Monday, July 4 and Tuesday, July 5

Mile 3,390. Off to Santa Barbara—another 800 miles — where the next reunion will take place on Thursday, July 7, with two interim motel stops along the way. We drop Cousin Lynn off at the Albuquerque airport and then get back on I-40. The story line for these two days is the vastness, emptiness and extraordinary beauty of the American West. You drive mile after mile after mile seeing very few signs of any living creature. Hundreds of miles separate tiny settlements; and where there is an occasional gas station at an exit ramp, often a blue sign will be posted noting the distance to the “next exit with services.” Usually it is well over 50 miles, sometimes as much as 75 miles.

Several people told me that we would be really bored during this part of the trip since the scenery was described as being pretty much the same. Wrong on both counts. We were not bored, and the scenery varies a lot, though in subtle ways, determined largely by altitude. We descended from 7,000 feet at Santa Fe to around 5,000 feet in Albuquerque where it was much more arid with less sage brush. As we climbed up again, it became greener with larger, olive-colored bushes and then browner as we descended. This pattern repeated it self again and again. The mountains and the desert change colors from gray to olive to brown to purple depending on the angle of the sun. The vast sky is constantly in flux with tiny white puffs, towering thunderheads and high cobweb wisps. Temperatures range from the mid 70s in the higher elevations to 115 degrees in the valleys.   In other words change is always happening, and at times I felt I was experiencing infinity. There is no way to do justice to what it feels like when crossing this magical land. It can only be experienced and should be on everyone’s bucket list.

The evening of the Fourth of July we stayed in Flagstaff at a small motel which Embry booked through Hotline and spent the evening exploring the town. To get to Flagstaff, we climbed again to 7,000 feet where we found ourselves for the first time surrounded by towering pines (some dying) and occasional streams and ponds. The town itself has a vibrant, historic town center, reminding me of Ashville, NC. There are lots of coffee houses, cafes, boutiques, art galleries and stores selling mountain gear. Hip looking people are milling around, eating ice cream and casually watching guitarists playing ballads and folk music. A poster advertises a blue grass festival in August, and some middle-age guy in a cowboy hat is asking people to sign a petition supporting a local ordinance that would prevent the chief executive of the local hospital from earning more money than the President of the United States.

On July 5, we descend to lower grades and 115 degree temperatures as we enter California and the Mojave Desert. It is so dry here that it feels like we might just as well be on the surface of the moon, though there is beauty here too—just more barren and stark.

By late afternoon we are passing through Barstow where I-40 suddenly merges into I-15. We have been traveling on I-40, starting in Asheville almost three weeks ago, and have traveled on this road for over 3,500 miles. Suddenly we realize that this part of the journey is over. Goodbye, I-40, you have been a good friend. We will miss you!

We stop for the evening at another motel Embry booked on Hotline at a dusty, cluttered, shabby intersection in a town called Victorville, where every fast food establishment, gas station and motel known to humans is represented in all their ugly charm. We decide to eat in (Popeye’s Fried Chicken) after being warned by the guy at the liquor store (Episcopalians don’t miss happy hour.) that venturing outside after dark is very dangerous and we would be risking our life.

We retire to news accounts of Hillary’s email problems, reminding us that we are now back in the real world.

 

Sunday, July 3

I guess you could call this the official reunion day. After a huge brunch at our cousin Rick and Karen’s condo, everyone went their separate ways, walking down the hill to the historic center of Santa Fe with all the museums and galleries, milling around with locals and tourists, who are here for the July Fourth weekend. Having been to Santa Fe several times, I used the time to get the blog up to date. Around five o’clock folks meandered back up the hill, exhausted but in good spirits. The sons, Erik and Rich, both now in their forties, were responsible for grilling hamburgers on the back porch overlooking the city. By seven o’clock there was more food on the table than anyone could eat, with Karen filling in with salads and casseroles. After dinner all eighteen of us walked across the street to the suite where Erik and Michelle are staying with their three youngsters. Erik is a professional documentary film editor living in L.A. and he showed a 15 minute video he had made honoring Dash, his grandmother. The video used the PBS Story Corps format with Dash talking about her life of 98 years illustrated with photos and film clips. It was extraordinary (as you would expect from a seasoned professional), about an extraordinary woman who continues to be an inspiration to all of us gathered for the reunion and my guess is to a lot of others as well.

During the course of the evening I managed to have brief conversations with several of the cousins regarding politics and religion, sometimes taboo topics, especially at family reunions when there are differences of opinion. I guess you could say that I could not help myself. I was relieved that no avid Trump supporters were among us, but I was aware that some of the cousins have world views which are in fact different from my own. One cousin is an evangelical Christian, whose faith is profoundly important to him and another is a devoted conservative, who under no circumstances would ever vote for Hillary (which this year will probably mean not voting at all).

What came through for me was this: no one has an exclusive claim on the truth, and just because you don’t happen to view the world in the same way does not mean those who disagree with you are inferior in any respect. The cousins with differing political and religious views are people who have solid values. They are loving and kind and want to do the right thing. They are good people. They are family. They are friends.

Living in a bubble in Washington where practically everyone we know is a secular liberal (even many who attend church regularly), it is too easy to embrace an us versus them attitude. Because of our education and our various “achievements,” it is all too easy for us urbanites to think that we are better, more enlightened, and intellectually superior. One of the things that I am reminded of as we cross this great nation of ours is that this is not the case. Good people can and do have different takes on life.

And as Embry pointed out, friendship and family “trump” politics every time.

 

Friday, July 1 and Saturday, July 2

We set off from Ghost Ranch with Jasper exchanging contact information with his buddies after breakfast. The drive to the airport is uneventful as Embry deposits him on the plane to Oakland where he will meet his parents and sister for a week in San Francisco where they are vacationing. We will rendezvous with them in 10 days in Yosemite.

Our next stop: The McMichael Reunion in Santa Fe.

Now to fully understand the significance of this event, you need to know something about the McMichael family. Embry’s Uncle Jack was her mother’s only brother and the youngest of four children . They were the children of a country doctor, practicing family medicine in Quitman, Georgia in the 1930s and 40s. This town is about 30 miles from Baker County where we worked in the Civil Rights Movement in 1966. So the logical conclusion would be that since we humans are products of our culture, the McMichael family from the Deep South in the era of Jim Crow would be hard-nosed reactionaries and probably outright racists. Not so with this family. All four children turned out to be quite progressive. Uncle Jack, however, was an outright radical. He received a MDiv from Union in New York City, became a Methodist minister and was actually studying at Union the 1960s working on a PhD at the same time I was a divinity student there. His and his wife, Dash, were involved in many left wing causes in the 1950s, putting them at odds with the McCarthyism of the day, ultimately leading to a career-threatening appearance before the House of Un-American Activities Committee. So you could say they are not your typical Southern family.

Embry’s mother’s siblings produced a bunch of first cousins for Embry, with whom she remains remarkably close. The children of Uncle Jack, however, are the ones we are closest to—especially Rick and Karen—who are hosting the reunion for the Uncle Jack /Aunt Dash line. We are so lucky to be here. There are 18 of us participating in the reunion including Aunt Dash, who is 98 years old and living in a retirement community in the Bay Area. She is now partially blind but otherwise is in extraordinarily good health for someone her age, still getting lots of exercise, and just as smart and as sharp as any of us. Rick’s brother and sister and their spouses are here along with three members of the next generation and four of Aunt Dash’s great grandchildren. We have come from all over–the Washington area, Seattle, the Bay area, Sonoma County, Los Angeles, and south Florida.

It is a fine weekend of relaxed conversation and reminiscing, mostly sitting on the deck of Rick and Karen’s condo overlooking the city with magnificent views of the valley and mountains in the distance. I spend Saturday morning at the urgent care center, getting a cortisone shot for my ailing knee and antibiotics for my infected ear. I was very impressed with the quality of care and somewhat amazed when one of the doctors told me he had spent several years living in Annapolis where he was an avid sailor, racer, and yacht broker and also worked for a while as a yacht charter captain in the British Virgin Islands working for a company that sold out to Sun Sail(where I got our current sailboat, “Second Wind”.) Small world, as they say.

The highlight of Saturday was an evening at the Santa Fe Opera. The whole gang, except for the great grandchildren and their parents, took in a meal and lecture (Rick and Karen are members so we got in the exclusive event.) followed by a stunning performance of Mozart’s Don Giovanni, returning to our hotel (across from Rick and Karen’s condo) at one a.m., exhausted.

Long day but rich and full and great to be again with lifelong friends and relatives. This adventure is turning out to be a nostalgia trip with the reconnection theme becoming a main story line

Wednesday, June 29 and Thursday, June 30

Life at Ghost Ranch begins to take on a  predictable rhythm as people gather in line before meals (very good food, by the way), sit around after meals talking and watching Ultimate Frisbee and soccer, stroll off to morning worship and then to activities, and just hang out the rest of the time. I can see how this could grow on you and understand why people come here year after year.

For the week that you are here, you are in your own world. It is a safe world with old friends and loving people, surrounded by natural beauty that surely must be a sign of a loving and peaceful God. There is no TV (at least that I know of), limited Wi-Fi and cell phone access; and to find out what is going on in the larger world you have to really work at it, which as far as I can tell few people do. (Except for me, of course, but after another week in Paradise, I am sure that even I would not care what The Donald is up to or who won the Nats game.)

These two days Embry and Jasper do Pottery, which I skip to get caught up on blogging and rest my wounded knee. We are getting to know a few people—all very nice, especially Joanne and Jenny, two women from Hawaii. In line with the blog theme of “…In the Age of Trump,” I can’t help gently bringing up politics. Everyone we talk to is a kindred spirit. You are not going to find many Trump supporters here—and probably not all that many Republicans—and I suppose that figures. Ghost Ranch is known for its intellectual, artistic, and spiritual pursuits and attracts like-minded people. People seem to steer clear of controversial topics, however, lest the atmosphere of peace and beauty be disturbed. I can’t disagree with that. But as a reminder that we are not in Paradise, it seems a whole bunch of the women we have talked to are single parents, many raising kids more or less on their own. Some of the counselors we have chatted with—especially the young men—seem to have stumbled on Ghost Ranch by chance and are here temporarily, somewhat adrift, with their future uncertain. The imperfect world we will all return to in a couple of days will have the same challenges we all left behind.

At noon today we are joined for lunch by the McMichael clan, driving up from Santa Fe–Rick and Karen, Embry’s first cousins with whom we have traveled to India and Southeast Asia and sailed with in Tahiti and the Grenadines—and Cousin Bill and his wife, Lynn. It is great to see everyone. They arrived yesterday in Santa Fe for a family reunion starting tomorrow, which we will attend after dropping Jasper off at the airport. In the middle of lunch a major thunderstorm hits (We could actually watch it approaching.) sending us scampering for cover indoors as winds gust into the 40s and hail the size of mothballs pound the heads of those playing soccer and Frisbee, including Jasper, who was drenched. I could almost hear the parched grass saying, thank you, thank you.

The on-again-off-again showers dampened the afternoon and evening activities, giving us time for some needed rest before the driving continues, starting tomorrow. Jasper sprawled out on his bed and read his book all afternoon, even though his buddy, Chase, came up to the room twice to coax him out. Jasper has been going pretty hard from the time he gets in line for breakfast at 7:15 a.m. until the forced bedtime of 8:30 p.m. I suspect he needed the rest more than we did. I wonder if the bonding of the Fabulous Three will last. What I guess is most special about the week for him is having free time with kids his age from noon to eight everyday, allowing them to explore on their own the magic of Ghost Ranch.

 

 

Monday, June 27 and Tuesday, June 28

The sky is steel blue and the temperature is in the mid 60s as we get in line for breakfast, typical temperature for a morning in the high plains. We are at 6,500 feet above sea level, about the same as Mt. Mitchell in NC, the tallest mountain east of the Mississippi. We look up to mesas 1,500 feet above us and at mountain peaks in the distance around 11,000 feet high. Even though the temperatures will reach the mid 90s by the afternoon, the low humidity and constant, gentle breezes allow you to feel comfortable in the shade, which is fortunate, since I have seen no sign of air conditioning anywhere. (In the sun is another matter, however, and practically everyone here walks around carrying a water bottle.)

Jasper quickly finishes his breakfast of scrambled eggs and cereal and darts out  to find his new friends. Our first breakfast may be the only time we eat with our grandson as he and his two buddies—Chase from Tulsa and Aleyah from Baltimore—begin eating together at a table they choose, usually sitting with other children their age. This behavior seems to be universal at Ghost Ranch since we see few kids over five eating with their parents or grandparents.

Our room is in the “Cottonwood,” one of two guest rooms above the library and only a few hundred feet from the dining hall. It is spacious with windows on three sides affording stunning views of the meadow, dining pavilion and towering mesas, and allowing good cross breezes. “Cottonwood” is an apt name since these trees are clustered around the dining hall and most of the other buildings; and this time of year the air is filled with white puffs carrying tiny cottonwood seeds, creating a magical effect.

At Ghost Ranch family week, organized activities occur every morning from nine to noon, following a short religious service for anyone who is interested. The service today, attended by 75 or so people of all ages, is much like the first one—guitar music with drums and singing, at first lively, sounding to me like rock ‘n roll, then more mellow. There is lots of clapping and swaying with the music. It seems like everyone knows the words to all the songs. The music then tones down as people sit down and listen attentively as the chaplain begins her mediation. We are asked to close our eyes and feel the spirit of God in our souls as we, “who are made in the image of God” experience the beauty and holiness of this place. We breathe in deeply, touch our hearts to feel our own heartbeat, and link arms with our neighbors in what can only be described as a sublime moment—until a cell phone goes off and the chaplain pauses just for a split second before saying cheerfully, “Do you think that could be God calling?”

A minute later the service is over, and everyone rushes out to a morning activity. Our activity—and we insist that Jasper join us instead of going with his new friends to “Kids Games”—is “Dinosaurs.” We head down to the museum where we meet Alex, the paleontologist. He is pudgy with a bushy white beard, balding, and walks with a waddle. He is worth the price of admission. With a twinkle in his eye and a wry wit, poking fun at just about everyone and everything, he never crosses the line to cynicism, though at times he comes close. He is what you would call a kind and gentle curmudgeon and is especially good with children. (We later learn that he grew up in Arlington, VA, worked in DC  at the Smithsonian before discovering Ghost Ranch and moving here permanently in the mid 90s.)

There are 12 of us in the class, 7 kids and 5 adults. The oldest kid is 13 and wears a tee shirt, which on the back says, “I am autistic, please be patient with me.” He and his two younger siblings are accompanied by their 80-something grandmother from San Diego, who can walk circles around me. Over the course of the two days we get to know all the adults– all are women and are from all over the U.S.– and find them to be kind and gentle people. Jasper fits in nicely with the kids and adds to his new friends list.

Over the course of these two days we do a lot of things in our dinosaur activity: We make molds from fossils of dinosaur bones found on or near Ghost Ranch. We learn all about dinosaurs, rocks, and the various periods of prehistoric Earth. We hike a mile up a steep path to the site where the ceolophysis fossil–a small meat eater– was discovered, the only dinosaur fossil of its type ever found. The second day we take box lunches and drive an hour and a half–most of the time on a steep, deserted, one-lane, dusty road–to an old, abandoned quarry on the top of a 10,000 foot high mountain where there are thousands of rocks containing fossils of tiny sea creatures who lived some 350 million years ago.

Holding several of these small, round fossils in my hand, I pause for a moment and let my eyes wander to the meadow below and the forest on the other side. I can’t help wondering how long we humans will be around. What kind of creature will be examining our fossilized bones some 350 million years from now and what will they conclude about us and about our civilization?

***

Afternoons are free at Ghost Ranch so everyone sort of does his or her own thing. For Jasper this means reconnecting with his two buddies—eating lunch together at the same table, which only works when they secure an early spot in the cafeteria line, followed by an hour or so of three person soccer, then a hour’s rest, enforced by his grandparents, and then off again in mid afternoon to explore the ranch. It is not until around five that he reappears, smiling, just in time to get to the dinner line early so the Fabulous Three will have their table. The hour after dinner is more kicking the soccer ball around on the large field in front of the dining room, shared with serious Ultimate Frisbee players (mainly teenagers), requiring Jasper and his buddies to duck every now and then to avoid a sailing round disk. At seven pm a bell rings, the Ultimate Frisbee game concludes as people head to various evening activities like canoeing on a nearby lake, pottery, trail rides, rock climbing and yoga, and the Fabulous Three disappear again. We were worried the first night when Jasper disappeared and at 8:30 was still nowhere to be seen. Frantically, Embry and I visited every outdoor activity, but no Jasper. Just as the sun set he showed up to get his camera. He and his buddies had been at the stable area. We then established the let-us-know-where-you-are-going rule.

The grandparents spend the free time resting, napping, reading, blogging and wondering where on earth Jasper might be.

 

 

 

Sunday, June 26

Oklahoma soon blends into the Texas panhandle, and for the first time we begin to see wind farms, one after the other, containing thousands of giant, white propellers, all standing at attention and gently moving as if they were part of one vast orchestra. So far we have not seen one oil well, a sign, perhaps, of the future and our survival as a species.

Yesterday for lunch we stopped at the Mid Point Café, a tiny restaurant located in Adrian, Texas, a speck of a town with handful of desolate houses situated on the original Route 66 halfway between Chicago and LA and recommended by Susan, Ashley’s wife. She was raised on a ranch herself near Lubbock, about 40 miles south of Adrian and described the Mid Point as a rare gem. It was. Tastefully decorated with Route 66 memorabilia, it had about 20 tables and booths, about a third full of tourists and locals when we arrived–which was late for lunch, around 1:30. The 50-something owner greeted us warmly and noted that if we had arrived 30 minutes earlier, we would not have found an open table.

After we finished off a “Famous Mid Point Burger” and a chicken salad sandwich, he wandered over and asked where we were from. When we said DC, he asked where in DC, smiling and casually mentioning that he was born there and raised in the Maryland suburbs. If that was not enough coincidence, his primary home now is in Spring Hill, Tennessee, just outside of Nashville. During the next 30 minutes we pretty much got his life history. He was a landfill, sanitary engineer for years, working mainly in Maryland, got burned out, had serious health issues, drove by the Mid Point café on vacation five years ago and bought the restaurant the next year, having zero restaurant experience. He lives behind the restaurant in a mobile home and is assisted by his 20-something daughter (along with four others), who now lives in Amarillo. His wife visits occasionally, and he closes the restaurant from November through March, returning to Nashville. Not an easy life, but he has managed for four years and says he feels liberated from the East Coast rat race.

On Sunday we leave Santa Rosa, New Mexico, where we spent the night in a small Best Western motel, to head to the Albuquerque Airport to meet our grandson, Jasper. New Mexico is everything you would expect it to be—wide open spaces, high desert, multi-colored mesas, and purple mountains in the distance. Just before we crossed over the NM border, we checked my iphone app to see the elevation, which it turned out was over 4,000 feet. I could not believe it! I could not recall any ascent. It must have been a steady, gradual, uphill drive beginning in Oklahoma.

The rendezvous with our 11-year-old grandson worked out but was not without glitches. Embry waited in the car while I went to get a escort pass so I could get through security to meet Jasper, which I would have done except the Southwest attendant gave me a pass with Embry’s name on it, which I did not realize at the time, and which naturally kicked me out of the security line after I had been waiting for 20 minutes. Starting over, I hobbled back to the SW counter on my bum knee (strained ligament, about a month ago), and repeated the process, unsuccessfully pleading with an officer to let me through the shorter “TSA-Approved” line. (His response: “Are you kidding me?”). After finally passing security, I charged to Gate A-8, gasping for breath just as Jasper was coming out of gate. Hey, no problem, I thought, as Jasper gave me a hug.

The 100-mile drive to Ghost Ranch took just over two hours. Dark skies and thunderstorms followed us on both sides, but blue sky was directly overhead as we marveled at the beauty of the high plain—the subtle shades of green, olive, tan, red and gray mesas and purple mountains on both sides.

It was so great to be with our grandson, whose first comment was, “I am so excited to be here!”

We turned into the dusty road (Mile 2,330) leading to Ghost Ranch at six o’clock, just barely in time to check in and catch the end of the dinner line.

Ghost Ranch is a retreat center owned and managed by the Presbyterian Church, located about 50 miles northwest of Santa Fe. We are booked for family camp, which involves probably around 100 or so families, many multi generational, and many who come year after year. (There is also a youth camp underway.) The retreat center is situated on a 33-square mile parcel, about the same size as Arlington, Virginia. It was previously a dude ranch and sold to the Presbyterians for $1.00 in the 1950s. It is another one of those spiritual vortexes like Montreat (NC), the Pocono Lake Preserve (PA), Beersheba (TN), maybe Sedona, and (for me anyway) the island of Anageda in the British Virgin Islands. By spiritual vortex, I mean a spirit that is tangible when you enter the place, not necessarily a religious sponsorship. All I know is that if Marriott or Hyatt owned this place it would be very different. The houses and buildings are adobe and blend in with the colors of the towering mesas, which surround the camp center. Everything is understated and modest. Besides the housing, there are several camp grounds,  a large dining pavilion, the Agape Center (a lecture hall/church building), library, welcome center, paleontological museum, rope and wall climbing area, stables, several athletic fields, and buildings for meetings and hanging out. People are relaxed, friendly and move slowly. You know immediately that this is no Hyatt or Marriott.

Jasper finishes his dinner early and charges out of the dining pavilion to join kids his age kicking soccer balls , tossing Frisbees, and horsing around.

Dinner is over and we walk with everyone else to the Agape Center where an orientation will occur. The orientation starts off with two guitarists wearing cowboy hats, accompanied by a drummer singing lively Christian folk songs and hymns. Most people seem to know the words and sing along enthusiastically. A woman in her 40s introduces herself as the chaplain, says a couple of heart-felt prayers about the beauty of the place and its holiness and then talks about the week ahead. She asks people to standup depending on how many years they have been coming here. About twenty percent are first timers and the rest spread out with some coming here for more than 50 years. It is very different from the solemn, Episcopal high church service we are used to, and as Embry pointed out, is a whole lot more fun. I was pleased that no theology or hard core doctrine was part of the service. I would call it a non denominational, “Christian-lite” service–and genuine, though not what we are used to.

After the orientation we talked with a couple who was from the area who said they were a bit put off because their background was Islam and Native American. They were expecting an orientation but not a religious service. I wasn’t either and could see where they were coming from but thought the service could have been a whole lot worse.

After the service while the grownups were getting more camp information, Jasper ran off to join a group of kids engaged in more games. We all turned in around nine—eleven pm East Coast time (for Jasper).

This could turn out to be a pretty good week—and certainly a welcome respite from driving six or seven hours a day.

Saturday, June 25

All the news on TV and radio is about Brexit. Few pundits expected the Brits to leave the EU, but here we are with everything now up in the air. No one knows how this will ultimately play out, certainly not me, but this I do know: for us it is a shot across the bow.

This is what scares the bejesus out of me. A large number of those who voted to leave– nobody knows exactly how many, of course, but a lot–did not understand what the implications of leaving the EU actually were. (This is based on Google searches, Twitter, Facebook comments, and post election interviews .) They did not vote against leaving the EU so much as they voted against the Establishment. The votes were pretty much along class lines with the more educated, the professionals, the well-off voting to stay in and the working class–and those whose lives are disrupted by the new globalism– voting to get out. The Establishment wants in? A vote against the Establishment sends a message. The same thing, of course, is happening here with the Trump phenomena. Trump is sticking it to the traditional leaders of both parties. A vote for Trump sends a message—throw the bums out. Hillary is quintessential establishment. It could happen here.

So what is behind all this? A few years ago when I was teaching a course on housing and urban policy at GW, I told my students that I could not understand the steep rise in housing prices since incomes determine how much house you can afford and incomes had been stagnant for years. All I knew was that the bubble had to burst. (If only I had been smart enough to do a Big Short!) The income issue is what is behind Brexit and behind the Trump (and Sanders) movement—along with fears of change, being left out of the new global economy and the changing nature of the  population. Of course people are angry, and many have good reason to be angry. They have been hurt as good jobs have been shipped off shore and competition for the scraps that remain increases. They do not see the current political system working for them.

As we cross the country on the southern route, I check online for basic demographic information, such as race and income. It is no surprise that many of the states we have visited—Tennessee, Arkansas, and Oklahoma—have median incomes below the national median in the low $50,000s. Try living comfortably on $50,000 for a family of four. Sure, prices are lower here than in DC, but not all that much lower.

Bottom line: this is the fundamental issue that has got to be fixed. The challenge is that in the brave new world of a global economy nobody really knows how to do it. There is no silver bullet. It is going to take a long time and will require a lot of smart people working on it. If it does not happen? Think housing bust of 2008 or worse.

The fear I have regarding Trump is that the same mentality that caused people to vote against their own self interest in the UK in order to make a point will happen here. Trump is the farthest thing we need—an insecure, ignorant, ego maniac with fascist inclinations. Yet voting for him makes a point.

It could happen here.

Friday, June 24

Mile 1,575. After a somewhat futile effort to swim in the Crescent swimming pool in the early morning rain (first rain we have seen)—shallow end about one foot deep—we enjoy a big breakfast in the somewhat tarnished “Crystal Room” and head off toward Oklahoma where we will spend the evening.

The drive through the Ozarks is beautiful as the rain subsides, the mist rises and blue begins to appear through the clouds. I am reminded again that extraordinary beauty is to be found throughout our vast country.

The beauty subsides as we drive through a small town at the intersection with I-49, the earth begins to flatten out again, and all the in-your-face signs for fast food, motels and gas stations clutter what would otherwise be the last vista of the beautiful Ozarks. How did we allow the junkifying of small town America to happen?

We have three days to make it to Albuquerque to pick up our eleven-year-old grandson, Jasper, in the afternoon. This will be the first of three long days of driving. Several people who are reading the blog have asked that we slow down, which is good advice, but actually we are not as tired as it might appear. At the end of the day we are pretty worn out but have been able to get a pretty good rest overnight and arise fresh and ready to go (more or less). (When I talk about being tired, you can bet I am writing in the evening.)

The highlights are the ever-changing landscape from the green Ozark mountains to vast fields of crops and then pastures and finally gray prairie. Unlike the Eastern U.S. rural areas, there are very few houses and surprisingly few cows or horses to be seen. The traffic on I-40 has thinned out considerably as well, relieving some of the stress of driving. Two things particularly stand out—the vast blue sky with white cloud puffs and a consistent, strong wind. I thought that this part of the journey would be rather boring but actually it is not for me. I am fascinated by the vastness of the landscape.

We pass the border to Oklahoma as the pastures change to plains. Then we pass through one “nation” after another of Native Americans—Cherokee Nation, then Kickapoo, Shawnee, Potatomi, Chickasaw, Pawnee, and Cheyenne. The plains are vast and from I-40 no sign of any settlements. I can’t help thinking, where is everyone?

Evening at the Best Western in Clinton, OK, Mile 1,967 with left over pizza from our dinner at the Crescent.

The big news of the day, of course, is Brexit and what it means for the UK, the EU, and for the U.S. More on that to follow….

 

Thursday, June 24

When we arrived in Memphis Wednesday evening, the elegant lobby of the Peabody Hotel was packed with convention goers—men in dark suits and women in business dresses—sipping drinks, talking enthusiastically and seemingly enjoying the high energy setting with a jazz pianist playing away but hard to hear with all the chatter. I remember those days myself and briefly ponder the scene with mixed emotions. I admit I loved such gatherings then but I am glad I am standing here now wearing a golf shirt, shorts and a baseball cap, observing it all as a bystander.

We were so tired we ordered dinner in and crashed around nine. (Embry had another All Souls rector search interview.)

Thursday morning was a highlight for Embry. We met Curry in the lobby for a long breakfast in the Peabody dining room. Curry and Embry were classmates from first grade through high school, and his family was very close to the Martin family since his father was dean of the faculty of Davidson and hers president. They re-bonded immediately, sharing childhood and teenage stories and catching up on almost 50 years of going their separate ways. Like Embry he also had earned a PhD (geophysics), and has recently retired from the faculty of UT-Memphis where he was an earthquake expert. This visit marks our last reunion for a while, which I am not too unhappy about since the energy involved in such reconnections is very high and my energy level at this point might be described as very low.

After breakfast we visited the National Civil Rights Museum. This is an extraordinary museum, which should require a day though we had only a couple of hours. I spent a good bit of time in the section on the early years—especially the Albany Movement where we had worked in 1966, while Embry visited the museum annex across the street focusing on King’s assassination . What a privilege and blessing to have been part of the Civil Rights Movement! How lucky we were to be alive at that time and in that place.

Now off to the Crescent Hotel, a Nineteenth Century historic hotel located in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas. The first 100 miles were tedious as we made our way along a bumper-to-bumper I-40, squeezed between 18 wheelers going 80 miles an hour—even worse traffic than on I-81 on our way to Asheville. Eventually we turn off onto Arkansas state road 23, which is the complete opposite—more like a country lane, weaving up and down green mountains with towering trees, making us feel at times like we were on a roller coaster. For the first 50 miles we could not have seen more than a dozen cars and very few houses or signs of human life. Eventually the road leveled off a bit, and billboards started to appear advertising hotels in Eurika Springs, the location of the Crescent hotel. It was close to sunset when we entered the outskirts of this Victorian village, with gingerbread-looking houses, cute, touristy stores of all sorts and pleasantly crowed sidewalks. It took another 15 minutes to find the Crescent Hotel, which involved going down narrow streets, up steep hills and one sharp turn after another.

After a day of another high energy reunion, the Civil Rights Museum and 250 miles of driving in trying conditions, boy, were we ready for this hotel! Embry had found it online and noted that it was one of the most historic hotels in the country.

Now at this point I have to admit that ever since we moved from our house on Macomb Street to the Kennedy-Warren, I have come to expect as normal a somewhat higher level of excellence in living standards. I am the first to admit that this may be a dangerous sign of elitism, but it is what it is. At the K-W, there is a doorman, concierge, world class fitness center, lap pool, and elegant bar. Images of the Kennedy-Warren were swarming in my head along with those of the Homestead and Greenbrier– Five Star, world class resorts in remote locations as certainly this resort hotel was. As a destination hotel listed in the National Register of Historic Places, this would be one of those special hotels. I could already taste the martini and was wondering what delicious choices would be on the dinner menu. Embry was obviously wondering the same thing and said she hoped she had brought a nice enough dress.

As we parked and headed with our baggage to the main entrance, I did notice signs of peeling paint and rusty railings on this five-story, stone structure but did not think much of it. Besides the temperature was in the mid 90s with sweltering humidity. I could not wait to get inside to cool off and unwind.

A lean young man dressed in a shabby uniform opened the door. I immediately realized this was not the Homestead. There was no air conditioning, and it was probably hotter inside than out. Ceiling fans were swirling futilely. The walls were dark paneled with dusty pictures of the building decades ago along with news clippings of events in the 1920s. A tarnished gold plaque boasted, “Renovated in 1922.” Bits of paper and trash were on the floor. The dark rugs in the hallway were worn and in some places stained, the modest lobby furniture was drab and pretty beat up, and the ceiling lights so dim you would have a hard time reading. People dressed in jeans and shorts were milling around, but no one was sitting. We soon learned that they no longer served any dinner, but we could get some pizza on the third floor if we were hungry.

We looked at each other, groaned under our breath and made our way in the sweltering heat to our third floor room. There were some 15-20 people, mainly high school or college age, listening intensely to a slim young woman talk about spirits, ghosts, weird deaths, and pointing in the direction of our room. We managed to squeeze our way through the group and open the door to find a tiny room with dark red walls and red ceiling, torn brown carpet, one light hanging from the ceiling and barely enough room for a small double bed. There was an air conditioner in the window but it did not work, nor did the fan. We could not open the windows.

This was our introduction to the Crescent Hotel, founded in 1886 and now in its “Second Renaissance.”

The story has a happy ending. After protesting we were given a cottage suite, about a quarter mile down the hill, which was pretty nice. We did manage to walk back to get a beer and a pizza where we were one of only a handful of people and waited on by a very friendly, African American, 19-year old basketball player on his way to a junior college at the end of the summer, determined to succeed. The pizza was good enough, and we learned that the big draw of the hotel is that it is “the most haunted hotel in America.”

Not the Greenbrier but worth putting on your list—if you want a good story.

Monday, June 20-Wednesday, June 23

It turns out that doing a blog post every day is a bit of a stretch so here is a brief summary of our next three days, all spent in Tennessee.

• Monday, a wonderful visit with Eslick and his wife, Annie, dear friends from high school days on their 200 acre farm about 40 miles south of Nashville in one of the most beautiful parts of Middle Tennessee. Steak dinner that evening with the cousins and sister-in-law, Kathy, at Curt and Val’s house.
• Tuesday, hanging out with Kathy at her house where we are staying. (My brother died of cancer seven years ago in his early sixties.) Afternoon visit with cousin Buck in his law office on floor 29 of a downtown skyscraper, tour of downtown Nashville and the Country Music Hall of Fame, dinner with the cousins at the Firefly, Curt’s restaurant in the Green Hills suburb of Nashville. (Embry had to miss the two dinners to listen to telephone interviews with candidates in the All Souls search process.)
• Wednesday, off to Memphis, via Vanleer, a tiny town about 50 miles northwest of Nashville, where we visit Ashley (friend from Union Seminary days and our housemate in Southwest GA in 1966 when we worked for SNCC in the Civil Rights Movement) and his wife, Susan, on their beautiful 175 acre farm. Arrival in Memphis around eight where we stay at the famous Peabody Hotel. We just pass Mile 1,100 on the trip meter. I wonder again how long we can keep up this pace.

These were three jam packed days mainly spent renewing old and precious friendships and experiencing Nashville, which has changed in many ways (bigger buildings downtown and sprawling suburbs) but still looks pretty much the same in the neighborhood where I grew up, Belle Meade. I marvel at the stately mansions and manicured lawns and wonder where the money comes from to buy these things. It also occurs to me that when I grew up in Belle Meade, all the people owning these homes were in my parents’ generation. Now they are younger than me, some probably in our children’s generation. Of course, you think, that is the way life works. But it is a reminder as to how fast time goes by, how much things change and yet stay the same.

I grew up thinking that the Nashville environs was the most beautiful place on earth with its green hills and fields, winding streams, meadows and farm lands. Now, having traveled to scores of countries around the world, I still think so and suppose this is not all that unusual for people to do, though I will now concede that Middle Tennessee is actually only one of the most beautiful places.

I was sorry not to be able to visit more friends but time was limited. I think how lucky I was to grow up here, to have loving parents, and to have so many friends, many of whom have had distinguished and fulfilling careers and interesting and, I believe, fulfilling lives. I wonder when and if I will see them again.