River Plantation RV Park
Pigeon Forge, TN
It took us just 45 minutes to drive from White Pine TN to Pigeon Forge, home of the fabled Dollywood, Dolly Parton’s amusement park based on the music and food of the Smokey Mountains. We were particularly happy to be here this week, because it was the last week of the Barbeque & Bluegrass Festival, and with Dolly’s Picture on the front of the brochure, guitar strategically placed to keep one’s focus on the music, we thought we might even see the gal herself if we were lucky.
Dollywood is a couple of miles out of town, town being one giant strip mall of every fast food joint you can imagine, plus attractions like the Cirque du Chine, no relation to the famous Cirque du Soleil, many. many theatres featuring country humor delivered by fat men in overalls, NASCAR racing, laser tag, water slides, amusement parks, country music by gals in ruffled dresses and guys in cowboy gear, souvenir shops, Amish furniture, Bible bookstores, tons of motels and of course, the Super WalMart.
The Barbeque Competition was held on an open-air mall in the center of the park, with tent after tent of competitors for Best Pulled Pork, Best Pork Shoulder, and Best Ribs, where you could sample everybody’s fare and decide for yourself what was deserving of the Blue Ribbon.
Besides the rides, the park also holds something like seven theaters, each featuring blues acts. The brochure pictured Ricky Skaggs, Rhonda Vincent and Cherryholmes, but the big act today was the Rascals at the main theater.
Not that we saw any of this, or ate any of the barbeque, for that matter. This description is all from the brochure.
We arrived at the park at 4:30, thinking to make a night of it, and were told that most of the shows were over, and the park was closing at 7. But if we wanted to pay the $94.50 plus $11 parking we could come again on Friday. The park is closed on Thursday. We turned the car around and headed for Gatlinburg. We were leaving in the morning and by Friday would be in North Carolina.
So much for Dollywood. But the brochure was pretty and the food looked good, so we filed the paperwork for a future visit. Hey, we’re retired. We can come back if we want to.
Gatlinburg is pretty. The main drag is a few blocks long, and most of the town looks like an Alpine Village. There are flowers everywhere, and beautiful mountain scenery in the background, but after we’d parked and walked a bit it was clear that this was another kind of strip mall, impeccably delivered, but its content was the same as Pigeon Forge – souvenirs, junk jewelry, knock-off handbags, head shops, pulled-pork restaurants, and T-shirts, most of which were covered in jewels, glitter and sayings like “My Daddy and Mommy went all the way to Gatlinburg and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.” I didn't think Jeff would appreciate this shirt as he is 34 and doesn't call us Mommy and Daddy anymore.
There was a sky lift up the mountain, but it looked rickety, and a needle like Seattle’s, but it had no elevator, just seventy-seven stairways leading to the top. We didn’t think the view would be worth the heart attack. The fudge was good, though. Especially with my Diet Coke, which I managed to spill on my shirt and make a nice stain with. Don't try to walk and drink at the same time, I learned. We headed home.
Now we’re back at our campground, where the waterfall behind our camper sings sweeter than Ricky Skaggs, and the crickets are lowing their own kind of blues. If my guess is right, I’ll be making burgers on the grill flavored with the sauce I bought in Gatlinburg, and we’ll call it a night at nine, just as we’ve done the past three nights here.
This is country as we hoped it would be, far from the glitter and glitz, and close to the soul of this part of Tennessee. We couldn’t be happier.
Betty
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Book Club
Great Smokies National Park
Tennessee
Dear Jody:
What's the book? Would you believe there are NO B&N or BORDERS anywhere in Tennessee. Come to think of it, this is probably no great surprise. The last four books I bought were paperbacks in WalMart, and it turns out I've read every single one of them. I just have a bad memory for titles. But after the first two pages, I sincerely regret the fact that paperbacks now cost $9.99.
Love Betty
I miss my friends! And among the friends that I miss are my Ladies Nite Out Book Club friends. Every other month we forgo the restaurant visits and settle in at somebody’s house to discuss our latest mutual read. It’s usually a book with something to say, questions to ponder, or a plotline that’s fresh and new. And okay, we don’t forego the food. The hors d’oeuvres are always wonderful, the wine freely poured, and later, there’s coffee and dessert. Which probably ends up more calories than the dinner out, but who’s counting?
If we’re really organized, we have a question guide and we try to discuss the book and answer the questions. But if you ever had to answer questions from the guide in back of your reading book in grade school, you already know that some of these questions are incredibly stupid or worse yet, awesomely obtuse.
The conversation invariably slides towards more mundane issues like work, kids, politics, and of course Brittany, although I can’t remember talking about her lately. She’s a little over, I’m afraid.
Now Hillary may be over according to the nation, but she’s our neighbor in Westchester, and we still think she’s pretty cool. Even if some of us hate her, we have to admit her role in establishing that women do indeed count in the grand scheme of things.
We always try to be finished in time to make it home for Grey’s Anatomy, or some other favorite must-watch. But more often than not, the conversation is so lively that we forget the clock and miss our shows. When that happens, we thank our hostess, then stand next to our cars and talk for at least another 15 minutes.
Book Club is about the book, to be sure, but it’s also about women sharing opinions, information, news, and yes, gossip. It’s about supporting the two who got breast cancer, the three who lost husbands to death and divorce, the two who lost children, and the ones who’ve moved away and still want to stay in the loop.
So if not this month, because I haven’t read the book, then next month, I will sit in front of my computer, turn on the camera and attend the next meeting as a face on a screen. And I will have opinions, smart-alecky remarks and some gossip to share. It won’t be like being there, but it’ll be something, anyway.
I miss my friends.
Tennessee
Dear Jody:
What's the book? Would you believe there are NO B&N or BORDERS anywhere in Tennessee. Come to think of it, this is probably no great surprise. The last four books I bought were paperbacks in WalMart, and it turns out I've read every single one of them. I just have a bad memory for titles. But after the first two pages, I sincerely regret the fact that paperbacks now cost $9.99.
Love Betty
I miss my friends! And among the friends that I miss are my Ladies Nite Out Book Club friends. Every other month we forgo the restaurant visits and settle in at somebody’s house to discuss our latest mutual read. It’s usually a book with something to say, questions to ponder, or a plotline that’s fresh and new. And okay, we don’t forego the food. The hors d’oeuvres are always wonderful, the wine freely poured, and later, there’s coffee and dessert. Which probably ends up more calories than the dinner out, but who’s counting?
If we’re really organized, we have a question guide and we try to discuss the book and answer the questions. But if you ever had to answer questions from the guide in back of your reading book in grade school, you already know that some of these questions are incredibly stupid or worse yet, awesomely obtuse.
The conversation invariably slides towards more mundane issues like work, kids, politics, and of course Brittany, although I can’t remember talking about her lately. She’s a little over, I’m afraid.
Now Hillary may be over according to the nation, but she’s our neighbor in Westchester, and we still think she’s pretty cool. Even if some of us hate her, we have to admit her role in establishing that women do indeed count in the grand scheme of things.
We always try to be finished in time to make it home for Grey’s Anatomy, or some other favorite must-watch. But more often than not, the conversation is so lively that we forget the clock and miss our shows. When that happens, we thank our hostess, then stand next to our cars and talk for at least another 15 minutes.
Book Club is about the book, to be sure, but it’s also about women sharing opinions, information, news, and yes, gossip. It’s about supporting the two who got breast cancer, the three who lost husbands to death and divorce, the two who lost children, and the ones who’ve moved away and still want to stay in the loop.
So if not this month, because I haven’t read the book, then next month, I will sit in front of my computer, turn on the camera and attend the next meeting as a face on a screen. And I will have opinions, smart-alecky remarks and some gossip to share. It won’t be like being there, but it’ll be something, anyway.
I miss my friends.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
My New Career
Virginia, Route 81 South to Tennessee
Now here’s a job I could do: Coner. This is the person who removes the red cones from a construction site after the job is finished. You get to sit on the back step of one of those golf-cart-type vehicles, feet barely brushing the new asphalt, and grab each cone as your driver approaches it, then let the stacker take it from your hand and put it on the pile of retrieved cones. Then you simply wait for the next cone to present itself. The way I see it, the job involves no walking, no lifting, except for a minimal lift at the point of grab, and no thinking. Now that’s a job I could do.
Plus you get a nifty orange shirt to wear, and a matching orange helmet, presumably to protect your hair from UV damage. A job with a style ethic, now that’s the job for me.
I considered for a time becoming a flag person, but I realized I don’t have the arms for it. My muscles atrophied a long time ago, so I’d get tired too fast. And I also don’t relish the idea of exhbiting my wattles for all the drivers of the highway to see. Arm flab is not something you are normally proud of, Jamie Curtis notwithstanding. Of course, she has no flab anywhere, so who is she to role model me?
Oh yes, coner is the job for me. You get a decent wage, you’re in a union (appealing to me, since I’ve always been a joiner – sorority, singing group, ladies nite out, that sort of thing), and because it’s construction, there are always six people assigned to do something one person could easily manage. It’s nice to have backup. And let’s not forget the coffee breaks and the early quitting time.
The next construction site we pass, I’m jumping out and putting in my papers. It might be nice to tarry a while in this area and make some money while I do. Plus it’s a job with a beginning and an end, and if I am right about this, you get to take home the shirt and hat when you retire. Sweet.
Betty
Now here’s a job I could do: Coner. This is the person who removes the red cones from a construction site after the job is finished. You get to sit on the back step of one of those golf-cart-type vehicles, feet barely brushing the new asphalt, and grab each cone as your driver approaches it, then let the stacker take it from your hand and put it on the pile of retrieved cones. Then you simply wait for the next cone to present itself. The way I see it, the job involves no walking, no lifting, except for a minimal lift at the point of grab, and no thinking. Now that’s a job I could do.
Plus you get a nifty orange shirt to wear, and a matching orange helmet, presumably to protect your hair from UV damage. A job with a style ethic, now that’s the job for me.
I considered for a time becoming a flag person, but I realized I don’t have the arms for it. My muscles atrophied a long time ago, so I’d get tired too fast. And I also don’t relish the idea of exhbiting my wattles for all the drivers of the highway to see. Arm flab is not something you are normally proud of, Jamie Curtis notwithstanding. Of course, she has no flab anywhere, so who is she to role model me?
Oh yes, coner is the job for me. You get a decent wage, you’re in a union (appealing to me, since I’ve always been a joiner – sorority, singing group, ladies nite out, that sort of thing), and because it’s construction, there are always six people assigned to do something one person could easily manage. It’s nice to have backup. And let’s not forget the coffee breaks and the early quitting time.
The next construction site we pass, I’m jumping out and putting in my papers. It might be nice to tarry a while in this area and make some money while I do. Plus it’s a job with a beginning and an end, and if I am right about this, you get to take home the shirt and hat when you retire. Sweet.
Betty
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A New POV
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Pennsylvania, on the road to Tennessee
Here’s to all the right-lane passers, sudden brakers, finger-givers, speeder-uppers, horn sounders, pass-and-pull-in-too-sooners, phone-talkers, paper-readers and other violators of common sense as they drive. May they one day purchase a 32,000 pound vehicle and have to deal with the likes of themselves.
Trucks, buses and motor homes locomote differently. There’s a big difference between 2500 pounds of Chevy in motion and 32,000 pounds of dynamic thrust. You just don’t stop on a dime. You don’t ride the brakes either, or they’ll burn out. You pump, decreasing your motion on increments. Surprises don’t work for us big machines. We need to plan ahead.
We don’t suffer fools, either. Make a mistake in judgment, put your attention somewhere else, or try and sneak by us as we’re turning, changing lanes or slowing for a light, and it’s our fault if we crush you to breadbox size. Even if St. Peter at the gate tells you it’s your fault, down here we’ll be charged. And of course, it goes without saying that we’ll feel bad about you too.
So have a heart for the monsters of the road. I never appreciated truck drivers more. Except of course for that one big oaf who gave us the finger as we burned past him on a country highway. I guess he didn’t realize we had joined his fraternity. Or maybe he was blackballing us after the fact.
I couldn’t possibly have been that, while he’d been to trucker school and passed all the tests to get his job, we’d simply jumped behind the wheel with our ordinary driver’s licenses, which sometimes meant that in getting used to our extra girth, we shaved the hair off the side of people’s heads as we squeaked by. No, that couldn’t possibly have been it.
Drive safely.
Betty
Pennsylvania, on the road to Tennessee
Here’s to all the right-lane passers, sudden brakers, finger-givers, speeder-uppers, horn sounders, pass-and-pull-in-too-sooners, phone-talkers, paper-readers and other violators of common sense as they drive. May they one day purchase a 32,000 pound vehicle and have to deal with the likes of themselves.
Trucks, buses and motor homes locomote differently. There’s a big difference between 2500 pounds of Chevy in motion and 32,000 pounds of dynamic thrust. You just don’t stop on a dime. You don’t ride the brakes either, or they’ll burn out. You pump, decreasing your motion on increments. Surprises don’t work for us big machines. We need to plan ahead.
We don’t suffer fools, either. Make a mistake in judgment, put your attention somewhere else, or try and sneak by us as we’re turning, changing lanes or slowing for a light, and it’s our fault if we crush you to breadbox size. Even if St. Peter at the gate tells you it’s your fault, down here we’ll be charged. And of course, it goes without saying that we’ll feel bad about you too.
So have a heart for the monsters of the road. I never appreciated truck drivers more. Except of course for that one big oaf who gave us the finger as we burned past him on a country highway. I guess he didn’t realize we had joined his fraternity. Or maybe he was blackballing us after the fact.
I couldn’t possibly have been that, while he’d been to trucker school and passed all the tests to get his job, we’d simply jumped behind the wheel with our ordinary driver’s licenses, which sometimes meant that in getting used to our extra girth, we shaved the hair off the side of people’s heads as we squeaked by. No, that couldn’t possibly have been it.
Drive safely.
Betty
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Lord of the Flies
This week John is shooting in a trap tournament in Syracuse, the Fall State ATA Championships, and we are parked right on the grounds of the shoot. It’s a pretty sight. Yards and yards of green grass, with trees surrounding us on all sides, as much to mask the sound of gunshots as to provide a visual point of reference for the shooters.
There are some real yahoos in this sport, some of whom never bother to put their teeth in while they’re here, but there are also some very nice people, some of whom are actually educated.
And I haven’t had to cook, since restaurants abound here are varied and plentiful, if not sophisticated. So all is well.
Except for the flies. There’s a swamp in the back of the field, and apparently it’s a breeding ground, because we can’t seem to get rid of them.
Right now I am competing for line of sight to my computer screen, attended by one very nosy fly, who seems to treasure every word I write. Well, treasure this, you annoying, flitty, buzzy critter! Damn. Missed him.
My husband is the champion fly swatter of the world. Never misses a one. It must be his trap shooting training. Quick of the eye and quick of the wrist. He’s the king. And he keeps leaving the carcasses for me to admire, and of course, clean up.
Me, I even approach one from three feet away and it flies off. Does this mean I have a special psychic emanation that the fly picks up? Or heaven forfend, a sweat emanation? Or does it mean that I am slow on the draw? The only ones I’ve gotten at the ones on the ceiling, presumably because they can’t see me coming when they’re upside down.
I don’t mind so much during the day, but at as the sun rises after a quiet, dark night, so do the one or two flies who have managed to evade Lord John, and they always head for my nose or my arm, or some other body part I have sticking out of the sheets. It’s not nice to wake me this way. I do not respond well to tickling. Soon I am slapping the air, slapping myself and grumbling at the cruel world. And of course it’s impossible to go back to sleep. The flies must die. So here I am in my nightgown, standing on the bed, my hair sticking out from my head so that I look like the Madwoman of Chaillot, swinging and missing and swatting and swearing.
One of these days I may even succeed. Then I’ll have a little fly funeral in the bathroom, and as I flush, I’ll chuckle the little bugger all the way to Hell.
Betty
There are some real yahoos in this sport, some of whom never bother to put their teeth in while they’re here, but there are also some very nice people, some of whom are actually educated.
And I haven’t had to cook, since restaurants abound here are varied and plentiful, if not sophisticated. So all is well.
Except for the flies. There’s a swamp in the back of the field, and apparently it’s a breeding ground, because we can’t seem to get rid of them.
Right now I am competing for line of sight to my computer screen, attended by one very nosy fly, who seems to treasure every word I write. Well, treasure this, you annoying, flitty, buzzy critter! Damn. Missed him.
My husband is the champion fly swatter of the world. Never misses a one. It must be his trap shooting training. Quick of the eye and quick of the wrist. He’s the king. And he keeps leaving the carcasses for me to admire, and of course, clean up.
Me, I even approach one from three feet away and it flies off. Does this mean I have a special psychic emanation that the fly picks up? Or heaven forfend, a sweat emanation? Or does it mean that I am slow on the draw? The only ones I’ve gotten at the ones on the ceiling, presumably because they can’t see me coming when they’re upside down.
I don’t mind so much during the day, but at as the sun rises after a quiet, dark night, so do the one or two flies who have managed to evade Lord John, and they always head for my nose or my arm, or some other body part I have sticking out of the sheets. It’s not nice to wake me this way. I do not respond well to tickling. Soon I am slapping the air, slapping myself and grumbling at the cruel world. And of course it’s impossible to go back to sleep. The flies must die. So here I am in my nightgown, standing on the bed, my hair sticking out from my head so that I look like the Madwoman of Chaillot, swinging and missing and swatting and swearing.
One of these days I may even succeed. Then I’ll have a little fly funeral in the bathroom, and as I flush, I’ll chuckle the little bugger all the way to Hell.
Betty
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Country Fair
Friday, September 5, 2008
Rutland, Vermont
We had barely arrived in Salisbury, VT, when I spied a flier for the Vermont State Fair in Rutland, which turns out to be just a half-hour south of us. The last great fair I went to was held in Long Island when I was seven, and I fell in love with the idea of country crafts, country cooking and of course, farm animals. I don’t know where I thought I was living, because even back then Long Island was the suburbs, with strip malls, public transportation and all the modern conveniences. This fair was faux, its countryness created by some clever PT Barnum for the delight of all us city folk. But I was only seven. How was I to know?
I’ve spent the rest of my life looking for the perfect country fair, where pigtailed girls get blue ribbons for their prize pig, and ladies in aprons compete for the perfect apple-rhubarb pie, and gents in overalls chew on a straw and chuckle at the antics of the young ‘uns trying to rope a calf.
At my ideal fair there would be jars of homemade jellies and jams, honey, pickles and relishes stretching far down the cloth-covered tables, chili-making contests, fresh fruits and vegetables including pumpkins the size of Cinderella’s coach, giant squash, incredible corn and potatoes that look like a sculpture of a famous person. There would be bobbing for apples and cotton candy, and maybe a Ferris wheel and a few carnival games. But not too many of those. There would be quilts, hand-crocheted baby clothes, and all manner of homespun crafts.
You’d have to go twice to see everything.
Maybe, just maybe, this Vermont State Fair would be like that. It was in the country, after all.
Well, it almost was. We entered to the wondrous song of a merry-go-round, and were immediately wrapped in the aroma of fried dough, a treat you can’t get anywhere else, to my knowledge. So far so good.
We turned left and in front of us lay booth after booth after booth of t-shirts, souvenirs, fake silver belt buckles in the shape of skulls, head wraps in various Goth prints, belts the width of a mini-skit, or maybe they were leather minis the width of a belt, who knows, all kinds of smoking apparatuses, plastic jewelry, plastic key rings, plastic everything – and of course it all was imported from China. Now I like China, but that wasn’t the country I’d come to see.
Turning in the opposite direction, we encountered a series of food concessions designed to raise your cholesterol beyond 400 by the time you reached the end of the lane. Fried dough to be sure, plus French fries, fried onion rings, fried bananas, fried zucchini, fried mozzarella sticks, and a veritable united nations of fast food offerings. And not a fresh vegetable to be had anywhere. No corn on the cob cooked over an open fire with butter and salt. No apple pie. I’m not saying they should have installed a salad bar, but fresh, clean food would have been nice.
We continued past over two dozen carnival games, all of which were being ignored. I guess people have figured out the odds of getting the pingpong ball in the little fish bowl, and the fact that those little cloth dolls with the fringe on three sides are not only visually deceiving, they are also weighted on the bottom and you can’t knock one over unless you have the arm of an Orel Herschiser. Who, by the way, I did a commercial with a long time ago, and he is one lovely man.
I was about to turn around and call it a morning, but John walked on, and lo and behold! (I’ve always wanted to write a lo and behold) back behind all the commercial stuff, we spotted a honey exhibit. And a pickle booth. And a whole building full of crafts. And oh lordy, three barns full of prize cows. Another with exotic reptiles owned by local people. And yet another barn full of beautiful chickens. No kidding. They really were gorgeous.
We didn’t leave for another two hours, my dreams fulfilled and topped off by a stunning display of Canadian-style Mounties on horseback performing maneuvers in the show ring. John got bored then and suggested we leave. “How many directions can a horse go in?” he explained. I couldn't answer him. My mouth was too full of fried dough.
Betty
Rutland, Vermont
We had barely arrived in Salisbury, VT, when I spied a flier for the Vermont State Fair in Rutland, which turns out to be just a half-hour south of us. The last great fair I went to was held in Long Island when I was seven, and I fell in love with the idea of country crafts, country cooking and of course, farm animals. I don’t know where I thought I was living, because even back then Long Island was the suburbs, with strip malls, public transportation and all the modern conveniences. This fair was faux, its countryness created by some clever PT Barnum for the delight of all us city folk. But I was only seven. How was I to know?
I’ve spent the rest of my life looking for the perfect country fair, where pigtailed girls get blue ribbons for their prize pig, and ladies in aprons compete for the perfect apple-rhubarb pie, and gents in overalls chew on a straw and chuckle at the antics of the young ‘uns trying to rope a calf.
At my ideal fair there would be jars of homemade jellies and jams, honey, pickles and relishes stretching far down the cloth-covered tables, chili-making contests, fresh fruits and vegetables including pumpkins the size of Cinderella’s coach, giant squash, incredible corn and potatoes that look like a sculpture of a famous person. There would be bobbing for apples and cotton candy, and maybe a Ferris wheel and a few carnival games. But not too many of those. There would be quilts, hand-crocheted baby clothes, and all manner of homespun crafts.
You’d have to go twice to see everything.
Maybe, just maybe, this Vermont State Fair would be like that. It was in the country, after all.
Well, it almost was. We entered to the wondrous song of a merry-go-round, and were immediately wrapped in the aroma of fried dough, a treat you can’t get anywhere else, to my knowledge. So far so good.
We turned left and in front of us lay booth after booth after booth of t-shirts, souvenirs, fake silver belt buckles in the shape of skulls, head wraps in various Goth prints, belts the width of a mini-skit, or maybe they were leather minis the width of a belt, who knows, all kinds of smoking apparatuses, plastic jewelry, plastic key rings, plastic everything – and of course it all was imported from China. Now I like China, but that wasn’t the country I’d come to see.
Turning in the opposite direction, we encountered a series of food concessions designed to raise your cholesterol beyond 400 by the time you reached the end of the lane. Fried dough to be sure, plus French fries, fried onion rings, fried bananas, fried zucchini, fried mozzarella sticks, and a veritable united nations of fast food offerings. And not a fresh vegetable to be had anywhere. No corn on the cob cooked over an open fire with butter and salt. No apple pie. I’m not saying they should have installed a salad bar, but fresh, clean food would have been nice.
We continued past over two dozen carnival games, all of which were being ignored. I guess people have figured out the odds of getting the pingpong ball in the little fish bowl, and the fact that those little cloth dolls with the fringe on three sides are not only visually deceiving, they are also weighted on the bottom and you can’t knock one over unless you have the arm of an Orel Herschiser. Who, by the way, I did a commercial with a long time ago, and he is one lovely man.
I was about to turn around and call it a morning, but John walked on, and lo and behold! (I’ve always wanted to write a lo and behold) back behind all the commercial stuff, we spotted a honey exhibit. And a pickle booth. And a whole building full of crafts. And oh lordy, three barns full of prize cows. Another with exotic reptiles owned by local people. And yet another barn full of beautiful chickens. No kidding. They really were gorgeous.
We didn’t leave for another two hours, my dreams fulfilled and topped off by a stunning display of Canadian-style Mounties on horseback performing maneuvers in the show ring. John got bored then and suggested we leave. “How many directions can a horse go in?” he explained. I couldn't answer him. My mouth was too full of fried dough.
Betty
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Obeying the TomTom
One of the benefits of driving a luxury car like a BMW or Lexus is something called the Global Position System, which is your personal navigator to just about anywhere in the immediate universe. Plug in an address, and it takes you there, advising you of road closings, heavy traffic and the occasional flash flood. There is no better friend on the road.
But if your RV is four years old, you don’t get an installed GPS. So you go shopping for a TomTom, which is the little brother of the GPS, and costs about one-twenty-fifth as much.
A TomTom is a good thing, but it doesn’t have the intelligence of its big brother. It doesn’t know the difference between a 2,300-pound car and a 32,000-pound RV to begin with. It figures all roads are okay for whatever you’re driving, and unfortunately, it is something of a wiseass when it comes to routes. If there’s a shortcut, TomTom figures you’ll be really grateful for the four minutes you save, and sends you places where the idea of a guy in overalls with a rifle aimed at your back windshield isn’t far off the mark.
TomTom, unlike GPS, tends to strain a marriage.
After John had a tense ride the day before on the Long Island Expressway, then along the exceedingly slender Route 9 in Westchester, I thought it only fair that I offer to drive the next day. I may not be a better driver, but I am quite relaxed, even during accidents.
Did I freak out when we sideswiped that cop? Au contraire, I invited him in for a Coke. Always the hostess.
The next day, I found myself a the wheel of our, may I remind you, 41-foot-rig-plus-10-foot-tow-car, headed from Poughkeepsie to Middleboro, VT, where we stayed for four days. The Poughkeepsie stop was an overnight in a shopping center parking lot, where two fire-breathing-dragon trucks pulled in on either side of us and kept us up all night with their generator noise. It was like "Straw Dogs" the movie, where the innocent travelers felt the violence long before they experienced it. Luckily, we were able to make our escape the next morning when the truckers walked over to McDonald's for breakfast. Whew.
The TomTom guided us skillfully up into upstate New York, and then across to Vermont. At about the three-hour mark, The TomTom spoke up once again. “In 800 yards, take the next right,” she said. (We like the girl voice, much less bossy than the boy voice.)
Obediently, at 800 feet I turned onto a side road, and we were treated to some really pretty scenery, including little gingerbread houses, farmland, ponds, streams, A-frames, beautiful little flower gardens and the like. We did begin to notice that the road was narrowing, and when our CB antenna collided with a low-slung tree branch, my dear husband intoned, “You know, you have to be aware of the height of this rig as well as the width. Perhaps you should move over to avoid the trees.”
Inasmuch as the road was only four feet wide and therefore I was already on the left side of the road, this advice was neither helpful nor well received, however well intentioned it may have been.
The further we got into our detour, the more worried my husband became. Nevertheless, I made yet another turn at Tom-girl’s urging, this time onto a dirt road. I just love a challenge.
The road continued to deteriorate, as did my husband, who was now alternately cowering and glowering, clearing his throat, and sighing. But certainly this road was still drivable. By a Jeep, maybe. Or a farm truck, or an ATV, or perhaps a Sherman tank. The RV bumped and swayed, doors opened and spilled their contents, chairs fell over, groceries hit the floor and Zeus whined. He's always on John's side.
“How much farther?” John asked.
“Just 3/10 of a mile,” I replied, glad to be approaching the end of this teeth-grinding, muscle-knotting, breath-holding, grumpier-by-the-minute road.
“Take the bridge,” said Tom-girl.
“Bridge?” I wondered.
“Bridge?” said John.
We rounded a corner and there in front of us was a beautiful covered wood bridge. The typical Vermont scene, a true photo op. It was o bviously built when the farmer who owned this land was a young, strong man and he needed to ford the creek to get his buggy into town. In, say, 1865.
A small sign warned us, no vehicles over 12 feet. “How tall are we?” I asked John.
“Twelve feet three inches.”
“Oh, I said in a small voice. Should I turn around?”
“I have no idea. You picked this road.”
You have no idea? You have no idea! You’re sitting there, the master of the RV, the man with a map in his lap, the man who hasn’t uttered a word for 6 miles and you have no idea?
“Anyone with a modicum of common sense …” he began.
I did what any sane woman would do. I grabbed the TomTom from its hook and threw it at him.
John got out to inspect the bridge, then to my surprise, motioned me forward. Now it was my turn to wince and hold my breath. I inched forward. The opening grew smaller as I approached it. It was a mouse-hole and I was going to try and shove an elephant through it.
But John kept urging me forward, and I kept inching closer, and then, miraculously, I was through the opening and on the bridge.
The one built in 1865, for a buggy. How much did a buggy weigh? I weighed in at 32,000 pounds. The bridge groaned and gave a loud crack. I put my foot on the gas. I might hit John, but I was damned if I was going to end up in the creek.
There was silence the entire way from bridge to campground. Cold war silence. The silence of a thousand death threats. The silence of a man with a map on his lap. The silence of a woman who obeyed the TomTom. The utter silence of a disaster that never happened
In the silence, I imagined my next steps. I’d pull out my suitcase, pack up only those clothes that were unwrinkled -- obviously I’d be traveling light. I’d jump in the tow car and drive to that used car dealer down the road. I had spied a vintage black and tan MG convertible on the lot and immediately knew it was my getaway car. That sweet ride had my name written all over it.
But wait. The suitcase was underneath, in storage, behind things I couldn’t move myself. And the car was still attached to the RV, and you needed a mallet to get one of the bent hitches free of the tow bar. And unhitching always got you really dirty because of the grease …
I decided to stick around and work on the marriage. After all, it had only been 40 years. I should give it some time.
Betty
But if your RV is four years old, you don’t get an installed GPS. So you go shopping for a TomTom, which is the little brother of the GPS, and costs about one-twenty-fifth as much.
A TomTom is a good thing, but it doesn’t have the intelligence of its big brother. It doesn’t know the difference between a 2,300-pound car and a 32,000-pound RV to begin with. It figures all roads are okay for whatever you’re driving, and unfortunately, it is something of a wiseass when it comes to routes. If there’s a shortcut, TomTom figures you’ll be really grateful for the four minutes you save, and sends you places where the idea of a guy in overalls with a rifle aimed at your back windshield isn’t far off the mark.
TomTom, unlike GPS, tends to strain a marriage.
After John had a tense ride the day before on the Long Island Expressway, then along the exceedingly slender Route 9 in Westchester, I thought it only fair that I offer to drive the next day. I may not be a better driver, but I am quite relaxed, even during accidents.
Did I freak out when we sideswiped that cop? Au contraire, I invited him in for a Coke. Always the hostess.
The next day, I found myself a the wheel of our, may I remind you, 41-foot-rig-plus-10-foot-tow-car, headed from Poughkeepsie to Middleboro, VT, where we stayed for four days. The Poughkeepsie stop was an overnight in a shopping center parking lot, where two fire-breathing-dragon trucks pulled in on either side of us and kept us up all night with their generator noise. It was like "Straw Dogs" the movie, where the innocent travelers felt the violence long before they experienced it. Luckily, we were able to make our escape the next morning when the truckers walked over to McDonald's for breakfast. Whew.
The TomTom guided us skillfully up into upstate New York, and then across to Vermont. At about the three-hour mark, The TomTom spoke up once again. “In 800 yards, take the next right,” she said. (We like the girl voice, much less bossy than the boy voice.)
Obediently, at 800 feet I turned onto a side road, and we were treated to some really pretty scenery, including little gingerbread houses, farmland, ponds, streams, A-frames, beautiful little flower gardens and the like. We did begin to notice that the road was narrowing, and when our CB antenna collided with a low-slung tree branch, my dear husband intoned, “You know, you have to be aware of the height of this rig as well as the width. Perhaps you should move over to avoid the trees.”
Inasmuch as the road was only four feet wide and therefore I was already on the left side of the road, this advice was neither helpful nor well received, however well intentioned it may have been.
The further we got into our detour, the more worried my husband became. Nevertheless, I made yet another turn at Tom-girl’s urging, this time onto a dirt road. I just love a challenge.
The road continued to deteriorate, as did my husband, who was now alternately cowering and glowering, clearing his throat, and sighing. But certainly this road was still drivable. By a Jeep, maybe. Or a farm truck, or an ATV, or perhaps a Sherman tank. The RV bumped and swayed, doors opened and spilled their contents, chairs fell over, groceries hit the floor and Zeus whined. He's always on John's side.
“How much farther?” John asked.
“Just 3/10 of a mile,” I replied, glad to be approaching the end of this teeth-grinding, muscle-knotting, breath-holding, grumpier-by-the-minute road.
“Take the bridge,” said Tom-girl.
“Bridge?” I wondered.
“Bridge?” said John.
We rounded a corner and there in front of us was a beautiful covered wood bridge. The typical Vermont scene, a true photo op. It was o bviously built when the farmer who owned this land was a young, strong man and he needed to ford the creek to get his buggy into town. In, say, 1865.
A small sign warned us, no vehicles over 12 feet. “How tall are we?” I asked John.
“Twelve feet three inches.”
“Oh, I said in a small voice. Should I turn around?”
“I have no idea. You picked this road.”
You have no idea? You have no idea! You’re sitting there, the master of the RV, the man with a map in his lap, the man who hasn’t uttered a word for 6 miles and you have no idea?
“Anyone with a modicum of common sense …” he began.
I did what any sane woman would do. I grabbed the TomTom from its hook and threw it at him.
John got out to inspect the bridge, then to my surprise, motioned me forward. Now it was my turn to wince and hold my breath. I inched forward. The opening grew smaller as I approached it. It was a mouse-hole and I was going to try and shove an elephant through it.
But John kept urging me forward, and I kept inching closer, and then, miraculously, I was through the opening and on the bridge.
The one built in 1865, for a buggy. How much did a buggy weigh? I weighed in at 32,000 pounds. The bridge groaned and gave a loud crack. I put my foot on the gas. I might hit John, but I was damned if I was going to end up in the creek.
There was silence the entire way from bridge to campground. Cold war silence. The silence of a thousand death threats. The silence of a man with a map on his lap. The silence of a woman who obeyed the TomTom. The utter silence of a disaster that never happened
In the silence, I imagined my next steps. I’d pull out my suitcase, pack up only those clothes that were unwrinkled -- obviously I’d be traveling light. I’d jump in the tow car and drive to that used car dealer down the road. I had spied a vintage black and tan MG convertible on the lot and immediately knew it was my getaway car. That sweet ride had my name written all over it.
But wait. The suitcase was underneath, in storage, behind things I couldn’t move myself. And the car was still attached to the RV, and you needed a mallet to get one of the bent hitches free of the tow bar. And unhitching always got you really dirty because of the grease …
I decided to stick around and work on the marriage. After all, it had only been 40 years. I should give it some time.
Betty
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