IN MEMORIAM

HEINZ, 1992-2005

South Bend, Indiana

On the return to DeTour only five days after the caravan, our faithful companion of almost fourteen years, Heinz, became weak and uncharacteristically lethargic. A rapid onset of ankle and groin swelling
revealed an aggressive lymphatic sarcoma.

In only five days, he became comatose and died peacefully on September 30th. He lived a good life. He could be dainty, yet regal. His favorite demeanor was to appear lost, knowing that Lynn would always find his way, just as she had when she picked him from a free puppy box at the farmer's market.

No cards, flowers, or sympathy are necessary.......just be gentle and loving to the pets in your lives.

Mom, Dad, and Kramer will never forget you.
Good bye, good friend, don't ever lose your way.

The End of an Odyssey
September 22, 2005
Sault Ste. Marie, Mi.

The first day umbilically separated from the caravan began somewhat ominously. Only 12 miles out we missed a turn in Ellsworth, Me., circled the block, and in driving rain, failed to see a high sharp curb. This resulted in an exploded curbside trailer tire. One hour later, in the parking lot of the city jail and courthouse, I had completed the tire change, soaking wet. Physically and emotionally exhausted, we began the long trek home through Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont on through to Ontario.




Heinz and Lynn studying their
French lessons.











We passed by a "Funky Frank's". On a damp, overcast day, Frank was kind enough to display on his property, everything he had ever owned that was not water-soluble. Absent a compositional focal point and suitable light, I failed to take a photograph of this landfill-in-waiting because the fill covered what I assume was land underneath. Use your imagination.


In Rumford, Maine, a tribute to
native son, Ed Muskie, chiseled in granite.













In the Soo, 6600 miles, 66 days, four
tired puppies complete the circuit.



I once read in the NY Times Book Review that odyssey is defined as a trip or adventure that must begin AND end in the same place. We therefore felt compelled, bound by literary accuracy, to return to the Chippewa campground, Sault Ste. Marie, Mi. where we had convened nearly ten weeks before.

The only hiccup occurred at our border crossing where we were stopped by the ever vigilant, always suspicious, US Customs and Homeland Security for a search of the trailer. At some point on the bumpy roads of Canada, our pantry door latch failed, an 18 ounce cylinder of Quaker Oats had fallen to the floor, and effectively distributed oats from the rear bedroom to the front couch. Lynn, quick to defend her housekeeping prowess, was summarily dismissed by the PMS inspired female customs agent who commanded her to LEAVE the trailer while she did the inspection.
Bottom line: our planned dinner, left-over spaghetti with meat balls, was the only item confiscated....for fear of mad cow disease. How about mad wife disease.

A final thought about the difference and similarity of 1955 to 2005. Fifty years ago the sight of 100 travel trailers, equipped with modern conveniences of home was a true curiosity, a novelty similar to the circus coming to town. With few private campgrounds, they relied on public parks, vacant exhibition grounds, & private farmland for space, and were fortunate to have water on occasion and rarely three amps of electricity. Comfy,lightweight, towed by V-8 Cadillacs, Buicks, and Ford station wagons, they were perceived as the modern day version of the previous century's small covered Conestogas. Fast forward to 2005 where we spent all but seven nights in private campgrounds, most with full electric, water, and sewage facilities. Fully self-contained, our immediate interests were satellite TV reception, availability of wi-fi internet access, & location of the nearest Wal-Mart. Studio apartments on wheels. RVs are now as ubiquitous on the highways as cars and semis. Other organized groups of motorhomes, banded together in scheduled travel 'tracks', crossed our path several times. Impostors.

Perhaps in 50 years, others, armed with our travelogues, diaries, and scrapbooks, may attempt to replicate what we have done in a "Century" format, or even in the year 2030 as a "Diamond" jubilee. I forsee monster carriages, fueled by something other than fossil fuels, driven and guided remotely by GPS satellite chips imbedded into roadways. By simple extrapolation, all the comforts of home will be inside, four dimensional plasma walls to preview each coming attraction before you arrive at your destination, a large cabinet displaying your antique John Deere lawn tractor from 2011, and most importantly, your above-ground swimming pool. The most difficult decision will be, when arriving at the next waterfall, church, museum, or scenic lookout.....whether to actually get out and look at it.


A 34 foot A/S Excella feels this
roomy after nine weeks.










Our group, averaging seventy years +, was co-operative, energetic, inquisitive, and fun-loving in spite of advancing age. Did I mention that they are getting along in years ? Genuinely nice older people who melded together for two months to share in an unforgettable experience of fun, fellowship, and adventure.

The Final Banquet
Downwardly Mobile in
Trenton, Maine....September 17, 2005

Our last three days in Maine are hectic. The journal committee finished its final pages and preparations for the banquet are intercepted by non-stop dew, fog, showers, cats & dogs, coming down in buckets, rain. Some have ventured to romantic Bar Harbor and the Acadia National Park, where they got soaked. Others to the top of Cadillac Mountain, able to see as far as the hood of their car, where they got soaked. A token celebratory baked potato supper was held under a damp pavilion the night before the grand event.

Recipe (for you HGTV fans) as follows:

remove the reynolds wrap

slather with chili, onions, cheese, broccoli, sour cream

wash down with boxed zinfandel wine, oreo cookies, and a Klondike bar.

You might want seconds.

These caravanners have standards, depending on how low you want to set the bar. Goodbye Martha Stewart, hello scout camp.

The final banquet is held in the dining room of a local country club. There is no head table, no stage, the ceiling is too low and the room is full of posts. We have our own basic audio system (a mechanical hand held mike), a podium that served as a doghouse in a previous life, and we're underway.

The booming voice of John Wittman,
emcee. Positioned behind the podium and close to the getaway.

Led by the booming voice of our professional emcee from Texas Tech, let the amateur night begin:

.....welcoming prayer

.....a multiple choice S.A.T. test

.....favorite moments revealed

.....warm-up monolgue

.....singing ladies

.....singing men

.....an enthusiastic skit

.....poetry and thank you's all around

Burt and Dot Kalet, veterinary duo from Winston-Salem, NC, who provided wise counsel during a stressful episode with our dog, Kramer. Exemplary airstreamers, always willing to help.

Two cupcakes with white frosting.
Lynn Spiher and Conna Whitmore

Vic Carson has his 'yearbook'
signed.

It ended with a robust version of "God Bless America", hugs, handshakes, and the free flowing of tears. Truly a bittersweet moment. Survivors of an endurance contest, assembled by fate, selected at random, we had become an amalgam of nicely dressed friends. Below the surface, we, like distempered raccoons, know each other as rumpled denim, wrinkled dockers, boat trips & bus rides, bumpy roads & smooth-as-glass sunsets, lobster boil on the Gaspe', Amoeba day-sailing in Baddeck, peasant soup in Antigonish, corduroy only on special occasions, the night belonged to each and everyone of us, a spirit only we could share, this night, our last night together....forever.

The inimitable Bill Bucher, Biglerville, Pa.,
enjoying the evening away from polishing
his beautiful classic airstream.

A most elegant couple, the Duartes from
San Luis Obispo, Ca.
Joyce always insists
that Art zip up his fly on formal occasions.

My next post will probably be the last. Whether you were on the caravan, either in person or vicariously, please offer your own commentary or advice on the log. It doesn't even have to be nice. I'll do a wrap up in two weeks and I promise to respond personally if time allows.

Note that I have not mentioned any one by name. Or I would feel compelled to mention everyone. But John and Shirley Wittman deserve recognition for producing and chairing the final event; maximum joy, minimum budget. The tribute is that we all know one another in our own special way. Thanks for the memories.....

Maine Dew,
near Trenton, Me.
Sepember 14 2005

Our re-entry into the states has been damp. Alternating between dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dead skunk in the middle of the road, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain.



Short wait at the border crossing,
Calais, Maine











At times, even the most mundane, malodorous object can become compelling. Break that monotony.

The three days in St. John were so damp and now the stay in Maine promises the same....a remnant from a hurricane and tropical storm system that has besieged the North Carolina shore, Ophelia. I was honored to be selected as chairman of the journal committee, so the last few days will be somewhat hectic, wrapping the final chapter for distribution at the final banquet. I had also volunteered to do a warm-up routine for the emcee, John Wittman. I'm going to fry some of the caravanners, but in a light, non-libelous manner. Hell, nobody knows my home address, so I should be able to pull it off.


We are nearing the end and I'd like to share with you what has developed into a caravan "rhythm". With little variation at each successive stop, the advance team (the parkers) prepares for the troop arrival. It begins innocently and slowly, a few large trailers, a steady stream of motorhomes as large as buses with shiny new cars in tow, vans and trucks packed full of eager and hopeful faces, pouring past the park gatehouse. A small, private, empty campground can erupt into a suburban development gone mad, new neighbors moving in every minute.





Found adhered to the side
of a 1964, 19" A/S,
Trenton, Maine







Dr. Seuss would have loved it. They come in every imaginable contraption, motors revving, brakes squeaking, as they search for their numbered piece of paradise. Husbands yell at wives as they manuever their homes on wheels backwards. Motorhomes are leveled, awnings stretched, electric jacks whine, hitches unclick, tarps and welcome mats laid, extension cords, hoses strategically construed to define each homestead.

Check your antenna, your
step, and your navigator.












Satellite dishes emerge, set-up, aimed, re-aimed in a choreography resembling a tribal dance. Away from irritating trees, atop picnic tables, anchored on tripods, the musical score of beeping signals resonating 200 channel success from the southwest sky. More of a performance than work, every task a collaborative effort in its execution.

I've been reading "Walden", by Thoreau, and he observed that our luxuries have burdened us to the point that we are slaves to them. Not machines working for men, but men spending their lifetime working for machines. I often wonder. How did he know that ? Was he watching the Discovery Channel?

Recently I read of an affliction, "affluenza", that suggests what many of us suffer from, the viral burden of too much affluence. Think about it.

Finally, as if to signal the end of it all, lawn chairs begin to snap to attention as they stop and sit for a moment, satisfied, content, able to get away from it all. An interesting phenomenon occurs when people are gathered together. Some begin to spend time looking at one another, wondering what the others must be like. That is what happened here...slowly recognizing the importance of each individual, if only on the surface, then disembarking in seventy two hours to begin the process anew.

The irony is the fragile thread that brought us together. Listen carefully to how preposterous the attachment might appear to a casual objective observer.....you all own the same brand of RV ? That's it ?? So. Would you gather with people who owned the same brand of automatic washer (Maytag, Kenmore), same brand of underwear (Munsingwear, Hanes) or take the same brand of antidepressant (Zyprexa, Zoloft) ? Hardly. A stretch when examined as a rational behavior, but it does seem to work.














On a sunnier day, near Peggy's Cove,
This was the best fish and chips,
ever. Fredie was truly fantastic.









Charlie and who else,

Fredie.








The department of tourism might describe today's condition as mysterious, moody, or even mystical. I'm going with foggy, wet, and cloudy. The answer my friend, is written...........

Saint Johns, New Brunswick
September 13, 2005
Refined Oil, Reversing Falls, & Relinquishing to TIM HORTON

My childhood was spent in an area south of Chicago on the shores of Lake Michigan, encompassing Gary, Hammond, and Whiting, Indiana, home to Sinclair, Standard Oil, Conoco. Today on the scenic drive from Sussex, NB, through St. Martins, NB, toward Saint Johns we came across the largest oil refinery I had ever seen...Irving of Canada on the Bay of Fundy. Privately owned, three Irving brothers refine 80% of Canada's oil. They are not eligible for public assistance. They charge more at the pump here than they do in neighboring provinces (the gas is fresher).



In forward or reverse,
two of my favorites:
L-R
Carol Wallen & Dot Kalet






St. Johns is otherwise quite dull...a decent farmer's market, several squares named after kings or queens, and the famed reversing falls. The water flows backward during high tide....yawn.



On this trip we have been exposed to many of the following:
The largest....
The first.....
The oldest.....
The only.....




Lizzie Borden, are you listening ?
The World's Largest Axe, 66 feet high,
in Nackiwac, NB. Which anagrams to:
CAN-WACKI !









All you have to do is fill in the blanks;
Lobster, Stainless Steel Axe, Maritime library outside the British Isles, License plate to commemorate Veterans, Highest Tide, Longest bridge, yada, yada.





A highlight of the day was visiting the paint-by-number museum of Storme Arden and Dorain Henderson, which you can visit at their website,
<>. Lynn and I have had a cheap metal magazine rack in our trailer for the last seven years (maybe a $1 garage sale purchase) that was sold as a paint-by-number keepsake in the 50s. Lynn thought it was dreadfully tacky, and I, by contrast, felt it was an astonishing example of truly collectable retro-chic priceless art. Guess who was right ?





The paint-by-number gallery;
Worth a special trip....
awe inspiring.











The curators,
L-R,
Dorain Henderson & Storme Arden,
in lovely St. Martins, NB
















Both women were in awe, so I elected to donate it to their museum where it will remain on exhibit in perpetuity, or until they sell it on e-bay, whichever comes first.





This was also our last day in Canada, home of the Canadian Embassy, or as it is known here, TIM HORTON'S. I had quietly and reluctantly sidestepped entering a Tim Horton's until this final day. We were accompanied by Canadian friends, Roy and Bonnie MacDonald (note the irony), as I lost my TH virginity.
It was o.k., fast food, fresh, high in calories and sodium ion, and modestly priced, but I doubt that I'll ever return.





In Tim Hortons men's restroom,
this awesome yawning "SCHMOO"
cycloptic urinal.













The cupcake drags Chas. into
the TH while amused Irving employees
belch with excitement





In the beginning I indicated that the caravan invaded Canada in a staggered start, 3 sections of 35 units in intervals of 3 days. We are now staggering toward the finish. Our rigs are filthy, systems internal and external have failed including but not limited to:
cabinets falling off walls, drawers coming apart, microwave exploding, electric jack melting, toilet seals deteriorate, cabin bodies loosening from frames, broken axles, flat tires, fan belts shred, refrigerator failure. We are like a deuce in the discard pile.


Frank Guros watches as
John Dona changes his tire.
"It was only flat on the bottom"












An overhead advert on the tour
bus in St. Johns, which somehow
seemed aimed at our target audience.



















The days dwindle down to a precious few as we at last entered northern Maine, after 57 days out of the U.S., autumn now erupting in its annual gestation, that quiet exhilaration of brown, yellow, and amber madness. It seemed appropriate to listen to Greenwood's, "Proud to be an American", and Springsteen's, "Born in the U.S.A.", as we crossed the border. Even in a country that is being hopelessly mismanaged, we remain steadfastly loyal, it's good to be home.

A Ferry Ride to another world
Prince Edward Island
September 11, 2005



The tearing caused by a foreign impediment,
Kathy Griffin, our co-leader, and a real eyeful.





The Prince Edward Island has a personality quite dissimilar to Nova Scotia. Physically it is smaller, the topography is much smoother, the soil is red from the iron oxide, and the land is built on sandstone.




Roy and Bonnie MacDonald
Favorite Canadians enjoying
the lobster at North Rustico,
the Fisherman's Wharf











There are three major industries; agriculture, which is primarily vegetables, new potatoes and cattle, mostly Holsteins; lobster restaurants with Vegas style salad bars; and Anne of Green Gables. The latter is the economic impetus for the entire island. People don't seem to understand that Anne Shirley, Avonlea, and the Green Gables is a work of fiction. It didn't really exist but in the imagination of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Is any one listening ?





Yeah, yeah
you little whiny weasel












You reach the island recalling the heart warming story of Anne Shirley, the pathetic little orphan girl with pigtails who somehow overcomes initial rejection and becomes a sentimental favorite by the books' end. You leave the island hoping that you'll never again see the image of that precocious little redheaded twerp in serious need of anger management training.




The lobster was better than this.























Cupcake...it's all
imaginary.







So what did we do on the island, inquiring minds wish to know ? Well first we went to see the site of the founding of the Confederation (this is the Canadian version of our Indepence Hall) on our way to the theater to see, what else, "ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, THE MUSICAL".

The next day we went to Cavendish to see where Anne would have lived if she had not been a fictional character...which she was. Then we went to see Avonlea, the non-existent town she didn't live in which was followed by a visit to the National Parc of Canada to the house of Green Gables, which was built to satisfy fairy tale obsessions of older women in serious need to find a gift shop of endless trinkets made in China all representing a make-believe person.



















The most interesting stop for us was on the island's north coast bordering the Atlantic with near gale force winds of 30-40 mph and pounding surf. Two large draft horses, attached to the owners' tethers were harvesting sled fulls of Irish Moss. The reward is 42 cents/lb for the moss, which looks like seaweed, and is sold as the source for an emulsifying agent to the cosmetic and ice cream industries.
The drama of the giant steeds in the surf was overwhelming, as was trying to stay steady to take photos.














We departed P.E.I. on the Confederation bridge, a 9 mile causeway. You get on the island free, but it requires a $45.25 toll to depart. I suspect many of the people living on the island either can't afford the price of gasoline or the toll to leave. Perhaps you recall the story of a man named Charlie, who on a tragic and fateful day, put ten cents in his pocket, kissed his wife and his family, and went to ride on the MTA. The Kingston Trio was just 50 years ahead of their time.











Tireless and Devoted...
Chuck and Doris Jean Cabalka,
Newton, Iowa.
Grinding away toward
journal success.







The caravan is winding down and an undercurrent of euphoria is beginning to surface. It has been a long, long adventure. Our personal experience has been extremely positive. My duty as chairman of the journal committee has been made very simple through delegation. The members do all the work and I, doing nothing, will get the credit.
Namely, Chuck and Doris Jean Cabalka, who have dual PCs, more computer skills than I can imagine, and a printer, and have spent countless hours translating all the entries into a readable text. Bonnie MacDonald proofreads the text (old schoolteachers never quit), while Fran Perucci dogs all the laggards who haven't made their entries. Lynn collates the pages, Nora Guros writes the poetry, and Vada Dodge and I will hand out the finished version at the final banquet. What a deal.

Watch for it on the New York Times best seller list.

On the way from PEI to St. Johns, we took the opportunity to visit the village of St. Martin's, which has, take a deep breath, one of the most extensive collections of finished paint-by-number artworks. A personal collection, and not for sale, I will include the lady's web-site and photos in my next entry. It was dazzling. Paint-by-number art was recently featured in the Smithsonian and is now recognized as a legitimate medium. It was where my own art career came to a close in 1953. And I suspect many of yours, too.

On board the "AMOEBA"









BADDECK, NS TO P.E.I.
SEPTEMBER 9, 2005
The deck of the Amoeba to Anne of Green Gables,
Stay TUNA'd IN








Can Benign Bay be far away ?












Old salts, Bill Turner,
Cathy Carlig, & Lynn Spiher
ready to sail



Our last day in Baddeck was spectacular. It was sunny, breezy, and a perfect day for a sail on the Amoeba, a 67' two masted ship. This was not some fake excursion, with a diesel propelling us around the bay. Three minutes off the dock the engine was off and we were under sail. A family owned craft, our captain Johns' father had hand-built the boat in 1977. His charming wife, Bev, and daughter, Laurie, served as the support crew and waitstaff. The youngest daughter, Christy, handled the dock. We had lunch on board, reached eight knots at one point, got a close-up view of the Alexander Graham Bell home (not open to visitors as it is still occupied by the descendants of old AGB), and a bald eagle nesting in its aerie. A caravan highlight.




Hemming Ernestway's
Old Men and the Sea,
l-r,
Jack Dallimore, Max Joseph,
Gary Fithian, Dale Tague








Jay Maxwell, retired Delta Airlines pilot, lectures Rena Yee, Myra and Max Joseph, on the dangers of sailing.















Alex's special home on a 500 acre point.


The following day we departed for New Glasgow, NS, with a destination of a shopping center parking lot for a single overnight stay. This strategy was employed to position the caravan for an early morning departure on the P.E.I. ferry. Asphalt is not dog poop friendly so we extended our day tour well into the evening to avoid the "mall". Most malls have the ambience of an airport kiosk, an interior design as inviting as elevator collision matting, and the personality of a Q-Tip, so I doubt we missed much.












Nova Jersey A/S jacket












This led us to a unique daytime experience along the Cape Breton coast in a small seacoast town, Port Hood, home of the Ceilidh Fishermans' Co-Op. We manuevered the trailer near the dock and met up with a half dozen tuna fisherman. That morning they had caught 8 bluefin tuna, ranging from 375 lbs. up to 984 lbs. They are carefully regulated by the govt. as to when (the season), how many (one per day), they catch, then taxed $150 per fish, + $30 a year for the renewal of the license. Current value of the lifetime license (salable and transferable) is $85,000.


Lynn and the 984 lb. bluefin.





















The auctioneer offered us a little tail.




The fish are so heavy, they simply tie a rope around the tail and tow them home. Unlike Hemingway, they are not encumbered by sharks looking for a free lunch. This tuna is not for canning, i.e., Starkist, Chicken of the Sea, Bumblebee, but is the prized sushi in the world. They are auctioned off the same day to buyers from around the globe. The very best go to Japan, the marginal to Europe and the states. At roughly $16/lb at auction, it retails in Tokyo for $75/lb. Hey, eat it raw, why waste expensive fossil fuel cooking ?



The fishermen love the life and like many small farmers, make a marginal living in answering the call to nature.

We made the trip over to Prince Edward Island on the Confederation Ottawa, a large non-descript ferry in the morning and are now on the island of Anne of Green Gables and her beloved Avonlea. I know that by the time we leave here I'm going to be nauseated by the sight of that little red-haired weinie in pigtails. I'd rather be reincarnated as one of A.G. Bells' descendents. Who said everyone is born equal.


The province, one of the last to battle
Sunday shopping.









Today, for lunch, what else, ?...... tuna salad sandwiches.