked 20 years older than he was.<br />
He told us frankly that he wanted to go back to Montgomery “to die at home.”<br />
<br />
His ex-wife who had divorced him almost a decade earlier and had since remarried, then offered to do whatever was necessary to help.<br />
<br />
My sister Mary gave up college and started looking for work in Montgomery.<br />
<br />
Our father -- we always called him Daddy -- accepted what he could not change and looked forward to getting back to his home town.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mother drove to Coral Gables and picked us all up in May, and drove us the 900 miles to Montgomery. My father and sister moved into an apartment a few blocks from where he had been born. She went to work.<br />
<br />
My father’s health never improved. Every two or three months his doctor would put him into the Veteran’s hospital. The staff would build up his strength and send him home.<br />
<br />
By December 1956 he had been in the hospital multiple times, but was unable to regain his health. It was painful to walk. He was sick most of the time,<br />
and his weight dropped to 100 pounds, sometimes less. He would gain a<br />
few pounds in the hospital, then lose it immediately when he came home.<br />
<br />
He was no longer able to drive. Lost his appetite. He stayed inside the apartment most of the time, and was unable physically to reconnect with the friends from his youth.<br />
<br />
My sister had a job, kept house, and did what she could to make him<br />
comfortable.<br />
<br />
He went into the hospital for the last time on Christmas Eve 1956.<br />
<br />
By then his ex-wife had moved close to Montgomery to help the family, and I was newly enrolled in a military school not far away. We spent a<br />
cold wet holiday in an old house rented at Mount Miegs, not far from the VA<br />
hospital.<br />
<br />
January was spent waiting. I visited every weekend. He did not<br />
get better.<br />
<br />
In late January 1957 he wrote a list of items he needed on the back of an<br />
envelope, and reminded himself of questions to ask my sister: “When I<br />
am going to get out of here?” was at the top of the list.<br />
<br />
He died during the early morning hours February 25, one week after his<br />
65th birthday.<br />
<br />
The cause of death on the death certificate was listed as “general<br />
debility.” He had developed tuberculosis and his weight was about<br />
80 pounds.<br />
<br />
He didn’t leave a lot of material possessions. Most of the things he owned were contained in one small suitcase-- he called it his “ditty bag.” He also left behind a few items of furniture that remained from the Barry home, and a life insurance policy that eventually helped pay my way through college.<br />
<br />
He was buried at Montgomery’s old Oakwood Cemetery in the Barry-LaMont family plot. A Methodist minister was assisted by a military honor guard and representatives of the local Masonic Lodge. Pall bearers were Barry relatives and old school friends, included his boyhood friend the mayor. The small crowd was mostly made up of Barry cousins, and a few old friends from the early days in Montgomery.<br />
<br />
Within a hundred yards of his grave is a hillside covered with graves of<br />
unknown federal soldiers from the Civil War, some who died in a prison his grandfather had helped guard. Across the railroad tracks on the<br />
next hill is the popular grave of country music star Hank Williams.<br />
In later years my father’s daughter and ex-wife were also buried in the family plot.<br />
<br />
Louis Ernest LaMont’s 65-year life included a comfortable childhood in a secure family; a strong sense of home; an exciting era of change; a good education; a love for books and poetry and music; a strong Christian faith; a sense of optimism; a wide circle of friends; traveling and developing business skills and contacts throughout his native region; marriage and children, and living in a warm and comfortable place he loved.<br />
<br />
There were challenging times as well: World War One and<br />
the Great Depression; the uncertainties of World War Two and the postwar<br />
recession; constant travel; the challenge of having a young family as<br />
an older man; ill health for the last 30 years of his life; divorce;<br />
maintaining his role as a father from great distance and economic<br />
uncertainties.<br />
<br />
He was an honest man.<br />
His work was meticulous, even when he was more interested in doing other things.<br />
He served his country well.<br />
His entire family -- grandparents, parents, numerous cousins and his children -- loved and respected him and enjoyed his company.<br />
He did what he felt was his duty, without complaint.<br />
He was never hesitant to express affection and gratitude and respect to the people around him.<br />
He had very good manners.<br />
And he spent his last days in home town he loved.<br />
<br />slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-16900805495839347802020-05-16T13:23:00.000-07:002020-05-16T13:23:02.672-07:00Journalism -- almost heaven<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S8lr9VydsZI/XsAbI_g5wJI/AAAAAAAAEZk/sJIlKc9u9T8gftE2kKoQl_8Da6KUY6ZOACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Atlanta%2Bclippings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S8lr9VydsZI/XsAbI_g5wJI/AAAAAAAAEZk/sJIlKc9u9T8gftE2kKoQl_8Da6KUY6ZOACK4BGAYYCw/s400/Atlanta%2Bclippings.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clippings from my first paid newspaper job in Atlanta<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />By Sanders LaMont<br />
May 2020<br />
<br />
My journey through pandemic isolation included unloading lots of boxes that stored memories of my life. Turned out to be a fun trip.<br />
<br />
The first batch of boxes included mostly photographs; more than 60 years of pictures of old friends, long-dead relatives and once-new babies. That took several weeks.<br />
<br />
The best boxes were a mix of personal letters, photos, and newspaper clippings that remind me I am one of the luckiest people on earth.<br />
<br />
In addition to the blessings of wife and children, I was able to work at a profession -- a job if your prefer -- that I loved, for almost 50 years: a newspaper journalist.<br />
<br />
The seeds were planted in high school, specifically on the staff of the "Skirmisher," the newspaper at Marion Military Institute in Alabama. In my junior year I joined the staff as a writer in the 1950s. It was fun and challenging to get information, get it right, and get in down on paper.<br />
<br />
The next lucky step was when I transferred after junior college to the University of Alabama and decided to try journalism as a major. As a transfer student, I did not know many classmates so I wandered into the campus newspaper office of the Crimson and White looking for something to do. I was instantly recruited to write and report stories, none of them earthshaking but all of them providing me a license to go anywhere, be nosy and ask questions. Every day was a learning experience.<br />
<br />
Within months I was a managing editor mostly because I had little social life outside the newspaper, worked hard and the paper was fun. I was even paid -- an unexpected bonus -- $28 a month, enough for beer and steak dinner on Friday nights. By the time I ended my junior year I had found my place, the kind of people I liked to hang out with and my career.<br />
<br />
And then things got better. Based on the recommendation of my classmate Patricia Potter, later a successful romance novelist, I got a letter from City Editor Harold Davis of the Atlanta Journal, then the largest newspaper in the South, accepting my application for a summer internship as a reporter in 1961.<br />
A real job.<br />
A real daily newspaper.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interns at the Atlanta Journal newsroom 1961. The only name I can remember -- a very Southern name -- was Stark Sutton, standing with his back to the camera. He later worked for Coca Cola.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was one of four students brought to Atlanta from all over the country, paid $50 a week ($10 more than minimum wage), and promptly assigned to learn the basics by writing obituaries.<br />
<br />
We interns became friends, connected by poverty and ambition. I quickly moved out of the local YMCA's barren room because the $60 a month rent was way too expensive. I moved to the Sigma Chi fraternity house (where I did not belong) for $50 for the entire summer. My roommate from Minneapolis and I ate at the school cafeteria, cheap but filling, and took the bus downtown to work. We drank beer together, and even attended a weeklong Shakespearian Festival on the Emory campus, our idea of fancy culture. We ran around in a group that included three guys and one girl.<br />
(It turned out later that I was the only one that stuck with newspapers as a career.)<br />
<br />
As you would expect, interns on a newspaper are the lowest form of life in the newsroom. Even the "copy boys" were held in higher esteem. The first week we arrived all five of us had to read and sign a notice that "whistling in the newsroom" was known to bring bad luck and strictly forbidden.<br />
When things were quiet we were required to assemble what we called "books," consisting of three elongated sheets of typing paper (made of cut up newsprint to save money) with two carbons inside, so that every reporter had one original for the editor, one copy for the writer, and one for the Associated Press office upstairs just in case it was interesting. These books were stacked on every reporter's desk.<br />
Editing was done with heavy pencils, and scissors and a glue pot. Filling the glue pots was another chore for anyone who did not look busy.<br />
<br />
The newspaper editors in Atlanta believed that everyone had an interesting story, and it was up to us to find out what it was.<br />
<br />
The city editors were the kings of our domain. The copy editors sat around a circular desk, scowling once in a while in our direction, and fixed our rookie mistakes. They played bridge on their lunch break.<br />
<br />
The senior editors in the newsroom were so far above us we rarely even saw them. The managing editor Pat Waters welcomed us the week we arrived. The executive editor Jack Spalding worked on another floor in the building and we met him once in passing.<br />
<br />
We initially were assigned to write obituaries.<br />
We were required to verify every bit of information provided by funeral homes by personally interviewing a family member, and then find something that told the story of the life of the deceased. It was an education to pick up the phone within hours of a death and speak to the widow or family member of the person who had just died. One lesson I learned: almost everyone, even when grieving, wants to tell a story. Another lesson: just because I had learned the person died did not mean the people on the phone knew that.<br />
Obits were usually short but if you got a really good story you had a chance to achieve every intern's ultimate goal: a page one story. It never happened that summer.<br />
<br />
Once a week I was assigned to cover the cops beat, which meant multiple daily trips to Atlanta's police headquarters where I plowed through reams of reports looking for stories. As I began to know the cops and secretaries, they would tip me off to better stories.<br />
<br />
Part of that beat was the fire department. One night I found myself standing on Peachtree Street in the heart of downtown watching a multi-story building burn. A fireman suggested I step back, and as soon as we did the front of the building collapsed onto the street near where we had been standing.<br />
<br />
Another time a detective asked me if I wanted to meet a murderer He allowed me to watch as he interviewed a tearful and pathetic woman who had stabbed her lover. She admitted it, and said she really did not regret it because he beat her.<br />
<br />
Still another time I watched in the emergency room at Grady Hospital while a detective tried to revive a gunshot victim long enough to identify the person who shot him. The man died on the gurney while I stood there watching.<br />
<br />
And then there were the bank robberies.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">A page one story, every intern's dream. And yes, covering bank robberies was fun.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Being a street reporter in a big city I saw more life and death in a few months than in my entire life growing up. I learned quickly that poverty and ignorance and crime were part of life, and that power corrupts.<br />
<br />
After more experience the city editor would send us out on special assignments. <br />
<br />
Depending how trusted you were the assignments included stories like "Brother Saves two-year-old Sister from Drowning," which was my first page one byline story. After congratulating me the next morning, my editor explained with a smile that the story probably landed on page one because the photographer had captured a very cute picture of the two-year-old sister with her cat.<br />
We were not allowed to take ourselves too seriously.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">Looking across a reporter's desk in the Journal newsroom to the City Desk in the summer of 1961. Harold Williams was the City Editor and Reese Cleghorn was his assistant. The pneumatic tubes carried stories down to the composing room, and the wire service machines lined the back wall.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We had no permanent desk assignment, using any open desk with a decent manual typewriter and a phone, moving away when a veteran showed up.<br />
<br />
I finally got one out-of-town assignment, covering a historical re-enactment of a wagon train from the North Georgia gold fields to Atlanta, riding wagons during the day, and staying at company expense in cheap motels at night. Big stuff.<br />
<br />
But it was the daily news that we thrived upon. Cops. Fires. Local government meetings. Conventions. And even man-on-the-street interviews which were a staple.<br />
<br />
We took pride in being the paper people read every day.<br />
<br />
The Journal -- "Covers Dixie Like the Dew" -- was the largest paper in the state, far larger than the Constitution which seemed to be modeled after the more conservative-looking New York Times. The Journal published in the afternoons and had multiple editions with deadlines starting as early as 9 a.m. and running until about 1 p.m. for the big street sale editions.<br />
<br />
So we had to learn to show up early, move very fast, work the phones or the offices of newsmakers, and file a first edition story by 9 a.m. If it was a big or developing story we would have to collect more information and rewrite it for later editions. The writing style mirrored that of the Associated Press: most important stuff on top, short punchy sentences, and supporting information followed. If it needed to be trimmed they did not have time to rework a story . The editors simply cut off the bottom few paragraphs. It was called "the inverted pyramid" style of writing, common in journalism and hated by really good writers.<br />
<br />
Ernest Hemingway was our hero. Short sentences. Action verbs. A punchy style. He apparently said he quit newspapers before it ruined him.<br />
<br />
Our work days started at 6 a.m. and often ended by 3 p.m. Our social life was drinking beer after work with colleagues at a place called "Journal Alley" across the street. Once in a while the interns would move on to a tavern in Buckhead that had a piano, cheap beer and a colorful hostess. One beer-influenced night we tried to drive to the Georgia coast for a seafood dinner, discovered it was several hundred miles away, and showed up late for work tired, hungover and embarrassed the next morning. The editors were amused.<br />
<br />
Toward the end of the summer Atlanta was facing the biggest story since the movie premier of Gone With The Wind, taken by a novel written by Margaret Mitchell, who had once been an Atlanta Journal reporter.<br />
<br />
The summer was marked by racial tension and unrest, and the Atlanta Public School System was going to integrate for the first time in history. The South was generally in turmoil.<br />
<br />
No one could predict what would happen, so the newspaper staff prepared as if for war. <br />
<br />
The city fathers -- including the major business owners and elected city politicians -- had spent a decade selling the city as the "New South," friendly to business and all newcomers and they did not intend to let that get away.<br />
The police were trained well, and the city leadership made it clear they would not tolerate violence from any source.<br />
<br />
But we did not know what might happen and the Klan was still active in the state, so the game plan for the newspaper read like a military planning document with troops everywhere.<br />
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<br />
Interns showed up at the bottom of the assignment list: "other work." I was assigned to work with the state desk editor, helping round up news from the rest of Georgia. It was a minor feather in my cap.<br />
<br />
The stars of the newspaper were spread all over town, people whose bylines recorded history: Margaret Shannon, Walter Rugaber, Fred Powledge, Raleigh Bryans and John Pennington. <br />
(Our daily competition at the Atlanta Constitution, in the same building but fiercely battled every day for big stories, was led by Ralph McGill and Gene Patterson, both Pulitzer Prize winners. They dropped by for a chat one day, and it was a thrill.)<br />
<br />
The biggest story of the year in Atlanta turned into a win for the community: there was no violence and the city that bragged it was the leader of the South quietly stepped into the future.<br />
<br />
The biggest newsroom argument that day was between the top reporters and the editors: should the story of a peaceful integration of schools justify a really big top-of-the-page headline, or not? The editors won, and the transition was reported almost as if it were commonplace, with routine headlines and no big splash.<br />
<br />
Within a week I was back on the college campus, working on the campus newspaper there, and looking forward to spending the rest of my life on a newspaper.<br />
Next: Growing in Atlanta, and moving onward.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-59857289514248576982020-04-03T10:14:00.001-07:002020-04-03T10:14:17.632-07:00Update during Coronavirus lockdown<div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One month ago we stayed at a B&B near Santa Cruz- our last big outing<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Happy to report the LaMonts are well. Aging in place during the pandemic.<br />
<br />
The weather is a California Spring delight. The tulips have already peaked, and the redbud is just beginning. My major chore of the day was to refill the bird feeders and hummingbird feeders, and then sit and watch the little critters fly back and start eating.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
We have been in semi-lockdown mode for almost two weeks, and do not expect it to end for another few weeks. Our county has been lucky so far, only three know cases and no fatalities, but we know how it can explode if folks get careless.<br />
Everyone is nervous, or should be.</div>
<div>
<br />
Pretty much everything we normally do is shut down. No music. No poker. No travels. Even routine trips to the grocery store are off for a while as our daughter insist on shopping for us. She is the queen of disinfectants, and gets very upset if we do much more than take a walk. Our days have a routine which is pleasant: we get up slowly, eat late, take a walk or do Tai Chi, and then find a chore or a task before lunch. Lots of time spent on the phone or computers. The afternoons are similar, but usually include a nap. We signed up for Netflix so at night we watch TV shows we have never seen before or read. So far that includes Crown, The Derry Girls, and lots of NCIS.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chores recently included making the birds happy, cleaning out a closet, unpacking boxes of 50 year old photographs, moving furniture around (that is Pat's favorite thing) and short walks to the post office and paying bills. Probably sounds familiar.<br />
I find I am spending about 20 or more hours each week working remotely with the non-profit at the state park, trying to keep things intact and staying in close touch with the state folks about what we need to do to support them.<br />
Pat is closely engaged in looking out for other people by phone and computer. She is part of our parish care ministry which normally helps with rides and food and comfort. These days it is making sure no one is isolated and their needs are being met.</div>
<div>
Our church is providing services via Zoom, and we stay in close touch with neighbors and friends by phone or yelling from the front yard. It is a major advantage to have good weather and a front porch to sit on.</div>
<div>
<br />
We get along well so obviously, this is not a hardship on us.<br />
<br />
Our son Zack is in Spokane, and was laid off his job, but he manages.<br />
Daughter Ruth closed her toy store, and the town is shut down, but she keeps busy at home. Her son came home from college to finish his sophomore year on his computer. Her husband telecommutes, and has been very busy because his job is to help corporations set up ways for people to work from home en masse, as in call centers in India.</div>
<div>
Granddaughter Delaney lives with her fiance in the Bay Area. She works from home at her job doing genetics research for Lawrence Livermore and her fiance is working at an emergency room helping screen patients.<br />
We worry about them, though we know they are very careful.<br />
They have a rigorous drill about disinfecting and both are okay. They may be headed for the Boston area next Fall for graduate school. </div>
<div>
Zack's daughter Katie is living near him in Washington state with our great-granddaughter Jamie and all are staying healthy. </div>
<div>
<br />
The largest impact so far on our family is that Delaney's wedding, which was to be next week, has been postponed, but everyone is taking it well.<br />
<br />
The weather is good. The family is good. And our friends all are good so far. </div>
<div>
(The only bad/sad news is that our long time friends Ed and Hellen Willhide's son died this week, not related to the virus, and they are heart broken as we all would be. Keep them in your prayers.)<br />
<br />
Life and death are with us all now and at all times.<br />
Our lives continue in a quiet path.</div>
<div>
Can't ask for much more good news for us personally.</div>
<div>
Love to you and yours</div>
<div>
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slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-73069631306431261152018-08-15T15:52:00.000-07:002018-08-15T15:52:23.345-07:00Road Trip 3 -- Friends in Beautiful PlacesMurphys, Ca. -- From Coos Bay north along the Oregon coast is an endless encounter with beautiful beaches, ocean, cliffs, trees and a great place to visit old friends.<br />
The next few days of our journey in our white VW van "Snowflake" took us to a reunion with a former Bee colleague after almost 20 years, and a graduate school classmate we first met in Michigan 40 years ago.<br />
Getting there was half the fun.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just another beautiful stretch of coast</td></tr>
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The drive along the coast continued to stun and entertain us. Oregon is truly a wonderful place, exactly as I pictured it when I wrote a sixth-grade paper on "Oregon the Green State."<br />
Near Winchester Bay we diverted briefly to see the Umpqua Lighthouse, tucked inside a state park and next door to the Coast Guard Station. Every one of these picturesque lighthouses has dramatic stories to tell of storms on the ocean, boats in danger and people lost or saved by the efforts of the keepers. <br />
Being a lighthouse keeper was much like the military. Uniforms were required, and inspectors could show up at any time to make sure the cap was on the head properly and the requirements for precision were met.<br />
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But we just looked,and drove on. Past Florence, Yachata and Seal Rock. Tourists and retirees and people who avoid big cities live in these places today. Once in a while we would spot a lumber mill on a river, but the dominance of logging has given way to a new economy based on multiple endeavors, particularly tourism, and the company towns are disappearing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave and Cheri Hill at home</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "welcome mat" was out<br /></td></tr>
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Our destination was the small town of Gleneden Beach, near Lincoln City, where a former newspaper colleague Dave Hill has retired with his wife Cheri and his carefully kept Porsche. Dave held various editor slots at The Modesto Bee, eventually became the editor of the Merced Sun-Star before retiring a couple of years ago.<br />
Always lovers of the northern coasts, they found their dream retirement home on a ridge overlooking the ocean in a resort development called Salishan.<br />
The Hills had just finished hosting a large family reunion, and we got to meet family members recently retired from the military, ready to head off on a one year adventure touring America in a motor home with their children. The first stop would be Alaska, a dream we share.<br />
Their niece is skilled at doing facials and skin treatments so she provided one for all the women and girls, which provided a good evening of entertainment. The men declined.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A special treat: a facial<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<br />The Hill's new home is pretty awesome. Perched on a hilltop near the ocean, surrounded by big trees, and part of the Salishan Resort complex that includes a golf course and clubhouse with a restaurant and bar and anything else you might want.<br />
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Dave took me downstairs in their home where they have a big room for entertainment, pulled out his guitar and started serenading me. It turns out he has taken guitar lessons in retirement, loves folk music, and was happy to share his new skills.<br />
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Showing us the area the second day they took us straight to a nearby town where the sidewalk edges the bay, which was active with whales. It was a first for us, standing within 50 yards of these wonderful animals, rolling and blowing while they found food among the kelp.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's whales out there - somewhere<br /></td></tr>
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I could not capture the whales on camera, but I got one of Dave, Pat and Cheri looking for more whales. (I violated a rule not to take butt shots, but it was all I could see.)<br />
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After two great days and nights with the Hills we loaded up once more, and drove north heading for more friends. The destination was Seattle and I was worried about how lousy the traffic there would be.<br />
Then we ran into Portland. We had managed to drive around the south side of town and avoid some traffic, but when we got on the freeway just into Washington state everything came to a stop. It turned out that the highway department was working on a bridge on the freeway, routing bumper-to-bumper traffic off the road onto a long slow detour. After almost two hours edging along, and just before reaching the detour, they reopened the road and we drove fairly easily through downtown Seattle during rush hour.<br />
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Our destination was the home of Warren and Marsha King, both former writers at the Seattle Times newspaper, now retired. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LaMonts and Kings in Seattle<br /></td></tr>
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<br />We first met when Warren and I were National Endowment for the Humanities Fellows at Michigan in 1977. It was a program actually initiated by the university and federal government to provide mid-career journalists with a chance to go back to school for a year. We were lucky enough to win the competition along with 12 other American fellows and two international fellows. (The program continues today with private foundation financing.)<br />
Warren was for many years the senior medical writer for the newspaper, one of the first to cover the AIDS epidemic. Marsha developed one of the first assignments at any metro paper specializing in the interests and needs and lives of older Americans. Both did ground-breaking work that helped people, enhanced the reputation of their newspaper and were "award winning" as the papers like to say.<br />
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We became good friends in Michigan, sharing a lot of classes and seminars and spare time together. At the time Pat and I had our seven-year-old daughter Ruth and one-year-old adopted baby Zack, and they were investigating adoption. Like good reporters, they made an appointment, interviewed us throughly, took notes and then went home an adopted their beautiful oldest daughter. <br />
Since those years we have visited each other, watched the children grow and the grandchildren arrive, sailed in the San Juan Islands and San Francisco Bay, and shared lots of good meals and stories. Warren tells tales from his brief Navy career, and Marsha is a compassionate person and story teller.<br />
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We shared a meal with their younger daughter ( recently returned from social work in Sudan) and her beautiful baby, went off to a motel to get a good nights sleep, and took off together for sightseeing the next morning.<br />
We went to the locks that connect Puget Sound to Lake Washington, watched the parade of boats for a while, and then visited the salmon ladders nearby. From there you can see the salmon as they work their way through the man-made ladders to get to spawning ground upstream. It was sort of a chance to invade salmon privacy, up close and real.<br />
We discussed returning the Pikes Place Market where we had been together in years past, but decided watching fish fly was not enough incentive to test the traffic.<br />
A day of visiting and checking out their home area ended with dinner on the waterfront where we were joined by the younger daughter and her child. A perfect ending, sunset and all, to a happy visit.<br />
As we were getting ready to leave they delivered a couple of bottles of wine as a parting gift. Wine and good friends get better with age.<br />
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Warren likes to point out that I am older than he is -- by three days. I cannot deny it. He's taller too.<br />
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Next on our journey: Heading east through Washington and Idaho into Montana.slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-41080865926842914262018-08-14T15:51:00.000-07:002018-08-14T20:27:09.200-07:00Road Trip -- Coasting Oregon toward SeattleMurphys, Ca -- We ended our week of camping on the North Coast of California on a Saturday and headed north following Route 101 along the ocean.<br />
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The trip took us past California's Prairie Creek State Park where we first met Banana Slugs 30 years earlier, and we spotted a few herds of elk grazing in fields along the roadside.<br />
As we left California we could see off to the South dark smoke moving out over the ocean, a sign of the fires that were just beginning to ravage the west coast. It was the last time we would see that for the next two weeks.<br />
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Saturday is not the best day to look for a motel room on one of the busiest vacation weeks of the year, but we landed in a soft bed in a clean room in Gold Beach, Oregon, just a block or so away from the Rogue River and about 40 miles above the state line.<br />
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Gold Beach is not close to any major population area, but it is popular for fishing and camping, jet boat trips up the river and great scenic views.<br />
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We like it as a good spot to clean up, take care of some minor restocking of food supplies for the camper van, and good places to eat. On our last trip through town we ate dinner at an all-you-can-eat fundraiser for the local high school, but we missed that this year.<br />
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We stayed in a 1970's-styled motel, refurbished, clean and available, just off the main drag. The place we stayed before, right on the river, was booked solid. The new/old motel had the added charm of a fenced-in backyard just outside our window filled with chickens. The people were courteous. The room was ample and not too expensive. Just right.<br />
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We are particularly fond of a breakfast cafe and bookstore we found on an earlier trip on this route. You can get fresh brewed coffee, bagels or burritos and a big variety of books and other readables all in one place. The customers included us, a few other tourists, fishermen and a Sunday school class of teenagers getting ready for church.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Books and coffee in Gold Beach</td></tr>
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We headed north, primarily because there was no room in the inn for a second night in town, so we took our time along the spectacular Oregon coast. It's hard to describe how each turn in the road brings another spectacular cliff over the ocean, or a sandy strip of beach, or a turnout to a park or a lighthouse.<br />
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It is a glorious part of the U.S. that everyone should see. Oregon loves visitors, and treats visitors and residents to an amazing number of parks, large and small, scattered along the coastal road. It seems there is a chance to stop and look every mile or two, and a campground or state park every ten miles or so. Even so, it was peak vacation season and the road was busy and the stops fairly busy with people -- not crowded, just busy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out by the rocks is a marine sanctuary</td></tr>
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There are so many lighthouses along this coast, maintained primarily as historical sites now that GPS navigation rules the waves, that you could spend a week and never see them all.<br />
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We stopped briefly at Umpqua Lighthouse where our in-laws had served as volunteers, but stopped and explored at Cape Blanco which showed on the map as being on a point out over the ocean. It probably was, but when we got there a blanket of fog had rolled in, the wind was howling off the cold ocean, and we only had the sound of waves crashing on the cliffs below to assure us the water was there. It did not matter, it was still spectacular.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pat walks to the lighthouse at Cape Blanco</td></tr>
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The docents were well-informed and helpful, full of history and enthusiasm for their beautiful part of the world.<br />
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The coast is thinly populated in this area, but towns such as Sixes, Langlois, Bandon and Port Orford offer anything a visitor could want.<br />
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We took our time and arrived in Coos Bay, a larger and somewhat industrial town, in the afternoon, found a motel room and settled in.<br />
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Here a happy surprise caught up with us, thanks to Facebook. We discovered that old friends and colleagues from The Modesto Bee -- Bob and Becky Bazemore -- were in Oregon working at their jobs for the Good Sams Club. Basically, they travel in their very large RV all over Oregon and evaluate Recreational Vehicle Parks for the organization. Their "home" near Coos Bay was right on the beach at a town called Charlestown, and they just happened to know of a good place to eat seafood.<br />
A meeting, as they say, was quickly arranged.<br />
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The place, Jack's Crab Shack, was closing soon so they went ahead, got a table and arranged for beer while we drove over to meet them. We were the last customers in the place, and the hosts were gracious and the food delicious. Bob ad I both had Dungeness Crabs and Becky and Pat had the Crab Cakes. It was the real deal, a great meal and a great reunion.<br />
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Bob and Becky love what they do, traveling much of the year, some for work and some for pleasure. They live in a giant 45 foot motor home with their happy dog. They spend part of the year working in Oregon, part traveling to see daughters and grandchildren, and part hanging out with friends in the Florida Keys. They both look 20 years younger: trim, fit and tanned. They took an early retirement from The Bee more than 20 years ago, and have clearly been living the good life on coasts, ski resorts and Alaska -- wherever the spirit moves them.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dog in Becky's lap was eating Bob's ear -- no damage done</td></tr>
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Back when Bob was a city editor at The Bee, and Becky a reporter, he gave me the best ski lessons I ever had -- all in one weekend day. I never became an expert -- he had been on ski patrol -- but he helped me move from novice to comfortable intermediate as a skier and I always will be grateful.<br />
It was a great mini-reunion, which we hope to continue in the Fall.<br />
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After a big seafood dinner, a lot of catching up on families and friends, we got another night's rest ad headed north again.<br />
Next: More coasts, more friends waiting.<br />
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<br />slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-17638150899592251512018-08-13T13:44:00.000-07:002018-08-13T13:44:10.033-07:00Road Trip -- Part One<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pat in our van "Snowflake"<br /></td></tr>
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Murphys, Ca -- If you can temporarily cut the ties that hold you down, you could take a road trip.<br />
Pat and I did that and enjoyed almost every one of the 3,000 plus miles traveled in 24 days through seven states of the beautiful Northwestern U.S.<br />
The trip started with a week on the California north coast, then easing along the Oregon coast and on to Seattle. Then to see family we turned east for a few days and ended up in Montana, then back south toward home through Yellowstone and the Tetons, and smoky Utah.<br />
We made the trip in our new-to-us 2002 Volkswagen Eurovan, and camped about half the time and stayed with friends and family or in motels along the way.<br />
The good news: all went well. It was a real vacation.<br />
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There is no bad news.<br />
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Here is what we saw for a week:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ocean is never far away</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G4806uulVoE/W3Hnns1fDhI/AAAAAAAACdY/tTaEtTVWcNE7yoYzz3Dddf-aHQJhCIXtQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_3683.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G4806uulVoE/W3Hnns1fDhI/AAAAAAAACdY/tTaEtTVWcNE7yoYzz3Dddf-aHQJhCIXtQCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_3683.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many hiking trails<br /></td></tr>
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<br />Cynics might suggest that retirees do not need a vacation. Au contraire, my friends. We get just as married to our calendars and schedules and meetings and obligations as we did when working every day. Not to mention the every-present computers and iPhones that seem to suck our brains out. But then, there is a beach.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Da8m1Jk0shU/W3HnWSRBjJI/AAAAAAAACdM/BDQFM4dzFBUy9lyDxXWPwwSKtdRiqD4aQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_3650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Da8m1Jk0shU/W3HnWSRBjJI/AAAAAAAACdM/BDQFM4dzFBUy9lyDxXWPwwSKtdRiqD4aQCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_3650.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Agate Beach from our campground<br /></td></tr>
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The journey began with a reasonable travel day from Murphys to Garberville, a small funky town just into the edge of the Costal Redwood territory of the north coast. If you have never been to Garberville, check it out. It is welcoming, consistent and a little strange.<br />
The strange part is the mix of people on the streets, actually one street carrying Highway 101 through town. It is a town that sees a lot of travelers, and many of them have dirty backpacks, rumpled clothing and look as if they just stepped out of the woods. They hang out near the grocery store, sitting in the shade, waiting for something. They are mostly young, non-threatening, not too clean and sometimes a little on the strange side. The old joke "They are not like us'" probably should be turned around to "We are not like them" to be fair. Are they just happy travelers with a backpack and a friend and a yen to see the world, or maybe part-time employees at a local pot farm? We'll never know.<br />
The good part of Garberville is plenty of moderately-priced places to stay (plan ahead in peak season) and a great little restaurant that we found, for the second time, that provides good Italian food and has a fiddler on the balcony overhead playing every tune he knows, Local color, plus red wine.<br />
<br />
Our destination for the first week of travel was Patrick's Point State Park, one of the gems in the California park system.<br />
Perched on a high bluff above the Pacific Ocean, it offers a variety of campsites (sunny or shady, warm or cold), a perfect climate (fog in the morning, sunshine the rest of the day, and temperatures in the 70s), and great hikes and interesting towns nearby.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tidal pools a few steps down the bluff</td></tr>
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We always camp near the trail down to Agate Beach, a gorgeous stretch of beach known by gem lovers and those who simply want to look at the ocean. (Note to non-Californians: people do not generally swim in the ocean here. It is too cold and somewhat dangerous unless you know where exactly to go.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail south along the coast</td></tr>
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We were lucky enough to join our daughter, her family and in-laws (Grays and Todds) for a week of family, outdoor living, good food and great companions. At least 24 people made up our band of relatives.<br />
The hikes along the park's bluff are spectacular, with views of the ocean every few steps, side trails to tidal pools, and no crowds.<br />
The small closest coastal towns -- Trinidad and Arcata -- provide everything you need, obviously at tourist prices, but are well worth a visit. It is also a short drive to a park with a resident elk heard, and not far from an Indian casino so there is something for everyone. There is even a local brewery nearby.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NaFSD8xbo-g/W3Hn6scaKFI/AAAAAAAACdo/JAkTSnki0YMIzgjgE1IjwQxFY8lhETECQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NaFSD8xbo-g/W3Hn6scaKFI/AAAAAAAACdo/JAkTSnki0YMIzgjgE1IjwQxFY8lhETECQCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_4083.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reliving my past in an Aracata music store<br /></td></tr>
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I did not take notes, or many pictures, because the whole point of our week was relaxing.<br />
With extended family surrounding us we spent a lot of time visiting, catching up, playing cribbage, eating other people's food, playing games, hiking, sleeping, reading and just being.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cE_9Vs5qBtI/W3Ho3EGJlxI/AAAAAAAACeA/fWw3cS9DNUERInnOjXpZyuh44akOecaQQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_3644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="640" height="281" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cE_9Vs5qBtI/W3Ho3EGJlxI/AAAAAAAACeA/fWw3cS9DNUERInnOjXpZyuh44akOecaQQCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_3644.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A "chain gang" is required when one of the Todd family shows up with a load of firewood<br /></td></tr>
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For us it is a big family event, one to which we feel welcomed by all my son-in-law's family. One night a relative we had never met showed up, grilled burgers, and fed everybody. Our son-in-law cooked fritatas for breakfast while his dad grilled linguica. His mom cooked Portuguese beans for everybody. We cooked salmon over the fire.<br />
On our final day Uncle Bob Todd came through the campground collecting everyone's leftovers, cooked them into a great camp stew for the final night's dinner. He flavored it with Bloody Mary mix which was the perfect touch.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Bob insisted everyone play "Old Fart Baseball"</td></tr>
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<br />It was an absolutely lovely week, touching base again with people we care for but do not see very often, visiting a place that is beautiful and cool and welcoming, and relaxing.<br />
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The best thing we did? Stayed in one place for a week so we could really unwind.<br />
There was no worst part.<br />
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Next: Travel along the coast of Oregon to see old newspaper friends, and then to Seattle for a reunion of sorts with classmates from graduate school.<br />
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<br />slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-86609713563546435792018-02-02T09:54:00.000-08:002018-02-02T09:54:53.224-08:00Remembering my sister Mary LaMont Richardson<div class="page" title="Page 1">
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 17.000000pt; font-weight: 700;">Mary Elizabeth LaMont Richardson
</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt; font-weight: 700;">b. 1937 Atlanta, Georgia
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt; font-weight: 700;">d. 1991 Jamison, Alabama
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary Elizabeth LaMont was born Feb. 2, 1937, in Atlanta, Georgia.<br />
Her parents lived in a rented house in Ansley park, an old Atlanta neighborhood a
few blocks off Peachtree Road and about two miles from downtown. She was
named after her grandmothers.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Both parents were working. Her father Louis Ernest LaMont traveled for
insurance companies as an auditor. Her mother Dorothy Strickland LaMont was
a nurse at Piedmont Hospital where Mary was born.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She was the first child. Her Grandfather Fred Strickland
lived with the family briefly. Grandmother Mary Barry
LaMont came to visit from Montgomery and had their
picture taken while sitting in a rocking chair made for the
family in the 1800s. . Mary’s nearby family included
numerous Barry cousins in Montgomery, her mother’s
two sisters Sarah and Betty, and Strickland, Arrington
and Looper cousins across North Georgia.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-85fB5dNBIs8/WnSk7uv0nwI/AAAAAAAACZo/xtp49bgjmMUtzBKoT6r8elTHgSnv9rVigCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Marychild.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-85fB5dNBIs8/WnSk7uv0nwI/AAAAAAAACZo/xtp49bgjmMUtzBKoT6r8elTHgSnv9rVigCK4BGAYYCw/s320/Marychild.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Atlanta was the booming center of the “New South,”
Southern in character but more progressive. The novel
“Gone With the Wind” had been published the previous
year, written by a reporter for the Atlanta newspaper.
Nostalgia and romanticism, tempered by concerns about
war in Europe, were the order of the day.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">By 1940 the family had moved to Decatur in the suburbs,
to a small house owned by a family friend on the edge
of the golf course belonging to the Atlanta Athletic Club.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary started kindergarten in Atlanta, but the family relocated in 1943 to Mobile,
Alabama. Mobile, on the bay near the Gulf Coast, was an old seaport city. At the
time they moved there World War Two was underway and the town was booming
with military-related industries including ship-building.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary spent most of her public school days in Mobile. She attended Leinkauf
Elementary School, a short walk from their rented duplex at 1214 Government
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Street, then Barton Academy, and graduated from Murphy High
School. During the middle years of elementary school her
parents divorced, and later her mother remarried.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary was
popular, a
good student
and active in a
wide range of
activities. She
was a “maid
of honor” in
the Mardi Gras
Court in
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">elementary school, a member<br />
of the precision swim team and
a cheerleader in high school.
She joined a sorority and was
active in the youth group at
Dauphin Way Methodist Church.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The family owned one car when she was in high school, a huge pale yellow 1952
Packard. She learned to drive in the parking lot of Ladd football stadium, and on
special occasions during her senior year she was allowed to drive the car to
school — if she would give her brother a ride. Four years separated us, and we
were not close friends until later.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gXuJbiAz9cU/WnSkpcM3mdI/AAAAAAAACZg/U7O9B71rKHMuac9RapWDv-oRQi_rodkegCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Maryhs.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gXuJbiAz9cU/WnSkpcM3mdI/AAAAAAAACZg/U7O9B71rKHMuac9RapWDv-oRQi_rodkegCK4BGAYYCw/s320/Maryhs.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary had a good time in high school. She made good grades without working
too hard, was pretty, had a busy social life and was popular with the boys.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">When she was about 17 she had a boyfriend she really liked a lot. Robert was a
nice guy, well liked, but Mary’s father felt they were getting too serious. He was
particularly concerned because Robert was a a Catholic, and the LaMont family
had a long history as Protestants and the older members were somewhat
suspicious of Catholics, a not uncommon prejudice in the South. He wrote Mary
a very carefully worded letter in which he acknowledged Robert was a nice boy,
but gave Mary a long-distance lecture on why being serious with a person of
““another faith would create problems if they ever decided to get married. In the
1950s Protestants who wanted to marry a Catholic had to join the Roman
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Catholic Church and be a practicing member. Catholics were also expected too
have large families. The discussion never got angry.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The matter was settled when graduation came in
1954, and they both went away to different colleges.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary graduated from Murphy High in 1954 and
moved to Coral Gables, Florida, to live with her
father and attend the University of Miami as a
freshman. She liked Florida, the “rich Yankee boys”
who went to school there and the university classes.
She briefly joined a sorority, but dropped out when
she discovered they blackballed Jewish girls.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">During that year she attended college full time, kept
house, took care of our ailing father and had a part
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">time job at a clothing store in Coral Gables.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Her father was in failing health so
after the end of her Freshman year
she quit college and the two of
them moved back to Alabama.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">He was no longer able to work, and
Mary—then19 —wenttoworkin
Montgomery and took care of her
dying father throughout that Fall
and Winter. It was a hard time. He
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">was in and out of the VA hospital.
She changed jobs, briefly working as a sales clerk in a department store and at a
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">printing company. She ended up working for an insurance company at better pay
and more hours.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IYiN4sOXjB0/WnSki_e99gI/AAAAAAAACZY/OnHUd3mVgIgyjSeUU1dgGtB8dP3qPjd7QCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/marydad.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IYiN4sOXjB0/WnSki_e99gI/AAAAAAAACZY/OnHUd3mVgIgyjSeUU1dgGtB8dP3qPjd7QCK4BGAYYCw/s320/marydad.JPG" width="220" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Her father died in February 1957.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The day of his funeral cousin Dan Stanford brought his Auburn University
roommate Roy Richardson with him to the house when he dropped by to pay his
respects. They had been on a fishing trip, but Roy made a good impression,
despite coming straight from camping.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary moved to a rooming house for working women, where she joked her
roommate was “a Yankee girl,” but her life was about to change significantly.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She and Roy, who was still in college, started dating in that spring. They were
engaged almost immediately.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary married Roy that summer on the August day he
graduated from Auburn. It was a small family wedding held
in the basement of a Methodist church in Auburn.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Roy went to work as a management trainee with the phone
company and they moved to a small apartment in
Birmingham. They immediately got a dog, named him Bo,
and got into the young-married lifestyle of barbecues on
weekends, watching football games (particularly Auburn).
Roy took up golf. His job required frequent moves around
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">the state. In the next five years they lived in Decatur in
North Alabama and in Anniston in Eastern Alabama, before moving back to
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Birmingham.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">During this time Mary and Roy, convinced by doctors they could not conceive
children, adopted a boy, named him Ben, and then adopted a daughter named
Beth.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary stayed home and took care of the children as Roy rose in the management
ranks of the Southern Bell phone company. His job took them to a temporary
assignment in New York City, and they moved to Berkeley Heights, N.J., outside
New York City, in the early 1970s. It was the first time Mary had lived outside of
the South. Much to their surprise, while in New Jersey Mary became pregnant
and gave birth to a son, Philip.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Judging from her letters to me at the time, it was one of the happiest years of her
life.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She wrote one 15 page letter on stationary she brought back from a cruise on the
Queen Elizabeth 2 — she called it the “Q E 2” — full of details of life just after
Philip’s difficult birth. She covered the details of Roy’s work, furniture needed for
the new baby, and her six-week post partum medical exam, including details
about a surgery planned “on my bottom.”
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">“If the doctor can convince me that I have a good chance of successful
pregnancy next time I really want to have another baby. Philip will need a
playmate and I’m too young to retire.”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She encouraged the possibilities of adoption to others, including her sister-in-law
who had a back injury., She was all for adoption when people could not have a
baby on their own. “The mixed racial child is the big thing here in N.J. but would
not go over too well in North Florida.”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She bragged on her children: “Ben is up to my shoulder...and grows while I look
at him. Books are his thing.” She described how he tried to like horses, but didn’t,
and she gave him permission to stop riding lessons. “Beth loves horses and
enjoys every minute of riding... I think she does real well for a five year old.”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">And Beth was so eager to start school she woke everybody up at 4 a.m. the first
day.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Philip, as the baby, got lots of attention.
“The Rooster is the apple of everybody’s
eye. The nurses from the hospital even
call to see how he is doing.” He had
been small and premature, but by then
Mary wrote, “He’s fat and round, has
square feet and sausage fingers.... He
started smiling yesterday and it is
beautiful.”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The family was completed with three<br />
children, and when the New York<br />
assignment ended they use the profits<br />
from the suburban house in New Jersey<br />
to by buy a house on a 85-acre ranch in<br />
Chilton County, Alabama, halfway between<br />
Montgomery and Birmingham. They were to become country folk.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary loved it. She settled in and ran the ranch, including cows and chickens and
one pig named “HamFat,” while Roy commuted to jobs in Birmingham and
elsewhere in Alabama.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The ranch had fenced pastures and woodlands. The house sat in the middle of a
pasture, with great views all around. There was a small well house and a shed,
and on the hill above the house was a large old barn and a garden.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary got into the farm life. She wore boots and jeans, joined the Alabama
Cattlemen’s Association, and negotiated a deal with a neighbor to use the
pasture, bale the hay and keep up the fences.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Her favorite aunt, Elizabeth Gill or “Aunt Betty,” moved to the closest town,
Jemison. Mary kept her Birmingham city contacts, including going with friends
to the symphony.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">For a woman who had never lived outside a city, she reveled in country living,
pickup trucks, and horses and cows.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Shortly after moving there she became active in the Episcopal Church in nearby
Montevallo which served townspeople and students at the local University. That’s
where their youngest child Philip was baptized. She eventually became a
member of the vestry, and loved her little church and the formality of its services.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Life seemed idyllic, but it was not always easy. There were money problems, and
the challenges of keeping up a large piece of property that did not generate any
income. Roy worked long days, and when he was home he was almost always
working somewhere on the ranch on his tractor, or drinking too much and parked
in front of the television on football weekends. They saw less of each other, and
began have disagreements about money and how to raise the children.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Mary was stubborn, and so was Roy.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">By the early 80s Mary decided that because it had been left up to her, she would
run the home and the children. Roy was absent a lot, so she started making
independent decisions about the home and their finances that Roy did not always
agree with. Her attitude was that if he was not there to help make decisions and
do the work at home, he would have to accept it.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">He was constantly spending week nights in Birmingham, whether for work or to
play cards with friends, and they grew more and more estranged.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The marriage fell apart. They never really discussed all the reasons, but Roy
moved out to an apartment in Birmingham and they divorced after 25 years. It
was a hard time for everyone.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">About this time Beth was in college at Auburn, Ben had finished high school but
due to learning disabilities unable to hold a regular job, and Philip was just
beginning high school.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">It was a severe blow to Mary and everyone in the family, and something she
never expected to happen. She struggled to hold things together. She agreed to
accept the house and half the acreage as a full settlement in the divorce, giving
up claims to Roy’s retirement and Social Security. That left her with no income.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">But she knew how to work.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">In the first year after the divorce she tried to make a living by increasing the
house garden to almost an acre and selling produce through farmer’s markets in
the area.<br />
She used her quilting skills to make pillows and decorative items to sell through
craft fairs and local stores, but it was never enough to live on.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She had some financial support from our mother who was retired in Atlanta, and
close family nearby in Aunt Betty. Both older women doted on Mary, but also tried
to give her advice she was not eager to hear. For a while she became isolated,
trying to figure out how to survive, raise her children and hang onto the farm.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">During this time her church in Montevallo became increasingly important to her,
and she became more and more active in the leadership..
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">When Betty died shortly after the divorce Mary inherited her home and turned it
into a small rental house. Money from the inheritance from Betty helped pay the
bills for a short while.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Even in the hard financial times Mary believed people needed to have fun, so
she would still put away enough for a trip to the symphony or a short vacation at
the beach at Gulf Shores.<br />
In the late 1980s she gave up on farming for a living and applied for a job in
Clanton, managing a furniture store for the owners. She had never done anything
like that before, but she was smart and worked hard and initially liked the job. It
was a classic small-town furniture store, selling mostly to poor farm families and
share croppers. One of her jobs was to collect monthly or even weekly payments
from the poor people who could not afford any other way to buy furniture, after
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">working out a schedule and a price. She joked it was “a dollar down and a dollar
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">a week.”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt; font-style: oblique;">Mary on the farm, her happy place
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She stayed active in the church, and working at the furniture store even when the
owners turned out to be difficult.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">It took a while but she got over the shock of the divorce. She began to find new
friends, even dated once or twice, and focused on helping her children get
through school to adulthood.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">Around late 1990 Mary decided the farm was too much to deal with. She liked
Montevallo — it was a college town with an interesting population — and began
exploring making a move. Beth was away in college. Philip was close to finishing
high school, and it looked like Ben would need to live at home with her. The farm
was too much work.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She found an attractive old Craftsman bungalow house near the edge of the
college campus, arranged to sell the farm, and was in the process of buying and
moving in to the Montevallo house when she died. The boxes were still being
unpacked at the “new” house.
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She was at work one day at the furniture store, walking away from a soft drink
machine, when she collapsed.<br />
She died instantly.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">She was at a good point in her life, 54 years old and in control and seeing a
better future for her family.<br />
The cause was never known for sure. She had been seeing a doctor for
cholesterol problems, and was a life-long smoker, but put off doing anything
about it. She had too many other things to take care of.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica'; font-size: 13.000000pt;">The funeral service was held, with the High Episcopal service she had wanted, at
her little church. She was buried next to her father in Montgomery in the family
plot in Oakwood Cemetery. </span><br />
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</div>
</div>
slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-50138172039758416852017-11-03T11:19:00.000-07:002017-11-03T11:19:58.081-07:00"The Power of Boundless Compassion"<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BwuvJiW8YvQ/WfywUlKIylI/AAAAAAAACXI/vQmgDOg8cAMpkYmW_CWJjctSqWpLN4MSQCLcBGAs/s1600/9781439153154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="260" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BwuvJiW8YvQ/WfywUlKIylI/AAAAAAAACXI/vQmgDOg8cAMpkYmW_CWJjctSqWpLN4MSQCLcBGAs/s320/9781439153154.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gregory Boyle is a Jesuit who has chosen to live his life in one of the toughest neighborhoods of the toughest city in the U.S. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His day job appears to be a employment agency. He also is in charge of a cafe, and a silk screen company.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In reality, I think he is in charge of a a salvage company. He salvages human beings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He is an unlikely saint, introducing people with little or no hope to the fact someone loves them, and to their potential, and to the reality of God in their lives. He teaches people how to be loved. He connects people to God by demonstrating humanity and compassion without limits.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This may be the most important book you ever read. In a society where compassion seems to be lacking, this can be a call to action.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His book about his experience "Tattoos on the Heart" is a profoundly touching and important message. Not everyone will get it, but I encourage you to try.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My favorite writer, Anne Lamott, calls this "An astonishing book... about suffering and dignity, death and resurrection, one of my favorite books in years. It is lovely and tough and tender beyond my ability to describe and left me in tears of both sorrow and laughter."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't say it better than that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Boyle runs an organization called "Homeboy Industries," a practical, difficult and life-changing combination of job training, marketing, hard work and salvation for people who have been thrown on the garbage dump of life. The young people he works with every day tend to be from completely dis-functional backgrounds, have no or abusive parents, and see themselves as essentially worthless and bound for a quick violent death: Teenage girls who want babies too young and too soon because they don't expect to survive to adulthood; boys as young as 11 years old who have no plan or hopes for the future, because they expect to be shot down. The stories are endless, but so is the hope.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Boyle<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>tells a story about a church congregation that was having a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>problem with the smell of the homeless who slept in their church. They had opened their doors so the poor and homeless would have a place to sleep, but he was getting complaints about the lingering smell of stinky bodies and feet.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Why would anyone bring the homeless into their nice church? he asked them at a meeting to discuss the problem.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Because, the congregation responded, that’s what Jesus would do.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Why do we do that? he asked.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It is what we are committed to do they replied.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And what does the church smell like?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A pause, and one voice answered: “It smells like commitment.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And a cheer broke out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I ask myself: is it enough to keep people "in my prayers and thoughts?” Or Am I really committed to show love to everyone, whether I simply think that is a good thing to do or because God wants me to do that.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Compassion isn’t just about feeling the pain of others," Boyle writes. "It’s about bringing them in toward yourself. If we love what God loves, then, in compassion, margins get erased. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Be compassionate as God is compassionate” means<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>the dismantling of barriers that exclude.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"In Scripture Jesus is in a house so packed that no one can come through the door anymore. So the people open the roof and lower the paralytic down through it, so Jesus can heal him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The focus of the story is, understandably, the healing of the paralytic. But there is something more significant that that happening here. They are ripping the roof off the place, and those outside are being let in.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Go in peace, and tear the roof off if you<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>need to.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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slamonthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06355936419209456569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4016899692120974923.post-69662771571462943502017-02-17T10:37:00.000-08:002017-02-17T10:37:38.559-08:00Louis Ernest LaMont -- 1892-1957 <div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>Chapter Seven — Louis Ernest “Lep” LaMont</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Louis Ernest LaMont was born at his grandparents’ home in Montgomery, Alabama, on Feb. 17, 1892.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">An only child, his mother was 37 when he was born. His mother’s family had deep roots in the South and his father was a relative newcomer from the North.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Montgomery was the capitol of the state, a major river shipping point for</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">crops from the Black Belt region and at the time proud to have been “The First Capitol of the Confederacy.”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The South in this era was caught between memories of the Civil War, which most of the adults in the family had lived through, and the worst of Jim Crow years that followed. The 1890s were relatively prosperous, and peaceful. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest was christened in the Methodist Church where his grandfather was a lay leader. He wore a long white dress made by his mother from a</span></div>
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<span class="s1">pattern she found in a popular magazine.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Their lifestyle was “old fashioned” even a bit Victorian. Men worked in trades in town. Entertainment centered around socials and theatrical and musical performances, often at church or in the home.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The men in Ernest’s extended family were printers and union supporters. Ernest’s grandfather had been a foreman at the Montgomery Advertiser since before the Civil War, and his uncles had worked there or at the Paragon Press, a local printing company. His parents, Roswell DeEstra LaMont and Mary “Mollie” Barry LaMont, had met when Ernest’s father (known as R.D.) was working as a printer with his grandfather.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The home Ernest was born in was built before the Civil War. It was a log cabin that had been added to over the years until it had a shaded porch on the front and planked outside. It looked like a frame house, facing Whitman Street, rather than a cabin. A garden was planted out front, and they had a milk cow in a shed. The home was located on a hill above downtown Montgomery, what was then the edge of town. It is now called the Cottage Hill historical district.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest’ parents had lived briefly in Birmingham, where his father was working for the Birmingham News, but returned to the Barry home in Montgomery for the birth.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">His father Roswell had moved south from Michigan in the 1880s. Ernest’ mother Mollie was a native of Lowndes County southwest of Montgomery, where her grandparents and cousins (named Pruitt) still lived.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ernest at about six years old<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ernest at the time of high school graduation<br /></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Ernest always considered Montgomery his home even though the family moved away briefly. When he was eight years old they lived in Geneva, Alabama long enough for him to take part in a Sunday School pageant. But Ernest attended public schools in Montgomery and lived in the Barry family home for most of his childhood. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The Barry family was reasonably prosperous. They lived in town, owned their own house and acquired some symbols of success: a large piano, custom-built furniture, a library of classic books, oil paintings and needlepoint on the wall and a Tiffany lamp in the parlor. They traveled to the Gulf Coast for fishing trips and vacations, and owned some land outside Montgomery at a place called Mountain Creek.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">No LaMont relatives lived nearby, having remained up North.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest was raised in town. Social life centered on the family, church and school. He was an only child, born relatively late in his parents’ lives, and was surrounded by Barry family members. His three aunts remained single and at home. He had numerous Barry cousins his age nearby to play with.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Early photos of him show thin hair, a narrow face, a prominent nose, and</span></div>
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<span class="s1">stiff formal collar.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="s1">His life began in the oil lamp and horse and buggy era, but evolved to include radio, electricity, telephones and automobiles.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">People moved around by walking or riding horse-drawn streetcars. Cotton bales were brought to the market in the heart of town by black men, many the sons of former slaves, in mule-draw wagons.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As a teenager he saw the first automobiles drive through town,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">and watched his first airplane fly overhead. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">At about 18 years old Ernest and a friend built a crystal receiver radio set and were able to listen to radio signals for the first time. The event was written up as news in the local newspaper.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">While he was a child his parents and grandparents rebuilt the family home. The original log home sat facing Whitman. They built a new Victorian-style house on the same lot but facing 508 Clayton Street. Builders incorporated the original log building into the back of the new house. The old log house served as the kitchen of the home.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Family photo albums include pictures of what his mother called “the old home place” and the new home built around 1905. (She sold that home in the 1930s. The current owner discovered the old cabin section and stripped away the interior walls that hid the logs in the kitchen to reveal the history of the home.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest attended an all-male school called Boys High School. The curriculum included Latin and Greek and every student was trained in formal penmanship and studied classic literature.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In a school play he acted the part of a leopard, and was given the nickname “Lep.” His friends called him that for the rest of his life.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Around 1910 Ernest briefly attended college at Auburn University. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Around that time he and several friends plotted to get rich by going to Central</span></div>
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<span class="s1">America, then known as the Banana Republics, to make their fortunes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He claimed they saved enough money for passage, but spent it all when</span></div>
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<span class="s1">they got to New Orleans and never got on the boat. They were forced to come</span></div>
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<span class="s1">home and go to work.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest worked at a variety of jobs in Montgomery. He worked at a local</span></div>
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<span class="s1">florist shop, loaded gold and silver coins at the Fourth National Bank,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">and became an accounting clerk.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="s1">When World War One began he was a florist, and then joined the Alabama National Guard. He then worked as a civilian for the Adjutant General of the State of Alabama as disbursing officer for the state’s military department, responsible for delivering supplies and troops being moved to training posts and to ports bound for Europe. He was paid $4 a day.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He then went to work for the state draft board office while waiting to go on active duty in the Army.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest formally enlisted in the Army on July 4, 1917, and was assigned as a PFC in the Quartermaster Corps. But he was not called up for duty until December. While waiting he ran the state’s draft board office, replacing his boss, an Army officer who had been reassigned.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Late in 1917 the Army sent him to train with the Quartermaster Corps at Camp Joseph E. Johnson in Jacksonville, Florida. He was paid $30 a month.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">In early 1918 Ernest was on a troop train heading for the port at Newport News, Virginia, to sail on a troop ship to Europe. The railroad tracks were blocked by a derailment and his unit was pulled off the train and put to work cleaning up the mess left behind. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">By the time his unit was ready to go new orders caught up with him ordering him home.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The Army was told by state officials — including his old boss — that he was “irreplaceable” at the draft office in Montgomery, and he was released from the Signal Corps and sent back to Montgomery and formally appointed Adjutant General of the state.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He returned a few days before his birthday in 1918 and took over as executive of the draft board He was in charge of the military draft for the entire state, with the Army rank of Major. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zayl1GCpwSs/WKdAYXSFjfI/AAAAAAAACRA/_y7GKKwxHoUtHAyB0exc_OMQeCFcyTwywCLcB/s1600/lelamont30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zayl1GCpwSs/WKdAYXSFjfI/AAAAAAAACRA/_y7GKKwxHoUtHAyB0exc_OMQeCFcyTwywCLcB/s320/lelamont30.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">L.E. LaMont, chief executive of the draft board in WW 1<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">That summer the Butler Alabama Choctaw Weekly Banner weekly newspaper blasted him in an editorial, “A Call to Americanism!!”and attacked “this Frenchman Monsieur LaMont ” for sending American boys off to war.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The newspaper did not know his Scottish ancestors had fought in the Revolution, he had enlisted and served in the Army and was a native of Alabama. He found the fiery editorial amusing, and kept a clipping in his papers.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">That summer a severe flu epidemic swept the nation, killing thousands, and threatening every city. A photograph of Montgomery’s Fourth of July celebration shows crowds of people wearing protective face masks to avoid spreading infection. He stayed healthy. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest remained at the Draft Board job until Spring of 1919, closing out the office after the end of the war. His mementoes of the Army were commendations from the state and the Army, a Colt 38 Special revolver which had been his sidearm in the service, and photos from the training camp in Jacksonville.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When the Roaring 20s began he was a 27 year-old bachelor from an “acceptable” local family and knew everybody in what was then a small but prosperous town. He was a 32nd degree Mason and joined the American Legion. One of his classmates became Montgomery mayor. Another became a U.S. Senator. Another a judge. His best friend owned a jewelry store downtown.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He kept several photo albums from that time filled with pictures of social</span></div>
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<span class="s1">events, summer camping outings at Mountain Creek and fishing trips with his family to Perdido Bay and Pensacola, Florida. </span></div>
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<span class="s2"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1">He kept a notebook of poetry, some copied from things he liked and some apparently that he wrote. He shared poems with friends, and joined book clubs and began to build a library including Dickens and the complete works of O. Henry.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest was a charter member of Montgomery’s Beauvoir Country Club. Though he never cared much for golf, he enjoyed the social life. He attended, as did his family, the local Methodist church on Court Street that his grandfather Barry had helped establish in the 1800s.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">He was arrested once during Prohibition for drinking from a flask at an Auburn Football game. He laughed about it when he told the story later.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">A good friend in the 1920s chided him in a letter for a lack of ambition, encouraging him to “do great things.” Ernest always worked in the years following the war, but never seemed ambitious. People who knew him in the 1920s and 1930s remembered him as a man with “perfect manners,” honest, a charming companion and good friend. He was “dapper” in a way that people understood in the 1920s and 1930s.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My mother said that that during the Roaring 20s he “knew everybody” in Montgomery and Atlanta. He was acquainted with people like Zelda Sayre, whose family lived nearby. Zelda later married F. Scott Fitzgerald, a frequent Montgomery visitor during the war. There is a photo in his papers of Zelda, about age 16, along with young adults all in their 20s, at a creek-side swimming party with Ernest’s friends.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Social life in that time and place included a lot of social drinking-- he preferred Four Roses blended whiskey -- and at least two of his close friends died alcoholics. Social events called for cocktails, but drunkenness was considered unfortunate or bad manners.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Photos show him to be neat and precise in appearance and dress, and unmarked by age. He was 5 foot 7 inches tall, and was thin his entire life. Photographs of him from that era resemble photos of the dancer Fred Astaire.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Letters to his mother indicate he enjoyed being single, traveling and working at different places throughout the South. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">By 1927 he lived in Charlotte, N.C., and worked for an insurance company traveling the South. He wrote his mother regularly and visited Montgomery in a brand new 1927 Chevrolet Coupe which he bought for $540.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">He left Charlotte when his father had a heart attack in Miami. When his father died that Spring, Ernest corresponded the details of the burial and the small estate to his mother and then visited her by train before returning to Charlotte. He liked the climate and surroundings in the Miami area. He never forgot that lure of South Florida.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Around 1930 he moved to Atlanta, Georgia, to live and work. Three of his best friends from a Montgomery family lived there -- Richard, Ed and Sanders Hickey. Ernest had been particularly close to Sanders, who died young, and he eventually named his son for him. He became good friends with Richard during the early 1930s, the last years of prohibition. (Richard later became my godfather.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest shared an apartment during Prohibition with Richard, who was an attorney, in the Cox-Carlton Hotel , near the corner of Ponce DeLeon and Peachtree streets. Friends stored kegs of illegal whiskey in their big cedar closet in their apartment, a service they were willing to render for a small “evaporation tax.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest traveled the South for insurance companies, auditing claims and payments from firms, including the coal industry. A pattern of work was established that was followed for 25 years: traveling constantly by automobile throughout the South; staying in business-oriented hotels, and always keeping his roots in Montgomery. (When I was a child I thought my father knew every hotel manager and desk clerk in five states.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest was 40 and living a happy bachelor life in booming Atlanta when he met Dorothy Strickland, a 20-year-old nurse from North Georgia. They met through a mutual friend who had a detective agency and whose girl friend ran</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">the women’s boarding house where Dorothy and her sister Elizabeth lived, not</span></div>
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<span class="s1">far off Peachtree Street. </span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7PsQ_2bf7Fw/WKdB-Pxn3zI/AAAAAAAACRc/GH2N-r1LK3AyCn7EwKwM8Go7H9dwxo9WgCLcB/s1600/m-mslamont2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7PsQ_2bf7Fw/WKdB-Pxn3zI/AAAAAAAACRc/GH2N-r1LK3AyCn7EwKwM8Go7H9dwxo9WgCLcB/s320/m-mslamont2.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">Dorothy described Ernest, whom she always called “Lep,” as “charming and good looking” an said he had almost courtly good manners.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">They went back to the Barry home on Clayton in Montgomery for the wedding on April 8, 1933, the height of the Great Depression. Times were difficult all over the country but they survived reasonably well. Dorothy always had work at local hospitals.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest changed jobs several times in the 1930s, but was able to work despite the Depression. He continued to travel.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">They moved several times. They rented an apartment on Peachtree Street,</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">and then moved to a rented house in Decatur in the late 1930s.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Money was an issue for Dorothy, but the lack of it never seemed to bother Ernest. He once wrote a letter to his mother that he would come to visit here when he could raise enough money for a $5 train ticket.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">During the late 30s they dealt with big changes in their new lives together. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">In February 1937 their first child, Mary Elizabeth LaMont, was born in Atlanta. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gOx6uUFpIao/WKdAizNNrMI/AAAAAAAACRI/7IX3s35FhVktlvu5u8JbdsosFrCowr-UgCLcB/s1600/dadmary37%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gOx6uUFpIao/WKdAizNNrMI/AAAAAAAACRI/7IX3s35FhVktlvu5u8JbdsosFrCowr-UgCLcB/s320/dadmary37%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="175" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="s1">In Atlanta, 1937, the birth of his first child<br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Then Dorothy’s much-admired older brother was killed while training pilots at the Atlanta Air Field south of town. Her father had an severe heart attack after hearing the news, and ended up living with them during his recovery. He died within a year.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Shortly after that Ernest’s mother Mollie, in her 80s, sold her Montgomery home and moved in briefly with Ernest and Dorothy in Atlanta. She died in their home.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">That year Ernest bought a Plymouth Coupe for business and family. That car stayed in the family through the war years and beyond and he called it “Old Betsy.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">In November 1940 I was born while the family was living in a small house just off the golf course near East Lake Country Club on the outskirts of Atlanta.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As World War Two began to reshape the country Ernest and Dorothy moved the family to Mobile, Alabama in 1942. He continued to work and travel for Bituminous Casualty Company, but in a different territory. Dorothy took a job working as a nurse in the county welfare clinic.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The family lived in an area known as Spring Hill in a development built to handle the crowds of war workers that flooded the town. The rented house was small, wood-framed, in a hilly area covered by pine trees. Most neighbors were young couples who had come to town to work for war industries. Single men lived in dormitories near war plants, or rented rooms in crowded homes downtown. Mobile at that time was one of the fastest growing towns in the country. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The housing area the family lived in provided outdoor movies on summer</span></div>
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<span class="s1">nights, sitting on blankets under the pine trees swatting mosquitoes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Entertainment included going down to the shipyards for the launching of</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Liberty Ships. Mardi Gras, a weeks-long festival more family oriented</span></div>
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<span class="s1">than in neighboring New Orleans, was a major annual entertainment.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In 1944 the family moved closer into town, to a downstairs duplex carved from a large home on the main street of town. They lived at 1214 Government street, the east-west thoroughfare which also served as U.S. Highway 90. The big pale yellow house had a large front porch, giant oak trees, azaleas in the front yard and pecan trees and collapsed servant quarters in the back. Rent was $40 a month.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ernest traveled constantly, and was seldom at home. Money seemed to be an constant issue between husband and wife.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">One day in 1948 my father came by my elementary school to tell me that he and mother were getting divorce and he would not be living with us anymore. He was full of reassurances, but was clearly unhappy. The marriage was over, and a new lonesome chapter in my father’s life began.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1"> Neither Ernest or Dorothy ever explained exactly what happened, if they understood it. The legal reasons for the divorce were “irreconcilable differences.” She acknowledged later that she had expectations he could not meet. He never talked about it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">He also never changed his lifestyle much. He still was traveling, living in hotels and eating in restaurants. He was caring, kind and loving, but we did not expect him to show up for scout outings, formal dances at school, swimming lessons or baseball games. We got encouraging letters and brief visits instead.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In 1948 Ernest moved his few personal belongings, including an Army trunk</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">filled with family papers and photo albums, to the basement of his cousin John Barry’s house on Cherry Street in Montgomery 200 miles away. That remained his base for travel and work for the next few years.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">He visited Mobile frequently and wrote letters constantly, making sure my sister and I knew of his attention and affection. He and Dorothy were cordial but distant. Both insisted that my sister and I respect and obey the other parent. He never spoke an ill word about my mother.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The next few years were difficult for him, because of declining health and finances, but he always worked hard to remain in close touch with my sister and me. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">He wrote at least one letter every week to both of us children for almost a decade. He would often tell funny stories or relate small events from his life. He reported on a trip to the race track, where he lost on a two dollar bet, and he wrote us about fishing in the Florida Keys. He made up bedtime stories for us, in which we played starring roles, all typed meticulously onto hotel stationary on his Royal portable he used for business. He planned trips we could make together to interesting places. He monitored our progress in school. Sometimes he wrote lonely letters asking us to write more often, wanting to know what were we doing and why we didn’t let him know what was going on. Once in a while his frustration would show and he would threaten, gently, to withhold our $1 allowance until he heard from us.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">(We were both poor letter writers.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1">During the first few years after the divorce Ernest would travel often to Mobile</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">and stay at the Battle House Hotel, and we children would visit or stay with him there. He insisted on being filled in on details of my sister’s increasingly active social life, and approved of most of her boyfriends and all of her school activities. Once when he did not approve of a boyfriend he wrote her a long thoughtful letter acknowledging her right to choose her friends but firmly stating his reasons for concern.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">He taught Mary how to drive, and showed me how to to shoot his Army</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">pistol. He bought me a shotgun for hunting and taught me how to use it</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">safely. He rented a small boat so we could go fishing.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">In the summers my sister and I took turns spending several weeks with</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">him while he worked, and we got to see a lot of the South from his un-air-</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">conditioned car. We would travel with him, piling up in the back seat of the car with comic books and a candy bar. We waited in the car outside the offices of coal mines near Birmingham, and plants in Tennessee and Georgia, while he did audits inside.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">We would ride down the highways with the windows wide open, summer heat blasting through, loudly singing songs he had known from his youth. When we would approach a town he would suggest we quiet down a bit so we would not shock the local residents.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">My father made travel fun. We got to see Rock City, Ruby Falls, Civil War battlefields, Silver Springs, Seminole villages and large public swimming pools all over the South. He showed us a Confederate flag his aunts had sewn for</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">the burial casket for Jefferson Davis in a museum. If there was a beach nearby, we would detour for a quick visit.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">He introduced us to his friends along the way, people he had known from decades of travel, or family friends from Montgomery and Atlanta.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">He was lonely outside the summers, and his health grew steadily worse. Even in the South the wet cold winters were brutal on his arthritis. Doctors kept trying different treatments and medicines that did not ease the increasing pain. One doctor told my father the source of his pain was his teeth, and so he had all of his teeth pulled. He got no relief. He tried numerous strong medications, some of which made him ill.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">In 1952 he announced to us in a letter that his “prayers had been answered”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">and he had been able to find a job in Miami, Florida, where it was warm, he</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">had friends and little travel would be required.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gDxch2tdLbA/WKdAlss1OiI/AAAAAAAACRM/6W5qQcoFgYwmGHkAtAkd3CYIA2UIR3_2ACLcB/s1600/daddy%2B1953%2Bcrandon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gDxch2tdLbA/WKdAlss1OiI/AAAAAAAACRM/6W5qQcoFgYwmGHkAtAkd3CYIA2UIR3_2ACLcB/s320/daddy%2B1953%2Bcrandon.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">My father with me 1952 at Miami Beach<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">His health had not been good for a decade. He smoked Camel cigarettes constantly, and the years of constant travel were wearing on him. He was in pain much of the time. He had rheumatoid arthritis, was underweight and he was almost completely bald.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">But he wrote hopeful cheerful letters about finding an apartment in Coral Gables that was near his work, close to fun things to do when we visited and not too expensive. The Florida job provided a regular salary, with a company car and benefits. The winters were mild, he had good friends who lived nearby, and he had a place to call home after living out of hotels for years.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">During the years he lived in South Florida my sister and I spent summers with him and would see him on some holidays during the school year. He could not see us often because of the distance and expense. But he kept up the steady stream of letters reporting on his life and asking about ours. Long distance telephone phone calls were used only in emergencies in the early 1950s, and travel by airplane was a luxury affordable to few.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">During Christmas breaks my father would drive 800 miles to see us, or we would take an overnight train trip to Miami via Jacksonville for a quick visit.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Letters were our primary connection, and my father was faithful and consistent. Every week brought a personal letter, often detailed. Every accomplishment or concern brought a quick response, by mail. My sister and I were not good letter writers despite encouragement from our mother, but our father never stopped writing to us no matter where he was. I have more than 200 letters from those years.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Summers together in Florida were fun for us and for him. The beaches were not far away. We explored the Everglades and the Florida Keys, places my father had been with his father in the 1920s, and much of the rest of Florida. He knew how to catch fish.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">He took us to the Methodist Church near the University of Miami on</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Sundays. He read a Bible chapter aloud to us every night at bedtime, and marked each chapter off with a Number Two yellow pencil. He had read through the entire book several times, and the marks were adding up.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">He took us to every big tourist attraction in the state: Silver Springs, Monkey Jungle, Gatorland and his favorite, Ross Allen’s Reptile Institute where we watched “explorers” milk rattlesnakes for venom. Every Fourth of July we vacationed at inexpensive motels on the north end of Miami Beach, where the rooms were affordable, and we spent the long weekend in beach-front bliss. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">My sister and I were able to help my father with household tasks during the summers, but his health continued to fail.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">In the Spring of 1955, while we were back in school in Mobile, my father wrote asking for help. His health was getting worse, and he could barely work part-time. His arthritis was crippling him to the point it was very painful to dress or shave or bathe.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">My sister, Mary, a senior in high school, decided that she should attend college at the University of Miami and help our father manage. </span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">I spent that summer in Florida with my father, and then my sister arrived and enrolled as a college freshman at the beginning of Fall semester.</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">By the time Mary moved to Florida to help, our father’s health was so poor he was no longer able to work much. He had little or no savings. She became his caregiver and a full time student.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">I joined them in Florida in January of 1956, transferring to Coral Gables</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">High School for the second semester that year. The three of us got along</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">well.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">Late that Spring my father decided he wanted to move back to Montgomery. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He was 64 years old, unemployed, emaciated, crippled to the point he could no longer type or put a shirt on by himself. He needed medical care and felt he could get it easier at the Veterans’ Administration Hospital in Montgomery. </span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He was stooped, frail, and tired. He looked 20 years older than he was.</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He told us frankly that he wanted to go back to Montgomery “to die at home.”</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">His ex-wife who had divorced him almost a decade earlier and had since remarried, then offered to do whatever was necessary to help.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">My sister Mary gave up college and started looking for work in Montgomery.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">Our father -- we always called him Daddy -- accepted what he could not change and looked forward to getting back to his home town.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">Mother drove to Coral Gables and picked us all up in May, and drove us the 900 miles to Montgomery. My father and sister moved into an apartment a few blocks from where he had been born. She went to work.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">My father’s health never improved. Every two or three months his doctor would put him into the Veteran’s hospital. The staff would build up his strength and send him home.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">By December 1956 he had been in the hospital multiple times, but was unable to regain his health. It was painful to walk. He was sick most of the time,</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">and his weight dropped to 100 pounds, sometimes less. He would gain a</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">few pounds in the hospital, then lose it immediately when he came home. </span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He was no longer able to drive. Lost his appetite. He stayed inside the apartment most of the time, and was unable physically to reconnect with the friends from his youth.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">My sister had a job, kept house, and did what she could to make him</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">comfortable.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He went into the hospital for the last time on Christmas Eve 1956.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">By then his ex-wife had moved close to Montgomery to help the family, and I was newly enrolled in a military school not far away. We spent a</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">cold wet holiday in an old house rented at Mount Miegs, not far from the VA </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">hospital. </span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">January was spent waiting. I visited every weekend. He did not</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">get better.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">In late January 1957 he wrote a list of items he needed on the back of an</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">envelope, and reminded himself of questions to ask my sister: “When I</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">am going to get out of here?” was at the top of the list.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He died during the early morning hours February 25, one week after his</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">65th birthday.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">The cause of death on the death certificate was listed as “general</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">debility.” He had developed tuberculosis and his weight was about </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">80 pounds.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He didn’t leave a lot of material possessions. Most of the things he owned were contained in one small suitcase-- he called it his “ditty bag.” He also left behind a few items of furniture that remained from the Barry home, and a life insurance policy that eventually helped pay my way through college. </span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He was buried at Montgomery’s old Oakwood Cemetery in the Barry-LaMont family plot. A Methodist minister was assisted by a military honor guard and representatives of the local Masonic Lodge. Pall bearers were Barry relatives and old school friends, included his boyhood friend the mayor. The small crowd was mostly made up of Barry cousins, and a few old friends from the early days in Montgomery.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">Within a hundred yards of his grave is a hillside covered with graves of</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">unknown federal soldiers from the Civil War, some who died in a prison his grandfather had helped guard. Across the railroad tracks on the</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">next hill is the popular grave of country music star Hank Williams.</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">In later years his daughter and ex-wife died and were also buried in the family plot.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">Louis Ernest LaMont’s 65-year life included a comfortable childhood in a secure family; a strong sense of home; an exciting era of change; a good education; a love for books and poetry and music; a strong Christian faith; a sense of optimism; a wide circle of friends; traveling and developing business skills and contacts throughout his native region; marriage and children, and living in a warm and comfortable place he loved. </span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">There were challenging times as well: World War One and</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">the Great Depression; the uncertainties of World War Two and the postwar</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">recession; constant travel; the challenge of having a young family as</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">an older man; ill health for the last 30 years of his life; divorce;</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">maintaining his role as a father from great distance and economic</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">uncertainties.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He was an honest man. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">His work was meticulous, even when he was more interested in doing other things. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He served his country well. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">His entire family -- grandparents, parents, numerous cousins and his children -- loved and respected him and enjoyed his company. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He did what he felt was his duty, without complaint. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He was never hesitant to express affection and gratitude and respect to the people around him. </span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">He had very good manners.</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1">And he spent his last days in home town he loved.</span></div>
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