Narrow Sidewalks - A Cold War Healing

The early morning Missouri air feels cool and crisp as I step onto the deck at the military guest quarters. The cloudless sky comes as a welcomed surprise. The last two weeks back in Washington D.C. had been steadily overcast and depressing. The warmth of sunshine upon my face lifts my spirits even higher than they already are on this special day of days. Full of excitement and anticipation I decide to brave the April frost and walk the mile to the ceremony.

There’s an exaggerated quickness to my step this morning. I first attribute it to the chilling cold, but realize it may be due to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Off in the distance come the voices of hundreds of soldiers shouting marching cadences in unison. Competing cadences echo out of the red brick buildings, making it difficult for this old soldier to keep in step. I should’ve worn a warmer jacket, but there’s no going back now.

Being on a military post once again has a sense of home in an odd sort of way. I never thought I would miss it, but the connected way I feel says otherwise. God knows I’ve walked many military installations back in the day. Except for a few topographical differences, they all look about the same. Fort Leonard Wood differs in that its open spaces consist of barren, rolling hills, strewn with jagged rock. To facilitate walking its great spans, raised sidewalks had been laid. They’re narrow and I find I must look down often not to step too near the edge and risk a twisted ankle -- the last thing I need on a morning as important as this. Moments from now, I’ll see my son for the first time since he enlisted in the army. Suddenly I’m covered in goose bumps on top of goose bumps. Perhaps it’s colder than I first imagined.

Cresting yet another hill, I see that the sidewalk goes slightly out of the way toward the Post Exchange, but I’ve no choice. I stop for a moment to catch my breath. My pace, despite the rhythm of the cadence, is a disappointment to me. I used to cross open spaces like this as if they didn’t exist. Hell, I was only nineteen then. Good lord, my little boy will soon be twenty. How did that happen? How did that cute little toe-head in Pampers grow up so soon? My, how far we both seem to have come along life’s pathway. With the theater still a good distance away, I try to quicken my step. My thoughts drift back to when I was my son’s age. 

 

 I was in the military assigned to Tempelhof Central Airport (above) in the divided, island city of Berlin, Germany. As one Cold War memory after another returns to me, an anger wells up inside that I burn off by walking even faster. Rounding the corner at the Post Exchange, all the horrid memories suddenly become concrete. Towering right before me are remnants of the icon of death. I have trouble accepting the reality of this bizarre encounter. I stand once again in the shadow of the Berlin Wall! Is this some kind of cruel joke? I’ve traveled a long way to have a joyful reunion, certainly not for this! 

(Pictured are similar slabs displayed at CIA Headquarters. I can't seem to locate the Ft. Leonard Wood photos)

I don’t wish to be late for the ceremony, but can’t seem to pull myself away from the three stone monoliths arranged in an open “Z” formation. The gray concrete slabs now bear colorful graffiti: “Freiheit...PEACE...Freedom...TEAR DOWN THE WALL,” and a bright yellow smiley face. I remember nothing of the sort when I last stood in its evil shadow -- only drab shades of gray, as dismal as the colorless skies above the city and peoples it divided -- a sinister wedge driven deep between two diametrically opposed ideologies.

I spent hours upon observation decks in the West staring into the Garden of Death in the East with its miles of mine fields, tank traps, heavily armed guard towers, floodlights, barbed wire, and vicious dogs. Standing here now, I see it all again. I hear it. I smell it. 

Despite the new art, they still represent death -- death to democratic ideals, and death to the desperate souls who courageously risked life for a chance at freedom.

These very concrete slabs challenged the ideals of my youth. Like the razor sharp wire that surrounded them, they twisted the image of the world in which I wished to live and raise children. I never understood the killing. Surely those who guarded the Garden of Death had families. How could they be so intent on killing, even their own children, for nothing more than wanting to come to freedom, a distance less than one hundred yards from where I stood?

I met the enemy face-to-face for the first time crossing through Check Point Charlie, along with three other soldiers, into the heart of communism’s official show place -- East Berlin. The absence of color is striking. People are dressed in grays, blues, browns, and blacks. What few cars there are look the same. There are road crews everywhere, their jackhammers pounding - nothing unusual, if ignoring the fact that many are women. There are no billboards, marquees, or neon lights anywhere. No matter where we walk, all eyes seem fixed upon on us. The stares are uncomfortable and make me wonder what thoughts lurk behind them. By orders, we’re forbidden to communicate with anyone during our visit, so we may never know. 

The streets are wide and the sidewalks narrow. I find this extremely odd since there are so few cars and so many people walking about. We venture down a side street taking us to a rusted, iron bridge. There are repairs underway on it as well, with only one side open for passage. At the top of bridge, we spot four Russian soldiers approaching us. They’re young like us. I remind my buddies that many people are watching the pending confrontation with great curiosity. As envoys of the United States of America, it’s crucial that we not yield an inch of sidewalk to the enemy. From the gestures we see the Russians making, it appears that they’re arriving at the same conclusion.

Conversation ceases as each military force sizes up the other. Nearing impact, nervous tension spontaneously breaks into wide nervous grins. The grins almost immediately erupt into laughter as three Americans and four Russians recognize the rules of the game, and are about to get real up close and personal.

Contact! The heavy wool uniforms of two opposing cold war super powers press tightly against one another. The coarse fabrics rustle and metal buttons clack as our bodies rub together. The ultimate fate of two world powers hangs delicately in the balance, or so it seems to all of us at the time. Each force gallantly struggles, grabbing and tugging at the other to insure that no one steps onto the roadway, and that we all walk away from the encounter saving face.

In one brief moment the Cold War changes forever. I smell my enemy’s strong, cheap cologne. I feel his hot breath on my face. I see his big, broad smile, rosy red cheeks, and the sparkle in his eyes. Above it all, I hear his laughter. I can never forget his laughter. He’s just like me!

I’m snapped back to the present by the loud Jody calls coming from the graduating platoons passing nearby. The big event is about to start. Families and friends crowd onto the narrow sidewalk eagerly searching for a first glimpse of their special someone. Today, they all look special. Their gleaming brass out-shined only by the look of pride in their eyes. I feel my eyes begin to tear as I see my special soldier marching by. 

If asked, I would try to blame it on the frosty morning. But, the growing lump in my throat would probably prevent me from speaking. The frantic aiming and clicking of cameras reminds me that I had left mine behind. Pictures would’ve been nice, but somehow I don’t think I’m ever going to forget the images and events of today. 

I take a moment from the jubilation, and walk up to the remnants of the Berlin Wall. I realized that I had been harboring a deep bitterness and hatred ever since that time in my life. What purpose could it possibly serve now? I touch my hands to the lifeless, cold slabs. I feel no evil within them. The chilling touch of the stone brings a strange sense of warmth...of inner peace. I wonder what became of those young Russian soldiers from that day on the bridge. With any luck, they too are now proud fathers with sons of their own. With that thought, I step away from this ghost from the past, render a sharp salute, then hustle the last hundred yards to the graduation ceremony at the theater. 

~GJ Duerrschmidt

The Buck Stopped in Biloxi

Well, it's been said that life is what happens when you make plans. Nothing could be more true than when summing up our recent, rather short-lived, cross-country road trip. It was a good plan... no, it was a GREAT plan! I'm not backing down on that one.


From this last December to April, me and my "boy Friday" Stephen, eked out a very austere existence living in a tent among the Swamp Cedars at the Sigsbee Naval Air Station RV Park in Key West. We sacrificed our personal comfort, and practically all civilized amenities, in order to save up the funds needed to "trick out" my 1970 VW hippie mobile for what was to be the road trip of a lifetime. 

Our quest was to embark upon a cross-country trek that would take us to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, the California coastline, the Giant Sequoias and Redwoods, and culminating at Seattle, Washington. I planned to write a long overdue fiction novel along the way, and was determined to have it completed and ready for publishing by trip’s end. But first, there were niceties and necessities to acquire.


With all the camping equipment, we needed a roof rack for sure, but not any old roof rack, oh no. Vintage van Go[gh], my 1970 VW bus, deserved only the best - a natural wood and chrome retro rack from The Bus Boys in California! The bus need, but I wanted it to have new hubcaps. And then there was the need for sidelights/reflectors for looks and pride, if not for safety. All in all, the cost would exceed my military pension for a month, and would have to be spread out over time. We endured the "canvas condo" at $12/day, ate meager meals cooked on a Coleman propane stove, and communed with countless geckos and chameleons, dozens of curious iguana, and one scrawny, pain-in-the-ass raccoon! It was all going to be worth it, or so we kept reminding one another.


With each passing month, the highlight (for me, at least) was the Fed Ex truck arriving, when I could once again brring the bus one step closer to road worthiness. Working on the bus was always a welcomed distraction from the complacent routine of our primitive life, which consisted daily of: the beach, taking walks, reading in the hammock, watching the sunset. There was not much left in the coffer after bills were paid to do the customery Key West tourist thing. Any fun, like our food, had to be carefully rationed. Oddly enough, there was always a cooler full of beer on hand.


During this long waiiting period, we cringed, helplessly watching  the gas prices steadily climb. When we first arrived in the Keys, 87 octane was $3.60/gal.By our departure date, it had crept all the way to $4.20! Not good. Not good at all. 

In an effort to conserve, I adjusted the valves, gapped everything that could be gapped, set the timing, and toyed with the air/fuel mixture screw on the carburetor, and still barely got 15 mpg around the island. Based on this fact, I anticipated at least 20 mpg once we were on the highway. I base the trip budget on on 24.


We created checklists for the trip, and lists of our checklists. One by one everything on them got accomplished. The bus eventualy was as ready as it could ever be for a 40 year old VW transporter. By departure day, it was expertly packed, both inside and out, with camping and survival gear, food stuffs, motor oil and fluids, spare bus parts, books to read along the way, and a crap load of paper and pens for me to write the novel. Hey, I'm old school when it comes to writing. It was Stephen’s task to enter my in-progress masterpiece into the laptop. Considering all the trouble it had been thus far, alone, just getting ready for the road, the book had damn well better be a masterpiece!


Praise be to the Universe! The long awaited departure day was finally at hand. We would launch off on our great adventure first thing in the morning. Having signed out of the Navy Base RV Park, we headed downtown to take a victory lap down Duval Street. Our plan was to treat ourselves to a well-deserved congratulatory dinner, watch the sunset at Mallory Square, then find a place to park for the night. Well rested, we’d be on the road bright and early in the morning. Yep, that was the plan. We were packed and ready. We had money.  We were stupid!


Deciding it was too early for dinner, we opted to drop in for Happy Hour at the pool bar of Bourbon Street Pub. We imposed a two beer a piece, twenty dollar limit as we parked the bus in a great spot in Bahama Village.


Once at the pool bar, feeling a sense of relief and elation, the two beers led to four, agreed, and then to eight, agreed again, and then to…who cares. Happy Hour lasted until 8 PM. We were quite happy by then. Instead of a fine dinner, as planned, we dashed out next door, and each grabbed a slice of pizza from Pizza Joe’s, wolfing it down. Then with "to go" cups in hand, we took a stroll down Duvall Street stopping at points of interest along the way, and keeping our cups filled with suds. Well, long story short, sometime around midnight, we made our way to the bus, climbed inside, stripped down to our boxers, and passed out on the futon mattress in the rear.


I awoke just before 7 AM with the most awful need to find a toilet. Dizzy, and still slightly intoxicated, I hastily fumbled my way into my clothes, skipping socks and shoes, started the bus, and dashed off to Burger King, some two miles away. I barely made it in time. God, that was a close one! All the while, Stephen remained dead to the world in his boxers, sprawled out in the back of the bus. While inside, I grabbed a couple breakfast sandwiches and OJ's, and then headed to Smather’s Beach to eat, rest up, sober up, and lament. Some bright and early departure!


At Smather’s, I took aspirin and drank the juice, undressed, shoved Stephen over, and laid back down, feeling like I needed to either vomit, or just simply die. Breakfast was out of the question for the moment. The longer I lay there, the madder I got at myself…at the two of us…for totally fucking up the moment we had waited so long for.


At the crack of noon, I was in the cockpit and on the road heading up  U.S. 1, with my copilot still dead to the world in the back. Goddammit! So what if I had to stop to puke a few times along the way - the road trip was underway!


Somewhere before Marathon Key, Stephen regained consciousness, groggily got dressed, and joined me up front. He was full of questions: “Where are we? What time is it? What the hell did we do last night?” For the next six hours, he drifted in and out of sleep. I persevered behind the wheel, fighting off nausea, driven by brute determination not to waste the planned first day of travel, and
I suppose, as punishment.


We managed to punish ourselves north, past Naples, making to Sarasota. There, we pulled in between a Taco Bell and Red Roof Inn, grabbed some grub at the Bell, enjoyed a late night Happy Hour in the back of the bus, then retired for the night.


Day two of the road trip, we toured around Sarasota, spent a couple hours at the beach on Siesta Key, then opted to push our way further north before dark. We made it to fifty miles south of Ocala, and set up camp, for night two, between a Denny’s and Comfort Inn just off Interstate 75. It was 8 PM. We drank. It wasn’t a happy hour at all. We just drank. I was still pissed. He was pissed. We drank. We passed out.


The morning of day three was beautiful. We decided to make it a good day. Our sights were set on making it to Panama City to spend night three. After ten hours of scenic back roads, and then Highway 98, we arrived. By this time, I wanted to kill Stephen. He manned the radio all day long, and was incapable of listening to one song all the way through on a single station! And, god were there stations!


He pushed the station button, and pushed the station button, and pushed…you get the idea. I endured that torment the whole freaking way, except for brief interludes of peace, when he would drift off to sleep. Three days into our journey, and we were already getting on one another’s nerves.  I didn’t see that one coming. In fact, I was having difficulties seeing in general.


The whole trip, I was having trouble with my glasses. I had gotten a new prescription designed to compensate for the cataracts developing in both my eyes. As I drove, I had trouble reading road signs and had to count on Stephen to stay alert to assist me. I had to constantly adjust my glasses to find the sweet spot in the progressive lenses. I noticed my sense of depth perception was off, especially in judging stopping distances at traffic lights. How was I ever going to make it to the west coast and up to Seattle like this? I wanted this trip to go “see” while I still could, but it had already been delayed almost a year due to VW breakdowns and finances. The whole time, my eyes only continued to worsen. I kept this to myself.


Panama City Beach was simply beautiful. I suggested to Stephen that we stay a few days to work on our tans, and to simply enjoy some playtime in the surf. He was pleased to agree, and so we did just that, by day, and camped in a Wal-Mart Supercenter parking lot by night. I desperately needed the break. I was exhausted from only three days on the road. I love the bus dearly, but the relentless clutching and shifting, and not having power steering, was kicking my ass – something else I chose to keep to myself.


We had traveled roughly 1,000 miles. I thought this would be a good time to give the estimated trip expenditures a reality check. One morning, while Stephen slept, and with a McDonald’s cup of coffee in hand, I began number crunching. Bottom line? The trip was doomed! Gas prices and poor mpg, cost just over $300. We had to repeat this segment of ravel three more time to Seattle, and then four times in return.


Payday is the first of each month. It was only May 5^th, and we were already dangerously low on cash. My credit card had been maxed out on bus parts and supplies before we departed. We had barely enough money to breech the western border of Florida, let alone go further. No matter what the intended destination, romance of the road and imagination can only get you so far. I thought of the Life Is Good sticker we had put on the bus window: Optimism Can Get You Anywhere. Not true in this case.


I broke the bad news to Stephen once he had finished breakfast. Essentially, we were stuck. There was little left to advance our journey, and there wasn’t enough to call it off and return to Key West. In the face of pending adversity, the spirit of the American pioneer emerged (or, it may have been raw insanity). WTF! If we’re stuck, then, we’re stuck. At this point, we unanimously agreed to push on as far as we could on what we had left - all, or nothing.


The end point of our journey would be determined by the delicate balancing of gas money against our need to eat for the next 25 days. Well, as it turned out, we made it to Biloxi, Mississippi. We had, at best, barely enough food to last a week.


Author’s Note: What happened next, and how we survived, is the topic of my next blog entry. Stay tuned!


~GJ Duerrschmidt

Key West: Finding Orange Magic

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
tell me if it's real at all.
Is there orange magic?

My dear boy, why now ask?
You've always known.
Why take me to task?

You've felt it in the orange flame,

in the setting suns you've tried to tame;

in mystic books,

and tarot cards,

in genie's lamps,

and crystal shards;

in copious mugs of bubbly brew,

in magic hats that feel good, too;

in the yin, the yang,

the big full moon,

in the tic and toc, that's gone too soon;

in fairies of the forest,

and in your dreams,

and still you remain blind, it seems!


Whether you be wizard young,

or wizard old,

all must hear this story told:

With the heart and mind of a child,

must ye go forth, have fun... do something wild!

Only then shall you discover ORANGE magic!


~GJ Duerrschmidt

Key West: On the Road to Simplicity

As I pack and prepare to embark upon the westward leg of my novel-writing road trip, I took a time out to reflect upon what might be in store for me at its conclusion. I had, at one time, considered a cabin in the woods, and began to seriously consider a move to the mountains. Perhaps this may still be in the cards!

In 2008, while teaching on the eastern shore of Maryland, I met an old woman sitting alone at a table in the corner at an art showing in the quaint little town of Berlin. I asked if she was related to the artist on display, to which she smiled and said, "Aren't we all related in some way?"

"Why are you seated at this table?" I asked her. "You appear to have some purpose."

She produced a deck of cards from beneath the table, and spread them out skillfully. 

"I read cards," was her response. "Would you care to have me read them for you?"

I was taken aback by this unexpected offer. Tarot cards! She read Tarot cards! Whether there was anything to it, or not, the idea of them had always fascinated me greatly, and for a very long time. How could I pass up such an opportunity.

"How much? I asked the old woman.

"Thirty dollars," she said so matter of factly. I agreed, and she motioned for me to take a seat right beside her. Moving the cards aside, she asked for both of my hands. I obediently stretched them toward her. She turned them both upward, then asked me to grip her arms above her wrists, and she did likewise to my own.

We sat quietly and motionless for what seemed like a long time, but I'm sure was no more than a minute.

"Mountains," she said, breaking the silence. And then repeated, "Mountains." 

"Mountains?" I replied.

"Yes, mountains," she repeated again. "You want to go to the mountains, but now is not the right time for you."

"Oh?" I felt forced to ask.

"Yes." she went on. "Now is not the time for you. Your finances are not what they need to be for such a move at this time. You must wait until 2010. Then it will be your time."  

I just sat there somewhat stunned by her words. You see, for more than two years, after returning to Maryland from a lengthy hiatus in Key West, I had a growing desire to do just that: go to the mountains...the Smoky Mountains...specifically, Asheville, North Carolina. How could she possibly know!

On two isolated occasions, while in Key West, I had been asked by total strangers if I was from Asheville. The first time this happened, I simply ignored the matter. But when it happened the second time, at a different place, with different people, I could no longer let it slide. 

When asked the second time, I pressed the issue asking for an explanation. Their response was simple and unanimous: "Because you just look and act like someone who might come from there."

Going home that night, I got online and Googled Asheville, and checked it out, curious to discover possible hints of me. There were many!

In 2006, I returned to Maryland and back to teaching college. While at a Happy Hour at a local sports bar, I joined a fun group of folks who insisted on buying me a drink. Soon into the conversation, a woman asked if I had ever been to Asheville. What?!!! Florida Keys, Eastern Shore of Maryland, there was no escaping Asheville. Third time's the charm, they say, so with Spring Break coming up, I decided to spend it in Asheville, and once and for all, experience it for myself. Somehow, I felt I had received a mandate from the universe.

"It is meant for you to go to the mountains," the old woman went on. "It is there that you will receive your crowning glory."

My what?

So, while waiting on 2010 to arrive, I decided I might at least inch my way closer to the mountains. I moved to Shepherdstown, West Virginia, and began teaching part-time at Shepherd University. It was in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I believed it would give me a small taste of things yet to come.

While in Shepherdstown, I began to pursue another longtime interest: getting back to Nature. I was teaching college, but was myself hungry for knowledge: of a physical, as well as metaphysical nature. I began to study Nature, to collect and study stones and minerals, mass a pantry filled with herbs and spices, and study uses in cooking, as well as for holistic medicine.

My interests also turned to American Indian customs and lore. I bought myself a cedar Native American flute, and began teaching myself to play. For nothing more that its spiritual benefit, I added a Native American deer skin drum to my collection. At times, I drum as I meditate. It's always soothing to the soul.

I spent more time outside amid the trees than I did indoors. One favorite tree I named the "Thinking Tree," because it was beneath it  I would sit for hours, and when inspired, write. When not there, I would be in the hammock stretched between two apple trees, or at my seven-foot fire pit, wooden staff in hand. There was something so very natural, so wonderfully primitive, to commune daily with Nature. 

It was during this period of natural discovery that I encountered a work of art on display at the University Bookstore. There happened to be student art on display there. Being all about students, and all about art, I was quite vulnerable!

One piece, in particular, really captured my attention. So much so, in fact, that I visited daily when on campus, and spent long moments studying it. It was for sale. The asking price: $100.00. I wanted it! After two weeks of tormenting myself over the expense, I caved in and purchased it.

It was a very detailed pencil sketch of Hansel and Gretel, drawn by a former writing student of mine. It wreaked of Nature! How could I resist?!

She had so cleverly written the entire story into the bark of the trees on the second page of the work. That's what sold me on the piece!

The drawings spoke to me. They reminded me of my own deep desire to live out my life somewhere deep within the forest... perhaps somewhere in the mountains.

In the story there was a witch, a very misunderstood old witch, if you were to ask me. Curiously, I related with that old woman. Whether or not I would ever admit it to myself, or anyone else, I was slowly transforming into a shaman... a wizard... a witch, of sorts. 

My new and vigorous study of Nature, herbs, minerals, the forces of Nature, American Indian lore, were teaching me to "walk in the ways of the wise," as it were, along the path of hedonistic pagans throughout history, who sought to understand, and use Nature for health and for the good of mankind. Like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, they were often victims of the imposition and ignorance of others ~ victims in being called witch in the first place. 

They were different, and society always seems to discriminate against those who are different. Ignorance has traditionally bred fear, and many who studied and practiced alchemy had been put to death, solely for being different.

My own study of Nature aligns me most closely with what is known as Wicca. I do not classify myself as being Wiccan, though I admit to embracing much of its teachings, especially those focused on the natural world. I've found Wiccan books to be a great source of knowledge on matters of Nature.

There is no Satan, or Satanic worship involved with Wicca, nor is there any connection to dark, Gothic garb, or heavy metal music. However, there are persons and groups claiming today to be Wiccan who are connected with all the negativism mentioned, who cast a dark shadow upon those who are true advocates of the Earth, the moon, the sun, the universe, and all of Nature. These true advocates then, as well as now, follow a very simple creed:

Getting back to Nature, and adopting a simple lifestyle, is epitomized, and has been immortalized in Henry David Thoreau's Waldon.

I have been a fan of Thoreau's writing, but more so with his life. It is my wish, my fantasy, to live just as simply as he did for his two years on Waldon pond. I would love to build myself a small, austere dwelling somewhere in the woods (of course, in the mountains). 

Just like Thoreau, I would continue my study of Nature, and of those things that really matter in life, away from the madness of the modern world, away from the artificially imposed distractions that blind our senses, and prevent us from experiencing the kind of purity and simplicity of life that Nature intends for us to live.

What a shame for one to die never having fully experienced life! 

~ GJ Duerrschmidt

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." 

  Henry David Thoreau

Key West: Stuck in a Moment!

My apologies to those of you who have taken the time to visit my blog on a recurring basis. As you have no doubt observed, there have been no new posting in weeks now.

This has been a tumultuous couple of weeks for me. I've been doing my best to make the VW fully road worthy, mainly involving a lot of small tedium preventative maintenance issues. Additionally, I've been in a reading mood, and have stayed engrossed in a few works simultaneously, from which I have been gaining great insight and motivation toward my own works. But, truth be known, there have been extenuating circumstances. Aren't there always?

A technological distractor has been the failure of my laptop this past week. A real bummer, one that significantly impacted my transition into the reading mode. But, the laptop has not been the only thing that has suddenly crapped out ~ I have as well!

Poor diet, and too much "happy hour" on a regular basis, have taken their toll on me in the form of annoying insomnia and painful gout in my right elbow and left foot. Yes, I've been a damn fool, and now I'm paying for it!

As I convalesce, I've begun two new posts: one on the topic of "simplicity, and the other on "finding the magic." I trust you will check back in over this next week. I promised myself that I would get back into the swing of things. Speaking of which...

Also this past week, I was peacefully swinging in my hammoch, reflecting on my sorry, self-inflicted plight, when...BAM!!! Without any warning, the ropes gave way at the head side, slamming me smartly onto the twisted, rocky ground!

The cross board of the hammock was directly under my neck as I impacted, resulting in quite a sharp, concerning blow. So, there I lay, motionless, with throbbing gout foot and swollen elbow, with what became a bruised back,... stunned, dazed, and confused... alone, with no help in sight.

After accessing physical damage, I managed to roll onto my side, and crawl over to the picnic table, where I was able to prop myself up, and eventually stand on my one good foot.

I'm sure that the sudden, thunderous crash sent dozens of chameleons and geckos, and at least two iguana, all scurrying for their lives!

Hey, I'm supposed to be hitting the road in a couple weeks. Time to shake off the events of the past two week, and shape up! Wouldn't you agree?

Peace and love,

~GJ Duerrschmidt

NAS Key West Rec Center: My Writing Command Center!

While riding out the winter months here in Key West tent camping amid the pines at the Sigsbee RV Campground, I must confess, I've been fortunate to have an oasis, an escape from the heat, humidity, pesky insects, and over curious reptiles.

Every day, almost without fail, after stumbling out of the tent, and brewing a pot of coffee, I head off to the Navy Base Recreation Center/ITT Office to crank out some writing. Vintage van Go[gh] has been good about having to remain outside the whole time. I always do my best to make it up to him later in the day.

Also, almost without fail, upon entering the facility, I receive a cheerful welcome from the friendly and hospitable staff in the ITT office. This is where base patrons come to book and purchase tickets for the myriad of fun, recreational venues available here in Key West.



I try my best to avoid the well equipped exercise room at the end of the hall straight ahead. I prefer spend my available energy each day on thoughts of lunch ahead, and on that well deserved happy hour waiting for me at the end of each grueling day of writing.

But right now, I have to keep my focus on my primary mission, and continue straightway to my "Writing Command Center," which just happens to double as the facility's lounge.

The lounge is home to a collection of rent-by-the-half hour computers, comfortable easy chairs and sofas, and a big screen TV, to keep escapees from reality (cough, cough...like myself) semi in touch with the events happening back out in the "real world."

For those, like myself, who have their own laptop, there are cubicles to work at and take advantage of the free LAN, or Wi-Fi.

I try to be an early bird so I can seize the last cubicle to the right. Somehow, this one has always seemed like the right one for me, even though I tend to lean more often to "the left."

This is the spot! It is right here that check emails, goof off on Facebook, write my blog, write poetry, and occasionally even work on the book project I have been blaming this whole road trip on!

However, no matter how involved in my work I might become, I rarely stay too late. There is too much natural beauty associated with this charming island, to remain cooped up indoors the whole day.

Regardless where the rest of the day takes me, each always ends up at the same place ~ standing in wonder and awe somewhere along the shore, taking in yet another spiritually uplifting, creatively inspiring sunset!

So now you know where I'll be tomorrow morning, and every morning until the winds of change shift, and it's clearly time for Vintage van Go[gh] and I to set sail for the west coast. 

Peace. 

WANTED: Closeted Hippies for Vicarious Magical Mystery Tour!

The unencumbered, simple life calls for simple blogging. I've a hot dog social to attend at the campground today, and I must go conjure up some potato salad. Consequently, unlike my homemade potato salad, this entry will be light and fluffy...


Mirror, mirror, on the wall, work your magic ~ take me away from it all!

If only it were that easy, right? Well, it just may be! Perhaps you're not at a place in your life where you can let your hair down and just walk away from it all. So, why not simply give in to fantasy by joining our upcoming road trip through the marvels of cyberspace!

In the comfort, safety, and security of your own space, you can ride along as Vintage van Go[gh] and I make our way from adventure to adventure, state by state. You'll be right in the midst of all the fun, and be there to help provide moral support, should we encounter an occasional trial, or tribulation.

Oh, come on...do it! Who are you kidding? You and I both know you have always been a closeted hippie ~ secretly yearning that total freedom, frivolity, and a devil-may-care serendipitous lifestyle. You're no spring chicken these days. It's time to quit living in denial!

  

Besides, just as Grimm says here...

After all, let's face it...the deck had long ago been shuffled, and the cards already dealt. 



So, let the sun shine. Let the sun shine in!

Peace, love, and orange tho'ts!

~g