Trailer Trash Mama (Again!)

I thought we’d do a Snow White and make flowers bloom and birds sing (I may be mixing my Disney metaphors here)- you know, bestow Spring upon the land as we tripped gaily north.  But New Jersey went all Evil Queen on us and we plunged back into Winter. The new Mario Cuomo Bridge over the Hudson River. We dug out the down jackets, filled the propane tanks and lit the fake fire.  All was good.  We caught up with daughters Kate and Hilary, friends and family, and spent a weekend back in the old ‘hood in Brooklyn.   I had my first Oyster Epiphany at CT and Diane’s on the first night of our first cross country RV trip back in 2010.   The second one was just as memorable. Bruce and Dan holding Diane and me firmly in our seats as a vicious thunderstorm raged outside.  Shortly after the restaurant lost power. We’d brought our beloved dog Poppy’s ashes with us to scatter in the park where a tree was planted in her name by dear Gisela.  Poppy was known as the Mayor of Prospect Park for her abili

Despite the harrowing journey to get there, our stay on the DeGinLand Peninsula was thankfully drama free.  Well, from our perspective it was.  Perhaps not from that of our neighbors at one campground.  Honestly, Dan was just trying to help them.   They showed up, a young couple from New Jersey, in a small Tesla, late one afternoon and plugged their car into the electrical outlet.  We’ve seen plenty of “car campers” on our trip - they usually have cunning little hi-tech tents and enough clever folding equipment stowed in their Subaru Outback to make a pretty decent camp for anyone under the age of 40.   We were curious to see what a small Tesla could hold.  Not much, as it turns out.  Where were the folding chairs?  Coleman stove?  Sleeping bags?  Most importantly, where was THE TENT?  Just a few shopping bags appeared and were placed on the picnic table. Then our young couple produced some firewood and tried to start a fire.  It was not a success.  At one point they were both standing

The Outer Banks of North Carolina is the landmass equivalent of a trailer park.  There’s a giant target floating right above it, or maybe it’s a flashing neon arrow, pointing the way for incoming hurricanes.  It gets a direct hit every other year . I’ve often wondered why anyone would build a house right on a beach.  Apart from the horrors of sand in every nook and cranny (and I don’t mean just the house) there are all those waves coming at you night and day.  Okay, true confession: I have a recurring nightmare about waves threatening to engulf me.  No doubt Freud would have a field day, but I’ve always been afraid of the ocean.  And that’s without a hurricane added to the mix. Post Hurricane Irene in 2011.   And just because I’m now more aware of this issue than I ever wanted to be, how do these beachfront houses handle their “waste water”?  Septic tank buried in the sand?  That then gets washed away?  Pipes that ditto?   A somewhat unnerving cloud given what’s happening in the world

  Savannah, the first planned city in America, started out with such high ideals.  Its founder, James Oglethorpe, arrived in 1733 with a boat load of English poor people willing to trade debtor’s prison for the chance to start a new agrarian life in the colonies.  50 acres and a modest house on one of the broad streets surrounding 24 leafy squares.  There was to be religious freedom - well, except for the Catholics (already established in the Spanish colony of Florida and perceived to be a threat.) There was also to be no liquor or slaves.  Or lawyers.  Bravo Mr. Oglethorpe! Sadly none of the high ideals except for religious freedom (including Catholics) lasted very long.  Savannah became one of the busiest ports in the trans Atlantic slave trade.  Most of the grand houses surrounding the beautiful squares were built in the 1800s so you know where the money and labor came from.  The riverfront, where the largest auction of men, women and children in this country took place - referred t