Pat and Kathie

The Treason and Trial of Edward Gove

2012-01-15T12:49:00.007-05:00

Sometimes in the course of researching family history a story arises that should be put down in our family collection of stories, and this is one.

Londoner John Gove, a brazier (brass worker), sailed to Charlestown (now Boston) in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1647 with three children, John, Edward, and young Mary, and there bought a house. Several months later he died, leaving 50 shillings each to 16 year old John and 18 year old Edward. Mary was given to a family friend, Ralph Mousall, a turner (in pottery he turns the dried clay ware to the required outline before firing). John appears to have apprenticed himself to Mr. Mousall as he also becomes a turner, leading a somewhat traditional life in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and outliving three wives.

This story is about Edward. Readers, beware, this is a long story but read through to the end.

Edward moved up the coast of Massachusetts to Salisbury by age 27, farmed, and began buying and selling land by the time he was thirty. He married a girl from Salisbury moved his family to Hampton, in New Hampshire but bordering Massachusetts, when he was 35. Keep in mind there was a fair amount of dickering about territory in those days beyond the scope of this story.

He was described as a “strenuous man, frank even to bluntness” and “quickly sought to avenge himself”, resulting in being brought before the court for verbal and personal assaults on several occasions. By age 50, he was a lieutenant in the militia and represented Hampton in the first assembly of the royal province of New Hampshire. We could say he seemed to have some leadership abilities and didn’t lack in assertiveness.

Edward is credited with leading the “first American Revolution” against the English appointed governor, Edward Cranfield, in 1682-83, not unlike the Boston Tea Party some eighty five years later. In short, the issue involved issues of jurisdiction, land ownership, taxation, and kickbacks to the king and probably the greedy Governor Cranfield.

He (Governor Cranfield) demanded all the Antient records & Deeds of the Inhabitants lands, which were granted him by his Majesty's Predecessors to their Fathers & by them purchased of the natives & enjoyed about 50 years. And because the said Edward Gove seem'd to oppose those (as he believed) unwarrantable proceedings, he questioned Edw. Gove before the Councill & Assembly and threatened to punish him at Comon Pleas & indite him at White hall, & then dissolved the Assembly

After the dissolution of the Assembly he imposed Custom upon merchant's ships these by his own Authority which was unknown before. Hereupon the said Edw. Gove was much troubled in mind and these and other the violent proceedings of Mr. Cranfield had such an influence upon him that it hindered his ordinary Rest, neither had he above 2 hours Sleep in 18 days, whereby he became almost distracted, & during this time 'tis probable that Edw" Gove might say that Mr Cranfield was a Traytor for denying & acting contrary to the Kings Commission, he scarce knowing at that time what he either did or said.

Edward was determined to bring about “reform or revolution”, even if singlehandedly. “Sword drawn, he would not lay it down till he knew who should hold the government”. Governor Cranfield complained to the Lords of Trade and Plantations that Edward was “making it his business to stir up the people in several towns to rebellion”.

Finally, on the night of January 27, 1683, Edward and his rebels rode into the town of Hampton, “armed with swords, pistols and guns, a trumpet sounding, and with his sword drawn riding at their head”.

Edward and his rebels were arrested and a trial held five days later in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

The prisoners being indited according to ye presentment of ye Grand Jury, they severally pleaded not guilty, & being demanded how they would be tryed, they said, by God & Country.

The witnesses were sworne one by one thus. The evidence that you shall give on y behalf of our Sover. Lord and King against prisoners at the Barr shall be ye truth, ye whole truth & Nothing but the Truth. So help you God.

Richard Martin of Portsm. Esq being sworne, saith That upon Thursday night last past about Eight of the Clock, Edward Gove & Jonathan Thing came to the Deponents House & asked if Mr Moody were there. I told him no, I thought he was at home, he told me he was not at home. I told him then I thought he was at Mrs Cutts. he then asked me how things looked here. I told him as they used to doe. I asked him whether he went home tomorrow. He told me no, he was upon a designe, & said, we have swords by our sides as well as others & would see things mended before we will lay them downe. I told him he spake great words, & wished him to be moderate & serious in his words & actions about such matters, he told me he was going to Dover, & we should hear further from him in three or four days & then went away from my house, & I have not seen him since.

Jonathan Thing, yeoman, being sworne, deposed the same as Richard Martin did.

Reuben Hull of Portsmouth mere', being sworne, saith That being at Dover on Friday the 26 of January 1682 as I was going in my Cannoe to come home I mett with Edward Gove having his sword & boots on. how now, Gove, said I, where are you bound? Whats ye matter with you? matter ! says he, matter enough. We at Hampton have had a Towne meeting & we are resolved as one man that things shall not be carried on end as it is like to be, & we have all our Guns ready, to stand upon our guard. And I have been at Exeter, & they are resolved to doe ye same, said he. I have my sword by my side, & brought my Carabine also with me which I have left some where, said he, Jonathan Thing came with me. I have left him at Portsm. to treat with John Pickering & some others & I am going to Major Waldern's to see what he will say to it. he said the Governor had stretched his Commission, & said I to him, Gove, what are you mad, do you know what you are going to doe? said he, if you will be of the other side, wee shall know you. And if they should take me & put me to Gaol I have them that will bring me out. he asked me to goe to Joseph Beard with him : but I told him I would not, & so did part with him.

Nathaniel Weare, one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace in ye Towne of Hampton being sworne saith. That on the 27 of Jan., as I take it ye Constable William Marston, ye Marshall, & Samuel Sherborn came to my house in ye night, & called me up, delivered me a Warrant from the Hon Governor. I did accordingly. Soon after our return from Edward Goves house, I heard a Trumpett sound, & being exceedingly troubled & desirous to know the cause, while I considered the matter ye Marshall, ye Constable & Samuel Sherborn came again to my house. I told ye Constable he knew what he had to do by ye warrant he had in relation to Gove & I required him to seize ye person that did sound the Trumpett. Soon after Edward Gove came to my yard, near ye door, some person called. I went out & desired them to come in, but Edward Gove & one with him that I did take to be Nathaniel Lad, they said they would not come in to be taken in a house, they went away, & I saw them no more till they were taken at ye Towne.

Henry Green of Hampton one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, being sworn, saith, That upon the 27 of Jan. 1682 I saw Edward Gove come into Towne with a Trumpett with him and several men with him in two files several of them having arms, they were taken & secured by a Guard. Soon after I being informed ye Prisoners were broke out, I made haste to Cornett Sherborns, I being at Mr Cotton's, & when I came, Edward Gove & his company were out, & Gove presented a Gun at me.

Henry Roby of Hampton yeoman being sworn deposed ye same as Henry Green did. And further saith That Edward Gove presented his gun with ye company, when they broke prison.

William Marston of Hampton Constable being sworn saith, That immediately upon receipt of ye warrant to apprehend Edward Gove, I went in pursuance of ye same with others to his house, making diligent search, but could not find him, then coming homeward in ye night, when I could not well see, I heard ye Trumpett sound & quickly mett with said Gove with Trumpeter going towards Gove's house, but being well mounted they got past us, & said Gove said he would not speak with me there, but at his house, but when I came to his house, the string of the latch was in, but said Gove bid ye door to be opened, but ye said Gove stood upon his defence with his sword (or cutlash) drawn in his hand to- wards me, saying hand off, I know your business as well as yourself, saying I will not be taken in my house, upon which words Nathaniel Lad, ye Trumpeter stepped to him to assist him with his sword or cutlash drawne towards my breast, upon which I was constrained to goe to raise more Aid. But in ye mean while when I came again, they were quickly mounted & rid away four in company, ye said Gove & Lad, John Gove and William Hely, and I saw them no more till ye next morning when they came towards Mr Sherborns in two files, with their arms mounted, Edward Gove in ye front & ye Trumpeter sounded. Upon ye Leiutenants speaking to them, they made no resistance, but delivered their arms & dismounted, & I seized Edward Gove, & by order of ye Justices I seized the rest of his company, & commanded them up ye chamber, & sett a guard by order of our Justices.

The prisoners made their answer in defence Edward Gove did acknowledge that what was sworn against him was true, & withal railed at ye Governor, & said he was a Traitor & acted by a pretended Commission, & that he should have those that would fetch him out of prison, and demeaned himself with great insolence & impudence.

John Gove owned he was in ye Company at ye time of ye break of prison at Hampton with ye prisoners at ye barr, and that he went along with Edward Gove his father by his command.

William Hely confessed That his rising in arms was for liberty, & that he did say so, because he heard Edward Gove say the same words, & that he was in company at ye break of prison, & stood upon his defence.

Joseph Hadley owned he was in Goves company with others when he was apprehended & broke prison. Robert Wadley confessed the same.
Thomas Rawlins confessed the same Mark Baker confessed the same & that Edward Gove putt a pistoll in his hand.
John Sleper confessed ye same, but that having made his escape, he did withal in one hour surrender himself.
John Wadley confessed he was in company of Edward Gove when apprehended, but that he did not break prison

The Jury being withdrawne for six hours or more brought in their Verdict as followeth —

Edward Gove, guilty according to the inditement.

The judge, with tears in his eyes, sentenced Edward to death:

You Edward Gove shall be drawn on a Hedge to the place of Execution, & there you shall be hanged by ye neck, And when yet living be cut down & cast on ye ground, & your bowels shall be taken out of your belly, & your privy members cut off & burnt while you are yet alive, your head shall be cutt off, & your body divided in four parts, & your head & quarters shall be placed where our Soveraigne Lord ye King pleaseth to appoint. And ye Lord have mercy on your Soul.

His son, John Gove, was pardoned. Edward’s estate was seized and forfeited to the Crown and his family left destitute. Fearing to execute Edward locally, the Governor sent Edward to England where he spent three years in the Tower of London before being pardoned by the King.

The people were outraged at Edward’s sentence and continued resistance against Governor Cranfield’s taxation, throwing scalding water on tax collectors when they arrived at the door, roughly handling officials trying to enforce the Governor’s laws, until finally Cranfield was removed by the King. After receiving word of his removal, a self appointed committee escorted him to a nearby town with a rope around his neck and legs tied until the belly of the horse.

Edward returned home to Hampton after the pardon and his estate was restored. He died there in 1691, contending a slow poison had been administered to him in the Tower.

A commemorative stone is placed in Newbury, Massachusetts:

In honor of Edward Gove, patriot, assemblyman, convicted of high treason for attempting to incite a rebellion in 1683 against King Charles II of England. Sentenced to be hanged and later pardoned by King James II.

Edward is our 8th great grand uncle. His brother, John, is our direct ancestor, our 8th great grandfather. The different paths of their lives may well be explained by what we would call a mental disorder these days. More evidence on that in the next post.

* Material derived from The Gove Book, History and Genealogy of The American Family of Gove and Notes of European Goves, by William Henry Gove, 1922.

Winter Solstice on Viejas Mountain

2011-12-23T05:37:00.015-05:00

After knocking El Cajon Mountain off our bucket list, my buddy Kathleen and I decided to tackle winter solstice on Viejas Mountain. It meant getting up at 3:00 AM, climbing in the cold dark night, and waiting on the windy summit until the sun rose. Winter solstice was actually on December 22 this year, not the 21st as most observed. I checked the weather report a few days before and it occurred to me that a rainy or cloudy forecast could be an excuse to stay in my warm bed.

Kumeyaay native Americans observed winter solstice on the Viejas summit and at one time there was still a T shaped rock formation pointing toward Buckman Mountain in the distant southeast. On solstice the sun rises directly behind the mountain.

After ditzing around trying to locate the trail head in the dark we were on our way up the steep, almost 2 miles straight uphill, rocky, bouldery trail through chapparrel, two puddles of light under the huge Milky Way.

Without any moon, we were grateful for our police grade flashlights, and at one point I heard Kathleen say only the foolhardy would be doing this. Indeed, we were the only ones out of 3 million San Diegans. Even in the dark Kathleen was going on about the biodiversity of Viejas. I was just focused on one foot in front of the other and periodically checking behind for the glowing eyes of a stalking mountain lion. We went through a verbal rehearsal of how we would handle a mountain lion attack, and I reminded Kathleen about the lady who saved her friend in Orange County a few years ago.

It was 39 degrees at mountain base, and about three quarters of the way up the wind started. The sliver moon became visible from behind the mountain, and the pale light of dawn began. We reached a collection of stones at the top, but the true summit was another quarter mile across a wind swept ridge.

We reached the stone circle of the summit just before sunrise and a few minutes later the only other solstice hiker arrived, a Menzies clan Scot by the name of Pat. Together the three of us watched the glow on the horizon,

and toasted the coming New Year with hot chocolate,

until the sun came peeking,

then bursting out behind the saddle of Buckman.

The Alpine Historical Society has documented an account of the winter solstice celebration on Viejas Mountain by a Kumeyaay elder, Maria Alto, in 1914, and I repeat it in entirety here as an abbreviated account would lose the significance of what used to happen here.

Long before Kwut’ah Lu’ e-ah (Song-Dance, or Viejas, east of El Cajon) mountain fell into the hands of See-i (Evil One), the Indians made a pilgrimage once a year to its very top to watch In’ya (Sun) come out of En-yak’ (East), and praise and honor him with song and dance. For In’ya (Sun) was the great Ruler of All Things. He governed the universe; he commanded the earth, nothing grew unless he caused it; he even dominated the bodies of men, some of whom he made energetic and strong, others weak and lazy. When he disappeared at night he cast a drowsiness o’er the world, so that everything slept until it was time for him to come again in the morning. Such a great ruler as he, received due reverence and worship.

For many preceding moons the young Braves prepared themselves for the race which began the celebration of Kwut’-ah Lu’ e-ah (Song-Dance). They ate no meat while in training for this event, and daily they bathed and rubbed their bodies with Cha-hoor’ (Clear Rock). This crystal made them light on their feet like animals, so they could jump over high boulders and run with the swiftness of deer.

When the time came, everything was in readiness. The big circle on top of the mountain had been freshly prepared and cleared for the dancers and singers. The aged and feeble, with the small children of the village, had been carefully carried up there the previous afternoon, that they might be on hand to take part in the ceremonies.

Then, in that mystic hour which is neither night nor day, the able-bodied ones made the ascent. Last of all, after the others had reached the top, the runners came; swiftly they vied with each other over the steep trails - some so fleet they seemed to fly like birds over the course.

When all had reached the summit, the ritualistic ceremonies began. With song and dance in the blushing dawn, they watched for In’ya (Sun), Ruler of All. Opalescent streamers of golden radiance and flaming banners of crimson flaunting across the pearly tints of the receding night, heralded his arrival; while the people chanted songs of praise in honor of his wonderful light, and made obeisance in the dance in homage of his great power over all things.

Year after year this celebration took place till See’i (Evil One) grew envious, and cast a spell over the mountain; then the Indians feared to make the ascent any more.
One or two foolhardy ones made the attempt, but they found the trails tedious and wearisome. The springs of water by the pathway were poisonous, and frightful noises like the hissing and rattle of snakes pursued their footsteps, and they gave up in despair.

So, though the old trails are faintly discernible and traces of the ring where they danced and sang still remain, no more does the red man swiftly ascend Kwut’ah Lu’e-ah (Song-Dance) mountain to watch In’-ya (Sun) come out of En-yak’ (East) in all his glory.

I am grateful this year not to be so "aged and feeble" that I can still take myself up a mountain. What an amazing experience this was!

Wreaths Across America 2011

2011-12-10T18:09:00.009-05:00

The second Saturday in December every year volunteers turn out to lay wreaths on headstones of our veterans in national cemeteries. Over 1,100 volunteers turned out on this beautiful sunny day in San Diego to lay wreaths at Fort Rosecrans and Miramar cemeteries. Fort Rosecrans has veterans from the time of the Mexican American war, 101,000 graves in all. Miramar opened just last year after Fort Rosecrans ran out of space, and prime real estate it is, overlooking San Diego on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other.

This year I didn't get many pictures since the growing-up-too-fast grandgirls and I were working most of the time signing in volunteers. Not an easy task as the list was not alphabetized! The photo shots would have been much like last year's Wreaths 2010, except that we had one of those envy of the country sunny San Diego days from the start.

Last year we laid wreaths in the area around the ceremony site, but this year all 1100 volunteers walked a half mile to the far end for our section. If it weren't that the way was through a cemetery I thought this could be a good workout route. Not only was the view spectacular, it was inspiring to be part of this cross section of San Diego come to pay tribute and who included Scouts, high school service groups, college students, employee groups, Blue Star mothers, at least two sheriff deputies, Children, Sons, and Daughters of the American Revolution, families, veterans, and active duty military among them.

Hayley, Jennifer, and I took our wreaths to lay, and when they were finished I asked who were their veterans. One of Hayley's was a female World War II veteran and we assumed she must have been a nurse. When we pulled back the wreath to check her branch of service - a surprise! She was a spy! Betty E Schneider. Born 1921, so she would have been only 20 years old when the US joined the war. We imagined she must have been German speaking. We tried looking her up on Google. Nothing. What a story she must have!

Next December, wherever you are, take time on the second Saturday of the month, lay a wreath on a veteran's grave. Take your children, or children, take your parents. Take your friends. Leave your cell phone, iPod, iPad and the rest at home.

As this Freedom Rider's jacket reminds us, we should stand for those who stood for US.

Mr. Nute's Peach Fed Free Range Turkeys

2011-11-20T17:38:00.022-05:00

Three hundred years after the original Nute colonist arrived in New Hampshire, our grandfather made a bold move to leave New England for Medora, Kentucky, there to manage a successful and innovative orchard enhanced by thousands of turkeys. And this is the story.

Raymond grew up in a well to do family in Fall River, Massachusetts, and, like the other men in the family, he went to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Unlike the others who were usually engineers, Raymond majored in "pomology", the study of raising fruit. Whatever possessed this young man to study fruit raising is anyone's guess. There probably hadn't been a farmer in the family since the original Nute was killed in his garden by Indians in the 1600's.

He was an officer of the Rifle Club, ran a 5 minute mile, and went to school with young men with names like Murray Danforth Lincoln, Merton Chesleigh Lane, and Lewis Phillips Howard. He could have had a life of ease living in the city, but after graduating from M.I.T. in 1914, he got himself a farm in Lakeville, Massachusetts, a few miles outside town with a good sized house,

and barn.

Nor was the family happy when Raymond soon took a young wife, Alice, who was the daughter of a grocer. "She wasn't good enough for them", Raymond's daughter, Jeannette, recalls. Over the next five years, they lived on the New England farm and had two children. What made Raymond and Alice move their young family to rural Kentucky in 1920? Was it Raymond's best friend at M.I.T. moving to Ohio to found Nationwide Insurance, a cooperative insurance company for farmers? Was he recruited to Kentucky Orchards by the owner?

Whatever the reason, the young farmer brought scientific farming to Kentucky with a flourish. A 1924 article in the Farmers Home Journal says:

"R.E. Nute is one of the most remarkable fruit pioneers in Kentucky, and the constant wonder of his neighbors, who predicted loss from the start because of his ideas on scientific growing.

That hill-top of apparently worthless land is now the wonder of the countryside. To begin with, Mr. Nute had to build a road to the top that auto trucks could navigate. The road was built. A saw mill was constructed so that lumber on the property could be converted into houses and a packing shed.

The ground was torn up and prepared with the aid of a Fordson and various plows, harrows, cultivators, and the like. Trees by the thousand were planted where only a few old ones were on hand for a nucleus. None in those parts believed in such modern devices as thinning out and spraying and cultivating.

Nute did. He knew how. He came from Massachusetts with his family and buckled down to work. The trees were pruned, dusted, sprayed, cultivated. A big bean spray pump and duster, taking care of two or more rows at a time, destroyed all insects and pests. Borers were gotten rid of with "paracide" planted around the trunks every year. Lime sulphur dust took care of the upper works of the orchard.

Although Mr. Nute has already attained a one-pound peach, on rare occasions slightly over a pound, a two pound peach is one of his ambitions.

His packing house is another wonder to fruit growers, who now come for miles to see, and often to buy peaches. Not long ago visitors made the pilgrimage to the top of the hill in such numbers one day that $100 worth of peaches were sold in the front yard. Some of the peaches are snapped up at 10 cents apiece as curiosities. Last year a number of Mr. Nute's products took first prizes in the Kentucky State fair."

This photo must be around the time the family arrived at the orchard. They still have that refined New England look.

A short time later, they are looking more like Kentucky farmers.

Raymond's fame as an orchardist brought other agriculturists from around the country and he was sought as a speaker for meetings and radio. By 1928, Raymond was looking another way to boost his orchard's profitability and from this came the concept of raising turkeys in his 100 acre orchard. From a start of two hens and a tom, his flock grew to over 7000 birds, and a mill was added to the orchard to grind the grain. The birds provided natural and labor free fertilization, ate the insects, weeds, and dead fruit on the ground, and apple trees that usually produced fruit every three years were yielding fruit every year.

So grew Raymond's fame as a turkey grower and innovator, and he became known as the Turkey King of Kentucky. He collaborated with the University of Kentucky, presided over State Farm Bureau meetings, and continued to raise his family on the farm.

Then, in the midst of this tremendous success, it ends in 1937, and Raymond moved his family away to small town Washington, Kentucky, then to Vanceburg and became agricultural agent for Lewis County, never again to show the world what a hard working young man from Massachusetts with an M.I.T. education could do with a 100 acres of hard scrabble land, some peach and apple trees and a few turkeys. What happened? Jeannette says the owner of the orchard died and the land was sold.

This Thanksgiving as you all are enjoying your fabulous turkey dinner, eating until you can't push yourself away from the table, be thankful for the farmers in the country who have made it all possible with a few hours cooking on your part.

Abraham Dillow (1839-1910), Veteran, West Virginia Fifth Infantry

2011-11-11T18:14:00.015-05:00

While I was back visiting my old Kentucky home a couple weeks ago, one of my goals was to search out some ancestor graves. I had researched where they were buried but finding an old cemeteries and grave stones can be a daunting task in the hills of Kentucky. The sparsely populated county of Lewis County listed 29 known cemeteries, many of them small family or no longer used plots on private land.

On a beautiful October day, I set out with my cousin Allen to find our great grandfather's grave on Pleasant Ridge in Fly Branch. Well, Pleasant Ridge wasn't even one of the 29 listed and Fly Branch wasn't on any map. Even having been to the cemetery once before, Allen wasn't quite sure where was this obscure burial ground. He did know, though, to leave behind his yellow vintage Mustang and we took his wife's car, knowing it might get beat up a little.

We found Fly Branch, we found the gnarly, rutted little road up to the ridge, from there we had no idea. It was one of those another door opens moments when we came across a young man repairing his deer blind. Who knows what deer hunters use those for, just a little house on stilts, like a tree house without a tree. I say the deer is already handicapped by not having a gun, why do hunters need to build a place to hide.

On to the story - Allen, of course, knew the man, Dane, one of those blue eyed Scotch-Irish-German Appalachians, good looking, long haired, and friendly. He owned much of the property on the ridge and was raising his family miles away from any civilization. Hosting and guiding hunters on his ridge was one of his several businesses. Yes, he knew the cemetery. Said his cousins went there to be "spiritual". Allen said this meant to smoke marijuana, another one of our young man's businesses on the property. As most Kentuckians would, he offered to guide us as far as we could go with a vehicle. From there, we'd be on foot.

We made our way along the ridge,

until we came to a clearing that was clearly the cemetery site. It was indeed a peaceful place. I could see why they came here to be "spiritual". I had asked Dane why the cemeteries seemed to be up on ridges. "They wanted to be closer to heaven", he said.

This was the final resting place for Abraham Dillow, our great-grandfather, descendant of Revolution and War of 1812 veterans, and a veteran of the Civil War himself. He buried first on this ridge two young adult children in the late 1890's, Willard and Sarah "Dolly", who very likely died from tuberculosis but searching those death records is a task for another day. He buried a wife, Sarah, who died from "brain trouble", likely a stroke, and three years later he was laid to rest here, marking his grave with his rank and infantry regiment, the West Virginia Fifth.

The four boys from Lost Creek, Kentucky, joined the Union Army at the beginning in 1861, three of the boys going to the eastern campaign with the West Virginia Fifth and the fourth south with the Kentucky 14th into Georgia. Abraham and his brothers, Thomas Jefferson and George Washington Dillow, fought at Cross Keys, Second Bull Run, and through Shenandoah Valley with General Sheridan.

This summer I went to Manassas where the Second Bull Run was fought and traced the footsteps of "Milroy''s Brigade" over the three day battle where 10,000 were killed or wounded on the Union side alone. I tracked the "Deep Cut"

Henry Hill,

other troop movements where the brothers went up against the forces of Stonewall Jackson and James Longstreet, and found the little muddy stream called Bull Run where the first shots were fired that started this conflagration.

We have a family photo of Abraham in his uniform.

Abraham returned to Lost Creek after the war, married Sarah Ann, and named his first two sons Ulysses S. and Alfred Sheridan. All the brothers survived the war. Two of the brothers married sisters of Sarah Ann.

"War is hell", Sherman said. Our four lucky brothers came home. Many do not. I called my favorite veteran today, Allen, great grandson also of Abraham, glad that he came home from his four years in Vietnam.

Nightmare on Front Street

2011-11-05T18:41:00.019-04:00

I like to stay in a bed and breakfast or small inn when I travel. I get to hang with the local folk, breakfast is often tasty, it usually costs less, and the money goes to the local economy. Stay in a big chain hotel and I might as well be in Chicago.

So, when I decided to go back to the home town of my childhood - Vanceburg, Kentucky - I went on online to find a nice little bed and breakfast. The decision was helped along by my Janie sister saying there wasn't a hotel within 25 miles of Vanceburg. She had lived in Vanceburg for several years before moving to Charleston a couple years ago.

Online searching found few pickin's but the one "Inn" listed on a Kentucky tourism website seemed to be just what I was looking for -

Take a step back in time to a place where noise, congestion and life's pressures have been forsaken. The McKellup House Inn is located in downtown Vanceburg, Kentucky, a million miles from a big city (at least it will seem that way). Relax and renew at the McKellup House Inn! We offer: four guest rooms, each with a private bath...period furnishings, a ground-floor guest room with ADA-compliant bath. Each room has been furnished with antiques reflecting the pre-civil war house. Beds include polished brass, iron, or carved oak. Although at this time we do not offer breakfast with bookings, we will do everything possible to arrange for whatever your needs or desires may be.

The online photo looked good, a nice historic inn,

My suspicions should have been raised on making the reservation - which took several phone calls - and the lady answered Redbud Realty, but, hey, it's a small town and people do a variety of things to make a living. Then she went on to say not only was there no breakfast, but no TV, no phone, no wireless. OK, I could live with that. I was looking to get away.

I arrived in town about 1:30 PM and went to check in at my little inn on the river. Well, the real live place looked a little different from the online photo. The paint was peeling, the landscaping had died, all blinds were drawn. Lookin' pretty run down,

Knocked on the door several times, no answer. Checked the address. Yep, this was 226 Front Street. I thought the hostess must be out getting some welcome snack and tea, so I went over to the Historical Society for a few hours to work on our family history.

Returned at 4:30 PM, still no answer. Hm-m-m. I asked the people sitting on the porch across the street - they still do this in Kentucky, kind of nice - did they know when the owner might be back.

"No, but they live just down the street, in the green house on the corner".

I hustled down to the green house. No one home there either, but a note on the door addressed to me gave a number to a pizza shop. Call there and someone would come to let me in. Now, tell me, how was I supposed know to go to the green house, and not the Inn to check in?

Sure enough, a lady drove up in a pick up truck about 10 minutes after my call, but I'd had to walk some distance into town because there was no cell phone service on Front Street.

The inside of the Inn was dark. No snack or tea. We sure have been spoiled in those European B & B's. The door was open to a downstairs bedroom, antique bed all right, but no mattress and the bedclothes were strewn on the floor. This must be the ADA room. All the other downstairs doors were closed. My room was upstairs, and it had a nice look.

My room would have been Civil War looking if not for a jacuzzi tub taking up a quarter of the space. Funkiness aside, a warm Jacuzzi bath could have been neat later in the evening were it not for a sign that said "Sorry, I don't work". The lady showed me how to turn on the gas heater hanging on the wall. Not like anything I'd seen before, a pilot light that heated up two bricks when the flame was turned a little higher.

I had a feeling and asked the greeter lady whether there were any other guests staying at the Inn.

"No, but I'll be staying downstairs after I get off from the pizza shop. I'll be late, so I hope I don't wake you up."

Well, at least there would be someone else in the house during the night. I was planning to be out late myself.

I went over to my cousin's house for dinner, and he asked if I wasn't going to stay with him and his wife, Nancy. I hadn't seen him for almost 50 years but I said no, I'd wanted to stay at least a couple days at my Inn and get the flavor of the town, and I liked being right next to the river.

It was 10:30 when I returned to the Inn. It was a bit spooky, completely dark, no light on, no one there, so I sang to myself walking up the stairs. I had trouble getting the heater to work. For some reason, the pilot light was off and I couldn't get the d--- thing fixed. And it was starting to smell like gas in the room. So, back downstairs, drive to the edge of town to get cell phone service, and call the number for the pizza place.

This time a guy came over, and after blasting the heater with a blow torch looking lighter for a few minutes, the pilot came on. The room still had a gas smell so I asked him to open the windows since they were stuck.

I slept in my blue jeans that night with the windows open. That elegant looking little bedspread was all the cover there was.

The next morning as I was leaving, the lady was out on the porch smoking a cigarette so she must have come in sometime during the night.

"The heater has a problem", I told her. "Could you have someone look at it today".

I spent the day exploring the town and running around with my cousin, Allen, catching up on 50 years of our adventures and misadventures. We are indeed from the same genes.

Kentucky is beautiful, and my Inn was right on the Ohio River.

Vanceburg is well past its heyday when it was a bustling, thriving river town, barges, and river boats up and down the river, tobacco growing in the fields. My grandparents' Victorian house just down the street from my Inn was beautiful in the 1940's, but now run down much like the Inn.

The house next to the Inn is a fixer upper,

Once beautiful houses are up for sale.

The town seems to have little activity,

Even the railroad through town that used to carry coal from the eastern coal fields, and livestock, and people has rusted.

Exhausted from the day, I returned to my Inn about 8:30 PM. It was dark, and as soon as I stepped inside I could smell the gas. Back down to the green house - no one home. Drive to the edge of town to get cell phone service to call whoever is running the place. Got that d--- Redbud Realty machine. Couldn't even get hold of the pizza shop, wherever the h--- it was. Back to the Inn, hold my breath and run upstairs to get my bag before the place blows up.

Gracious hosts they are, my cousins took me in.

Nancy smiled. "Had enough flavor?". I remembered her eyebrow had gone up when I told them the first night where I was staying.

It's a sad requiem for another Kentucky town.

Wanted: A Few More Good Men and Women to Chance an Arm

2011-10-09T13:58:00.008-04:00

While going through my Dublin photos this morning to make our much procrastinated movie - not as procrastinated as Patty's posts - of our Ireland/Iceland trip, I came across a story apropos to this week's announcement of three women who share the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize.

Inside St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin hangs a door with a hole,

and this is the story.

In 1492, two great Irish families, the Butlers of Ormond and the Fitzgeralds of Kildare, were engaged in a bitter and bloody feud. Seeking sanctuary, Black James, nephew of the Earl of Ormond, and his men fled into the Chapter House. The Fitzgeralds followed in hot pursuit.

Their leader Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, realized that the fighting was out of control. Through the closed door he pleaded with Black James to accept a truce. Suspecting treachery, Black James refused to let Fitzgerald inside. Fitzgerald hacked a hole in the door and thrust his arm through as a pledge of his good faith.

This daring gesture was enough. The door opened and the two warring factions received one another in peace. Some believe that this event is the origin of the expression "to chance your arm", meaning to take the initiative. The door has become known as the "Door of Reconciliation".

William Elwood Dillow: A Man for All Seasons

2011-10-02T11:52:00.026-04:00

When I used to pop over to my Uncle Elwood's house in Vanceburg, Kentucky to play around with his accordion, I could tell even then he was a different kind of guy. His house was filled with Mexican things and he was always reading a book or listening to the radio. In the 1950's people in this river town didn't have Mexican things in their house, much less ever seen a Mexican. But I shall get to that later.

Elwood was Ramona's oldest brother, first born to Jacob with the blue, blue eyes, and Grace, a handsome little woman, in 1906. Vanceburg was still a bustling river town at the turn of the last century, but the Dillows and their growing family lived on a farm just outside of town. Jacob, a farmer and teacher, brought up seven well educated kids.

By age two, Elwood already had a grown up seriousness needed to head this bunch of kids.

1908,

1912, Elwood, Maurice, George Jacob,

He would have worked on the farm while getting his education, and Ramona recalls he started a chicken raising business on his own on the hillside behind the farmstead. He already had a confident attitude by his high school years.

In the summer of 1923, while still in high school, he took a summer job at the Howell Cutting Plant making buttons, and wrote about this experience in the June 29, 1972 Lewis County Herald,

Each employee stood before a machine, in design much like an engine lathe. A stepped pulley in the machine enabled the worker to determine a speed correct for the button blank that he was then cutting. Individual machines took power from overhead shafting.

The employee would place a mussel shell in his hand held tong. All the while the tubular saw in the headstock was revolving. The tail stock had a wood plug movable longitudinally. As stated above, the worker moved the shell into the revolving saw by using a rachet in the tailstock. The buttons were sawed quite rapidly, many blanks being cut from the shell before it was discarded.

The spool in which the saw was mounted was unique in that the tapered tubular saw was secured by a handmade key. The keying of the saw within its spool, the aligning of the spool within the head stock, the filing and jointing of the saw would at times tax the most skilled employee.

As an experiment, some of the discarded shells were spread on the Vanceburg hill road.

After high school, Elwood completed two years of college in preparation to be a teacher, most likely at Morehead State Teachers College, and the July 8, 1927 Portsmouth Daily Times reported the Lewis County school board had announced teachers for the rural schools for the year. Elwood was assigned to Rock Creek, a rural school upriver past Quincy. It would have been one of those one room school houses for the early grades before children were bused to a consolidated school. Commonly, the rural school teacher would board with a family in the area, returning home on the weekend if they had means of transportation. Given Elwood's ingenuity, he would have had transportation. In a letter to Ramona, he described fixing up Jacob's 1909 Ford Coupe that had been caught in a flood at the confluence of Gander Branch and Dry Run and washed a couple hundred yards downstream. "I bought the damaged Ford, put another body on it and had a serviceable auto".

In 1930, he was still living at the farm with 5 younger siblings. His next younger brother, George Jacob, had died in 1925 at age 17, diabetic at a time when insulin was very new.

In 1932, he married Goldia Richmond from Camp Dix back in the hills of Lewis County, also from a large family of 11 children whose Kentucky roots went back several generations, and a year later they had their only child, a daughter, Delores, "Tootsie" we called her, red haired from the Dillow side of the family.

Tootsie recalls her Dad building a camper on the back of his pick up truck when she was in the third grade and traveling the family to Roma, Texas on the Rio Grande and now a center of drug trafficking, kidnappings and gruesome murders. Why did the family go to Roma in 1941, and why Roma? Tootsie recalls the purpose was for Elwood to immerse himself in Mexican culture and study Spanish. He had a Mexican lady come to the house twice weekly to tutor him in Spanish and Tootsie went to school. Roma was likely picked at random as the family drove toward Mexico and this was a rural town as far as they could go without actually going into Mexico.

They stayed only 3 months, Elwood reluctantly returning as Goldia was lonely and homesick. In a February 1942 letter to Ramona soon after their return to Vanceburg - Ramona had moved to Hartford the previous year to marry Raymond - Elwood writes,

Dear sister,

In your last letter you asked me to tell you about our trip, stating you would be interested. In starting to tell you of our return trip I would like to remind you that Roma was located 88 miles down the river from Laredo, Texas, a city of some 40,000. First we traveled some 70 miles down river to a little Texas town called "Hidalgo" from which I crossed International bridge on foot to Reynosa, Mexico, where I purchased a small basket full of Mexican wares. Goldia reserved for herself the choice and you can't blame her. The remainder was insufficient to go around. At her home, I am told they clamored for more Mexican cigarettes. Many articles can be bought but the "turista" is compelled to pay a plenty. Much crude earthenware is offered, grass woven articles, serapes, huaraches, etc. On my return I stopped in a music store where I bought a few used records, all in Spanish or by Latin American artists. Eloise has one "Sur de Rio Grande" and on reverse "Mi Unico Amor" (My Only Love), a very beautiful and typical Mexican melody. I have a recording of the "Hermanas padilla" (Padilla sisters) which I treasure very much. It could be quite easily true local people here do not enjoy such melody - be that as it may, I enjoy some of the Mexican music, the language and think some most beautiful women can be found south of the Rio Grande.

To continue with the trip - we traveled 3 days and still weren't out of Texas. But to go back a bit, we came up near the Gulf Coast, taking a side trip of some 35 miles in order to see a part of Gulf of Mexico. A glimpse at any map will show you Texas is almost land locked by long chains of islands... 85 degrees when we left the border with south wind at out back = radiator persisted in boiling over every time I was compelled to stop. It got so cold on our return in Kentucky we had to use hot water before the Ford would start. As for trouble on our entire trip we had nearly none. I had one puncture in 3500 miles... wore a pair of old tires "bald", unable to have them retread, so like many another North American, I'm in a pickle. Crossed 3 tall bridges on our return, paying first at Greenville $1.90, then 80 cents to cross Tennessee and last and least 45 cents Tyrone Bridge across Kentucky River.

Texas is a large and progressive state. There one sees nearly everything. In some areas you can see countless oil wells with many tanks mammoth in size in which to store the crude, cotton lands, hard and softwood forests, experiment farms for brahmas and their crosses, beautiful highways, bridges, and luxurious roadside parks.. south of San Antonio the never ending semi-desert, a real contrast to anything to be seen elsewhere, a region apparently belonging to Texas-Mexicans. Would venture to say 95% of the people in some counties are Latins, always speaking their Spanish, not the best Spanish to be sure because time, space, and alienation from the madre Espana has resulted in many changes.

Why did I come home? Simply because Goldia could not adjust herself to the desert and different people and had worried herself sick. I urged her time and again to return by bus leaving me but she would not take the step. Since her return, she's happy indeed. Toots re-enrolled in school. Goldia back on the job. Much the old routine with plenty of Kentucky winter to mix with it all. My trip was most enlightening and enjoyable, one I shall never forget, money wisely invested. For further study of the language, I may this year go to Northern Metropolitan Center where I can locate Mexican, Cuban or others. I could never get Goldia interested. War came on and I was unable to enroll Toots in Mexican schools. If you want to know anything else, ask questions. I include my last available Mexican coin. Elwood Dillow

Roma, Texas, 1942,

Wasn't it like the times to sign a letter to your sister with your full name, and to give her your last coin?

Back in Vanceburg, Elwood went back to farming and teaching. He had his radio fixed to receive Havana, Cuba, and read his Spanish books and listened to his radio until he could no longer see or hear.

He died in 1993 and is buried at Morgan Cemetery at the head of Grassy along with his wife of 61 years, Goldia.

Sweep at Western Montana State Fair

2011-09-25T12:40:00.011-04:00

Before summer is completely gone -

Before our blog dies from lack of material -

And, before Patty gets around to writing on our Ireland/Iceland trip -

I thought I would post our winning entries at the 2011 Western Montana State Fair.

Jennifer won first place ribbons in Photography for

and from Ait Ben Haddou in Morocco,

Honorable mentions for the moth in Majorelle Gardens in Marrakkesh,

and her HomeCat (that's as in homeboy or "hommie"),

I took first place in Still Life for this spice shop in Marrakkesh,

and second place in People for these two camel herders on the road from El Er to Fes, Morocco.

Jennie tells me these first and second places were from hundreds of entries.

In addition, little Isabella took a first place in Art for an abstract piano, second place for a painting of a cactus and desert creature, third places for paintings of a chicken and abstract chalk drawing, and honorable mentions for a foil sculpture and Dragon named Steve.

Jennifer won a blue ribbon for her pickled beets, red for canned tomatoes, and yellow ribbon for strawberry jam. She won two first place ribbons for needlepoint tooth fairy pillow and crewel of garden gate with flowers. I shall have to get a photo of these, they are gorgeous.

Montana, watch out for all of us in 2012! We are getting ready for you!

Semper Semper Fi

2011-07-06T23:18:00.009-04:00

We - my DAR buddies, that is - spent our usual Wednesday afternoon/evening cooking for the West Battalion Wounded Warriors. Let me say, if you are feeling you need a hug, cook for a bunch of Marines and there will be plenty. They certainly know how to show their gratitude.

I was looking for a new angle on photos. I mean, how many pics can you take of a bunch of ladies in red, white and blue aprons cooking? So I took a stroll through the parking lot.

Naturally, it was filled with a plethora of monster or just regular giant trucks that any self respecting Marine would be driving.

Some augmented with a macho motorcycle,

but it was the small details on the windows that belied the culture and warrior identity of the Marine.

Pray for our troops, Jesus. I could swear that's a take off of the St. James Cross in that design.

Grace Dillow, A Handsome Little Woman

2011-07-03T18:37:00.022-04:00

Grace was our maternal grandmother, a "handsome little woman", said the Portsmouth Times in 1902 when she and Jacob with the blue, blue eyes eloped to get married. According to our mother, Grace's mother, Mary Jane, disapproved of the marriage. Why, we have not been able to imagine, and the dead don't talk. It turned out to be a long, fruitful, and happy marriage, and without it I wouldn't be writing this today.

Mary Jane had been through her share of tragedy by the time Grace was born in 1883 in Lewis County, Kentucky. When people ask what part of Kentucky you are from, you give your county - chances are unless you're from the big towns of Louisville or Lexington no one would know the hollow or farming settlement you were from. So, if you're from Lewis County, I could say I'm from out on Grassy and you would know it. If you're from Kentucky, I would say I'm from Lewis County and you would know. And if you're from anywhere else, I just say I'm from Kentucky.

Mary Jane was unmarried and widowed for three years when Grace was conceived. Family legend was that William Martin married the young widow while she was pregnant in order to give the child a legitimate name, but more than a hundred years later we have learned things did not happen that way. That, and Mary Jane's tragedies, are stories for another day.

At the time of Grace's birth, Mary Jane had come back from Illinois to Vanceburg with her two surviving young children, "Sis", age 7, and Jesse, age 4. Mary Jane was supporting her family working as a seamstress, and living next door to her father, George Caseman, who at age 53 was raising six of his children as a single parent and working as a farmer.

A History of Lewis County in 1912 described the area as "its surface is much diversified by hill and dale, and watered by many creeks whose sparkling depths, clear as crystal, are filled of fish of many kinds...a hill country with fertile valleys, the nest of the eagle and the den of the fox and mountain lion". Indeed, I can recall the neighbor men gathering at our farm to hunt down a mountain lion that had been spotted before it ate one of us kids.

In the 1880's, Vanceburg was coming out of an era of being a booming Ohio River town to being a railroad town, both means to ship out the farm products and transport West those looking for adventure or better times. In 1880, Lewis County had a population of 12,.407, almost the same as today, 289,658 cultivated acres, 2,772 males over the age of 21, 4,653 horses, 306 mules, and 4,165 hogs. Chances were you came from a farming family and married a farmer.

Mary Jane had a marriage to a farmer from Fleming County soon after Grace was born but at this time we don't know how long he stayed around. Likely he had died by the time Mary Jane married again to William Martin in 1890. Almost all 1890 US Census records were destroyed in a fire, so we don't know where the family was living at that time, but by 1900 when Grace was 17, the family was living on a farm about six miles out of Vanceburg in Valley, Kentucky, so small it no longer is identified as a town or has a post office. All left identifying Valley is the cemetery. Grace's older half-sister "Sis" and half-brother Jessie had left the home by the time of this census.

Living in Valley in 1900 was a young and good looking teacher, Jacob, who would have been Grace's teacher at Clarksburg. Jacob was the first of many generations in his family to pursue a life other than farming. He was living on his father's farm while teaching, along with five siblings and two grandchildren of Abraham and Sarah Dillow. It must have been a lively place, but perhaps a pall hung over the farm as two other children of Abraham and Sarah, Dollie and Willard, had died in the 1890's.

Grace hung out with girlfriends before she was married,

but by age 19, she and the young teacher with the blue, blue eyes had eloped. As the paper said, she was a handsome little woman.

They stayed in Portsmouth for the next two years, Grace working in the shoe factory and Jacob in a steel mill, before they dared go home to Vanceburg. By that time, they had saved money to buy a 30 acre farm outside town. "We had the only brick house around", my mother said, so Jacob and Grace must have worked hard to save their money. They had the first of seven children in 1906 and the last in 1922, all born at the homestead. Mary Jane lived nearby across Dry Run Creek with William Martin, grandma-ing all these grandchildren from the marriage she had opposed, a melding of the Scotch Irish Dillows and German Casemans, and - as we may see in future stories - some English thrown in. Our mother remembers Mary Jane as "the best grandma you could want", so all those grandbabies and a settled life with William perhaps softened her up from the hardships of her own life.

Grace and Jacob raised all the children at the homestead, farming as well as Jacob going out to one room country school houses to educate the children of the hills and hollows. Our mother recalls that Grace "liked to keep the house nice" with wallpaper and rugs. The house was German style brick with five rooms downstairs and two upstairs, a potbellied stove in the living room for heat and a wood burning stove in the kitchen for cooking, and no indoor plumbing, so you know what that means. Elwood, their oldest child recalls the 1913 flood of the Ohio River, "waters were in this barn and Pa had placed planking to reach the barn. He removed some second floor boards from the barn loft, built a Jon boat in which we boated (across the flood waters) to grandparents' home".

Grace in the tobacco field at the homestead,

Grace and Jacob, a gentle couple

Grace in front of the homestead,

and in their later years.

Tragedy hit the family in 1925 when the second eldest, George Jacob, died at age 17 with complications of diabetes.

The six other children grew up and became teachers and farmers, providing Grace and Jacob with 14 grandchildren. Mary Jane lived nearby until her death in 1935. Jacob died in 1953, and Grace's letters from that time on speak of the sadness and loneliness she felt even though surrounded by family.

The homestead and farm was bought by the youngest child, Wilbur, a farmer, and one of his children tried to restore the house in the 1970's and 80's. I visited the homestead in 1984 and took this photo. Grace's gardens were gone, but the beauty of the setting is evident.

I also went out to our farmhouse on Grassy and found the one room school house where I started my education with my father as the teacher, eight grades in one room. It was those one room school houses in the hollows that kept most of the population of Kentucky from being illiterate.

Grace died in 1968 at age 85. The house was torn down to put through a freeway.

Channeling Our Mothers

2011-05-30T11:03:00.004-04:00

Who among us has not heard her mother’s words coming from her own mouth? It can be startling, especially when the daughter has promised herself she would never act or speak like her mother. My own children frequently say to me, “OK, Ramona,” which I can sometimes blow off with a chuckle and grin. Sometimes.

When I pass away – and even before then – I hope my daughters will be able to channel me with:

“I love you.”

“You are SO smart!”

“You are beautiful.”

“I don’t agree with your choice (career, shampoo, spouse/boyfriend, moving, parenting - whatever) but it is your choice and I approve of YOU no matter what.”

“I’m sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Thank you.”

“Be kind to your sister.”

“Have fun!”

“I am so proud of you.”

In one way or another, I learned these from my own mother.

Rest in peace, Mom.

A Letter from Staff Sgt. Allen Dillow, Vietnam, February 9, 1966

2011-05-29T08:13:00.009-04:00

Going through my mother's letters this weekend, I came across a letter written to her from Staff Sargeant Allen Dillow, her nephew and our cousin. I always joked about having a crush on him when we were kids, so handsome was he in his uniform.

He writes to her from Vietnam in February 1966,

Dear Aunt Ramona and Girls,

I would like to express my sincere thanks for your thoughtfulness at Christmas time, a card, note, or just about anything is appreciated over here. We service men are not robots taught to kill. We still have a heart, and like to be thought of at such times. We are over here half way around the world, in a hostile land, not only a foreign land, away from our loved ones. Where every day things seem as such to you, they would be like a gift from heaven to us. Hot water, cold glass of milk, cold can of beer, seeing friendly eyes, someone that you could reach out and touch, or maybe even kiss, that are only gleams in our eyes that we have to wait a year for. But being what it is, and being the kind of men we are "supposed" to be, we must never complain, even though at nights you still hear sniffles from these men, not excluding me.

I don't hear much from home but I do hope things have worked out for the best. Daddy is the greatest as far as I am concerned. He has his faults, but we all do, none of us are perfect. If we were we would not be on this earth.

Do tell grandmother I said hello and hope this finds her in good health.

Tell Ray (our brother who was in the Ohio National Guard) that if it is at all possible not to get messed up with this over here. May he stay home as long as possible, and for God's sake don't volunteer, don't get star struck by some John Wayne type movie, it isn't fought that way.

Do take care, and thank you again for your kind and warm thoughts.

Allen

Ramona Dillow Nute, 1914-2011, Remembrance

2011-05-24T20:15:00.007-04:00

The mortal life of our mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother came to an end yesterday afternoon but not without a gathering of the clan for company. She was almost 97 years old and, at her insistence, remained in her own home until her last days. She was still playing bridge with her buddies every week, watching CNN, and disdaining the Meals on Wheels brought to the house. She would have been driving the car in her garage were it not for the watchfulness of the family. Indeed, in her 90's she managed to sneak over to the DMV and convince the lady to re-issue her driver's license.

She was descended from Scotch-Irish Virginian frontiersmen and women, French Huguenots, that rash of Germans who settled Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Kentucky, Revolutionary War fighters, a teenage associate of George Washington, a Crockett from the Davy Crockett family, and civil war soldiers who fought at Bull Run and marched with Sherman through Georgia.

In her father's footsteps, she taught for 39 years beginning in one room school houses in Appalachian Kentucky. She traveled the US, Europe, and Middle East, starting with hitchhiking with her girl buddies in the 1930's.

She had four children, six grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren.

In the last week of her life, she fell in her home and was not found for at least several hours. Although without serious injury, as often happens with the elderly, the trauma set off a chain of irreversible physical events. The family was called to gather as she was moved into Hospice of Charleston, and we kept vigil in her final hours which ran into three days. Two of her nurse grandgirls provided the care usually given by strangers. They turned her, bathed her, and painted her fingernails and toenails. A recording by her rock singer great granddaughter was played for her. We all talked to her even as she became less and less conscious. The doctor advised us to keep down the level of conversation as she could likely still hear us and didn't want to leave the party.

Finally, as it came time for me to return home, I told her I was leaving and it was time for her to leave. She died an hour and a half later.

Kicking Butt on El Cajon Mountain

2011-05-15T08:52:00.025-04:00

It was a cool and foggy morning when Kathleen and I set off to bag the summit of El Cajon Mountain at El Capitan this weekend. East County being located in the Peninsular mountain foothills between Lakeside and Ramona, this is not usually a trek taken this late in the season when temperatures can be in the 90's. We had to cover 10 miles of rugged terrain before the heat set in. I was hoping to get a photo of El Cajon that would count toward my project of finding and hiking all the ranchos of San Diego.

We had a beautiful hike in, through corridors of California lilacs,

up and around and about the stone mountains,

past the remnants of the Cedar Fire that raged through here in 2003, burning 90% of the habitat.

"The Jeep" landmark, nice sculptural art for the area, looks to have been left there in the 1940's.

We chatted up the usual topics - the flora, what to do for a rattlesnake bite, where was the helicopter landing for all the injured hiker rescues you read about from this area - the last thing we wanted was again to be on News at 6 - until we reached the summit. We needed a little chatter. El Cajon Mountain with its steeps, boulders, chaparral, and distance is reviewed as the most kick-butt hike in the county.

Proof of arrival:

Unfortunately, I wasn't going to get a view of Rancho El Cajon through the fog.

On the way down, the fog cleared enough that I could get a shot of El Monte, but El Cajon city was so far off I wondered whether the El Cap had been part of the Rancho.

The afternoon brought the sun and blistering heat, but until the last couple miles I was still taking flower photos,

and finally, on the way out, a shot back at the behemoth that is El Capitan and the summit of El Cajon Mountain just up the ridge.

Rancho El Cajon was a huge ranch in the mid 1800's, including El Cajon city, Santee, Lakeside, Le Mesa and Flinn Springs. Did it include El Capitan? I think so. I could see Rancho del los Cochas just below in the valley, and I know a lot of Rancho El Cajon surrounded the little pig ranch. I think I feel a trip to the El Cajon Historical Society coming up.

Thank God for Rancho Santa Margarita - She Saved Us from Los Angeles

2011-04-30T08:58:00.032-04:00

There's something about summer coming that lights my fire to check out the missions and ranchos of San Diego. When I got a last minute invitation to the Wounded Warrior Battalion's changing of command this week at Camp Pendleton, I grabbed my camera out the door because I knew I could get in the West Gate and do a bit of exploring by myself on the way out. Between the Battalion and the West Gate are the historic buildings of Rancho Santa Margarita y Las Flores.

The Rancho has a complicated history from the time the San Luis Rey Mission friars used the land for sheep and cattle early in the 1800's. After the Spanish mission days, the land became a huge rancho owned by Pio Pico, the first governor of California, and changed hands several times over the next 100 years. Read here for a nice history of the Rancho lands.

The land of what is now Camp Pendleton - 123,00 + acres between Oceanside and San Clemente, and eastward -was bought from the last rancho owner by the US Navy for an aircraft field and access to the ocean in 1942 and is now occupied by the Marines. This little strip of land has saved us from the sprawl of Los Angeles and Orange Counties. If there's going to be sprawl, we want to do it ourselves. The Marines, bless their hearts, have made a commitment to preserve the rancho buildings in the middle of the base.

The ranch house is closed except the second Wednesday of month and no way I'll make it up there on a Wednesday. I thought I could at least take a look around, but when I arrived the gate was closed. I parked the car anyway, and started to look around. The first thing I came across was a stone marker,

Beneath a nearby sycamore tree
Two of Andres Pico's officers
Leonardo Cota and Jose Alipas
Planned their successful strategy
Against the American forces
They battled at San Pasqual on
December 6, 1846

Remember I told the reader about General Kearny's retreat from San Pasqual to San Diego, passing through the Los Penasquitos rancho?

Here is an excellent account of the Mexican and American conflict in San Diego. We tend to not be aware of how much history there is in our little town.

As Patty knows I would, I looked around for that sycamore tree - gotta stand just where this happened and get the vibes. Uttered a little expletive known to be used by just every pilot whose plane is going down. Not that I don't know a sycamore tree when I see one, but they were all over the place.

I gave up on trying to find which one of the sycamores might be 200 years old, and walked around the little chapel, originally a winery built by the friars in 1810. Yep, a winery up here in the middle of the padres' cow fields.

I was embolden by my foray around the chapel, and thought what could it hurt just to foray up the hill a little more to the bunkhouse and ranch house. If they bring out the Marines, I could always remind them "I cook for you guys every month!"

The bunk house, also from 1810, has those signature Spanish columns and outside hallway.

The ranch house sits up on a little hill, with a view out to the ocean. It was built in the 1840's by the Picos and added to by later owners.

I was this far and still not a soul in sight, I had the place to myself, so I wandered further, enjoying the wonderful breeze from the ocean. The ranch house had the same outdoor hallway. I understand the 31 rooms have no interior halls, just exterior halls and a central courtyard.

I walked down the porch/hall and a long set of steps with an overhead ranch bell,

out onto the grounds where I found a cannon and another bell. Hm-m-m. Wondered whether these were maybe from the Battle of San Pasqual, although there were some skirmishes at Rancho Las Flores nearby.

I came across some beautiful doors and arches and architectural details.

It was time to high tail it out of there. I'll have to wait until retirement to have a Wednesday free to see the courtyard and interior of the ranch house. Being in this historic spot totally alone was a different kind of experience. Imagine if you had Machu Picchu, or the pyramids, or the fields of Culloden totally to yourself. Where would you want to be, totally alone with history?

Antidote for Horrific Newsstory Fatigue

2011-03-31T08:06:00.005-04:00

Overwhelmed by the seemingly neverending stream of newsstories about mankind's seemingly neverending atrocities? Here's a fix I picked up from the Presurfer.

We should all be so loving to each other as these two are.

Jacob With the Blue, Blue Eyes

2011-03-27T16:46:00.028-04:00

I had only those few years to know our grandfather, from the time our family moved back to Kentucky after the war in 1946 until we migrated on to northern Ohio in 1950 looking for steady work for our father. Jacob had clear blue eyes, a gentle manner, and a way of gathering the grandchildren at his feet to listen to the Appalachian stories. I can hear him as though it were yesterday. With six children who made it to adulthood, married, and all had children, it was a good sized clan that got together at the old homestead on Sundays.

The clan had been settled in Lewis County, Kentucky, for fifty years before our mother joined and married our father in Connecticut where he was building planes during World War II. They were all teachers, farmers, and factory workers - the salt of the Midwestern earth. The Civil War had left Kentucky poor. Previously a highly agricultural state, the size of farms dwindled, and the Great Depression took out many of the manufacturing jobs. By 1940 the per capita income had dropped to 54% of the national level.

The patriarch of our clan was Jacob Dillow. He was born in 1875 in Greenup County, just east of Lewis County, the sixth of ten children of Abraham Dillow and Sarah Hall. Abraham's Scottish-Irish family had settled in frontier western Virginia in the 1700's, gradually making their way up to northeastern Kentucky over the next hundred years. Sarah's family was Pennsylvania Germans who followed the migration route of many Germans down the Ohio River Valley. Both families settled in East Little Sandy in Kentucky. Abraham and his three brothers went off to the Civil War, all on the Union side against their Virginia cousins on the Confederate side. More on Abraham and Sarah later.

Jacob spent his first six years in Greenup, Daniel Boone country once inhabited by the Shawnee and the first white settlement in Kentucky. It would have been part of the bustling traffic on the Ohio River in the 1800s. His father, Abraham, was a farmer in Greenup; with his family of seven children, all under the age of 15, he pulled up stakes and moved the lot of them to Champaign, Illnois, in about 1881.

Jacob grew up on the farm in Illinois, no doubt working the farm with his father, raising cattle and poultry in Illinois until he was 15 years old. Abraham again uprooted the family, by now with three more children, and moved all 10 children to Lewis County in about 1890. Along the way, Jacob had been able to get some education, for by the time he was grown he was able to attend "normal school" in Lewis County to get a teaching credential in the 1890s. A five years older brother, Willard, died about this time at age 25, and three years later his next younger sister, Dolly, died at age 20. This must have been a difficult time for this family and for Jacob.

Jacob taught school as an itinerant teacher through those years, going to live in a community that needed a teacher, often in a one room school house. One of his teaching assignments was at Clarksburg and one of his students there was Grace Martin, 8 years his junior. A Portsmouth Times article on December 8, 1902, announced "The Eloping Couple".

Jacob Dillon, age 26, and Miss Grace Martin, age, 19, of near Vanceburg, Ky., were married at the probate office this afternoon by Rev. Henry W. Hargett. The bride was a handsome little woman. They ran away because her parents objected to the match. She left home ostensibly to go to Cincinnati, but instead joined her lover and came to this city. There will be some surprised parents at Vanceburg, tomorrow.

Why did they have to run away? Grace was 19 by now, not too young to marry in those days. She wasn't pregnant - they didn't have their first child until 4 years later. He would have been on a social par with her family, respectable as a teacher. About this our mother says, "Mary Jane (Grace's mother) didn't want any man to have her".

In any event, the eloped couple remained in Portsmouth for the next two years. He gave up teaching to work for two years in a steel mill and she worked in a shoe factory, saving their money until they could return to Lewis County and buy a thirty acre farm with a brick farmhouse on Dry Run. "We had the only brick house around," says our mother.

Jacob went back to teaching and farming, mostly tobacco. Over the sixteen years from 1906 to 1922 they had seven children, all born at home with a midwife. One of the children, George, died in the home in 1925 at age 17 from diabetes and pneumonia, both treatable these days. I know this was tragic for the family; our mother, now 96, still talks of him.

Five of the seven children, in 1918:

About life at the farm, the oldest brother, Elwood, wrote to our mother, Ramona:

I can remember my dad dismanteling an old barn between our garden and Dry Run. I also recall grandfather Martin with a slip scraper and team removing a bank in our front yard. I am almost certain that the barn was built after Pa bought the farm. During the 1913 flood, waters were in this barn and Pa had placed planking to reach the barn. He removed some second floor boards from the barn loft, built a Jon boat in which we boated across the backwater to grandparents’ home. Do you remember the foot log Pa built across Dry Run Creek? It was from this crude foot log that I fell with my bicycle on top of me. It was at the confluence of Gander Branch and Dry Run Creek that Pa lost his “9” Ford Coupe. This car was washed about two hundred yards down stream. Later, I bought the damaged Ford, put another body on it and had a serviceable auto.

Was this that "9" Ford Couple lost in the creek?

Jacob died in 1953, and Grace followed 15 years later. Together they raised seven children who had 14 grandchildren. Jacob educated many of the children of Lewis County, Kentucky. All of his children but Ramona remained in the Lewis County area, though many of the grandchildren have scattered. The old homestead was torn down to put a freeway through, but I can still remember the grandfather with the blue, blue eyes, and the nights catching fireflies down the front lawn of the homestead with all the cousins.

Japanese Cherry Blossom Festival 2011, San Diego

2011-03-20T08:42:00.032-04:00

This weekend Jennifer and I headed down to Balboa Park's Cherry Blossom Festival to spend a day in Japanese culture and to be in solidarity with our Japanese brothers and sisters. We also have some friendly photo competition going on for spotting and capturing the best shot.

We share our day of Japanese adventure, starting with the Festival.

The Japanese Friendship Garden is a hidden jewel I hadn't visited until this day, 2 acres that will make you feel you are in Japan. Given the recent events, this was the perfect place to go. The festival celebrates the earth cycle that no matter how harsh the winter, spring will come and life is renewed.

Jennifer got the best cherry blossom shot.

the best sign of spring,

the best Zen garden,

the most creative bamboo dripper,

and most creative temple with reflections and her off center signature.

Read here about another Zen garden.

I'll claim the best temple composition,

Koi pond garden,

and people picture.

Jennifer's body language shows her determination to be a first rate photographer and film maker. And yes, Jennifer, Mr. Sidewalk Monitor was right. Your foot was off the rock.

We walked outside the Garden to catch a glimpse of the canyon where work is going on to add 14 acres to the current two acres. A pine tree will be planted as a memorial for those who lost their lives in the earthquake and tsunami, symbolically anchoring one side of a bridge across the canyon. We could already see many blooming cherry trees in the canyon. How beautiful this will be for the people of San Diego when finished!

We walked over to the Menghi to see the Maneki Neko exhibit. the Japanese beckoning cats. Jennifer and I couldn't figure out why all the cats had a raised paw, some left, some right pawed. Read here why.

We topped the adventure off with a late Japanese lunch at Katani's in Carmel Valley, Udon noodle soup, tempura, and some Japanese lessons from Jennifer. A great day, even if Jennifer did top me in the photography category.

The Shoulders We Stand On

2011-03-13T18:16:00.008-04:00

I thought this interest in gathering the family history was a late life phenomenon. I go to my genealogy classes and they are populated with older people, taught by even older people. Our great-grandfather documented all the descendants from his surname immigrant in New England, an indentured servant to the colony of Dover, New Hampshire in the early 1600's. But I recall even in my thirties looking in phone books for others with the same family names, even writing to them at times. Once I received a long letter back from a woman on a wheat farm in Montana who didn't know anything about the family. I figured she was just lonely out there and wanted to make a connection. In her younger years Patty spent time on the family tree after the Internet opened up information until she became so consumed that she had to pack everything up and mail it to me.

My foray back into the family history was inspired by wanting to be a D.A.R., a Daughter of the American Revolution, since I knew we must have at least one Revolution patriot, half blood New Englanders that we are. Saying you have one isn't enough, you have to "prove" it with documentation of every generation going back to the 1700's.

I took classes and got my D.A.R. through the New Hampshire patriot researched by our great grandfather, and along the way found other Revolution patriots as well as frontiersmen and women, migrations where no roads or rivers were evident, cousins fighting cousins on the same battlefields, tragic losses of children.

I found not all those searching for ancestors are late lifers. We just have more time. And so, I am looking for those not yet found, source documenting those we know, and I'll be putting up some of their stories here. It's the stories I wonder about. How did they live? Did they have enough to eat? What was it like learning the next settlement had just been massacred by Indians? What made them pick up and move on even further into the frontier? How did they have ten babies with no medical care and no help?

Tune in. If you are family, look to meet people you didn't know. And if you're not family, perhaps you'll be inspired to find your own.

El MonteTrail, in La Canada de los Coches Country

2011-03-12T19:32:00.007-05:00

My Gourmet Hiking Club buddies made a last minute change in plans to check out the newly opened El Monte Trail - just three weeks ago - and what a wonderful trail on a beautiful San Diego day. Two miles to the top of El Monte. Boulder free for a change, a bit of a luxury in hiking out here.

Not only that, but I checked off one of the Ranchos of San Diego County from my visit and hike all the San Diego ranchos and missions list. Back in the days of the missions, El Cajon in East County was pastures for the padres cattle and sheep, and pigs were raised in the the low hills to the east, now the town of Lakeside, in La Canada de los Coches, or “glen of the pigs”. In the years of the ranchos (about 1831-1848), La Canada de los Coches was granted so pigs could still be raised for the Mission. At only 28 acres, it was the smallest of the San Diego ranchos and entirely surrounded by the huge El Cajon rancho.

Our hike was in the Lakeside mountains but close enough I will count it as a rancho hike. Just a short distance up the trail we could see the valley laid out below, now mostly agricultural but the controversial Sunrise power line is going in through the valley.

Actually, we had two mountains to go up. The switchbacks on the far mountain will lead us up through the col between El Monte Valley and Blossom Valley.

See, no boulders or rocks on the trail. Yay!

We had a great view of El Capitan which Kathleen and I have said all winter that we were going to hike.

And finally, the goal of all this effort, a gourmet picnic in a gorgeous setting, accessible only on foot.

After all, we are the Gourmet Hiking Club.

Oh, Google - How Could You?

2011-02-20T18:58:00.003-05:00

You know how I can get on a roll, right? Well, that darned paper has got me going.

Some time ago, I started noticing that the Target cash register keeps spitting out Osteo Biflex coupons for me when I use my ATM card to pay for my purchases. It finally dawned on me that Target is tracking what I buy - not through a loyalty card or by asking my phone number, but through my ATM card. I'm now using cash at Target.

This morning I read on Floating Sheep (here) about Google "personalizing" our searches..."the basic point behind the tweaking of their interface was to allow results to incorporate information that your friends and contacts find relevant and share on platforms like Twitter, Linkedin and Facebook."

Huh.

Then I remembered this NYT article that I had found while preparing for that paper. On the second page, the author describes how an actual person decides what articles go on Yahoo's home page, whereas Google uses an algorithm to perform the same function.

Double huh. And I've always clicked over to Google to do my searches, forsaking the default (Bing) on my home page. Think I'll stop doing that.

I need some ice cream.

Trying to Predict the Unpredictable: The Singularity is Near – Or Is It?

2011-02-19T23:05:00.006-05:00

In case anyone's wondering what I've been up to since mid-January when I finished up the Camino series, here's the paper that I turned in this morning to my computer basics teacher at Trident Tech, sans footnotes and bibliography. (Hopefully our AI expert cousin doesn't catch wind of this - it is really VERY basic stuff. Hey, I was limited to 2 pages, alright?)

"In the wake of Watson’s defeat of Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter on Wednesday evening’s 'Jeopardy!' episode, it seems a good time to try to achieve a better-informed understanding of the potential of artificial intelligence (AI). This class’s text describes 'current state' quite well; a media review leads to more questions than answers regarding the future.

"One would practically have to have lived under a rock the last few decades to not have been frightened nearly senseless by the computers portrayed in '2001: A Space Odyssey', 'Terminator', 'The Matrix', 'AI', and 'I, Robot'. What makes these computers so frightening is their seeming consciousness and autonomy, their capacity to think and make decisions that negatively impact (read, 'annihilate') humankind. Each one reflects the writer’s – and perhaps society’s – anxious perceptions of artificial intelligence’s potential. For example, in 1969, Stanley Kubrick responded to an interviewer who asked him about HAL’s emotionality, 'The idea of neurotic computers is not uncommon – most advanced computer theorists believe that once you have a computer which is more intelligent than man and capable of learning by experience, it's inevitable that it will develop an equivalent range of emotional reactions – fear, love, hate, envy, etc.'

"AI’s potential has long been a favorite subject of the written media as well. Prior to the introduction of the World Wide Web in late 1993, mathematician/writer/computer scientist Vernor Vinge predicted that the continuing development of artificial intelligence would lead to a 'technological singularity', an event that would occur between the years 2005 and 2030, bringing about the Post-Human era. He argued that at least one of four very likely scenarios would lead to a superhuman intelligence. In a 2007 interview, he stated that there is evidence of these scenarios playing out now. MIT’s Marvin Minsky theorized that robots will inherit the earth as our 'mind-children', and we humans will be able to reconstruct our bodies and brains through the use of nanotechnology. Writer Ray Kurzweil also presents “the Singularity” as beneficial for humankind; he, however, predicts that the singularity will occur in 2045.

"The projections of these experts/futurists aside, can we really predict with any kind of certainty whether a technological singularity will actually occur? If it does occur, will humans benefit, be exterminated, or worse yet – be treated as we have treated our fellow creatures? Watson’s victory this week could cause one to believe that a technological singularity is not far outside the realm of possibility. Yet, how could any human imagine the capabilities or intentions of a super-intelligent entity?

"In 2009, the multidisciplinary scientific society Association for the Advancement of Artificial Intelligence convened in Asilomar to discuss AI’s potential effects on society, how best to steer/control them, and how to smooth the 'rough edges' between AI and society. This group appears to be the one to watch for further enlightenment as we approach the singularity…or not."

Fun stuff, huh? I turned in my programming assignment about 15 minutes ago. It's due at midnight, so I got it in just in time. That class is kickin' my butt!

Valley of the Moon

2011-02-13T19:36:00.022-05:00

Patty is getting tired of looking at the 300th Post blog when she opens up Pat and Kathie, so here is my latest adventure to the Valley of the Moon this weekend. I try to go out with the Gourmet Hiking Club once a month because they go to such cool places and, not only that, when we get to our destination the group lays out a tablecloth and brings out delicious food prepared by every hiker. I can always count on Kathleen's gourmet peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on dark Cranberry bread.

The group was going to 4 wheel drive into the Valley, but Kathleen and I and Laurel, a novice to the group, decided to start out early and walk in to get the extra miles. The reader should understand the Valley is about 70 miles east of San Diego, right on the Mexico-US border, remote desert wilderness, and traveled by two legged "coyotes" and their Border Patrol pursuers. Kathleen and I had lined up a man to hike in with us, but at the last minute he couldn't make it so I packed my little Mace canister. A lot of good that would do.

We started out early at 7:30 AM, expecting to meet up with the Gourmet hikers when they arrived into the Valley, hike around a little bit, then have some yummy lunch. Simple. Just follow the vehicle route in to the point where vehicles could no longer handle the terrain, wait for the rest of the guys, and proceed on the Valley.

Needless to say, we took a wrong fork about 15 minutes into the hike. Seems this used to be an old mining area, lots of mines, and lots of forks off the main road. They all looked like main roads. What's worse, we didn't know we were "lost", so we just kept going - all up hill, ending up on a mountain ridge looking out over the desert and into Mexico. Stunning, but about 10:00 AM I was wondering when those 4 wheelers were going to catch up with us.

I was taking pictures of the beautiful scenery, Laurel and Kathleen are trying to figure out where we were, and - voila! - Laurel spots a group on the road below. Had to be our group. They were going to wrong direction for illegals.

By the time we had bushwacked, bouldered and high tailed it down to the road, the group was gone. We spent the next hour tracking - yep, just like Indians - the main group, wondering if we were getting more "lost" or would there be any food left when we found them. Or, in the back of my mind, could we find our way out of here if we didn't find them.

It wasn't lost on us that because we had counted on a straightforward hike in, meet up with experienced Valley of the Mooners and get guided in the rest of the way that we failed to bring a full size topographic map, left our emergency kit in the car, and had no cell phone service in this remote area.

Just before noon, we finally spotted our group across the Valley floor, a good three quarters mile away, perched high on a rock - eating our picnic without us! We did hook up for a splendid lunch on what was left and, bellies full, we could appreciate the beauty and uniqueness of this special place on the hike out.

Rock formations that one could only wonder "why doesn't that fall off?"

"How did that happen?"

"Looks like a shoe up there".

"I think he's missing a couple fingers on that hand".

Easter Island, fallen over.

"I'm just as tired as you, buddy".

Pac Man

Palisades that would make an Incan proud.

Finally, a cold beer at the end of the hike. Like I said, it's a cool group.

All's well that ends well. But next time no leaving the emergency kit back in the car.

Our 300th Post: Anticlimax

2011-01-16T20:22:00.005-05:00

Flying from Santiago that Friday afternoon to Madrid for a one-day stay just seemed anticlimactic. I mean, really – what were we going to do in Madrid that could possibly compare with what’d we already done? So when Kathie asked Jennie and me what we wanted to see in Madrid, all either of us could think of was Guernica.

We took a cab to the Reina Sophia Saturday morning in the rain. This sculpture greeted us in the courtyard. I want to say it’s an Alexander Calder but I have absolutely no basis for that other than intuition.

And these paintings I’m sure are of scenes along the Camino. Or was everything looking like the Camino by now?

Kathie suffered through the Picasso stuff until finally we came upon Guernica. For some reason, I remembered the mural from textbooks as colorful – you know, like Picassos usually are. The greyscale images were much more moving than color could have been. Sorry, no photos allowed in the Guernica gallery!

We had lunch in the museum café. Here’s Kathie’s desert. (It’s not a Kathie trip without food pics.)

Back at the hotel, Jennie snuggled in while Kathie and I took off to see the palace, which is right down the street from where we were staying.

We didn’t see King Juan Carlos and Queen Sophia but we did explore the palace grounds a bit. As we were walking back along the street in front of the palace, we noticed some hubbub brewing. Apparently there was going to be a military band concert in the palace courtyard. A pretty girl in what looked like an usher’s uniform invited us to go in. I would’ve politely declined but Kathie’s always game for a concert. And a military concert? Kathie was not going to miss this.

As we waited, we checked out the spectators around us and noticed the peeps looking out from open doors on the upper floors of the palace. Who were all those people? The king and queen weren’t among them. Were they renters?

Finally, the show began. One by one, different bands came out to perform. By their uniforms, they looked like they represented different branches of the service. Check out this one though. What were they – the harem guards?

Before long, the rain returned, sending the performers running for cover. We found shelter in a breezeway behind our bleachers and waited for the rain to let up.

Later, Kathie and I hit a Greek restaurant for salmon – huh? – and went back to our room to pack up for the flight home in the morning. Kathie caught me snuggled in my fleece blankie finishing up Pillars of the Earth. (I’m only posting this pic here because she whined earlier today that I had posted the one of her by the Santiago marker but not the horrendously ugly one of me. Go figure.)

That’s it, kids. I’m all wrote out. G’night.

Another Crazy Adventure Comes to an End - Waaah!

2011-01-16T08:00:00.010-05:00

Thursday, October 7th – Our last day on the trail. 13 quick miles to Santiago.
Friday, October 8th – Hanging out at the cathedral before flying to Madrid.

Jennie started out on her own with her flashlight early this last morning on the Camino. When Kathie and I headed out, it was still fairly dark.

We got a little disoriented finding our way around a school yard, and wondered if/how Jennie had navigated this area in the dark.

Later on, we passed a group of pilgrims on horses. The slackers. Their horses aroused the curiosity of a young horse in a field by the trail. Showing off, s/he went tearing around and through the bushes and trees in the field – fun!

Walk, walk, walk. Pose here and there.

After passing the huge development at Monte del Gozo, we rolled into the outskirts of Santiago de Compostela. “We’re here!” I thought to myself, not realizing there was another mile or three of urban confusion left to negotiate before we would find the Hotel Bonaval.

But find it we did. We cleaned up and had a lovely lunch in the hotel’s dining room, then came back up to our room to see this outside our window.

We found our way over to the cathedral – the ultimate goal of Camino pilgrims for the last 10 centuries. Truly a humbling and awesome experience.

The next day, we headed back over to the cathedral for the pilgrim’s mass. We took advantage of a little extra time before mass would begin to join the line of pilgrims going down into the crypt below the altar to see the tomb of St. James (Santiago in Spanish).

The line then proceeded up some steps to a secret little place above and behind the altar where we could touch the shoulders on the bust of St. James that faces out into the sanctuary. Hugging the statue is a pilgrim custom; most pilgrims say a prayer of thanks for surviving the trek, I suspect. I gave him a big hug and – for some reason - mumbled a little prayer for all the animals along the Camino. (What can I say? I was delirious - it just came outta me.)

Back down in the sanctuary, the pilgrims were gathering for mass. It was a bit crowded so we stuck close to JJ – nobody cuts in front of him. Standing there listening to mass, I studied the building’s interior. When my eyes reached the highest point of the ceiling over the altar, I nudged Kathie and pointed up. Painted way above us was the eye of God, watching us intently. Dan Brown would’ve been gratified.

Then, as the pilgrims queued up for communion, I was highly amused to see my Protestant sister eagerly wedge herself into the line. What the heck – we’re all just pilgrims.

By the time we went back outside, it was raining cats and dogs…and birds and mice and fish…again. We, and all the rest of Christendom’s pilgrims, headed for the shelter of a portico lining the front of a public building across the Praza do Obradoiro from the cathedral. From there we studied the cathedral’s very busy western façade.

Here are the happy hikers…

…and the traditional end-of-trail boots photo. I was not about to take mine off on that cold, rainy day, however.

After a bit of souvenir shopping, we caught some lunch and went back to the hotel to get packed up for our flight to Madrid. (Elene and JJ went to do some laundry; they would take a train to Paris the next day.)

So, it was over.

The skin on the bottoms of my feet peeled for weeks after the end of the hike.

I’m ready to go back, Kath – how ‘bout you?

Pat and Kathie’s Camino by the Numbers
200 miles
1,056,000 feet
442,400 steps
14 cans of tuna
1 lost toenail
A gazillion blisters
3 packs of moleskin
4 Vicodin (8 halves)
Almost 100 ibuprofen
Countless towns, villages, puentes and fuentes
15 pounds lost (7 for Pat, 8 for Kathie)
Pat’s feeling of accomplishment for not throwing in the towel – unquantifiable

Signs

2011-01-15T21:13:00.006-05:00

All kinds of signs direct the Camino pilgrim along the way. Some are easy to see; others…well, not so much. The ones lurking on the vertical face of sidewalk curbs and the little ones painted on the side of a brown building (“Where? Which building did you see the arrow on?”) are especially tough to spot. And some are just kilometer markers that let you at least know you’re not lost.

Here are some examples of what you’ll find when you walk the Camino.

See what I mean?

(Not) Jumping the Curb, Groupies, Catnip Sandwiches, Tribbles, and Bagpipes – Oh My!

2011-01-15T20:22:00.009-05:00

Day 13 – Monday, October 4th – 17.5 miles to Palas de Rei
Day 14 – Tuesday, October 5th – 16.8 miles to Arzua
Day 15 – Wednesday, October 6th – 13.8 miles to Rua

You might want to get some coffee. This is gonna be a long one.

Or you could belly up to this Coke machine…specially designed to appeal to thirsty, caffeine deprived pilgrims.

Another door…

Kathie took this cool pic. It looks like a bunch of churches huddled together, doesn’t it? Actually, those crosses are on graves.

We kept wondering what these things were and pretty much settled on grain storage as the most likely explanation. This one is a bit shabby but there were some made of stone and quite beautiful.

On Monday evening, Kathie and I were coming back – in the dark – from the grocery store to our hotel. Suddenly, the sidewalk dropped off in front of us down to a driveway crossing it and sloping steeply down to the right – Kathie’s side. Have you ever watched something happen – like in slow motion but so fast you can’t stop it? As Kathie went over the curb, I reached out and gasped “Kathie!” but to no avail. She landed on the drive below; how she wasn’t seriously hurt I will never understand. (Guess the Spanish aren’t as litigious as we are over here; the risk manager at the hospital where I work has the Engineering guys smooth over quarter inch grade changes in the sidewalk so visitors won’t trip over them.)

Throughout this week of walking, Elene shared with us spiritual/thought-provoking readings from books she had brought with her from home. On Tuesday morning, I found this in our guidebook and thought it was so appropriate I shared it with the rest of the group:

Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. “Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.” Linda Hogan

Nice, that one.

Another door to add to Kathie’s collection.

Can you see the group image in the convex traffic mirror at the right side of this photo?

And yes, that lady is herding her sheep along the lane, coming right at us.

As I said in a previous post, JJ is like Kathleen in that he knows no strangers. He has a great sense of humor, a genuine interest in others, and a big ol’ smile that could melt Scrooge’s heart. EVERYONE along the trail knew him by name. As Kathie and I were coming out of the hotel the last morning on the trail, a lady pilgrim we’d seen several times over the past few days approached us. (Pilgrims can’t pass each other without a little chitchat.) She didn’t seem to recognize us until we mentioned we were with JJ. “Ohh, yes – you’re with JJ!” she smiled.

What were we – chopped liver?

But I digress – here’s JJ with his Polish pilgrim pals in Melide. They insisted on a pic with him.

Here JJ demonstrates filling up your water bottle at one of the many fuentes along the trail.

On Wednesday morning, Kathie stopped and stooped down to get a photo of this light ginger tabby cat and his spunky canine sidekick. That cat was on top of Kathie so fast you’d think she had a dozen catnip and tuna finger sandwiches stuffed in her pack or something.

Here and there we saw these fuzzy balls lying on the ground – oodles of them, in fact. Kathie thought they looked like tribbles from the old Star Trek series. (I believe they’re actually chestnuts. The fact that they were clustered around chestnut trees was kind of a dead giveaway.)

And here’s Kathie with her new boyfriend. I was half way to the next town before I realized that she, Elene, and JJ were chatting with this gentleman way behind me. Seems the old guy was quite taken with Kathie and wasn’t going to let her get away easily.

There were lots of eucalyptus forests along the way.

On Wednesday afternoon, we thought we heard bagpipe music floating on the breeze. Huh? Kathie’s Celtic ear led her into a pub alongside the trail. Inside, a young boy – was he 12 or 13, Kath? – was playing a bagpipe for the customers. You’re likely to see (and hear) just about anything on the Camino.

Here’s Jennie all bundled up and ready to go out to terrorize Rua. We persuaded her to stay and have lunch with us on the sunny porch of our hotel instead.

If you walk the Camino, you’re going to develop blisters on your piggies, heels, soles – just about anywhere and everywhere on your poor feet. So bring a LOT of moleskin and a little pair of scissors to cut it with. Kathie and I spent a bunch of time every morning getting our padding/bandages just right.

Tomorrow – on to Santiago.

P.S. Somewhere along the way, I came up with my own spiritual saying:
The advantage of rain on the trail is that you can pretty much pee anywhere because your poncho covers everything, even your naked tushie. Pat of Pat and Kathie

Driving Rain, Collard Soup, and Never Giving Up

2011-01-14T20:58:00.002-05:00

Day 12 – Sunday, October 3rd – 15 miles of rain to Portomarin

Here’s our little group of pilgrims, posing in Sarria before taking off in the rain for Portomarin. This is the only photo we have of that Sunday. It rained like a mother so not a one of us wanted to get our cameras out of our packs to snap pics.

Of course, this would be the day that my right ankle tendon decided to develop an itis.

Kathie and I tried covering it over with moleskin.

We tried wrapping it with gauze and padding.

We tried switching shoes…just one, mind you, so that each of us looked like we’d dressed in the dark.

The rain kept coming.

Finally, in front of a little café/pub on the trail I whined, “Can we stop here for some soup?” Kathie took pity on me and we went into the nice warm pub – warm because it was filled to overflowing with other soaking wet pilgrims seeking refuge from the driving rain. (And I mean driving sideways rain – right up under the ol’ poncho.)

We sat and enjoyed our collard soup. Oh boy, did we enjoy that soup. While we ate, we pondered what was really causing my tendonitis. Finally, I just gulped down another half of a Vicodin - the first one in almost a week - and we got going again.

Before long, the tendonitis and the rain let up and the sun came out for a short while – just long enough to dry our clothes out a bit before the clouds opened back up to soak us again.

As we walked that last bit of the trail on Sunday afternoon, I told Kathie that if she hadn’t been there with me, helping me figure out what was wrong with my ankle, and generally just not giving up on me, I would’ve thrown in the towel and called a cab. (Of course, how a cab would’ve reached us in that muck I have no idea.)

“How do you just keep going like that?” I asked her.

“Throwing in the towel is not an option.”

‘Nuff said.

Next – on to Palas de Rei.

Grave Apartments, Pinching Bottoms, and Wandering Horse Toddlers

2011-01-14T19:54:00.008-05:00

Day 11 – Saturday, October 2nd – 15.5 miles to Sarria

We left the Casa David in Triacastela on Saturday morning for Sarria.

Check out this cemetery. As in many of the cemeteries we passed, the graves are all above ground. In multi-person units. Like apartment buildings.

Here’s a cool house – literally, I bet.

I liked the cross on this churchyard gate.

OK, so it was a day of cemeteries and churches.

And here’s the Benedictine monastery at Samos, one of the oldest monasteries in Spain.

It sits on the Rio Oribio. I loved this bridge with the scallop shells – the symbol of the Camino.

Kathie, Elene, and Jennie went to check out the monastery. When we met back up in front of it, there was a group of runners taking pics of themselves. Kathie leapt at the opportunity to be their photographer.

This group runs 20 miles a day on the Camino, 3 days at a time. Nifty idea. Don’t think I’d want to try it, though…especially in the rain. What am I saying? It could be a sunny cool day and I wouldn’t want to try it.

The guys insisted Kathie pose with them in the pic above. See the little black-clad woman in the front of the group? That’s Kathie. She’s probably pinching bottoms out of sight of the camera lens.

After all that excitement, we stopped at a little table on the sidewalk in the center of town to eat lunch. Then on the way out of town, we posed for photos with this pilgrim.

Notice how my photograph of Kathie got a little of the winding street and the girl pilgrim sculpture in the background. For once, my composition was perhaps an iota more pleasing than Kathie’s. Just this once, though.

This little guy was out roaming by himself on the path, hitting pilgrims up for apples. Wonder if his mom knew where he was?

Next - swimming to Portomarin.

Get Along, Little Doggie.

2011-01-09T19:23:00.007-05:00

Day 10 – Friday, October 1st – 13.5 miles to Triacastela

This week of walking showed us a little different view of Spain – the villages weren’t quite as quaint but rather more farm-based, redolent with the scent of cow puckies.

Friday started out with a little up and down atop the hill on which O’Cebreiro sits. Those ups just continued to wind me, but what the heck – as Kathleen would say, it wasn’t a race.

Here’s a pic of JJ looking very debonair next to the pilgrim monument at Alto de San Roque…

…and me herding cattle off the road.

There are so, so many churches along the Camino. Here’s one with a St. James cross atop the bell tower.

And another heart picture for Joan.

Isn’t the countryside beautiful?

Check out this funky tree.

Next stop – Sarria.

So glad we didn’t walk to O’Cebreiro.

2011-01-09T13:22:00.005-05:00

Day 9 – Thursday, September 30th – bus and taxi to O’Cebreiro

Before even the buttcrack of dawn, Kathleen took off for Barcelona. Bye, bye, Kathleen!

Now our group consisted of Kathie, Jennie, and me, of course, plus two peeps I had not met before – Elene and Jeffrey, or JJ for short. Kathie knows Elene from work and JJ – oh, I don’t remember how she knows JJ. He’s a hoot though – as you’ll see further on.

Late in the morning, our happy little group caught a bus to Villafranca del Bierzo. From the bus window, we saw many pilgrims walking the Camino. Because the highway route we traveled was relatively flat, we couldn’t tell that we were bypassing a steady ascent on the Camino to an elevation of 1500 meters (roughly 4500 feet) at Cruz de Ferro, the highest point of the walk. Oh darn.

In Villafranca, we hopped off the bus and called a cab. (Lucky for us, Elene speaks Spanish fluently.) JJ got our bags stuffed into the back of the minivan and we took off for O’Cebreiro. While this segment was along good highway, we could see - and appreciate - the actual ascent of the Camino here. Over 7 kilometers, the trail climbed 500 meters. “Good God – did you see that ascent?” I asked JJ later.

I was so glad we’d taken the bus and cab.

So this is how to pronounce O’Cebreiro – Oh-thay-bray-air-o. Now say that fast three times. I have difficulty saying it once. It’s all I can do to type it accurately.

That evening, we enjoyed the view from our inn, the Casa Carolo. In the second pic, can you see the bridge way below in the distance? We rode along that.

That evening, we enjoyed delicious pork chops for dinner! Mmmm, that was substantial fare for pilgrims. But whenever I think of O’Cebreiro now, I think of what Michener wrote in Iberia about the plight of the British army, under the command of Sir John Moore, trying to escape Napoleon’s advancing troops...

It was in their approach to Cebrero, the highest point on the old pilgrims’ route and surely the most desolate, that the British army suffered its Gehenna. All through the preceding year the army had been pleading with both the English and Spanish governments for money to speed the war, and at last they had got some, but now on the dreadful cliff-lined pass to Cebrero the paymasters had to back their wagons to the edge of the precipice and throw away their funds, a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in gold coins, too heavy to carry any longer, and starving foot soldiers had to listen impotently as the worthless gold clinked down the mountainside. It was January, 1809, the coldest part of the winter, and men froze to death in the heavy snow. Women (the soldiers had brought their families with them) died of starvation and their bodies lay covered with ice beside the road. Horses had to be killed by the hundreds; to save ammunition they were herded to some precipice and forced to jump to their own screaming deaths. At every Spanish village, houses were looted and soldiers would lie down in the ditch, a bottle of wine to their lips, knowing that if they got drunk they would not rise again, but they drank on and hundreds made the noiseless transition from drunkenness to death.

Bet you were hearing a lot of souls talking on that mountain, weren’t ya, Kath?

Next – on to Triacastela.

Leon

2011-01-09T11:37:00.005-05:00

Wednesday, September 29th being the day of the strike, it took a bit of looking to find an open restaurant for lunch. Finally, we found a little place to get some sandwiches and took them out to a nearby square.

Check out this cool red monstrous pot. There were several of them.

On a bench, we ate and admired the cathedral. Doesn’t it look a bit like Notre Dame? It’s late 13th century Gothic; supposedly based in part on Notre Dame.

Then we went inside.

That afternoon, I took a nap while some of the group went out and experienced the strike.

We ate dinner at the hotel’s sidewalk café. A couple tables over, a man was interviewing three other people. I kept watching them, trying to figure out who they were and why he was interviewing them (and also because I’m nosey).

This is what Kathie’s room looked like. She was taking advantage of the lull in walking to reorganize…again.

Next – on to O’Cebreiro.

Driving to Leon

2011-01-09T09:55:00.001-05:00

Day 8 – Wednesday, September 29th - 200 miles to Leon

I can now say I’ve driven in another country.

I don’t ever have to do it again.

I fretted all Tuesday night about how I was going to get that Kia back up the cliff, through the garage door, and out onto the street the next morning without bottoming out on the threshold or running over pedestrians on the sidewalk. I was pretty sure that I could toggle the accelerator, brake, and clutch well enough to keep us from rolling back down into the black hole. (Yeah, go ahead and laugh – you shoulda seen that ramp. Steve McQueen would’ve been sweatin’ it…)

At 7:30 a.m., with no breakfast in our tummies, we rode that baby up out of the bowels of hell and hit the road. There wasn’t much traffic, fortunately, but we still got lost trying to find the right highway out of town. The car rental lady had shown us two options on the little map – one route with a speed limit of 120 km/h, another with a speed limit of 100 km/h.

Huh? Of course, you have to convert that to miles per hour – 120 km/h = 75 mph, whereas 100 km/h = 62 mph.

Being the big sissy that I am, I wanted the 100 km/h highway but I think we ended up on the other one. Only once, though, did we have a semi fly by on a two-lane stretch, blowing that deafening truck horn at us and shaking his fist at us for driving too slowly.

Sheesh. Couldn’t he tell I’m just a stupid American driver? “Just you wait ‘til I meet up with you on the road back in South Carolina,” I thought to myself.

And hello? Spanish people? Would it be too much to ask that there be a McDonald’s drive-through somewhere between Logrono and Leon? I was ready to gnaw off Kathie’s arm by the time we could find anything for breakfast.

Eventually we made it to Leon. Kathie GPS’d us as far as a strange little stub of a drive that led up to the square on which the Hotel Boccalino is located. We could see the square but weren’t sure how to get through the “gate”. After backing out at least once – with bystanders watching in amusement – we decided to go for it by pushing the button on the post at the side of the drive. Voila, as Kathie would say…magically the gate opened and we entered the square.

As we parked in front of the hotel, Kathie’s daughter Jennie, who had arrived the night before, appeared on the steps, ready to conquer Leon. We checked in and got our bags unloaded, then set off straight away to get that little car back to the rental office. I wanted nothing more to do with it.

Check that one off my list.

Stick Shifts, Traffic Circles, and X-Files

2011-01-04T06:45:00.004-05:00

Warning! There are no photographs in this post. It was dark and I was too scared to even think of snapping pictures.

After walking 17.5 miles on Tuesday, September 28th, we finally reached our hotel in Logrono. The lady at the desk got us all checked in. I was ready to go up and collapse on the bed for a quick little power nap before dinner, but Kathie and Kathleen thought we may as well get our travel plans for the next day finalized.

“Tomorrow?” asked desk lady. Lucky for us, she spoke English quite well.

“Yes. We’re taking the bus to Leon tomorrow.” Leon is 200 miles from Logrono. From Leon, Kathleen would fly out at oh-dark-thirty on Thursday morning for Barcelona. Kathie and I would take a bus with our new hiking buddies to O’Cebreiro, with the intention of walking the next 100 miles.

“But tomorrow is a general strike. There will be no public transportation tomorrow,” said the desk lady.

“None?

“No. No bus, no taxi, no train, no airplane. None,” said the desk lady to much rolling of eyes and clasping of foreheads (on our part, that is).

“I gotta get outta here. I’ll see you upstairs.” At that point, I was too exhausted to comprehend the seriousness of the situation…or care. So I went upstairs and started my nightly unpacking routine.

Shortly after, Kathie came flying into the room and said that she and Kathleen were taking a taxi to the train station where they would rent a car for the drive to Leon. “Oh, this isn’t good,” I thought to myself. “Has either of them driven in Europe before? These drivers are maniacs.”

On they went, though, and I showered and dressed. With a little time on my hands now, I noticed a pizza delivery menu on the desk. “Ooh, pizza sounds really good,” I thought. “Wonder if I can convince them to order pizza when they get back? That way we wouldn’t have to walk another step.”

Huh.

The door opened and in walked Kathie with a dejected look on her face. “All they had were standard transmissions.”

Now here I must interject that Kathie – for some reason – never learned to drive a stick shift. No, even her Z-car had an automatic transmission. Back then, I thought a Z-car even having an automatic transmission was sheer and complete blasphemy.

“Uh, Kath? You know I can drive a standard transmission, right?” Had she already forgotten my Miata (2000-2008) and 914 (Dark Ages)?

The look on her face instantly brightened. “Uh oh,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I shoulda kept my mouth shut.”

She picked up the phone, dialed the desk lady, and asked her to get us a taxi immediately and call the car rental place to have them stay open ‘til we got there. (It was already 7:15 p.m. and they would be closing in fifteen minutes.)

As quickly as she did this, my insides started to quiver. You know that feeling of impending doom, of facing a locomotive that you have no way of stopping, of being the deer caught in the headlights? All the clichés in the world could not describe my fear in that moment.

I knew, however, that there is no stopping Kathie when she’s on a mission, so I ignored my own common sense/quivering innards and meekly followed her out the door, thinking “How do I get myself into this stuff?” (The answer, of course, is that I travel with Kathie. Adventure follows this woman like a starving dog.)

Fast forward 30 minutes. We’re in our little Kia pulling out into Logrono’s rush hour traffic. Rush hour, you say? Yeah, the Spanish keep different hours from the rest of the world. And Logrono is no little town – with a population of 200,000 peeps, traffic was hopping that evening.

Kathie navigated with the help of her iPhone's GPS. Somehow, we maneuvered our way through a boatload of traffic circles (“What does that light mean? Am I supposed to go now?”) without hitting any pedestrians.

“OK, now we have to push the button on the intercom and the desk lady will open the garage door for us,” Kathie informed me as we approached the hotel.

The garage door opened inward on its side hinges to reveal a huge black hole. “Oh God.” I felt like Indiana Jones contemplating his leap of faith in The Last Crusade.

Turning left off the street, I crossed over the sidewalk and into the void. The front of the car dipped down and gradually I caught sight of the 30 degree descent before me. "Oh God."

“I want pizza delivered,” I told Kathie. Now was the time to get what I wanted. “With Pepsi.”

“Sounds good,” she replied without tearing her eyes away from the view ahead.

That was one of the best pizzas I ever ate.

Tomorrow – driving to Leon.

(That warning had you going, didn’t it? You were expecting, like, the X-Files or something, weren’t you? Tee hee hee…)

Hey, does anyone know what a "huelga general" is?

2011-01-03T22:30:00.002-05:00

On the day we took the train from Paris to St. Jean, I noticed posters here and there about a “huelga general” on September 29th. I asked my resident Spanish translator - Kathie, that is - what a huelga is. She didn’t know, nor did my virtually worthless vest pocket Spanish dictionary. From the looks of the posters, I had a sneaking suspicion that it meant strike. Interesting, I thought. It never occurred to me that a strike might affect us in any way…

Day 7 on the Camino – Shadows, (No) Strangers, and Double Ick

2011-01-02T20:12:00.007-05:00

Tuesday, September 28th – 17.5 miles to Logrono

Kathie started out the day fascinated with shadows.

This was to be our last day of hiking with Kathleen. Like JJ about whom I will write more later, Kathleen knows no strangers. Here she is walking and chatting with a Korean girl with whom we met up several times. We were always amazed by her (the Korean girl, that is) carrying her purse along with her fully loaded backpack. Due to miserable feet syndrome, she was going to be buying new boots when she reached Logrono.

Around mid-morning we passed through the 12th century village of Torres del Rio, seen here from the “peak” of Nuestra Senora del Payo (1870 feet).

Much later in the day, we stopped in Viana at the Iglesia Santa Maria, where Kathleen and I took our boots and socks off and rested our dogs on the cold concrete. Ah, nirvana!

In front of this door is a plaque where Cesare Borgia (of the infamous Borgias) was buried ‘til 2007. Cesare was the son of Pope Alexander VI (before he became pope, of course) and his long-time mistress. Somehow, the 15-year old Cesare was made bishop of Pamplona, studied law in Italy, then became a cardinal at age 18. There was speculation that he killed his brother over another brother’s wife, who was also the mistress of Cesare and the brother he supposedly killed. Hello? Did anyone have a lick of sense back then?

At 23, he became the first person to resign from a cardinal position…possibly because he knew that France’s King Louis XII was going to name him the Duke of Valentinois on that very day? Anyway, from this he gained the nickname Valentino.

Apparently, he died during the siege of Viana at the age of 31. Wikipedia attributes his death to malaria or poisoning. Our guidebook says he was killed. Either way, he left behind at least one legitimate child plus 11 illegitimate children. Plus he was intimate with his sister Lucrezia and impregnated her. Ick. Now here’s the real kicker – Alexandre Dumas claimed that paintings of Jesus Christ produced during Cesare Borgia’s life resembled Cesare – influencing the commonly held image of Jesus since that time. Double ick.

Moving on we passed through La Rioja wine (durn good red wine, too) region to Logrono…

…where we arrived to a big surprise when we reached our hotel, Condes de Haro (Counts of Haro, a town in the La Rioja region). That story deserves its own post.

Day 6 on the Camino – Drunken Pilgrims, Vineyards as Far as the Eye Can See, and Shepherds on Cell Phones

2011-01-01T21:01:00.006-05:00

Monday, September 27th – 13.1 miles to Los Arcos. Ya just gotta love a 13 mile day. After all, tomorrow’s going to be a 17-miler.

Several places, we saw ropes of these peppers hanging. Suppose they’re spicy?

Uphill through woods to the outdoor Irache wine fountain – no kidding! The Irache monastery of Benedictine monks was established in the 10th century to take care of the Camino’s pilgrims. Due to a lack of novitiates, the monastery closed in 1985 and is now a museum.

Huh. Not only were there no monks when we got there, there was also no wine left in the fountain. The pilgrims before us had drunk it all up – and we got there by 9:30 a.m. The sots!

Kathie’s not the only one in the group who’s skilled at getting photos of people’s backs.

After climbing 300 vertical feet over 3 kilometers, we were ready for lunch! This is where we stopped to eat in Villamayor de Monjardin.

In some places along the first 100 miles, there were vineyards as far as the eye could see…

…and grapes just asking to be picked and eaten.

Somewhere in this pic are a sheepherding dog sitting next to his shepherd, who was too busy talking on his cell phone to watch his flock. Honest – I saw the malingerers.

I got his herd back up out of the road for him…and now I believe the stories about sheep following each other over cliffs.

Before we reached Los Arcos, we took a break to rest our moleskin-clad tootsies…

…and stretch our backs.

Los Arcos is a relatively small place but it sure was hard to find the Hotel Monaco from the directions we had. When we did get there, we had dinner then went out, as usual, to pick up some grub for the next day’s lunch; Kathie snapped this shot of the fuente in the plaza.

Tomorrow, on to Logrono.

Day 5 on the Camino – (More) Bikers, Cirauqui, and GPSing Our Way to Hotel Yerri

2011-01-01T19:31:00.004-05:00

Sunday, September 26th – 13.6 miles to Estella

Here we are getting ready to start out on Sunday morning with a pride of bikers on the Puente la Reina behind us.

Of course, Kathie had to get a pic of the hams – I mean, bikers.

Over the next 5 kilometers, we ascended about 375 vertical feet. Cirauqui is a medieval village at the top of the ascent. (Those are grape vines and olive trees in the foreground.)

We sat on the ground to eat lunch in a quiet area almost half way between Cirauqui and Lorca, then encountered this medieval bridge over the Rio Salado (Salt River).

Here’s a heart rock for Joan – Kathleen noticed it on the ground by the bridge.

Walk, walk, walk - a little bit along busy highway, then through Villatuerta (I just love that word for some reason!) and on to Estella, which – with a population of 15,000 – was one of the larger towns along the walk. According to the book Iberia, Michener just LOVED Estella, a hot bed of Carlists. I kept waiting to see him sitting in some sidewalk café, but I was really too busy trying to find our way to the Hotel Yerri with Kathie tracking along on her GPS behind me…plus the fact that he’s been dead for 13 years.

Tomorrow, on to Los Arcos.

Barcelona, Bikers, and Windmills

2010-12-30T05:06:00.006-05:00

Saturday, September 25th, Day 4 on the Camino – 13.5 miles to Puente La Reina

On our way out of Pamplona, we walked through the University of Navarre, which looks like a relatively new school. Weird though how the campus ends and country begins…kind of like the Lands End Inn in West Ashley.

But I digress…as we walked we struck up a conversation with a young man from Barcelona, whom I mentioned in that last post. He is a pilot, I think, but he looked like a 17-year old computer geek. He was just walking 100 miles on this trip and would eventually finish the whole camino in stages.

Not far out of town, we passed this scene – see the rainbow?

Now look at this – Kathie caught the actual end of the rainbow! The leprechauns must have heard us coming and hidden their pot of gold. Rats!

Several times we passed ridges lined with windmills. I was just fascinated by them. They didn’t seem noisy to me, but then I have hearing aids plugged into both ears so maybe you shouldn’t trust my opinion on this.

Here’s the wrought iron pilgrim monument at Alto del Perdon…

…with a close-up…

…and some bikers getting a repair done at a roadside van. Kathie’s a sucker for bikers and runners. I think it’s the shorts but I’m not sure. You’ll see further evidence of this later.

And here’s a lovely pic of the same windmills looking back from Uterga.

I forget, Kath – was this the day that a passing motorist almost caught us peeing alongside the road in a partially wooded area? OMG – that was a close one! I almost peed myself laughing. Kathleen was much better at finding secluded spots for “comfort breaks”.

When we arrived at the Hotel Jakue just inside Puente la Reina, the registration desk lady recommended we check out the running of the “cows”, to which she gave us directions. I’m serious – she really called it the running of the cows. We finally found the place and this is what we saw.

Every Saturday evening, the townspeople of Puente la Reina close off the ends of this street and harass the stuff out of young bulls to make them run up and down the street. You can see in the pic the kids up on the balcony – they’re throwing things at the bulls, making them crazy with fright. Perhaps this is how the bulls get toughened up for bullfights? I don’t know; I thought it was really inhumane. Then again, I don’t get the whole bullfighting thing either.

Here’s the town’s namesake, the Puente la Reina, a Romanesque bridge built by the wife of Sanchez III specifically for pilgrim traffic. We’ll cross over it on our way out of town tomorrow.

The Happy Hiker

2010-12-29T06:40:00.003-05:00

I was getting tired by the end of that last post so I neglected to note that what I had mistakenly thought was an overwrought groin muscle was actually iliotibial (IT) band syndrome.

And how do I know this? When I finally swallowed my pride and told Kathie of the severity of my pain, she checked for lumps along the left side of my left thigh and knew right away what the problem was, having suffered with it herself in the past.

And the treatment? Rest, ibuprofen, awkward stretching exercises, and Kathie’s pointy little elbow digging into each lump to tenderize it. Really, I think Adolph’s meat tenderizer would’ve been less painful. You know that sudden sharp pain you get when you stub your little toe on the bed frame in the night – the one that would make you fly up and hit the ceiling if gravity wasn’t holding you down? It was a bit like that…except you don’t stub your toe repeatedly and intentionally, thinking that it’s eventually going to feel better.

All the lump gouging in the world wasn’t going to be enough to get me on the road Saturday morning, though. Bigger guns would be required. Kathie fished around in her first aid pack ‘til she found her Vicodin. On the one hand I wondered if it would be enough; on the other I wondered if it was going to leave me staggering along the trail, drooling, and generally looking like a drunken fool. She very wisely gave me just half a tab and we took off.

I tell you that Vicodin worked like a charm! That Saturday and the following two days, I took half a tab around 9 or 10 in the morning (when massaging the lumps while walking no longer worked) and then another half around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. And was I a happy hiker or what? I left the other girls in my dust…

…although uphill was still (and will always be, I’m afraid) a challenge.

We met other hikers suffering with similar problems. For several days, we tracked along with one young man whom Kathie aptly dubbed “Barcelona” – after all, he was from Barcelona. The last day we saw him, he was hobbling along, barely making any time at all. When he described his problem, Kathie – without any warning – reached down and palpated the side of his bum leg. (The look on his face was priceless.) Yup, she said, IT band, and she recommended he get some rest and take ibuprofen. Amazing – I had never even heard of IT band syndrome before.

OK, so the next post will be about the hike to Puenta la Reina. By now, my whining was (almost) over.

Achy Breaky Groin, A Heart for Joan, and Knocking the Horns Off Innocent Bulls

2010-12-27T20:26:00.011-05:00

Friday, September 24th (day 3 on the Camino): 10.6 miles to Pamplona

This was a relatively short day…but for me, it was a killer nonetheless. The ol’ groin muscle was getting worse and worse. We crossed the Arga River 3 times, so we did a bit of up and down walking. Up a vertical 100 meters, down a vertical 100 meters. Up a vertical 100 meters, down a vertical 100 meters. What am I saying – that pretty much sums up our first eight days of walking.

Half way through the day we re-entered civilization, aka Pamplona suburbs – if you want to call them that. This doesn’t look much like an American suburb, does it?

Right about here, we met up with Alex from Charlotte again. He had picked up a walking buddy. He had also decided that it was time to ship some of his backpack’s contents home. Smart move, Alex.

Here is a heart sign just for Joan! The saying means (we were told) "Keep smiling!"

By now, walking was shear agony for me. Kathie told us to sit down in front of this door for a photo – I thought that sounded like heaven…

until I tried to stand back up.

Finally, we came to the old part of Pamplona. This is the Puente de la Magdalena.

On the other side is the old walled city.

Here’s the town hall. In front of this, we met some folks – from Argentina, weren’t they, Kath? Friendly pilgrims.

Sitting down again to rest the groin muscle – just blocks from our hotel this time – I took this photo of where the bulls run in to the square in which we were sitting.

Looks pretty tame without the little rascals stampeding through, eh?

Finally we found the Hotel Eslava, which was hiding from us in a construction area. While we were checking in, Kathie lay down her walking stick in the lobby. That was the last she saw of it. Weird – that lobby was not all that busy. The stick musta just walked off by itself.

By now, I was seriously considering taking a bus the next day to Puente la Reina because I didn’t think I could walk one more kilometer. (Just to give you an idea of the significance of this, I once walked to downtown Columbus from Kathie’s apartment on Michigan Avenue – only because I was too shy to ride the city bus by myself.) In her usual patient and caring way, Kathie had me lie down and take some ibuprofen while she and Kathleen went out to see a little of Pamplona and scout out a restaurant so I could do a minimum of walking to dinner.

A word of caution to pilgrims visiting Pamplona! Restaurants there do not serve dinner before 9 p.m., which is not good for starving pilgrims who need to be up and hiking early the next morning. Thank goodness for Kathie’s GPS…and Kathleen running up the stairs to a 2nd floor restaurant to see if they were serving yet. I think any one of us could’ve just knocked the horns off an innocent bull passerby.

Tomorrow, on to Puente la Reina with Count Vicodin.

They Did Us Proud

2010-12-22T20:23:00.017-05:00

On my way out the door to Charleston last weekend, I picked up best selling author Nathaniel Philbrick's Mayflower that had been sitting in my stack of Books to Read for the last two years, waiting for that opportunity when I would be captive on a cross country flight. We had heard family legends about ancestors on the Mayflower and several years ago Patty tracked down some family lines.

I was ill prepared for what a page turner this book would be. I mean, how many times can one listen to another story about the Pilgrims and our national origins? I thought this was a book I would have to drudge through, but I couldn't put this book down until the last page. And so, reader, hang in with me until the last line here.

The first half of the book tells us about the pilgrimage from England through Holland to America, settling at Plymouth out of necessity in the middle of December 1621 rather than the Hudson River area as planned. A central figure is a young man named William Bradford whose wife, Dorothy, very likely committed suicide by going over the edge of the Mayflower in Provimcetown Harbor just before the group landed at Plymouth. Only half of the passengers were Pilgrims and even before setting foot on land the group realized their survival depended on getting along with each other and thus was born the Mayflower Compact, acknowledged by John Adams as the forerunner of documents establishing American democracy.

Anyway, on to my story about William, now alone without any family in a strange land where half the passengers didn't survive the first winter, and William was elected to the job of leading this intrepid group. And lead them he did - through starvation, fortifying the town against hostile Indians, working with Captain Miles Standish and Squanto among others, and building peaceful relations with nearby Indians with whom they shared that first Thanksgiving, all these keeping the settlement from meeting the same fate as Jamestown. When the settlement was starving William changed the share and share alike method of farming to everyone will reap what they sow approach, the forerunner of American capitalism. He was re-elected as Governor of the colony thirty times. Two years after the Mayflower a young widow he had known in Holland came over on the Anne and they were married.

On the Mayflower was another Pilgrim, Richard Warren, who came to Plymouth alone, leaving behind his wife and and their five children. Elizabeth and the girls joined Richard in Plymouth two years later, also on the same boat as Alice, and their daughter had a son, Benjamin Church, who is the main character of the second half of the book. Benjamin was something of a maverick and when the Indian wars broke out in 1675, he broke ranks with the traditional way of English fighting to become the prototypal American frontiersman. You'll have to read the book to understand how this happened - it reads like a Rambo action thriller.

About Benjamin Church, Philbrick writes,

The great mystery of this story is how America emerged from the terrible darkness of King Philip's War to become the United States. A possible answer resides in the character of the man who has been called American's first Indian fighter, Benjamin Church...Out of the annealing flame of one of the most horrendous wars ever fought in North America, he forged an identity that was part Pilgrim, part mariner, part Indian, and altogether his own. That so many characters from American history and literature resemble him - from Daniel Boone to Davy Crockett to Rambo - does nothing to diminish the stunning originality of the persona he creates...What makes his story so special is that he shows us how the nightmare of wilderness warefare might one day give rise to a society that promises liberty and justice for all... There is the Church way. Instead of loathing the enemy, try to learn as much as possible from him; instead of killing him, try to bring him around to your way of thinking. First and foremost, treat him like a human being. For Church, success in war was about coercion rather than slaughter, and in this he anticipated the welcoming, transformative beast that eventually became - once the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were in place - the United States.

This book is a must read for offspring of Raymond and Alice Nute.

William Bradford is one of our great grandfathers, an eighth to be precise, and Benjamin Church a grand uncle.

Wreaths Across America 2010

2010-12-12T12:09:00.040-05:00

San Diego will continue to be the most powerful military town on the planet. There isn’t a country in the world that wants to get into a war with San Diego. . . . John Pike, defense analyst at Globalsecurity.org

Yesterday I went with my Daughters of the American Revolution buddies to Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery to lay 2800 wreaths on our veterans' grave sites.

The second Saturday of December each year is Wreaths Across America, a project to lay a holiday wreath on veterans' graves across the country. The tradition started with one man in Maine, Morrill Worcester, who owns Worcester Wreaths and who set out to lay wreaths on all the Arlington cemetery graves in 1992. Since then the project has grown to 215,000 wreaths across the country this year and, being the military town we are, there was no lack of graves.

The morning began with one of those Pacific Ocean mists that can move in like a flash and as quickly clear to bright sunshine.

When it cleared, 700 volunteers were revealed from all over San Diego, Girl Scouts, Patriot Riders, corporate groups, individuals, college students, you name it, they were there.

We were joined by active duty military,

some with a lot of ribbons and metals on their chests and stripes on the sleeve.

The moving pre-wreath laying ceremony was hosted by our own DeAnza D.A.R. chapter Joanne Murphy (usually she has a lot of ribbons and metals on her chest herself),

and the wreath procession led by the Sons of the American Revolution, headed naturally by a bagpipe playing Scotsman.

They were followed by the presentation of a wreath for each branch of service, the Merchant Marines, and the MIA/POW's.

I couldn't help but think these were such young people, too young to be thinking about war, and so young I had to retouch this young's man's acne.

We were finally ready for the boxes of wreaths trucked all the way from Maine to be handed out by Mark Bauckman, coordinator for The Mission Continues, ex-Navy himself, and employee of Qualcomm, a huge supporter of the project. He was a dead ringer for Kevin Bacon.

We laid our wreaths, mine on Joseph Edgar Hayden from Pennsylvania, and wondered about their stories,

reflecting for a bit.

Jeffrey is a six foot two Afro-American I asked along in our group. I don't think he could pass for a D.A.R. but no questions were asked when he reached for our box out of the truck.

Some looked for special graves, Nancy was looking for Army Air but finally placed hers on one marked only US soldier. A Point Loma Nazarene student searched until he found one that had his same birthday, October 17.

I found an Irishman with a Celtic gravestone who died at Camp Kearny, a World War I Army camp in San Diego. He was just 7 days past his 30th birthday when he died in 1918. What was an Irishman doing in San Diego in World War I?

And a guy, Mason Carter, Medal of Honor from the Indian Campaigns. Not sure I'd want that on my headstone.

Nancy and I walked through the cemetery for a while after our wreaths were placed. There is no doubt Fort Rosecrans, a cemetery since 1847 before California was a state and overlooking the ocean and bay from both sides, is prime real estate.

What is also evident is these grave markers go on for what seems forever, 71,000 records in all, albeit some are spouses, and we had only 2800 wreaths.

I had that Shindler's List feeling - we could have done more. As good as it looks in these photos, most of the gravesites didn't get a wreath. Shall we propose to call a halt to wars until we can put a wreath on the graves we have now?

Izena duen guzia omen da

2010-12-06T22:46:00.005-05:00

Patty is going to shortly pass us out of Basque country and I have to get my two cents in before that happens.

Who hasn’t wanted to visit Basque lands, and what is the fascination with these people and their territory, half in France and half in Spain? What about these peoples with their thick eyebrows and long straight noses has forged an identity and cohesion that’s lasted thousands of years, believed to be the most direct descendants of CroMagnons who lived in this area 40,000 years ago, so fierce that not even the Romans made many inroads into their culture.

Perhaps this notion of “first neighbor” -

"Every rural Basque house traditionally had at least one “first neighbor”. In some places, a house has as many as four. The relationship exists between houses, is permanent and fixed and can be changed only if a house is abandoned completely or if a new house is built. Then the order of “first neighbor” relationships shifts to accommodate these facts. Such neighbors are expected to assist each other without complaint, to help with agricultural tasks and at rites of passage (birth, baptism, marriage and death). “First neighbors” play their most vital roles during the process of death—by letting friends, relatives and the wider community know the sad news, by taking over all domestic and agricultural work so that the mourning family can grieve. The neighbors hold a wake for the deceased and offer food and drink to those who come to pay their respects. Neighbors carry the coffin and help with the burial, as well as with prayer that ensures the soul’s journey to Purgatory."

We were given a glimpse into the Basque pride and identity by our host at Hotel Akeretta who told us the Kingdom is here, and it’s Basque. Heaven on earth or not, the food and scenery are as close as you can get. Glad we got to experience a small bit of it.

I Have Two Words for You, People – Flat Land

2010-12-04T08:59:00.022-05:00

I often start out a day with a tune in my head that doesn’t leave me for hours. Sometimes it doesn’t leave me for days. What starts the particular tune is usually a mystery. I can try substituting another tune, but often this strategy is unsuccessful. For example, this week I’ve had Toto’s Africa stuck in my head. I’ve hummed it in the car. I’ve whistled it through my teeth at work. I tried substituting Bowie’s Major Tom, but that lasted for 5 minutes before the default kicked back in. It can be a little annoying.

Along the Camino, I had a saying stuck in my head. “I have two words for you, people…” and then I’d fill in the blank with whatever was appropriate at the time. During the first 100 miles, the blank was usually filled in with “flat land”.

Thursday, September 23rd, our second day on the Camino, was a 17-mile day. From the elevation drawing in the guidebook, this stretch looked like it would be mostly downhill with a couple nipples here and there. The nipples proved to be more like thirty degree (or steeper) inclines – that lasted for a kilometer or two. And one thing I know about myself is that I do NOT like walking uphill.

The day started out easy enough.

It was in a forest like this that I noticed crocuses blooming on the ground. How odd, I thought to myself…crocuses bloom back home in the late winter. When I commented on the little blossoms to Kathleen, she informed me that they were saffron. (I later read somewhere that saffron is a crocus species, 70% of which grows in Spain.) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – it was so nice to have a horticulturist as a hiking buddy!

At the first village of the day, Burguete, I was enthralled with the red and pink flowered boxes on the white Navarese buildings.

Yup, I was so enthralled that I totally missed the sign marking the turn-off of the trail from the street. Half a mile later when we realized we were going the wrong way, a little old Basque gentleman told Kathie to just stay on the road and we’d get back on the trail in Espinal. (Kathie continued to amaze me with her Spanish comprehension throughout the trip!) Since we wanted to walk on the actual trail, Kathie asked some younger peeps hanging out the second story window of a rural health clinic for directions. They of course directed us back to Burguete, where we finally found the turn-off after much wandering around.

So now it was going to be an 18-mile day. And where was the guidebook that, had I consulted it, would have told me exactly where the turn-off was? Tucked neatly into my lumbar pack.

Some random photos from the day…

This looks like some sort of shrine. Notice the skeleton of a tent that was offered in sacrifice.

Here’s another example of how much better Kathie’s photography skills are than mine. Notice the nice composition...

And then the close-up...

Now here's mine. Obviously, timing is everything.

Honestly, that cat was just waiting for me to click the button so he could wash his little butt with his buddy looking on.

When you’re tired and hungry, you can eat lunch just about anywhere.

Walk, walk, walk…after a while, it all blurs together. Another village, another church, more trees, more sheep. When we hit Zubiri, however, suddenly we were crossing over land that belonged to some kind of industrial company. Was it a power plant? The path through included a set of wide and uneven steps down, down. By now my left groin muscle was feeling like a loose fan belt – the current was getting to it but the muscle just couldn’t seem to grab on, and the ups and downs were not helping one little iota. 'Twas my own fault for not adequately preparing for the trip. All I could think of was getting to our hotel so I picked up my pace.

Finally, we pulled into the Hotel Akerreta, a restored Basque house. The mom of the family who now owns the house is from California. The dad, who greeted us as we entered, was very nice and told us about the house. Here’s the lobby…

And the chimney of the bread ovens. This was on the landing right outside our 2nd story room. Looks kind of Native Americanish, don't you think? I'm glad they didn't rip it out when the house was restored.

The view outside Kathie’s window...

And we had a very nice dinner.

Outside the next morning – what is that vine-y white flower covered plant, anyway?

The Hotel Akerreta

Next...on to Pamplona.

P.S. I just looked up the lyrics for Toto's Africa, you know - just to make sure I got them right for this post. What do I find but that the lyrics stuck in my head are wrong. Oh well. "I miss the rain down in Africa..." It's gonna be really hard to change now.

There are a LOT of us crazy peeps out there.

2010-11-29T20:58:00.002-05:00

While I’m gathering up enough steam to write another “day on the camino” post, let’s talk about the other peeps who are crazy enough to walk 200 miles – or more.

On our way out of St. Jean Pied de Port, we met handsome young Alex from Charlotte, North Carolina. He graduated from college this spring with a major in English and a minor in computer technology – or something like that. He was walking the entire camino – all 500 miles of it – by himself with everything on his back. He was not sending his luggage by way of taxi to the next hotel like we were, so he had his clothes, extra shoes, Head and Shoulders – EVERYTHING – in his backpack. No wimpy lumbar pack for this young man.

At dinner in Roncesvalles, we sat at a big round table with other pilgrims, one of whom was a young man from Sweden. He was a little vague about what he does for a living – I think he was in computer technology too, wasn’t he, Kath? He said he was taking a break to decide on his next career. His English was excellent and, oh by the way, he spoke several other languages as well. Put us to shame, he did. He was also traveling the entire camino by himself and carrying with him all of his gear in a pack that weighed 7 kilos total.

We met so many people from different countries – from as far away as Korea and Australia and Hawaii, and from all over Europe. Some traveled singly – mostly men, young like Alex and older like the gentleman we kept passing on the 2nd hundred miles. He spoke a language that I didn’t understand – surprise, surprise! – so we never did figure out where he was from. He just kept plodding along…sometimes we passed him, other times he passed us.

We met many couples – again, young and older, and many groups. We saw one child of maybe 8 or 10 years, but I think he was doing just a day hike with his family. There were a few groups of teenagers – all European, perhaps all Spanish. One small group was a young Scottish guy walking the entire camino with his girlfriend and her mother. Kathie just went up and started talking with him because he had red hair and beard; she figured he must be Scottish and having walked the Western Highlands she’s now Scottish herself, you know. (Just teasin’, Kath!) Anyway, he was out of work back in Scotland so he decided to walk the camino. He was liking it so much that he said when he reached Santiago he’d probably just turn left and cut down through Portugal. Neat guy.

Some of the travelers were on bikes. Believe me, getting up and down those rocky slopes on foot is tough enough – I don’t know how those guys did it on bikes. Once we even saw a group of guys on Segways. Never saw ‘em again…they left us in their dust.

It is estimated by Wikipedia that more than 200,000 pilgrims will have walked the camino this year – and those are just the ones getting their compostela in Santiago.

From what we saw, the majority were walking the entire 500 miles and with full packs. Bless ‘em all. Buen Camino!

Day One on the Camino de Santiago (or "A Picture is So Worth a Thousand Words")

2010-11-28T13:40:00.043-05:00

By the end of the last post, I was so anxious to get going on the posts about actually walking the camino that I forgot to post a couple of important pics.

Pat, Kathleen, and Kathie across from the pilgrim office in St. Jean

Twilight on the River Nive in "downtown" St. Jean Pied de Port

In our room at the Hotel Continental, getting packed up for day 1

A journey of 200 miles begins with a set of stairs

OK, here we go...

The last downhill we're gonna see for hours

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, we stopped in the pilgrim office in St. Jean Pied de Port. There we picked up a pilgrim passport and a sheet of paper that shows the elevations of each of the camino’s stages. Here’s the elevation for the first day.

Seriously, need I say more? The saying about a picture being worth a thousand words was never more appropriate.

At the beginning of the climb

Up a little ways

About time to start shedding clothes

(The exertion of climbing made us so warm that two of the three of us took off our bras, standing on the side of the road in Etchebestea. Names have been omitted here to protect the guilty. Suffice it to say that this blog should now be called “Pat and Perky”.)

And up further...

How much further does this go?

I had thought - with dread - about this day for months. Thinking that a lumbar pack would be cooler and easier on my back, I ordered one from L.L. Bean. And so that I would not repeat the miserable day two years earlier on the Hadrian's Wall walk, hiking in ill-fitting boots, I strapped my sneakers onto my pack for in case I needed to change. In my pack, then, I carried sneakers, rain gear, two liter bottles full of water, lunch, etc. It was a wee bit heavy and flopped around on my hips more than I liked. Being a novice lumbar pack wearer, I cinched the strap tight around my waist to minimize the flopping. When I finally figured out the tight strap was cutting off my air supply, making the climb all the more difficult, I loosened the strap. The ascent was still really tough, but my face changed to a lighter shade of puce. Then again, that might have been the result of applying sunscreen over dried sweat over sunscreen, which feels a lot like rubbing your skin with gravel.

Finally, at Frontera, we crossed into Spain. In another 4 kilometers, we hit Col de Lepoeder, elevation 1450 meters. Tradition says that Charlemagne's rear guard, commanded by Roland, was ambushed and slaughtered in this area back in 778. Ever read the Song of Roland? No, I haven't either. I hear it's over 4,000 lines long. It's probably on Kathie's reading list.

We took a bit of a break here before heading down to Roncesvalles. The nice pilgrimage office lady had advised us to take the road down, which would be kinder and gentler on our knees. Did we listen to the nice pilgrimage office lady? Nooo - we were real women and knocked ourselves out going down through the forest - which I have to say was very pretty.

The way down

Finally we arrived in Roncesvalles, where we spent the night at La Posada, right next door to which is a 12th century Romanesque chapel – supposedly the burial place of Roland’s slaughtered soldiers.

There are also pilgrims buried in there. After this day, I can understand what happened to them.

Background (or why on earth anyone would walk 200 miles in 2 weeks if they didn't have to)

2010-11-20T15:20:00.014-05:00

Tour St. Jacques, Paris

One of the best books I’ve ever read is Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth. The first Follett book I had tried to read bordered on pornographic and Pillars is over a thousand pages, so it was kind of a miracle when I finished it – and loved it – over ten years ago. Up until recently when I reread it, I remembered that it was a story about cathedral building (and builders) back in the 12th century and the intrigues of the church and nobles, and it ended with the murder of Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

For some reason, one small part of the story in particular – no more than about five pages of the thousand – caught my attention and made enough of an impression that I remembered it all these years. (Highly unusual for me – I usually have forgotten not only the details but even the general plot of a book within a month after I finish reading it.) This was the story of Lady Aliena’s following Jack the Builder to Paris, only to find that he’s left on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in the northwest of Spain. So with her newborn, she sets out on horseback to find him there.

The pilgrimage Jack took was the Way of St. James, or Camino de Santiago. For a thousand years, Christians have trekked from all over Europe (and these days, from all over the world) to the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of St. James the Greater are kept (or so legend would have you believe). Back in the old days, this pilgrimage was as important for Christians to make as the pilgrimage to Jerusalem was. Supposedly, it was established and promoted by the Cluniac order as a means to expand the influence of Christianity; the French kings used it to build their political and economic power in Spain as well. The route was protected by the Knights Templar and the Order of Santiago; monasteries, churches, and towns sprang up along the route to provide for the pilgrims’ spiritual and physical needs. There’s a whole chapter in James Michener’s Iberia about the Camino and his (second) trip to Santiago in 1966. Other people he lists as having done the pilgrimage were:

• Charlemagne
• Louis VII of France
• St. Francis of Assisi
• James III of Scotland and England
• Pope John XXIII (before he became the pope, that is)

What does this have to do with Pat and Kathie? you ask. In 2008, Kath, Joan, Hisako, Tetsu, and I walked all 84 miles of the Hadrian’s Wall trail in northern England. Last year, I was working on our Magnet project so I very reluctantly and sadly had to turn down Kathie’s invitation to hike the Western Highlands of Scotland with her, Kathleen, Sally, and Jan. So when Kathie suggested earlier this year that we do at least part of the 500-mile Camino in Spain, I was – as usual – nervous that I couldn’t get physically ready for such a hike, but curious enough about the pilgrimage that she didn’t have to twist my arm too hard to get me to go along.

In her usual way, Kathie set about lining up other walkers to go with us and making arrangements. Of course, she booked hotels and bag transfer through Macs Adventures again. For my part, I didn’t really start to prepare for the hike ‘til July. (Typical!) Our other sister, Janie, walked the bridge, Folly Beach, or Citadel Mall with me most evenings – right up until the day her evil gallbladder sent her to the ER. For the couple weeks between then and the start of the trip, I slacked off. What’s the worst that can happen, I asked myself. When it comes right down to it, all ya gotta do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. I’ll get through it like I always do, I thought.

September 17th finally arrived and a gallbladder-free Janie drove me to the airport then wished me good luck as we parted. I had been instructed by Kathie that I was NOT to check a bag so I had what I thought I would need for a 3 week trip, including 3 days in Paris and 14 days on the trail, packed in a carryon and a lumbar pack. Riding in two water bottles nestled in the pockets on each side of the lumbar pack I carried as a handbag were 5 pounds of peanut M&Ms that I had rationed out into 22 baggies – one for each day. I can only imagine what the airport security peeps thought when they saw that. (At least they didn’t have to hunt through my bags looking for mysterious white powder like they did in Kathie’s. What was that, Kath? Hydralite, did you say? LOL!)

In Atlanta, I met up with Kathie and Kathleen for the flight to Paris. If you’ve read the last few posts here, you know that we had a great time there. On Monday morning, we went back by the Tour St. Jacques before going to the Louvre. (It had been closed the evening we stopped by the first time.)

Pilgrim Statue at the base of the Tour St. Jacques

It was at this place that pilgrims from all over Europe met in the old days to start the 900 mile journey to Santiago de Compostela. So here we picked up buckeyes from the grass under the buckeye trees, and touched the monument for good luck on the pilgrimage.

On Tuesday evening, we arrived at the trailhead in the town of St. Jean Pied de Port in the Pyrenees Mountains. Here we visited the pilgrim office for guidance, got a bite to eat in a Basque café, and roamed along the top of the old city wall in the dark. The next morning, we set off on our incredible adventure.

Paris, Sitting

2010-11-20T07:41:00.011-05:00

Before Patty moves us along on our adventure, I must comment on a phenomenon I've seen in no other city but Paris - sitting around outdoors.

Who hasn't said when asked what they planned to do in Paris "go to to the Louvre, and sit in a sidewalk cafe" or "go to Versailles, and sit in a sidewalk cafe".

Since we had a lot to see in our three days we did a lot of walking, trust me, a lot of walking. But everywhere there was this curiosity of Parisians sitting around and, had we been in Paris longer, we would have lounged around more in these beautiful places.

Patty already showed us the Tulleries, but she didn't point out that chairs were provided for people to sit around. They must have been set there but the city and people must value them so highly they don't get stolen. Nice chairs, at that.

They were lounging all over Versaille,

down the hillside at Sacre Couer,

and around the gardens of Luxembourg Palace.

Again, those chairs at Luxembourg that can be moved around, congregated, or isolated, whatever your mood or desire. Reading, talking, congregating, looking, and in no hurry to get anyplace.

What is it about Paris or Parisians that brings out this behavior of sitting outside? Do they have that Buddhist "in the moment"? Because the city is so expensive?

Whatever the reason, I said when I got back to San Diego I would look for some sitting around outside. Haven't found it yet except at the beach, but I'll be looking.

Let's Wrap This Baby Up.

2010-11-15T20:16:00.003-05:00

I've been dragging this Paris story out far too long. We were only there three days, for heaven's sake. Time to wrap it up and get on to the real story.

So back at Carol’s on Monday evening, we repacked our bags, showered, and went to bed. In the morning, we had our last French breakfast with Carol. She called a cab for us and we had an exciting ride to Montparnasse train station for the TGV to Bayonne.

Such a nice train – and very fast! The suburbs melted away and we passed through farmland and hills crested with lines of modern white windmills. I wrote my notes about Paris…

Generally, I enjoyed Paris very much - much more so than I did 40 years ago. Perhaps it’s an age thing, or the Parisians are pleasanter now, maybe it was my traveling companions…maybe it was all three. The weather was wonderful, so traveling on foot and by metro was enjoyable. And our B&B location was perfect! Here are our recommendations if you're planning a trip to Paris:

• Wear a scarf about your neck – if you’re female, that is. Even wearing jeans, the Parisian ladies wear a scarf.
• Get a museum pass and keep in mind that some museums are closed on Mondays – e.g., Versailles. And be aware that labor strikes can close a site unexpectedly, so have a back-up plan.
• Take lots of money – Paris is tres expensive!
• Eat at the Louvre's cafe, use the metro, and stay near Notre Dame so you can see it every day.
• And do get out at night.

Next post: The Real Story.

Monday at the Louvre, etc.

2010-11-14T17:29:00.022-05:00

Monday, September 20th, was our last full day in Paris. On our way to the Louvre, we stopped at one place I'll tell you about in my next post and then at Yves Rocher so I could buy some face cream. They were having a big sale – 50% off the whole store! I behaved myself and just picked up one little jar though.

On to the Louvre, which was fabulous, of course! I'm not going to waste space here writing about its history - all that stuff's easily found on the Web. Instead, here's a visual tour with some comments and impressions thrown in.

That, of course, is I.M. Pei's famous pyramid in the Napoleon Court. The pyramid opened in 1989 to become the main entrance to the museum. Apparently, the original entrance was being destroyed by all the foot traffic, so a new entrance was needed. Voila! The pyramid is very cool!

Because we had our handy dandy museum passes, however, we totally bypassed the line to enter through the pyramid entrance – for which I was kind of sad - and entered through the Richelieu Wing.

Before I go on, here's a note for future visitors - if you need to potty before setting out to see the exhibits, bypass the ladies room on the entrance floor and look for one on the upper floors. The line downstairs is S-L-O-W.

Back to more important stuff. One of the first pieces we saw was the Code of Hammurabi. The writing in this shot says, "If you like art, you've come to the right place!"

Next is a comparison of my photo-taking technique and Kathie's. The first photo of the Venus de Milo is mine. Looks like any tourist's snapshot, right? Why did that guy have to be behind the sculpture? I mean really - what was he looking at? Was her butt showing? Cropping him out would make this a very narrow pic.

Then we have Kathie's photo of the same sculpture. She's hilarious to watch as she waits and waits and waits for the perfect shot - but look at her results! You might see that photo in a guidebook or art text. I just hate her.

Then we have the Winged Victory of Samothrace. I took this photo but it was nearly impossible to get a stray tourist in the background from this angle - I was up on a landing.

Kathleen and I stood back a ways out of the crowd pressing forward to get close enough to snap a photo of Mona Lisa, while Kathie weaseled her way toward the front of the pack to get her shot. Nice job, Kath.

I remember the first time I saw the Mona Lisa in 1970 – what a disappointment! The painting was much smaller than I expected and it was on a wall with all the other paintings, just roped off so she couldn’t be touched by unauthorized hands. Now, she’s on a wall all by herself and behind glass, looking much more impressive than back then. And impressive she is – it took da Vinci four years to complete the painting of La Joconde – probably most of that time was spent letting each of the thirty layers of paint and glaze dry. The technique is called sfumato, the results of which are hazy illusion of depth and shadow. (I didn’t make that up – it’s from the Web but I can’t remember where.) Anyway, the total thickness of all that paint is only forty micrometers, half the thickness of a human hair. Pretty amazing.

We finished up the morning checking out the Lacemaker and several other priority pieces, then headed for the museum cafe for lunch. Yum! We split salmon and eggplant “cake” (gateau), and washed it down with Coke. Double yum!

After lunch, we were walking toward the main lobby (under the pyramid in the pic below), getting ready to split up to go see the stuff we each wanted to see, when we were stopped by a security guard. Looking past him, we could see that the main lobby had been cleared and there was a lone backpack sitting in the middle of the vast floor. Human nature being what it is, we spent a moment mesmerized by the situation, then realized that if there really was a bomb in that backpack, we needed to be skedaddling on outta there. We took off down a hallway of shops, trying to figure out what to do, then headed back the way we came. Lo and behold, the backpack was gone and the lobby was crowded again, as if nothing had ever happened. Weird.

Kathie took off for the antiquities...

...while Kathleen and I lounged around in one of the courts (not the one below but a similar one).

When it was time to meet up again, Kathleen and I waited and waited, wondering where Kathie was. Of course, she'd gotten lost. I knew she would so why hadn't I gone with her? One can only wonder.

We exited through the pyramid and went out through the Tuileries to find l’Orangerie, where Monet's lilypad paintings are on display. Alas, the museum had closed early – consequently we saw no Impressionism. WAH!

So we took the metro to Luxembourg Gardens – a very nice, large park which is well used by the Parisians…joggers to babies (in strollers, of course). The palace is now the seat of the French senate. Hey look - there's Kathleen!

Somehow we figured out how to take the metro to the Ecole Militaire stop to see the Eiffel Tower. We made a stop at Carmine's for pizza. Watch out – parma is ham! Then we caught the last bit of the twinkle lights on the tower but weren't quick enough to catch 'em in a photo.

We stood under the tower and looked up – not a huge thrill – maybe it’s a daylight thing. It's a cool place though – we enjoyed it!

Finally, we hopped on the metro one last time, getting off at St. Michel to enjoy the sight of Notre Dame one last time. Sigh.

Sunday at Versailles

2010-11-13T08:10:00.014-05:00

After we left mass at Notre Dame, we caught the train to Versailles, the seat of French political power during the reign of Louis XIV through XVI, ending when Louis XVI was forced to move his family back to Paris during the French Revolution.

Because we had a museum pass, we hopped to the head of the admission line – so smart, Kath and Kathleen! Here's a view of the gate from the inside. Doesn't that tall guy in the bowler hat look like Charlie Chaplin? Whaddya suppose he's looking at? Maybe wondering when the king's chariot is going to arrive?
This little chapel is just inside the entrance. No wonder the French revolted, eh? I mean, really - did they NEED a chapel with a golden altar in their house?
And then there's the Hall of Mirrors, or the Galerie des Glaces, with its crystal chandeliers catching the light from the windows along one wall and reflecting it in the mirrors on the opposite wall. Just imagine all those tourists in powdered wigs and brocaded silk gowns. I know it's a stretch...
Right at the end of the hall is where the Treaty of Versailles was signed in 1919, ending World War 1. What's there now? A big plastic Murakami "sculpture". Maybe it's just my age, but I totally missed the rationale for having this garish anime exhibit in such a garishly opulent setting. Too much garish for me. Bordering on gruesome. (Are you wondering how I really feel about this?)
Outside in the gardens that seemed to go on forever, we enjoyed walking among the ponds, statues, and trees while listening to classical music. The weather was beautiful and the flowers were tres magnifique!

Down there in the woods on the right, we stopped at a little outdoor cafe for lunch and people-watched from behind our sunglasses.

Back in Paris, we went to Sacre Coeur…a beautiful church despite the hordes of peeps and street entertainers – right outside the front door of the church.

After we observed part of the mass at Sacre Coeur, we trooped down to the Left Bank for dinner at Café Paris, then walked back across to the Right Bank to visit the Tour St. Jacques in the moonlight.

Why did we want to see this relatively obscure 16th century Flamboyant Gothic monument? Ah, that story is yet to come.

Wish They Were Bulletproof

2010-11-11T20:09:00.012-05:00

This morning I overheard one of the sheriff's deputies ask another whether Veterans' Day was to honor the veterans that died or all veterans. I wondered what he thought Memorial Day was for, but he's probably not alone in his confusion.

Just for the record here, Memorial Day was started after that blood bath we called the Civil War and Veterans' Day was started after that blood bath we called World War I. November 11 was set aside to mark the anniversary of the signing of the armistice ending World War I, ending the war on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918.

The book is in my stack of "still to read". On that 11th day, both sides were still going at each other with 2,738 soldiers dying and 11,000 total casualties - more than D-Day. Still, almost a century later, the men of the world haven't figured out how to resolve conflict, territorial and ideological disputes, and other differences without sending young ones out to kill and maim each other.

My Daughters of the American Revolution buddies and I go up to Camp Pendleton once a month to feed the Wounded Warriors a good home cooked meal, this month a tasty Thanksgiving dinner, and to give some support. Fun and inspiring as they are, I'll be glad for the day we don't have any more Wounded to feed.

Just another Saturday afternoon stroll.

2010-10-23T16:56:00.017-04:00

So we left the Notre Dame area late that Saturday morning, walked west along the south side of the Ile de la Cite, and crossed over the Seine to the Right Bank. After lunching on lovely ham and cheese sandwiches at a sidewalk café, we passed through the Louvre’s courtyard and by its fantastic pyramids (I promise there will be photos in an upcoming post!), and took off for the Champs-Elysees with the goal of walking its length to the Arc de Triomphe.

Parisians spend a lot of time outdoors during nice weather, enjoying their many parks and green spaces. My theory is that they get cabin fever from living in their tiny apartments and have to escape for some fresh air. Of course, I may be wrong…but just look at this photo Kathie took of the locals sunning themselves by a pond/fountain in the Jardin des Tuileries.

(The significance of the word tuileries is that tile kilns, or tuileries, occupied the site on which the Tuileries Palace was built by Catherine de Medici in 1564. Before the palace burned down in 1871, it enclosed the Louvre’s courtyard.)

At the western end of the Tuileries Gardens is the Place de la Concorde. Its primary claim to fame is that more than 1200 peeps were guillotined here, including Louise XVI and his queen, Marie-Antoinette. Yikes! Could you hear those spirits talkin' to ya, Kath?? BTW, that obelisk is 3300 years old and is the twin of one that stands in front of the Temple of Luxor in Egypt.

On along the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, we passed the Guerlain shop - where this gentleman was shopping for some Shalimar for his honey...

...and some afternoon diners at a sidewalk cafe. Kel-kel, check out the Sephora store in the background.

I directed traffic to wait while Kathie stepped out into the busy street to get this shot of the Arc de Triomphe...

(Actually, I watched the red light and hollered for her to hustle up before it turned green.)

Ordinarily, we would've been able to go inside the monument and up to the top where there's supposedly a great view of the city. On this particular day, however, a labor strike closed the inside to visitors. (This would not be our first strike-caused inconvenience on the trip. More on that in a future post.) So we contented ourselves with exploring the exterior of this early 19th century beauty...

The names of French victories and generals during the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars are inscribed on the walls.

This plaque commemorating the French soldiers and Resistance fighters who died in World War II caught Kathie's eye.

On the way back to the Ile St. Louis, we decided to cut back to the Left Bank by way of Avenue Marceau in order to avoid the masses on the Champs-Elysees. There wasn't as much to gawk at but it was much quieter. We passed Eglise St. Pierre de Chaillot, a grimy-looking church of thick walls and little windows. Kathie, Kathleen, and I thought it must surely be a medieval or Romanesque or even Byzantine structure, but guess what, Girls - it was built in the 1930s!!!

Next post, Sunday at Versailles.

Church Photo in Lieu of Attendance - Pat and Kathie Style

2010-10-17T07:52:00.003-04:00

I've always admired Joan's "Church Photo in Lieu of Attendance" posts. This post, Pat and Kathie style, is the first of perhaps several such posts.

As Kathie wrote in her last post, she, Kathleen (co-worker and friend of Kathie), and I set off on an adventure about 4 weeks ago. We started in Paris, where we stayed for 3 days. Our B&B, the 3rd floor (that's the 4th floor in American terms) walk-up apartment of Carol Guay Bolton-Brown, was located on the Ile St. Louis - right across a little bridge from Notre Dame. So where did we go as soon as we freshened up from our overnight flight? To Notre Dame, of course!! This was our first view.

Would you just look at those flying buttresses? Drool. (For those of you who must know, the cathedral's construction started in 1163 and lasted about 100 years. Notre Dame was one of the first Gothic cathedrals built and one of the first buildings to use flying buttresses. Go here for more info.)

After walking across the little bridge, this is what we saw.

Nice flowers, eh? Here's the front of the cathedral...

...and its south side from across the Seine River...

Turns out that Saturday was a very busy day in Paris. As a thank you to French taxpayers, a bunch of museums were open to visitors for free - so there was a long line to get into the cathedral and its museum. We contented ourselves with admiring the exterior and made a mental note to return Sunday morning. It was worth the wait.

We happened to visit during 10:00 mass. Kathie seemed to be fascinated by the service. Maybe she was just waiting for the hunchback to appear! The organ music WAS very nice.

Next post - Saturday afternoon in Paris.

Some Boots Don't Stop Walking

2010-10-14T19:01:00.005-04:00

Patty and I are just back from walking 200 miles of the five hundred mile Camino de Santiago pilgrimage across northern Spain.

When she gets over her jet lag, she's going to write about our trip, with maybe a few interjections from the West Coast sister. Two hundred fifty thousand pilgrims from around the world stream across northern Spain every year and we met our fair share.

A young red-bearded Scotsman told me he had been walking Europe for three months, and after he got to Santiago he was going on to Finistrae at the "world's end", then turn south to Portugal. "I don't know if I can stop walking", he said.

At the cathedral plaza in Santiago de Campostela, I met an Italian man in his 60's, Luigi Cianti, who had given away his fortune of $7 million fifteen years earlier and started walking. He had walked everywhere, including thirty one times across the Camino, and was indeed the Guinness record holder for number of completed Caminos. I googled him and it was for real.

We could relate to this. After the first hundred miles getting broken in, you feel you could walk infinitely. Maybe walking a hundred miles should be a requirement for high school graduation, or getting married, or, better still, running for office.

We are so Magnet!

2010-08-19T05:32:00.002-04:00

This is a little late. You might say I've been recovering.

(Magnet Hospital designation call, 1 p.m. on August 16, 2010, Bon Secours St. Francis Hospital, Charleston, South Carolina - film credit to the fabulous Lee Bastian)

They Stood As If Every Man was a Hero

2010-08-01T10:23:00.026-04:00

In the afternoon after a blistering morning at the Chickamauga battlefield, I went back up to the relative cool of Lookout Mountain and the three of us - Jenbach, Isabella, and myself - went over to Point Park, a strategic location overlooking Chattanooga held by the Confederates during the siege of Chattanooga.

At 4:00 AM on the morning of September 8, 1863, Company A of the Kentucky 23rd Infantry started up Lookout Mountain on a reconnaissance, arriving at Point Lookout about 11:30 AM. "we found no enemy in force on the mountain, and now from this point could be distinctly seen the dust from the enemy's column moving out from Chattanooga". I wonder if our second great grandfather, George Caseman, would have thought three of his granddaughters would be looking at the same view from the same location a hundred and sixty four years later.

Eleven days later, brothers George, Jacob, and Foster Caseman were fighting in the bloody battle at Chickamauga, a few miles south of Chattanooga. From their brigade commander's report at Chickamauga, "they stood as if every man was a hero... I ordered my men to rise up and open fire, which they did with a cheer. The Twenty-fourth Ohio halted in our rear, and now, side by side and shoulder to shoulder, did the Twenty-fourth Ohio and Twenty-third Kentucky stand up and successively repulse the enemy in all his attacks...the fire now was very hot...it appeared to me as though every third man in the regiment was struck". Of the brothers, only George and Jacob would survive to retreat with the Union Army to Chattanooga. On the first day of battle, young Foster, age 21, was killed in action.

Later in the evening we walked downtown Chattanooga, found Orchard Knob which I had to climb, closed to the public or not,

and drove a bit east to Missionary Ridge.

Here the Kentucky 23rd was part of the famous charge up Missionary Ridge on November 25, 1863. Ordered to only make a "demonstration" at the bottom of Missionary Ridge, the 18,000 enlisted men on their own and without orders from General Grant, smarting from the defeat at Chickamauga, one by one or in small groups of two to three, gradually rose to their feet and charged up the steep slopes of the ridge toward the rebel's fortified position chanting "Chickamauga, Chickamauga".

"At the center of this unplanned and unordered attack was Arthur MacArthur and the 24th Wisconsin. MacArthur’s color bearer had been killed during the fighting for the rifle pits and, as men began to clamber out of the trenches and up the hill, his replacement was decapitated by a round of solid shot from a Confederate gun above. MacArthur himself was wounded but still standing. When the colors went down a second time, he climbed out of the trench, grabbed them, and turned to his men, who were still cowering in the rifle pits. Raising the now ragged, battle-scarred flag high above his head, he shouted "On Wisconsin!" and moved quickly up the ridge.

In one of those rare moments when men are moved from terror to bravery, the men of the 24th Wisconsin rose up and began to follow Little Mac up the steep slope amid a hail of enemy rifle and artillery fire. As the Union soldiers up and down the line moved closer, the Confederate defenders abandoned their positions at the crest in disorganized panic. As Arthur MacArthur reached the summit of Missionary Ridge, he firmly planted the staff of the bullet-riddled flag in the ground for all to see. MacArthur, the 24th Wisconsin, and the Army of the Cumberland, who Grant had feared would not leave their trenches, smashed Bragg’s center in six places, sending the Southern army into full retreat. The siege of Chattanooga was broken."

Young Arthur was an 18 year old lieutenant with a command in the Wisconsin 24th, a Scotsman, of course, father of General Douglas MacArthur of World War II fame, and inspiration for the "On, Wisconsin" fight song. I wonder if most University of Wisconsin freshmen know this?

Tomorrow, we start our "March Through Georgia", by car of course.

The Killing Fields of Chickamauga

2010-07-18T18:18:00.035-04:00

After leaving the Cousins Reunion in Athens, we three generations - 8 yr old Isabella, 40-something mom Jennifer, and the ageless Ouma - headed north to the Tennessee border to Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain with a plan to trace Sherman's 1864 March through Georgia. This was a week I'd planned to do by myself since tracking Civil War history is not exactly appealing to most people, but Jennifer always figures where her mom goes there must be adventure. With the pot sweetened by the beautiful state of Georgia, some peaches and lakes and lofts thrown in, it was a pretty good deal for everyone. Even some history was learned.

No sweetening is enticing enough to endure the blistering hot one hundred degree battle field of Chickamauga just outside Chattanooga, but walking these places is what I set out to do. I was alone on this one. With the two youngsters ensconced at the Thomas Kincaidish Chanticleer Inn on Lookout Mountain, I set off for what I knew would be a sobering day.

Chickamauga was one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War, more than 30,000 casualties. In a nutshell, the Union Army of the Cumberland with 60,000 men went against 65,000 men in the Confederate Army. The prize - for the North geographic access into Georgia and control of the rail lines, for the South protecting the Homeland that hadn’t seen action in its interior. On September 19-20, 1863, 125,000 men and countless cannons, rifles, infantry and cavalry went at each other, often hand to hand, stretching over a battle line of more than 4 miles. At times the fields were so littered, they could be crossed only by walking on fallen soldiers.

The battle site covering a huge area of fields and forests has been a national park since 1895. Even with the scorching heat and no water bottle, I set out to walk the areas I could, and drive the sections in between. The battle field holds 1400 monuments and markers, 600 put up for the various brigades and regiments for where they saw action. I was determined to check out as many as I could, and to walk those areas of action I knew about, like Longtreet's break through the Union line.

Some stand in the beauty of an open field,

others line the woods where soldiers did their best to put up some type of defense,

and the tallest of all for the state of Georgia.

A cannonball pyramid is erected wherever a commander fell, the higher up the officer the bigger his pyramid.

I climbed Wilder's monument honoring his legendary Lightening Brigade with their repeating Spencer rifles.

The view over the battlefield from Wilder's tower would have been bucolically beautiful if not for my mind's eye seeing the tens of thousands of young men killed and wounded across the landscape.

Overwhelmed by the heat and reality of the battle field, I finally found Snodgrass Hill where General George H. Thomas, the "Rock of Chickamauga", held off the Confederates while the Union Army retreated back to Chattanooga for a good siege. Yes, kids, the North lost this one.

In October of 1861, three brothers from Pendleton County enlisted in Kentucky 23rd Infantry, all in Company D. They were farmers, second generation German stock, two come from Pennsylvania with their mother and the third born in Kentucky. George Caseman at 33 years was old for a soldier, by now married with two young children but with Kentucky threatened by incursions from the Confederate Army, he enlisted in the Union Army. His 4 years younger brother, Jacob, was newly married with a young son, working on a farm. The youngest, Foster, was just 18 when the war broke out and he was the first to sign up with the 23rd. Who knows what Lydia felt when her three boys went off to war, all with the 23rd, Company D, the boys from Pendleton County, but I doubt it was much different from other mothers over the history of mankind's making war on each other.

The three young men fought with the 23rd into Chattanooga and from there to Chickamauga. Foster, age 20, was killed in action the first day of Chickamauga, on September 19, and is buried at the Chattanooga National Cemetery.

Jacob was wounded two weeks after the Battle at Chickamauga. The Union Army had retreated to Chattanooga and Jacob was accidentally shot by a drunken guard in the barracks, requiring amputation of his arm at the elbow.

He returned home to his family and farm and died ten years later at the age of 43.

Only George remained with the Kentucky 23rd whose boys endured the starving siege of Chattanooga and under General Grant made the ferocious charge up Missionary Hill, and followed Sherman on the march through Georgia to take Atlanta. He mustered out of the 23rd and returned home in early 1865. He had another six children and lived to an old age of 85.

George's first child, Mary Jane, born before he went off to war, is our great grandmother. George is our second great grandfather, and Jacob and Foster our uncles.

Every soldier on the field has a story, and a life, as rich as those of George and Jacob and Foster. That is the magnitude of it all.

Wounded Warriors

2010-07-02T22:14:00.028-04:00

Let it be known that he who wears the military order of the purple heart has given of his blood in the defense of his homeland and shall forever be revered by his fellow countrymen.
George Washington, commander of Continental Army, 1782

Once a month, some of us ladies from the Daughters of the American Revolution go up to Camp Pendleton to make a home cooked meal for the wounded warriors. The new barracks house 200 wounded warriors and, overlooking a lake and surrounding mountains, it is gorgeous. Even though it has a nice kitchen where the guys and girls - yes, there are wounded women Marines - could cook for themselves, most walk down the road to the hospital cafeteria for meals. So a home cooked meal is a treat, especially with a bunch of mother types cooking and serving.

This week was special as we were invited to a Purple Heart ceremony for Sargent Gonzales, wounded in combat in Iraq five years ago as a Marine in the Third Battalion, 1st Marine Expeditionary force, and now a member of the Wounded Warrior Battalion at Camp Pendleton.

A Marine officer spoke to Sgt. Gonzales' bravery and dedication as a satchel demolition expert in Fallujah, but also to the "we are your family", no Marine left behind philosophy. This ideal extends to wounded Marines who can remain active duty while they recover and either return to their unit or transition into civilian life. About half stay in the Marine Corps, some returning for another tour of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan.

Finally, Sgt. Gonzales took the podium and gave an amazing speech. More so, as he came into the kitchen later and told us one of his injuries was TBI (traumatic brain injury) and he had been very anxious for a couple weeks about having to talk in front of a crowd.

I noticed tattooed on his right forearm "NO SACRIFICE" and on his left "NO VICTORY".

Just as amazing were the Marines sitting at attention, hands on knees, pretty much motionless, on the hot tarmac for the entire ceremony. I suspected their third grade teachers would have seen very different behaviors.

After the ceremony, while the sargent's comrades lined up to speak with him, his two boys played basketball,

and got some coaching from another Marine.

My D.A.R. buddies and I headed into the kitchen to make and serve dinner.

Sometimes the warrior's wounds are evident - the missing hand or leg, the cane, the way he/she walks, the surgical scar across the skull. At other times, they're not - the abdominal wounds covered by the uniform, the TBI's, the psychic injury. Always, though, they come into the kitchen to thank us for making their dinner. They, who have given so much.

Happy 4th of July! It's about more than beach and fireworks and picnics. Remember those back to the 1700's who have made your Fourth possible!

APPENDIX

NO SACRIFICE

NO VICTORY

The World's 10 Most Magnificent Trees

2010-06-24T21:08:00.021-04:00

Our Tree that Owns Itself didn't make the world's ten most magnificent trees list, but it did get on the bonus list. And what incredible trees these are - a cutting started in 288 BC from the original fig tree under which the Buddha became enlightened in the 6th century and which may take a total of 3000 years to be fully grown, the Methuselah tree documented to be 4,838 years old, Utah's quaking aspen with a colony covering 107 acres, an 80,000 year old organism! This could be a destination list were it not that the location of some of the trees is not given for their own security. Seems that a scientist cut down another 5000 year old Methuselah tree just to determine its age, and a drunk Libyan driver mowed down the Tenere tree, a sole desert survivor when the Saharan desert dried up.

Patty and I stopped by the Monterrey Lone Cypress in 1977 when she was a cold war warrior.

She's probably reading this and thinking, "I was that skinny once?!"

Sixteen years later, in 1993, a buddy and I went cross country skiing into the sequoias looking for the General Sherman tree, the world's largest tree at 6000 pounds and 220 years old.

Jonathan was dwarfed next to the roots of one of these big guys fallen over.

We had to leave the trail to find the General and at one point Jonathan stopped in a mountain meadow to have his picture taken. As I was putting my camera away, I glanced up to see Jonathan taking off his skiis.

"No-o-o-o, Jonathan, don't take off your skis, you'll... I yelled, just as he sank almost up to his waist. I knew this would happen in deep meadow snow from my own experience sinking a snowmobile at night in the Rockies.

I pulled him out and we skied on, naturally being lost for a while, wondering if those large paw tracks were bear, and finally found the tree named after the general who made Georgia "howl" and then wired Lincoln, "I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the city of Savannah".

Two down, eight to go.

The Tree That Owns Itself

2010-06-22T21:02:00.021-04:00

Notwithstanding the heat of an Athens afternoon, our hostess, Jane, was willing to take some cousins to check out the historic houses built during the 1800's. We walked down Dearing Street trying to figure out the Federal, Victorian, Greek Revival, and Italiante style houses, many of them dragged up the hill to Dearing in lieu of tearing them down when the more commercial areas were developed. Good for them! Athens was off the path of Sherman's scorched earth trek to the sea, no reason to have them then succumb to capitalism. I won't bore the reader with photos of the houses - Lord knows I have enough of those from Savannah - as a more famous sight lies at the end of the street where the cobblestones of Finley meet Deering, the tree that owns itself.

It seems this Athenian guy, Colonel William Jackson, deeded the white oak tree to itself in 1832 when he sold off the rest of the property.

For and in consideration of the great love I bear this tree and the great desire I have for its protection for all time, I convey entire possession of itself and all land within eight feet of the tree on all sides.

Don't you wonder what happened here that the Colonel loved the tree this much, maybe something romantic, or was he just peculiar?

The original tree was already at least a century old when it was deeded, growing before any of these houses were built, and in 1942 the tree died from old age, maybe helped along by a storm. The town planted an offspring grown from one of its acorns, cares and advocates for it, and doesn't collect any property taxes. The big guy is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, has his own Facebook page, YouTube video, and book by the same title.

We like quirky towns.