Great Lake Cruise

Ordinarily it takes us an hour to get to the airport on the other side of Austin, but this morning it takes two and a half hours. We find out when we get to the airport that a transformer blew a couple of hours ago, knocking out the power to the computer systems, terminals, and control tower. How this translates into gruelingly standstill traffic is unclear. The problem is corrected quickly, but because of the difficulties we expect our flight to be delayed, but it leaves on time while we are late, late, late, so we must race through the airport like OJ (except we’re not murderers) to catch it. Also, it turns out that one of my drive-flat tires is indeed driving flat, and we have no choice but to hope it will still be driving flat when we return at midnight in twelve days. If not, well, what a pain that will be.

So, not an auspicious start to our Great Lakes Cruise. In Toronto our touring company, Tauck, has arranged for us to be picked up at the airport and delivered to The Fairmont, which is the same chain we stayed in last spring when we took a train through the Canadian Rockies. Fairmont Hotels are known for their luxurious dignity, but when we enter the lobby we are confronted by a wall of loud music with a harsh redundant beat that I suspect was composed with zero human input. Exaggeratedly well-dressed people stand in clusters with drinks in their hands, pretending they can hear one another. We are told that a fashion show is taking place. I scan the crowd, hoping for a new trend or color; but no—same ole derivative stuff.

We find our room and then go back out immediately in search of dinner. We end up at a crowded tavern, King’s Tap, with the same sort of deafening percussive music. It’s our turn to pretend we can hear one another. After the day of travel, I enjoy a Guinness. To our dismay, we’re unable to name the Great Lakes. Shouting at one another, we name Huron and Eerie, but can’t think of the other three. It’s ludicrous that we’ve come on this GL trip and can’t even name them. But not to worry; Siri helps us out. And then we feel stupid because of course we knew them; we just couldn’t remember them, which is what happens when you’re in your sixties.                    

After a great night’s sleep we take a ferry out to Toronto Island, where we walk five kilometers, from one end to the other. It’s the loveliest walk we’ve had in years. The sky is the clearest blue, it’s seventy-three degrees, the paved walking path is in good condition, and oddly, we have the whole island to ourselves. If you’re ever seeking tranquility in Toronto, I highly suggest a trip to the island.

On the way back to the hotel we stop for lunch at Impact Kitchen—one of those places where kale and cabbage figure highly into every meal. Considering the simplicity of our orders—a sandwich for David and soup for me—the plethora of cooks and servers, and the dearth of diners, it takes us way too long to get our meal. On the upside, the wait gives us a chance to observe the many passers-by outside the broad front window. So, having been here less than eighteen hours, I’m prepared to offer a few baseless generalizations: there’s a high population of well-dressed millennials buzzing around with ideas in their heads—foolish dreams or high ambitions, I do not know; a large number of them smoke or vape, which is puzzling; and, for some reason, a major percentage of the male population walks around with one hand in a front pants pocket. What’s that about?

The next morning, Niagara Falls. There’s a reason why people come here in droves—the falls are magnificent. Also, the town of Niagara Falls is charming, with hotels overlooking the roaring water, lovely parks, and colorful flower gardens everywhere. We’ve heard that the Canadian side offers the better view, and standing here, we can see how that would be in that the American side looks on to the falls from the top, back, and side, while we have face-on exposure. We are offered ponchos and herded on to a boat, then delivered right below the falls where we are attacked by water and wind. I huddle miserably, getting soaked as I battle the whipping plastic of the useless poncho. We were told the boat ride lasts twenty minutes, but it feels like an hour. What I gain from the experience is an appreciation for a mighty and fearsome force that possesses the ability to create a storm on a quiet day.  

In the evening we decide on a nearby Indian restaurant for dinner, and, as serendipity arranges, we end up on an upper floor by a window overlooking the Toronto International Film Festival and all the flamboyantly dressed theatrical types as they drift between promos and performances. And at the table behind us, a writer pitches his script with a pride so desperate that he makes me feel embarrassed, not only for him, but for all us writers who are so consumed by the brilliance of our own works that we’re unable to comprehend the disinterest of others or the notion that our latest project is not the most fascinating ever to have been conceived.

Tomorrow we get on the boat.

One of the falls. From where I stand there are three of these in view—roaring, mighty.

A view of Toronto from the island. It’s a lovely city, though there are traffic issues—like last night it took us forty minutes to arrive at a venue when we could have walked in ten.

Sometimes, just walking around a city, we come upon unexpected and fun events.

CR 401

Five years ago a woman bought a lovely piece of property on the most pleasant country road in Texas. On half the land she tore out the trees and wildflowers. Then she leveled the ground, graveled a dozen parking bays, and installed septic and electrical hook-ups. Inexplicably, she draped black plastic over the length of the pre-existing fence that ran along the front; and the plastic quickly became tattered from flapping in the wind. She charges three hundred and fifty a week per RV, and all the bays are constantly occupied, which means she’s pulling in roughly sixteen thousand eight hundred a month. I reckon she recovered her investment within the first two months.  

She sold the other half of the property, and the new owner cleared the land—trees and shrubs bulldozed; huge chunks of limestone pried from their earthen cribs, left to rest upon the ground; and after that no more work was done. There it lay for two years, decimated and unattended—until recently when an abandoned trailer showed up. Considering the scattered boulders and the pits caused by the earlier excavation, it must’ve taken some tricky driving to get it so far back in the lot. What does its presence portend? Is this acreage going to become a junkyard for abandoned trailers and RVs?

A sign hanging on the gate tells me that it’s once more for sale. Maybe the trailer’s meant to encourage a potential buyer in the same way one stage a house—like, “Hey, if you buy this piece of ruined land here’s something you can do with it!”

The realtor’s email address is on the sign, so I send him a note.

To Michael Herd. Are you or the owner aware that a trailer has been abandoned on the lot that’s for sale on County Road 401? It’s bad enough that those of us who reside in the area must endure living near that hideous RV park—are our property values now going to be further diminished due to proximity to a mobile home dumping ground? Thanks for your attention in this matter. Jen Waldo

His response: I haven’t been there for a few weeks. I’ll drive out and have a look. Thanks for alerting me. Michael Herd

People often say they’ll act, but then they don’t. A week later I drive over to see if the trailer’s still there. It is. I get out of the car and take a picture. It’s a hundred and seven outside and there’s been no rain for five months. The grasshoppers have fled. I return home and send the realtor the picture along with this reminder:

Michael, I’m still troubled about that trailer on CR 401. What are the plans for its removal? It’s parked at a precarious angle. Common wisdom has it that if a vacant structure offers a roof and door, someone will come along and move into it, even if it is dangerously situated and overrun by vermin. Jen Waldo

Jen, I’m looking into it, though I’m uncertain as to why you thought you should contact me about this. The fact is, it’s not your concern. Michael Herd

Not my concern? If I don’t take an interest, who will? He didn’t even know it was out there until I told him. Also, it’s disingenuous of him to put his contact information on a sign and then be dismayed when someone uses it to contact him.  

Michael, of course it’s my concern! We’re all in this world together. If something effects one, it effects all. While a misplaced trailer may seem innocuous and insignificant in the present, there’s the possibility that it may cause unprecedented harm in the future. Please ask the owner of the property to have it hauled off. Jen Waldo

Jen, the owner didn’t put it there and refuses to bear the expense of removing it. Meanwhile, I’ve notified the local authorities. They’ll track down the owner of the trailer and he will take it away or face the consequences. I urge you to step back and trust the process. I believe this draws our communications to a close. Michael Herd

The realtor appears to believe that someone who, a few weeks ago, couldn’t afford to keep or maintain his trailer, will now have the money it’ll cost to remove it. Also, making some penniless guy “face the consequences” won’t get that trailer out of there. Trust the process. Hah. That trailer’s going to be there forever. One more missive:

Oh Feckless Michael, it saddens me to realize that nothing, ever, will be done to get that ugly trailer out of there. This indolent acceptance of a wart on our horizon signifies the lowering of standards that turns a nice neighborhood into a slum. I’d think that you, as a realtor, would care about that. Jen Waldo

I press send and, with a crushed spirit, let the issue go.

There it is.

The Reasonable Voice

From these vignettes that I post, a reader might think I spend a lot of time at the grocery store; and that’s true. I have a freshness fetish, which only allows me to buy enough food for two days. I’ve considered getting help, but as far as neuroses go, it’s a harmless one. 

My favorite time to shop is Sunday afternoon, when the Hispanic families gather around their carts, forming a clump that advances through the aisles like a Zamboni. I enjoy the way the leather-faced granddads in cowboys hats make a production of extricating their wallets from the back pocket of their jeans, count out the bills, and proudly hand over cash; also, how their granddaughters priss about in their church dresses. 

The only point where there’s the possibility of anything disagreeable happening is in the checkout line, which can be fraught. If you have a small cart (I prefer them because they’re zippy) the Director of Carts automatically directs you to the express lane. Today that’s where she sends me, though I have way more than the allowed fifteen items. And if you think the people behind you in line don’t count, you’re unaware of reality. 

So I get in line knowing that my presence here is unfair, yet bound by my compliant nature to do as instructed. Other people join the line as, predictably, a price check is needed, which gives all behind me a lengthy opportunity to count the number of items I’ve tossed on the belt. 

Pretending oblivion, I scan the coversheets of the tabloids in the magazine rack. It’s amusing to see the implausible claims—Barak Obama is insane; a creature that’s half-human and half-fish has been discovered in Florida; also, Clint Eastwood is being investigated by the FBI. Seriously, what could a man his age possibly get up to that would interest the FBI? 

“I’m happy to see that.” The woman behind me has moved closer, and she, too is focused on the magazine rack.  

“To see what?” I ask, unable to discern the direction of her gaze.

“That.” She points to a picture of Jill and Joe Biden, accompanied by a caption in bright yellow that screams, “MARRIAGE OVER! JOE CAUGHT CHEATING! JILL KICKS HIM OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE!”

Oh. She thinks we’re going to bond. And though I hear David’s warning in my head—“Don’t engage!”—I cannot stop myself. 

“Are you saying that you’re happy that a couple who’s been together for forty-five years is splitting up?”

“Jill Biden is a horrible woman.”

Honestly, I don’t pay a lot of attention to Jill Biden, who seems insipid and frumpy—but that’s not a reason to be pleased that her husband is cheating, which, considering his bearing and age, is beyond belief, though my fellow shopper appears to believe it. 

The question here is, what’s the cause of this woman’s enmity?

“Do you know her?” I ask. Though it’s a farfetched notion, I can’t see feeling such a passionate dislike toward someone I’ve never met. 

“She’s been scheming to become First Lady since she married him. And he’s a crook and a liar.”

“To be clear, you don’t know them personally? You’ve never met them?”

“Of course not. But you don’t need to know someone to know someone.”

Does she not know what the word “know” means?

This is the type of bizarre conversation one falls into in Central Texas. This woman began talking to me because she supposed that I would echo her spite, which isn’t that outlandish an assumption in that ninety percent of the people around here hold similar views of our current president and his wife. 

The issue here isn’t how I feel about the Biden or Trump presidencies. They’re both duds as far as I’m concerned; and I dream of the day when someone possessing character and vitality will offer him- or herself as a sacrifice on the inglorious altar of our political system.  

No, what I take issue with is that this woman wanted to share negativity so badly that she accosted a random stranger in the checkout line. 

And it’s not just her. She’s one of many in the last couple of years who’ve arbitrarily dumped their mean-spirited political opinions on me. Why? Is there some universally held notion that the way to validate your view, no matter how offensive or extreme, is to launch it from the platform of your tongue?  

“Do you realize that you can control what comes out of your mouth?” I ask her. 

Well, that’s less than diplomatic and I expect her to be miffed, but she actually gives it consideration; and I facetiously imagine that this is probably the first time in months that she’s thought about anything other than how much she hates the Bidens and how angry she is that the election was stolen. 

“I guess I should pay more attention to who I’m talking to,” is her response. 

Yes, she should. I turn away and pull out my credit card. 

Hot and Dry here. More interesting than another photo of the HEB.

Churched

My father once said that my mother went to church every time they opened the doors. This was kind of true. She was in the choir, which meant rehearsals one night a week. She was the substitute organist and, as the lead soprano, often sang solos. 

My dad, on the other hand, blatantly and irreverently claimed salvation through association (typically hilarious). Because he didn’t attend, my sister and I sat by ourselves on the front pew under our mother’s stern eye. At ages five and six we were expected to sit still and be quiet, which we did.

Mom also taught Sunday school and, while dealing with troublesome children wasn’t her forte, she did it because no one else stepped up and she thought it was important.

And she had a job outside the home, which in those days was considered forward by some of the more narrow-minded parishioners.

In short, she was a hard worker, a busy woman. 

I considered church, like school, as simply another boring thing I was required to do. I had no idea why I was there, and nobody ever told me. Furthermore, the service never altered in any way. Someone read from the Bible, we sang and recited the same responses every week, and a man stood above us and gave a mind-numbing talk while I distracted myself by scribbling observations on the program and showing them to my sister. In Sunday school my attention went to the rude boys who, my mother explained, were rude because they wanted attention. Apparently their ploy worked. 

When I was thirteen or fourteen, the youth group gave a fund-raising spaghetti supper. The older teens were to put on an entertaining play and the younger ones would pour tea and deliver dinner to the tables. The mothers would supervise, and a time for preparation was scheduled for the afternoon on the day of. My mother was busy with our younger sister and couldn’t participate. I was washing cups for the after-meal coffee when a few women began a conversation in the adjacent pantry. 

“Where’s Bea?” one asked. 

“She never comes to these things. She’s too busy to help.” Snide tone.

“Some women take no responsibility, even when their own kids are involved.” 

“The children suffer when a mother works outside the home.” 

I’d thought these women were kind. They buzzed around the fellowship hall with smiles. They gave sincere compliments. They arranged outings and lessons for us. 

Soon after, I let church go. It was fifteen years before I realized that every person who called themselves Christian wasn’t a hypocrite. 

David, also, was raised in the church. When young, he was an acolyte. Unlike me, he appreciated the unchanging order of worship. He knew the seasons of the church and the purpose of the various parts of the service. I guess he paid more attention during confirmation classes than I did. When our kids came along, he thought it was a good idea to do the church thing, and I went along with it because it seemed to matter to him. 

Finding a church home was the next step. The American Protestant church in The Hague was cliquey and crowded and, while I think children are important, so child-centric that there was no room for anything else. So we switched to a small Anglican church which focused on harmony, and we were happy there. 

In the UK we tried a Baptist church that was near our home. Having been raised in the Bible-thumping south, I’d been subjected to some choose Jesus or go to hell sermons, but I never expected to hear one in a quaint little English village. So we tried the nearby Anglican church where, more often than not, the homily focused on how materialistic and misguided Americans were. This was the best we could in that location and I never felt comfortable there. 

In thirty-odd years we’ve attended ten churches in six different countries, and we’ve compared the similarities and differences of five denominations. We’ve become adept at recognizing a good fit. If a church is frantic, if appearance is its focus, if the congregants aren’t warm toward one another, we walk away. When I enter the right church for the first time, I feel tranquility and open-mindedness, not as nebulous concepts, but as palpable entities.  

My intention isn’t to push church at people, though I find guidance and comfort there. Lately Christianity has been commandeered by the right and, in reaction, vilified by the left. Because Christianity is misrepresented by one faction and maligned by the other, it seems unclear what Christians stand for. Believe me, the majority of Christians have no political agenda and are heartsick over the current divisions in our communities and in our country. The aim of any God-seeking church, and any Christian within the church, is to be a positive force; to encourage, help, and tolerate; and to choose peace. We praise, we petition, we wait. And then we do it again.

The cross at the church we go to now.

On a lighter note, I went shopping the other day. Peasant dresses are back in style. That’s a lot of flowery fabric!

You wear this one when you want people to confuse you with a Delft vase.