Oh, Here I am, I think. (Mostly.)

22 states. 7, 927 miles. Yessiree.
Heaven on Earth.

I'll refrain from quoting those stale lyrics about trips being long and strange,but they're not far off the mark. Sometimes, travel is luscious and juicy and fresh and freeing. And sometimes, my friends, shit hits fans. In the last month, I've seen all of that stuff and more, and even though I'm back at home, it ain't really over.

I don't want it to be over.

If I were the praying sort (and, well, I suppose that I am), I would ask this: let me hold the space I feel now. Let me carry this love I feel into every day. Let me treat each day as if it is new and holds mysterious possibility. Let me not take things too damn seriously.

Back to tending the garden, to my practice, to my Portland life. So lucky that I have a life to come back to. So lucky for the support around me. Back to the old blog. And on to some new stuff. On to different beginnings, and on to other endings.

If there is one last sentence I should write, I don't know what it is.

where am i?

Dude. Sometimes life throws shitty curveballs.

I am in Portland.

This morning I woke up in Boise and realized this: Boise is a small town posing as a big city. Whereas, Portland is a big city posing as a small town. The latter works better for me, as it turns out.

Ready as I'd ever be to head westward one more day, I started the car and the engine light came on. So V and I spent three hours exploring the underbelly of Nampa, Idaho, while the Honda dealer performed "diagnostic tests," determined nothing was wrong, turned the light off, and hit me with a $160 bill.

In Nampa, we walked around. A lot. Went thrift shopping, and met an old woman named Rickie, who turned out to be the fairy godmother of Nampa. She invited me to spend the night if things with the car turned out to be overnighter-style bad.

Once we were rolling again, lots of mixed-emotion stuff came up for me about returning to PDX. I was real head-y, trying to synthesize all of these rich experiences I've had along the way, making myself nuts. So I turned off the Nick Cave, my friends, and things started looking up!

Lovely, spare eastern Oregon: I love you. Stopped quickie at the Pendleton Woolen Mill to ogle blankies.

Thought about my wishiest wish for forever-ever:

I wish my friends were like crumbs on a tabletop (stick with me, kids, it can be a fancy tabletop, ok?)

I wish my friends were like crumbs on a tabletop and that I could brush them all together in my palm. And then, instead of dusting them off my palm into the trash, I would do something nice with them, like fertilize my garden. Or something like that.

Gee, that metaphor really bites.

What I mean to say is this: you scattered people, all over this country, I have mad, mad love for you. I want you to be with me always, and I suppose that you are. If one's friends are a reflection of oneself, then I daresay that I am truly, truly the shit! Ya'll make me feel all soft and gooey.

I felt kind of numb getting off at the Lloyd Center exit and driving up 9th Avenue.

What was more numbing was coming back to the Hideout. The garden hadn't been watered, and many of my plants had died. When I went indoors, the numb turned to shock when I discovered the condition of the interior. I had a housesitter, a friend who had asked me if she could use my place as her "spiritual retreat" while I was away, in exchange for watering the plants. But something very bad has happened inside of this person, and the result of this inner chaos was that my house and many belongings had been trashed. I could go into details but those would embarass me and they would embarass you and your jaw would drop and maybe you would even cry, like I did.

So, like, welcome home, Emily.

I spent the next several hours cleaning and untangling the disaster.

I want to pretend like this last part never happened. I want to tell you that I drove up to my pretty house and it was just as sweet as I've always left it. I want to not write about it because it's still throbbing and because I wonder if I should tell about it while it is still raw. I want to not write about it because I don't want this thing to be the thing that capped off my whole amazing trip of fabulosity. I want to not write about it because in some way, I feel I need to protect the person who violated my space and my things.

But I am writing about it, because it is part of the story and because it is true.

It's only a part of the story, though.

The whole story, the big story, is something more. And right now the whole story feels like everything at once.

Make Amends With Yourself

Left Park City this morning with an open agenda, and quickly decided to aim for Boise, a city I've long held romantic notions for, even though I've never seen it. Before I left, I stopped for fair-trade coffee at the Java Cow and met a local boy with a wonderful t-shirt that read "make amends with yourself." All day, this has been my mantra, and it's a good thing to ponder on the road.

Rolled north through Utah and across Idaho on the 84, loving the stark beauty of this part of the planet. Outside of a town called Bliss, (Bliss!), a faded old train was parked along the highway, and some wonderful grafitti artist had painted the words "dear world" on the side of one of the cars. Mmm.

Also in Bliss, I found another cellphone. I am, it turns out, a cellphone do-gooder, and called around to make sure this one finds its way home, too.

Soon I was in Boise, all primed up to stay in some neato roadside motel. I found something that seemed to fit the bill, cute and weird and special, so I went in to get a room. The clerk quoted me a rate and we haggled a bit and settled on this: non-smoking room, no extra fee for the dog girl. But when it was time to pay, he tried to shaft me and re-neg our deal, so I politely left. Probably for the best, since I suspected he was doodling his wee-wee under his desk while he was talking to me. I got out of there stat, whispering the Serenity Prayer, and fell back on my trusty old standby, Motel 6. The room next to mine has a giant barbie head smiling out the window, and a birdcage with a yellow canary inside.

Showered off the road-funk, drank a beer (is it okay to drink beer and employ the Serenity Prayer?), and waited for the heat of the day to mellow out before exploring Boise. In the parking lot, I spied a bumper sticker I know well... my friend Chris from Portland created these little beasts a while back... and suddenly found myself a new friend named Rebecca, an English professor from Atlanta who's traveling back to Georgia after a spell at the Tryon Farm in PDX.

We decided to explore Boise together, checked out the wonderful Boise Co-op, and hiked up the butte in Camel Back Park for a view of the city. Dumb luck had us at the summit right at sunset. Well-exercised and hungry, we went on to explore the Hyde Park district and found a great pizza joint where we ate pizza on the patio, and chatted like old pals all the while. Lucky, lucky!

Tomorrow is Portland Day, better rest up.

Onward

When I left drove outta Winter Park, I was feeling kinda blue. Somehow, it seemed my trip was over and that all that was left would be an anxious ride back to Portland. So I tried to not make it so. Instead of hauling up to 80, I opted for old Highway 40 through Colorado and Utah. I stopped when I felt like it, first in Steamboat Springs... the town has changed a lot since I was last there eight years ago. In Steamboat, I found a cellphone, looked at the last text message to try to contact somebody, and it read: "casey, let's get some fuckin' french toast." Left the phone at a local fly-fishing supply shop and hit the road again.

Dinosaur, Colorado: gassed up and shared an ice-cream cone with V.
Vernal, Utah: more dinosaur fantasia. Who knew T-Rex liked watermelon? I bet Chris Herlihy did.

I think lots of people would've found the day's drive to be dull. Lots of tan stuff. But I like tan stuff, and quiet drives through quiet towns and reservations, so my blueness dissolved into quiet tan goodness, and then something else good came my way: Phillibuster called from Park City and then, suddenly, I had a couch to sleep on and some fun plans for the evening. Phil lives in a boy-style condo, complete with pool-table, with a ski-instructor roommate named Cowboy, who, apparently, is actually a real cowboy.

We found the dog park, and Vesta played with the big, mutty, black dogs that pepper ski towns. Then some dinner at a local pub, the No Name Saloon, and a walk up the cutie-pie tourist strip called Main Street. I ordered a veggie burger with bacon, my fave! Then we rode up a scarily windy road to the top of the pass, and looked down over two valleys twinkling in the post-sunset barely-there light, before hitting Phil's bar for a drink and some live music. A real good folky cover of Billie Jean made my night (and guilted me about the Michael Jackson jokes I've been giggling over since Winter Park).

So nice to hang with Phil, and nice to see cute Park City, and happy that I wasn't all alone in a scrubbrush campground with mac and cheese. Leaving this morning and I'll decide the route when I get into the car and start driving. Home real soon, tomorrow morning-ish.

High Country Stampede

The High Country Stampede Rodeo was one of the highlights of my trip so far. Tony and I, and his friends Nigel and Pam (and baby David), watched the happenings with rapt attention, only distracted by the dinner that we shared. Good stuff, that rodeo.

On the way in, I took the best photo all month.

On the way out, we told our best jokes, and here's one of Tony's:

Why didn't the lifeguard save the hippie?
Because he was too far out, man.

I likelikelike it.

Then it was lateness and bedtime and readying for the last long leg back to Portland. Will share details on that stuff soon-ish. xo.

lost and found

I've lost those hazy, lazy boiling days, and as I write, find myself up high in the Rocky Mountains, panorama stretched wide in front of me, on Tony's deck.

Spent yesterday with Rina, hiking dogs around in Boulder, eating burritos at Illegal Pete's, and window-shopping on Pearl Street. Also spent a good part of the day searching for my lost keys, and had almost given up until a friend reminded me I might say a little prayer to St. Anthony, and quietly I did: St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around. Something is lost and needs to be found. And then, as a little addendum to that prayer, I prayed that if the keys were lost forever, please might I be graceful and let them go easily.

Naturally, I found them twenty minutes later.

With car-keys in hand, I was ready to drive to Fraser to Tony's place. It took awhile, winding my way over Berthoud Pass and down again. Then there I was at Mr. Terreri's condo, seeing my old friend for the first time in six years. Like most of us, Tony's grown better with age: still unshakably himself, still effing funny, still strong and still snarky, but he's softened up a little bit and grown up a little bit, and is warmer and gentler than I remember.

Rina and Todd came up for the evening, too, and we all laughed and joked about crazy old days, and did some catching up. Daydreamy talk about how to change the world, and hopelessness, and the greed of our culture, and how-could-we-change-things late into the night. Asking where our heros are. Learning about this one.

Good sleep, solid eight hours.

Chilling today, checked out a sub-par art and craft show in Winter Park, and headed to The Pub (yeah, that's what it's called) for some lunch in the sunshine with some friends. Now it's naptime. Need to get some rest before we head to..........

.........THE RODEO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Omigod. This is the luckiest thing that's happened in quite a spell.

rolling rolling rolling

My fantasy of deep sleep was replaced with big, slow-moving, raging thunderstorms that kept me up, and kept Vesta quaking, well into the wee hours. I'm not complaining, though... I love a good thunderstorm, and haven't seen one since Sturgis!

Woke up early today, walked V. around in the motel grass for her morning self-care rituals, and returned to the room with more chigger bites than you could shake a stick at. Aargh!

Drove on through Kansas with Boulder in my heart, and though I was tempted to stop at Prairie Dog Village, tempted to drive the extra hours to the worlds second largest ball of twine, tempted to stop at the Custer cavalry museum, or at various other highwayside attractions, I decided instead to take a side trip along secondary roads to seek out local life in the flatlands.

In a tiny town that isn't even named on the map, whose name I wrote down and promptly lost again, I stopped to walk around and take some pictures. Soon I was approached by a local character with wild hair and a face whose skin resembled polished, knotty wood. "Did you just take a picture of that house?" he asked me. I was a little scared, afraid he might tell me to get the hell out of there or smash my camera or something. I told him that I had, and the guy smiled as though this were the most thrilling thing to happen in a long time. I got the complete history of the place (it was once the home of the local newspaper), and some nice morningtime chit chat with this kindly gentleman. He was pleased at my off-the-70 approach to Kansas explorations, and I was pleased that he was pleased. Thank you, sweet sir, for making my day.

Kept on keeping on across lovely Kansas-- Kansas, I adore you!-- and into Colorado where I felt, at a rest stop, dry air once again. So good to breathe and walk outdoors without fear that I will swoon. (Swoon is such a buttoned-up, old-fashioned, romantic word. Don't you just love it?)

The front range appeared before me , and soon I found myself in Denver, checking in with Rina at the Children's Hospital and making plans for the evening. I had some hours to kill, so made my way to a dog park in Boulder, returned some calls, found a wireless hookup and then headed to Rina and Todd's place, in the shadow of the Flatiron Mountains. We walked dogs, got dinner, and now here I am, real sleepy, in a comfortable bed in their comfortable house, my old friends sleeping in the next room, my dog beside me, and my eyelids heavy heavy heavy. Must sleep.

The Kansas of Your Sweet Little Myth

In Topeka, prostrated in a well-air-conditioned cheap motel along I-70. Damn hot, following the theme of the last several days. 108. The Element is doing okay, but the A/C isn’t running real cool, so Vesta and I were glad to get here after a long, sweaty day on the road.

Rolling out of Kentucky and across Indiana, nothing much happened. I pondered important life details such as, "gee, the skin on my neck is getting a little wrinkly," while passing small towns named Santa Claus and Poseyville. Crossing Illinois, as the heat index and my caffeine level rose, my thoughts began to run further amok. I watched them and let them go alright. Return to Portland, to work, to eking out a living, is on my mind, and though I still have some fun destinations ahead of me, I’m well on my westward way. The month that once seemed it would stretch on utopian-forever, is nearing a close. It’s been fantastic, truly luxurious, to have this time to recalibrate my center. Amorphous ideas and musings I have pondered along the way have begun to come into clearer form and focus, and for me, that’s the most precious gift that travel can bring.

At this point, perhaps fueled by time on the east coast, I feel myself a bit more sharply. It’s as though this time away from the soft west coast has sharpened the blade that is me. And let’s see how I feel once things have settled back in at home, Portland home, but right now what I feel is this: I seek more challenge in my life. New learning. Maybe a graduate degree (gasp! Don’t hold me to this one, folks), maybe taking the reins of fiscal responsibility a bit more wisely (serious thoughts on retirement plans and health plans), and smaller changes, too.

Crossed that big Mississippi again with a view of the St. Louis Arch. In Missouri I passed a van filled with rosy-cheeked boys in baseball caps, strapping midwestern kids, and worried for them when I read the side of the vehicle: "Transporting the future of America’s Armed Forces." Tuned into a country music station for a spell, and sat back with it like a local in a pickup truck. Though those songs leave little room for imagination, their lack of obliquity or agenda matched the plodding, flat landscape, and brought me some refreshing reassurance as I drove through Kansas City and into Topeka.

Thanks for your many calls, dear ones. They’re coming at just the right time. It feels good to know you miss me, and are thinking of me, since today was a bit lonely. I love love love you.

Time now for some dinner. There’s a Steak n’Shake across the street, a greasy midwestern delight waiting to be had. And a cool bedroom, and deep sleep I hope, and an early start for my long drive to the Rocky Mountains, where friends are waiting, and cooler, drier air, and some new lightness once again.

we'll miss you, Ivy!

everything cheerful

Tomorrow is my leaving-Kentucky day, and I am almost ready to go. I love hot weather, but not this kind. When I dare to venture outside, the heat creeps up my legs under my skirt like a sidewalk villain. I'm stoked on Colorado, for Tony's house at 10,000 feet, for cool nights when I might actually need to wear a jacket and socks.

Though I am going to be v.sad saying goodbye to dear mama, and dear Ivy, and dear Jerry, I am ready to move on to cheerier places and conversations: discussion over the last few days has revolved around an old family friend who was murdered (find the story here), and also around my mother's insistence that I must hire an attorney and draft a will (so the government won't get their "dirty paws" on whatever assets I've got, and "use it to kill anyone else for lies"). Though I agree with her, the thought of putting any of my money into any attorney's dirty paws in order to draft the thing isn't super appealing either (sorry Camille and Marja. Y'all ain't got dirty paws). Shit. I forgot to pay my quarterly taxes. Real life is getting closer, only 2400 miles away.

Anyway. Murders and wills and oppressive heat is the news from Lake Wobegon. That, and... some lovely free-speech capers this morning involving a banner and a highway overpass. Rock on, my dear sisters and brothers. I heart you all.

Still in Kentucky

It is hot here, hot in the way of the Ohio River Valley: sort of like walking into a steamroom. It's been hovering around 100, but the heat index is much higher, so we've been lazing around telling stories and keeping cool in the basement with naughtily good projects like the one you see up there. (Take that, Christian Right!)

Running some errands for mama.

Goofing around with dogs.

Hiding out in the movie theater watching feelgood Hairspray.

Sleeping on the sofa to avoid hades-style bedroom.

Planning next leg of trip, and visits with old friends in Colorado.

I'll be here for another couple of days... leaving on Wednesday, I think. Much love from the hotbed of laziness. xo.

westward restward

Driving to my mama's house, I knew I was in the Bible Belt when I saw a billboard advertising a "Bible Factory Outlet, Up to 75% Off" and when, soon after that, two billboards in quick succession: "Where will you go after you die?" and then, "Hell is Real." Creepy-eepy. I guess I'll find out how real it is when I get there.

Soon enough, though, I made it off the road and into Louisville. Vesta and I finally met Miss Ivy, my mother's dear little puplet, with whom I have utterly fallen in love. Ivy and Vesta haven't stopped playing and wrestling since we arrived. My mom and I have been talking a lot and laughing a lot and telling secrets and laughing some more. It's nice to be here with her now, in the summertime, outside of the usual holiday-in-Louisville context (which unfortunately, despite efforts to the contrary, tends to be somewhat robotic and stressful). This time together feels special somehow, in a way I can't quite put my finger on. I love that kooky lady.


I've had the chance to do a good bit of catching up with my friend Kentucky Todd. That boy is darn good with a banjo, and I hadn't seen him play since before he left Portland and came back home, so I was glad to sit with a beer while he and the rest of his band (boys named Hickory and Sprout, how beautiful is that?) played a lovely set. Today we went for coffee and ran around the city thrifting: I turned up some good finds, including a kinda gorgeous pair of cowboy boots. Real nice.

So, yay! Good times, good rest, family, friends, dogs, and shoes. Not too shabby. Feeling content. xo

atlantic and westward again

Up early today after a good sleep at Brian and Jaynie's place in Dover. Vesta and I snuck out before anyone was awake, with plans for a long haul drive west. But before really hitting the highway, we drove through Portsmouth to Rye, and found the dog beach! Vesta and I romped around at the Atlantic coast, and put our feet in the warm, warm water that asked us to swim, rather than asking us to run for a heating pad, as does the Pacific.

We got on the road and drove through Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and into Western Pennsylvania. Nothing much exciting to report, except a pretty drive along route 80 through the Pennsylvania Wilds, and a quickie stop at a Petsmart we spied from the highway... Vesta needed a special bone for being such a stellar and patient passenger.

I decided to skip out on New York City. Doors there weren't opening so slick, and thankfully I'm not into pounding them down right now: Cara's in Spain, Toddler a busy bee, and I wasn't too hot on driving myself, my car full of gear, and my doggie into hot NYC stressville. I want to get home to Kentucky and into my mama's arms and relaxing housey. Need some rest.

Plenty of time today to ponder life's big questions, many of which have been shaken up along the way of this trip.

Lots of caffeine. I know I've been gone from Portland awhile when I think Dunkin' Donuts and McDonalds' coffee is tasty. Patience with road construction that cost us a couple of hours, and we rolled into a Microtel (my favorite motel chain!) in Clarion, PA around 8pm.

Wireless again, after quite a spell. TV. Hot shower, clean bed. Getting ready for sleep, and ready for the haul across Ohio tomorrow, and onward into Louisville. Once I get there, I'll backtrack and catch up on the last few days, and post about 'em. love you all, xo.

Tuesday: making some rounds, quick in a hurry

I visited people I love. Shirley and Fred are kinda like my chosen grandparents. When I was little, I stayed with them while my parents went on hiking trips. Shirley taught me how to knit, and spoiled me rotten. Fred taught me about sarcasm. I LOVE them, and it has been way too long since we spent any facetime together. I saw old photographs, including the quite spectacular specimen above, and was reminded of some of the expressions I heard as a child (the politically-correct term for sunburn, "red as an Indian," and phrase to indicate sudden movement, "quick in a hurry"... that just sounds like rushing, doesn't it?).

Then it was on to Dover, NH, to visit my dear old friend and college roommate Brian, and his fiance Jaynie, in their gorgeous old colonial house. I hadn't met Jayne yet, and I absolutely adore this girl. She made me feel so welcome and loved and comfortable! Kevin came over, too, and we drove to dinner in his Volvo and talked about yuppiness and off-the-grid living. I miss those Massholes, I really do! Wishing I could see them, and their crusty-sweet goodness, every day of my life. Alas, one fun night with beer and laughing and barbecue, will have to fill me up for now.

Sunday: Sleepy in Montpelier

Leaving the Valley was bittersweet: bitter because it meant saying a real goodbye to my BFF Amanda, after reconnecting in our sisterly way. Bitter because it also meant saying goodbye to the whole crew, and to the dear sweet valley, and to the everyone-in-the-same-place-at-once-ness that likely won't happen until someone else gets married.

But sweet, too: sweet because I got to visit Bethany (look how purty she is, at the shack up on the hill) and little Siiri (who isn't so little anymore, as it turns out). Sweet because we went to get maple creemees at the sugar shack in East Montpelier, and sweet because I got a big long nap in the afternoon before we headed to Joel's birthday party, which was also, of course, pretty sweet.
It was a quickie visit Montpelier-way, but restful and chill, which is exactly what I needed after the weekend of debauchery and T-Rexing. Thanks, Miss B, for putting me up and chatting it up. Miss you already.

Saturday: People got Married!

Saturday morning: Hangovers for everyone at Big Buck. Coffee at the roasters. Farmers’ Market in the village. Saw the Tan Man, who charges $6 for a pint of raspberries these days. I gritted my teeth and paid up like a good little city girl. Ran into so-and-so and so-and-so. Avoided so-and-so and so-and-so.

Went for a swim at Bobbin Mill with the boys. Matty dubbed the afternoon "The Last Temptation of Herilhy," and we jumped into that chilly water and felt all good and clear. Amanda and I, crashing the bachelor party. Chris saying, "this is my kind of bachelor party," as he sat in the cold river with a Trout River Ale in his hand.
Then, the wedding. The WEDDING! (I'll be posting pictures soon.) The nicest, most perfect wedding in the history of the world, maybe. Truly, it was really really nice. Outdoors, behind the pond at Millbrook, under the lovely little Octagon, short, sweet ceremony, the rain held off just until the vows, and when it came it seemed just right, as if maybe, when Chris and Emily declared their love and devotion to one another, the world just needed to touch them a little bit... to touch all of us, reminding us that we were really there in that important moment. Chris and Emily were both beautiful, so glowy and ready and right.

Thom and Joan put on a feast, of course, and Emily’s brother and Barry gave good toasts before the Starline Rhythm Boys knocked out a couple of real good sets. Good friends and food and dancing and booze and a pretty tent and fancy clothes barefoot in the grass on a Vermont summer night with humid air and peepers in the pond and so much love all around was almost enough to bust my heart all open right there, but I contained it and soon it was over, over in just the right amount of soon-ness, and we all went back to the Big Buck again, with a woozy kind of loviness hanging in the air.

Friday: Valley, Wedding stuff, and the Big Buck

On Friday, Amanda came into town and we had breakfast at Khatouna’s with our old friend Stacy. Stacy and Amanda were roommates way back, and lived in that cutie pie apartment just over the covered bridge in Waitsfield. We ate Khatouna’s good food (that woman makes anything taste better than anyone else can), and gossiped about what people are up to. Before we knew it, it was two o’clock.

Hot and sticky, Amanda and I dashed down to the river for a swim before heading over to the Big Buck Lodge, to score ourselves a bedroom in our weekend digs. The Buck is Jesse’s weekend ski-house, and is well-appointed in the way of the weekend warrior. The only "big buck" appears as a tattery, taxidermed doe’s head screwed to the wall above the stairwell, old-fashioned tele-skis and boots are screwed to other walls, and six bunkrooms can sleep somewhere around twenty people. We scored the next-to-the-bathroom bedroom and waited for other folks to roll in, before accidentally crashing Chris and Emily’s wedding rehearsal. Sorry, y'all!

Then it was off to Flatbread for our favorite vittles and wine. The experience at American Flatbread is rivaled by none… only open on Friday and Saturday nights, the old barn and woodfired oven produce some of the very yummiest food around. There’s always a long wait, so we sit by the fire outside and drink wine and talk to strangers who become friends. Still the same folks tending to the inside, samesame, goodsame. A little on the tipsy side, after our vino and dinner, we headed back to Millbrook for cocktail hour and mingling. Cory and Annie, Philibuster, Matt Reilly, Shippee and JoAnne, and all of Chris’ siblings were there in full force, and by the time we got there the first keg was already tapped. No worries, there was more to be had. This was not a weekend for want of beer.

We played awhile there, under the tent at Millbrook, before heading over to the Hyde Away for another round. Oh, Hyde Away, you are still the same and I love you. Sean was tending bar there, still there, samesame. Nice to see him. When I found him tending bar the next night at the wedding, there it was again, samesame, littlevalley.

After the Hyde Away, a dark walk up the dirt road and back to the Big Buck, where two refrigerators of Magic Hat and Long Trail and Otter Creek awaited us. Talk turned to the old story of the T-Rex, Chris’ infamous dance of yore, topic of many years’ worth of making-fun-of-Chris Herlihy. T-Rex chatter went on awhile, and a debate ensued about where the photo evidence of this particular form of movement had gone. (Burned by Chris Herlihy, I think.) General consensus was that there would most certainly be some T-Rexing taking place on the dancefloor at the wedding.

I shared a room with Amanda and Matty, and when we went to bed we giggled and talked awhile before drifting off. "T-Rex!" I heard Matty say after awhile, "That is funny."

And that is what Matt Reilly talks about in his sleep, as he drifts off, dreaming of Chris Herlihy. Almost beats the original T-Rex story.

oh, i love my old valley.

Back in the valley again. The dear, dear Mad River Valley, home of youthful adventure and debauchery and learning and the good old days. The Valley is still the same. People are still driving around in the same pickup trucks with the same canoes on top (canoes this time of year, instead of skis). Everyone looks pretty much the same, but a few years older. "I heard you were in town," they say when I run into them, after I've been in town for less than an hour.

Rural Vermont living is great in this way, it is so so wonderful. And it's also terrible, because privacy ain't real easy to come by.

I ran into my old friend Jacob at the post office, and he is beautiful and doing well, building canoes and kayaks and healthier than I've ever seen him. He is vibrant and and happy and clear, his hair is incredibly lovely (go with your bad self, Jacob!), and we talked about those good old days, how we weren't so clear back then, and how great it is to know clarity and inner peace. I got rundown on old crew, J-Ham's baby, Chris' housebuying plans, etc. People growed up. "Kevin is still Kevin," Jacob told me. Good thing, since that boy is a sizzler.

Found out about a party on Sunday in Montpelier, for Joel's birthday, where I'll likely run into anyone I haven't happened upon already, and where I'll get my play on with some of the old cats. It's funny, as I was driving into town today, I felt a little bit lost. Wondering what I'd do, if I'd feel lonely, if I'd find enough stuff to occupy me during the non-wedding stuff time. But lickety-split, as is always the case in the Valley, I've got some good mellow plans, and the lovefest is on.

Went river swimming in the Mad, to cool off from the sticky day that I would never complain about, because these days are so rare around these parts. Nice and cool and clean, got the travel stink off.

Staying the night with Khatouna, my second mama, who is also lovely and vibrant and clear these days. With wine and chocolate, we can talk a whole night away until sunrise, and we have lots to catch up about.

Remember what I said a few days ago about not being an easterner anymore? I think I was mistaken. Still got it, can't shake it. So happy to be here. So so so content right now. Except for one thing. I need groceries, and all the stores closed at six. That's the valley, still the same.

with my pops

dad making popovers

garden and barn

I’ve spent the last few days at my father’s house, running errands and spending time with my Pops. Coming home is hard (I think a lot of people feel this way, a kind of retroactive childhood ensuing as we visit our parents). My father is getting old. He’s eighty-one, and he’s lived in the same huge house for almost fifty years. I noticed the backyard hasn’t been mowed, and the garden is weedier than I’ve known it to be. The house is getting to be too much.

At dinner the night I got here, my dad told me he’s thinking of selling the place. He’s got some plans brewing, and although this stuff is hard to talk about, and hard to think about, and hard to do, I feel some relief that the elephant is being spoken of. Nothing too urgent, no swift maneuvers: "I’ve still got enough wood for two winters in the shed." My dad is a DIY-er, in the truest sense of the word, and still, with his bad eyesight and compromised balance and slowing-down-ness, chops his own wood, bakes his own bread (with grain he grinds himself), and makes strawberry-rhubarb pie with homegrown goods.

We’ve had a nice couple of days. I’ve gotten caught up on some errands, cleaned the car, done laundry, and spent many hours finishing up Chris and Emily’s wedding present. That feels good. We went to farmers’ market, on walks to the post office, and on little drives here and there. On Tuesday we went to see the Big Apple Circus, a longstanding summertime ritual for Dad and me, out on the Fullerton Farm. (Thankfully, this time, unlike one unpleasant circus experience while I was in college, I wasn't tripping.) Yesterday we rode up to Farm-Way in Bradford. For those of you who didn’t grow up in rural New England, the nuances of what it means to visit Farm-Way might be lost on you, but I’ll do my best. Farm-Way is the place you go to if you need a hose, any sort of gardening tool, grain for your cattle, work boots, Carhartts, or attachments for the milking machines. You also go to Farm-Way if you want Patagonia clothes, Dansko clogs, or good camping equiptment (a la REI). Sort of a one-stop shop for yuppies and farmers alike, way up to Bradford. ("Up to," around here, is used to denote anyplace upriver, or up a hill, or north. Sometimes, it means somewhere down a hill, or south, or downriver. It’s really pronounced "up tuh" and as long as you pronounce it right, nobody gives flack.) Anyway, around here, yuppies and farmers have a strange sort of symbiotic relationship, and if you want to understand it better, you have to live here, or at least take a trip to Farm-Way.

Anyhoo. I had a nice time at my dad’s house, I found a couple of big boxes of books I’d forgotten all about, poetry mostly, and all my Kerouac (nice timing!) so that’s pretty exciting. I’m on my way up and out just now, though, stopped in Hanover at the Dirt Cowboy Café for a coffee and wifi connection. Trying to update Flickr, I should be almost there. Ready to have onward motion again, I’m driving to Montpelier to meet miss Bethany for some lunch or somethin’, then on to the valley this afternoon, where I’ve got some massage work waiting for me, I think. I definitely have friends waiting for me there, and that makes me real happy. Old friends, good times, good snuggles and love.

More soon, maybe. I’m getting less and less inclined toward blogging/ emails/ phone calls the further into my trip I’m getting. If I haven’t returned your call, you’re not alone. Spotty reception and busy and feeling free and oaty don’t bode well for phonecalls. But I feel the love in your messages, and I’ll be back on the radar in another few days, once I’m done with valley and boston and NYC (hee haw!).
Xs and os. e

all the way home.

I am sitting on the bottom bunk in the bedroom in the old stone house where my Dad lives, the first of many bedrooms I’ve called my own. I am pretty sleepy. Amanda and I pulled into the Upper Valley this morning, after a long haul drive yesterday from Ohio to upstate New York and one last night of camping together.

We had a good run, Amanda and I. When I dropped her off today at her brother’s house, just a few miles from my Dad’s, we both felt bittersweet: it’s been a fun trip together, but we both were ready to get off the road and to have some quiet time alone. Of course, when I drove away from her, my excitement at the alone time I’d been lacking quickly faded away, and I felt a little bit lonely.

One of the things about traveling is that it’s not easy. Vacations are sometimes easy, but this really isn’t a vacation. It’s travel, it’s work of sorts, it’s a practice, it’s an inner journey as well as an outer one. Driving across this big wide land of ours, with silent hours to contemplate the shit that just doesn’t get mucked through at home, with all of home’s distractions, is no small task.

For me, possibly the most difficult element of this eastward odyssey has been really feeling, in a temporal and visual and tactile manner, how very far I am from New England. As we drove, I felt homesick, but it was a strange sort of homesickness because I wasn’t sure exactly where it was I was homesick for. This is a big, wide, lovely land, folks, and it took us nine days to drive across it. I feel settled in Portland, and happy, and rooted, and comfortable there. I feel at home there. But when the land begins to change in New York State, when the hills start rounding soft and small and blue, looking all fat this time of year, when we get out of the car and smell the grass and it is familiar in some old place deep inside of us, when we cross into Vermont and pass Killington on Route 4, and come down the mountain into Woodstock and see the barns we saw when we were small, I feel at home here, too.

It’s a little confusing, to be honest.

Anyway, Chicago was cool. Huge. We walked around and got kicked out of a public park because Vesta was with us. Then Vesta took a poo on the park, and I didn’t have a baggie, only a tiny piece of cellophane wrapper in my purse. So I picked up the poo all careful-like, but the cellophane was so small it would have appeared to any passing pedestrian that Miss Emily was carrying a log of shit in her bare hands! Unfortunately, this was quite a busy sidewalk, and the nearest trash receptacle was quite a distance away, so many Chicagoans are under the impression that I am a bare-handed shit-carrier.

We found, thanks to Roadfood, a spectacular drive-in lunch place called Superdawg, where we ate red-hots with relish and mustard, fries, and vanilla milkshakes, served to us while we sat in our car. I felt very American as I enjoyed this rite, if a bit of a lardass. After our Superdawgs, we drove onward through the rest of Chicago (did I mention Chicago is a BIG city?), and into Indiana.

Indiana was mostly a blur, because at this point we were on the get-back-to-VT mission. But one noteworthy interlude, with a noteworthy character, demands mention. With no imminent rest areas and full bladders, we got off the highway and found a KFC at which to relieve ourselves. While leaving the single-stalled bathroom –together, I should add, but only due to extenuating circumstances—we must have caught the attention of the aforementioned "noteworthy character." Naïve to this, we returned to our vehicle and were puttering around, getting a soda out of the cooler, whatever.

"Holy Shit!" the noteworthy character screams as he walks toward our car, "Hooooly SHIT!" He is talking to his wife, who is sitting in their older, boatlike Cadillac, smoking a cigarette, with curlers in her hair. "These people are from Ore-gone."
Then the noteworthy character engaged us in some chatter about holyshithowlongdidittakeyoutodrivehere, and so forth. Then the noteworthy character got into his boat and began to leave, as I put Vesta on her leash and began walking her in KFC’s greenery.
"If my wife weren’t here," he yelled out the window, "I’d ask you to put me on a leash!"
I feigned a smile.
"But don’t worry," he added, "That’s just a fantasy!"
Indeed.
So that was Indiana.

We camped that night in a town called Milan, doesn’t that sound swanky? It’s in Ohio. We stayed at the Milan Travel Center. The very sweet boy at the counter said dogs aren’t usually allowed in the tent area (see pic), because people don’t pick up after their dogs’ "mess." I told him about the cellophane incident in Chicago and said that if that doesn’t prove I clean up after my dog, I don’t know what will. We got the site, of course.

While at the Milan Travel Center, we met an old man and his dog. The dog had purple barrettes in her hair. The dog’s name is Jolie Le Fille. And if you speak french, you’ll know why this is funny.

The rest of our trip was pretty uneventful. We talked a lot, and last night camped at the Glimmer Glass Lake in Cooperstown, NY. We made one of those delicious, only-think-of-this-if-you’re-camping meals, and drank the second bottle of champagne from Becca and Eric, and then we went to bed early.

On homeward, we stopped quickly at the VT border before busting out the rest of the trip back to the Upper Valley.

My Dad's house is a great pitstop, chance to get laundry done, car cleaned up, rested, and fed. I met Amanda and her brother Marcus for a drink at Jesse's after work, and met his fiance Erin! I haven't seen Marcus in years and he is all grown up now, with a lovely wife-to-be. So nice to see them.

Then it was home to a delicious dinner with my pops, and some hard talks about aging and the future. Still simmering on that stuff, more on that later. I love you all!