Teabag Encounter

Last week, the racist anti-immigrant American Border Patrol founder, Glenn Spencer, hosted a tea party event on his land which borders Mexico. I attended.

I drove about five miles of rutted desert roadway to his property where I saw canopies, flags, and a few hundred people milling about (some press reported a few thousand). I have a few bumper stickers I knew those in attendance wouldn't approve of. I didn't want to cause a problem, and I sure didn't want my car damaged, so I parked right in front of a sheriff's deputy, a half-mile hike to the property. Safe.

I was noticed walking up the dusty road, so of course one of the security men (no security women) drove on down to look at my car. Saw the offending bumper sticker. Soon, I was tracked down and told to leave the property. I was referred to as "that woman who has the SUV with the 'no to SB1070' sticker on her car."

I'd been there long enough to hear JD Hayworth disparage John McCain and, of course, the President. I'd seen reactionary, right-wing signs and t-shirts for sale. I'd seen plenty of gun-toting men and women. I was there long enough to hear the rush of excitement ripple through the crowd when sheriff Joe (racist Maricopa County sheriff) was introduced.

As I was listening to Joe's opening remarks, a man laden with all kinds of gear approached me. He told me the owner of the property wanted me to leave. I asked why, saying I was listening and learning, and his only response was that the owner wanted me off the property.

I asked him to call Glenn Spencer, and that if he asked me to leave, I would. I told the man there was no reason for me to know what his authority was, and repeated that I wanted to have the owner ask me to leave. Instead, he called someone else who told him to notify the sheriff and have me ticketed and/or arrested.

I told the man in front of me that this wouldn't look very good, told him I had a press pass, but to no avail. I left, mostly because I didn't want to make a scene. There were some, to me, VERY scary looking people there - all armed. I didn't want a reason for them to take notice of me.

Strolling back to my car, I wondered how it is we can ever know one another if one side refuses to let the other even listen to what they have to say. How can we engage in a dialogue if one side won't speak to the other? How can we ever find common ground?

About my car: A number of people photographed it, the license plate, and the offending bumper sticker. I was glad I'd parked across from a deputy.

The Last Leg

From Tucumcari I headed west staying on the interstate only until Rosa Blanca, then onto back roads again. Vaughn, Corona, Carrizozo, then west crossing the Rio Bravo to San Antonio. From there I cut south on Highway 1 to the Bosque del Apache.

The Bosque is a wildlife refuge sitting along the Rio. Paul and I went there years ago in winter, staying at a sweet little B&B (Casa Blanca) in San Antonio. After driving and walking the refuge, we stood along the road watching wave after wave of Canadian geese and sandhill cranes arrive for the night after clearing area fields of leftover grains.

They clustered in groups of maybe a few hundred. Suddenly, on a signal known only to birds, all the groups rose as one, circled, and settled in new spots. It was magical.

On this day, there were no cranes or geese. They're smart and have gone north, the cranes perhaps as far away as Russia. It was hovering around 100 again, so again, I didn't stay out long. I drove, walked some. Enjoyed being the only one foolish enough to visit the Bosque on such a hot day.

The highlight was seeing three deer. Young, I think. Their antlers were about 12" tall and still fuzzy. There were also pheasant and some long-necked black birds sitting on a dead tree in the water. I have no idea what they were.

Then south, still on Highway 1, the lone vehicle for over twenty miles. I had to reenter the highway for the last stretch to Truth or Consequences.

T or C. One of my favorite spots. I rediscovered it about three years ago and found what is my favorite little motel in the US (my favorite so far - I'm still looking). It's called Riverbend. T or C is an area of hot springs, and Riverbend is along the Rio Bravo in the hot water district. It has six tubs, water moving from one into the next, and then into the river.

When I first went there, it was funky, a kind of 60s leftover. The rooms were a bit worn, but very comfortable. It still had a women's dorm with three sets of bunk beds. Beds in the dorm were $10 a night. I stayed there once with Minnow, the resident cat. I think I've stayed at Riverbend about a dozen times in the last three years.

But they decided to upgrade. All rooms have been remodeled, and the wonderful dorm has been closed. The room I first stayed in for $60 is now $90. The fanciful little three bedroom place with a tiny kitchen used to be $90. Now it's $160. I have been priced out of Riverbend.

But I stayed the night. $70. My most expensive stay of the whole trip. The room has been nicely redone, but in the future I'll have to stay up the road at the Charles where one can get two beds and a kitchenette for under $50. Walk a few blocks to Riverbend for the view and a soak.

It rained again Thursday night. Not bucketloads, but a real rain. Sitting in the hot water in the cool rain was delicious.

Two soaks that night and two the next morning. A quick visit to the Black Cat Bookstore, and I was on the road. Through Hatch. Past the Valley Cafe (aka the Dead Kennedy Restaurant). The Dead Kennedy Restaurant has the absolute best huevos rancheros to be found in the 50 states. You have to go deep into Mexico to find better.

Back roads from Hatch to Deming, then I-10 nearly to the Arizona border. South on historical Highway 80. 80 runs coast to coast, from San Diego to Van Horn Texas where it actually splits. You can take the northern route through Dallas and end up in Savannah, Georgia, or the southern route through Houston and New Orleans and end up in Jacksonville, Florida. Maybe one day I'll do that whole route.

Just like Route 66, old Highway 80 has been gobbled up in most places by interstate, but the last 130 miles or so of my trip were on blue highway 80.

Just south of the interstate I saw a Border Patrol vehicle. Amazing. I'd almost forgotten about them on this journey. But here, at least 70 miles north of the border, I saw the first, sitting in the middle of the road, the driver chatting with people on the side of the road. Soon came another vehicle.

Before I got anywhere near the border, I'd seen at least a dozen. Why, I wondered, don't the Border Patrol actually patrol the border? I know some do, but I saw more of them 50+ miles away from the border than I have seen right here on the border since yesterday.

Nearing Rodeo on Highway 80, there were still camps of temporary housing and firefighters. The Horseshoe Fire has been burning for a month and one day now, at a cost of 9.5 million dollars so far. It is now contained, with about 400 acres currently burning. There are still over 100 men and women, 3 helicopters, and several other pieces of firefighting equipment tied up there. Sadly, Thursday night's rain missed the fire. More sadly, area lightning has started two new fires.

I left with the fire, returned with the fire. I left just after a full moon, returning in time for the next. This morning, my first morning home I rose early to sit on the flagstone porch and watch the lunar eclipse. When I left it was late spring. Now, it is full summer. Crisp mornings are gone, replaced by an almost sultry quiet heat. Monsoons are near.

Heading West

I left Osage Beach down more blue highways through the Ozarks. It was with a mixture of happiness and frustration that I got onto the interstate. Glad to be covering some miles, frustrated to be dealing with interstate traffic and missing rural scenery.

Past 30 miles of billboards encouraging me to visit Branson (music! shows! The Princess Diana Exhibit!) and I finally eased into Oklahoma where the road was worse and there was a toll.

I'd hoped to connect with an old friend in Norman OK, but I left Osage Beach late morning and couldn't stand the highway. I turned off and followed more blue highways. I had to call my friend about an hour outside of OK City and tell her I couldn't drive any longer. I stayed on Route 66 (got my kicks) and found an original "motor hotel" with $35 rooms.

The room was worn, and the toilet sat an an angle due to a saggy bathroom floor, but the A/C worked, and since it was 103 in town, it seemed a lot better than sleeping in Stella.

On the road again, early, staying on Route 66 into the edge of the Great Plains, through small towns and past great fields of grain interspersed with cookie-cutter subdivisions. The dirt turned Oklahoma red. I had to climb on the interstate occasionally but mostly stayed on whatever side road I could find. One one remote road, I saw no vehicles for many miles, but hit one spot of kamikaze grasshoppers. If I hadn't needed gas anyway, I would have had to stop to scrub the windshield.

I was on the interstate when I entered Texas because I wanted to stop at the welcome center for information about my next stop, Palo Duro Canyon. Unfortunately, Texas does not welcome people who drive I-40. We are left to fend for ourselves. However, I did stop at the rest stop/ storm shelter midway across the Panhandle. There was a little information about Palo Duro, but nothing I could take with me to help me find it.

I cut south at Amarillo toward Palo Duro, the second largest canyon in the US. I drove through the plains and gentle hills making only two wrong map-less turns. The topography changed a bit, more trees, and then wham! There is was. An incredible canyon that stretches for miles and miles. And miles. 120 miles.

Unlike the Grand, you can drive into Palo Duro Canyon. I paid my $5, visited the interpretive center, and headed down. It drops about 800 feet over a drive of four miles, eventually sitting 1000 feet below the rim in some places. I'd hoped to camp there, but the canyon temperature was 109. I did walk a bit, but with that heat, not much.

I don't know how far the canyon road goes because I turned around after cruising and walking the canyon for about an hour. Since I wasn't going to camp there, I wanted to make it to my second choice, Tucumcari NM.

I continued to opt for the back roads and meandered the Panhandle. Cattle stood knee deep in grass, wandering and grazing. No, not grazing. In that much grass they were gorging. Down farm roads where the only other traffic was the occasional semi or a truck weighed down with hay.

Because of the magic of time zones, I got to Tucumcari earlier than I thought I would. Back on Route 66, I found another vintage motor hotel, this one named, appropriately, The Historic Route 66 Motel. With tax, around $31.

Dinner at Del's. If you are in northeastern New Mexico, stop in Tucumcari. Friendly people, very affordable hotels, and lots of food at Del's. Get the chicken fajitas and plan to share it with someone. I took plenty to go. Good salsa, too, a true sign of being back in the southwest.

It's really, really hard to get good salsa east of west Texas. In the east, it's made for gringo tongues. I have seen it made with bell pepper rather than jalapeno. Tomato sauce rather than tomatoes. Totally immoral. Oh, there's nothing like good salsa! (try my mango salsa if you're ever out this way - it's killer!)

It poured Wednesday night while I slept in Tucumcari. The rain began shortly after I got back to my room after dinner, and it rained most of the night. Bucketloads of water.

I got up early Thursday morning, looked out, and saw heavy clouds on their way east. I headed west.

Osage Beach

I settled into a lovely condo in Osage Beach, lake view, thanks to my dear friend Seasi and her timeshare. Seasi and four others had settled in as well.

Kate, Pam, Hillary, and Alan had arrived before me and each had brought approximately enough food to feed all of us for several days. Starved after my winding drive into the Ozarks, I dove into leftovers.

That evening, Hillary grilled marinated tuna and veggies. Add on a salad and some brown rice, and we were set, dining on the balcony overlooking the lake. Then her phone rang; she took it inside. She reemerged to say, "I have to go home now. There's a tree in my house."

Kansas City storms had toppled a huge tree onto her house. She set off close to 10 pm with food, coffee, and, I'm sure, a strong dose of panic. Thankfully, she arrived home to find it had caved in a portion of her (almost new) roof, but the house itself was intact. The following day, a Sunday, Father's Day, crews were already cutting the tree into pieces and hauling it off.

Kate, Pam, and Alan left Sunday afternoon. I remained until Tuesday, late morning. Read. Doze. Splash about in the lake. Take a dip in the pool. Hot tub. You get the idea: total relaxation.

My first morning there, Sunday, I sat on the deck, reading. Just about the time it got too hot for me to sit outside any longer, I realized how totally private it was. So the next two mornings, I did what any reasonable person would do: I got naked. Sat or lay on the balcony both mornings until it got too warm, by about 9.

Days were hot and incredibly humid, and the combination kept us inside for too much of the time. It was easy to overheat even when in the lake or pool. A planned walk was canceled because it was just too hot. We emerged one hot afternoon for a fast run to a thrift store, a trip to an outlet mall, and ice cream.

I left, again regretfully. Leaving water gets harder and harder.

BP Country

Left Louisville before 6 am and drove straight into a thunderstorm. I eased along at about 45, but when water began sheeting across the highway, I pulled off for about ten minutes until the rain slowed. Within an hour, I was on the eastern side of the storm, facing gray skies and sprinkles for a little while. Then it cleared.

I cut south just east of St. Louis, and soon headed west on country roads into the Missouri Ozarks. More hills, curves and green. Stretches where I saw no house, no car, no signs of humanity for ten minutes. I even drove through one small town and saw no one, no moving vehicles.

The roadsides were a dazzle of Queen Anne's Lace, blackeyed Susan, and bachelor button. When I passed through small towns, yards burst with daylillies - the orange, always, but also yellow, burgundy and peach. Sometimes they spill out of the yards and down to the roadsides, mingling with the wildflowers.

Ever since I got to central Texas, I have been in BP country. Some small towns have only one gas station, and it's BP. Residents of those towns are, at least sometimes, forced to buy their gas from BP.

Everywhere I went, BP stations had little to no traffic. On Saturday, as I drove through Union City MO, it was about noontime and the town was bustling. Cars filled grocery store parking lots and fast food places appeared to be jammed. Every gas station had a car at almost every pump. Every gas station but one. The BP station had a dozen pumps and only one vehicle was there.

People are making their feelings known with their debit cards and credit cards. BP stations stand empty. Those few stations with customers usually had people in the little mini mart, not cars sitting at the pumps.

In Louisville, a gas and service station closed some time ago (see prices). I don't know the whole story, but it was a Clark station with a huge PB sign. The sign has been recently draped to cover the offending logo.

Fallingwater

Jean, Jessie, and I left Chambersburg on Sunday morning a week ago around 8, with a noon appointment at Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater.

We eased through back country hills, so different from the coastal area I'd recently left. Here, we were mostly going up or down. Along the coast, if you're headed uphill, it's a bridge or an overpass. Flat. Straight. Many roads went for miles without a slight curve.

In southern Pennsylvania, a straight stretch of road may last a quarter mile. Up, down, curve. Up, down. That's the area we drove, an area whose roadsides are green and lush.

We arrived at Fallingwater and spilled out of the car, ready for our tour, but early. We hit the gift shop ($50 disappeared there) and soon it was time for our tour.

Over the years I'd read about Fallingwater and had seen photos, but nothing, nothing, nothing prepared me for is simple elegance. Although massive, it balances as though dainty. It fits its setting, as though it has stood there always. Wright, the master of merging nature and architecture.

Tour groups are about a dozen people, and although there is no real warning, the tour, like southern Pennsylvania, is all about up and down and few straight lines. The setting is stunning: green hills and a creek spilling over boulders. Wright's house juts out over the creek, each room and deck with its own private view.

The living room area is large with views both up and down the creek. It's finest point, to me, is a stairwell that descends from the room into the creek. The stairway is covered with operable windows, so even on coldest days one can sit and look directly into the water. The photo to the left was taken from the outside, showing the stairs that go up into the living room.

I have no interior photo of this as interior photos were not allowed, and our movements were monitored by video cameras in each room. Generally, I would resent and complain about being monitored in such a way, but the space was so magical, I was so incredibly blessed to be there, that I put my feelings aside and wallowed in the beauty. (search on the internet - you can find interior photos, just none by me)

The entire house is balanced on boulders, is constructed of flagstone, and has sealed flagstone floors. Decks and rooms jut out on all sides. It balances perfectly, all attached to a massive fireplace built onto the main boulder. The separation between inside and outside is blurry. Even in the small, cozy bedrooms, the out-of-doors is a part of the room.

After our visit, we wound through more hills, stopping in the village of Ohiopyle to walk by the river, then moved on to Morgantown, West Virginia. Checked into the historic Morgan Hotel and ate across the street at Madelines. Not just a yummy restaurant: I left my Discover Card there, and when I noticed and called, the express mailed it to me so I had it the following day.

Jessie and I wandered by the river, lay on the dock. Dozed. Breakfast the next morning at the Blue Moose Cafe, then back to Louisville.

Chambersburg

Jean, Jessie, Aunt Grace, and I left Corry for Chambersburg, Pennsylvania for Cousin Bruce's marriage to Cindy. We sidetracked into the fringes of Pittsburgh to pick up Bruce's daughter Emilie. Two Emilies in one vehicle!

Down country roads and through rolling hillsides, over rivers and streams, to a fairly new subdivision outside of Chambersburg.

The next morning, farmers market. Tiny, and about one third of the booths were womaned by Mennonites. Jams, beef, veggies. Baby goats and sheep. Women in long dresses and caps covering their tied up hair.

Chambersburg. No, it's not a town. In Pennsylvania, it's a borough, with a population around 18,000. It hosts a small Presbyterian college and people from a surprising number of places: Dominican Republic, Mexico, Guatemala, Puerto Rico.

Bookstores, antique shops, thrift stores. Small markets with foods I've never seen.

Civil War history. A fountain sits in the middle of town to commemorate the over 5000 county residents who served in that war. Much of the borough was burned down by the Confederates. Abolitionist John Brown boarded there while preparing for the raid on Harper's Ferry.

All the Burrs and direct descendants of my grandparents (a grand total of seven) gathered in Chambersburg for Bruce's wedding. Now that Cindy has married Bruce, there are eight of us. Likely one of the tiniest families going.

Clouds began stacking up about two hours before the wedding. Rain began, and as we climbed into the van, lightning stuck so closely, we thought it had hit one of the few remaining Burrs. But we made it out, drove through the storm, and got to Cindy's (and now Bruce's) cabin just as the sky cleared, only minutes before the wedding was to begin.

Music, vows, and hors d'oeuvers out on the cabin's deck, then we drove to Emily's Restaurant, where Emilie and Emilie stood scowling at the misspelling.

Champagne toasts and dinner at nine - about four hours past my eating time! And then back to Cindy and Bruce's house where the Burrs (minus Bruce and Cindy!) bedded down for a second night.

A family reunion is in the offing for summer 2011.