A Day in Paradise

As a self-proclaimed Coloradan, you may think my next statement is blasphemous: Northern Indiana is as close to my image of heaven as I have seen on earth.


We traveled to northern Indiana to visit the Redwood RV factory, and as a side benefit we got to spend three days in the tranquil beauty of the Amish countryside.

According to Religioustolerance.org, the Amish were started by Jacob Amman (Amish is derived from his name) in 1693 in Switzerland as a reform group within the Mennonite movement. The Amish thought the Mennonites lacked discipline and wanted to restore their faith to its earlier practices. In the 18th century, some of the Amish migrated to the United States, originally settling in Pennsylvania, but soon moved west into Indiana, Ohio, and many other states.

The Amish attempt to preserve the rural lifestyle of 17th Century Europe. By avoiding modern conveniences, they isolate themselves from today’s American culture.

As we meandered past picturesque farms and through small towns decked out with American flags, we made our way to Shipshewana, an Amish village that welcomes visitors.  Most of the pictures I've included here are from around Shipshewana.  What really made it my idea of paradise was the number of quilt shops. We saw Cotton Corners and Yoders Department Store, plus Lolly's Fabric store.   I must report that Larry dutifully trooped behind me until his eyes glazed over and his head was about to explode. No worries. Nothing a beer can't fix. 

The Farmers of Winchester Berry Farm

My sister, Debbie, and brother-in-law, Bill, bought 25 acres of rural Ohio back in 2002.  Since then, they have spent vacations and weekends taming parts of it.  They built a weekend home, dug a pond and stocked it with fish, built outbuildings, carved out roads, and created an ever-expanding garden.

I am truly amazed at all they have accomplished in a decade.  They made friends with their young neighbor and he cuts and bales the hay on about half the property in exchange for hay to feed his growing herd.

The garden is where most of their attention is focused.  Bill, a PhD chemist for Procter & Gamble by day, has always had a green thumb.  He has a wealth of knowledge about how to grow plants and what nutrients need to be in the soil for optimum production.  

In addition to the farm, Bill and Debbie have a gigantic garden in the backyard of their city home.  The produce they raise in these two gardents feeds their own family, friends, clients at a farmer’s market, and a church-sponsored food pantry.  Many of the plants are started in a greenhouse Debbie and Bill constructed, and Bill also   uses damp paper towels in a Ziplock bag to start soybeans and cucumbers.  Apparently, Ohio soil can get saturated with heavy springtime rains, so Bill prefers to give his seeds a fighting chance with a Head Start program.

Back on the farm, Debbie, son Logan, and Bill planted several varieties of beans as well as beets.  They weeded around potato plants and tomatoes that were bushy and blooming.  Blueberries and blackberries were already showing promise for a banner year.

There’s always plenty to do on the farm, and after Cincinnati Chili for lunch, Larry used the bush-hog attached to a tractor to mow nearly 10 acres of property that couldn’t be bailed because it contained low, wet areas and turtle ponds.

One of my favorite things about Bill, whom I have known since I was 13, is that he is a very creative inventor.  For example, Bill made a coffee roaster from an air popcorn maker, and he used a washing machine motor to convert an old gas-operated cement mixer to electric.  He said the washing machine motor was tricky at to use at first...making cement using a fast spin cycle isn’t ideal.  He managed to make it work, and with the flip of a light switch mounted to the motor, he can mix away on the slower wash cycle.

Perhaps the happiest creature on the farm is Rocky, the part-beagle who ran away from a hunter years ago and adopted Debbie and Bill.  Rocky is afraid of loud noises (thus her decision to change careers) and isn’t too keen on cameras, either.  I managed to capture her in action checking out the perimeter of her farm.  This dog, and this family, seem to have discovered the secrets to a good life.

Jammin' Sisters

My big sister can do anything.  She has always been very accomplished: great student, musician, linguist.  Yesterday we made jam together and as we cooked and chatted, I saw her in a whole new light.

We made four batches of jam: two blueberry and two strawberry for a total of 34 jars.  Debbie and my brother-in-law, Bill, grew the berries on their farm.  They harvested them, cleaned them, and froze them.

I’ve made jam before, but mine boiled over and never jelled.  Debbie is very precise in her jam making, something that makes me smirk because when we were growing up she would often announce, “A good cook never measures!” in a falsetto voice imitating her idol, Julia Child.  At that time, she was no Julia Child, let me tell you.

 Anyway, the berries were measured and she let me mush them (a perfect job for the “little sister.” We revert right back to our familial roles.)  Into the pot the fragrant berries went, followed by a pack of pectin.  I didn’t use pectin when I made my jam.  Deb said that’s why it turned out like syrup.  We brought the berries/pectin to a boil, then added gobs of sugar.  Stirring constantly, we brought it to a boil and set a timer to let the sweet berries boil for exactly one minute, carefully monitoring so it didn’t boil over (another step I previously neglected).

At that point, we loaded the concoction into 1/2 pint jars, screwed on seal tops, and immersed them in a boiling bath for 10 minutes to ensure all monkey pox present was killed.

While the jam cooled I used my rotary cutter to fashion fabric covers for the jam.  This summer, Debbie plans to sell it for $4 a jar at the farmer’s market.  She will also sell vegetables and berries from the farm once it starts producing.

Jam is pretty easy to make if you have a guide.  Debbie also makes her own syrup (she taps the Sugar Maples in her backyard), her own yogurt, roasts coffee beans, grows and pickles cucumbers and okra, cans tomatoes, and with her husband, makes amazing beer.

She is a veritable renaissance woman compared to the person who used to play our high school fight song on her piccolo at 6 a.m. or hold my legs over my head until I said the magic word...But I must say, she was a good guide at other things, too.  As big sisters go, she’s one in a million.

Musings on Airbags and Fan Belts

Yesterday we pulled out of Sikeston after a glorious two week stay.  We originally planned to stay just a few days, but southern hospitality (thanks Becky, Don and brother-in-law Johnny) and truck work kept us longer than expected.

Since this is a blog about RVing, I must talk a little about the mechanics of traveling with a 14,000 pound house on wheels.  Our Ford F-250 truck, named Sheldon, was up for the task, but we noticed the suspension system was sagging a bit too much (as seen in the photo).  Like a braw without underwire, Sheldon needed more support. So Larry investigated air bag suspension systems and found a dandy one made by Airlift.  We ordered the part, then waited for it to be delivered and installed.

I secretly think Larry was slipping the mechanics a little something to prolong the job...all I know is on day 13 when I announced that since the truck wasn’t ready I was going to Cape (what us locals call Cape Girardeau) to shop at the quilt store.  BAZINGA!! The truck was finished by noon.  

The suspension system works well and even an untrained eye like mine can see that the 5th wheel is riding better.  Larry said it handled much better as we traveled across Illinois, into Indiana, Kentucky, and finally into Ohio. 

Speaking of Indiana, there’s a little town we passed on the way called Poseyville that holds a special place in my heart.  Back in the summer of 1982 my mom and I were traveling cross country in our little Subaru on the way to Colorado State University for my senior year.  On the interstate just outside of Poseyville our car broke down.  

We got out, lifted the hod and took a look: broken fan belt.  My clairvoyant father happened to stash an extra in my things but Mom and I had no idea how to change it.  Within five minutes three cars and a highway patrolman pulled over to offer assistance.  In less than 10 minutes, our belt was firmly attached and we were back on the road, forever grateful to the nice folks in Poseyville.

My mom said she still looks out for Poseyville when she watches the Weather Channel.  She wishes them just enough rain for healthy crops but no damaging winds.  One good turn deserves another.  Isn’t it amazing that the kind acts of others can stay with us for a lifetime?

Full as a Tick on a Hound Dog

Ever heard of the “Home of the Throwed Rolls”?  If you travel on the highway in any direction in or out of Sikeston, MO, you are bound to see the signs for Lambert’s Cafe.  Lambert’s is a Sikeston tradition that started when Earl Lambert opened a tiny cafe 70 years ago.  His son, Norman (who just happened to be Larry’s football coach), used spur-of-the-moment marketing and a roving reporter to grow the cafe into a big-time restaurant.  The story goes that a TV crew roaming the country for interesting stories stopped in at Lambert’s for a bite to eat.  Norm was doing magic tricks and with an eye toward Hollywood, hollered “Home of the Throwed Rolls!” and tossed one of those piping hot bad boys to an unsuspecting customer.  The crew busted out their cameras and the story they produced was a big hit.  A tradition was born.

Scanning the menu, a hungry diner can find all sorts of comfort food, from fried chicken to meatloaf to pig jowl.  More about the pig jowl in a minute.  I decided to eat strategically because before I even placed my order I had woofed down two rolls and a half pound of fried okra “pass arounds.”  Pass arounds are free sides that come in addition to a heaping portion of whatever you order.  I ordered chicken and dumplings, light and homey.  Larry ordered hamburger steak with gravy, which translated to a half a side of beef with a gallon of gravy.  He suffered all night.  He didn’t think strategically.

Pig Jowl.  This is not an item that I saw on the menus of the tony restaurants we sometimes frequented in southern California.  I am familiar with jowl, as mine are growing more and more with each handful of fried okra I consume. Pig jowl, apparently, is a delicacy and a classic at Lambert’s.  My pal, Don, loves the pig jowls at Lambert’s. He says they cook them perfectly with a crispiness that cannot be reproduced at home.  Once he asked them how they did it. “We deep fry it,” was the answer.  So if you want to try it at home, get out your deep fryer and drop in a slice of bacon. Great. It all but ruined it for Don.

Another Sikeston tradition is a little hamburger joint downtown called “Kirby’s.”  Kirby burgers have been a mainstay for hungry people since 1907.  About 10 years ago, Don Newton bought the restaurant from Sharon Kirby.  He may not be a Kirby, but he says the burgers are as good today as ever.  He spotted my California license plates before we even walked in the front door.  It only took a few minutes of conversation before he and Larry connected with stories of mutual friends.

Burgers do taste good here in the heartland.  My friend Tina was a butcher in Italy and she says a good burger needs good meat, and grass-fed meat is the best.  Larry, who has a PhD in burger tasting, says you need a seasoned grill.  Whatever it takes, Kirby’s has the secret.

As for me, NOT ONE MORE BITE...at least until after my nap.

Enjoying the Country Life

I think people who grew up in the city ponder what country folk do with their time.  I, myself, was lucky enough to grow up outside of Larkspur, Colorado, population 104.  I understand why people like being in the country, away from the hustle and bustle of busy city people.

Hanging out in rural Missouri this past week has been rejuvenating.  The only way I can think to describe it is the feeling you get when you hold your breath for as long as you can and at the last second you exhale.  For me, city living is holding my breath and being surrounded by the green fields is the free release feeling of the exhale. 

As mentioned before, Larry likes to sit out in front of the barn and contemplate life while he watches the traffic go by on the highway.   Clouds are also fun to watch and I’ve added a new twist to this old pastime: Night Sky.  Night Sky is an App on my iPhone that shows where all the constellations are in the sky.  All you have to do is call up the App and point it at the sky.  Voila!  The constellations appear on your screen as you move the phone around.  Venus is the first planet I find.  It appears just as the sun sets.   

Last year, Larry's cousin Don had a pond dug on his property.  He stocked it with catfish, bass, and bream.  It takes about two years for the fish to grow to the point where they are big enough to eat.  In the meantime, he feeds the fish three times a week and also spends some time "training" them.  This activity appealed to Larry so much he decided it would be a good way to celebrate Mother's Day.  With an ice cold beer for each of us, we set out in the pickup truck to the pond.  Don says the fish now respond to the sound of his engine.  I believe they do.  There was a lot of activity in the pond even before Larry threw in handfuls of fish food.  Once the fish were fed, it was time to train them.  Larry cast a line in the water and in 4.3 seconds he had a bite. Catch and release.  Since it was Mother's Day, I took a turn, too.  It took significantly longer for me to catch a fish.  I'm not sure who was being trained.  I was concerned about the pierced lip of the poor little guy I caught, but Larry assured me he was fine.  I hope I trained him to stay away from unidentified floating objects.  

Last Saturday night we were invited to a homecoming party for a neighbor who has been in Afghanistan for the past year.  Neighbors Tommy and Don hung up a sign by the road to welcome home SFC Keith May to their neighborhood, Lakeview Z.  Keith is in the National Guard and for the past year he’s been overseeing agricultural projects in southern Afghanistan.  A prison guard by trade, agricultural work isn’t necessarily in Keith’s background.  In Afghanistan, the Army is working to shut down the poppy fields and reduce the lucrative drug trade.  Keith’s job was to oversee the progress of farmers and to pay them to change their crops.  He also paid them to fix their irrigation systems, and to plant their crops, and to take care of their crops...

This was Keith’s second year-long deployment.  The first time, his son was not old enough to remember.  This time, at 7, he knew his dad was gone.

The barbeque for Keith’s homecoming was great.  Lots of laughs, plenty of good food (pork and beef, no fish), and stargazing.  That night, we all marveled at the intensity of the Super Moon.  Keith said he was grateful to be home.  I couldn’t think of a place I would rather be, either. 

A Mother's Love

Happy Mother’s Day

When we come back to Sikeston, Missouri, Larry’s hometown, I know to clear my agenda.  Larry’s favorite thing is to sit outside his cousin Don’s barn and watch the distant traffic on the interstate.  

It’s also a place to reconnect to his roots.  About five years ago Larry and Don learned they were cousins by marriage.  Apparently all the adults knew, but these two guys who had been tight since first grade never had a clue.

Don’s mother, Pauline, is 86 years old and as fiesty today as she was in her youth.  Just mention her name and Larry and Don stand up a little straighter and say, “Yes Ma’am” to no one in particular.  Pauline has all the answers to the hidden secrets of Sikeston, Missouri.  This trip, Larry decided it was time to ask about his own history. It was time to unlock the secrets to his past.  

Before Pauline began her story, she asked Larry, “Are you sure you want to hear it?”  

“Yes,” he said.  “It’s time.”

It seems Pauline’s daddy was a mean man named Jack.  He had a wife and five children, whom he treated miserably.  After his wife died on Christmas day in 1932, his children, including Pauline, began to scatter--some left home as young as 12 years old.  Old Jack apparently didn’t like life on his own so he found himself a new wife. A woman with a young daughter named Gloria.  Apparently Gloria had a terrible childhood even before she went to live at Jack’s house.  Her family tree included a grandfather who was a bootlegger and another relative who was an arsonist-for-hire. Her own mother, coincidentally, died some years later, also on Christmas day.  

In the early 50’s when Gloria came back to Sikeston with a toddler son and an infant, no one was overly surprised that she seemed incapable of parenting them.  The people of Sikeston did what communities did before social welfare picked up the pieces.  They volunteered to take care of these two little ones.  Tony, the toddler went to stay with a family with a rowdy pack of boys.  The infant, Larry, was left in the care of a woman named Bonnie.

Bonnie was a widow with a twelve year old son.  Her husband was killed in Anzio, Italy, during World War II.  She worked as a waitress making minimum wage and tips and she picked cotton on the family farm.  Money was tight.  Those who knew Bonnie said she had a big heart and loved children.  Her nieces said they loved to spend summers with her because she let them try on her make up.  She was petite and pretty and a great cook by all accounts. 

We don’t know at what point Bonnie realized the little baby she was caring for would become her second son.  We do know that she and her son, Johnny, showered the baby Larry with the love, tenderness, and affection that he had never before received.  

Gloria left town and abandoned her babies.  In time, her sons were adopted by two different families.  Larry found out he was adopted in the 4th grade when he had to take his birth certificate in to register for Little League.  The names on the certificate were unfamiliar to him.  Bonnie never talked about it.  Larry was her son until the day she died.  She did a fine job raising her sons.  Both went to college.  Both have had successful adult lives.  She built a foundation that let Larry dream big and she taught him how to achieve his goals through hard work.  

I never had the privilege of meeting Larry’s mother, but it doesn’t take much imagination to know this was a woman with a strong faith and a giving spirit.  Her selfless act of making room in her heart for one more changed more lives than she could ever know.

Missouri: Driving on King's Highway

King’s Highway, also known as Highway 61, runs through Sikeston, Missouri, and connects it to other little farm towns here in the Boot Heel.  It’s the original two lane north-south highway for these parts, and it was heavily traveled long before Interstate 55’s four lanes were constructed.

On your right as you head north through Sikeston, you’ll pass the old National Guard Armory.  It’s a big brick building and back in the day, kids played basketball in the gymnasium.  There are no games there anymore.  Its sole purpose today is to gather men and women from these parts headed to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Just outside of Sikeston, where the road is flanked with corn and cotton plants, Bill Clinton’s daddy was in a fatal car crash.  He’s not the only one.  Larry’s Uncle Donald was killed in his taxi cab on Hwy. 61 in the late 50s.  It was treacherous in its day.  It still is in places.  It only takes one drunk or distracted driver to cause a head-on collision.

Speaking of distractions, people around here often voice their opinions in signs.  As you drive, you can read about everything from politics to religion to social issues. Take the owner of the big house on the west side of Hwy. 61.  He made his money in nursing homes, but he’s not happy about his new neighbor: Dollar General.  Rumor has it, he had the opportunity to buy the property adjacent to his french chateau and turned it down.  Now he’s madder than hell about the  business next door.  You can’t pick your neighbors, even in the country.  

Those Dollar General stores are springing up everywhere.  Most of the little towns along Hwy. 61 have one.  My friend Becky and I made a trip up Hwy. 61 to the town of Oran (population 1,256).  There was a garage sale there put on by the Mad Hatter factory. They were selling remnants of fabric and embroidery thread, plus surplus personalized hats for all different things including “Pilgrim’s Pride,” “FEMA,” and the “U.S. Air Force.”  On the way home, we stopped at the Dollar General store to buy some odds and ends.  Becky said Miss Missouri was from Oran but she couldn’t remember her name.  She asked the young woman working the register if she knew who Miss Missouri was.  

“I’m not from here,” the woman replied.  

“Where you from?” Becky asked.

“Morely,” the woman replied.

Even I knew that Morely (population 805) was just seven miles down Hwy. 61.

There’s talk of a new FedEx distribution center on Hwy. 61.  That’s good.  Jobs are hard to come by around here.  The old shoe factory where Larry’s granddaddy was a night watchman is shut down.  So is the Gates Rubber Company.  One of Sikeston’s more illustrious businesses is gone but not forgotten.  Where the sign stands pointing the way to the Old Bethel Church, a brothel (euphemistically called “a massage parlor”) used to stand.  Word is it did a brisk business until it mysteriously burned down late one night.  Speculation is the church ladies of Sikeston took matters in their own hands. 

Probably the only king to drive this old road was Elvis.  He had kin in this area.  I don’t think the land around here has changed much in the years since then.  The soil is fertile and the weather, for the most part, is cooperative for farmers.  In this age of Starbucks and McDonalds at every exit on the interstate highway system, it’s good to get off the main road and see America as it was, is, and ever shall be. 

Arkansas: The Natural State

How do you spell Recession?  As of yesterday, I spell it A-R-K-A-N-S-A-S.  The first sign that this state is not prospering is the condition of the roads.  As Larry put it, “I’ve driven on gravel roads in Alaska that are smoother than these.”

Heading east on I-30 and I-40, I noticed more trucks than I had seen since the 70s--remember all the Citizens Band (CB) radio lingo like “breaker-breaker-one-nine”? (That means “I’d like to break into this conversation cuz I’ve got something to say.”  Much of the highway is two lane with huge chunks under construction (although workers were not present).  I can only imagine the frustration of truckers on deadline as they creep along in bumper-to-bumper traffic.  

The second sign of the recession occurred when we pulled in to the RV park in Benton, Arkansas.  Benton is the birthplace of Walmart, in case you were wondering.  Imagine my surprise when a school bus came into the RV park and unloaded children.  It’s a sobering sight to see kids coming home to an old 20 foot travel trailer in a park with no frills.  I can only hope that they are permanent residents and the children are not trying to cobble out an education as Mom and Dad move to new locations in search of a paycheck.

In my quest to visit all the Presidential Libraries administered by the National Archives, we made a stop in Little Rock to see The William J. Clinton Presidential Library.  Regardless of your politics, it would be hard to miss the resemblance this place bears to  a double wide trailer. (Insert your own joke here. It’s a freebie.)

As with the other presidential libraries I have visited, this one is full of historical reflection, videos, and pictures from our collective history.  Seeing the picture of little Baylee Almon in the arms of an Oklahoma City firefighter took me right back to 1995 and the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building.  It’s also eery to look at the events of the 90s.  In hindsight, it’s plain to see the escalating terrorism by forces loyal to Osama bin Laden. On a light note, we both enjoyed watching Bill and Hillary ham it up in videos made for correspondent dinners.  The guy definitely had a sense of humor.

Without a doubt, Larry’s favorite part of the museum was a temporary exhibit loaned by the St. Louis Cardinals.  Apparently, for boys in these parts (like Larry and Bill Clinton) the world came to a screeching halt when Dizzy Dean took to the airwaves to call a game.  

I was melancholy as I exited the museum.  These were the days before events that forever changed our lives.  For the most part, they were happy times, even though Washington was full of bickering (Remember the little impeachment debacle and that blue dress?).  As a country, we were economically healthy.  So perhaps it’s no surprise that I saw great irony in a video clip of President Clinton giving a State of the Union speech. He said, “What will we do with this surplus?  We will fix Social Security first.”  I hope in my lifetime to see another president concerned with what do with a federal surplus.  And I hope for better days ahead for Arkansas.

Waltz Across Texas

There were beautiful yellow trees in full bloom in Arizona.  They were stunning to look at, but deadly for the sinuses.  I ended up with a sinus/bronchitis infection that lead to a nose blowing marathon across Texas.  This is the reason there have been no updates in my blog for a week.

I am happy to report that we have a new awning and we made it all the way across Texas without incident.

So here’s what I love about Texas, in no particular order.

1.  The Bluebonnet Cafe in Marble Falls, TX has a Pie Happy Hour every day between 3-5 p.m.  

2. There are wildflowers everywhere.  I even got to see my first blue bonnets, in addition to plenty of other varieties.

3. My fabulous family is here.  They are all wonderful and supportive, not to mention clever and funny.  I love them all dearly.

4. Everyone is friendly. When you talk to them, they say, “Bless yer heart.”  I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

5.You can and should order fried okra at every meal.

6. American flags and Texas flags are everywhere.  These people do not take their liberty lightly.

7. At night, you can see more stars than from anywhere on earth.  I think this is because Texas is the center of the universe.

For the most part, Texas is the perfect place to be an RVer.  There are nothing but bucolic  scenes as far as the eye can see.  That is, until you reach Fort Stockton.  Located about 50 miles from the middle of nowhere, we pulled in to a KOA Camp not far from the interstate.  As we checked in at the office, we noticed an abundance of flies.  The manager said casually that moths had been a problem a few days before.  It was a throwaway comment that could have been forgotten.  But those words would come back to haunt us for days (and several fly-swatters) to come.  Actually, a Google search would produce an article talking about moths of "Biblical proportions."

We ended up with several flies and a few moths in the RV, which Larry executed with my handy pink flyswatter.  It wasn’t until we brought the slides in the next morning that we realized we were engulfed in an Alfred Hitchcock-worthy terror of “The Moths.”  It seems they had landed and spent the night on the slides, and when I brought the slides in, I disturbed hundreds,  nay thousands, of said creatures.  Now they were flying straight at me, like oncoming traffic during Friday rush hour.  I hit the deck and waited as the swarm passed over my covered head and out the door.  After doing the heeby-geeby dance for a few minutes, I grabbed the fly swatter and escorted the stragglers through the door.  Unbeknownst to me, many wily moths burrowed into the air conditioning vents and happily rode to the Texas Hill Country.  

Cut to night time.  I was happily reading in my cozy bed when Larry turned off all the lights in the RV save the ones over the bed.  What do moths love?  Light.  Before our eyes, the air conditioning vents released the inhabitants of their moth condos and proceeded to buzz the bed.  Picture this: Larry with a pink flyswatter standing in the middle of the bed with a cast on his foot battling an airborne enemy, screaming, “Die, Moth, Die!”  After five nights, I  am happy to report we appear to be moth-free.  We also had to replace the pink flyswatter.  Larry replaced it in East Texas with one in camoflage colors.

Texas, I love you. But you can keep your moths.  Bless yer hearts.