Eating in Lebanon

 In the 1940's and 50's, when I was a youngster in New Hampshire, my family didn't have enough money to eat in restaurants very often, and when we did, it was almost always in one of two family-owned places in Lebanon, the next town north. One, called the Nubridge, was near a bridge over the Mascoma River, and the other, the Riverside Grill, was on the banks of that same river several miles upstream, just east of town. No matter which restaurant we chose, my meal would be a plate of fried clams. Both places served them in a heap, next to another heap of french fries, and a small serving of cole slaw, and a fountain coke served with lots of ice in a fluted brownish plastic glass and a straw. Occasionally, we'd eat in a similar place along the Sugar river in Claremont, but their clams were not as good as the ones in the Lebanon restaurants.

Fried clams were Mom's favorite and were not particularly expensive (the latter may explain the former, and most certainly what comes next) and on our way on Route 120, she'd comment on how good those clams were going to taste. By the time we got to the restaurant, probably because of what some scientist called a conditional response to stimuli, all I knew was that I would order fried clams. I have no recollection of ever reading the menu and I certainly don't remember ever having anything else.

To this day, I salivate at the thought of those clams and whenever I travel up to that part of New England, I make sure I get my fill of them, because in the part of Georgia where I live, the only clams you can find have been stripped of the good part, leaving only a deep fried rubbery strip with a faint taste of the sea. I wonder what they do with the bellies stolen from clam strips.

What's wrong with Trump?

About 60% (or more) of us dislike Donald Trump. Most avid Fox Entertainment News watchers, and Republicans, will tell you all of the wrong reasons why we despise him.

Here are the real reasons.

- Trump is an embarrassment. We are now forced each morning to learn what new and embarrassing things the leader of the nation we used to be proud of has said or done on the world stage.

-Trump is a raging, malignant narcissist. Many of us knew what that meant. We already knew what problems are associated with this disorder. It meant he couldn't love our country - or its citizens. And he doesn't. And he can't. But we were still standing here loving our nation. He's never even spoken to us — even after all this time. He either calls us names (Losers, Haters), or he speaks "on behalf of the nation" without knowing our beliefs or thoughts. Three years into this and he still only talks to his "base".

-His severe narcissism also makes him extremely predictable and most people in our Intelligence community will tell you how dangerous that is. Many of us, who already grew up with a bully knew this. We did not need to re-learn this and did not want to watch it slowly play out in the real world.
Trump is amoral and exceedingly unethical. We didn't (and still don't) want to try to explain this to our children and grandchildren. We believe our President should be a role model and of the highest integrity. We also used to gain inspiration from our Presidents (both Republican and Democratic)… now we are just ashamed. We've been cringing daily for three years now.
Trump is a liar bent on making (or keeping) his "base" angry and afraid. He spins everything and tells his "followers " the press is their enemy. This is for his benefit alone (narcissist) and not for the good of the nation. He lies every single day, to all sorts of people, and refuses to see that a divided nation is a weakened nation. Why? Because he has Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
Trump isn't intelligent. He speaks in a childish way and half the time sounds like a moron. He has convinced a good portion (maybe 38%) of the nation that he is smart (he has a "big brain") but none of us who have already survived the torture of living with a narcissist believe what he says — or that he is intelligent. We see the commoner that he is.
Trump is not prepared or qualified for the presidency. He knows next to nothing about governance, and will not bother to learn about it because he only serves, and cares about, himself. He, as commentator Tim Harding said, "fails to understand important aspects of our constitution such as separation of powers and rule of law." At least 60% of us thought our nation didn't have time to wait for him to "get up to speed" and many of this same group also knew he'd never make a real effort to learn the job requirements — ever.
Trump spits in the faces of women, minorities, Muslims, Mexicans, black people, other nations (including allies), and Democrats. He's a despicable xenophobe, racist, misogynist, and philanderer. He's a total wreck of a man-baby and an example of the worst behavior possible. This is intolerable to us.
We (60% or more) don't believe that simply being wealthy qualifies a person for any political office. It does not prove ability—especially when one is born into it. It certainly does not prove honesty, integrity, or accountability. Yet, we still want these qualities in our president and our politicians.
We (the 60%+) knew (or at least those of us who've studied political science) we would most likely have a Republican president after 8 years with a Democratic president and we were willing to work with most any of them — except Trump.
Trump has lowered the respect and trust the United States previously had in the world.

Now, these are NOT the reasons we despise trump.

a. Because the Democrats didn't win the election.

b. Because Hillary Clinton did not win.

c. Because a so-called Republican won the election.

d. Because we are "snowflakes". In fact it takes much more courage to care about those less fortunate than ourselves and use our time and resources to help them. It takes real selflessness to see problems in society and try to fix them — even if we see later we failed. It takes real strength of character to see that some parts of society are being treated badly and then change ourselves and/or our laws to make things better for everyone. It virtually takes NO courage to only care about ourselves. In fact, we couldn't be that selfish if we tried.

Thoughts on Election Day

 

In 1988, I had an opportunity few Americans in my social class ever get to experience.  I was invited to the Residence of Portuguese Ambassador to the United States for an election returns watch.  My wife (at the time) was acquainted with the Ambassador’s wife through a woman’s cultural, social and charitable club.  I’d met her a few time and found her to be a nice lady.  That evening I met the Ambassador and my impression of him was that he understood our election process as well as, or perhaps better than, the average American.

There were Americans at the party that I’d known socially for several years and there were several members of the Portuguese Air Force that I knew from parties, and one couple from the World Bank that I’d taken to the Maryland State Fair a few years earlier.  With this introduction, I’m not trying to boost my standing in the diplomatic community (it was nil) and because I was invited as the guest of my wife, I chose to wear a business suit rather than my Air Force uniform, a choice I didn’t regret when a close friend, a US Navy Lieutenant Commander  also wore a suit. 

In past elections, I’d watched the returns in my own living room.  Now I was given the opportunity to see how people from another country and culture viewed our elections.  There were TV’s in each public room and chairs set up around each in such a manner as to also allow standees to watch.  Each room boasted a hosted bar and small buffet.  Let me say, the Portuguese really know how to eat and drink.

As returns were announced, the room I was in buzzed as if each state’s vote count was going to make or break the Vice-Presidents or the Governor’s campaign for President.  Relatively early in the evening, the media declared Bush to be the winner.  A short while later, as we were leaving, the Ambassador saw us and came across the room to thank us for coming and for the democratic way we choose our leaders.  I was surprised at the latter, but in retrospect, realized it was our forefathers who had derived a scheme to solve problems that no longer existed in 1988. 

2019 - Not the Healthiest Year

My health has become an issue, and has thus been on my mind of late,  Because of that, I've avoided the subject of health on Facebook lest I slip up and prematurely announce our concerns before we knew what direction we'd take.

In January, an ultrasound showed that I had some sort of mass in my urinary bladder, so my doctor referred me to a urologist.  He performed a cystoscopy and found three bladder stones that will require surgical removal.  Before he would schedule that, he wanted more tests, so I was referred to a rectal/colon surgeon.  Before she would run any tests, she referred me to a heart doctor to make sure my ticker was operational.  It was found to be working well (for a 77 year old), so she performed a colonoscopy.  She found a cancerous polyp, but referred me to another doctor for an endoscopic ultrasound.  It more clearly defined the problem and I underwent surgery to remove it.  While that polyp is gone, the indications are that some cancer remains and  further treatment is necessary  The first option was more surgery and a colostomy bag for my remaining years.  The second option seemed far more palatable and offered nearly the same longevity, so we opted for radiation treatment.

Both tests also showed a large number of polyps that must be removed in the near future

Today, I began the process that will entail (OK, so I can't resist a pun) up to six or seven weeks of radiation treatment, five times a week.   That will take me into at least mid-October,  After that, we'll deal with the polyps and those bladder stones.   I'd like to think that Christmas would find me hale and hardy.  At least I won't have to worry about shoveling snow,

Thanks for reading.

Travels - Kansas to Maine

The story of this particular journey will begin part way through a trip that originated at the northwestern most town in North Dakota, Fortuna, and ended in the small town of Caswell in northern Aroostook County, Maine.  For the sake of brevity and to leave me room for another yarn describing the first half of my trip at another time, I'll begin as I left Wichita, Kansas heading towards Maine, with no map in the car, but armed with the knowledge that certain cities lay along the path I wanted to follow

I'd spent some time visiting with my children and their mother in Wichita, but it was time to move on.  I'd been reassigned to a USAF radar site in northern Maine and I'd already used up a number of the days I was allotted for the trip and the leave I'd been granted.  It was in the early summer of 1970 and nearly everything I owned had been crammed into the trunk and back seat of my year and a half old Plymouth.  There was room open behind me so I could use the rear view mirror, but no room for anything else.  The radio in my car had failed, but earlier, I'd added an 8-track cartridge player that hung beneath the dash in front of the shifting lever.  The number of cartridges that I owned now escapes me, but some of the names of them remain fresh: The Lettermen, The Carpenters and Blood, Sweat and Tears, and to this day, I can sing along to a number of the tunes I played over and over 

I'd had a good time with the kids and a side trip, but when I drove out onto highway heading northeast, I had about $30.00 in cash and an ESSO gas card.  I knew full well I'd need to limit my spending to only what was absolutely necessary.   Some of that trip is but a blur in the mind of this septuagenarian, but other parts are as clear as if they'd happened just yesterday.

Leaving Wichita, I srove due east on US-54, not exactly the fastest or shortest route, but the Interstate highway between Wichita and Kansas City was a toll road and I couldn't spend money that way.  I made it up into northern Indiana that day, fading about the time I passed Peru, so I bagan looking for a McDonalds and a place to park for he night.  I saw a roadside picnic area on the right and a mile or so further on, a lit up golden arch.  I stopped, got a burger and fries to go, then drove back to that picnic area.

I parked my car near a picnic table with one of those seemingly unsanitary iron grills on a pipe in the ground, sat at the table and ate my dinner in peace.  It was a quiet place and the traffic along the highway didn't seem to be terribly heavy, so I unrolled my sleeping bag on the ground next to my car, crawled in, and within a minute or so was sound asleep.  Around two or three the next morning, I awoke with a start.  The ground was shaking.  I sat up in my cocoon and looked around and behind some trees to the west saw a brilliant light flashing back and forth and in a second or two, heard the violence of a train whistle piercing the night air.  Unbeknownst to me at the time I'd parked, that picnic area was immediately adjacent to a set of railroad tracks and a Burlington Northern freight train was interrupting my sleep.

The train soon was gone, but so was my sleep, so I rolled up my sleeping bag, shoved it back in the back of the car, took my trash to a nearby barrel, started my car and drove east.

Later that day, I exited a tunnel west of Wheeling, West Virginia to a somewhat sobering sight,   The highway sloped down into a valley and back up the other side.  At the bottom, a pickup truck towing a pop-op camper topped with a car-top fishing boat began swerving from lane to lane with that camper whipping back and forth behind.  The truck then jerked off the pavement into a rather deep, grassy median and began a slow roll.  The trailer snapped loose and bounded freely up the center of the median, spewing the boat, clothing, and all matter of debris in its path.  By the time it had stopped, I was already past the scene in some fairly fast moving traffic, but in my mirror I could see cars stopped and people moving about, so I just kept on motoring.

Over the years, I'd read the college football scores in the Sunday papers and one name always stuck out - Slippery Rock State College.  Entering Wheeling, I saw a road sign pointing towards Slippery Rock and on the spur of the moment, decided I'd go see the college.  The route took me west of Pittsburgh and in a couple of hours, I found myself parked in front of a brick building with a tall clock tower.    I've been to Slippery Rock.

Later, in the early afternoon, I was traveling east in a divided highway when a rest stop sign cooperated with a need I was building.  In the many years since that trip, I've used a lot of public rest stops.   This one was clean enough, but had no running water - it was an outhouse on a larger scale that I'd ever seen.   Mom taught us to always wash our hands after going, but this oversized outhouse had no sinks.  Back outside, I saw an old fashioned hand pump in the center of a small graveled area, so I went to it and moved the handle up and down.  Sure enough water flowed from the spout, but by the time I could get my hand down to the spout, the water stopped.  I tried three or four times and only succeeded in getting one hand wet.  There were three young guys nearby eating lunch and when they saw my dilemma, one of them came over and pumped away so I could wash my hands and get enough to splash on my face.

They invited me to join them, so I got some food from my car and did just that.  It turned out that two of them were students out for a road trip in an old van and the third was a hitchhiker they'd picked up the previous day.  The two were headed towards Washington, DC, but the hitchhiker wanted to get to Connecticut.  Once he found that I was heading to New Hampshire he asked if he could ride with me because he'd get closer to his destination with me.  I told him I didn't have any room for any luggage, but the front passenger seat could be his if he wanted.  He went to the van and got a small old-fashioned suitcase, we both piled into my Plymouth and were soon underway, he with his suitcase on his legs and lap.  At least I had someone to talk with for a while.

That evening as darkness made travel in a strange land difficult, we found ourselves in Wilkes-Barre and I knew I wanted to head northeast through Scranton, but couldn't find a highway sign pointing towards the city.  I spotted a police cruiser in a gas station, so I pulled in, got out and asked the officer how to get there.  He told me to go back on the same street and turn right at the second light.  I thanked him, got back in the car and headed in the direction he'd pointed.  At the second light I found a one-way street going to the left.

Eventually, we fumbled our way out of Wilkes-Barre in the right direction.  Somewhere in those rolling hills of NE Pennsylvania, we ran into a downpour.  I'd been awake a long, long time and trying to see a dark two-lane highway with windshield wipers slapping time (Thanks, Kris.  I'd first heard that song in a bar in Phoenix earlier on another leg of this same trip), I decided it would be best to get off the road.   I found a picnic area and pulled in.  I went to sleep almost immediately with the drum of rain on the roof and can only assume my rider did the same, even while cuddling his suitcase.

Early in the morning, the sun streamed through the windshield and woke me up.  My rider awoke when I started the car - the engine was fairly high powered and the exhaust rumbled, nicely to me then, probably irritating to me now, some 49 years later.  We motored on into New York State, up to Troy, then east over the mountains of southern Vermont.  As we came down on the plain around Brattleboro, we ran into that same hard rain that we'd slept through in Pennsylvania.  My companion had indicated he'd get out at the Interstate, but with it raining so hard, I suggested it would be more comfortable if he got out in town and waited for the storm to pass.  He decided to go as planned, so I let him out at the bottom of the ramp to the southbound lane.  The last time I ever saw him, he was holding his suitcase over his head with one hand and holding the thumb of his other hand out for a ride south.

Heading north, I soon drove out of the storm and was enjoying the beauty of the Vermont hills somewhere south of Springfield when in the southbound lane, I saw a light green Malibu convertible with a grey-haired lady driving.  I was sure it was my folks who knew I was coming, but not exactly when.

An hour or so later, I was at home and sure enough, they weren't.  I let myself in, got some clothes from my car, and took a long shower, hoping they weren't going to be gone long.  On the dining room table was an envelope addressed to me containing an Air Force paycheck  I'd had forwarded to them.  Just in time - I had about $6.00 left.

After my shower, I unloaded my car, putting my belongings in the Summer House (family and some NH friends will know what that is) and drove up to my grandparents to see if they knew where Mom and Dad were.  They didn't, but we came to the conclusion that they'd soon be back because if they were going to be gone even overnight, they'd have said something.  Sure enough, while I visited with them, Mom called.  She'd noticed the mess I'd left in the bathroom and guessed where I might be.  I'd left the bath mat on the floor.  It had been them I'd seen on the highway, they'd driven down to Putney to a basket outlet.

I stayed in NH just a few days before continuing my trip to Aroostook County, Maine.  Going north on Interstate 95 out of Bangor, once I'd passed Orono, the home of the University of Maine, and Old Town, famous for the canoes built there, the Interstate became a two lane highway stretching through mile after mile of dense forest. A song from a decade earlier stayed in my head along that stretch, Dick Curliss' Tombstone Every Mile.  Those who remember the song will know why.   At exits to towns along the way, the highway would change to four lanes through an interchange, then revert to two lanes again.

At one of those interchanges, I needed a break, so I swung off and drove to a small diner.  Inside, I ordered a doughnut and a cup of coffee.  The lady who took my order asked if I wanted that coffee regular.  Not knowing any better, I told her I did.  It came with cream and sugar already added.  I've always taken my coffee black with no sugar, but apparently I got what I'd ordered.

I-95 ended at the town of Houlton and from there on up to my destination, I passed through numerous villages and past vast fields of potato plants.  Approaching the town of Limestone at 55 MPH or so, I missed a 35 MPH sign place strategically just past a large maple tree on a curve and was pulled over by a town cop and given a ticket for speeding.

Ten minutes later, I saw the large radomes and pulled onto the base, found the Orderly Room and signed in.  My trip was finished.

Oh, one more thing.  The NCOIC of the Radar Shop where I was presumably going to work came to the Orderly Room and introduced himself, and guided me to the maintenance building.  On the way, he cautioned me about a speed trap in Limestone.  I ruefully acknowledged I'd learned of the trap the hard way.

Travels Chapter 1

When I went into the Air Force in 1961, my travels had been limited to a family journey one summer from New Hampshire to Maryland, occasional drives to upstate New York to stay with some cousins of my Dad, and a number of trips to the coast including Maine's Old Orchard beach, Hampton and Rye beaches in New Hampshire,  Cape Cod, a really special fishing trip with Dad, my uncle Roy and cousin Fred, and one trip to Long Island with college buddies.

In the ensuing years between October 3, 1961 and whenever I choose to end this yarn, I've managed a number of cross-country journeys and even a couple in other countries that I'll touch upon.  The first trip I took was unremarkable for the most part, beginning at my recruiter's office in Claremont, NH and ending as I stepped off a blue USAF bus on Lackland AFB outside San Antonio, TX with an Airman First Class Starr hollering at us as if we'd done something wrong. In between, I'd taken a bus from Claremont to Manchester and then Boston,a train to New York City, a subway out to Newark, then my first-ever plane ride to Baltimore, Kansas City, and finally San Antonio where we got on the blue bus.

November 1961 - The next trip is still vivid in my memory.  Following Air Force Basic Training, I was driven with a bunch of other fellows in blue uniforms with no stripes and little hair to a train station on yet another blue bus.  We were given tickets for sleeper cars and more tickets for meals. Our first stop was in San Angelo, TX where we got off the train and stretched our legs.

Rolling out of San Angelo, the track ran along grassy hills, occasional dry wash cuts with stunted, twisted trees, and a farm or two every once in a while.   I watched those rolling hills expecting to see a cowboy or two herding cattle, wondering if the passing train would startle a herd into a stampede, (remember, I was raised in New Hampshire and played lots of cowboy scenarios on heavily forested hills, but dreaming we were in the wild west) but the cows I saw all were just grazing, ignoring the train going by.  I even fantasized that I might see a mounted posse chasing bank robbers.  Nope, just miles and miles of miles and miles.

We would go to a dining car for our meals and pay for them with the tickets we'd been given in San Antonio.  After going through basic training with the our often tasteless meals plopped on stainless steel compartmented trays as we shuffled through the chow line at attention, eating in a dining car was luxurious.  The waiters were dressed to the nines, tableware was laid out in specific order, the plates were fancy, and we could have anything on the menu.

We arrived in Denver in the early evening.  It was mid November and cold, and we were herded into more blue USAF buses for the trip out to Lowry AFB.  I remember my amazement at seeing how clean Denver appeared to be, but my big city experiences had so far been limited to Boston, New York, Baltimore and San Antonio, non of which were particularly careful in maintaining clean streets,  Denver was.  It seems odd today, because subsequent trips to Denver have not shown it to be remarkably clean.

At Lowry, we were herded off the blue buses and into a wooden two-story World War II-era barracks.   An odd memory of that first night was the aroma of coal smoke that seemed omnipresent.  Each of those old barracks was heated by a coal furnace with which I was to become familiar that winter as one of my duties would be feed them, stoke the fire and remove the ashes.

February, 1962 - Partway though my first technical school, we were given a two week break and told we could take leave, or, if we stayed on base, be assigned to details.  Three of us, Brian Walker, Jim Osier and I decided to take a train home to the northeast, Brian and Jim to western New York, and me to Albany where my father would meet the train.  A friend, whose name is long forgotten, but who was known to be of age to purchase adult beverages, took us to the train station.  Along the way, he stopped at a liquor store and, using funds we'd provided, purchased a bottle that we would need on our journey.  To this day, I do not understand why he bought a bottle of Beefeaters gin, but that's what we got.

Denverites have a majestic view to the west of the city, that, despite its nickname of the Mile High City, is really in a long low valley.  Once you are out of that valley on the east, the tallest things between Colorado and Chicago are grain elevators, and we saw lots of them.

We could go out on the platform between cars for some fresh air, but in February, the midwest air is a bit cool, so it was just for a change that we did it.  We kept the gin hidden (none of us was of age), decanting it into a thermos jug, then spiking whatever soft drinks we could buy from the cart that a porter would push through the car from time to time.  By evening, he was out of colas, so I got an orange soda.  Think Fanta and Beefeaters and realize that I was but 19 years of age and hadn't yet become the refined imbiber that I've become in old age.  We weren't terribly boisterous, but caught the attention of an older woman (mid twenties, perhaps) who was traveling with two small children and at some point asked me what we had in the Thermos.  I identified the contents and offered her some, but she demurred.  She was probably far too sophisticated for that sort of drinking.

Now, when I'd traveled from San Antonio to Denver, we traveled in Pullman cars fitted with little rooms with seats for four that a porter transformed into bunks at bedtime, but the taxpayers were funding that trip.  When it came time for us to buy our own tickets, our personal funds only were enough to get a seat, so we sat up from Colorado to New York.   Lest that sounds like a gripe on my part, I remember my grandfather talking about his travels in France during WWI - he liked to tell of traveling in side-door Pullmans, known as freight cars in other parts of society.  My other grandfather had served in the Vermont National Guard that deployed to Eagle Pass, Texas as part of the Punitive Expedition under General Pershing.  He kept a small diary that listed every stop the train made on his way home.

We bought sandwiches from the porter's cart and surreptitiously spiked our drinks from the Thermos.  The trip continued with the three of us catnapping through the night.  At Chicago, we were told that there was some sort of incident on the tracks ahead, so the train was being routed up into Michigan and our arrival times would be extended by a couple of hours.  I called my folks from a pay phone (remember those?) in Union Station and told them.   They both worked, so I told them if they couldn't get down to Albany, I'd hitchhike home through Vermont.

Brian and Jim got off in western New York and then, around four in the morning, the trained pulled into Albany.  It was snowing, hardly conducive to carrying my bag out to the highway, so I settled down in a corner of the station, figuring I'd better wait until daylight.  Frankly, I had no idea how to get from where I was to where I wanted to be.   I knew that the route up into southern Vermont went east out of Troy, but I didn't know how to get to Troy.

I kept going to the door and checking on the snow and saw that it had dwindled to a light flurry, and it was almost daylight, so I found a couple of fellows who were cleaning the station and asked them how to get up to Troy and the highway I wanted.  They gave me pretty good directions but both of them found it necessary to tell me what I was planning wasn't terrible smart.

I pulled my Air Force wool winter overcoat out of my duffel bag and pulled it on over my dress blue uniform and headed for the door, but just as I did, my Mom and Dad came through the other door.  They'd been delayed by snow on the mountain roads through Vermont.  I'd never before been so happy to see them.

It seems strange, but aside from meeting up with Jim and Brian in western New York, I have absolutely no memory of the return trip.

Travels, Chapter 2

June 1965 - Now married with two children, the Air Force was sending me to Keesler AFB in Biloxi, MS for additional training.  I'd be there for nine months, so we were moving as a family.  I hadn't yet served enough time  to merit a government financed move, so we rented a trailer, hooked it to the bumper of my 1958 Oldsmobile and left Denver.  My folks had wanted us to visit, but the expense of driving to New Hampshire and then Mississippi would have a devastating effect on my E-4 pay, so we explained we'd have to pass.  Mom upped the ante with the offer of a gas credit card if I'd paint their house during my visit.  A no-brainer there.

Our crib mattress fit perfectly in the back seat of the Olds, a diaper pail in one footwell and a cooler in the other.  In 1965, we didn't yet know that kids needed to be strapped in special seats to ride safely.    Our son John was 7 months old and had declared his independence by creeping and crawling and pulling himself upright, but he had yet to manage more than a single tentative step which more often than not was immediately followed by an abrupt plop on his diaper-padded bottom and a grin.  With his sister, three-year old Sheila prompting and giggling, he took over that back seat.

The date we left our apartment in Denver and headed east is forever etched in Colorado history - June 16, 1965.  Look it up - the devastating flood, but we were blissfully unaware of any problems except that we knew we'd had an enormous amount of rain in the past week.  I'd had to do my final processing at Lowry AFB before we could leave, so it was mid-morning at least before we crested the eastern hills that made up Denver's valley.

In 1965, the interstate highway system was still as much an Eisenhower dream as it was a transportation medium.  Big cities in the northeast and California allowed many miles of unimpeded travel and pay-as-you-go turnpikes had sprung up in several eastern states, but between Denver and Chicago our choice was a four-lane divided highway interrupted by frequent towns, small cities, and farming communities.  If you look at a map, US 36 now seems to be a rural roadway

My wife's grandmother, ever doting, tried to make certain Sheila and John weren't bored on their long adventure by purchasing toys for them to take.  Noise making toys.  Things that squawked, rattled or had a string you pulled to hear baby talk.    There were many of this types of toys safely packed in that trailer attached to our car, but now the kids had new noise making toys.  By the trip's end, I had to restrain myself from throwing them out the window at 55 MPH.

That first day we made it all the way to St Joseph, MO, but it was nearly dark by the time we found a motel.   That it had been a rather long day had taken a toll on us all, but 7 month old John seemed to be the one most impacted.  Try as we might, we could not get him to settle down and, of course, the harder we tried, the louder he wailed.  Our budget didn't allow for high end accomodations, and it soon became apparent that there was little or no insulation in the walls between our room and the folks next door began banging on the wall, which of course, caused John to wail even louder  Eventually, his battery ran down and he fell asleep.  The next morning, I got some pretty serious glares as I loaded the car.

Day two found us near Chicago with a threatenly dark sky catching up to us and warnings of possible tornadoes on the AM radio.  I kept an eye on the road while watching for an affordable motel with  a 'Vacancy' sign while my wife kept a nervous eye on the sky.  Secretly, I was hoping to see a tornado, but I don't remember daring to mention it.

The rest of the trip has pretty much been absorbed by my grey matter, likely never to resurface.  I do remember stopping at a gas station somewhere between Chicago and Pennsylvania because hanging on the wall behind the cash register was a Stevens Crack-Shot 26 .22 rolling-block, single-shot rifle with friction tape holding the cracked stock together.  I asked him about it, but he reckoned it wasn't for sale.  I have one over the fireplace in our home now, the first gun my father ever owned.

After painting most of my folk's house between rainy days, it was time to head south to Biloxi.  We spent one night with relatives in Baltimore and then were on our way.  Now this was late June and driving through the south was a test.  As I said earlier, the Interstate Highway system was nowhere near complete, but we made it through Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia (probably passing within 20 miles or so of my home today).  I remember Atlanta only as a slow drive through what was then basically a small city and we finally reached Biloxi in the middle of the afternoon of June 28th 1965, my 23rd birthday.   The very idea of traveling that route today without air conditioning in the car is enough to cause shudders up and down my spine, but in 1965, AC still wasn't universal in automobiles.

We found a small motel within our budget that actually had a small kitchenette and was across Beach Boulevard from a market that had affordable fresh shrimp and sold cold beer.  We ate like kings that night and afterward, I sat outside on the covered porch finishing my beer.  An older fellow came out of his room a few doors down and saw me, so he came over to talk.  He saw my beer and asked if I drank the hard stuff.  When I allowed that I'd had the opportunity from time to time, he told me to get a 7-Up from the machine nearby and come to his room.  He was in his mid 60s and with him was his wife and mother.  On a dresser were several vodka bottles and in the trash can was another one.  He drained out part of my 7-Up and then filled the can from one of the bottles.  It certainly wasn't vodka.  He told me they made their own up in northern Mississippi.  My first taste of moonshine.

One thing I do remember from the trip is that my seven-year old Oldsmobile used oil and at about every fill-up, I'd have to add a quart.  I'd be advised of the engine's need for oil by a clacking noise as what I suspected was one or more lifter began starving for oil.  The car was black with a white top in what was called a 'hard-top convertible'  and by trip's end in Biloxi, MS, the rear of the car had a thick coat of oil that I cleaned off with many applications of Babo and lots of water.  We actually kept that car running another year and one more cross-country jaunt before we traded it.

One more note:  By the time we reached New Hampshire, my 7 month old son had developed sea legs in the back seat of that Oldsmobile and was no longer just creeping and crawling and pulling himself upright, but walking by himself unaided.