Go RVing Blog - MY TWO CENTS

GETTING ANCHORED

Brad Herzog — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 23:49:00 -0400

The Emmy Awards were handed out last week, so let’s talk TV:

When you’re traveling in a house on wheels, you can immerse yourself in a place by exploring at your own pace. So it is perhaps both ironic and appropriate that one of the best ways of exploring is by simply watching television.

Specifically, I’m talking about the local nightly news, which amounts to a half-hour synopsis of a day in the life of a locale. What matters to the folks who live there? Maybe it’s soybean prices in Sioux City… or a surf advisory in Santa Cruz… or soldiers returning home to Shreveport. Perhaps, as we discovered in Springfield, Massachusetts, over the summer, it’s big news when the local Brownie troop donates a couple of Wii consoles to the local children’s hospital. For me, that sort of information is a window into a city’s soul.

Consider, for instance, what plays in Peoria, Illinois. The last time that I was interviewed on WMBD-TV, I discovered that the station employed a full-time family farmer giving agricultural reports and also conducted regular interviews with the coach of local Arena Football team (at least until the league folded). Just by knowing that, don’t you feel like you’ve learned something about the sensibilities and scope of the city?

Everything about the evening news – even the people relating the news – tells me something about a place. It was Bob Dylan who sang, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” But a weatherman can provide insight into the magnitude of a media market. Consider the difference between Los Angeles and Lexington: In L.A., I recall a well-tanned meteorologist showily announcing a two-degree temperature drop from Pasadena to Pomona. His name was Dallas Raines (yes, really), and he was from Georgia, by way of Florida. In Lexington, it was a Kentucky native, T.G. Shuck, taking viewers across a regional map as if he’s been there his whole life, which he nearly has.

So you learn a lot in a half hour, even if it’s only a realization that there’s nothing more top of mind to sports fans in Cedar Rapids than the outcome of the minor league game between the Cedar Rapids Kernels and the Fort Wayne Wizards.

Still, there was one time when I turned on the TV only to be thrust into geographic confusion. In fact, it seemed like a surreal nightmare. I settled down for the evening in the dusty desert hamlet of Wellton, Arizona, and watched a newscast that sounded to me like Martians reporting their secret Earth observations:

“Dozens of humans were on hand to watch a flag football game between the police and fire departments.”… “Sixty humans attended a fiddling contest today.”… “Humans are in for nice weather this week.”

Humans? I felt like one of those unfortunate saps in “The Twilight Zone” who rolls into a sleepy small town and soon finds out that he has actually entered a different dimension. I half-expected Rod Serling to appear and announce, “You’re watching the Red Planet’s #1 nightly news!”

Then it dawned on me: Folks in Yuma call themselves Yumans. You learn something every day.

Here's a photo of Luke being interviewed for the Detroit nightly news:

BUSINESS ROUTE

Brad Herzog — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 00:48:00 -0400

This past summer, our RV excursion took us along myriad small town Main Streets and rural highways brimming with establishments attempting to lure passersby. Here follows a list of my favorite names of various types of businesses:

Toy store: The Tiny Acorn (Waterbury, VT)

Gift shop: Maine-ly Maine (Ellsworth, ME)

Wood-themed gift shop: Once A Tree (Camden, ME)

Handcrafted furniture store: Good With Wood (Pellston, MI)

Imported furniture store: Far Fetched (E. Hanover, NJ)

Landscape designer: Garden of Eagen (New Castle, PA)

Theater: Headless Sullivan Theater (Geneva, NY)

Tavern:
1. Johnny Bravo’s Tavern (Rome, NY)
2. Two-Bit Tavern (south of Butler, PA)

Bowling alley: Bowl Winkles (Lake Placid, NY)

Motel: Stumble Inn (White Lake, NY)

Cheese shop: Yancey’s Fancy (near Batavia, NY)

Ice cream shop: Sunny Daes Ice Cream (Fairfield, CT)

Beer and wine supply store: My Old Kentucky Home Brew (Louisville, KY)

Hair salon:
1. Bee’s Hive of Beauty (New Rochelle, NY)
2. Head Turners Hair Salon (Thomaston, ME)
3. Back to Your Roots Hair Salon (Boonsboro, MD)

Manicurist: Gossip Nail Studios (N. Providence, RI)

Laundromat: Bear in a Tub (Inlet, NY)

Daycare: Piggyback Rides & Slippery Slides (Bristol, NH)

Car wash: Carcuzzi (Saranac Lake, NY)

Farm: Pooh Corner Farm (near Bethel, ME)

Shopping Center: The Old Bag Factory (Goshen, IN)

State park: Sleeping Giant State Park (CT)

Book store:
1. Present Tense (in Batavia, NY)
2. Bearly Used Books (Enfield, NH)
3. The Alphabet Garden (Cheshire, CT)

Fly shop: Tie By Night (South Hero, VT)

Bait store: Happy Hooker (Carroll Township, OH)

THE ROAD TAKEN

Brad Herzog — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 21:32:00 -0400

We’re in the midst of a tour of New England. Having made our way through Maine and Massachusetts, we’re now at an excellent campground in Mystic, Connecticut, surrounded by families partaking in the two swimming pools and the jumping pillow and the hayride and the playground and the banana bikes and the basketball court and the game room and the ice cream sundaes and the tie-dying.

It was a hot day today, spent primarily poolside. But I want to talk about frost – as in Robert Frost. The poet, who made his home in New England, is most famous for his poem “The Road Not Taken.” It ends with this famous stanza:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

There are some who interpret it as an expression of regret. I prefer to read it with a positive spin – as a boast about an avenue well-chosen. So I’d like to offer a personal tale from New England as a case in point.

Just over a week ago (it was June 17, to be exact), we had a choice in Vermont. We were making our way from the Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Factory to a campground in the little hamlet of Quechee. The easy route would have been to take I-89 straight there, perhaps a one-hour drive. But the other option was to explore Highway 100, which slices down the center of the state. We asked a man at the factory – an abnormally tall fellow who had been our tour guide – which one he would suggest. And he put it thusly: “Well, the interstate has the grand vistas, but the blue highways offer the little vignettes.”

In Vermont, at least, that’s a perfect description. I-89 is unusually scenic, but the back roads – well, they’re something special. With the sun beginning to fall toward the magic hour, we really had no choice. A sunset cruise down a Vermont back road was too tempting. We opted for the long way there.

Our GPS wasn’t happy about it. “Recalculating,” the voice kept saying, over and over for dozens of miles, trying to get us to make our way back to the interstate, sounding just that much more ticked off every time she said it. Indeed, the drive down Highway 100 (also called the 43rd Infantry Division Memorial Highway) added more than an hour to our journey.

But here’s what the road less traveled gave us:

In Waterbury, a farmers’ market and a toy store called The Tiny Acorn. In Waitsfield, Misfits Farm and 1824 House Restaurant & Inn and a herd of solar panels amid fallow fields. In Granville, a glassblower’s studio and a white-steepled church and American flags waving from telephone poles all the way through town.

In Hancock, D’s Doghouse Tavern and Sunshine Valley Berry Farm and the 204-year-old Hancock Village School. In Rochester, an old-fashioned soda fountain and the Pumpkin Patch B&B. In Pittsfield, a sheep pasture and a yoga studio. In Killington (“Heart of the Green Mountains”), Bill’s Country Store and Hemingway’s Restaurant.

All the while, the whim of the road and the direction of the sun kept changing the pavement from shadow to light. And rivers and creeks shadowed us throughout, switching sides of the highway periodically, like a little puppy trailing its best pal.

By the time we veered eastward on Highway 4 through Woodstock – easily one of the most scenic and charming towns in America, with the flowers lining Main Street and the covered bridges and the local cemetery on the hill that looks like something Norman Rockwell might have painted on Halloween – we were certain that we had made the right choice when the two roads diverged.

Made all the difference.

STATE OF THE REUNION

Brad Herzog — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 14:40:00 -0400

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday, here in the environs best described as my old stomping grounds: “Ithaca: 10 square miles surrounded by reality.” The implication is that this city in central New York is so quirky that it veers into the surreal – and, having schooled here for four years and worked here for another two, I can attest to the validity of that to some extent. Here, people also sport bumper stickers saying “My karma ran over my dogma.” And they had a longtime socialist mayor. It’s that kind of place, and I love it.

But that original bumper sticker could really describe the past few days that I’ve spent here – at my 20th college reunion at Cornell University. For me – and for the hundreds of other alumni from the classes of ’05, ’00, ’95, ’90 etc. – it was a respite from the reality of our current existence.

Amy and I excitedly showed our boys around campus – the clock tower, the football stadium, the slope up the hill to the Arts Quad, the 19th-century buildings where we took classes in writing or civil liberties or psychology. You know, stereotypical college stuff. The kids humored us, I suppose. But really, the tour was for Amy and me. A return to a locale that was the scene of an intense and incredible time of our lives, and a reunion with many of the people who were so integral to that period – well, it’s as if the RV that took us here was a time machine.

The temptation, of course, is to make an analogy to our road trip, to say that our annual summer-long RV journeys also constitute journeys away from reality and into the fantastic. But actually, it’s much the opposite.

I contend that our summer road trips are actually excursions into reality. We have a wonderful home life in California. Great friends. Charming town. Fine house. Relatively serene existence. But it’s still a bit of a bubble. It is the real world, of course, but it is a small world. Our attentions are largely limited to day-to-day concerns, a local perspective, our own subculture. The same pretty much goes for anyone, regardless of where you live.

But when we hit the road in a house on wheels, we visit with the rest of the world, various subcultures, diverse scenery, people with whom we would never have had contact had we not parked next to them in some random campground in northern Ohio or stood next to them on a boat tour of Niagara Falls or chatted amiably with them while strolling through a children’s museum in upstate New York or bantered with them at a diner in Indiana.

This summer, we’re going to be driving through rural New Hampshire and central Kentucky and suburban Connecticut and the outback of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The people, the lifestyles, the environment – in those places, each is distinct and vastly different not only from each other but also from the experience we have at home ten months out of the year.

By temporarily leaving our bubble of limited reality, we are enlightened about the countless realities out there. We can appreciate the myriad American options. And then we can return with a better understanding of our own lives.

TURN LEFT AT THE TROJAN HORSE

Brad Herzog — Tue, 25 May 2010 15:44:00 -0400

Okay, loyal readers, this is a big moment: Today is the official publication date of my new travel memoir, TURN LEFT AT THE TROJAN HORSE.

A book launch is always a major milestone for an author – the literary equivalent of the birth of a child, only this one was about six years in the making. Plus, I’m allowed to play favorites. And I think this just may be the best book I’ve ever written.

It weighs in at $14.95, published by Citadel Press/Kensington (available wherever books are sold, also available on Kindle). And it enters the world amid grand expectations – it was the only work of nonfiction named to the Indie Next “Great Reads” list for June, as selected by independent booksellers. You can read all about it on my website (www.bradherzog.com), and you can enjoy a fun two-minute video trailer about the book at the bottom of this post.

Here’s why I think you – the readers of my travel journal – might particularly appreciate this book: At its most basic level, it is a chronicle of a cross-country journey through the nation's nooks and crannies in an RV. But all of you well know that a road trip is never just a road trip, particularly in a house on wheels. So calling it just a travel memoir is selling it short – sort of the way Woody Allen once described War and Peace: “It involves Russia.”

The full title of the book is: TURN LEFT AT THE TROJAN HORSE: A Would-be Hero’s American Odyssey. My publisher has described it as On the Road meets Eat, Pray, Love. I would describe it this way: It is the memoir of an Everyman in search of the hero within.

Mine was a cross-country excursion in the spirit of the ancient journey of King Odysseus. But instead of a voyage home to Ithaka following the Trojan War, I made my way toward my alma mater in Ithaca, New York. With middle age bearing down on me and a college reunion on my agenda, I did the natural thing: I took stock of myself. How have I measured up to my youthful aspirations? What constitutes a life well-lived? In this day and age, what makes a hero?

To answer those classic questions, I opted for the best possible route toward epiphanies: Hit the road. I crafted an itinerary taking me through classically-named places – from Athena (Oregon) to Apollo (Pennsylvania). Starting in the shadow of Washington’s Mount Olympus, I rumbled eastward, delving into my own psyche and the lives of everyday heroes along the way. I met a teacher in a rural one-room schoolhouse in Troy (Oregon), a lifelong hobo in Iliad (Montana), a bomb-squad soldier from Sparta (Wisconsin) and an 87-year-old paragon of reliability in Pandora (Ohio).

TURN LEFT AT THE TROJAN HORSE is a personal, philosophical, historical and conversational trek across America and through the universal truths embedded in ancient myths. However, in the end it is simply the story of one man trying to find his way. My goal was to make it intimate yet epic, accessible yet enlightening. To me, that’s the definition of a memorable road trip.

Please pick up a copy. Spread the word. Let me know what you think. I welcome all feedback, particularly from fellow road-trippers. As I wrote in the first chapter, the philosopher Socrates once claimed, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And road philosopher Jack Kerouac believed, “The road is life.” Some combustible combination of the two was the spark of my journey. So I invite you to come along for the ride.

THERE SHOULD BE AN OSCAR FOR COMEDIES

Brad Herzog — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 12:26:00 -0400

At night in the RV, when the kids are asleep in bed, Amy and I have options. Sometimes we work (I might contribute to this blog, for instance). Sometimes we read (Amy prefers fiction; I tend to read non-fiction). Sometimes we watch TV (many campgrounds – if not most of them these days – have cable TV hook-ups at each site). Often, though, we watch movies. There’s a built-in DVD player and TV in the rear bedroom, so it’s a great set-up. And for some reason, we tend to prefer comedies when we’re on the road. I’m not sure why that is.

Anyway, in honor of last night’s Academy Awards, I offer a list of ten of my favorite comedies. Some of these are out-and-out farces. Others are lighter on the laughs. But if you haven’t seen every one of these films, you’re missing out:

Waiting for Guffman -- Fictional town plans for its sesquicentennial show – and they take it hilariously seriously. It’s director Christopher Guest’s best movie.
School of Rock -- Without Jack Black, this would be a mediocre movie, but with him it’s an absolute joy. The guy’s physicality is genius.
Swingers -- The road trip to Las Vegas is a hoot, as are Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau throughout the film. There’s even a funny scene in a little RV.
Big Night -- Two great actors – Tony Shalhoub and Stanley Tucci – play two brothers who own a struggling Italian restaurant. A different and delightful film.
Elf -- Will Ferrell’s best movie. He plays a human who was raised to believe he’s one of Santa’s elves. Nobody does naïve-in-New York better.
Galaxy Quest -- Stars of a Trek-like TV show are recruited into space by real-life aliens… who have patterned their whole culture after the fake show.
Dave -- A presidential impersonator – Kevin Kline – is forced to take over for an incapacitated Commander in Chief… and he grows into the job.
Lars and the Real Girl -- A sweet but delusional man, Ryan Gosling strikes up a relationship with a doll he found on the Internet. His caring friends and family play along.
Election -- Matthew Broderick (underachieving teacher), Reese Witherspoon (overachieving student) and a high school election gone horribly awry.
The Dish -- Funny true-life story of a satellite dish amid an Australian sheep pasture… which was vital to broadcasting Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk to the world.

Anyone else have funny (and somewhat overlooked) films that they would recommend? Here’s a photo from the Kennedy Space Center, snapped on the eve of the 40^th anniversary of Armstrong’s famous moment:

SONGS OF THE OPEN ROAD

Brad Herzog — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 21:55:00 -0400

The Grammy Awards are tonight, so let’s talk music. There is a road in California that plays a 20-second snippet of the “William Tell Overture” as cars pass over it. It involves a sound generator installed in the roadway (originally for a Honda commercial). Specifically, it’s in the westbound left lane of West Avenue, between 32^nd and 40^th streets, in the desert town of Lancaster.

Now, the “William Tell Overture” is an inspiring piece of music, particularly when you’re winding your way toward Yosemite or cruising through Monument Valley. That kind of sound can supplement the sights in a big way. But you don’t have to go to the trouble of heading for a particular lane in Lancaster to get some good driving tunes. Just make yourself an American Soundtrack.

About 18 months ago, I offered up a great collection of songs for an American road trip. These were my 15 choices:

“America the Beautiful” (Ray Charles version)

“On the Road Again” (Willie Nelson)

“Ramblin’ Man” (Allman Brothers)

“Thunder Road” (Bruce Springsteen)

“Big Yellow Taxi” (Joni Mitchell)

“Turn the Page” (Bob Seger)

“Love the One You’re With” (Stephen Stills)

“Gotta Travel On” (Bob Dylan)

“Watchin’ the Wheels” (John Lennon)

“American Girl” (Tom Petty)

“Take it Easy” (Eagles)

“LaGrange” (ZZ Top)

“I’m Gonna Be” (The Proclaimers)

“The Way” (Fastball)

“Breakdown” (Jack Johnson)

Well, I could probably choose 150 songs that work, but here are another 15 that conjure up visions of the open road, no matter where I happen to be when I hear them:

“Homeward Bound” (Simon & Garfunkel)

“Me and Bobby McGee” (Janis Joplin)

“On the Road to Find Out” (Cat Stevens)

“Life is a Highway” (Tom Cochrane)

“Radar Love” (Golden Earring)

“Slow Ride” (Foghat)

“Roll On Down the Highway” (Bachman Turner Drive)

“Running on Empty” (Jackson Browne)

“Truckin’” (Grateful Dead)

“Up Around the Bend” (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

“Ventura Highway” (America)

“Backstreets” (Bruce Springsteen)

“Here I Go Again” (Whitesnake)

“Hotel California” (The Eagles)

“Jersey to O.C.” (Sam Shaber)

Never heard of Sam Shaber? She now fronts an L.A.-based punk band called The Happy Problem, but she’s also a heck of a singer-songwriter. I hope to use that particular song as the soundtrack to a soon-to-be-released “book trailer” (a book version of a movie preview) for my upcoming travel memoir. More on that in a few months…

Anyone have a favorite on this list? Or other suggestions?

AN ODE TO BUG SPLATTER

Brad Herzog — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 12:22:00 -0400

Massive windshield, movie screen,
an epic film
unspooling before me.
Stop for a while
and enter the picture
before the reel continues,
one mile at a time.

Then come the thwarted flights,

Speck by speck.

One splotch.

Three more.

A crunch.

Blackening the screen,

streaking yellow,

backlit by the sun

while I roll westward in the afternoon.

Blinding stripes and splashes and smudges,

as if Jackson Pollack is painting

a portrait of a nation.

The wipers sob their arcs,

dragging the canvas clean.

Then a speck again

and a splotch

and a crunch.

My song of the open road.

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS (RV STYLE)

Brad Herzog — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 14:22:00 -0400

Since today marks the end of the 12 days of Christmas, I want to offer a road trip version.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:

Twelve towering redwoods

Eleven river crossings

Ten Rocky Mountains

Nine pristine beaches

Eight red rock canyons

Seven scenic overlooks

Six stunning sunsets

FIVE GOLDEN CORNFIELDS…

Four gushing geysers

Three open roads

Two sons to share it with

And a hike through Joshua Tree.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

GoRving Admin — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 13:06:00 -0400

I posted this poem – a version appropriate for GoRVing.com – last year. But I’m thinking of making it an annual tradition:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and the house was quite boring.

Not a sound could be heard, except Daddy snoring.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

But there still was this urge to travel somewhere.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of Disneyland danced in their heads.

The beaches beckoned Mom. The redwoods called Dad.

As winter descended, there was more fun to be had.

When out in the street there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

I ran to the window and opened the blinds.

What was out there? What would I find?

There, curbside and glowing in the winter moonlight,

Was a grand house on wheels, an inspiring sight.

On the passenger side sat St. Nick himself,

And behind the wheel was a long-legged elf.

Santa set a large atlas on the new-fallen snow

And began shouting out all the fine places to go.

“Now to Dallas! Now Denver! Now Vicksburg and Austin!

On to Cleveland! And Casper! And Pittsburgh and Boston!

To the top of Stone Mountain! To the top of Pike’s Peak!

Now drive away! Drive away! It’s adventure you seek!”

To the RV he pointed, saying, “This one’s for you.”

With a wink, Santa added, “And it’s brand new!”

St. Nick pushed a button, and the RV started growing.

A slide-out emerged, just as it began snowing.

And then, in a twinkling, he disappeared – poof!

And I heard someone stumbling around on my roof.

I rubbed my eyes twice. Have I lost my wits?

But down the chimney came Santa. I’m not sure how he fits.

He was dressed for a road trip, shades perched on his head.

He looked like a tourist. I had nothing to dread.

His cheeks and his nose were a vivid red hue

That I’ve seen in an Oregon sunset or two.

His beard was the color of New Mexico’s White Sands

His smile revealed teeth like the ragged Badlands.

He had a round belly and – not to be rude –

But he might want to cut down on that North Pole food.

Then I noticed a sack he’d brought – well, more like a bin.

But he wasn’t giving gifts out. He was packing things in!

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.

Before I realized his mission, I thought: This guy’s a jerk!

Then I understood, and my heart did a flip.

Santa was helping us pack for our trip!

He roamed through the house – all the crannies and nooks –

And came back with beach towels and board games and books.

He collected our clothing, our pans and our pots,

And some toys for the kids. Actually, not some – lots!

For a fellow his age, he moved at quite a pace.

Then he loaded the RV. Each thing had its place.

He packed enough food to cover our meals,

Then he herded us into the big house on wheels.

He hopped into his seat. The elf shifted out of PARK.

Off we went to explore, like Lewis and Clark.

Then I heard Santa say, in this traveler’s tale,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all happy trails.”

THE STATE OF GEOGRAPHY

Brad Herzog — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 01:29:00 -0400

There is a wooden picture frame that stands on a shelf alongside the TV in my living room here in California. Carved into the frame are a collection of city names – a couple dozen of them. Obviously, the frame is designed to showcase photos from one road trip or another.

But here’s the thing: whoever made it misspelled Pittsburgh. They forgot the “H.”

I also own a tablecloth that we’ve used for a birthday party or two. It consists of an outline of the United States, with a whole bunch of popular attractions highlighted. Not surprisingly, Niagara Falls is one of them. But again, there’s an incorrect spelling. They left out the third “A” in “Niagara.” So it’s “Niagra” – like Viagra with an “N.”

I’m not sure what to make of these facts. Either we need to work on our spelling or our geography. I’m thinking it may be the latter.

Why do I think that? Because I came across the results of a 2002 survey by the National Geographic Education Foundation, which came to these disturbing conclusions:

*Adults (18-44 years old) in nine countries were tested for the geography skills. Sweden, Germany and Italy did best. France, Japan and Great Britain were in the middle. The three North American countries – the U.S., Canada and Mexico – were at the bottom.

*Only 13% of young Americans (ages 18-24) could find Iraq or Iran on a map of Asia. By contrast, 34% of young Americans knew that the island where the latest Survivor show was filmed was located in the South Pacific. Hmmm.

*Nearly one-third of Americans actually believed the population of the United States was in the 1 to 2 billion range. And nearly 3 in 10 Americans could not locate the Pacific Ocean.

Indeed, geography knowledge seems to be lacking about the places close to home, too. On average, young adults in other countries were better able to locate other European nations than Americans were able to locate U.S. states.

In fact, of the 10 U.S. states asked about on the quiz, only California and Texas were correctly located by the vast majority of Americans, although 11 percent couldn’t even find these. Only about half could locate New York and Pennsylvania. Fewer than one-third could find New Jersey.

But here’s the most remarkable factoid: When given a map of the world, approximately 1 in 10 Americans could not locate the United States.

Seriously? I’m not sure how we go about addressing this problem. Is our general curriculum imbalanced? Is it the responsibility of middle schools and high schools? Or is it more of an elementary school lapse?

I’d love to hear anyone’s thought on this. Meanwhile, I’ll keep planning next summer RV trip through a dozen states – including, by the way, stops in Pittsburgh and Niagara Falls.

VINTAGE AMERICA

Brad Herzog — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 15:58:00 -0400

My grandmother turns 94 tomorrow. Yes, just a half-dozen short of a century. Sure, she’ll tell you she’s not what she used to be. But really, who is? And besides, she’s an antique. She’s vintage.

You know what else? She reads these posts religiously. So happy birthday, Grandma.

Talking with someone of an advanced age is like conversing with a conduit to another era. I mean, think about it. In my grandmother’s infancy, Babe Ruth was a rookie. Charles Chaplin unveiled the Little Tramp. Einstein published his theory of relativity. Forget the Internet and the cell phone. When she was a toddler, the first air conditioners and traffic lights were invented.

When I drive around in a house on wheels, I occasionally encounter that same sort of conduit in the form of vintage architecture of a sort. I’m thinking, for instance, of a drive along U.S. 212 through the gut of South Dakota. Along the way, (in towns like Faulkton and Redfield and Zell and Doland and Clark) I came upon a series of upright images riding from the plains every six or ten miles like pegs on a cribbage board – the old country grain elevator.

It’s a structural metaphor for the Heartland – no unnecessary decoration, just perfect functional simplicity. For these hamlets, the elevator stands as a sort of exclamation point, reminding passersby that a town still exists. But in recent years, the emergence of mega-farms has created a demand for the efficiency of massive concrete and steel elevators, making the old versions increasingly old-fashioned.

Fading icons… you can find those, too, on the sides of old barns. I recall piloting my RV past the fields and farmhouses of northern Indiana, just west of the city of Angola. There I came across an old brown barn with a painted advertisement on the side. It was supposed to say CHEW MAIL POUCH TOBACCO, one of many such barn-side ads created by crews in the mid-20^th century in exchange for a farmer’s choice of cash, magazine subscriptions or, yes, chewing tobacco. But the lettering on this barn had faded to such an extent that only three of the twenty letters now stood out clearly. So it said only AIL.

How appropriate. There were once more than 10,000 Mail Pouch barns dotting rural America, particularly in the Midwest. But time and the elements have reduced those numbers considerably, and as the letters fade so too does a little history. It is an ailing piece of Americana and just one of several vanishing architectural archetypes that call me to the road less traveled.

Lighthouses beckon, too. In my hometown on California’s Monterey Peninsula, Point Pinos Lighthouse has operated for more than 150 years, the longest continuously operating light station on the West Coast. But its role as a warning to sailors has been rendered somewhat obsolete in these days of global positioning systems. And while it once rose above the pines amid an undisturbed jut of land, it now overlooks the 10^th fairway of a golf course.

With this in mind, I decided long ago not to take the remnants of yesteryear for granted. Outdated or not, these structures often represent something eternal to the folks who live nearby – a welcome home. They call to mind simpler times, when sailors looked for a light in the darkness and tiny hamlets painted their names brightly on prairie skyscrapers.

So when I’m rumbling down the road and I spot a rusting grain elevator or a fading lighthouse or a tilting covered bridge or an abandoned one-room schoolhouse, I’ll spend a couple of moments musing about what a local treasure it must have been in its day and about the effort once needed to keep a whale oil lantern burning or teach a gaggle of homesteaders’ kids.

I’ll remember that the march of progress must be tempered by a regard for the past – an appreciation of the journey, as it were. And I’ll thank my good fortune that the road allows me to travel through time.

SPACE AND TIME

Brad Herzog — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 18:59:00 -0400

Today is September 30, a date of no particular significance, except that every time the calendar reaches this particular point I think of the Grand Canyon. On our first RV trip 13 years ago, Amy and I cruised through 48 states over the course of nearly 11 months and saw countless breathtaking American scenes. But we decided to save the Grand Canyon for near the end, like a magnificent dessert to cap off the meal. So the date of our arrival – September 30, I’ll never forget it – was essentially happenstance.

We parked at a campground along the north rim, waited an hour or two until the sun was setting just right and then strolled a mile to get our first glimpse of this iconic and massive gorge. Well, it far exceeded expectations. Truly indescribable, so I won’t even try. But I will say this: the time of day made it even more breathtaking, as did the time of year.

You see, it happens that early autumn is when the aspen trees that surround the north rim transform from green to gold, and that particular day of that particular year seemed to be the optimum foliage-frenzy moment. I’m telling you, even if we didn’t see the canyon itself, those trees that surrounded it were worth the trip. Driving through northern Arizona on a crisp but sunny autumn afternoon with golden aspens ushering us toward one of the wonders of the world… well, that’s about as good as it gets.

So it’s important to remember that a great road trip isn’t only about where you go, but also when.

Charles Kuralt once wrote a book with this in mind. Essentially, he spent the perfect month in each of his favorite places: January in New Orleans. March in Charleston, South Carolina. October in Woodstock, Vermont. November in New Mexico’s Rio Grande Valley…

Interestingly, he planned to spend April in my neck of the woods – California’s Central Coast – until unforeseen circumstances caused a change in plans. In fact, he was going to make a stop in my hometown of Pacific Grove. And late April/early May is definitely the best time to do so. That’s when more than a million monarch butterflies who spend the winter in P.G. (Pacific Grove calls itself Butterfly Town, U.S.A) take flight and head toward Canada for the summer. It’s really a beautiful sight.

But mid-spring is also when the ice plant blooms along the coast here in town, turning the shores of Monterey Bay into a pink-carpeted wonderland. And that’s equally beautiful (see below).

So yes, we tend to stick around here in the spring. But like the monarchs, we summer elsewhere. Only we do it in a house on wheels because we really don’t like to fly.

LESSONS OF 9/11

Brad Herzog — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 03:02:00 -0400

It’s hard to believe it’s been eight years since the September 11^th attacks. We all recall vividly where we were that morning. It’s a tragic touchstone for a generation.

After being riveted to the television the whole day and night on September 11^th, I awoke the next day to Amy asking me if I remember Fred Gabler, a fraternity brother of mine. Sure, I said. Fred had e-mailed a few months earlier, congratulating me on something or other, a classy thing to do from a guy with whom I hadn’t been in contact since our college days. Well, it turns out that Freddy was one of the hundreds of Cantor Fitzgerald employees who lost their lives when the towers collapsed. At the time, his wife, Mindy, was seven months pregnant.

For me, the loss of Fred Gabler put a face to the tragedy, making it all the more horrible and depressing. But let’s be honest here: I was profoundly sad, but Freddy’s family and closest friends were devastated. There’s a huge difference.

My neighbor Norma was devastated, too. She lost her 49-year-old daughter, Suzanne, that day – on the plane that hit the Pentagon. Last year on this date, Norma traveled to Washington, D.C. to attend the unveiling of the Pentagon memorial. But there’s a better memorial here in our hometown, a bench dedicated to Suzanne that offers a view of the endless Pacific Ocean. I know for a fact that Norma would rather be at that bench on September 11, joining several folks who gather there annually to celebrate her daughter’s life.

What September 11^th did for most of us, I think, is spark some intimate epiphanies. The shock of those attacks and the shattering of our sense of safe passage through the world’s troubles seemed to teach us lessons about time well spent, family well appreciated, and life well lived. We wanted to be able to travel without anxiety, spend quality time with the people we love, and rediscover America, particularly at a time when so many of our nation’s sons and daughters are sacrificing their lives in at attempt to protect and export the American Dream. As a result, the good old-fashioned road trip came into vogue again.

I spent 50 days on the road in an RV during the spring following the attacks, driving cross-country to research a book called Small World. Everywhere I went, I talked to people about their September 11^th experiences. And you know what I found? That “national mourning” we all heard so much about wasn’t media hype. We were all connected that day.

I remember a woman in Vienna, South Dakota. She told me she had been baking cookies, listening to a talk show on the radio, when they broke in with the news. “Why would anybody feel they had to do something so bad?” she wondered.

I met another woman – in Paris, Kentucky – who owned a drive-in theater and told me that the summer of 2002 had been their best summer season yet. People were in the mood for an escape. She told me that when she heard of the attacks, “my first instinct was: The world as I knew it had just ended. I felt heartbroken. I cried. For some reason, I felt like I knew those people who died.”

I met an elderly brother and sister who lived in the depressed former coal-mining community of Congo, Ohio. The memory of September 11^th was still fresh in their minds, even though for them the Pentagon and Wall Street were distant monoliths of no direct influence on their hardscrabble lives. “It made me sick,” said the brother. “It just made me sick.”

And I talked to a big strapping Nebraska farm boy, a fellow who managed a Czech restaurant (the Kolac Korner Café) in the tiny town of Prague, Nebraska. He mentioned that he had once been to New York, to the top of the World Trade Center. When he spoke of the attacks, his voice quivered and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “You don’t do that to Americans,” he said.

So that was a special RV excursion for me that spring. It showed me that we all share both a psychic connection and an instinct to rise from the ashes. Jack Keroauc once wrote, “The road is life.” We owe it to ourselves to celebrate the journey.

SUMMER SCHOOL

Brad Herzog — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 18:36:00 -0400

This year, the first day of classes at my sons’ elementary school took place on – are you ready for this? – August 13. Yes, August 13. If that sounds like the middle of summer to you, that’s because it nearly is – it’s about six weeks after spring ends and close to six weeks before autumn begins.

What gives? Why are more and more schools these days insisting on stealing time from the summer? September is supposed to be when you do your back-to-school shopping. Not… late July.

In the case of our neighborhood school – a fine school, by the way (the crazy calendar notwithstanding) – they’ve traded in a couple of weeks of summer for a handful of breaks. There’s a weeklong October break. And a longer President’s Day break. And an extended spring break.The thinking seems to be that everyone – teachers, administrators, students, parents – can use a respite now and then. Too many consecutive school days can be draining.

But you know what? Those days of rest already exist. They’re called weekends.

You may be wondering why this matters so much to me. And if you’ve been reading this blog for some time, you’ve probably also guessed the answer: Because in my experience, there is no better time for personal growth than the summer. It’s a time when kids can be kids, and in the process they mature.

In my childhood, I attended summer camp in northern Wisconsin for eight weeks each year. That amounts to about 15 percent of my existence. But about 80 percent of my most vivid childhood memories are set in the North Woods. My cabinmates were from all over the map – Dallas, Memphis, Atlanta, Birmingham, Cincinnati, St. Louis. I had counselors from Denmark and Northern Ireland. I learned how to put up a tent, chop wood, shoot an arrow, cohabitate, cooperate and lead my peers.

A generation later, my sons have enjoyed altogether different summers – and altogether unique ones. Our annual June-to-August RV excursions have taught them a good bit of geography, of course (they’ve visited 45 states). But they’ve also learned about exploration – at the Kennedy Space Center and the Gateway Arch. They’ve learned social studies – at the Civil Rights Museum and the Crazy Horse Memorial. They’ve learned about geology at Yellowstone and Carlsbad Caverns and the Oregon Dunes.

History? How about the Abe Lincoln Museum and the Alamo. Music? There’s the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Art? Well, they sure liked Legoland.

I can go on and on and on.

In fact, I’d even suggest that my kids’ summers are nearly as educational as the other nine or ten months of the year. Yes, it’s a different kind of learning, a different form of enlightenment. It’s not multiplication and spelling. But it’s hands-on experience.

And you know what else? This summer, my boys finally became serious readers. Eight-year-old Luke read – I’m not making this up – more than 70 chapter books during our RV trip. Jesse, who’s only seven, read some three-dozen. You know why? They had the time. It was summer. They could discover the wonders of books for themselves.

Alas, more and more schools insist on starting earlier and earlier, which threatens to make summer an afterthought. Really, I don’t understand the psychology behind that.

Maybe I’ll have to ask the guy in this old photo (from the children’s museum in St. Louis):