Wednesday, September 30, 2015 To Frankfurt, To Frankfurt

Is there a certain insanity in going to Europe when you can no longer walk? When your body requires two half-hour naps daily? When you can no longer write or type? Of course there is! There is also a certain insouciance and joie de vivre. I thumb my nose at the nasty people who insist that I’m a cripple and now must do nothing but sit in a wheelchair until I die.

Travel for me requires accepting and operating under a completely different mindset. At home I have the power chair Sven. Sven gives me lots of the autonomy. I transfer in and out of him, make my own decisions about where I will go and when and buzz around the house and even the city. Travelling, I must adapt to amazing passivity. Losing agency and any pretense of autonomy, I sit in a manual chair awaiting kindness’ push. I get a lot of enforced rest. Anything I want I must request, reduced to waiting upon the whims of others. Sitting passively for a nine-and-a-half hour flight gives one good practice in patience. But my co-travelers regain control of their bodies when we land; I do not.

Who must agree to my mad travel schemes? Only the Bear, my delightful companion and love of my life. I would never want to journey anywhere without him and he has kindly agreed to push Bird, the manual wheelchair that we’ve named for her many flights overseas and that she permits me to still soar. Despite living in a manual chair, at any moment, I must flawlessly execute sit-to-stand. Sit-to-stand is a very difficult move at the best of times, made more difficult when your brain discredits the sturdiness of your hips. Physically, I must be able to walk ten feet between the bed and the bathroom. I rely heavily on the aid of Tinky the Walker. We take Bird and Tinky with us on all of our adventures. Both bear numerous scars courtesy of the airlines. Sven, my power chair, justifiably fears flying and stays home. Pearl, as a minivan, weighs far too much for airline transport. She remains in her garage and talks to Gimmy the Camry. She tries to put Gimmy up to mischief, but fails.

Enough woolgathering! Back to our Denver departure. Late afternoon, we take a cab to the airport, then go through the security hassle. At DIA, hordes of TSA employees carefully investigate every bit of Bird and me. After wasting a good bit of everyone’s time, they wave us through and we proceed out to Lufthansa’s boarding area.

Walking no longer an option for me, I’m forced to rely upon aisle chairs. As such, I’m the first to board. Bear follows in my wake. For the blissfully uninitiated, using an aisle chair involves two strong people (airline employees) who approach with the chair then strap you securely into it.  They roll the appropriately named chair along the aisles of the airplane. Once at your assigned seat, they lift and deposit you in your place. Once the aisle chair deposits you in your airline seat, you’re expected to stay there. How do I go ten hours without using the bathroom? I wear an adult diaper, of course.

By the time they finish strapping anyone in, they could just as easily transport a corpse on the chair. Keith wants to buy me a gag, so that I would also be silent while tied up. We all have our fantasies, but his will come to naught.

But why have aisle chairs at all? Airlines, of course, function primarily as cargo carriers. You may be human cargo, but are cargo nonetheless. The airline will deliver you to anywhere you contract. You entered into a contract when you purchased a ticket. Read the stuff with the ticket carefully and you’ll see a contract.

For years I thought that the airline was called Lufttanza or “Air Dance.” What a cool name, eh? I speak with a very German stewardess who corrects me. “No, we are Lufthansa.” Or “Air Company.” Boring! “But we have a stylized crane (bird) in our logo. Don’t you like the crane!?” the stewardess continues somewhat fiercely. Not desiring to be thrown off the plane, I hastily agree but silently remain disappointed.

Once deposited in my seat by the airline employees, Bear and I watch our co-travelers find their seats and settle in. I’ve never seen so many people on an airplane. We’ve paid for bigger seats or at least seats with more legroom room than given to the average bear. The seats give us an empty three feet in front of us. We have the sole unoccupied seat on the plane next to us, since apparently no one wanted to chunk out the extra $100 for the seat. But I tell you, we have more room than Economy Plus and we find it well worth the moolah.

The plane departs promptly at 5:30PM. I think all flights to Europe fly overnight. The flight crew keeps giving us more drinks. Every time a wine glass empties they refill it. I ask one of the attendants if they’re trying to keep us sedated. “Is this a plot?” I ask. “Yes,” she admits. I laugh. “No,” she then avers, “I mean no, no, no.”

Lufthansa also has individual computer screens at each seat. You can choose from a very wide range of movies, TV shows, music, spoken word etc. to entertain yourself. My screen is broken. But I hate TV anyway so it’s okay.

Duly sedated by both alcohol and Ambien, I sleep through much of the flight. Thank God for Ambien.

Friday, March 7, 2014—Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jog

We awaken. After a minimal last breakfast on the road, we load ourselves once again into Pearl. With barely suppressed excitement, she heads north toward Amarillo. We’ve reached the last day of our long journey, and we all know it, none more than Pearl. Reaching I-40, we drive a bit west to Cadillac Ranch.

I’m excited by today’s only planned stop, Cadillac Ranch. For the uninitiated, in the 1970s an art group buried ten Cadillacs halfway in the Texas dirt, nose first, the fins and back of the cars remaining above ground. I read about Cadillac Ranch as a teenager. I remember the breathless excitement and buzz around who could possibly afford to spend that much money on art. I mean Cadillacs? The American dream car?

The creators of Cadillac Ranch must have spent all of their money on Cadillacs and allocated nothing for site preservation and defense. Boy am I disappointed! The boys approach the sculpture, noting many pieces have fallen off of or have been stolen from the cars, diminishing the whole. A cattle fence blocks Sven and me, keeping us out, but doesn’t stop any determined ambulatory person. Assholes have spray-painted all over the cars. Stalactites of paint drip off of the old cars. Yuck! The self-same vandals can’t even take their trash with them. Myriad empty spray paint cans litter the ground. (I later read that the artists encouraged vandalism of the vehicles. Yuck! What an ugly part of humanity. Why can’t people just leave things be?)

 Disillusioned, we jump back into Pearl. We stop at the next gas station to buy Advil, ice, coffee, bad donuts made from repulsive quasi-edible oil products (the Bear’s favorite) and tea.

We hope that luck rides with us for we have seven hours home at the very best. Unfortunately for us, the weather prophets have predicted snow for Denver.

Circling Amarillo, Pearl turns north on route 87. We plan on taking 87 through both Texas and New Mexico, then picking up I-25 where Colorado starts. But for now we’re still in Texas. We see a lot of last year’s dead yellow brown grass.  The land begins to roll. We see cotton fields, green and irrigated, the only green in the landscape.

Slowly, as the land rises, we begin to see mesas and scrub brush cloaked in winter’s brown. Off the roadside, we find dried deep red gullies and every once in a while a canyon. Pearl cruises through brilliant late winter sunshine oblivious to the clouds ahead.

We cross into New Mexico. Excitedly, we see mountains in the distance. Do we see glimpses of home? Uh-oh, not mountains—clouds. Pearl takes us farther into the state. Now we really do see a mountain here and there. First we see conical hills dotting the land, then more mesas higher and higher. Oh boy, we’re 20 miles from the Raton Mountains, where Colorado begins. We smell home! We see rain ahead but we have been seeing it for the past two hours. Pearl still basks in the sunlight.

Colorado now, we approach cloud-covered Raton Pass. As we ascend, driving up and over, we encounter rain and rain and rain. Dejectedly, we pass Walsenburg again. Educated now, we don’t stop at the atrocious Alpine Rose Cafe for tea. Per Bloodroot, only non-foodies and other war criminals eat there. The rain slackens a bit then takes a breather. We stop at a roadside rest and cook lunch.

After lunch, back on the road again, snow begins. Heading ever north, we merge with heavy traffic. I-25 forcefully teaches us that we really live in one big city that starts in Colorado Springs and ends in Fort Collins. A mere ten hours after we awoke in Texas, we land at our house. Boy is it good to be home!

What impressed me? The beauty of America, of course. I treasure my memory of Taos museums, Carlsbad Caverns, Big Bend National Park, Johnson Space Center, Lake Fausse, Avery Island, the Laura Plantation, historic battlefields, Sixth Floor Museum, and Poverty Point.  I loved meeting the different people in Terlingua, Texas, and Lafayette, Louisiana.

What touched my heart the most? I still think about how we live in the Denver wealth bubble, certainly compared to northern Louisiana. I hadn’t realized that the bubble didn’t extend beyond here. I am saddened by too much of our country living in poverty, still divided along racial lines, even all these years after we tried to change it.

We spent four weeks together, didn’t kill each other (though greatly tempted) AND still speak to each other, despite visions of duct tape covering mouths.

What treasures now grace our home? Looking through our new trinkets, we find a NASA Johnson Space Center Christmas ornament, a Laura plantation ornament, a Tabasco magnet an Alamo mission magnet and a Poverty Point State Park magnet. Keith believes that the refrigerator will fall through the floor due to the weight of the magnets. Altogether, this trip yields a coffee table book on samurai armor, eight more magnets, three coffee cups, a sweatshirt, a polo shirt and three Christmas ornaments.

And we have seen a part of America I never dreamt of seeing. I overcame my fear of Texas and Texans. I realized that I still don’t like drunks (New Orleans). I love history. We saw some official history (the battlefields) and unofficial but equally real history (the Laura Plantation & New Orleans parks). Life is good.

Fin

Thursday, March 6, 2014—Buddy Holly Sings Songs of Windmills

Bear wants to see the Buddy Holly Center. Bloodroot wants to see the Wind Power Museum. Of course we can tour both of these places in an hour. Right? Duh, Jody, make a decision. I decide on the Wind Power Museum as I fear the dreaded ear worms, songs I can’t get out of my head, emanating from Buddy Holly. I can’t bring any Buddy Holly songs to mind but I’m certain that once I heard any Buddy Holly song, it would spin in my head forever. Keith drops us off at the Wind Power Museum and disappears, driving over to the Buddy Holly Center.

At the Wind Power Museum, Bloodroot and I have our own personal guide. We learn that wind brings power—power we don’t think of back East and that windmills have been fundamental to Texans since the first settlements. We find a surprisingly environmental attitude at the heart of this museum in rural Texas, as our guide hugely supports the necessity of wind power in Texan history. “The industrial revolution,” he intones, “has its origins in the mill races used in Europe to grind corn (grain). Grain came first but remember that all ideas and inventions build upon the previous ideas and inventions.”

To wit—in 1606, the Governor of Virginia built the first US windmill, again to grind grain. It resembled a Dutch mill, but while Dutch mills remained stationary this one rotated on a post, spinning about to catch the wind.

Innovation in wind power moved west with the nation. With our near constant wind, windmills could be used to pump water, but never in a steady stream. The water spurts out as the gears spin around, reminding me of a hit-and-miss engine.

Windmills in Texas evolved with tails, looking rather like weathervanes, which would push the whole contraption into the wind. Later tails could fold up or fan out depending on the wind pressure. To catch the wind, a windmill’s blades would rotate a bit on their axes, presenting a larger surface for times of little wind. When the wind became too fierce, these same tails would flatten out the blades entirely, letting the wind pass through. A windmill without the ability to open and close would have blown itself to pieces in the force of the plains’ winds.

We also learned a bit about the first chain of restaurants that sprang up alongside the first trains. Railroad steam engines could travel forty miles before needing more water, leading the railroads built windmill powered pumping stations for water every forty miles. Towns began to grow up around the windmills where the trains would stop. Sensing economic potential, a man named Fred Harvey cut a deal with the railroads and began selling food in chain restaurants at the train stops. He hired women—the young, chaperoned, now famous “Harvey Girls.” Perhaps for the first time, women safely reveled in the freedom born of escaping the restrictions of the East, earning decent money and traveling somewhere distant on their own.

As Western settlement progressed, windmills dotted the landscape. So, we learn, the country grew up with the power provided for free by the wind. We had only to harness it.

I remember dad’s family stories of Williston, North Dakota and his disgust that, “we didn’t even have electric.” But they had two windmills. One windmill pumped water while another on the roof produced electricity on demand for my grandfather’s radio. Family lore avers that when grandfather Andrew switched on the electric windmill atop the shanty, the roof sounded as though it would fly off any second.

FDR brought electricity to the masses via the REA (Rural Electrification Authority). Local co-ops sprang up across the country. Everyone now had electricity and the windmills faded into western dreams. When I picture old farms, I always see a windmill pumping water in the background. Think Dorothy Gale!

Now, of course, we have huge new windmills dotting the land, spinning when demand rises, explaining the silence of so many windmills. The mills start up as needed.

Per Bloodroot "My parents before they were eaten by windmills."

We take some photos of ourselves by the numerous windmills as Bear returns from the Buddy Holly Center, a museum he thoroughly enjoyed. The Center has huge Buddy Holly glasses out front. Many country musicians hail from this area. The museum celebrates the music of Lubbock and west Texas including Waylon Jennings, Roy Orbison, Bobby Keyes, Tanya Tucker, Joe Ely, Butch Hancock, the Gatlin brothers, Jimmy Dale Gilmore, and Delbert McClinton. Is there a desperation in the soil that drives so many to the uncertain career of flickering fame? Are there no other jobs? No other way out?

The town constructed the museum in the old train station—in Bear’s opinion, the best repurposing of an old train station ever. I vehemently disagree. “What about the Orsay?” I counter. (The Musee d’Orsay, an amazing impressionism museum, is housed in the old Art Nouveau Orleans train station in Paris.) “Okay, okay,” says Bear, accepting defeat, “the best repurposing in the United States.”

We pile into the car and head north to Amarillo. We stop at the Palo Duro Canyon, our original plan for today. Amidst the endless North Texas cotton fields, a vast Canyon opens. Pearl takes a road that goes down, down, down. “Am I driving to Hades?” the classically trained van asks.

We arrive at the Canyon around 2 PM. At the visitor center, we learn that Palo Duro was the site of the Comanches’ and Quanah Parker’s last stand in 1874. We’ve obsessed on Quanah Parker since reading Empire of the Summer Moon, a most excellent book all about the Comanches. In our travels, we have often sought Quanah, but have come up empty-handed. Here we finally strike gold and read all about his final military defeat, another point in the closing of the western frontier.

Next, the exhibits cover the geography of the Canyon featuring the various rock layers. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember a thing.

The CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) built the road down to the canyon floor—two companies of blacks and two of whites. The CCC, a famous New Deal program started during the Depression, originally planned to hire 18 to 25 year-old men. Soon the program expanded to include World War I veterans. The men lived in military barracks, obeyed military rules, worked forty hours a week, and attended mandatory education classes.

The Corps built the visitor center into the cliff using carefully matched rock. Today people drive by it unwittingly because it blends so well with the natural surroundings.

Loading ourselves back into Pearl, we leave the visitor center and head for the bottom of the canyon. We cook a picnic lunch. Keith and Bloodroot leave at 4 PM for a 6-mile hike out on Lighthouse Trail.

I read. I watch the sun illuminate different stripes of rock layers, wishing I had retained some knowledge from the visitor center. The multihued canyon changes color suddenly and repeatedly as the afternoon wanes. I wonder if the boys will have enough sense to turn around before night falls. As the evening approaches, the light accentuates the different rock formations.

The boys wisely return around six. They speak of encountering the biggest mass of bluebirds they’d ever seen. They also met a couple lugging plein air supplies to paint out in the canyon, creating beautiful paintings in which they justifiably took great pride. The artists argue between themselves as to whether they found hauling all the supplies worthwhile.

Reunited, we pack up and direct Pearl to our last hotel, this one a mere thirty minutes distant in South Canyon, Texas. Tomorrow, our final feat, we face a seven-hour journey home.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014—Samurai Cross Texas

Waking once more at our miserable Dallas Airbnb, we cook a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. I had forgotten how much I abhor air mattresses. I can’t say that any of us slept soundly, comfortably, or well, except maybe Barkley back at his house in Indiana. The noise of the air pumps starting up, then clattering to a halt, plus the serious discomfort of the mattress had us up most of the night. Following breakfast, we wash up and leave quickly, glad to be shut of the place. And Airbnb asks for a review. We delegate this chore to Bloodroot, hoping he can approach this task with more discretion than I can summon at the moment as I continue to bitch.

Today we plan to drive five hours from Dallas to Lubbock. Bloodroot interjects, “Mom, Dad, the Kimbell Museum in Fort Worth, Texas has a wonderful traveling exhibit of samurai armor. I saw this show when I lived in Paris. It’s fantastic. I could see it twenty times! Also, Fort Worth lies one hour west of Dallas, on the way. Traveling there first will knock an hour off of our drive later today.”

All animals and Pearl in agreement, Bear steers Pearl around the outer perimeter of Dallas, catches I-30 and cruises over to the Kimbell Art Museum. Bear immediately approves of the museum’s architecture, split into two buildings, with parking underground. The buildings look mid-century modern although built much later. The original Kahn building (1972, named for the architect) has multiple rounded glass roofs that resemble a greenhouse. Piano (2013, an Italian architect) designed his building to blend seamlessly with the earlier, yet added environmental sensibilities through material choice and by maximizing the use of natural light. This building fits snugly into the land, one story aboveground, mirroring the Kahn’s height, with a colonnaded pavilion and over-hanging glass eaves.

After parking Pearl underground, we use the handy elevator to ascend to museum level. We enter and pay at the Piano building, finding the traveling samurai armor collection to the left of the lobby. Viewed from the foyer, the armor looks like creations in bamboo. Upon closer examination, we find the armor comprised of myriad small half-inch to two-inch lacquered iron pieces sewn together. The design provides maximum protection while retaining vitally important flexibility. How much of someone’s life would be consumed making even one set of armor?

The armor covered every bit of a warrior’s body with chest pieces, shin guards and leggings. As the samurai covered and guarded their faces too, intricate helmets sprout grand dragons or other scary things. The helmets have a hole beneath the chin to release sweat. Although indispensable, the armor must have been bloody hot.

The military samurai class devoted their lives to the art of war, perfecting their use of arrows, swords, spears and, in time, guns. The Japanese quickly copied the Portuguese match lock rifle, and guns eventually played an important role in their feudal wars. In response, armor evolved plates—better for deflecting bullets. Despite all the advances in firearms, proficiency in archery remained important to showcase an individual’s warrior aptitude.

Samurai also armored their horses. I find the dragons’ heads on the horse face masks compelling. This armor, also comprised of a multitude of small iron bits, shows as much care in its creation as the human armor. A mounted warrior without his trusty steed isn’t worth much, eh? Imagine teaching a horse, your military partner, to fight covered in all that hot stuff.

The Samurai Armor show comes to the DAM (Denver Art Museum) in March 2016.

Following the armor, we visit the permanent collection, first in the Piano building. The museum has adopted a refreshingly minimalist tack, displaying only one or two items per era or culture and then moving on. We see a very good old Greek vase featuring the Goddess Nike, and some Egyptian pieces, one still bearing ancient paint. We find viewing fewer objects far easier than the three days we once spent in the Louvre.

We cross over to the Kahn building which holds European art after 1800. We enjoy green Impressionist paintings (Monets),  a few Picassos, and my favorite, a very cool Van Gogh with a yellow sky, blue and brown houses, and green vegetation with stunning red spots. That boy was such a master of color.

The Kahn building also houses the Museum Café, where we buy small lunch plates of excellent food, slowly savoring our delicious relaxing lunch. Many museums now lease their restaurants to people having appropriate culinary expertise as opposed to art history skills. The Kimbell correctly considers the fare good enough to sell the restaurant cookbook in the gift shop. On our way out, we gaze at the book, but decline, buying only a coffee mug and a large coffee table book depicting the samurai armor.

Still having far to travel today, we roll back to the parking garage, reunite with Pearl and drive away around 2:30.

We pick up I-30 again which quickly melds into I-20. Westward ho! We head for Abilene, Lubbock and our proverbial home in the west. Casting a sideways glance at my husband, I note that as his beard grows, Keith more and more resembles one of his rugged Scottish ancestors from the Hebrides. Once he would have piloted a sailing ship in the North Atlantic; now he guides Pearl across the North American plains.

During the afternoon, the land changes throughout our four-hour excursion.

First we see fields newly plowed—field after field after field—awaiting cotton seed. Or perhaps already impregnated, seeds holding their breath, waiting for the sun to warm the land before sprouting out of brown-red earth. The few trees on our route haven’t yet shed winter’s gray coat to leaf out and greet the glory of spring.

The land dries and rises morphing into vast cattle ranches and mesas. Passing by Abilene, we listen to Dave Alvin sing Abilene. Bloodroot and I sing along loudly, irritating Bear.

Further west, the earth becomes too dry for cattle. Slowly desert scrub conquers the land, littered with hundreds of oil wells. Once again, we drive through a petrochemical haze. Are we in Texas or Louisiana?

The windmill farms appear. Some of the tall white windmills spin, some stand silently awaiting digital orders.

Fifty miles past Abilene, we exit the freeway, turning northwest toward Lubbock. We again pass freshly plowed, newly seeded fields, followed by wind farms on the drier land, spotted with cattle ranches and long thin mesas. We see oil wells again. Then, once again, we return to newly plowed cotton fields. The world looks flat as far as the eye can see.

Pulling into town at dusk, we seek tonight’s Airbnb. Back and forth, up and down we drive. Although spread out, Lubbock is not a big place, but spaciness and road weariness hinder our search. Finally, as full night descends, we find our quarry. The Airbnb, a house among others on an unremarkable street, sports nothing to guide us save its address.

Grateful for this lovely little place, the boys unload Pearl, bringing in suitcases and food. Our Airbnb host Shawn acquired a former home for unwed mothers, which he updates as funds allow. The atmosphere is more hostel-like than anywhere we have stayed thus far during our adventure. We have our own bathroom and bedroom but share a kitchen.

Shawn takes in “strays,” much as Bear accuses me of doing. He gives second chances to people down and out, provided that they wish to go to seminary in Lubbock, a city with numerous evangelical Christian religious schools.

Working together (Shawn, his protégé John, Bear, Bloodroot and I) we create a yummy communal dinner. I chop vegetables as my contribution to the stir fry. We talk over dinner. The boys clean up. Shawn and John retire to watch TV, sinful or not, while we head for bed.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014—My Time at the Re-education Center

Awakening in our lousy Airbnb, Barkley eschews complaints. Naturally, his youth permits comfortable repose on an air mattress. He feels that this trip should crush our souls, the quintessential point in touring America, n’est-ce pas? He expresses concern that even this Airbnb will fail him in his quest, but considers last night’s privations a valiant attempt.

Leaving the Airbnb after breakfast, we drive downtown to visit the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum. Barkley insists upon touring this hellhole, considering it the natural destination of all liberal nihilists and catastrophe chasers.

We park and bid Pearl farewell for a time. She curls up for a nap. We amble up to security line, greeting Barkley’s friend Geung, a Dallas resident meeting us at the museum. Geung appears to be a nice, normal young Asian-American woman. We later learn, according to Barkley, that she writes poetry about roadkill and English on masking tape. So much for normal.

Perhaps due to the gun zealotry amongst Bush followers, we face close scrutiny as we pass through airport type screening. Sven causes the usual confusion. Security, after being stumped for a bit, finally waves us through. 

The museum costs sixteen dollars each. I begin loudly contemplating suicide. Barkley treats, silencing my raucous protests. Upon payment, the ticket people give us “43” stickers to wear, commemorating Bush’s tenure as the forty-third president. Since the Bush regime produced nothing substantial or positive, the museum chose a number as his legacy, a wise alternative to recounting his endless missteps.

Most of the other patrons of the library fit into the 70- to 80-year-old demographic, comfortable with casual racism and Bob Evans’ Restaurant. The volunteer docents, uniformly white, seventy-year-old women, sport dyed blonde hair. They wear skirts, nylons and heels, their blue-eyed blonde sameness exuding a nasty, ice princess, forbidding upper-middle-classdom. Finding their hiveminds as indistinguishable as their appearance, we quickly abandon any attempt to tell them apart, simply addressing everyone as “ma’am.” This may have saved our lives. Periodically, hordes of schoolchildren careen through the exhibits, blissfully unaware of the brainwashing to come.

Following the ritual admission price fleecing, we enter the room holding the visitor archive, known here as the “Freedom Registry.” The boys and Geung sign the guest book. Already spooked, my hackles up, I just can’t sign it. Perhaps I want no record that I ever visited a place of such darkness, but, oh yeah, I’m blogging.

The museum’s first exhibit features a collection of presents given the States by various countries during Bush the Lesser’s regime, by far the Library’s best exhibit. Afghanistan gave us a priceless sapphire. Berlusconi (Italy) gave us some very nicely designed jewelry. The States received a lapis lazuli candelabra and a miniature pottery house from the Dominican Republic. Other presents include a painted gourd from Mexico, a doll-sized house from Guatemala, a jewel-encrusted bowl from Qatar, a sterling silver and gold sculpture of Jerusalem from Israel and a handmade shawl from Burma. Many countries lavished riches upon us; I find the most poignant gifts given by people who have so little to give. I appreciate them; I hope that the Bushes did. If you lived in Guatemala, what would you give to appease your nuclear-armed, gun-toting, homicidal neighbor to the north? I never do find out what we give other countries in exchange.

The Library has the best displays money can buy, all very high tech-looking. In the next room, which could easily hold a few hundred people, we lift our eyes high on the walls. Pricey projectors beam a slickly-produced video featuring numerous multiracial people exuberantly dancing as they celebrate Bush’s presidency, deliriously joyful to live under Republican rule. Although intended to be inspiring as we must raise both our eyes and hearts upward, the show fails, proffering no context whatsoever, just insipidly running in an endless loop.

The Library holds no books anywhere, adding fuel to the fire of my belief that the boy can’t read. Just like Chauncey Gardiner, eh? Why would you need to read to be president? After all, God forbid, reading may give birth to an independent thought not approved by your handlers.

Walking into the next room, my dénouement begins. We face a massive interactive display detailing precisely how Bush stole the 2000 election. I’d forgotten his strong resemblance to Howdy Doody. Once again, I see and relive that puppet becoming president, deftly pilfering the election. Greatly disturbed, my stomach churning, I recall Jeb Bush’s manipulation of the Florida electoral results. Could anything beat having your brother, the Governor of Florida, rig the vote giving you the presidency? The butterflies in my stomach grow exponentially, bouncing about the organ trying to escape.

Queasy, yet moving forward, we watch a movie where Bush promulgates his platform of faith-based initiatives, a program designed to steal the government’s money and give it to churches. Why would anyone expect separation of church and state, the idea our country was founded upon? The only break in the bullshit comes via one small sidebar where Yahweh gives George the strength to quit drinking at forty. Of note, we also see Bush up against some comedian in a Bush mask trying to say nuclear. “Nu ka ler” Bush and the comedian both say.

For our next treat we visit an Oval Office replica, arrayed as an exact copy of the room during Bush the Lesser’s reign. Left of the desk we find a painting of Laura Bush, nose held high in the air as she walks two small dogs on the white house lawn. I’m sure Laura considers herself too refined and important to clean up after her dogs. Certainly, she carries no poop bag. After all, cleaning up shit remains the province of minorities and poor people, their due station in life.

Barkley mirrors Laura’s pose in front of the painting, nostrils elevated. Fortunately, no rain falls in either the painting or on Barkley; otherwise someone would drown. We gather behind the desk for a photo-op. Avoiding the strategically placed professional photographer, Barkley snaps our picture.

I breeze through the remaining museum rooms, remembering the lies and the idiocy. Was Bush the Lesser the worst president ever? I recall he began his reign with a budget surplus, which he quickly gave away to the wealthy via unsustainable tax cuts. Then he invented weapons of mass destruction as justification to start an unprovoked war in Iraq, destabilizing the Middle East while chasing after some demented vision of “finishing Daddy’s work.” Using this excuse, he gave trillions to his vice president Dick Cheney’s Halliburton. Supremely incompetent, Halliburton quickly lost the war. Icing the cake, Bush crashed the economy, leaving Obama to pick up the mess.

I can’t take any more. The place creeps me out. George W. Bush and his handlers have crushed my soul. Bear and I exit to the courtyard coffee stand which unfortunately sells Starsucks. Denied even a good cup of chai, I buy a hot tea. Bear likes Starsucks coffee and orders one. He has the gift of contentment, even under the most trying of circumstances. We sit out in the sunshine. I breathe deep healing breaths, doing my best to quell the massive unease overtaking me. We plot our escape but fail. We can’t abandon our fellow travelers in the museum from hell and I just can’t bring myself to go back in there.

Meanwhile, the boys and Geung continue the tour, greatly enjoying themselves, free and untroubled as they laugh at the displays. Barkley convinces the others that I’ve been forcibly taken to a re-education center.

They visit the much touted Decision Center video game. Situations – Katrina, Iraq, Afghanistan – appear on a central screen, as the game gives each player a list of four equally stupid choices. (Example: 1. Commit suicide; 2. Destroy the economy; 3. Invade Iraq; 4. Drill for oil in Maine.) Strangely, no matter what they choose, the correct choice is always whatever Bush did. Bush himself appears on the central screen to explain this to them, defending the indefensible from Hussein’s assassination to the Invasion of New Orleans. The trio remains unconvinced.

Wandering outside, our kids find us as I lie cringing in the courtyard. They hurriedly bundle me into Pearl. Pearl snorts awake and we make good our escape.

I knew from the onset that the museum would be at best a joke and at worst an edifice to the most reprehensible aspects of our society. What I didn’t expect was that it would disturb me so much. My soul has been duly crushed by the weight of the bullshit at the Bush Museum. Barkley, that advocate of Satan, has achieved his objective in a way a horrible Airbnb never could.

Delighted by my release from the re-education center yet concerned about my mental health, Geung suggests the Cosmic Cafe for lunch, a local vegan Indian place. Driving over to the restaurant we ponder, who is worse? Huey P. Long or George W. Bush? What would Long have done, had he become president? Would he have carried out some of his populist schemes, improving the lives of so many, while enriching himself? Or just steal lots of money by giving it to random connected corporations like Bush did? We pause and think, preparing for a later discussion.

We park Pearl and enter the Cosmic Café. Taking a seat, we note that the menu features vegetables. YES! We need to remember to eat vegetarian on the road as a viable alternative to questionable meat and grease.

We discuss Geung’s just published book of poems with her, called Foreigner’s Folly. The wannabe writers in the group sigh, acknowledging their jealousy at her success. She and Barkley attended Notre Dame’s Creative Writing Master’s Degree program together. Geung, of Korean heritage, moved to the States at fourteen; she has always felt caught between the two cultures. A performance poet, she once gave a poetry reading at a café near the university (Notre Dame), wearing a ski mask with a flowered dress and talking into a voice modulator to make her sound like an evil robot. The café soon went out of business – coincidence? Impressed by her awesome power, I want to read her poems.

Leaving the restaurant, we bid Geung good luck; she gives us a signed copy of her poetry. We head over to the Sixth Floor Museum (aka the Kennedy Museum), sadly located in the book depository where Oswald shot John F. Kennedy (JFK) fifty years ago.

This museum lacks the intense security of the Bush Museum, odd in a way given the centrality of the assassination legacy. However, this museum also charges sixteen dollars a person for entry. Today we have a sale price of $12 each, no explanation given. We gratefully accept the reduced rate. We receive no presidential number stickers or any stickers actually, either because JFK’s legacy outshines a number or the more logically situated admissions counter prevents free entry.

Like the George W. Bush Museum (though to a much lesser extent), this museum doesn’t dwell on Kennedy’s mistakes. We see displays about the Bay of Pigs, but not about the escalation of the Vietnam War. Triumphantly we hear about Khrushchev moving the Cuban missiles, but silence over our moving missiles out of Turkey in response. Of course, JFK didn’t do the incredibly stupid corrupt things that Bush did. The Sixth Floor Museum ends with Obama’s inauguration as a shout-out to Kennedy’s Civil Rights policies, although Lyndon Johnson (LBJ) carried them out.

Using much less expensive displays than the Bush Library, the Kennedy Museum captures the heady ebullience of the early sixties, a time when our young president and country could do no wrong. We step back into a shining moment in our collective history just before drugs and the disaster of Vietnam rubbed our public noses in our arrogance and incompetence. We watch Bob McNamara join the Kennedy administration to serve his country, leaving Ford Motor Company and taking a huge pay cut.

Kennedy founds the Peace Corps. I reflect upon his 1961 Inaugural Address’ admonition: “Ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.” We still believed in America the new, a shining beacon of freedom and democracy to replace tired old Europe. I feel inspired once again, if only briefly.

Unfortunately, the museum focuses too much on the sensationalism of Kennedy’s assassination. Too many exhibits discuss the assassination in minute detail. I scan them, hoping to avoid dwelling upon this unsavory moment in our country’s past. I desperately attempt to avoid crying and fail.

One exhibit commands my attention. In the “corner of shame,” books pile around set up exactly as they were fifty years ago. The museum invites you to step into the gunman’s shoes, standing exactly where Oswald did all those years ago. Anybody could have shot JFK from this vantage point.

The final exhibit shows opinion polls over the past fifty years. Who is the best president ever? JFK? Lincoln? FDR? Kennedy’s numbers rise through time.

One new idea occurs to me. LBJ carried out JFK’s ideas, including Vietnam. Controversy exists as to whether or not Kennedy would have escalated Vietnam into the morass it became. But what about the good things? Without JFK’s untimely death, would we have civil rights? Would we have gone to the moon? Or would these initiatives have been shot down or stalled by Congress? Did our citizens allow massive societal changes to respect the death of the president?

Leaving the museum, we take Barkley out to the airport. Along the traffic-stalled highway, we deliberate the legacies of two men of evil: George W. Bush vs. Huey P. Long. We recall our Huey Long audiobook we heard while still in Louisiana. Long began as a populist, promising free textbooks to schoolchildren and roads for Louisiana. Surprisingly elected governor after successfully challenging the planter aristocracy, he delivered on both these promises. The week he fulfilled his campaign commitments, the Louisiana House impeached him. His entire focus then shifted to massive theft and the annihilation of anyone who opposed him.

Brilliant, unscrupulous, and amazingly energetic, he completely controlled Louisiana during his seven-year reign of terror (1928 to 1935). He hounded enemies, destroyed their businesses, tricked them with rigged voting machines, and once tied a few up in a swamp until they saw the light. Elected to the US Senate in 1932, he vigorously, comically, fought all New Deal programs out of jealousy. (Long didn’t invent the New Deal, so he despised it.)

In Baton Rouge, in 1935, an assassin shoots him. Long’s bodyguards take out the assassin with thirty rounds fired from automatic weapons. The bodyguards hurriedly carry Long, shot in the abdomen, to the hospital. Two surgeons, the best in the state, rush to save him, crashing their car in transit. An incompetent doctor, appointed by Huey for political reasons, botches the operation. Huey dies, though the Long machine controls Louisiana politics for a few more years, eventually falling to infighting and federal indictments.

Now who is more evil? George W. Bush or Huey P. Long? We debate.

Although strikingly unintelligent, Bush managed to bankrupt the country, wasting our patrimony on ludicrous tax cuts and giving trillions to Halliburton; start two wars no one can win; and blow up the economy. Derailed easily by groupthink, Bush lacked Long’s narcissism and utter ruthlessness. Could you imagine Huey P. Long with nuclear weapons? The States would be a desolation. And with that realization, we crown Huey P. Long far more evil than George W. Bush.

Dropping Barkley at the airport, we bid him a fond farewell. He’s been a wonderful co-traveler and worthy fellow road scholar as we courageously explore America.

Before returning to our crummy Airbnb, we stop at the conveniently located Whole Foods to procure something for dinner. The cashier tells us, in deference to his personal sanity, that he has never visited the GW Bush Museum. GW Bush, we learn, shops at the other Dallas Whole Foods, surrounded by a bevy of Secret Service people. As an American, I’m so proud that I get to pay for this.

Back at the ranch, we make a wonderful dinner of chicken, potatoes, and green beans. This Airbnb, the worst we have ever leased, lacks all cooking equipment. Fortunately, we carry our own. Yeah! Real food! We contemplate another night on the horrid air mattresses, realizing that things could be worse. We could be Bush or his children. 

Monday, March 3, 2014 – Malevolent Anime Gods

Rising, I head for the bathroom. I collapse onto the toilet seat breaking it. In horror, the boys name me the toilet terrorist. Fearing the seat destruction may have attracted undesirable supernatural attention, we speedily depart before Thor hurls a thunderbolt our way.

Today all three boys gang up on me, informing me that we will visit an airplane museum.  Anticipating my fate, I carry plenty of reading material. I finished the Laura plantation book yesterday. As we depart Louisiana, I plan to pick up Kit Carson again, mentally preparing for our reabsorption into the West.

Pearl cruises over to the Global Power Museum. She can’t breach the security fence and gate barricades, much less the anti-tank concrete and orange construction fencing.  Yes, Pearl could take out the orange construction fencing, but we would probably be shot by the US military. I’m not particularly interested in suicide by cop, and Pearl likes the way she looks now, sans bullet holes. Nervously, as if reading our thoughts, she interjects, “I’m not ready to die yet guys! I’m in the prime of my youth.” My personal suicidality mimics Anna Karenina, the romantic heroine who throws herself in front of an oncoming train. No self-respecting Tolstoy character would attack a fortified US military base. Boring!

All musing aside, and already impressed by the size of our country’s global power, we look for another entrance to the museum. We find the visitor center a few miles away. Personnel there inform us we must return to the heavily guarded gate, park Pearl, walk up to the gate and be granted admission. Following military directions exactly, we return to gate number one. A young soldier takes our drivers’ licenses and studies them intently.

We face a temporary construction gate with no cutaways in the curbs. Sven can’t climb the regular curbs and enter. The young soldier, ever helpful, volunteers to find his superior who would allow taking down some fencing, permitting my entry. Altruistically, I don’t want to make the guy work that hard. The cold handily abets my altruism. With the wind and the humidity, I’m chilled to the bone. More gratefully than I wish to admit, I return to Pearl’s relative warmth, settling in for a well-deserved read.  “Ah, Beaver,” mutters Pearl, “you’re back. Let’s nod.”  We bask in the heat and doze.

The boys spend about an hour looking at airplanes outdoors in the wet cold, proving their masculinity, I suppose. I think we keep nukes here at this base, but the boys don’t see any.  On second thought, they think they may have seen a nuke under a B-52.  Obviously, you can find anything you ever could need at the Eighth Air Force Museum.

Back safe and warm in Pearl, the boys and I debate the merits of Dallas versus Shreveport. The rural poverty in our country saddens and amazes me. I so live in the Denver bubble. We have no solutions to offer the victims of northern Louisiana’s dire economic straits, except moving. The poverty steals our souls, burrows into our guts, and profoundly depresses us. After a brief huddle, we decide to head west.  Naturally, by this time, we’ve missed the check-out deadline at our substandard hotel, and have purchased another night’s stay. Keith agrees to be part of our westward scheme only if our Dallas Airbnb host will take us tonight and tomorrow. Barkley calls and finds the efficiency apartment available. Yeah!

Further conferring, we decide to visit one last museum in Louisiana before striking out for Dallas. Barkley leaves tomorrow and must see the George W. Bush Presidential Center (located in Dallas), which occupies a prominent spot on his bucket list. We hear that Bush the Lesser has taken up painting dogs, on canvas, not on the animals. (Think about it. This is a logical question.) “All myths will be dispelled and I will truly know the man,” Barkley sardonically enthuses.  I can never tell when the boys are serious. Keith responds, “This will probably be like another sinkhole.”

Our path and destination determined, Pearl turns west once more, delivering us to the Louisiana State Exhibit Museum.  The wheel-shaped museum surrounds a courtyard containing a fountain. I suggest venturing outside to greet the fountain, in order to better appreciate its majesty. The boys opt to remain indoors, yet recovering from the awesomely cold Global Power Museum. The outdoor fountain beckons us spewing water in concentric patterns, defying our assertion that the mercury outdoors has dipped into the 20s. Huh, our blood must have thinned out again.

Safe inside the museum, we find an inner wall of displays and an outer wall of dioramas. We first explore the outer wall, moving from one scene to another. We see careful, thoughtful depictions exploring each of Louisiana’s industries, from cotton to corn, sugarcane, pigs, and chickens, all set on 1940s farms. We also see oil, salt and sulfur mines. Each diorama has models of appropriate machines along with human figurines, presented in sufficient detail that we learn something from nearly every scene.

Turning to the inner circle, travelling back around the wheel, we find an excellent signed-papers display. The museum has letters of Rochambeau and Lafayette from the country’s beginning, through letters of the Kennedys.  Aside from these luminaries, Andrew Jackson, Grant, Lee and numerous presidents’ signatures also grace the display.

Next to the signatures we find a fine collection of insects all pinned to the wall and quite dead.  Is there some hidden meaning in placing the insect display right next to the presidential signatures?  Keith views the bugs closely.  I squirm uncomfortably.   Pinned cockroaches give me the willies. Actually, all cockroaches flip me out; I can never believe that they’re really dead. I hurriedly turn away, worried that the bugs sneakily await, massing to march out and enter Pearl, ready to attack me while I sleep.

Completing the inner museum circle, we chat with a helpful guard who recommends lunch in Shreveport’s oldest restaurant. “Herby-K’s for real Louisiana food. That’s the place,” he says brightly.  By this moment in our journey, we find ourselves more than sorely tired of real Louisiana food, especially the mega-salt part, but the alternative is takeout Thai.

Pearl takes us over to Herby-K’s.  Spotting the 1950s neon sign, Keith parks across the street from the restaurant.  Sven and I gently descend onto a sidewalk only to find ourselves ensnared in a death trap. There’s no way off the sidewalk!  Swearing as he contemplates remaining on a Louisiana sidewalk for the remainder of our lives, Sven begins to pace back and forth, back and forth. Finally, he pulls his foot rests in high, as high as they go.  With great trepidation, we aim for the street.  But to no avail, we strand our main wheels, stuck on the high curb as the foot rests hit the street pavement. Straining their muscles, the boys push. With a metallic scraping groan from Sven, we land on the road. “If you guys keep this up,” snarls Sven, “there’s not going to be anything left of my feet!”

Entering the restaurant, Sven and I plow into nearly everything.  The small room holds three communal picnic tables, each of which Sven hits. The tables show no signs of damage from our impact, having withstood far worse in the past eighty years. Each table sports a roll of paper towels, centrally located, to be used as napkins. Herby-K’s has amassed a fine collection of neon bar lights, most bearing the name “Herby-K’s.” We order some fried food. I have shrimp. It’s okay. The fries are frozen, disgusting by nature. The decor and local appeal far exceed the actual quality of the food. But what the hey, we’re on an adventure, no?

Burping as our bodies attempt to absorb the grease load, we return to the lovely Super 8 to collect our belongings. We load Pearl and head for Dallas, three hours west.

As Pearl flies west, we watch the windowless trailers and bombed out buildings recede to the east.  A half hour’s drive deposits us in Texas once again. Crossing the state line, we already see a bit more wealth. People still live in trailers, but the trailers have windows and doors. Mentally, I take my hands and wipe down my arms.  Shaking out my hands, I leave the stain of hopeless poverty behind in Louisiana, hopefully not to be confronted or seen again.

Ah, Texas again. The first mileage marker reads 635. Wow, 600 miles across the top of Texas.  Can you imagine walking it, as the Anglo pioneers did?

Cruising by at 75 mph, we pass one sign ominously discouraging unnecessary travel. Before Thor chased us from the hotel earlier this morning, we heard the weather prophets name yet another winter storm. Glancing at the TV before we left, we saw rain forecast for our itinerary, albeit a cold rain. The Weather Channel cries wolf so often that we’ve long ceased to pay them any heed.

About halfway through our journey, we began to notice a plowed inch of snow on the berms. Crowded like all Texas highways, the I-20 traffic greatly exceeds the capacity of the small-four lane freeway. We slow as bridges become icy. Then we stop dead still for forty-five minutes. Bloodroot replaces Bear as driver. In an hour and a half we travel ten miles on the dry, bare road. We see skid marks and cars spun off of the road in myriad directions. I fear some stupendous cosmic being tossed vehicles toward the road, missing the mark often, much as a child would volley a handful of marbles toward a target. Most cars have been towed, leaving only tire ruts as silent reminders of their path through the roadside mud.

Stopping to buy gas at the sole open gas station, we stretch our legs.  Bloodroot, ever patient, wants to take a side road around the traffic mess. The clerk informs Bloodroot that all the roads are seriously iced and sternly admonishes him to stay on the freeway. Leaving the gas station, we merge back into highway traffic. We notice the big trucks begin to pull off onto the roadside, their drivers choosing to sleep out the weather.

Traffic halts again. We sit dead still for another thirty minutes. I become certain that the ice and snow on the road are not natural, but have really been thrown there by some malevolent god from an anime series.  We’ve already angered Thor. Could we be attracting the unwanted attention of various immortals? Noting that I have never read a single anime novel, much less a series, the boys ascribe my questions to the deranged rantings of a terminally syphilitic mind. They whisper nervously amongst themselves. I hear only the word “straightjacket.”

Slowly, as the semis exit the road, traffic begins to speed up, eventually reaching a colossal 40 mph.  We drive another twenty miles on a fairly icy road. Then the road clears and traffic resumes speed as if nothing had ever occurred, confirming my suspicions about the malevolent anime gods. We sail into Dallas on dry, clear pavement.

Our kind Airbnb host has waited for us and hands us the keys at a bit past 10 PM. We left Shreveport at four.  What a grueling journey! We close the door to our haven of rest and hear a deep throaty chuckle. The Bear sniffs the air. “Oh-oh,” he says. We look about discovering the absolute worst Airbnb we’ve ever rented. The efficiency apartment holds two hideous air mattress quasi-beds and a patio table with four chairs. Exploring, we find no TV, no microwave, no pots, no pans, no silverware, no dishes, nothing.

Wow, is this place massively overpriced! At least we’re not spun off the road in Texas. “Take that!,” I think at the evil following us, but not out loud since we’ve already had our share of bad luck today.

Making the best of the situation, the boys return to Pearl and wake her. She grumbles at them but opens her doors to allow them access to our cooking equipment. The boys tote our stuff upstairs. Keith creates a nice dinner under the most trying of circumstances.

We wash up after dinner and settle in for the most uncomfortable night of our journey. Air mattresses suck period and these have the added joy of attached air pumps that cycle on and off all night refilling the mattresses as they lose air.

We hope tomorrow brings a better day, a day where we attract no attention from angry deities!

Sunday, March 2, 2014 – Poverty Point State Park & National Historic Site

Today we plan to tour Poverty Point, the largest prehistoric mound area in the Americas, obviously an outdoor venue.  The day dawns sunny, temperatures heading to the high 70s.  Yeah! 

Inspired by good weather, we arise, opening the window.  We recoil as the grease-laden stench of fast food from our lovely neighboring Wendy’s once more bombards us.  Enough already!  Let’s get out of here.

Leaving Vicksburg, at long last Pearl points her nose to the west and begins to head home, albeit a few states away. Does Pearl’s pace quicken as she senses her proverbial barn? “Beaver!” snarls Pearl, “I don’t live in a barn. You know as well as I do that I have a nice modern garage analogous to your house. Don’t insult me!”

“My, are we touchy today,” I respond.

Bloodroot jumps in, “Stop this! Beaver, you don’t want Pearl to abandon us right here in Mississippi and Pearl you know better, Westward Ho!”

We stop fighting as Pearl begins the long journey home.

And, although she won’t admit it, her pace quickens.  I hush before I’m tossed out of the van.

As we travel west, we listen to the end of Huey Long’s audiobook biography.  In 1934, Long commanded vast popular support through his “Share our Wealth” plan.  Bemoaning capitalism’s failure, where 15% of the population owned 95% of the wealth (sound familiar?), Long proposed using taxation to limit all fortunes to $5 million dollars ($60 million today), distributing the excess to the poor.  Despite his reputation today, much of Long’s platform called for progressive reforms.  He supported education, vocational training, pensions for the elderly, shorter work weeks, month-long vacations, personal debt restructuring, veterans’ benefits and socialized healthcare.   Long’s popularity scared Roosevelt; many feel Long actually pushed Roosevelt further left.

Yet under Long’s smiling populist demeanor lay an obsessive, all-consuming quest for complete and absolute power. Using a senatorial filibuster, Long singlehandedly delayed the passage of the Social Security Act, legislation he hated because it wasn’t his bill.  Under his pitiless rule, Louisiana became his own personal fiefdom.  Using the Louisiana State Police as his private army, he intimidated opponents.  But he didn’t stop there; he destroyed their businesses and livelihoods.  Pretty scary.  We wonder, Would Long have become our Hitler had he not been assassinated?  Did only blind luck flying forth from an assassin’s pistol save this country?

An hour later, still sulking a bit, Pearl delivers us to Poverty Point National Monument.  A most excellent Ranger greets us and leads our tour.  An archaeologist, he carefully explains the science behind each theory and assumption about the peoples who once lived here.  We embark on a forty-five minute tram ride covering most of Poverty Point’s four hundred acres.

Poverty Point, named for a farm once located here, forms the largest mound group in the Americas.  Thirty-five hundred years ago, Mississippian Indians moved tons of dirt to create a concentric ring of six mounds, shaped like C’s, all facing east toward a large flat ceremonial space. Five paths cross each mound, the aisles allowing access to the center.  The five-foot high mounds have an outside diameter of three-fourths of a mile and inside diameter of three-eighths of a mile.  The Mississippians brought in more dirt to fill and level the ceremonial space.

People built dwellings on the mounds; archaeologists found middens (garbage dumps) behind the home sites.  Current science posits the people to be gatherer-hunters because no agricultural remains have been found in the middens.  However, little remains of the mounds and middens after thirty-five hundred years of erosion and one-hundred fifty years of cotton farming.  It stretches my credulity to believe that gathering-hunting could support this large site.

The Mississippians also created three high mounds across from their homes, the most spectacular being the 100-foot-high bird mound.  Too big to be plowed, the sculpted earth remained unnoticed until the invention of aerial photography.  The aerial photos revealed a bird with full outstretched wings poised to launch into flight.  Using archaeological research, scientists discovered the bird mound consumed 238,000 cubic meters of fill, constructed in about a month.

Altogether, archaeologists estimate the Mississippians moved 50 million cubic meters of soil. Presuming each cubic meter of dirt weighed 100 pounds, and people carried 50-pound loads in baskets on their backs, the construction would have required 100 million baskets of dirt, translating into an estimated five million labor hours.  Slack-jawed, I sit astounded, imagining a stupendous multigenerational effort.

Poverty Point was part of a huge trading network. The mounds and people sat up on a bluff, giving them the riches of the Mississippi Delta while avoiding the Mississippi’s flooding and her floodplain.

The tram ride terminates at the visitor center, where we find some of the thousands of artifacts recovered. We see arrowheads, atlatl weights, stone tools, soapstone bowls, beads and small carved owls.  And, I concede, no evidence of agriculture.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse park passport stamps. Bloodroot, highly excited, inquires about the stamp. Ae we’re in the South, the Ranger begins to tease him as to the location of our passports. “Are you sure you brought them?  Could you have left them in Vicksburg?  A thing not minded is easily misplaced.” Bloodroot runs to the car.  Searching desperately, throwing things about, after only a few minutes he uncovers the passports.  Triumphantly, he returns, presenting them to receive the coveted stamps.

Outside, we find picnic tables and the boys set up lunch.  A storm begins to blow in, changing the weather from sunny to scary.  Our new stove works amazingly well in the intense wind. The boys feed us a lunch of soup and hot dogs.

Leaving the park, Bloodroot remarks how much he loves the feeling of an impending storm. I recall feeling that way for years and years, now I just want to be inside watching the wind and the rain.  Aging changes us, eh?  Bloodroot and Pearl drive across northern Louisiana while the temperature drops 30°, arriving in Shreveport around dinnertime.

Locating our hotel, we enter. Tonight, the hotel has remembered to give us our handicapped room; however the hotel is also a Motel 8.  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”  Surveying our tiny room, I realize that we need to step up a level, stop whining, and just cough up the cash for better motels.  To create room for Sven, he and I collaborate, ramming the beds about the tiny room. Bloodroot commandeers Sven and hits the walls a few times, prompting Sven to yell, “Cut it out!”  Unlike the bedroom, the delightfully spacious bathroom seems designed for cripples, replete with grab-bars surrounding the toilet.

After rearranging the room, we begin to think about dinner.  Barkley announces that he will treat us tonight. Researching with Urban Spoon, he finds a Thai place close to our motel, open on Sundays. 

Bounding into Pearl, dodging raindrops, we eagerly anticipate Thai food. Around a mile from the hotel, Pearl quickly zeroes in on the restaurant.  Oh no!   Restaurant closed! Urban Spoon lied!  The Internet has failed us.  “Is there any meaning to life?” the boys moan, wondering whether or not their misplaced faith requires them to commit seppuku (Japanese ritual suicide). 

Pearl rolls her eyes, dispelling the gloom of a potentially apocalyptic situation.  “Let’s go downtown, kids,” she offers.  Hope returns to the boys’ faces as we turn toward Shreveport proper. Recovering from the close call, they choose to live another day. Minutes later, garish lights assault us, desecrating the night sky.  “Casinos! Quick, turn again, Pearl!” Barkley commands.  “We must, at all cost, avoid the all-you-can-eat gambling-den feeding troughs.”

Safely downtown, escaping the casinos and their vile temptations, we seek our supper.  Pearl cruises past the sole open place. “That’s a piano bar, Beaver,” Bear says dismissively. We drive around for another twenty minutes. Except for the casinos, we find central Shreveport dark and deserted. The rain continues, picking up a bit of steam. Giving up, we return to the piano bar, park and walk in, for the moment simply glad to escape the weather.

Shaking off the wet, we peek about us.  No overplayed, horrid, ear-worming old chestnut songs assail our ears.  No piano.  No cigarette smoke attacks our nostrils or lungs.  Quickly shown a table, we order drinks.  Fortified by alcohol, we relax indoors away from nature’s fury.  We quiz our server who confirms our suspicions: “Outside of the casinos, we’re the only place open on a Sunday night.”

“Three cheers for stumbling through life AND through Shreveport, Louisiana,” enthuses Barkley, raising his glass to toast our success.

I order blackened snapper, delighted to find it actually quite tasty. The boys enjoy catfish and a shrimp dish. We luxuriate in the warmth as the cold and rain outside drench the city.  We slowly finish our meals.  The boys delay our encounter with reality by ordering dessert.  At long last, we rise and depart.  Outside, the rain begins to blow sideways.  We scramble quickly back into Pearl.  Sven rolls in first, happy not to have shorted out.  “That was a close one, Beaver!” he admonishes us.  We return to our cheap hotel room, now gratefully accepting the refuge provided from the storm.

The boys turn on the TV. I forgot how much I hate television. Fortunately, I soon fell fast asleep, hoping for better weather tomorrow.