Returning from My UBS (Unexplained Blogging Silence)

Hello. It’s been a while. I’ve no good reason for my long absence—not one I can easily articulate anyway. But let me tell you a story…

Eons ago at a motel in California, my five-year-old self left two very tired parents in their room and set off to explore. My parents’ exhaustion now seems understandable to me. Who wouldn’t frazzle while traveling cross-country with two contrary teenagers and one youngster who ceaselessly asked questions?

So I was on my own on a clear, sunny afternoon. I surveyed the area—a playground for motel guests, a neighborhood of houses in the distance, more families checking in to their rooms, the symmetry of the motel exterior, the sameness of every room altered only by the numbers on the doors. Nothing remotely interesting to me. In fact, the afternoon was looking so bleak I wish I hadn’t left my parents. And then a flash caught my eye.

I looked skyward, only to be blinded by glaring sun. After focusing, I saw it: an oblong, silver metal vehicle encircled by slender, perpendicular cylinders each ending in a colored light. What was it? I looked around to see who else had noticed, but no one was looking up.

The vehicle came closer to the motel and glided slowly overhead. I HAD to share this with somebody! I raced back to the motel room, threw open the door, and burst in with my news. But before I got the whole story out, I realized that the people listening to me were NOT my parents. I was in the wrong room—so embarrassed I never wanted to leave my parents again (assuming I’d be able to find them). By the time I got back to them, my humiliation far outweighed my cosmic experience and I couldn’t wait to get on the road again. I was ready to leave this dismal place in the dust.

Of course, between my UFO tale and my accidental exuberance with strangers, my parents enjoyed a good laugh at my expense. But I know what I saw.

Years on, my UFO encounter well behind me and never mentioned again, I was trying to verify something I was editing. A newspaper article led me to a book chronicling unexplained occurrences. I found more than I’d anticipated.

Several pages of one chapter were devoted to the same shiny, colorful vehicle I saw on my first family vacation. The descriptions matched mine, the vicinity was the same, the time of year synced as well.

Hmmm. Other people saw it? You mean I wasn’t suffering from heatstroke or an overactive imagination? Cool. I could reshuffle my brain a bit and recategorize this memory without shame.

Fast-forward to April 2013—a month during which I should have had LOTS to write on Lull. A month celebrating poetry, honoring trees, raising awareness about animal cruelty. Yet I remained strangely silent. Honestly, I don’t know why. Lacking a better excuse, I offer this: That shiny hovercraft with colored lights came back for me.

Yup. I was abducted by aliens.

[Photos by N J. Jackson (palms at top) and NASA.]

Crisscrossing America, from Tree to Shining Tree

Traveling exhausts me.

This past week I’ve been to New York, Illinois, Alabama, Georgia, New Hampshire, Mississippi, Vermont, Pennsylvania, California, Tennessee, and Massachusetts. Sometimes twice. Never in any practical order.

I’m visiting the homes and trees of literary and cultural icons with author Richard Horan. This morning we swam in Walden’s Pond and took Frost’s Road Less Traveled. Yesterday we communed with Flannery O’Connor, Willa Cather, and Pearl Buck. Before that it was John Muir, L. Frank Baum, Henry Miller, and Edith Wharton.

It’s a mad-dash tour that’s only halfway completed, yet we have to wrap it up by this coming Saturday—the day our “vehicle” must be returned to the library.

“The secret God-grin is in the trees.”
—Jack Kerouac

For nearly any place you want to go, there’s a book that will take you there. However, when said tome belongs to a library, your timetable isn’t your own. That’s my frustration with reading Horan’s Seeds: One Man’s Serendipitous Journey to Find the Trees that Inspired Famous American Writers. If the book belonged to me, I’d take more time to savor it. Ideally, I’d read a work by each writer mentioned and use the Web to explore the towns, trees, terrain, and architecture that colored the thoughts of those writers. The trip could continue for months.

But this trip has to be over this Saturday. So if you don’t hear from me, I’m likely in Tuscumbia, Yazoo City, Appomattox, Saratoga Springs, or Monticello—or somewhere in between.

Happy trails …

[Trees pictured are the now uncommon American Chestnut: top photo from the USDA Forest Service and bottom photo from The American Chestnut Foundation.]

Four Firsts for a Friend

We welcomed a friend here a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately for her, we were still emptying my father’s barn and exhausted from our efforts. We made lousy hosts, hardly up to showing her the highlights of the Horse Capital of the World. But surprisingly, she managed to experience some personal firsts anyway:

1. She ate her first Girl Scout Cookie—the classic Thin Mint.

2. She watched the Oscars on television with us.

3. She visited a humane society. The fact that said friend had a French upbringing doesn’t explain why she’s missed Thin Mints and the Oscars in her lifetime—especially since she’s lived in the States for a number of years now. However, her supersensitive allergic reactions to all things animal do justify her avoidance of animal shelters. She did fine, though. Even toured the dog kennels after we donated some bedding to the place.

4. When she called an acquaintance who currently resides in the Bluegrass, he couldn’t talk at that moment. He was hunting squirrels for dinner. (Do I really need to explain why this would be a first for most of us?)

In spite of her hosts, our houseguest had a memorable weekend here in what H. L. Mencken named the Bible Belt (now also dubbed the Diabetes Belt by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention), proof that adventure awaits us no matter where we are. We only have to recognize it.

[Vintage Girl Scout cookie tin bank courtesy of Girl Scouts Make History; armed squirrel photo from Treehugger.]