On the Banks of the Mississippi

This is my last night on the road. Assuming all goes well tomorrow, I will be back in Welch by mid-afternoon. For tonight, I am camped on the west bank of the Mississippi River, across from Memphis. When I say on the banks, I mean it. I can throw a rock into the muddy monster. My plan is to hit the sack early, get up around 4 am, be through Memphis and into Mississippi by 5 am. I’ll stop for breakfast along the way then gut out the last couple hundred miles to home. I am attaching a photo of my camp spot, complete with a river barge heading south. Pretty nice place.

I have not given myself enough time and space to think about much lately. I have some lingering thoughts about Iraq that I have not worked out. This walkabout raised some issues. The grand experiment of living and thriving in Welch is still before the bar. My next foray is not until late in the summer. These next few weeks are all about “re-blueing”, as my friend JD would say. That is, making peace with leaving my career at the University, assessing my contribution in Iraq, culling through the Southwest Adventure for tidbits of wisdom and innovation. In between all that, there is the family.

One thing that I have concluded is that I can live in the Airstream until I decide to either build in Welch or move. It is sweet living, too. It is about the same size as the quarters I occupied in Iraq, but far better appointed. It is, by trailer trash standards, luxury. That means that I have one less thing to worry about, quoting Forrest Gump. There are some details to which I have to attend – finish up the well and the septic system on the land, pay to run the electricity, pouring a concrete pad for the Airstream. That is all on the agenda for next week. I know that when I get home, I will spend the next two days on the tractor. Bush-hogging season is in high gear in East Alabama.

It has been a great month of traveling. Thanks for checking in with me. Good to know that there are folks who take the time to wonder what is up with Tom. I appreciate it.

Hard-tail Mule

The much beloved St. Rebecca, my mother, wore out a fair share of switches on me, all put to the purpose of trying to raise me right. She successfully broke me of most of my worst habits. Some disagreeable personality traits, regrettably, continue as part of my behavior even now. Had the blessed St. Rebecca survived, no doubt she would have continued her efforts to straighten me out. She reminded me often that it did not matter how old I was or how big I had become (she meant that in its fullest definition), I was still subject to her guiding hand. One particular trait that she addressed but did not remedy was what she called my hard-tail mule complex. You are in the field plowing and the mule decides that the day is done, it heads for the barn and there is no stopping it. I am the same way. When I am finished, I am sure-enough done. I head for the barn. Worse, I become completely fixated on the barn.

With the West, the mountains, the mesas, the Indians, the canyons, the rafting, the open space, then the bobbin' behind me, in my mind I decided that the plowing was done and it was time to head to the barn. I am heading home. I have not taken my camera out of its case in three days. I have made no plans for any sightseeing. No side trips, no spontaneous investigations. Nothing. All I can see is US78 East to I-20 to UA 431 South to Country Road 248. Every mile I drive is forgotten once behind me. Billboards hold no interest. Historic markers are ignored. I am fixed on getting home. Nothing wrong with being determined to finish a project. But, as St. Rebecca would point out to me, don't miss the richness of the moment. Enjoy the journey, she would say. And, when I would not listen, she would head out to the hickory tree to retreive yet another switch to blisher my backside. I wish she were around to wear me out for how I am behaving today.

The Day After

Bobbin’ is done. I am cleansed. Refreshed. Redeemed. It was everything I could hope for it to be. Boy’s hospitality was exceptional. The water was wonderful. The hours in the water were too short but more than sufficient to wash away all concerns and worries. With the slate clean, time to start living again, adding chalk marks to the list of errors and mistakes to the total. If all goes well, I will return to these sacred waters for another chance. We all want another chance. Just one more chance to get things right, to do the things we too often leave undone.

I am a couple of days until the end of the adventure. Already I miss being behind the wheel, feeling the liberation of wind, sun, and road sign options. No reason to begin to feel nostalgic, though. It has been a genuine treat to be on the road. The attractions were secondary to the experience of unfettered movement. It will take me a few days to digest all that I’ve seen and done. Soon, I have to turn my attention to Chambers County. I know there are dozens of things to do when I arrived back in Welch.

As I write, the Airstream is being pelted by a summer thunderstorm in Oklahoma. Lightening is flashing around the area, the rain is falling in sheets. The sound of the rain on the Airstream reminds me of being in my Grandfather Simpson’s house, listening to the rain on the tin roof. I can already tell that between the exhaustion of bobbin’ yesterday, the drive today, and the rain tonight, I will sleep in deep innocence tonight.

I am attaching a picture of Boy and me while in devote worship yesterday. What a day!

Texas Lake Bobbin'

Another chuck of Texas is behind me now. I found an interesting place to call home for a few days in Athens. Each parking lot is enclosed by chain link fencing. Park the trailer on a concrete pad. Next to the pad is a private lawn, complete with sprinkler. Next to the lawn is a covered garage for the truck. The place has just the right “snoot” factor for me. I did, however, have a hell of a time getting the trailer backed into space. My several attempts attracted the attention of all the other geezers who live semi-permanently in this lap of luxury. I am not sure, though, that Athens would be the place I would want to call home. I base this on the fact that it is a dry county – had to drive twenty miles to get a beer. Such foolishness.

The real reason for being in Athens is that it is close to Boy. He and I helped develop the fine art of Texas Lake Bobbin’ (TLB). I am here for another weekend of the sport. Boy and I worked on the rudiments of the endeavor while we were both in Missouri at the same time. In those days, we used an Oklahoma lake but when Boy moved to Texas, the mere past-time was propelled into a serious pursuit.

TLB is deceptively simple but extraordinarily refined. The ingredients necessary are life-preservers, a floating cooler, and a hat. Naturally, you need a lake. You get out in the middle of the lake, straddle the life preserver, hop in the water, open a Tecate from the cooler, then the magic begins. The true art form is in the conversations that are spawned while bobbiin’ . Boy and I have solved the Middle East question, health care in the US, issues of the environment and social justice, even determined the essential definition of what makes country music (steel guitar and fiddle are in the mix). We have plotted careers, deconstructed game theory, and projected life potentials. It can truly be said that TLB has saved me thousands in counseling fees and proved more effective as a treatment regimen. TLB is more zen than mountain-top contemplation, more spiritual than any sweat-lodge ceremony, and more powerful than any drug I might have taken as a crazy youngster. TLB is the Grateful Dead and Rolling Stones playing a double bill and as moving as the third act of Turandot. It is no wonder that I drove clear across Texas for these next couple of days of bobbin’. I am on the steps of Valhalla, preparing to enter. I am suited up and waiting for the whistle to mark kick-off. My mind is racing and my nerve-endings are twitching. It is better than Christmas morning, better than a sure-thing date with Melba Sue Cotney. I am in Texas. It is hotter than Hades. The humidity is sopping. But none of that matters. When the bobber is ready, the lake will appear. Come, sweet water, engross my body and mind in your curative embrace. Wash away my temporal concerns. Cleanse my mind of trouble. Let me see the face of God. Amen.

Road Notes

A long driving day today. Here are some notes from the road.

One: If you ever find yourself in San Antonio, New Mexico, make sure you drop in for a green chile hamburger and several of the coldest beers in the West at the Owl Bar. Would also be good if you brought a designated driver. The place looks like a run-down old shack but the atmosphere and people are great. The bar is said to be from Conrad Hilton's first hotel. The other interesting story is that back in the mid-1940s, the Owl was the hang-out for a bunch of guys who identified themselves as prospectors. Turns out they were the research team on the Manhattan Project. Not surprisingly, the Trinity Test Site is a few miles southeast of town.

Two: The best place to get lost in the West is Roswell, New Mexico. Happened to me today when I could not find US 380 East. After wandering around a bit, I got back on track but not before driving by the UFO Museum in downtown Roswell. All I can say is that I drive 6,000 miles and get lost only once -- in Roswell. Sounds as if aliens are messing with my internal navigation. Or, aliens think the Airstream is their mother ship, arriving to pick them up for their return trip.

Three: West Texas may be known for oil and cattle but there is a new sheriff in town -- wind turbines. Hundreds, no thousands, of wind turbines mark the West Texas plains. I have no idea how much electricity is produced by the turbines but I know that I drove through thirty miles of them. I saw a few in Kansas on the way out but these wind farms in Texas are huge and they stretch across the landscape.

Will try to make my way across another part of Texas tomorrow. Texas is like eating an elephant, you take one bite at a time.

Map Reading

A few miles west of Carrizozo, New Mexico, I stopped to answer Nature's call, to stretch my legs, and have a smoke break. While milling around I dug out my phone from the truck to call the RV park for which I had reservations for directions. Here's the conversation:

Me: Hi, This this is Tom Simpson. I am a few miles out of town and need directions to your park.

Park Manager: Good evening, Dr. Simpson. We are easy to find. Just take exit 185 off of I-40 and we are located one mile north on the right. You can't miss it.

Me: Hold it, did you say 'I-40'?

Park Manager: Yes, sir. Exit 185.

Me: But, I am on US 60, fifteen miles west of Carrizozo.

Park Manager: Then you are about 150 miles south of us. We will expect to see you in about four hours.

Come to find out, I had booked myself for a place I did not intend to visit. I looked at the Woodall's Guide to RV Parks and discovered that I had failed to read the manual correctly. I was way off course.

What to do? I thumbed through the Guide Book and discovered that I could drive south 50 miles to Almagordo, spend the night, then drive on to Abilene the next day. A quick phone call to the Boot Hill RV Park fixed me up with a space.

And, what a treat I enjoyed. I sat in my lime green chair and watched the most incredible sunset I have seen in my life.

I kept Miss Kitty (the truck) hooked up to the Airstream so that I could get an early start tomorrow. My plan is to make Abilene then onto Athen, Texas, the next day.

Sometimes, the stupid mistakes I make work out well. This is an example. I would not trade this sunset. Even our mistakes can yield great benefits, if we have the right attitude about them.

RV Karma

Maybe it was a bug or just scenic-viewing overload, but I fell into bed last night early with a slight fever and a general “low limb” feeling. The two-gallon margaritas I had at the Fiesta Mexicana restaurant may have contributed to the malaise as well. But, they were delicious.

Yesterday morning, before the bug hit me, drove down the Salt River Canyon area, south of Show Low. There are a couple of pictures enclosed of the area. On the way back, visited Fort Apache. To my disappointment, there is little to see and learn. It is billed as a “national” historic site. What is meant by national, though, is not the United States government but the White Mountain Apache “national” government. There is no mention of the role that the Fort Apache, a US military outpost, played in the history of the area. Instead, the museum featured Apache clothing and ceremonial artifacts. It was not as instructive as it had the potential to be. The use of the word sovereign by the Apaches bothers me to no end. I suppose they see themselves as independent entities located within the borders of the United States. It is foolish self-delusion. But, I am not going to dwell on the monumental mistakes of US domestic policy (not foreign policy since there is no conceivable way the tribes can be considered sovereign nations unto themselves) regarding the Indians.

Today is a clean-up and maintenance day. The trailer needs some detailing and the truck is a mess. I found an RV supply store down the road and have a list of small items that need some attention. Figure I can spend the morning in some do-it-yourself maintenance then spend the afternoon looking around Show Low. (The place got its name from a famous poker game back in the 1870s when one player pushed all his chips into the pot on the bet that whoever had the lowest hand would walk away with all the money. He lost.) The place is full of seasonal folks – mostly retired people from the greater Phoenix area who seek the comfort of cooler mountain temperatures during the summer. It would be a challenging place to be a city manager. Lots of high expectations for services but strong unwillingness to finance the debt needed to build and run them. From the conversations I’ve had with the residents of the place I am staying, I may be the only Democrat for miles. Tomorrow is a moving day, heading for New Mexico.

I have long maintained that I live a charmed life. It may be more mystical than that. I suspect there is something to this traveling about, something I have come to call “RV Karma”. It involves chance encounters that yield more joy than would be expected. I mentioned earlier that the guy parked next to me is from Arkansas. As our chance conversations progressed, I learned that he hunts wild turkey in Alabama. Not just any place in Alabama but a place he described as “just north of the town of Opelika.” As we talked more, we figured out that he hunts on land of a friend of his about ten miles south of Welch. Imagine that. Then, to add to the richness of the chance encounter, he is retired from the US Corps of Engineers (public enemy #1 in my mind but that is a discussion for a later entry) and spent his entire career working on the Arkansas River basis – the very Arkansas River basin that has been a keen interest of mine for years. That is RV Karma in its richest manifestation.