RECORDING NATURE

So many RVers, especially full-timers, have creative hobbies that they continue on the road. Some people knit, do woodworking, or absorb themselves in other crafts.  Some devise elaborate recipes for RV-friendly dishes that can be taken to potlucks at rallies. I envy them; such skills have always escaped me (my head is usually buried in a book). While we are traveling I do continue blogging and other writing, but that is rather abstract until it results in actual publication. I’d like to do something tangible.

Being a member of the California Native Plant Society, I recently read their curriculum guide Opening the World through Nature Journaling, which helps teachers integrate science, art, and literature. One section in particular appealed to me:  instructions for sketching and writing in a nature journal. This could be what I’m seeking as a craft for myself. 

Before photography became possible, naturalists like Darwin and Linnaeus drew accurate and appealing sketches in their field notes. Even today, biologists often find sketches indispensable for making complete notes in the field. 

As a college student, I enjoyed both a basic art class and the botany and zoology classes where I drew hundreds of cat muscles, chick embryos, flower parts, and so on. Though I never became an artist, I learned to use sketching as an essential tool for observing plants and animals closely. During my years as a biology textbook writer and editor, I made many rough sketches for professional artists to use in illustrating everything from starfishes to redwoods.

It is one thing to draw and paint in an editorial office having lots of space and tools; it is quite another to do so in a compact RV. Luckily, the curriculum guide emphasized using colored pencils and small pads of paper. All my journaling materials fit in a plastic pouch no larger than an iPad, and I can easily slip the pouch into a daypack with my binoculars and water bottle.

Living on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, I never lack for living things to sketch near home. We have oaks, pines, and deer; even the rare bear may show up (though in that case I probably would abandon my sketching). On the road, the possibilities are even more inviting. We often see living things we want to identify, and take photos of them, but a detailed annotated sketch can provide much more helpful info. When I have a chance later to check a reference book, I can look at my journal to find out whether a plant’s leaves are opposite or alternate, or how many stripes are on an insect’s abdomen—information that may not be obvious in a photo, no matter how attractive the photo is.

It has been many years since my college art class, and I doubt that my colored-pencil sketches will ever be considered works of art. They will be useful for careful observation, though, and the journal will be a concrete result of my new craft. 

THE FULL-TIMERS

Coming home after a few months on the road seems very luxurious. I can relax in a bubble bath, putter with flowers that the deer haven’t eaten in my absence, lie in a bed without climbing a ladder to reach it. I can sign up for a class, attend book club meetings, catch up on local politics. For a while, I want to stay home forever.

Soon, though, life seems boring. I long to see something new outside my window every morning, visit a park or museum I’ve never seen before, meet some new people having kindred interests. I want to get in the RV and go back on the road.

Lately we have cautiously been toying with the possibility of becoming full-timers. According to some Web sites, there are about a million people in the U.S. who are on the road nearly all the time, traveling from one campsite to another every few weeks or oftener. Could we manage it?

We met one retired couple who have been full-timing for the past ten years. After selling their large home, they bought a fairly large motorhome and added a small car as a “toad.” They established a permanent address in a state where there is no income tax, and where their daughter lives. They can visit—and leave—easily. A mail forwarding service takes care of sending mail to them when needed.

Like us, this couple cares deeply about state and national parks. They spend most of the year doing volunteer work in various parks, a few weeks at a time. (There is always a limit in the amount of time a volunteer can stay in one place; the campsite cannot become a permanent residence.)  This gives them free camping privileges and a very small allowance (necessary because food in the parks tends to be quite expensive). During periods when they are not volunteering, they stay in a variety of RV campgrounds and resorts. They seem very contented with their way of life.

The chance to do volunteer work of our choosing is one of the most appealing aspects of full-timing. As retired educators, we are in a position to be of some help with teaching or writing, but local opportunities are not always available or a good fit for us. If we were able to move around more, we could fairly easily find something we really want to do.

Gardening at home can be enjoyable, especially with native plants, but in a national park it could be even better; we could work with others to maintain a natural landscape for everyone’s enjoyment. I once saw a woman working at a Kentucky state park wearing a stylish gardening hat, lineny pants, and so on; she was the picture of a wealthy suburban matron gardening for pleasure. But there she was, happily digging in the dirt and helping contribute to the park’s garden rather than her own. As full-timers, we could do that also.

Long-term learning is important to both of us; we spend a great deal of time in the local library, and depend on it for books and magazines as well as occasional lectures and movies. That might be a problem if we were full-timing; perhaps we could get temporary library cards or invest in a mobile device for downloading books. Even in a large RV, though, we could not have the personal library we inevitably accumulate.

Speaking of books, perhaps the greatest sacrifice I would have to make is giving up my home office. For many years, I have been able to surround myself with the books and tools I need as a writer and editor. In finishing the final draft of a reference book a few years ago while we were traveling across the country, I found it extremely difficult to meet my deadlines. Even now, though I avoid making commitments to publishers, and do more blogging than any other writing, I can scarcely imagine not having a permanent office somewhere.

Some full-timers miss having wall space for displaying art and photos. We have already disposed of the large paintings that could be a problem, and we can look at our thousands of digital photos on a laptop computer. A small bulletin board holds some 3 x 5 photos and sketches.

Financially, the decision seems fairly easy. Even if we traded in our beloved View on a larger RV, which would probably be essential, we would spend no more as full-timers than we do now in a permanent home where we must pay property taxes, state income taxes, and many other expenses. If we remained in the West, we could find plenty of desirable campgrounds within a few hundred miles, and that would hold down the cost of gasoline. On longer trips, we could simply drive fewer miles each day.

Even emotionally—the greatest danger, perhaps—it seems like a good choice for us. We are not so involved in our local town that leaving it would be difficult, and we could always return to visit friends. We could become part of a larger “community beyond these walls,” as one church puts it. The park rangers, fellow RVers, and others we meet would make up much of our new community. There is also an extremely supportive community of RVers. The View-Navion site on Yahoo has helped us for the past few years with using our View, and we have met some of the members in person at rallies and on the road. If we have to get a larger rig, I will greatly miss that site! Many blogs about full-timing look appealing; one I have found good is http://wheelingit.wordpress.com. Joe and Vicky Kieva, who wrote a monthly column for the Good Sam magazine until they retired in 2012, are already well known to most RVers. Their blog is at http://rvknowhow.blogspot.com/. They must have taken retirement seriously, as they have not updated their posts, but the archived posts are still available.

I do have some qualms about the long-term outcome of full-timing, especially since neither of us has children to help us. If one of us becomes ill, will it be impossible to find medical care? What about assisted living when we can no longer drive? Until we learn more and feel more comfortable with the decision, it seems more sensible to maintain a home as a permanent residence. That can become very expensive, but if eventually we decide not to full-time, we will be grateful to have kept a home of bricks and mortar rather than one of fiberglass and metal.

THAT YOUNGER GENERATION

Recent magazine articles have shown some interesting statistics about the millenials. Compared with their parents, young people are driving less and postponing having children for a longer time. Perhaps surprisingly, a smaller percentage of them see themselves as doing anything positive for the environment.

I beg to differ with their self-assessment. While they may be unconscious of their contribution, the constraints imposed by population growth and pollution controls have forced them to have a lifestyle differing from their parents’. By default, they are helping the environment in some ways.

As recently as 20 years ago, getting a driver’s license was an important rite of passage for every teenager. Being able to drive meant freedom! Having a driver’s license and a car, you could get away from home some of the time, go out with your friends, and explore the world without continual adult supervision.  Today, much exploration occurs online, and friends are in near-permanent communication on their cell phones and computers. Driving is much less necessary. Young people even seem to prefer public transportation if it is reasonably priced and convenient. The environmental benefits are obvious: Fewer resources are used for building and fueling cars, and fewer pollutants are being produced. The millenials can be very proud of this change, even if they see it as a personal choice or a necessary evil.

The millenials are staying single longer, too, and living with roommates or their parents for a longer time than we did. By postponing parenthood, which usually leads to having smaller families, they are helping control the population growth that is a major factor in environmental decline. By living in smaller apartments or homes, they are taking up less space on our crowded planet.

Unfortunately, the choices that many of us older people made years ago have resulted in the pollution and crowding that have led to the millenials’ need to be more conserving. We started driving cars as soon as possible, married young, had children in our early twenties, bought homes at the first opportunity and filled them with expensive appliances and furniture. We wasted resources and used fossil fuels with abandon. During the dot-com years, some of us built disgusting McMansions (in fact, some of us are still doing so). We literally ate “high on the hog,” consuming large quantities of the meat that has helped lead to heart disease, diabetes, and obesity; and that required huge investments in agriculture. Many young people today have chosen to become vegetarians rather than imitate us. In that respect as well as others, they are contributing far more to the environment than most of us did.

I do have some concerns about young people. For instance, their dependence on technology in place of direct contact with other people and places seems bad for their emotional health, even if it may benefit the planet. They seem narcissistic, though perhaps young people always seem that way to their elders. On balance, the millenials seem capable of managing Earth better than we did. I wish them well.

FEAR OF KAYAKING

I enjoy being on the water--in ferry boats and similar stable vehicles, that is. Even rowboats and canoes are enjoyable providing the water is smooth. But I am really spooked by kayaks.

When did it start? Probably back in the eighties, when I was persuaded to go whitewater rafting in Colorado. The raft trip itself through rocks and cascades was terrifying enough, but the sight of a kayak turning upside down in the rapids, and the man in it desperately trying to right himself with an eskimo roll, panicked me.

A couple of years ago my partner cajoled me into getting an inflatable two-person kayak that we could take with us in the RV. It travels under the dinette table quite well, almost leaving room for our feet. In theory it is the perfect boat for RVers, being light and portable. In practice it is my bête noire. I have always found an excuse to stay out of it, encouraging Thane to paddle about alone. (He has greatly enjoyed it.)

This couldn’t last forever. Recently we were staying at a lovely streamside campground in Maine, with a small boat dock right next to our camp site. The weather was fine, we had nothing else to do, and I could think of no excuse. So, we inflated the kayak and climbed in. Or, I should say Thane climbed in, and I started to. The kayak put out to sea while I clung to a post on the dock until my grip loosened and I fell into the water. Luckily, the water was shallow, but it was muddy and cold. Never again!

 

THE TWO FACES OF MAINE

Let me say this first: I love Maine. Until our current trip to the east coast, I had spent virtually no time in the state. My hazy picture of it was based on textbook descriptions of the “spruce–moose biome,” Sierra Club photos, L.L. Bean catalogs, and Sarah Orne Jewett’s Country of the Pointed Firs. I knew that George Bush the Elder and his family spent their summers in Kennebunkport, along with other wealthy families who had summered there since the nineteenth century. Perhaps the most widespread image of Maine is that of fall color, of scarlet maples mixed with deep green pines and silver birches.

We have wanted for years to travel to Maine in the fall, and this year we finally managed to do so. Being an AstroVIP with the National Park Service, Thane planned to help a little with setting up telescopes for Acadia National Park’s annual Night Sky Festival, and I would accompany him to do anything I could. The program takes place during the last few days of September, peak time for fall color.

Our visit to Acadia—unfortunately cut short by the Republicans’ taking it hostage during the current government crisis—confirmed that picture. We spent several days touring Acadia and taking part in the Night Sky Festival, then drove south. The entire rocky coast is as beautiful as I could have imagined, with hundreds of inlets from the Atlantic leading to boreal forests. Much of the inland countryside, too, resembled the rural scenes in Andrew Wyeth’s paintings. Even many of the dilapidated barns looked beautiful.

There is another Maine, though, one not shown in the tourist brochures or in any novels I’ve read. When we drove through the north–central part of the state, we saw a poor area rivaling many urban slums. I had expected some picturesque poverty, based on news reports—neglected homes, unpainted barns, and so on, and those were certainly present. But, much of the countryside seems deserted, with old homes and barns collapsing and subsiding into the earth. Where did everyone go? What really appalled me was the trash surrounding so many places that had apparently been simply abandoned. How can anyone treat their environment  that way? Have they lost all self-respect?

Life in Maine has never been easy; farmers had to work hard to make a living from the rocky soil in bad weather. But, they managed to do so in the past. Has the soil been exhausted by poor farming practices? Has the logging that once helped support farming ceased? I suspect that many farmers blame a government that they feel is too liberal, and environmentalists like us, for somehow taking away their right to use the land as they see fit. (Certainly we heard complaints about limits on hunting, and about gun control in general.) That doesn’t explain the sad, neglectful picture we saw. 

WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE WALMART

 

It was nearly midnight on Saturday, but firecrackers were still exploding near us. We had made the mistake of staying overnight too near a college, and some boozy fraternity boys were celebrating something or other. Another time, a noisy football game was starting up in the parking lot in the middle of the night.

As this shows, staying overnight at Walmart—sometimes called “blacktop boondocking”—can be annoying or even hazardous.  There are many other reasons as well to stay elsewhere: traffic on nearby streets is often noisy, there are no campground showers, and even the toilets may not be available before 8:00 AM. As an environmentalist, I have been extremely unhappy with the expansion of big-box stores, too. Why should I take advantage of the parking spaces they provide?

However, it is nearly impossible to resist the many plusses of parking overnight at Walmart. First, it is free! Camping for more than a few nights, even in low-cost campgrounds, can become expensive. The ubiquitous Walmart stores are often easy to find, and the parking lots tend to be more level than those in campgrounds. (We grow very tired of leveling our rig with leveling blocks.) The bright lights and security at Walmarts protect us as well as the stores. Shopping for common items there is easy; I have sometimes found RV supplies that are identical to those at Camping World at a lower price.

So, we often find ourselves at Camp Walmart. Usually the landscape leaves something to be desired, but occasionally it is attractive. The store in Scranton is on a bluff overlooking a valley; I remember watching the moon rise as lights were coming on in the houses below us. Some other stores are near wooded areas, and by careful positioning we can sit at the dinette and look out  at that view.

Perhaps our worst experience was in a store near our home in California. We had had some repair work done late in the day, and to avoid driving home at night we stopped at Walmart. We checked for signs forbidding overnight parking, found none, and fell asleep. In the middle of the night we heard a commotion just outside, and some loud talking in Spanish. Peeking out showed us a crane with some workers high up on it painting a lamppost and hanging one of those “No Overnight Parking” signs on it.  We played possum and hoped they would not drip paint on our rig. Luckily, they did not, and in the morning we made our escape.

Though many of the Walmarts seem to welcome RVers, some do forbid staying overnight. Municipal ordinances, rather than Walmart, may be responsible. The store that seemed most adamant about this issue is the one near Gettysburg, where huge signs warned of dire consequences that included being towed away. We paid attention and stayed at an expensive campground instead.

The infrequent antipathy toward RVers may have something to do with the boorish behavior of some of us. We have watched, incredulous, as people have spread huge Class A motorhomes across six or seven parking spaces. Others have unrolled their awnings, unfolded their lawn chairs, and barbecued in the parking lot. People like that may cause so much irritation that all of us are banned, which would be a shame.

We try instead to be as unobtrusive as possible, even after checking with the management to make sure we are welcome. That means staying in travel mode—not putting out the slide or raising the TV antenna, and looking like shoppers rather than like campers. We always buy some groceries or other items, and may have breakfast in the store if a McDonald’s is in it. Our small motorhome easily fits in two spaces.

Yes, we would prefer staying in national forests and parks, with intermittent stops at places having hookups for electricity when necessary. Walmart helps fill in the gaps between more desirable places, though. It’s a bit like McDonald’s—not too helpful for the environment and a possible contributor to the obesity epidemic, but a cheap source of clean toilets and orange juice.

 

 

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

The bag of recyclables was in the middle of the aisle again, and I kicked it in frustration. After being on the road for a month in the RV, I was tired of the inevitable clutter and lack of enough storage space. At home, we have a cabinet that is dedicated to various recyclables, and another that holds trash.

Much as I enjoy RV travel, I must admit there are times when I long to get off the road for a while, to return to a better-ordered life. Though I am far from a perfect housekeeper, at home I do have more space for storing things, and more time for housework. The laundry doesn’t pile up (and certainly doesn’t sit in a duffel bag in the shower until it gets moldy, as can happen when we are traveling!). I do the dishes every morning, rather than leaving them in the sink to conserve water. I’d like more opportunities for personal care, too. I’d like to shampoo my hair on the same day when I need to, and take a shower whenever I get dirty.

Another thing I miss is the El Dorado County Library, where I belong to an enjoyable book club and hang out often to read magazines and newspapers as well as to check out books and videos. Not having yet invested in an e-book reader, I sometimes run out of reading material when we travel—and for me, that is a major problem. There simply isn’t space in our RV for more than a few paperbacks.

Keeping up with world events on the road is difficult, too. (I’d be lost without NPR.) Unless I have wi-fi on a Tuesday, I am liable to miss The New York Times’ weekly Science Times. Finding the print version would be even better, but that often isn’t possible. At home, I would simply walk down the hill to the local newsstand to buy it.

I miss the sociability of life at home, too. I’m far from being a party animal, but do enjoy talking with neighbors, salespersons, and so on. It’s nice to chat with people I meet often in everyday life. Because of our travels, I see too little of friends and family in California.

On the other hand, one advantage of RV life is the opportunity to visit old friends in other parts of the country. Many people of our age seem to travel very little, and so the RV can take me to them. I can visit my old college campus, go back to cities where I once lived. In spite of the irritating aspects of living for months in an RV, at this time of my life it seems preferable to staying at home. And so, I hope to go on roving about for as long as possible, until old age or illness prevents it. There will likely be time enough for staying home in a tidy house and remembering with nostalgia what it was like to travel in an RV.

REMEMBERING JANE

In 1971 I returned to Chicago after a couple of years in New York. Rand McNally was much the same as when I had worked there in the sixties, but they had just acquired the Lyons & Carnahan company, and brought in their editors.

One of their editors, Jane Robinson, was ten years younger than I, and at that tumultuous time we should have been on opposite sides of the generation gap. Surprisingly, Jane and I hit it off immediately. We were both feminists, political liberals, and voracious readers. (We also tended to have a critical view of the world, and to broadcast our opinions.) Jane was a bright, hardworking editor whose talent was probably wasted on the social studies textbooks she worked on.

Jane was a perfectionist, which made her an excellent writer and editor. It affected other aspects of her life as well. I used to tease her about what I thought was her obsessive approach to shopping—then saw her furnish and decorate a series of beautiful homes. More importantly, Jane was a warm, humorous woman who made many friends easily.

Soon after we met, both Jane and I married. I had come back from New York to marry Harold, and she had met Larry McGoldrick, a brilliant young professor at the University of Chicago. Harold and Larry were very different men, but they shared a wry sense of humor. All of us got along well, and we saw each other often.

About 1980 we all left Chicago. We did so with some regrets, because we loved the city. But, Larry had accepted a job with NASA in Washington; Harold, with a young engineering firm in San Francisco. Larry and Jane had also just become the parents of Daniel, who would keep them very busy in the coming years. In spite of living on opposite coasts, Jane and I managed to see each other every so often, and we kept in touch by mail. Jane became an editor at National Geographic’s World magazine, I went back to grad school and set up an editorial service.

When Jane was about fifty, she made the major decision to return to grad school in order to become a Jungian psychologist. That would have been a tremendous effort even for a younger woman, and must have been extremely difficult for her. With her typical determination, she spent several years achieving her dream. As Dr. McGoldrick, she became a psychologist for the Air Force, then established a private practice in New Mexico. (Larry and Jane had fallen in love with the Southwest, and finally managed to relocate there just a few years ago.)

Jane and I exchanged some gifts over the years, and I treasure those concrete reminders of her. But, her greatest gift was a visit to us a few years before Harold died. Realizing she might never see him again, she flew to California to spend a couple of weeks with us. We had a wonderful time showing Jane the Monterey Peninsula, North Beach restaurants and the City Lights book store in San Francisco, and many other places. It gave Harold and me a much-needed respite from his surgeries and hospitalizations, as he managed to stay well during her entire visit.

In the spring of 2012 Jane called to tell me she had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, but intended to do everything possible to survive. Knowing her perseverance, I thought that she would succeed. For more than a year afterward she was subjected to chemotherapy, radiation, and alternative treatments, traveling from her home in New Mexico to southern California and New York. In spite of everything, the cancer metastasized, and this August she succumbed to it.

I think Jane believed, as I do, that our death on this earth is not the end; that in some way we rejoin the Spirit. That belief should comfort me, and in time it will. Now, though, I want to rage as Macbeth did, “She should have died hereafter; there would have been a time for such a word. . . ” September 3 would have been her sixty-fifth birthday. Jane should have lived for many more years, giving of her love and intelligence to all of us who remain.

 

 

 

ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD

We are settled for the night at a Walmart in New York state, having started out too late to find a good campground. Not far outside our dinette window, a young man has set up a mobile detailing business, complete with pressure washer and hoses. We’re incredulous—in California, storm sewer openings are labeled with a sign warning that the drain leads to a waterway, and water used for washing cars is supposed to be recycled.  The young man tells us that in New York, what he is doing is perfectly legal.

He had returned home after a couple of years away for reasons he left unspecified. He traded a dozen bottles of beer for a 350-gallon water tank, got some free or low-cost hardware, and invested some money in the pressure washer only. Then he went into business in some public spaces, including some Walmart parking lots, apparently without any objections from Walmart, charging customers a low price for a quick detailing job. We had to admire his entrepreneurial spirit.

That reminded us of some other people we have met in our travels. When we stopped at Morro Rock in Kings Canyon, another young man was sleeping in his car, obviously avoiding campground fees. As any food might be seen as an invitation by the local bears, he stored his containers of food in the toilet building.

One hot summer when we were visiting Yellowstone, we went to the parking lot at  Old Faithful extremely early, fearful that we wouldn’t find a shady parking spot later on. A tiny car was parked near us. As we were eating breakfast, the car doors opened. A young couple (still wearing pajamas) and their huge dog emerged, apparently having spent the night there.

Sometimes the people we meet are a pure joy. When we were blundering our way through Ontario, we stopped at a Mennonite coffee shop and warily asked the way to our destination. The waitresses not only gave us accurate and clear directions, but drew a map that was easy to follow. Unfortunately, even knowing which way is north seems beyond most people, so we were extremely grateful to these women.

Others come up with just the right information by coincidence. When Thane was on his way east this year in the hope of helping with Acadia National Park’s Night Sky festival, he stopped at Dinosaur Monument in Utah. He asked an NPS ranger to change a $20 bill so he could pay for a campground site. She couldn’t do that, but casually mentioned a star party to be held that night at Dinosaur. He was able to participate in an excellent program.

Some encounters are downright scary. At the Bridge campground in northern California, we saw what looked like a monster rising out of the creek. It turned out to be a large man wearing black wetsuit headgear; he was a good guy removing trash from the water.

One night at the Columbia River gorge, we drove to an overlook for a spectacular view of the gorge. No “no overnight parking” signs were in evidence, and we were tired, so we stopped for the night. A young man driving a pickup that held an apartment’s worth of furniture was parked near by, and it turned out that he was staying overnight, too. He told us he was moving to Oregon from Texas, but he appeared to be living at the overlook full time, and sleeping on the cab seat.

We have met a few European travelers, who all seem fascinated by North America. Some have gone to extraordinary lengths to travel by RV here, shipping their own rigs over the Atlantic at enormous expense. We hope they can stay in North America long enough to justify the cost.

Winnebago View and Navion RVs are rare enough to inspire some loyalty and fraternal feeling among owners. When we went to the Quartzsite rally last January, we met a man who had organized a special View/Navion gathering. For a few days, we were surrounded by our tribe, a great bunch of people. The same man who was responsible for this gathering has been a savior to many owners who frantically post their problems on a Yahoo! Site while en route—he answers with advice that has probably saved thousands of dollars and some marriages. 

A woman pounded on our door in the middle of the night in Winnipeg, saying her rig was out of gas and she wanted money to buy some. We turned her down.

And so it goes—wherever we travel, sightseeing sometimes is overshadowed by the people we meet or avoid meeting. It’s another fascinating facet of the RV life.

 

 

THE TIME TRAVELER'S TRAIN

 

 

Even today, when there are no steam whistles to bring about that “Blues in the Night” feeling, trains are a romantic way to travel. We shun airplanes when possible, and take long vacations in our RV, but manage an occasional train ride.

Recently I took Amtrak’s Blue Water line from Chicago to Kalamazoo, both for an enjoyable and inexpensive ride and for reliving much of my life. The journey began at Chicago’s famous Union Station,

where I changed trains a few times in 1959 as I returned from grad school at the University of Wisconsin to my home in southwest Michigan. I recall gazing out the train window at snowy landscapes—Wisconsin always seemed wintry then—dotted with only a few leafless trees.

Last week the train moved slowly through Chicago‘s south side toward Indiana. For about 20 years I lived in various parts of Chicago and its suburbs, first as a young bride, then as a divorcée, and finally as a happily remarried woman. During those years I found  my vocation as a science editor, and edited many textbooks for Rand McNally. Chicago was and is a magnificent city. Only the unrelenting ice and snow drove us to move to San Francisco in 1980.

We rolled through Indiana quickly, with Lake Michigan near but unseen to the north. As soon as we crossed the border into Michigan, I felt at home. Cottonwoods and maples were still August-green, but would begin to turn gold and scarlet in a few weeks. My grandparents had a farm near Bridgman, and these same railroad tracks ran through it.  As a child in the forties I often visited Grandma and Grandpa, where I balanced precariously on the rails and put crossed pins on them to be fused into miniature scissors by passing trains. At night I could hear the trains passing though. That was still the era of steam trains with the lonely sounding whistles that promised adventure far away in miles and years.

The train of today continued on through the many small towns of Berrien and Van Buren counties. I was born in Watervliet, a little paper-mill town that has nearly vanished (the mill closed years ago, and the Pere Marquette trains no longer go there). Though I still treasure my friends from childhood and high school, I was glad to leave the oppressive life there. In the fifties my English teacher, Roy Davis, made the mistake of introducing me to Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street, which helped me recognize the worst side of midwestern rural life. Roy is fonder of small-town life than I am, and still lives in the next town, Hartford, in a lovely century-old home. (On this nostalgic trip I had the chance to visit him and his wife, Marion.)

The train was delayed,  as most trains tend to be, but finally reached Kalamazoo. As it entered town I looked up past the huge campus of Western Michigan University and saw the dome of Stetson Chapel at Kalamazoo College. Four of the happiest years of my life were spent at “K” College, where I was exposed to the wide world of literature, the sciences, music, and art. Three of my college roommates loved the city so much that they have gone on living there for more than 50 years, and a cousin who taught at Western has remained there also. Going back to see them and walk around the campus is a treat that I indulge in every few years. Old roommate Diane Worden met me at the station, and we drove off to a Middle Eastern dinner. (Kalamazoo is more cosmopolitan than it was in the fifties, when pizza seemed esoteric.)

I have spent longer in airplanes waiting for takeoff than the train ride lasted, but in that short trip I had relived much of my life. After a happy week I rejoined my partner, who had driven the RV from California, and we began driving toward Maine. Though this would be a wonderful vacation, I was grateful to have spent some time alone aboard that train to yesterday.