Word of the Year 2020: Build 13: My Rootless Goals

  On Build thus far

1. Word of the Year 2020: Build 1: After the Floods
2. Word of the Year 2020: Build 2: Fronterista
3. Word of the Year 2020: Build 3: "House"
4. Word of the Year 2020: Build 4: Chosens
5. Word of the Year 2020: Build 5: It Takes a Village
6. Word of the Year 2020: Build 6: Elevation
7. Word of the Year 2020: Build 7: Trail Building
8. Word of the Year 2020: Build 8: Money
9. Word of the Year 2020: Build 9: Health 
10. Word of the Year 2020: Build 10: Service and Activism
11. Word of the Year 2020: Build 11: Relationships
12. Word of the Year 2020: Build 12: Creative Life
    

  

This end-of-the-year Build post is about rootless goals I want to achieve. 

The thing about being rootless is that .... I'm rootless, so maybe having a rootless goal is an oxymoron? 

During this COVID time, I've been tutoring one of my descendants - let's call her Sparkle - in some of her schoolwork. We've been reading a book together for her reading class. We encountered a simile, "like a burr clings to wool," and I asked Sparkle if she knew what a burr was. No, but as we talked about its characteristics, she said, "Oh, a stick-tight!" Yeah!

My rootlessness is a bit like being a stick-tight or a burr in that where I end up isn't a sure thing at all. I'm on a ride and maybe I'll sprout roots where I fall off my travel host, and maybe I'll re-attach to another moving host, to be carried off to some other destination. 

This reminds me of the mysterious cup o' roaches in Bernalillo, New Mexico, some years back. 

 

 Cup o' roaches, Bernalillo, New Mexico.

Whose Invisible Hand put the roaches in that cup? Did I see the critters in their original plunking-down spot or did I see them in their second, ninth, or 100th spot? When a random boy ran past me, scooped up the cup, and carried it away with him, where did he plunk it down? What happened to the roaches after that? Did I witness the explanation of the universe?

Seriously, though:

 

My rootless goals for today, maybe not tomorrow, or even an hour from now 

1. Be alert for the place I will root when I'm 70ish  >>>>  AND be open to rooting at any time, because I am not under contract to my current rootlessness
2. Push hard against Goddess Inertia, even in isolationist COVID-19 times. It is not enough to move to a new geographic location each year - it is mission critical to embed myself in the new geography, new people, new traditions - else why am I rootless at all? 
3. Try out new experiments in living arrangements, portability, and minimalism, such as my current auditioning of cardboard boxes as furniture
   
4. Stay curious
   

 

 

Birmingham, AL: "... Such Beautiful Scenery. We Didn't Have a Sense of Fear."

USPS stamp, Alabama.

Before I moved to Alabama, if I were on a shrink's couch and she ran me through an associations exercise, and she said, "black," I'd say "white," and if she said "Alabama," I'd say "racism."

One day, I went to the post office in Tucson to buy stamps. They didn't have many artistic choices that day, but they did have one - just one - of the state stamps from its series of state stamps. It was Alabama. My hand practically recoiled from the proffered page of stamps. An Alabama stamp?! On my mail?! Never!

The only positive whisper I had about Alabama was the comment of a friend who'd gone to Birmingham on a business trip some years ago. I asked him what he thought of Birmingham. He replied: "It's pretty and the people are friendly."

I share all of this backstory to build up to this point: When I drove into Alabama in July, I thought: Wow! It is so pretty here!

On a subsequent weekend trip to Oxford and Anniston, I thought: Wow! It is so pretty here!

Every time I move through Birmingham's forested neighborhoods, up hills, across ridges, over the mountain, I think: Gosh almighty, it's so pretty here. 

And then I think: If it weren't for Alabama's racism brand, the state could be a paradise!

Which leads me to the documentary I just watched,  PBS American Experience: Freedom Riders [the link takes you to the entire documentary].

Here is the trailer to the documentary:

 

 

Before the virgin voyage of the Freedom Rider campaign, Dr. Martin Luther King counseled the students: "... and if I were you, I probably wouldn't go into Alabama."

But this is the quote that grabs me, from one of the first wave of Freedom Riders, Mae F. Moultrie Howard: 

"It was such a beautiful day. It was such a quiet feeling that day ... it was bright and sunny. The sky was blue. And it was such beautiful scenery. We didn't have a sense of fear."

How can such horrible acts occur in such a beautiful land?

Julian Bond: "The people on the Trailways bus going to Birmingham don't know that the Greyhound bus in Anniston has been burned, ..... now the [people on the Trailways bus are] going to a city which is the worst city for race in the whole United States. It literally is a police state, ruled by one of the worst figures in American history, Bull Connor, who must have been some kind of psychopath, just rabid on the subject of race."

Unknown: "I think when they learn that when they go somewhere to create a riot, that there's not going to be somebody there to stand between them and the other crowd, they'll stay home."

John Siegenthaler, recounting the phone conversation he had with Freedom Rider leader, student Diane Nash: "'I understand there are more Freedom Riders coming down from Nashville. You must stop them if you can. Do you understand you're going to get somebody killed?' Her response was: 'They're not going to turn back. They're on their way to Birmingham.' .... soon I was shouting, 'Young woman, do you understand what you're doing? ... Do you understand you're going to get somebody killed!?' And there's a pause and she said, 'Sir, you should know, we all signed our last wills and testaments last night before they left. We know someone will be killed. But we cannot let violence overcome nonviolence.'"

Governor Patterson: "... these [freedom riders] are rabble rousers and we can't protect them."

Governor Patterson: "We don't need the federal marshals here in [Montgomery]. The situation here is well in hand, and if the outside agitators who came here and deliberately stirred up this controversy, would go home, and the marshals go home, it'd be best for everybody and the situation would return to normal very quickly."


Right after I finished watching Freedom Riders, I watched a short documentary that centered on James Armstrong, The Barber of Birmingham: Foot Soldier of the Civil Rights Movement.

Perhaps the most moving quote in this documentary came from Faya Rose Touré, a civil rights activist and litigation attorney: 

"The only way to freedom land, is on the backs of unknown people whose bodies are stacked so high that you eventually can walk to freedom land. And it's those foot soldiers who really make change. We always remember the Dr. Kings and the Rosa Parks, but we have to remember our foot soldiers."

On the foot soldiers, Ms. Touré added later: "The foot soldiers are some of the most important people in the Civil Rights Movement. These are people who will never be known by name. 'Cause they're people, who left their jobs, who risked their lives, may have been fired from their jobs. Who went out to march, not just one day, but every day. They weren't there just on Bloody Sunday, but they were there on Bloody Monday, fire me Tuesday, can't find a job Wednesday."


".... Such beautiful scenery. We didn't have a sense of fear."

 

I've been other places where the placid beauty of a surface hides the monsters - some still alive, some not - beneath. 

Example 1: The Trinity Site in New Mexico, the site of atomic bomb testing before Hiroshima and Nagasaki

I wrote then: 

... I do experience some cognitive dissonance in the low levels of radiation that exist there today (apparently) versus what we've had pounded into our psyches about how many eons it takes for radiation from an atomic bomb to go to "safe" levels. Does this mean I take away a sense that atomic weapons are "not that bad"? No. The take-away is my inability to reconcile two alleged realities.

Example 2: Bayou Corne the Sinkhole, Part 2

I wrote then: 

Once the immediate shock of the Bayou Corne's suck was over, could I believe what my eyes told me about the apparent return to [a] heretofore idyllic paradise, with the fish still biting, the birds still swooping gracefully, the water still rippling peacefully, the sky still blue, the trees still shading and sheltering?

I couldn't see what was - and wasn't - below my feet. Couldn't feel what was - or wasn't - there. Who could I trust to tell me the truth?

 

 ... such beautiful scenery.

Birmingham, AL: A Sunday Afternoon in Avondale Park

 

Avondale Park, Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

A sunny winter day in Birmingham, perfect to visit Avondale Park for the first time. 

Avondale Park, Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

A library is adjacent to the park - what a perfect pairing! Books in a park! 

 

Avondale Park, Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

 

Avondale Park is in the, ummmm, which Birmingham neighborhood? I assumed the Avondale neighborhood, but further investigation suggests the park looks at the Avondale neighborhood while it resides in the Forest Park neighborhood. 

 

Avondale Park, Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

 

My post-visit research into the park also reminds me how often we go to a place, seeing only what we see in those moments, and we have no idea of what we don't see. 

For example, on a superficial level, I didn't notice the rose garden. 

I also didn't know that for centuries, local folk and wayfarers refreshed themselves with the spring waters that flowed from an opening in Red Mountain down to what is now Avondale Park. Mortals have baptized the spring with different names over the years: King's Spring, Big Spring, Cave Spring, and now Avondale Spring, neither knowing nor inquiring of the spring how she calls herself.  The spring feeds the park's duck pond.

I didn't know, of course, the rich and diverse social history of the park. 

Consider the stories of John Todd and the elephant under his care, Miss Fancy. Miss Fancy lived at Avondale Park, back when it had a zoo. 

Avondale Park, Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

I wish I knew how Miss Fancy fared after she lost her beloved John Todd. I wish I knew more about Mr. Todd's story outside of Miss Fancy.

In 2019, Irene Latham published a children's book about Miss Fancy and a young Black boy in Birmingham. In Miss Fancy's time at Avondale Park, only white visitors could enter the park. Embedded in Ms. Latham's story of Miss Fancy is the grim story of Jim Crow laws. This article by James Baggett, Reading Birmingham: Miss Fancy Tells Sweet Story of Jim Crow’s Harsh Reality, explains. 

Birmingham, AL: Update on That Lizard in a Mailbox

 

Lizard shedding (molting), Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

 

 

Hello there, little one! You're in a doorway today! Nice to see you again.

 

Lizard shedding (molting), Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

 

What's this? A crack in your tail? Did something happen? I didn't close the storm door on you, did I? 

 

Ohhhh, you're molting! That explains the gray collar in the mailbox photos!  

Hmm, but now I'm thinking there are two of you. Mailbox lizard who had completely molted except for the collar, and doorway lizard who had completely molted except for the tail.

 

Lizard shedding (molting), Birmingham, Alabama. December 2020.

I don't think I knew lizards molted. Snakes, yes. 

An informational video here. 

 

Alabama: Slow Talkers?

 

Snail in Caucasus Georgia, Gori region. August 2011.

 

In Caucasus Georgia, they say that people from the Racha region speak so slowly, they begin a sentence on Monday and don't finish it until Wednesday.  

The Swiss like to say that people from the Bern canton speak very slowly (and move slowly). Here's a joke from the New York Times: 

Ask a Swiss to describe Bern and you may hear a joke about how the people move so slowly that even their souls take centuries to reach heaven. 

Because of COVID-19, I haven't talked to that many people in Alabama, but I've participated in some zoom meetings with Alabamans. I have noticed how s-l-o-w-l-y the meeting participants speak. Even the 'um' is long in Alabama: "Uhhmmm."     

 

I wondered if this was a thing Alabamans are known for, or if it was just my imagination, and I discovered this 2016 Atlantic Monthly article, about a study on how quickly or slowly Americans in different states speak. 

Well, Alabamans are slow talkers, but not the slowest, according to the above research. Alabamans are the fourth-slowest American speakers, with Louisianans being the second-slowest speakers. Interesting, as the speed of South Louisianans' speech never tripped my radar. Perhaps it was masked by the charm of their Cajun-Creole accent. 

You can go directly to the 2016 study source at Marchex here. 

But here is an interesting rebuttal to the slow-talking rankings. 

On kind of a related note: Many of my English learner students want to speak more quickly than they do currently, as they believe it is a hallmark of language mastery. 

Uhhmmm. 

No. 

Speak fluidly, yes, not choppily or with a monotone. But better to speak more slowly - making it easier for you to form the correct sounds, intonations, and rhythms - and thus easier for your listener to understand what you are saying.

Portable: My Tent

 

My tent at Arrow Rock State Park, Missouri. May 2018.

There's nothing particularly wowza about my tent, but I'm writing about it because Sinh, my Vietnamese student who I met up with in Las Vegas in early 2020, is in the market for tents, and we talked a bit about mine and how I like it. He asked me how long I've had it, and I had to think about that. Years. Years. But how many years?

My daughter and I took a road trip to Alaska in the second half of the 90s, and I did not have the tent then. We borrowed a tent from one of my cousins. 

I did not have the tent when I decided to pass the turn of the millennium in Organ Pipe National Monument in December 1999/January 2000. That tent was a geriatric pup tent, basically. The Y2K trip was my second solo road trip.

I did have the tent on my solo trip out west in September 2007, where I camped near Sedona and at the Grand Canyon. I wrote about this trip here and here. 

My tent at Grand Canyon. September 2007.

 

So we'll go with September 2007 - I've had my tent for at least 13 years. It's a Eureka Tetragon 8.

I said there's nothing wowza about my tent, but that doesn't mean I don't love it. Here's why:

• It's easy and relatively fast for me to put up by myself.
• Roomy!!!! It's a Law of the Universe that when a manufacturer says a tent is a two-person, three-person, or whatever-person tent, you actually need to subtract at least one human from that count. Unless, of course, you love to sleep in a tent like a pup in a newborn litter, with all of your gear outside. So, I think my tent is supposed to be a four-person tent, but it is ideally built for two. 
• A lot of pockets that suspend from three walls.
• A loop at the ceiling peak from which I can hang a lantern or keys or whatever. 
• The door is off-center - toward the right- so I've got a more spacious living area in the left side of the tent.
  
• I can almost completely stand up  in my tent. 
  

Related posts on tent camping

 2018: Missouri: Arrow Rock Camping, Part 1: Cold Coffee and Some Walks 

2017: Arkansas: Lake Catherine State Park, Part 1: Nostalgia

2017: Texas: Big Bend National Park, including a video of a tarantula checking out my tent

2012: New Mexico: Oliver Lee Memorial State Park: My Temporary Home

 

Tarantula on my tent, Big Bend National Park, Texas. September 2017.

In a post about tents and camping, how can one not include something about ..... bears? 

From A Walk in the Woods, by Bill Bryson, about that night in his tent 

From the hilarious Hairpin interview with Molly Langmuir on her solo hike in the Tetons, where every moment was consumed by the fear of bears. Below, an excerpt: 

"The ranger who gave the canister you’re supposed to keep all your food in and leave 100 yards away from your tent at night explained that even if you drink an Emercen-C in your Nalgene you should put it in your canister, and that was actually what put me over the edge. Because if bears can smell an Emercen-C in a closed Nalgene, they were clearly a sort of advanced supercreature that could definitely sniff out the crumbs I’d likely drop on myself at some point. Plus, for all I remembered the last time I had used my sleeping bag I had been binging on beef jerky right next to a barbecue smoker. Also I didn’t know how far 100 yards was."

I remember solo camping at Padre Island National Seashore over the Christmas-New Year week one year, where I'd looked forward to actually camping on the beach .... until the campground host told me of the recent camper whose tent had been invaded by the local coyotes one night while he slept! That asshole. By whom, I mean, the campground host. 

Although I pitched my tent next to a group of young, robust Russian men, working in Dallas, I slept that night with a knife in my hand, hyper-alert at every tiny snap of my tent wall from a breeze, thinking of those coyotes. 

 

Flashback to 2012: Mescalero, New Mexico: St. Joseph Apache Mission Church

It's been good to revisit this 2012 post.

Smiley memories of a long visit from my mother when I lived in New Mexico. She and I traipsed about New Mexico together. On down times at home, she read a book while laying atop one of my very comfy hospital beds in the Alamogordo apartment, and indulged in a current food fave of the moment - undiluted Campbell's chicken noodle soup. 

Another memory this post brings forth is that one of my photos of the mission church is in a book published in 2019: Historic Churches of New Mexico Today, by Frank Graziano.

The best memory is the solid beauty of the church itself, with its integration of our earth and of both Apache and Catholic spiritual and cultural elements. To have been there during Christmas was a gift.


The original 2012 post is here.

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Mescalero, New Mexico: St. Joseph Apache Mission Church

St. Joseph Apache Mission Church, Mescalero, New Mexico

The St. Joseph Apache Mission Church is a stunning construction, inside and out. It has a majestic presence that draws one's eye from Highway 70, as you drive through the Mescalero Apache Reservation.

St. Joseph Apache Mission Church, Mescalero, New Mexico

The church has been undergoing a long restoration project, which is almost complete. A slide show of the church below.

About 350 families are members of the church.

My mother and I attended Mass today .... (I've attended Mass three times in two months in New Mexico, which is about the same number of times I've attended Mass in the last 15 years) .... the service was in English, but there were two songs in Apache.

After the service, the congregation typically repairs to the parish hall for refreshments. Today there was actually a full lunch comprised of tortillas, Indian bread, beans, cake, and various stews that congregants brought in. Delicious, and the church members welcoming.

Word of the Year 2020: Build 12: Creative Life

My last remaining print books. Alamogordo, New Mexico. June 2013.

 

  On Build thus far

1. Word of the Year 2020: Build 1: After the Floods
2. Word of the Year 2020: Build 2: Fronterista
3. Word of the Year 2020: Build 3: "House"
4. Word of the Year 2020: Build 4: Chosens
5. Word of the Year 2020: Build 5: It Takes a Village
6. Word of the Year 2020: Build 6: Elevation
7. Word of the Year 2020: Build 7: Trail Building
8. Word of the Year 2020: Build 8: Money
9. Word of the Year 2020: Build 9: Health 
10. Word of the Year 2020: Build 10: Service and Activism
11. Word of the Year 2020: Build 11: Relationships

Word of the Year 2020 Lagniappe 13: My Rootless Goals

 

This month is about building my creative life. 

To write today's post, I time-traveled to 1983 to revisit the bucket list I created then. 

In 1983, I put onto paper two creative goals: 

• Write a book and have it published
• Have a story published

These are still good goals. 

 

To construct my creative life, however, these are my goals: 

1. Build a discipline of daily writing
2. Study writing
3. Inure myself to rejection by submitting stuff to digital or print publications
4. Abandon inhibitions that constrict what I write
5. Build my imagination muscles 
6. Expand my creative vocabulary for imagery, actions, and emotions
   
7. Immerse myself into creative pools for the group energy that pushes us to stretch higher, deeper, richer

 

Alabama: State Parks Mission

 

Tannehill Iron Works Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

One of my goals in New Mexico (2012-2013) was to visit all of its state parks. I almost achieved that goal, falling short only by three. 

Alabama is a wondrously pretty state. It offers 21 state parks. In 2007, per this report from Resources For the Future, Alabama had the fewest number of state parks in the nation. Here, Alabama isn't last, but it's in the bottom five. 

Maybe that's good, maybe that's bad - the raw numbers take into account neither the per capita number of parks in each state nor the geographic size of each state. For all I know, Alabama has the highest number of state parks per capita in the US. 

Mission: Visit all of Alabama's state parks. 

But wait a dadgum minute! 

I don't see Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park on Alabama's official list of state parks. Surprisingly, Alabama's state park website doesn't seem to have a search feature, so I can't coax it out of hiding there. 

Thank goodness for wikipedia, which provides two databases: Alabama state parks and "other" "state" parks. Tannehill is in the "other" list. "Other" state parks are under shared or other management.

For my (and maybe your) future reference

• Alabama state parks overview chart (doesn't include the "other")
• Parks location map (doesn't include the "other")
• Wikipedia's two databases, which show both categories of parks: under Alabama's direct management and under shared/other management

A list view in alpha order from the StateParks.com Alabama page:

1. Bladon Springs State Park
2. Blue Springs State Park
3. Cathedral Caverns
4. Chattahoochee State Park
5. Cheaha State Park
6. Chewacla State Park
7. Chickasaw State Park
8. Claude D Kelley State Park
9. De Soto State Park
10. Elk River Lodge State Park
11. Florala State Park
12. Gulf State Park
13. Joe Wheeler State Park
14. Lake Guntersville State Park
15. Lake Lurleen State Park
16. Monte Sano State Park
17. Oak Mountain State Park
18. Paul M Grist State Park
19. Rickwood Caverns State Park
20. Roland Cooper State Park
21. Tannehill State Park (my first visit here)
    
22. W F Jackson State Park
23. Wind Creek State Park

P.S. 

I hope Alabama will change the name of Tannehill's entrance road from Confederate Parkway to something that respects the work of the enslaved women and men who performed the manual labor at the ironworks. Or a name that honors the natural beauty of the park.

 

Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 888: Thanksgiving on the Appalachian Tail

 

Yes, that's Tail, not Trail. 

 

Appalachian Mountains terminus, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

The southernmost tip of the Appalachian Mountain range

It delights me that I can stand at the tail end of the Appalachian Mountain range in my current state of Alabama. Doing so became my mission for Thanksgiving 2020 in the Year of Our Corona.

Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park is where it happens - or happened, in geological terms.

The park hopped with Thanksgiving visitors seeking a holiday respite from COVID, as evidenced by the line of cars that preceded and followed me on the entrance road.

It befuddled me that I passed this Appalachian Mountain range sign on my way to the park entrance booth. As I drove by it, I thought, Wait! Was that it?! What? No, of course not. Surely, not.  

No, I imagined, the "real" marker is in the park proper, where you and your posse can take a group photo showing y'all have Been There. 

Or you (actually, me) can simply stand at various points relative to the sign and contemplate the grandeur of the Appalachians and how one is actually at the southernmost tip of them. It would be akin to standing on the southernmost tip of Argentina, in Tierra del Fuego, on the above-water foot of the Andes, though admittedly not as sexy. 

But I was wrong; the roadside sign was the marker. 

Alabama does not like shoulders

I walked carefully to the sign after I parked my car in the lot beyond the fee booth. I walked carefully because Alabama disdains shoulders, and maybe pedestrians, too: If we wanted y'all to walk on the road, we'd'a built y'all some shoulders!

Alabama's shoulder issue first confronted me when I visited Oxford, Alabama, in July, and I attempted to walk alongside a road near my motel. Not being ready to bite the dust literally or figuratively that day, I abandoned my attempt soon after I began, hoping I wouldn't die during my retreat. 

If you think that Alabama might set aside its shoulder prejudice to accommodate an Important Marker in a state park (a park, for fuck's sake!), you would be wrong. Nope, the marker is on the relatively-busy entrance to the park, with so little room for a pedestrian to maneuver safely, that one must wonder if the sign's use of the words terminus and end carry any special significance.

A check into Alabama's pedestrian death rate revealed that in 2018, Alabama had the 12th highest pedestrian death rate in the US. This analysis placed it even higher.

Appalachian Mountains terminus, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

 

Mushrooms

In another Alabama surprise (its prettiness being the first, and its antipathy toward shoulders being the second), it appears that mushrooms might be my Alabama "thing." In New Mexico, it was sonic booms and tarantulas. In Arizona, it was lizards. 

While I do adore mushrooms for their sexy, earthy umami-ness, my knowledge of wild mushrooms is low. I know a morel when I see one, but anyone can do that.

In wandering some of Tannehill's trails, I encountered three mushroom types. 

 First I found a giant white that sat on a fat pedestal. 

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Later, a yellow mushroom bottom, textured like a tasty English muffin, beamed sunnily at me from the leafy, woodland floor. I tipped it over to reveal a reddish cap. 

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Finally, a gaggle of green scalloped shells clung to a tree next to a pretty ledge. 

 

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

COVID detritus

Sadly, I saw two pale yellow paper masks at one of the trailheads. I had nothing to pick them up with other than my bare hands, and I left them lay. I will consider taking a bag and gloves with me in future walks so I can pick up trash like this. 

COVID mask at Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Pumpkins in the stream

Odd. A story there? 

 

Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

 

 A park is a good place to spend Thanksgiving. 

 

Thanksgivings from my rootless past: 

• 2019 on the road: Road Trip: Livingston, TX: First Night Boondocking
• 2017 in Missouri: Ozark Scenic Riverways
  
• 2016 in El Paso: The Thanksgiving Parade
• 2013 in South Louisiana: Louisiana Thanksgiving
  
• 2011 in Istanbul: To Home for Winter Vacation
  
• 2010 in Playa del Carmen: Thanksgiving in Playa

  

Below is a slide show of my visit to Tannehill Ironworks Historical Park:

Birmingham, AL: Lizard in a Mailbox

 

Lizard in a mailbox, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

The title says it all. 

Lizard in a mailbox, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Lizard in a mailbox, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Lizard in a mailbox, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Lizard in a mailbox, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Birmingham, AL: The Birmingham Jail

Birmingham Jail site, South Titusville, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

On a cloudy afternoon, I found my way to the Birmingham Jail. 

 

Birmingham Jail site, South Titusville, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Bail bondsmen storefronts give off a cheery cottage vibe, like a clutch of souvenir shops and cafes in a beachside village. 

Birmingham Jail site, South Titusville, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Birmingham Jail site, South Titusville, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Today's carceral campus design presents us with both Old Testament damnation and New Testament salvation, revealed by the implacable, brutalist architecture adjacent to a pastoral woodland warmed by a heavenly light.

 

Birmingham Jail site, South Titusville, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Birmingham Jail site, South Titusville, Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

Letters From Birmingham Jail

Dr. Martin Luther King's Letter From Birmingham Jail is, of course, what brought me to the jail site in the South Titusville neighborhood of Birmingham. 

I have read the Letter many times. With each reading, I discover something new and brilliant in the Letter about standing up for human rights, for civil rights. Every time I read some crazy-ass allegation about Black Lives Matter or when people paint protests as "riots," I can refer to the Letter From Birmingham Jail, written more than 50 years ago, for a precise, on-point response to whatever fear-filled, ignorant point they think they're making.

I have created a lesson plan for my ESL students from the letter. In addition to content, we can talk about the Letter as a work of fine literature.

Here is a recording of Dr. King's reading of the letter.



The song

When we were young, my mother sang to me and my siblings in her clear, quiet alto voice. One of the songs in her repertoire was an Appalachian folk song, Down in the Valley.

I didn't know until I moved to Alabama that the song also went under the title, Birmingham Jail. This came about because of a stanza added in the 1920s by Jimmy Tarleton, who passed some time in the jail. What a surprise! Here is an early (the first?) recording of the song in its Birmingham Jail iteration, performed by Jimmy Tarleton and Tom Darby. 

 

Jimmy Tarleton's lyrics:

    "Down in the levee; levee so low
    Late in the evening, hear that train blow
    Hear the train blow love, hear the train blow
    Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

    Roses love sunshine; violets love dew
    Angels in heaven know I love you
    Write me a letter; send it by mail
    Send it in care of Birmingham jail

    Birmingham Jail, love, Birmingham jail
    Send it in care of Birmingham jail

    Bessie my darlin; Bessie my dear
    Bessie I love you, oh yes I do

    Down in the meadow, down on my knees
    Praying to heaven, give my heart ease
    Lighting a candle, singin' so low
    Kiss me once more, love, that I might go."

And below is Leadbelly's version of the song, Birmingham Jail, whose lyrics expand on the jail experience:

Leadbelly's lyrics: 

Hear the wind blow boys
Hear the wind blow
Put your head out the window
And hear the wind blow

Write me a letter
Send it by mail
Address it all over
That Birmingham Jail

Birmingham Jail boys
The Birmingham Jail
Address it all over
That Birmingham Jail

High sheriff will arrest you
Bond you over in jail
Can't get nobody
To go your bail

To go your bail boys
To go your bail
Can't get nobody
To go your bail

Send for your lawyer
Come down to your cell
He'll swear he can clear you
In spite of all hell

In spite of all hell boys
In spite of all hell
He'll swear he can clear you
In spite of all hell

Give the biggest your money
Come back for the rest
Tell you to plead guilty
For he knows that it's best

He knows that it's best boys
He knows that it's best
Tell you to plead guilty
He knows that it's best

Down in the valley
The valley so low
Put your head out the window
And hear the wind blow

You can hear the wind blow
You can hear the wind blow
Put your head out the window
And hear the wind blow

Below is a slideshow of the Birmingham Jail and its environs:

Birmingham, AL: Stinkbug

 

Stinkbug in the house. November 2020.

 

 

I first saw him on my living room blinds. Not doing anything, just sitting there. I left him be.

 Then I saw him up top a living room wall, up close to the ceiling. Not doing anything, just hanging out. I left him be. 

Then I saw him, turtle-like, creeping alongside my PC, by the power cable. I flicked him off the table with my thumb and index finger. Thought I'd sweep him out the front door. I'm a no-kill household as long as invaders are polite and don't startle me. 

But I couldn't discover where he landed, so I left it be. 

Later, I observed him over on a baseboard ledge. 

Haven't seen him since.

Birmingham, AL: A Sunday Afternoon in Railroad Park

 

 

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.

Despite Sunday's gray chill, I packed a lunch and took it to Railroad Park. 

 

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.

I planted my car on the park's perimeter, pulled out my 'table,' hung it on the steering wheel, and picnicked inside as folks walked, ran, were strollered, or skimmed smoothly by on their motorized longboards. A young boy, just learning how to ride his boy-sized bike, concentrated on propelling forward while remaining upright; his mother followed on foot. 

 

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.

Because of COVID-19, the park's restrooms are closed, which curtails the length of a visitor's stay at the park. 

 

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.

There are two circle paths, one street level and one elevated. I like that! An elegant allocation of the park's finite green space that delivers two unique lines of sight to park users and offsets trail user congestion.

 

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.

Railroad Park serves up a diverse sensory menu: Trees, water features, rosemary stands, a grassy amphitheater, the paths, cityscape, wood, concrete, metal, sculpture, flowers ...

I plucked three plump rosemary leaves, rolled their little bodies between my thumb and two fingers, and carried them up to my nose for the snap of the eucalyptic-like aroma that the rolling released. I popped them into my mouth to bite on their ripe softness, savoring a burst of their herbal-medicinal flavor.

 

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.

A coffeehouse, Red Cat, is across the street from Railroad Park, and I realized, hey! I sat right there in late summer, as a fresh arrival to Birmingham, and didn't even notice that it was smack across from a park! Like the young boy on the starter bike, I had concentrated solely on one mission, which in my case, was finding Red Cat to meet a new friend, and then upon arrival, my telescopic focus pivoted to our conversation. Being unaware of one's immediate surroundings is not a good practice, friends.

Railroad Park in November. Birmingham, Alabama, November 2020.