What ever happened to the blog?

When last we posted in mid June (two months ago!), we were leaving upstate New York and heading for the Boston area.

We started out in Cambridge, Massachusetts, staying with our old friend Danna. 

Kate and Danna

Danna makes us feel so much at home when we visit. She pampers us and showers us with treats even when we protest that we want her to pretend we’re just wallpaper.  Though Danna is always very busy, she was exceptionally busy during this visit – single-handedly setting up the annual fundraiser banquet for the Massachusetts Mental Health Association, of which she’s executive director. But we were still able to share some meals with her and catch up on family during spare moments. I spent a lot of our time in Cambridge getting the blog ready to post; Kate got to work on the book she’s writing. Kate and I did take time to walk to Harvard Square for shopping at the Coop (pronounced Coop) and for ice cream at Lizzy’s.

We got to spend Father’s Day with daughter Jennifer and grandkids Kaylan and Lyrissa! They treated me to brunch at the neighborhood Turkish restaurant in Brookline Village. 

Lyrissa had a display of her recent
awards ready for our arrival.

Our good fortune knows no bounds. We had planned to spend time on Cape Cod for a while, and out of the blue Mary Jane, my old boss (from 40 years ago) offered us the guest quarters at her beautiful waterfront home in East Falmouth. We had our own little apartment that felt like living in a treehouse. 

For a few days we were on our own at the house; then Mary Jane and her son Thomas arrived and we had a chance to talk about the old days (and the new days). Mary Jane was my boss when I worked for the Massachusetts Department of Mental Health in the 1970’s. I guess you could say I got in trouble a few times for “speaking truth to power.” In fact, I got fired a few times. Luckily, Mary Jane was always there to rescue me and get me un-fired. She went on to have a dazzling career, including becoming commissioner of a large state agency, executive director of the National Business Group on Health (you could look it up), and a college president. And she’s still going – leading several national policy initiatives in the health care field. Thomas had a very fulfilling career as a high school English and math teacher. Then he switched up and went to medical school. He just finished his third year of residency and is now launching career number two. The four of us had a great time together; we feel fortunate to count Mary Jane and Thomas as friends. 

During our time in Falmouth we had a chance to visit Woods Hole, home of the sprawling Oceanographic Institute and Marine Biology Laboratory, founded in 1888 and still thriving today. It seems like half the town is devoted to the scientific institutes, and to the fishing boats in the harbor. The other half seems devoted to tourists like ourselves. 

Woods Hole is picturesque to say the least. We were impressed by the enormous 150-year-old copper beech trees. 

The tiny person standing next to
the copper beech is Kate.

While in town we stumbled on the tiny Woods Hole History Museum, housed in a 300-year-old building. The museum has just two rooms, each with one exhibit (“Shell Fishing on Cape Cod”, and “Navigation”). 

We asked our young docent, Brendan, why Woods Hole is called Woods Hole. We received a very thorough explanation. 

Brendan also proved to be expert in his knowledge of Cape Cod shellfish. 

After spending time with Brendan, we connected with Bob, another docent in the Woods Hole History Museum. 

Bob has spent time on Cape Cod every one of his 89 years, but he hastens to say he doesn’t actually qualify as a Cape Codder, because he wasn’t born there, and only spends summers on the Cape (nowadays he spends seven or eight months a year in Honolulu). He noted that he does qualify as a “Swamp Yankee,” because his permanent residence from birth was in the area south of Boston and north of Rhode Island.  Bob told us about the boats on exhibit in the museum annex, used for fishing in Cape waters. 

No Trump fan, Bob is a bit of a philosopher. 

Bidding farewell to Mary Jane and Thomas, we traveled further “down the Cape” to spend a few days with friends Tom and Joan in Chatham.

Tom and Joan had graciously served for months as guardians of the new air conditioner shroud for our rig. We hadn’t been sure where to take delivery; the one place we knew we’d visit eventually was Brookline, Massachusetts where Tom and Joan live. So there the shroud was delivered, and there it resided in their basement until we finally showed up, months after they received it. We carried "Shroudie" with us to Tom and Joan’s place on Cape Cod, and the big moment arrived. We were ready to install the new shroud!

Tom is among the more competent guys I know. He can build or repair anything. I felt that with my close supervision he could be trusted to install the new shroud. I could not be trusted to do it.

I supervised Tom to make sure
he didn’t fall off the ladder.

Tom cannibalized parts of the old shroud and put the finishing touches on the new shroud.
I supervised (not pictured).

It was a complex process, involving a ladder, large screws, two sizes of washers (painstakingly researched and purchased by me at Home Depot), gorilla glue, and A/C insulation strips (painstakingly cut by me). Once the rooftop area had been readied, the insulation was glued to the A/C unit, the shroud was put in place, and screws and washers were carefully installed. To assure proper drying and setting of the glued insulation strip, an ingenious weight was constructed from a small blackboard, an old tarp, and a log, and put in place.

Ingenious weight that held down the shroud.

It was far from easy supervising Tom from ground level, but in the end with my assistance he did a fine job. The new shroud was in place at last. The old shroud (“Shroudie”) went to the city dump. The shroud is dead! Long live the shroud!

While on the Cape, I drove out to the very tip at land’s end and visited Linda, another boss from 40 years ago.

When I worked for Linda I was a hotshot in a big, important job at the tender age of 30. Linda was my boss. She was 27. She was pretty impressive. Those were the days….. 

Years later, Linda figured out how to capture hundreds of millions of federal dollars for individual states, to support good works for the poor and mentally ill. In the process she earned gazillions of dollars herself, and retired to the Cape. 

Linda and I had a lot of catching up to do, and managed to get through it in the few hours available. She lives in a fantastic place on a wharf overlooking

Provincetown harbor.

Leaving the Cape, Kate and I briefly diverged paths. Kate flew to Montana to visit daughter Sarah, and I drove the rig solo to meet up with her.

On the way west, I spent time with relatives – including first and foremost daughter Jennifer and grandchildren Kaylan and Lyrissa. The four of us spent several days in a house owned by a friend of Jennifer’s, in the Vermont woods. We had a full schedule, including pond swimming, miniature golf, dry land tobogganing and amusement rides at a local ski resort, a visit to the mansion of Abraham Lincoln’s only surviving son, seemingly endless games of ring toss, fussball, and ping pong, and finally a visit to the camp where Kaylan spent time as a counselor-in-training this summer.

Lyrissa and Kaylan

Miniature Golf at Bromley Ski Area.

Tobboganning.

                          Jennifer hits the heights.

Hildene, an estate built in Manchester, Vermont, by Robert Todd Lincoln, the only child of Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln to survive to adulthood. His father born in a log cabin, Lincoln became Chairman of the Pullman Company, the largest manufacturing corporation at the turn of the 20th century. He built his Georgian Revival mansion in 1905. It was home to only Lincoln descendants until 1975.

First day at camp.

While in northern New England, we visited East Alstead, where my great, great, great grandfather Ezra Kidder built the “first two story brick house in New Hampshire” in 1820. 

In East Alstead we visited Margaret Perry and Ellen Chase, sisters whose father Heman Chase grew up in the Brick House.  When Heman's family moved in (around 1910), they discovered letters in the attic written by my great, great Aunt Angeline to her brother James during the Civil War. 

Margaret gave us a tour of Chase’s Mill, a working water powered mill that Margaret is helping to restore. Ellen and husband John hosted us for a wonderful dinner.

Margaret demonstrates the physics
of water power to Lyrissa.

Departing New England, I headed west. On my way to Montana I paid a visit to niece Karen, her husband Leo, and my grand nieces Stephanie and Brianna in the Chicago area.  

We had a good time catching up, and managed to work in a fireworks show on the 4^th. 

Leo celebrated Independence Day by donning his Trump Supporter Costume.

Leaving Chicago, I stopped in to visit cousin Jacque and her husband Ted. 

Jacque is deeply immersed in family genealogy, and as a kid she grew up living with my paternal grandparents. So though it was a brief visit, we had a lot to talk about.

With 1700 miles still separating me from Kate in Missoula, I picked up the pace. Or tried to, anyway.  From Chicago I drove north into Wisconsin, then west through Madison toward my destination, settling in at a truck stop for the night. The next morning I started up the rig. The engine made a couple of pitiful efforts, then gave up altogether. 
I phoned several tow companies near the truck stop, but all were too busy to come and get me. Ever, it seemed.

In desperation I called the Chicago Mercedes dealer where the rig had undergone the 50,000 mile service package just two days before.  They hooked me up with Mercedes Roadside Service, and I got a tow back to a Mercedes dealer in Madison. I was going backwards. 

After a day spent in the waiting room at the Mercedes dealer (Mercedes dealers have sumptuous waiting rooms with wifi, snacks, drinks, TV, etc. – and very high hourly labor rates) my problem had been diagnosed as a minor leak in a critical hose. I was back on the road by day’s end.

Truck stops and truck rest areas, by the way, are pretty nice. They’re well-lighted, have clean restrooms, and some even have restaurants, convenience stores, and showers. I felt a sense of camaraderie with long haul truck drivers whenever I stopped in one for the night. I’m not sure if they felt the same sense of camaraderie with me.

Me and my buddies, buttoned up for the night.

The trip to Missoula went at warp speed, compared to the leisurely, meandering (non) schedule we had enjoyed traveling the rest of the country.  I traversed the 1700 miles in three days, including the day spent in the Mercedes waiting room.

We celebrated our wedding anniversary by exchanging cards via text message (in my case from a truck stop in Gill, North Dakota).

(“I love you more than an orange” is a family in-joke.)

At a  rest stop in Rosebud, Montana, I learned a lot about cattle brands. 

I also learned that Rosebud was the site of “The Battle of Rosebud Creek” in 1876, when the Lakota and Cheyenne, led by Chief Crazy Horse, defeated the U.S. cavalry in a long and bloody battle. Eight days later, Crazy Horse led the defeat of General Custer in the Battle of the Little Bighorn.

Reunited in Missoula, Kate and I camped for several weeks at a fairly funky campground about 12 miles east of the city.

Turah RV Park, Clinton, Montana.

Our pace while in Montana slowed from the hyper speed of the first eleven months on the road, to nearly zero – including the pace of blogging, in case you hadn’t noticed. We did bestir ourselves and move into vacation-adventure mode from time to time, though. We camped for a long weekend at Flathead Lake with Sarah, her friend Kim, and Kim’s dog Bob, and we did some tubing on the Clark Fork River, and some lolling at a swimming beach on the Blackfoot River.

Kate, Sarah and Bob, camping at Flathead Lake.

We snuggled our rig next to Kim’s vintage trailer.

Sarah paddleboarding.

Sarah and Kate relaxing at Flathead.

Strenuous workout on the Blackfoot River.

A couple of obligatory sunsets at Flathead Lake:

Since we were in Montana on Sarah’s birthday, we were able to enjoy a celebratory brunch with Sarah and her friends Daniel and Brian.

Despite our newfound commitment to slow-paced leisure, life in Montana was not without its exciting moments. One morning at 2:00 am, the cabin next to which we were camped at Turah Campground exploded and burst into flames. Apparently there was some ammo stored there, because the next thing we heard in our grogginess was the sound of random, close-by gunshots.  And there was a large propane tank adjacent to the conflagration, about 25 feet from us.

We wondered what to do. Get out and run? The sound of random gunshots made that unappealing. Stay put? What if the propane tank blew up? We finally decided to drive out to the park entrance to get away from the fire and possible explosion, and also to get out of the way of the fire trucks that we assumed would soon arrive, so they could get access to the fire and we wouldn’t be trapped in place when they did. Driving wasn’t easy, because our bed was deployed, requiring the driver’s seat to be shoved all the way forward. In fact until that moment we had considered it to be impossible to drive the rig with the bed deployed. Miraculously, I wedged myself into the driver’s seat and we managed to drive out of harm’s way just as the fire engines arrived. Seven of them.

We stayed one more night at Turah, then opted for the relative safety of Walmart parking lots for the next several nights in Missoula.

In Montana, as on the road around the rest of the country, we continued to meet people we might not get to know during our everyday lives in Palo Alto.

Rock was a neighbor at the Turah campground. His dog Beauty became our new best friend, making her rounds to greet us every morning, hoping for a belly rub and a chance to clean up our leftovers from breakfast. Rock is a former ironworker who was born and grew up in Anaconda, Montana. He was there during the waning days of the city when copper was king (Anaconda was once the home of the world’s largest copper smelter). This was toward the end of a half century when the Anaconda Mine in Butte was one of the top copper producers in the world.

Main Street Anaconda Today.

When Rock was growing up in Anaconda, it still had the feel of a boomtown. Rock regaled us with stories of his Anaconda youth, a time when the population was nearly 20,000 (now 9,000 and declining), and there were more than 150 saloons in town. One of his favorite memories was the time when he and his seventeen-year-old buddies made their “first visit to a whore house.” He told the story fondly, in some detail.

Rock’s dog Beauty is very sweet; she’s a pit bull mix. I’ve often heard pit bull advocates talk about how sweet they can be, but I’ve always been skeptical of that, and leery of pit bulls.  Beauty hasn’t really made me a believer, but she is a sweet and loving dog. We enjoyed our neighborly times with Beauty and the Rock.

Rock and Beauty.

Beauty helping with breakfast cleanup.

Laura is a pedicurist (manicurist, I suppose, but to me she’s a pedicurist) at the Peak Spa in Missoula.  Laura administered pedicures to Kate and me simultaneously one Saturday morning. Mine was a birthday present from Kate. I’m quite a pedicure aficionado now, after having survived 73 years heretofore without ever having one.

Laura is a Montana native; she’s been working at the spa for ten years. She has two boys, ages 8 and 11, and her husband is an apprentice plumber. For the first ten years of their marriage, her husband was a logger. He went out year round in his pickup camper for stretches of seven to ten days at a time with the other members of his crew, on remote logging roads  -- no communication with the outside world.  Laura would shop at Costco on Sundays and make up the meals for him to take into the wilderness, then hold down the fort for days on end with two babies in tow until hubby returned. Recently her husband decided to change careers and take up plumbing. To save money while he got started with his training, the family of four lived in his camper in Laura’s mother’s yard for nearly a year. Recently they bought their own house.

Our pedicures were really elaborate, and good. At one point I asked Laura about whatever she was smearing on my legs at that moment.  “It’s to liberate your soul,” she said.

Laura liberating Kate’s soul.

Joe and Diana were like long lost friends. Departing the Missoula Costco one day, we walked toward our rig in the parking lot, only to realize it was not our rig. It was the second Westy Sprinter we had seen (other than our own) in a year of travel all over the country. We parked our rig next to theirs, and waited a half hour. Finally they appeared. Immediately we started babbling to each other about our rig experiences. 

Joe and Diana invited us to go to dinner with them. At dinner we discovered that Joe is a semi-retired ophthalmologist who lives in Hamilton, a sort of suburb of Missoula. He and Diana bought their rig new in 2004, and have been using it ever since. We regaled one another with tales of adventures in our Westy Sprinters. We were invited to their home in the hills – but they were leaving the next day on a trip, so we never actually were able to connect again. Meeting another Westy Sprinter owner is like randomly bumping into a previously unknown second cousin twice removed who shares a grandmother with you. Very emotional.

Kate and Diana with the Westy Sprinters.

Carl and Neal are our heroes, though our acquaintanceship had an inauspicious beginning. I was casting about for someone who could (and would) fix the air conditioning in the rig (it still only works sometimes, and for not very long). I looked online for a local auto A/C place, and found Carl’s Auto Air in East Missoula. We drove to his place, and just looking at it made us hopeful.

We’ve learned from repeated experiences that what we really need is a talented mechanic who is not fancy, is flexible, and likes a challenge. Carl’s Auto Air definitely qualified as not fancy.

As I climbed out of the rig, Carl approached, looking askance at our 11-foot-tall home. “What to you want?” was his opening line. “I need help. I can tell by instinct that you’re the person who can help me.” “Is it a mental health problem, or something wrong with that spaceship over there? We don’t do spaceship work.”

And so it went. After several days of negotiation and exchanges of insults, Carl had agreed to fix fourteen different things (some big, some small things) on the rig. Actually, he had agreed to have his mechanic cohort Neal fix 13 things, while Carl would figure out what was wrong with the A/C. 

Neal (left) and Carl

It must be said that of necessity, the rig has become a major hobby. In the course of the year, I had scoured the thick manual, looking for Airstream part numbers for the items that were broken, missing, or malfunctioning.

Carl peruses the manual. 

I compiled a list of a dozen parts, large and small, including their Airstream part numbers, for which we needed replacements.  I contacted Airstream to order the parts. We reviewed them one at a time, and it developed that each and every part was out of stock and out of production. That is, these parts do not exist and will not exist in the future. 

So, we began a worldwide search online and by telephone for used parts, and for parts that weren’t really like the original parts but were close enough that they might work. By the time Carl and Neal were ready to go to work on our rig, we had discovered parts that we thought would meet all our needs, and we had them shipped to Carl’s Auto in East Missoula. Carl’s waiting room became a small temporary warehouse for us as the shipments rolled in.

Anderson Memorial Receiving Area

 Parts in hand, Carl and Neil were equipped to tackle our now impressive list of hoped-for fixes:

1.   Install Fantastic Fan

2.   Fix/re-install sliding door in cabinet

3.   Run A/C all day until it fails, & fix it 

4.   Fix/beautify bathroom sink 

5.   Modify/install city water unit or flap

6.   Install screw covers on range

7.   Install piezo switch for range

8.   Install gray screw cover on inside (sliding) door panel

9.   Fix cockeyed hw heater vent on roof

10. Diagnose and fix rattle in or near driver's side door

11. Replace propane regulator

12. Fix inverter

13. Fix bathroom cabinet door

14. Reinforce A/C shroud

It may not look like much to you, but to us it was akin to a bucket list.

Carl and Neal at work.

After two days of impressive work, Carl and Neal succeeded in knocking off thirteen of the fourteen items on the punch list, and the rig was as good as new –except for the air conditioning.  Carl and Neal were heard to curse German engineers. Although they found and solved some of the A/C problems, they remained stumped by others. We were scheduled to leave town, but we’d have to return at some point to resume the Battle of the German Air Conditioner.

Carl and Neal are versatile guys. Carl owns his garage, which doubles as a used car lot. He's also a notary public. He's also a licensed auctioneer and an Elvis impersonator, and he combines the latter two avocations by conducting his auctions as Elvis.  Neal is a mechanic, a certified propane technician, an artist, plays in a blues band and a rock n' roll band, and at home raises chickens and rabbits. 

Diane is a waitress at the Reno Lounge, Casino, Liquor Store, and Café in East Missoula.  The Reno complex is next door to Carl’s Auto Air. During our negotiations and subsequent service at Carl’s, we became regulars at the café for at least two meals a day. Diane lives in East Missoula; her daughter lives in Helena as a pharmacist tech in the hospital there. Diane is an ever cheerful, efficient, solicitous waitress. After a very short time she seemed like an old friend, and we looked forward to seeing her at our bi-daily meals. 

The Reno Complex

Diane

The Hutterites have a farm next to the Turah RV park where we stayed (the one with the exploding cabin). Straight from Wikipedia: “Hutterites (German: Hutterer) are an ethnoreligious group that is a communal branch of Anabaptists who, like the Amish and Mennonites, trace their roots to the Radical Reformation of the 16th century. Since the death of their eponym Jakob Hutter in 1536, the beliefs of the Hutterites, especially living in a community of goods and absolute pacifism, have resulted in hundreds of years of diaspora in many countries.”

Our local Hutterites, as it happens, sell their produce in a stand next to Carl’s Auto Air, so we got to know them a little.

The Local Hutterites.

Carl knows the Hutterites well, and even hangs out with them on a regular basis. He claims that the Hutterite women love lingerie, and the men like to take a drink and cuss a little. Neal says when the old man takes his nap, the women have been known to patronize the Reno Bar and knock down some Long Island Teas.

Post Script: 

In the end, we decided to leave the rig with Carl and Neal, and to depart Missoula for our next destination in our new car (the new car is another story). Just as we were deciding how to rearrange our plans, Neal phoned us to invite us to spend the night at his place on the Blackfoot River. He and his girlfriend Cheryl have created a wonderland in the woods, artfully renovating a house and several outbuildings, using mostly recycled materials. They said it would be no problem to host us, because the party they had planned the evening before for the Banditos motorcycle gang had fallen through, so they had plenty of beds ready (also another story).

We had a great time with Cheryl and Neal over pizza and beer, and then retired to our Sultan's tent for the night.

The next day we struck out for Sun Valley, Idaho, in hopes of viewing the eclipse. We planned to return to Missoula in a week or so to reclaim the rig.