A month has passed since the Methodist and Catholic pastors under which I've served for years have moved on from their long-held posts. So far, the gracious people sent to replace them have tread softly among their respective new congregation, and both have been a bit more conservative in their approach, probably out of necessity more than anything else.
It's been interesting listening to them preach. Pastor Lisa at Cornerstone has been a larger standout to me, of course, because she is the first woman in that role I have observed directly. But neither she nor Father Bill (pastor at Ascension) has yet to show themselves in any contrary way. As Martha Stewart might say, "that's a good thing."
A third person's influence returned and just as quickly passed from me in the last two weeks. And his story is as unusual as the transition with my pastors has been more-or-less smooth.
I first met Bill (the third person) when I left the parochial school environment for public junior high school in the seventh grade. I'm not sure now what we saw in each other. Perhaps it was that we were both something of social outcasts from quirky school cliques. Perhaps it was that we both lived in the same town. It may have simply been that our last names were virtually next to each other alphabetically. Whatever the reason, Bill was one person out of hundreds of unknown faces, one who didn't shove me in some useless hole. I would walk or ride a bike up and down the steep hills in our river-straddling village to see him. Later in high school we wound up traveling together - as he was a full year older than me (yet in the same grade), he got his driver's license and had access to a car long before me. We worked in our first two jobs together - at the McDonald's across the street from the high school we attended, and our first job utilizing computers - as we sorted out punch cards to run the school's daily absentee report. Bill and I somehow got into the mindset that our careers would be in the vast and rapidly expanding territory that would become dominated by computers. Only in 1970, this was before the personal computer (IBM or Mac), or Microsoft Windows, or the Internet. 'Blogging' had not been coined yet; journals were still the product of handwritten notebooks. 'Word processing' was still being done on a typewriter, and copies were the domain of the mimeograph machine, complete with its piquant aroma.
After graduation, Bill and I made the transition to junior college. Fate would take us in different ways; both of us somewhat delayed in finding the right career path. Bill wound up working as a security guard; I started working for a retail inventory service. Bill still studied programming numbers; I was crunching them. Both of us found girlfriends and were dating. He married in 1975; I married six years later.
And that's where all similarity ends.
When Bill got married, he moved in with his wife's family - the intent being, as is the case with so many young couples struggling in difficult financial waters, to start a life of their own as soon as it was practical. But it never got that way. Bill was looking for an opening in his chosen career path, and he eventually made his way through it; but never looked back to put that in place as an anchor around which to build a place for his growing family. Instead, it eventually got too crowded and too tense to handle. His wife divorced him, moving out on her own. He continued to live with his now former in-laws. As his parents had also divorced (before I had known him), this new arrangement seemed to be normal to Bill - but not to nearly anyone else whom we mutually knew. And the new addition to the environment was genuinely tough on his three children.
As we continued to move through our separate lives, we naturally drifted apart and didn't see each other for longer and longer periods of time. I confess that my previous face-to-face encounter with Bill was about eight years ago, when another of our intimate circle of high school friends passed away, a victim of Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS.
It was about a year ago that I was encouraged by yet one other of our intimate circle to open a Facebook account. Where MySpace is overrun with teens, and Twitter the online roost for celebrity gossip, Facebook appears to be more middle ground for the average, computer-literate Joe and Joanna. After a bit of trepidation (I wasn't sure as to what kind of Pandora's Box I could be opening), I opened the account. Within a few hours Bill caught up with me.
Seems that at some point over the last eight years, Bill went through a metamorphosis of his own. (As did I, and have chronicled here.) He explained to me that he got squeezed on his rise up the corporate ladder. A project he and some colleagues had sweated over was completed ahead of schedule and within budget, yet he received no credit or recognition of the effort. His last performance review was essentially copied from the previous year. He had risen to the highest he could go, and would have to stay there or jump off and start again. He took the leap.
I started reading through some of Bill's comments (brief, as deemed necessary by the restrictions of social networking etiquette). He had gone through a major career change. He had entered the 'ed biz' (as comic songwriter Tom Lehrer once put it). He had been to China! I presume the latter had at least something to do with the former. Out of all the career choices Bill could get into, teaching was one of the last of which I could picture him in my mind's eye. Still, though this seemed to make no sense, there was some logic to this choice. Teaching is a lucrative profession from the perspective of how much you can earn. Public school teachers' salaries in and around Chicago are all over the place, and some teachers command annual pay in the six-figure range. Then there's the perception that teaching work is a fairly easy job - a perception that by and large is patently false, as the best teachers (in both home and institutional education) will tell you. Then there's a third piece of logic; an old maxim: "Those who can, do...those who can't, teach"...
I read these posts about the same as most I read, grateful that the world was still spinning on its axis and in the orbit God had ordered before our footprints touched the landscape. I was content that Bill was still alive and in relatively good health, and that his life was moving in a forward direction. These things become all the more fragile the older we get.
The latest bend in the road came just over two weeks ago, when I received a 'wall-to-wall' post from Bill. He had found a teaching job and would be moving away; and wanted to get together one last time before he left. Sure, why not? After all, we've known each other for over forty years and with many of our circle scattered across the country (not to mention life everlasting), it was important enough to offer him my best wishes over dinner.
Oh, I almost forgot. Bill's teaching job is in Kuwait.
KUWAIT!!!!????
Well, Bill told me that he's going to Kuwait to teach because the economic recession sharply reduced his chances of finding a job locally. He has a point, particularly in Illinois since the state is in financial straits and has delayed payment of tax subsidies to school districts here. (Here, a chunk of property taxes is the basis of the subsidy paid to public schools.) But why Kuwait? Wasn't there anyplace else in the USA looking for teachers?
Bill mentioned that the school where he'll be teaching is paying for his relocation, that is to say, his airfare. He's not taking much in the way of personal possessions; I recall him saying that he's got a grand total of three or four suitcases, and two of these are carry-on bags that include his laptop computer. He believes he'll earn enough to cover his basic expenses; and he has enough reserve cash saved in the event something goes wrong. His research indicates that health care coverage is better there than here; that the cost of living will be better there than here (since he will not have a car, that improves the bottom line). From what he told me, he spent several months researching and preparing for this, and he believes he has all the big bases covered. While there were still some issues pending as of Sunday, when he left here, there were temporary workarounds in place which would suffice until he got there and worked with whatever powers or agencies necessary to have everything in proper order.
After this, knowing he's going through with this no matter what my feelings or opinions are, and knowing he has family, I asked what I thought was the big question. Not why he was doing it or whether or not this was overreaching, but something more important to me.
What do Bill's children think of Dad leaving the country and not likely to return for nine months - or perhaps at all?
He fidgeted for a bit before answering. "I really didn't tell them," he said. Then he added that his daughters found out about it, but his son still doesn't know and he has no intention of telling him.
That said a lot to me; a lot that I was hoping I wouldn't discover about my longtime friend. Sure, his children are all of adult age now; so the relatively quiet departure is not an abandonment, not in the legal sense, anyway. Any real abandonment took place long before now.
I looked at Bill from a distance, removing for a moment all that we did together those many years ago. I first approached his decision to undertake this venture as something of a noble gesture; sure, it was something he found he could do, and to take it outside of the box (he also did a teaching stint at a Native American Reservation school for a year, working for a non-profit company). To receive the cooperation and respect of young, malleable, moldable children and put their futures in motion in a positive way is indeed a great and honorable way to live life. I have great respect for my many teachers, and not all of my teachers have been in the classroom. But institutional education, for all its prominence, is a forced society. Many of my classmates discovered this for the first time while treading the hallowed halls of high school, only to sell out the minute they graduated; and then reawakened when they got married, had kids, and had to start sending them to schools now having to prove their ability in the wake of standardized test scores and the "No Child Left Behind" laws.
While I wish Bill success in his new venture, I can't help but wonder if this is an attempt to succeed on one level where he did not at another; a gesture that, cast against the larger picture of his life, would look to be some sort of self-serving 'repentance' that barely scratches the surface where true repentance is concerned. Even here, I have cast judgment that is really not mine to make.
I reflected when I arrived home after our parting dinner that 'education' and 'learning' are two separate and distinct things. In America, 'education' is mandated. 'Education' is the process by which static knowledge is passed on with the hope of retention, sort of like playing Trivial Pursuit. 'Learning' happens when you discover something important about yourself, or the way something impacts you and those you love, and that is stored in your memory in such a way that you can recall it without having to go to a computer, database, or encyclopedia and look it up. 'Learning' is the more important of the two, and it shouldn't be hard to see that; yet, for each and every one of us, the mandated 'education' ends at age 18, but the opportunity for 'learning' lasts until the mind fails due to trauma, or even worse, lack of use.
I took the opportunity to send Bill an e-mail thanking him for the opportunity to get together and chat; after all, it is the right and proper thing to do. While saying thanks and offering best wishes, I wrote that he has a wonderful opportunity for learning in this process. Such learning has the potential to change lives. In looking back over my years of direct contact with Bill, and with Pastor Paul and Father Damien, not to mention the 30+ years I've been happily married to my loving wife, I've learned and re-learned a lot that defines who I am and where I stand; what I do and why I do it the way I do. That will remain with me forever.
Indeed, all true 'learning' changes your life. If it doesn't, it's just chalked up as getting an education.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Road Not Taken
Reflections on "What I Did on My Summer Vacation"
The Word:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--The Road Not Taken (1920)
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Late last night
I heard my screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
I said don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
--Big Yellow Taxi (1970)
Joni Mitchell (b. 1943)
Blessed are the times when the sun and stars align, the finances and time are both available, and you can 'get away from it all' with your family to see the beauty God created and Planet Mother Earth has held sacred for time and eternity. More blessed still when you learn something about yourself and your universe in the process (or are reminded about something you forgot).
It has been 22 years since my wife and I had anything bordering on what you might call a 'proper' vacation. It's been 25 years since we last visited the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, just outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
In the time that's passed between then and now, we brought children into the world; lost one of them before it even had a chance to voice an opinion; I went through three employers; scratched out a living; and at one point, nearly lost everything (as I have documented here in previous posts). So when I was blessed with the opportunity, I wanted to treat the family to an experience we really hadn't had for some time.
After doing some research on potential accessible locations, we agreed on the Smokies. Lodging rates were exceptional, better than they are here near Chicago or in areas nearby. I was excited at the prospect of a road trip. My mother's family is from New Jersey, and every year we'd make the trip there to see them; so I was used to the idea of long car rides and had something of an admiration for map reading and taking in the view along the way. My wife's family used to take canoe trips in the summer, and my wife still has a deep and special affection for nature and natural surroundings. The Smokies satisfied all these requirements.
As I write now from home on the day after our four-day, whirlwind tour, I can say without question that the trip was indeed an experience, and one in which I learned a little more about myself and the universe I see around me. I am not sorry we did it; still, it's good to get home.
We had decided to leave on July 5 (Monday) as it was the last day of an extended holiday weekend. Because the distance to cover would take over 13 hours, we left at 3:00 AM to beat any potential traffic jams. And the drive there was more-or-less smooth sailing, until we reached the exit from I-40 into the area. Then, suddenly, it was revealed that about 100,000 motorists had the same idea. We were still 20 miles out and had run into gridlock.
I had expected that the area would be more developed than it was 25 years ago when my wife and I last visited. For openers, there was Dollywood - the theme park named for native daughter Dolly Parton, the famous country singer and actress. Several new attractions had also come to the nearby area - the most touted being a replica of the Titanic, the 'unsinkable' ocean liner that struck an iceberg and sank nearly a century ago; and an indoor aquarium that got rave reviews as being one of the leading attractions in all of the South. But I had not expected to sit in traffic as a result of people trying to get to one venue or the other.
Ninety minutes later, we reached our motel and managed to get in a dip in the pool to ease the tension from all those hours in transit. I'm not a swimmer, but it still felt good getting in the water. Rather than venture out into the sea of humanity (which we'd noted was already out in force) to eat dinner, we ordered pizza from a place known to locals only two blocks away, and dined al fresco from the private balcony of our room. (The balcony was my discovery - my wife thought that extra door opened into a connecting room.)
Tuesday morning, we set off to investigate the national park, the premier attraction, what we'd all been wanting to see. But the day started off with excitement of its own, as my son fell down a flight of stairs as we left our room to get into the car. He got up immediately, but looked as if he were disoriented. My wife has some difficulty negotiating stairs as well, so I had her wait on the landing so I could pass her and do a first check on my son. He had a few visible scrapes and some bruises, but nothing that - at first glance - would require emergency room treatment. My wife came along presently and checked him out as only a mother can. Deciding that he was none the worse for wear, we set off for Cades Cove, a late 19th-Century village that had been abandoned with the creation of the national park. The park service continued to maintain the buildings (which includes two small churches), and put in a one-way loop road so that visitors could see the pristine surroundings and perhaps take away some impression of what life was like in that era. We had brought along a very light breakfast which we ate at a picnic grove next to a mountain stream along the way.
I must say here that my wife's affinity for nature goes much deeper than a physical attraction; that is, aesthetically pleasing to the senses. She has a sense of energies, people, and events that took place when the area was settled and more-or-less thriving. Her senses had been thrown wide-open by our son's fall, and as we had not brought more substantial food to eat (discouraged because of the bear population in the park), she had little in the way of protection from what she would feel. The bombardment of energies of concern for our son, the powerful energies of land and water, the spirit of the old community, and the throngs of people passing through, ultimately proved too much. It was getting toward lunch, so we cut our tour of the cove a little short, and headed back to town as we knew there was a lunch buffet there - from a chain that operates all over the country, so we knew what we'd be getting.
Only we thought that the buffet was in Gatlinburg. It was back in Pigeon Forge, the next town up, and the one where traffic had been at a standstill the day before. Still, it was early enough in the day where I considered traffic would not be the issue it had been the afternoon before. So lunch was served, vitality was restored; and we went back to the park, this time bypassing Gatlinburg.
The afternoon destination was the Clingman's Dome overlook. At over 6600 feet above sea level it is the highest point in the park, and has offered spectacular views. But the views this time were obscured by haze, due to the effect of ozone on this hot summer day. It is said that trapped pollutants has reduced the view by up to 40% in winter and up to 80% in summer. Not only that, it was clear that something was affecting the trees. About 20% of the pines at the higher elevations were dead from a stress that is either pollution related or possibly victim to an invasive species of some sort. This, too, left us both shaking our heads.
We returned to our motel and discussed our options for our second (and last) day of sightseeing. We had dismissed attractions like the Aquarium because they really don't have anything to do with the natural attraction itself. Two separate traffic accidents on the main highway through the park were indicators that we had seen enough there. Other parts of the park were not accessible due to reconstruction of the roads leading to them, part of the recent federal government economic stimulus program. But the area was also known for its arts and crafts community. It was part of the tourist literature; it was advertised repeatedly as continuing infomercials on the local cable access channel in every lodging place within fifty miles. We hadn't really given it a fair shake on our other visits years ago, so we decided to check it out.
There was a bit more to be happy about here - we all came back with some pieces of hand-made pottery, leather goods, and wooden items we were happy with. But even here, the cost of progress raised its head. Some of the artisans listed on the brochure (which appears to have been compiled a year ago) were no longer in business. There was more an emphasis on fine art - fine art which could easily be purchased at one of many galleries right here at home in the Chicago suburbs - than on the artwork more or less unique to the area. Most of the connections that might have existed with the natural attraction seems to have been lost. We would find more of the sort of thing we had hoped to see on our way back in a town called Berea in Kentucky - at a state operated facility just off I-75. If we ever head back that way again, I hope to remember the place and spend more than just a half-hour exploring what is there.
We tried our hand at some of the local cuisine - restaurants in town that were representative of local hospitality. While the food and service were both excellent, we were a little taken aback by 'sticker shock'. A pancake breakfast for the three of us ran about $35; sandwich platters for lunch was over $45. (At dinner we cut our losses and went to KFC, again two blocks from our motel.) One of the reasons the cost is so high is obviously a hidden cost of tourism. But another is that Tennessee's restaurant and sales tax is on the high side at 9.75%. While sales tax in our immediate area is 10% it is for non-food items only. Sales tax for groceries is about 2% here, and the restaurant tax is hovering somewhere (I believe) about 7.5 - 8.5%.
I can't say that the trip didn't impress me. It did, and the Smokies really have not lost all their lure with me. However, I can't close this out without mentioning something else that impressed both my wife and I; both in the hazy predawn sky on the morning we left and in the driving rain we encountered on the return trip.
A wind turbine 'farm'.
Hundreds, maybe up to a thousand, turbines stand as sentinels in the Indiana cornfields about 100 miles south of Chicago. More are being built as well. They will help generate electrical power by use of the prevailing winds...much like the windmills of old provided a different sort of power centuries ago. These turbine farms and others like it are meant to help reduce our demand for crude oil and fossil fuels as prime sources of energy. They stand in contrast to the...well, I lost track of how much oil has erupted (and still is) from the failed BP well in the Gulf of Mexico, as tarballs and other evidence of our extravagance wash ashore and destroying a large part of an ecosystem with it. These turbines, these silent sentinels, are a sign of hope - because it offers a chance at making a much needed change in our 'standard operating procedures.'
Yes, this vacation trip was different than any other in my life. Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken is not about regret, but about choices, and those we inevitably must make. Joni Mitchell's lyrics still ring true today as planning commissions must weigh the potential income of expansion over its long-term costs and impact. The old adage, If you build it, they will come, still rings true - but will it ultimately destroy the pristine, natural attraction which drew visitors there first? I pray not! Images from this trip should serve to remind me that I can make a difference in affecting the future of this planet and my own life by learning to do more with less. That our one car household, who loves eating real food prepared with love and care, does a lot to minimize our carbon footprint, and that it doesn't stop here!
Finally, any physical journey and the return home is a reminder that I'm on a sojourn in spirit as well. It has its peaks and valleys, its quick stops and longer stays, but it is one that has not reached its end...not just yet.
To all the travelers
Pilgrims longing for a home
From one who walks with you
On this journey called life's road
Is is a long and winding road
From one who's seen the view
And dreamt of staying on the mountain high
And one who's cried like you
Wanting so much just to lay down and die
I offer this, we must remember this
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
So close your eyes with me
And hear the Father saying, "welcome home"
Let us find the strength
Ia all His promises to carry on
He said, "I go prepare a place for you"
So Let us not forget
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
We are not home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
I know there'll be a moment
I know there'll be a place
Where we will see our Saviour
And fall in His embrace
So let us not grow weary
Or too content to stay
'Cause we are not home yet
Not home yet
So let us journey on
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
--Not Home Yet (1997)
Steven Curtis Chapman
The Word:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--The Road Not Taken (1920)
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Late last night
I heard my screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
I said don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
--Big Yellow Taxi (1970)
Joni Mitchell (b. 1943)
Blessed are the times when the sun and stars align, the finances and time are both available, and you can 'get away from it all' with your family to see the beauty God created and Planet Mother Earth has held sacred for time and eternity. More blessed still when you learn something about yourself and your universe in the process (or are reminded about something you forgot).
It has been 22 years since my wife and I had anything bordering on what you might call a 'proper' vacation. It's been 25 years since we last visited the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, just outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
In the time that's passed between then and now, we brought children into the world; lost one of them before it even had a chance to voice an opinion; I went through three employers; scratched out a living; and at one point, nearly lost everything (as I have documented here in previous posts). So when I was blessed with the opportunity, I wanted to treat the family to an experience we really hadn't had for some time.
After doing some research on potential accessible locations, we agreed on the Smokies. Lodging rates were exceptional, better than they are here near Chicago or in areas nearby. I was excited at the prospect of a road trip. My mother's family is from New Jersey, and every year we'd make the trip there to see them; so I was used to the idea of long car rides and had something of an admiration for map reading and taking in the view along the way. My wife's family used to take canoe trips in the summer, and my wife still has a deep and special affection for nature and natural surroundings. The Smokies satisfied all these requirements.
As I write now from home on the day after our four-day, whirlwind tour, I can say without question that the trip was indeed an experience, and one in which I learned a little more about myself and the universe I see around me. I am not sorry we did it; still, it's good to get home.
We had decided to leave on July 5 (Monday) as it was the last day of an extended holiday weekend. Because the distance to cover would take over 13 hours, we left at 3:00 AM to beat any potential traffic jams. And the drive there was more-or-less smooth sailing, until we reached the exit from I-40 into the area. Then, suddenly, it was revealed that about 100,000 motorists had the same idea. We were still 20 miles out and had run into gridlock.
I had expected that the area would be more developed than it was 25 years ago when my wife and I last visited. For openers, there was Dollywood - the theme park named for native daughter Dolly Parton, the famous country singer and actress. Several new attractions had also come to the nearby area - the most touted being a replica of the Titanic, the 'unsinkable' ocean liner that struck an iceberg and sank nearly a century ago; and an indoor aquarium that got rave reviews as being one of the leading attractions in all of the South. But I had not expected to sit in traffic as a result of people trying to get to one venue or the other.
Ninety minutes later, we reached our motel and managed to get in a dip in the pool to ease the tension from all those hours in transit. I'm not a swimmer, but it still felt good getting in the water. Rather than venture out into the sea of humanity (which we'd noted was already out in force) to eat dinner, we ordered pizza from a place known to locals only two blocks away, and dined al fresco from the private balcony of our room. (The balcony was my discovery - my wife thought that extra door opened into a connecting room.)
Tuesday morning, we set off to investigate the national park, the premier attraction, what we'd all been wanting to see. But the day started off with excitement of its own, as my son fell down a flight of stairs as we left our room to get into the car. He got up immediately, but looked as if he were disoriented. My wife has some difficulty negotiating stairs as well, so I had her wait on the landing so I could pass her and do a first check on my son. He had a few visible scrapes and some bruises, but nothing that - at first glance - would require emergency room treatment. My wife came along presently and checked him out as only a mother can. Deciding that he was none the worse for wear, we set off for Cades Cove, a late 19th-Century village that had been abandoned with the creation of the national park. The park service continued to maintain the buildings (which includes two small churches), and put in a one-way loop road so that visitors could see the pristine surroundings and perhaps take away some impression of what life was like in that era. We had brought along a very light breakfast which we ate at a picnic grove next to a mountain stream along the way.
I must say here that my wife's affinity for nature goes much deeper than a physical attraction; that is, aesthetically pleasing to the senses. She has a sense of energies, people, and events that took place when the area was settled and more-or-less thriving. Her senses had been thrown wide-open by our son's fall, and as we had not brought more substantial food to eat (discouraged because of the bear population in the park), she had little in the way of protection from what she would feel. The bombardment of energies of concern for our son, the powerful energies of land and water, the spirit of the old community, and the throngs of people passing through, ultimately proved too much. It was getting toward lunch, so we cut our tour of the cove a little short, and headed back to town as we knew there was a lunch buffet there - from a chain that operates all over the country, so we knew what we'd be getting.
Only we thought that the buffet was in Gatlinburg. It was back in Pigeon Forge, the next town up, and the one where traffic had been at a standstill the day before. Still, it was early enough in the day where I considered traffic would not be the issue it had been the afternoon before. So lunch was served, vitality was restored; and we went back to the park, this time bypassing Gatlinburg.
The afternoon destination was the Clingman's Dome overlook. At over 6600 feet above sea level it is the highest point in the park, and has offered spectacular views. But the views this time were obscured by haze, due to the effect of ozone on this hot summer day. It is said that trapped pollutants has reduced the view by up to 40% in winter and up to 80% in summer. Not only that, it was clear that something was affecting the trees. About 20% of the pines at the higher elevations were dead from a stress that is either pollution related or possibly victim to an invasive species of some sort. This, too, left us both shaking our heads.
We returned to our motel and discussed our options for our second (and last) day of sightseeing. We had dismissed attractions like the Aquarium because they really don't have anything to do with the natural attraction itself. Two separate traffic accidents on the main highway through the park were indicators that we had seen enough there. Other parts of the park were not accessible due to reconstruction of the roads leading to them, part of the recent federal government economic stimulus program. But the area was also known for its arts and crafts community. It was part of the tourist literature; it was advertised repeatedly as continuing infomercials on the local cable access channel in every lodging place within fifty miles. We hadn't really given it a fair shake on our other visits years ago, so we decided to check it out.
There was a bit more to be happy about here - we all came back with some pieces of hand-made pottery, leather goods, and wooden items we were happy with. But even here, the cost of progress raised its head. Some of the artisans listed on the brochure (which appears to have been compiled a year ago) were no longer in business. There was more an emphasis on fine art - fine art which could easily be purchased at one of many galleries right here at home in the Chicago suburbs - than on the artwork more or less unique to the area. Most of the connections that might have existed with the natural attraction seems to have been lost. We would find more of the sort of thing we had hoped to see on our way back in a town called Berea in Kentucky - at a state operated facility just off I-75. If we ever head back that way again, I hope to remember the place and spend more than just a half-hour exploring what is there.
We tried our hand at some of the local cuisine - restaurants in town that were representative of local hospitality. While the food and service were both excellent, we were a little taken aback by 'sticker shock'. A pancake breakfast for the three of us ran about $35; sandwich platters for lunch was over $45. (At dinner we cut our losses and went to KFC, again two blocks from our motel.) One of the reasons the cost is so high is obviously a hidden cost of tourism. But another is that Tennessee's restaurant and sales tax is on the high side at 9.75%. While sales tax in our immediate area is 10% it is for non-food items only. Sales tax for groceries is about 2% here, and the restaurant tax is hovering somewhere (I believe) about 7.5 - 8.5%.
I can't say that the trip didn't impress me. It did, and the Smokies really have not lost all their lure with me. However, I can't close this out without mentioning something else that impressed both my wife and I; both in the hazy predawn sky on the morning we left and in the driving rain we encountered on the return trip.
A wind turbine 'farm'.
Hundreds, maybe up to a thousand, turbines stand as sentinels in the Indiana cornfields about 100 miles south of Chicago. More are being built as well. They will help generate electrical power by use of the prevailing winds...much like the windmills of old provided a different sort of power centuries ago. These turbine farms and others like it are meant to help reduce our demand for crude oil and fossil fuels as prime sources of energy. They stand in contrast to the...well, I lost track of how much oil has erupted (and still is) from the failed BP well in the Gulf of Mexico, as tarballs and other evidence of our extravagance wash ashore and destroying a large part of an ecosystem with it. These turbines, these silent sentinels, are a sign of hope - because it offers a chance at making a much needed change in our 'standard operating procedures.'
Yes, this vacation trip was different than any other in my life. Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken is not about regret, but about choices, and those we inevitably must make. Joni Mitchell's lyrics still ring true today as planning commissions must weigh the potential income of expansion over its long-term costs and impact. The old adage, If you build it, they will come, still rings true - but will it ultimately destroy the pristine, natural attraction which drew visitors there first? I pray not! Images from this trip should serve to remind me that I can make a difference in affecting the future of this planet and my own life by learning to do more with less. That our one car household, who loves eating real food prepared with love and care, does a lot to minimize our carbon footprint, and that it doesn't stop here!
Finally, any physical journey and the return home is a reminder that I'm on a sojourn in spirit as well. It has its peaks and valleys, its quick stops and longer stays, but it is one that has not reached its end...not just yet.
To all the travelers
Pilgrims longing for a home
From one who walks with you
On this journey called life's road
Is is a long and winding road
From one who's seen the view
And dreamt of staying on the mountain high
And one who's cried like you
Wanting so much just to lay down and die
I offer this, we must remember this
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
So close your eyes with me
And hear the Father saying, "welcome home"
Let us find the strength
Ia all His promises to carry on
He said, "I go prepare a place for you"
So Let us not forget
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
We are not home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
I know there'll be a moment
I know there'll be a place
Where we will see our Saviour
And fall in His embrace
So let us not grow weary
Or too content to stay
'Cause we are not home yet
Not home yet
So let us journey on
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
--Not Home Yet (1997)
Steven Curtis Chapman
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