Niagara Falls was the next destination after a long drive past fragrant apple orchards in full bloom, an endless parade of green fields, barns and silos, a city on Lake Erie that someone with a sense of humor named, Greece, and another Cracker Barrel night. Memorial Day weekend had arrived, but I was able to beat the crowds and snag a parking spot by arriving at Niagara Falls State Park by 9:00 AM. This was my first time to see the falls, and I found the roar of the cascading water and the movement of the river speeding to the falls astounding. It is easy to understand why the power of the falls draws so many tourists, but I must admit that I’m stymied about why this is the number one honeymoon draw. By 10:00 AM, the rain had stopped, the sun came out, and the scene was mobbed. I was able to escape the press of humanity by following a walkway along and over the river to Goat Island. Attempting to cross to the Canadian side of the falls on this holiday weekend did not seem like a good idea, so, having seen, and felt, the magnificent falls, I continued my journey south along the shore of Lake Ontario and then along Lake Erie. 

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I arranged to spend the next night at a winery on Lake Erie and learned that the largest wine growing region west of the Rockies is located in Western NY and Northwestern Pennsylvania. As a self-proclaimed wine snob who spent 16 years living and partaking in the Sonoma Wine Country, it is puzzling how this grape vines survive icy Lake Erie winters, but, apparently, they do. Because of my Harvest Host Membership, wine tasting and overnight parking was complimentary at the 150 year old South Shore Wine Company, and the wine was marvelous. I purchased a beautiful bottle of wine to bring to my hosts in my next stop, Cleveland. 

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Cleveland was a party with Wendy and Ron. Wendy Collura and I became friends at the All Choir Gathering in Boulder last June, and I had been looking forward to this reunion ever since. She welcomed me with a delicious dinner and a massage. For real. Wendy is back in school studying to became a certified Music Therapist and Ron, a cultural anthropologist shared fascinating tales, and artifacts, from years of living in Ethiopia. It was non-stop fun at their house in the lush countryside east of Cleveland, and they kindly took me to see the sites. We walked among Azaleas in the Arboretum, were surrounded by butterflies in the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, visited the space age geodesic dome structure at the American Society for Metals, spent an evening at the Cleveland Museum of Art, took in Chagrin Falls and ate ice cream and many great meals together. 

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I felt just as welcomed at the Cleveland Threshold Choir Practice, where choir members who had been reading my blog talked to me about my adventures. The practice is held in a meeting room at a large, multi-level care home, and at this particular practice, one of the residents wandered in, took a seat and began singing with us. It took some time to figure out what was going on, when asked about joining us she said only, “Yes, I’m here to sing, it beats watching TV in my room”. And sing she did, she joined right in and blended nicely. About 15 minutes after she joined us, she left her chair and started rummaging through the ice chest Wendy had snuck into the room with treats for a party she had planned following the practice. Once we caught on to what our unexpected guest was up to, Wendy gently directed her back to the table and she sang with us for the duration of the practice. The practice included a “wander” where we began singing a round while seated at the table, and once we had it, we stood up and walked around the room singing to each other. 

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Many thanks to the Cleveland Choir, and my driveway hosts, Wendy and Ron, for the wonderful welcome, the singing, the sights, the party and the contribution to my gas fund. Love you all. 

After leaving the wilds of the Catskills, I spent a day driving through the hamlets, villages, townships and cities of New York state, stopping several times for Canadian Geese leading their fluffy goslings across the road with great authority. Most of the towns I passed on my way to Niagara Falls are a blink, with a church, a country store, and maybe, a café. Towns with a traffic light at the crossroads also offer a Dunkin’ Donut, a Dollar General, and more than one church. Walmart, Target, Chilis and Panera mark the bigger cities. The village of Cazanovia, NY, has none of those commercial trappings. Twenty minutes from my campground stop, I defied Siri’s directions to turn off the main drag and followed the sign to Cazanovia. I walked the 3 block historic downtown and happened upon an artist’s co-op gallery that offered friendly conversation and inspiration in every medium. 

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Historic churches, homes, and a small private college, skirt the downtown, with acres of expansive unfenced lawns and flowering trees glowing in the late day sunshine. A sign in the window of an Italian restaurant offered a happy hour and a $10 pasta special, just when I was looking for a reason to stick around. Inside, a political discussion was underway at the bar and I recognized that the small group of ponytailed men and well dressed women at the end of the bar shared my concerns about the current White House administration. Taking a seat and joining the conversation, I let them know how happy I was to hear their political bent, which has not always been the case in my travels. They were interested in my journey and shared introductions, and my story, with the two other couples who joined them over the next half hour. All wanted to know how I stumbled upon their idyllic hamlet, as if it were a well-kept secret. My answer, “The road led me”, reminded me of how fortunate I am to be on this journey of wonder and connection. 

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The road to the Green Lakes State Park runs parallel to a canal, and even before signs identified the celebrated waterway, I caught myself singing the song, “Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal”. That is one of the tunes that has been indelibly etched on my mind since grade school. Singing in memory care units the past 10 years has been confirmation that the songs we learn in childhood can stick with us for a lifetime. I find it miraculous that someone who may not recognize family members, may remember the words of a favorite song from their youth. One Christmas, when our Threshold Choir was singing carols in a Hospice facility, we came to the bedside of a stroke victim who had a difficult time communicating, but he astonished us by singing the Christmas Carols he knew.

Because familiar songs have the power to help uncommunicative patients find joy and connection, they can also anchor patients to this world. Singing those songs at the bedsides of someone who is actively dying must be carefully considered. One of our most memorable bedside experiences occurred with someone we had the opportunity to sing with for 18 months. When I say “sing with”, I mean that literally. DW had no patience for the Threshold songs we wanted to sing for him, he wanted to hear songs that he could sing with us. It all began when his wife, who is a friend of mine, mentioned how miserable he was in the hospital, where he passed the hours staring out the window singing “Don’t Fence Me In”. On our first hospital visit, frail and sick as he was, he showed no interest in the lullaby-like Threshold Choir songs that we had practiced and perfected with 3 part harmonies, but rallied to “Don’t Fence Me In” and other songs that he knew. His son, also at the beside, saw how the music sparked his dad, and started gifting DW with DVD’s of Broadway musicals. As the months passed, DW pressed us to learn his favorite songs, and our twice monthly visits were sing alongs featuring his favorite show tunes. When we were called to sing to him on the night he passed, we found him unresponsive, with closed eyes, struggling for each breath. This was the time for comforting Threshold Choir music, which we sang for over an hour before the song, “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”, bubbled up. In TC of Pacific Grove, our intention has always been to let the patient’s needs guide which songs we choose to sing, something we do by talking to caregivers, listening, watching responses and trusting intuition. Singing “Swing Low”, a song familiar to DW, elicited a response from him. First, his toes started moving rhythmically to the music, then his eyes opened, he looked at his wife, told her he loved her, and closed his eyes for good, passing within hours. 

Clearly, it is not appropriate to interfere with a transition when someone has, what appears to be, one foot in each world. Whether it was right or wrong to sing a familiar song for DW at that time of his passing is arguable, but the experience certainly demonstrates the power of music and the responsibility we have to carefully consider how we use “music medicine” at bedsides.

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Camping at Green Lakes State Park was magnificent. I was there 2 days before the Memorial Day weekend and was able to enjoy the park before crowds would descend on the championship golf course, the old growth forests and the two jewel like meromictic lakes. 

Heading northeast again, on my way to a weekend reunion with my friend, Renee, I stopped to have my tires rotated and oil changed in Chicopee, MA. They told me the van had loose ball joints, which started a series of repairs done in Chicopee, and several repair stops on the road, that have cost $1,000 in the past few days. Most shops can’t fit my tall van on their lifts, and RV repair shops have a wait of one to two months for repairs. The fact that I’m living in the van, and can’t wait for an appointment or leave it for days at a time, adds to the difficulty of getting repairs done while traveling. This is what brought me to Saw Kill Ruby Road in Sawkill, NY, in the shadow of the Catskill Mountains. 

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An intermittent screech in the front end of the van forced me to stop at several small town garages along my route, but none could help. I have dealt with this screech before, even though it is unnerving, I have been told that the loose caliper clip rubbing on the brake rotor is not doing damage. In truth, I left Northampton on Tuesday morning knowing that the ball joint repair had jostled the clip and reawakened problem. Mike, the mechanic in Chicopee, had kindly worked the repair into his insanely busy schedule and stayed late to complete the ball joint and gasket repairs. When I left the shop at 7:30 PM on Saturday, I heard the telltale squeal turning into Renee’s driveway. Because I expected Mike to fix the problem caused by the work that was done, and I knew Sunday and Monday were his days off, I had to cancel my Monday date with the Great Barrington Threshold Choir in the Berkshires, to get the van to him on Tuesday. I said a sad goodbye to Renee in Northampton on Tuesday morning, and drove to Chicopee to be the first customer waiting when Mike opened the shop. I was sure he could fix the problem and I could continue my journey from there. Of course, there was no squeal on the way to the shop, and when I arrived, I found a note on the door saying that due to a family emergency (Mike has five kids, and his oldest works with him at the shop), the shop would be closed until 5/28, the date I planned to meet with the Threshold Choir in Cleveland. I made the decision to start the next leg of the journey, knowing the problem would emerge at some point, and I would have to scramble to find a repair shop along the way. 

This isn’t the first time I have taken off for parts unknown trusting that mechanical problems will be solvable and hoping that they don’t happen when I’m too far from civilization. Knowing that anything on the van can be fixed by throwing money at it, having faith that the help I need is available, and being covered by AAA Road Service, helps me muster the courage I need to continue moving forward in my quest to visit Threshold Choirs around the country. 

With no luck finding a repair shop along the way, I followed the Allstays app to an RV repair shop, that referred me to a truck repair shop in Sawkill. Personable Mike (there may be as many mechanics named Mike as there are Threshold singers named Susan) immediately put one of his mechanics on the job, and 3 hours and $200 later, I was ready to head to a campground in the Catskills. There was talk about having to wait a day for the parts for 21 year old Wanda, which would have meant overnight parking in the dirt lot next to the shop on Sawkill Ruby Road, not my first choice. The shop was a busy place. Mike was quite a talker, and when he wasn’t conversing with me, he was in demand on the phone, or talking to the customers who came for professional, and personal, advice. There are no secrets I was in this tiny shop, and I appreciated Mike’s friendly manner and the respect conveyed in his communications with employees, customers and even former customers who owed money. I especially enjoyed his patient interactions with his complaining, wild haired, elderly assistant, who reminded me of Tom Hanks senile assistant (the one who wore a bra on the outside of her shirt) in the movie “Splash”.   

It was 5:30 when the van was ready and I could leave the messy repair shop where I sat tucked into a corner between boxes for hours in the only available chair. With no internet or phone service, I kept busy observing the activities going on around me. Even though they threatened to charge more if I helped, I watched the work on my van closely, asked questions and inspected the unevenly worn front brake shoes, and the calipers and clips that I have been hearing so much about over the past 7 months of problems. I neglected to ask the story of Sawkill Ruby, but my imagination has run with this, as I suspect yours has.

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Finding a shop willing to stop the work they are doing to take on a repair on my van is a blessing, and I’m forever grateful for those kind (and honest, I hope) mechanics I have encountered on the road who are willing to work with me. It can’t hurt my cause to be an old woman traveling alone.

Camping in the Catskills was the perfect antidote to my stressful day. The 40 minute drive offered a wonderland of rushing rivers, carved stone gorges and cascading waterfalls. It was still light when I arrived, with enough time to find the perfect campsite (fortunately, finding a level parking spot is all that is required for me to set up camp), and walk the lakeside trail of the North South Lake Campground at sunset. The lake, surrounded by forested peaks is a serene landscape made famous in the 1800’s by Thomas Cole and the landscape artists of the Hudson River School. I was able to park within feet of the lake and passed a glorious night awash in moonlight reflected on the water.

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Big thanks to Cathy Baird and my brother, who kindly made donations to my gas and repairs fund this month. I also would like to acknowledge the friends who made contributions in April. Love you all. If you are following alon and wish to contribute to cause, contributions can be made through Paypal at: paypal.me/pools/c/860fWkYwej or, if you don’t use Paypal and wish to make a donation, please contact me and we can figure out an alternative to Paypal.

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Camilla offered her driveway for my visit to the Grace Note Singers in Providence, RI. She and her husband built out a camper van and were excited to host another van camper. Camilla is a musician who plays piano (and dances with) Contra Dancers and also sings in other choirs besides Threshold. I was excited about her invitation to the monthly Contra Dancing shindig, and loved the warm welcome I received from the age diverse crowd, but found myself hindered by physical limitations. The spinning and turns made me dizzy, reminding me why I quit West Coast Swing dancing so many years ago. I sat out the evening watching the fun and listening to the music. I can’t deny feeling a bit sorry for myself watching white haired men and women, some older than me, smiling and spinning away on the dance floor while I was grounded. The doctor explained that diminished fluid in the middle ear is the problem, he said it comes with age. Yay for elders who continue dancing and spinning! 

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Providence was both elegant and gritty. Old brick textile buildings stand fallow along the River, but a revamped downtown includes a glamorous channeled river with “Waterfire Nights” when the river is ablaze with torches. Three rivers converge in Providence, and now that the city is not a manufacturing giant, the water surrounding the city is clear and supports boating, bathing and swans. Rhode Islanders are proud that the RI Colony was founded by independent, Roger Williams, who came to RI because he was persecuted in the Massachusetts Bay Colony for his beliefs, including the conviction that church and state should be separate. The Ocean State of Rhode Island is not an island, but it can brag of 400 miles of coastline and that it was home to the America’s Cup Race for 50 years. I toured the bawdy mansions in Newport and learned about the summer “social season”, but was most impressed by the elegant sailing yachts I saw in Newport Harbor.  

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I joined the Grace Note Singers in Providence on 5/13 and was impressed with the innovative organization of the 45+ strong Threshold Choir. It had been decided years ago that the choir would be led by committee, and each member is asked to choose a committee where they want to participate. The members of the music committee led warm ups and songs at the practice. The choir also has a “Point Person”, in addition to a song leader, at bedsides. The point person enters the room, talks to patients and families and prepares the room before the singers enter. I was also grateful be invited to join a bedside sing. Because of Hospice Volunteer requirements, I don’t often sing at bedsides when I visit choirs. It is such a joy to be able to participate in this service.  

After an action packed stay with Camilla and Mike, I headed back to Massachusetts to join the TS of Indian Hill Music in Littleton MA on 5/15. They practice at a large music center and school  that has offered the space for no charge because the mission of Threshold Choir is closely aligned with the music center’s mission to serve the community. The music director of the choir, Charlotte Russell, is a voice teacher and offers a 3^rdpractice each month for help with voice and technique. Charlotte confided that she feels it is necessary to work on technique to create a sound that is soothing at bedsides. Thanks for the welcome, and thanks to Suzanne for your help with scheduling my trip and finding an overnight driveway. 

After leaving charming little Littleton, I contacted a Harvest Host provider and parked at Red Apple Farm for the night. Although there were no apples, just new buds, there was a farm store packed with local products and some farm animals to entertain me. In fact, farm work was in full swing until dark, with digging, mowing, weed eating and tractoring going on around me. I had the good sense to purchase a big fat apple pie from the farm store and wasted no time digging in. To say I’m fond of pie is an understatement. Pie was the first thing I learned to make when I left home in 1969. I consider myself good at pie baking, and I’m proud that my son, Joe, carries on the tradition. When Kel and I moved to Glen Ellen after returning to CA from Maui, we were thrilled to have a massive Blackberry patch on the property. During the season, I baked a blackberry pie every day and we were ecstatic to have juicy berry pie for breakfast on those hot summer days. The Red Apple Farm pie did not disappoint. The apples were firm, not too sweet and very cinnamony, just the way I like them, and the crust was crisp and light. I don’t believe in soggying pie crust by refrigerating it, so the pie had to be eaten within a couple of days. Luckily, I was headed to Renee’s for the weekend, and she was willing to help. Yum.

Traveling the New England coast off-season has advantages and disadvantages. The weather was sunny and brisk for two of the three days that I traveled in Maine, with one very cold and rainy day. I drove north along the Maine coast for 2 hours to Boothsbay, a lobster fishing port with a Harvest Host Brewery where I could park for the night. Jewel like rocky coves, inlets, islands and bays are infinite along this jagged stretch of coastline and lobster traps are stacked everywhere, poised and ready for the start of the season in June. There is fresh lobster year round here, and I couldn’t leave the area without trying a “lobster roll”, but it turns out you pay top dollar during the off season. My $24.00 lobster roll, purchased at a lobster shack on a waterfront wharf, was a thick slice of toasted white bread split open at the top (the “roll”) and stuffed with 1.5 lbs. of delicious fresh lobster meat. This is an exorbitant amount of lobster to eat in one sitting, I was ecstatic to have lobster leftovers for the next day. 

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The deep coves, clear water and small working harbors along the Maine coastline are much like the northern coast of Ireland, except that in Maine, any beaches and all hills overlooking the sea are covered with charming wooden hotels, cottages and summer homes, shinning clean and white with fresh paint in anticipation of the tourist season. The season they call Spring, starts on Memorial Day, I was too early for Puffin Cruises, kayak rentals, ferry boats, affordable lobster, and many shops and restaurants that were still closed for the “winter”.

It was a surprise to learn that donuts and whoopie pies are close runners up to Lobster as favorite foods in this part of the world. I had noticed the Waffle Houses of the South give way to Dunkin’ Donut shops in New England (even in sophisticated Northampton), but the whoopie pies didn’t show up on my radar until I reached Maine. In the beach town of Ogunquit, Congdon’s Donut Restaurant is the town center. Seeing the crowds, the huge overflow parking lot and at least 50 picnic tables outside, I knew I had to check it out this culinary hot spot. It was 11:00 AM when I approached the bustling counter, where six young employees were rapidly filling boxes. Donuts were flying off the shelves, and many shelves where empty at this point, including, sadly, the apple fritters shelf. I settled on an Eggs Benedict Sandwich for $3.50, which was delightful. 

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Reluctant to leave Maine, I made many stops on my return down the coast, including a stop in tourist haven, Kennebunkport. It was not off-season here, and traffic was at a crawl in the narrow streets of this quaint 4 block port town. It was a sunny Sunday, Mother’s Day, in fact, and this was the place to be. The line at the clam shack was a block long, the cafes were pumping and there were plenty of upscale shops and galleries to peruse. I found parking, so I joined the crowds on the streets. In one of those shops, I found crazy rubber boots on sale. I have been wanting rubber boots for muddy walks, so I indulged myself, all the while knowing that I am carrying too many shoes (and hats) onboard. Grasping I had to get out of town before doing more damage, I drove a few blocks to a stunning bay where I could park along the water, much like the bay front parking in Pacific Grove. The homes of the rich and famous that lined the shore were a reminder that living on the waterfront is not in reach for most folks, and certainly not for me. I wonder if that acknowledgment makes me more appreciative of opportunities to park my little home on the water like this. In any case, I passed the entire afternoon happily “camped” on the rocky shoreline, walking, eating, writing, catching up on phone calls and feeling blessed. Alas, I had to leave Maine without seeing a moose, but a Threshold Choir in Providence, Rhode Island, was my next stop, and Rhode Island is a place I haven’t been before. 

As my journey continues and I head to choirs in Rhode Island, the Berkshires, Central New York, Cleveland, and Michigan, I am facing some expensive van repairs. Your contributions for gas and repairs are greatly appreciated. Contributions can be made to my Paypal account at: paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej

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With six days before my next Threshold Choir practice date, I decided to head towards Maine. In route, I would need to stop to take care of a weekly chore, the emptying of my grey water and black water tanks. Renee’s grandkids had questions about my onboard toilet, I think they were concerned that it may dump directly onto their driveway. In truth, I depend on an app to locate sewer accesses designed for RV dumping. These dump sites can be few and far between, and can charge up to $25, so I was willing to make a detour to the free dump site at the waste treatment plant in Lowell, MA. 

I found the waste treatment plant, and after some circling, found an employee who helped me locate the dump site on the vast grounds. Just in case you are curious, emptying the tanks is a process that starts with donning rubber gloves. The sewer hose is under the van, along with valves that open and close the grey water and black water tanks. The Roadtrek sewer design is not ideal. The retractable hose is housed in a sleeve and sealed with a plastic cap that is exposed to road grime. Twisting the cap off the end of the hose is difficult, especially since it is under the van, and sometimes I panic thinking I won’t get it off (or on again). Once the cap is off, I can extend the hose and open the valves. With the sleeve only 12 “off the ground, there are times when the dump, a hole in the ground encased in concrete curbing, is at the same level as my waste hose. My son, Joe, and I devised a rain gutter support for the hose which has made it possible to empty the tanks even if the curbing around the sewer is high. Being forced to be responsible for your bodily waste is an interesting practice and it has reminded of how desensitized parents become to dirty diapers and other bodily fluids expelled by our babies. I am learning to deal with my own bodily fluids. This is something that could come in handy as I age.  

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With my chore done, I was free to explore Lowell, a city not on my itinerary.  After crossing a mighty river on a rusty trellis bridge, the historic downtown appeared behind the blocks-long brick factory buildings that lined the river banks. This downtown resembled Beacon, NY, in the number of impressive brick structures, except that Lowell was behind in the gentrification process. Like most of the historic downtowns I have explored, a powerful river in the center of town has provided power to run mills, transport goods, and now, provides hydro-electric power. Once an industrial giant with a booming textile industry, now the mostly empty brick buildings of Lowell house coffee houses and art studios. I walked into one of the studios and made friends with an artist who retired from teaching last year to focus on painting. It turned out we had both taken on major retirement projects. I loved her art and recognized some of the locations in her collages of Italy. Our accidental meeting gave us cause to celebrate with chocolate cookies and a hug. 

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I spent the night in the parking lot of Cisco Brewery in Portsmouth, NH, (I was advised to pronounce it “portsmith”, but my mouth has trouble abandoning the “ou”). The brewery is one of the wineries, breweries, farms and golf courses offering parking lot space to RVs through Harvest Hosts. I paid for the app a couple of weeks ago when I realized that the Cracker Barrell restaurant parking lots were running thin the farther north I traveled, and campgrounds would not open until the end of May. With no overnights  permitted in rest stops, I was in desperate need of alternative overnight locations and Harvest Hosts was a great solution. This Brewery was my first HH overnight and besides an empty parking lot that night, I had a glass of their craft small batch stout that was nearly as good as the Guinness I enjoyed in Ireland. This Harvest Host arrangement has promise.

Portsmouth, NH, not to be confused with the 7 other Portsmouths in the US, or the 3 in the UK, is a historic seaport with a killer health food market located in the center of the hip downtown. A tourist destination in summer, interesting shops and galleries line the downtown streets, and in the “Fair Trade” shop, Janet was happy to give me tips for my upcoming drive to Maine that proved to be very useful. I followed signs to the Wentworth-Coolidge Historic Mansion, just outside the congested downtown, where I first became aquatinted with New England Connected Farmhouse architecture. This practical style of building allows the occupants to reach the barn, and other essential structures, on the farm without fighting the adverse weather conditions in winter.

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My next Threshold Choir stop was to meet up with the Threshold Singers of the North Shore on the Massachusetts coast near Salem. It was my great good fortune that Jane Mckenna offered driveway digs in Marblehead, MA, for my base camp. She lives in the home that belonged to her grandmother, a multistory gem with a garden in full bloom and a sweeping view of Salem Bay, even from the driveway. Jane had just returned from a spiritual retreat in the Berkshire Mountains, and she was blissed out. She has been singing with Threshold Choir for 10 years, like I have, and has been active assisting the extremely talented music director, who has been with the choir almost that long. Jane and I shared meals, songs, life stories and poetry, went to the Threshold  Choir practice together, and after two wonderful days, we shared a tearful goodbye. What a pleasure to spend time with someone who lives in joyfulness.

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In Marblehead, I woke at 4:40 AM one morning, just in time to catch nautical twilight on the bay. The magenta horizon, and the soft light reflected on the still water, was a surprise at this hour. I checked my phone and saw that the official sunrise would be at 5:30 AM.  With further investigation, I learned that nautical twilight started at 4:38 that morning. Nautical twilight is defined as the time before sunrise when both the horizon and brighter stars are visible, making it possible to navigate at sea. The term applies to morning as well as evening. How appropriate to learn about nautical twilight here, where all things nautical apply, and for the folks who live by the sea, survival depends on navigating this wild rocky coastline safely. 

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Because I arrived on the Massachusetts coast prior to Memorial Day, there were very few boats in the water, but the number of floats indicated that a great population of boats are moored in the protected bay during the summer. Most of the boats I saw were covered in plastic shrink wrap, and stored in yards or in storage yards. The white shrink wrap accentuated the clean lines of the powerboats and gave everything a clean look. Combined with the neat-as-a-pin yards, and whitewashed cape cod homes, Marblehead is immaculate. It was no surprise to  awaken to industrious mornings with crews of young Mexican laborers mowing and blowing the perfect yards. Large landscaping trucks towing trailers with mower tractors and leaf blowers made it difficult for me to navigate the narrow stone lined residential streets in my van. 

The van is legal. Thanks to help from my son, Kel, and my friend, Renee, the April 2020 registration sticker was in place on the last day of April despite problems with fees and my address change. I’m using Kel’s Oakland address for mail, which is a bit challenging since I am a moving target with no forwarding address, and at present, Oakland is on the opposite coast. Thanks, Kel & Renée.

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Keeping with my connection driven mission, I enjoyed 6 nights of driveway camping at the home of a friend of 46 years who lives in Northampton, Massachusetts. Even after all of these years, Renée and I still marvel at our similarities. Understanding, as few would, that I am challenged traveling without my sewing machine and iron, she made these things available to me during my visit (as did Margie Foster when I visited her in Sonoma in December). Reaching Renée has been a goal since the onset of the journey, and now I am faced with finding new touchstones as I venture north and then west again. Using apps such as Allstays and Harvest Hosts helps me find overnight parking locations when I’m not staying in a choir member’s driveway, but it is so comforting to have a familiar face where I land.  

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Liberal Northampton won me over, once again, with community wide celebrations for Pete Seeger’s birthday and Gay Pride Day. We attended a Congolese dinner prepared by immigrants families who receive support from teams of 27 volunteers that Renee helps to organize, and a stirring Holocaust Remembrance Day ceremony on the same day. I spent a few hours in the impressive library in the eclectic downtown that is dominated by stately Smith College, and even saw a black bear foraging in a backyard in a residential area not far from town.

Driving from Western MA to the coast, Moose signs along the highway had me scanning the woods for wildlife. One of the highlights of this kind of sweeping travel has been that every day is new. The views, the trees, the birds, the flowers, the wildlife, the people – all new, all the time. Seeing moose would be a new experience for me. All I know about moose is the warning I received from locals when I was in Alaska. I was told that they are dangerous and that when using the “honey pot” (a 5 gallon bucket composting toilet that sat in a clearing in the woods in the yurt community where I stayed), I was to stop what I was doing and hide behind a tree if a moose looked like it would charge. Bring on the moose.

I am no storm chaser. Three times this month, I have driven at least 150 miles out of my way to avoid the brunt of severe storms. For the most part, my strategy has been successful, the van and I are safe. On each of the 3 occasions I made a run for it, warnings that the location where I had chosen to flee according to doppler satellite images, turned out to be within 20 miles of the path of the tornado threats. Being new to this weather pattern, I get scared. When I hear that tornados are possible, I book a room on the bottom level of a hotel, grab my go bag, and spend my hours following the storm on TV. It is little comfort that I seem to be the only one who pays any attention to these warnings. Despite excited meteorologists telling folks to take shelter, activities seem to continue as if there is no danger, with cars on the road and people walking their dogs. They tell me that it is unusual to have this type of weather threat in many of the areas I have traveled, I imagine the response is much different in places like Texas, and the Ohio Valley, where violent tornados regularly touch down and do tremendous damage. 

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I have covered a lot of territory in April with the goal of reaching Massachusetts before the end of the month to retrieve the vehicle registration that my son mailed to a friend in Northampton. Since April 1^st, I have sung with 8 Threshold Choirs, traveled through 10 states, explored three National Parks, Washington DC, Philadelphia, Harper’s Ferry (where John Brown’s Abolitionist rebellion took place), walked the grounds of Princeton University, made new friends and visited old friends. I have seen the Dogwoods bloom and driven through showers of flower petals. I have lost myself on scenic routes, followed rivers and walked historical sites. Because of weather detours, I took country roads through tiny burgs with green fields and brick row houses that reminded me of Ireland and discovered places I had no idea existed. 

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I have been awed by the 100 to 200 + year old brick and stone structures in the this part of the country. Seeing colonial brick row houses and elaborate civic structures sparked the realization that each brick and stone was carefully placed by hand. Arched stone bridges, majestic domed cathedrals, city halls and libraries, were all constructed brick by brick, stone by stone, and continue to be constructed this way. My brush with severe weather and tornados has me thinking about the three little pigs, and the safety of sheltering in one of those brick fortresses is most appealing now that I’m not in earthquake country. I am also fascinated by the historical changes to these structures. The growth from single story to multiple stories, and expansions of the buildings are traceable in the brick and stone work. Many of the large buildings started as modest single story homes and grew from there. I was surprised that the ornate gothic design of the buildings on the Princeton campus were off-putting to me. Some of those magnificent buildings have been standing since 1746, but they looked dark, foreboding, and uninviting to me. Perhaps it is the rooftop crenellations, the gaps in the stone around the roof edges that were designed for archers to defend castles in medieval times, that create a fortress-like appearance. The structures certainly achieve the exclusive setting that was probably intended by the founders of the university.    

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Unlike my adventure at Princeton, my time with the Threshold Choirs of Charlottesville, NC, Washington DC, Philadelphia and the Lower Hudson Valley in New York State was welcoming and enlightening. I was inspired by the compassionate  leadership of the Washington DC and Philadelphia Choirs, and honored to be able to sing at bedsides with the Lower Hudson Valley TC, whose playful bedside style was a delightful surprise. Although we sang soothing Threshold Choir music at many bedsides, patients who requested upbeat music were gifted with a lively mix of nostalgic songs, spirituals and jazz that left them visibly lifted. I heard that this choir has sung sea shanties at bedsides, and even rapped a section of “Hamilton”, when rap was requested.

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I want to express my deep appreciation for my hosts of the past two weeks; Shirley in Harrisonburg, NC, for taking time to show me the countryside of the Shenandoah Valley, Lynn for inviting me to sing at bedsides with the Charlottesville Choir and Glen for helping with a closet rod repair in the van, Leslie and Don in Maryland, Suzanne in Philadelphia, Beth and Scott in Yorktown Heights, NY, and Susan Graves in Beacon NY for the great conversations, assistance seeing the sites and the friendship offered. My heart is full. 

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Heading East again, the Shenandoah Mountains stand between Harrisonburg and Charlottesville, which provided me with the opportunity to visit another National Park between choirs. I was surprised to see that the mountains and vegetation were quite different from the Blue Ridge Mountains. The trees had not yet started to green here, and other than the occasional splash of magenta or white from the Redbud and Dogwood trees, there was very little color. The forest was littered with fallen tree trunks and branches, evidence of the severe weather events I had been experiencing. Another storm was due in two days, I would have just one memorable night in the Shenandoah National Park Campground before seeking shelter from the storm. 

Because the Appalachian Trail meanders through the Shenandoah National Park and intersects the campground, most of the campers were hikers. Tired, healthy looking backpackers began showing up just before dark, filling the mostly empty camp sites. As I prepared my camp, a friendly mother and teenage daughter greeted me and said a prayer for me, which turned out to be a very long prayer. I sang a Threshold Song for them. Another neighbor stopped by after dinner to tell me about Jesus. He said he was on a mission to bring Jesus to the Appalachian Trail.  With his wife driving shuttle support for him, the man, well into his 70s, had been hiking 10-15 miles a day and telling those he passed on the trail about Jesus. He was keeping score, and I was number 81 to hear his “message of truth”. He asked if I had accepted Jesus as my Savoir, and I had to tell him that the glorification of suffering is not for me. When he insisted that Jesus died for my sins, I had to inform him that I am a believer in “Original Blessing”, not “Original Sin”. He talked about the coming Day of Reckoning and his concern that I would not make the cut, I let him know I did not fear death. When he asked if I understand that the world is coming to an end, I told him the I am an environmentalist and have no doubt that the world, as we know it, will end. In his concern for my soul, he let me know that I would be doomed to Hell if I don’t accept Jesus, and I let him know that I believe in a benevolent higher spirit and know, without a doubt that my soul will continue on when I leave this body behind. The fact that I don’t believe in a place called Hell, made no sense to him. He spoke his truth, I listened, I spoke my truth, he listened. I was struck by the sadness of the fear driven life he lives, and I felt validation for choosing a wonder driven life instead.  

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Charlottesville was lush and in full bloom when I arrived on 4/17. Lynn, from the Charlottesville TC,  invited me to sing at bedsides with the choir and to park on the tree lined street in front of her house in the green hills near Thomas Jefferson’s home, Monticello. In addition to the Threshold Choir, Lynn, a retired music teacher, is very active in the community, plays racquetball 3 times a week and has a choir that leads sing-a-longs at nursing homes. Her husband, Glen, leaves for a swim at 5:30 each morning. Ahead of me in years, I was inspired by this couple’s active retirement life. 

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I spent a few hours touring Monticello before leaving Charlottesville, but despite the elegant surroundings, the expansive views and the tulip gardens, I was saddened by what I learned about the 169 souls kept as slave labor there. It was deeply disturbing to see the slave quarters and learn about the work they were required to do for this demanding genius; the long hours, the child labor and the limited food provided to his work force. The docent said that because of the long work hours, slaves worked by the light of the moon to grow crops, cook, chop firewood, sew and wash their clothing and do all was required for survival. She also said that Jefferson once commented that he didn’t know why the slaves did not get more rest knowing that they would be required to work from sunrise to sundown. And there is Sally Hemmings’ story, the slave with six children fathered by Jefferson. Sally herself, was one of six children fathered by Jefferson’s father-in-law, who was the slave trader who owned Sally’s mother. It makes me angry to know that Jefferson, and the other owners of slaves in the US, believed they had the moral and legal right to take the women they wanted and treat the people they purchased as if they were not human. I cannot think of these plantation and estate owners as slave owners because the thought of “owning” another soul, is not possible in my view. These slaves were imprisoned by cruel opportunists. It is hard to wrap my head around the idea that civil war was the only way to end the institution of slavery. How do we end the discrimination that continues to this day?

In Pacific Grove, I had a housemate whose father had come from Africa to Chicago as a college student. In our conversations, I learned that she did not share the same history as those whose ancestors were slaves, and that this made her an outsider in the African-American culture of this country. She does not carry the same depth of injury.