I’ve never chased a giant before. The reason is simple. Except for several black bears in the Great Smoky Mountains. Buffaloes and other residents of Yellowstone National Park—wildlife avoid me.
It’s a running joke between my husband and me. Still, traveling across the U.S.A., my camera or cell phone is always at the ready. One day, I know, the ultimate image of my Leviathan will come—even if I don’t know what that looks like. But I’ll know it when I see it!
The search reminds me of Herman Melville’s quest to find Moby Dick—wait! That’s it! Whales!
The advertisement stated, ‘Guaranteed to see whales and dolphins!’Location: Gloucester, Massachusetts. Hmm, whales and dolphins, guaranteed. How could I lose?
We’ll be in New England this fall—think brisk air, fiery foliage. I booked the tour, purchased waterproof pouches for our phones, and researched what we would need for the four-hour tour—namely, heavy coats (waterproof), hats, and gloves. Apparently, it’s twenty degrees colder out at sea in Massachusetts than on land. Um, spending four hours in thirty-something to forty degrees temperature with a wind chill. I was not prepared for that. Bring sea-sickness pills. I didn’t think that through. I get very sick on amusement rides and cruises. Thank goodness for Bonnine!
Hesitation fills my brain and dreams. We miss the boat. I vomit the entire trip. I drop my phone in the ocean. There are no whales. I see whales—but I’m not fast enough to take pictures. What the hell? This was supposed to be a great adventure! Now, wait a minute. Mind-shift.
It’s going to be a great adventure! A lot of fun! It will be like Mr. Scott says to Captain Kirk in Star Trek IV, “Captain, there be whales here!” Like Herman Melville, I’m going to get my whale! I’ll have a picture worthy of National Geographic! One can dream. Wish me luck.
Hubby and I walk into a car rental place and pick out a Chevy Cruze the agency insists is “RED.” I call it terracotta. Chevy’s website calls it Autumn Metallic. Either way, it’s not red.
Why does this matter? Imagine trying to find your rental in a strange lot and saying, “It’s red.” Would you look for that car? Exactly.
The Cruze also has a dashboard computer that does everything but bake bread—without instructions. Too tired to figure it out, we grab gas and snacks at a Kangaroo mini-mart.
While Hubby’s inside, I plug in my phone. He returns and says, “Find something on the radio. Looks like it’s got satellite.” I try, but the screen keeps asking me permission for things I don’t understand. I hit yes. Nothing happens.
Then suddenly—music. “Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate’s life for me,” in a voice suspiciously like Johnny Depp. Next up: This Is Halloween from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Perfect, since we’re headed to Disney World.
“It’s like they know we’re coming,” Hubby says. “Disney must have its own station.”
I’m convinced. We sing along—until the songs end abruptly. Then comes a rumba ditty we hate, followed by beeps, whirls, and finally… a telephone ring.
Hubby stares at me. “Those are your ringtones! The car is playing your ringtones. What did you plug into?”
And just like that, the Disney magic vanishes. Johnny Depp wasn’t crooning to me after all; it was an old 99-cent ringtone download. This Is Halloween? Same story.
So no, I don’t know how to work the car’s computer. But I do know one thing: I’m not sitting in a RED car.
Has your car ever synced itself to your ringtones?
There are reasons and times when it is necessary to buy or rent a scooter to get around. This decision does not come easily, and the public, in many cases, is not sympathetic. In fact, they are prejudice, misunderstanding, and outright cruel.
We don’t get out much, but when we do, my husband needs to use a scooter. What we’ve encountered in people is hurtful and frustrating.
They accuse him of faking his disability.
Call him lazy.
Accuse him of milking a system to get privileges or perks.
My husband, to offset some of these things, wears his Navy hat. If people see the hat, they leave him alone. Assuming, I guess, that he was injured during his fourteen years of service. And that makes it okay to use a mobility scooter.
Yes, there are reasons people act like jerks to the disabled.
They do not understand hidden disabilities.
They see scooters as being in the way.
Some people just need to mock or discredit people with disabilities.
Some people use cruelty to not have to look at their own vulnerabilities.
They feel the person is being lazy and want to teach them a lesson.
We especially have this problem in locations where multiple people are using a mobility scooter. You can hear the sighs, the jeers, the personal attacks. People going out of their way to make the person in the scooter feel small.
It’s tough to use a mobility scooter.
You have to face your own issues with loosing mobility.
You are, in a way, putting a bullseye on by using the scooter.
The limited ability to go to all places and terrains, and weather.
I’m sure there are many more reasons it is tough to use the scooter.
So, next time you see someone or a group of people in a mobility scooter, remember they would much rather have your mobility than sit in that chair. For the love of God, stop being so cruel!
We decided to take the family on a trip to Disney World. It was the first time for our five- and seven-year-old granddaughters. The drive? About 18 hours. We pulled out of the driveway at 5:30 a.m. No problems.
The seven-year-old had been learning about states in school, so as we crossed each state line, we’d shout its name and everyone would cheer. One state down—so many more to go.
Somewhere in our third state, the five-year-old sighed and said, “I’m tired of all these little states. Just tell me when we get to the state of Japan.” No problem.
The day rolled on smoothly. The kids napped between viewings of Cinderella for the thousandth time. Before we knew it, the giant, gaudy South of the Border sign appeared on the horizon. If you’ve never seen it, it’s a long-standing tourist trap-slash-rest stop sitting right on the North/South Carolina border. Bright lights, oversized cement animals, buildings painted in every color of the rainbow. It’s been around since the 1950s, and for us, it’s almost a mandatory stop on the way to Florida.
We pulled into the lot. “Everybody up!” I called. “Time to stretch!”
The five-year-old popped up, looked out the van window, and gasped. “We made it! Oh my gosh, we’re really at Disney World! I can’t believe it!”
Without missing a beat, my husband said, “Yep! We made it to Disney World! I think I just saw a princess go around the corner!” I gave him a look. He leaned in and whispered, “Just think of all the time and money we’d save if they really believe this is Disney.” He’s smiling. I’m not.
Meanwhile, the seven-year-old had leapt from the van and planted herself in front of her twirling little sister.
“This is NOT DISNEY!” she shouted, her voice rising with each sentence. “Do you see any CASTLES? Do you see any PRINCESSES? Do you see MICKEY MOUSE!?”
The five-year-old stopped twirling and looked crushed. “Rats. I thought this was Disney.” She crossed her arms and added, “Well… at least tell me we’re as far as Japan.”
My husband and I just stared at each other. I said, “Well, I suppose we could take her to Epcot. They do have a Japan.”
He shook his head. “No, no. All we have to do is tell her the Georgia Welcome Center is the entrance to Japan. She’ll never know the difference.”
It’s Friday morning, exactly one week from my uncle’s funeral. Family is headed back to Florida and for the first time since the death, the house is quiet and the stillness overpowering.
It’s a surreal morning. I had set the alarm on my cell phone for a seven o’clock wake up but forgot to turn up the volume. I hear pounding on the door and shoot out of bed confused.
“We need to leave in ten minutes!” My daughter yells through the door. This morning is the first in a series of physical therapy appointments she has, post-back surgery. “We can stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way. They have great breakfasts and awesome coffee.” This is a dig against her brother, my son who lives and breathes Starbucks.
I brush my teeth; throw on some clothes and stumble, still half-asleep into the hallway. She is standing by the front door with my purse in one hand and my keys in the other. I find my shoes and struggle to get them on my feet. She ushers me out the door.
We get into my mini-van and I’m seated in the driver’s seat. A revelation hits me, I’m awake and going somewhere. I slap my face a time of two and turn up the radio. Something has to wake me up. I’m driving for goodness sake!
“Dunkin’ Donuts is right around the corner. You can get a large coffee,” daughter tells me.
Before her surgery, my daughter was a three times a week Dunkin’ Donuts regular. We enter the coffee shop. She waves at the staff and rattles off what she calls her regular order. The counter person puts this into the register and looks at me.
I don’t have a clue what I want. Daughter and counter person spit out several adjectives describing food and beverage choices; eggs with bacon and toast, no toast, no egg, cheese, no cheese, bagels, coffee, iced, hot, latte, espresso, creamer, no creamer, mocha, mint, raspberry.
“Well?” Daughter asks.
I think I heard one of them say coffee, hot. I remember, the other day after daughter’s post neurology appointment we stopped at Sheetz, a regional gas, restaurant, and convenience store for coffee. That coffee, ordered for me by daughter, I really liked. “What was that?” I ask her.
“Iced, white-chocolate, raspberry with soy creamer,” daughter replies but for some reason I can’t wrap my head around all the words.
“Raspberry, chocolate,” I say. Miraculously, a breakfast and hot drink are handed to me and we head back to the car. I drop daughter at physical therapy and head back home.
Walking in the front door, I smell something dead and rotting. I check for the dog and cat. They are both accounted for and alive. Down on my hands and knees, I sniff the carpet, the couches and the afghans. Everything smells like it is supposed to. I’m stumped and tell myself I’ll deal with it later.
It’s been two weeks since I opened my mail or answered my business phone. Life literally has been at a stand-still. I leave the smell of the living room and head upstairs to my office. It’s a business disaster. Piles of paper and files have shifted around so many times in making room for extra, visiting family that I no longer know where anything is located.
I fire up the computer and find over three-hundred e-mails needing my attention. My office phone is blinking, ten missed messages. I’m so overwhelmed and exhausted I don’t know where to start or how to prioritize. This is grief and stress, I tell myself.
I sit in my office chair, close my eyes and do some deep breathing. I tell myself an altered mantra I learned at an acupressure seminar months ago. I have all the energy I need. My body is taking in the energy around me, re-filling where I am depleted. I refuse to let things or people take away my power or energy.
I open my eyes and see five minutes have gone by. That’s okay; I feel refreshed and know what direction to take with the clutter. The dog and cat get into a spit and I need to intervene. I can feel my energy draining and have to fall onto my office couch before I collapse. So much for the mantra working, I tell myself and cry.
Cried out, I lay there watching spider-webbing cracks in the ceiling paint. The house is so quiet. I didn’t realize how much the family being all-together helped keep each of us afloat through the past two weeks. I push myself to go back downstairs; I’ll deal with the office chaos later. I quickly move past the smell of death in the living room and back to the bedroom.
There are several beds we’d assembled for extended family. I decide there’s no time like the present to strip the sheets and start reversing the process I started two weeks ago. The beds come apart fairly easily and I’ve stowed them, for now, in the dining room next to the left-over paper plates, cups, napkins and plastic ware from the post-funeral get-together. I can’t deal with the things in this room right now. I’ll get to it later.
I have enough time to shower before returning to pick up my daughter. I grab some clothes from the laundry basket in the living room still waiting to be put away. What the hell is causing that smell?
I shower, pick up my daughter and head home. “There’s a smell,” I tell her. “When I open the front door, find it.”
We open the door and the smell is obnoxious. Again, I get on my hands and knees and feel more like a police dog looking for illegal contraband.
“This would be a good time for a picture,” daughter says. “Did you smell the fireplace? The other day we heard birds in there.”
Birds: Our chimney does not have an enclosed top. Every year starlings nest on top of our flue. When the eggs hatch, we have our own bird sanctuary. We can hear the parents fluttering up and down the chimney, baby birds chirping, singing and screeching. We can tell when a parent bird is bringing food back to the nest by the excitement coming from the behind the bricks. Eventually, the babies learn to fly and everything goes quiet until next spring. I don’t know why there would be a dead bird in our chimney in July.
I lean in the direction of the fireplace and don’t have to go any further. Sh-t, it is a dead bird in the fireplace above the flue. I open and close the flue several times hoping the bird body will fall and I can dispose it. Nothing happens.
A crazy thought, maybe I can smoke or incinerate the body with a fire. Okay, I know its July, but it is cool enough outside that I can turn off the air conditioner. I open the flue, turn off the air and toss a Duraflame log in the fireplace and set it ablaze.
My daughter and I sit on couches watching the dancing flames and my son comes in to join us.
“Reminds me of camping,” he says.
“Reminds me of my step-mom raising and killing her own chickens for food,” daughter replies.
“They’re making a new product called Soylent,” my son says. “It has all the nutrition anyone needs. Soon we won’t have to worry about food.”
Conversation lulls with the flames and both kids leave the room to live their lives. I’m alone with the cat nestled up beside me. The Duraflame log is half its original size but continues to deliver a calliope of blue, green, yellow and orange flames. The house is so quiet.
I realize what I’m really doing is cremating the bird and flash back two weeks ago. Corner’s reports, probable causes of death, cremation and internment paperwork, planning a get-together for everyone post funeral, setting up beds, buying and making food for everyone, military send-off with Taps and a tri-folded flag while we stare at Uncle’s portrait and the urn containing his ashes. It was almost one-hundred degrees that day and with high humidity. Everyone was drenched in a mixture of sweat and tears.
The fire is nearly out now. I don’t smell death anymore but it’s all around me. Every room in my house has at least a small remnant of the past two weeks. I can walk here or there and hear snippets of conversations between family members. I can smell the scent of various shampoos and soaps everyone used. My brother left some cigarette butts behind on the front porch. My mom left her ice pack in the freezer. Aunt Mary left her socks and my dad forgot his belated father’s day card. My uncle’s picture is on the mantel of my fireplace. He is smiling.
Maybe, death is not all around me but snippets of life. Sure, my alarm didn’t wake me up but I got up. I got to see my daughter blossom, knowing she is finally getting well enough to join society. Her car which has been dead since surgery, is going to be fixed free of charge. The smell in the chimney is gone and the method I used got two of my kids together for a nice conversation. I have remnants of the past two weeks all over my house but I got two weeks with people I love more than anything. We had a death to attend to, but in his passing, I reconnected with very close cousins I lost touch with over the years. We laughed, smiled, sang, told jokes and reminisced about my uncle and our entire family. I had expected people to stay maybe two hours at the get-together. Most stayed at least five.
My house is very quiet and I’m crying. But I realize, this is not the ending. This is just the beginning of a new chapter for all of us. I should- will embrace finding the how and where we go from here.
I am a self proclaimed history buff, paranormal enthusiast with extensive history studying trauma. What would be more natural then for me to gravitate to Gettysburg, especially on such an epic occasion? These days, I am in Gettysburg at least once a month. Usually, you will find me wandering around areas of the battlefield with a camera. I try to capture in photos the moods of July 1863 and now for me as I walk across the once blood soaked fields.
These fields speak; the trees wail with woe, the buildings are still scarred from cannon fire. The battlefield is so vividly re-conditioned to its original state that I can literally walk where great and courageous men made split second decisions that saved many, killed thousands and helped bring a turning point to the Civil War. The history of the town, the people and the soldiers have been so painstakingly researched, preserved and presented for the next generation to remember.
Why do we still harbor strong feelings toward a war that ended over a hundred years ago? Because it is the one time where our own people turned and divided. Brothers fault and killed brothers. Neighbors killed neighbors. I come from Maryland, a state divided in the war. We were neither Yankee nor Confederate and yet we were both. So, there are many stories of families being ripped apart over the issues and ultimately burying their dead.
I used to find it hard to believe that people could turn on each other the way they did before and during the war. That is until recently when I started to hear rhetoric about taking up arms, parts of states wanting to succeed from the country over this issue or that. At times the vocal violence was so lethal, I found it frightening.
I don’t think most people have it within themselves to kill a family member or neighbor over politic differences of opinion. I’d like to think not. I know for sure, most people have never taken another person’s life and have no clue not only if they could, but what that would be like.
I’ve worked with enough veterans and police officers who do know. It’s not pretty. It’s easy to spout at the mouth about wanting internal war. I don’t think people realize if there was an internal war, we, all of us, would be the ones fighting. Not just enlisted people or trained militants. It would be our children, elderly and disabled injured and potentially slaughtered. Our food not able to be harvested from destroyed fields. Food that is harvested, not able to reach its destinations. It is our socio-economic system completely collapsing. There would be no, forgetting we are at war because it does not affect me unless I catch a glimpse on what we currently call the news.
We all need a dose of calming down and a reality check. Gettysburg, while now a thriving tourist destination, being home to one of the most explored, if not the most explored battlefield in the world, is one powerful reality check. For 150 years she’s been screaming at us. Don’t forget!
So, if you come to Gettysburg this year, especially during this celebration of remembrance, don’t’ forget. But at the same time, don’t’ let it swallow you whole. Depending on your own experiences and empathetic abilities, it can do that. Have some fun. There is a lot to take in.
I’ve decided to give you the, if I was a Gettysburg tour guide this is where I would take you, agenda. If your favorite haunt is not listed, well I couldn’t list them all. This is just my list compiled over forty years of visits to town.
Walking Along Cemetery Ridge
Must Haves When Coming to Gettysburg:
Patience! Crowds will be intense this summer and especially during the 150th anniversary. Remember, this is a walking town; pedestrians have the right-a-way. In the traffic circle, the cars inside the circle have the right-a-way. You can only go in one direction. When you get to your street, veer off to the right. Watching for traffic around you.
Sunscreen, lots of sunscreen, hats and or parasols. If you are going to the re-enactments, there are few to no trees. The sun gets intense. Remember to shield the kids!
Water! Bright sun and intense July heat equals dehydration. There are venders selling drinks all over town and at the reenactments. Lines can be long and many venders do not sell water. You can’t drink enough water.
Bring cash. Most places accept credit cards, but some venders, again, especially if you are going to a reenactment, may only accept cash.
Time. Give yourself plenty of time to get from point A to point B. Traffic will be difficult. The main historic district of town is located on two cross streets meeting at the traffic circle. Parking is limited.
A map of town and the battlefield. The re-enactments are not on the battlefield. The battlefield is not one large land mass. It surrounds the town and if you are looking for a particular battle location or monument, a map and or GPS is a must.
Sense of humor. Everyone is in town to have a good time, learn new things and experience a piece of history. There will be short tempers, babies crying, people walking into traffic, lines for restaurants and port-a-potties. Accept it and go with the flow. The park service is expecting over 20,000 re-enactors and half a million visitors this summer. Smile!
A place to stay! Don’t come to town expecting to find a place, even if it’s camping. Be smart; get your lodging ahead of time. I’ve heard people are staying in York, Hanover, Chambersburg and Harrisburg for the re-enactment weekends.
Pennsylvania Infantry Memorial
Must Dos (According to me):
Get in town early and have breakfast at one of the many restaurants. I’ve eaten several times at The Avenue Restaurant on Steinwehr Ave. across from O’Rorke’s Irish Eatery and Spirits. The cost is family friendly, food good and lines not too bad. OR
Go to the National Park Service Visitor’s Center and Museum. They have a 19th century eating establishment on site. See the film, cyclorama and the museum. The museum displays give a wonderful, easy to understand presentation of pre, during and post Civil War information and life. Visually stimulating, occasionally interactive displays allow for even the most museum skittish to benefit.
Buy the two hour Battlefield Auto Tour CD from the National Park Service bookstore before touring the battlefield. Stops on the CD correspond to the tour signs on the battlefield. The CD not only gives logistics about sections of the battle but re-enacts stories from the perspective of soldiers, town’s people and generals.
When on the battlefield tour, get out of your car and walk around! Check out the vantage points, variety of monuments and the stories they convey. There is a book you can purchase at the National Park bookstore called, So You Think You Know Gettysburg, by James and Suzanne Gindlesperger. It is an easy to use book giving GPS locations and stories behind some of the parks most memorable statues and monuments.
Rent a horse, Segway or book a bus to tour the battlefield. There are over 6,000 acres of battlefield with out-of-the-way roads and trails.
Have lunch.
Take a walk down Steinwehr Ave. Watch fudge being made in the Chocolate, Fudge and Ice Cream shop on Steinwehr Ave. Dress up in Victorian clothing and have your picture taken. Have a home-made ice cream cone, take in multiple gift shops, art galleries, book shops and souvenir venders.
Veer to the right at the corner of Baltimore Street and Steinwehr Ave. There are several bed and breakfasts, private historic collections and museums with minimal admission fees, candy shops, period clothing shops, restaurants and ghost tours.
Have dinner at either the Farnsworth House or Dobbins House Tavern. There are many great places to eat in town but for me, these historic locations with their ambience, period menus and service can’t be beat. Farnsworth House is located on Baltimore Street. Dobbins Inn is located on Steinwehr Ave.
Take in a ghost tour. Warning, there are several to choose from and one is not the same as another. Some take you directly in front of the building or location where the story takes place. Others only walk you around a circle, stopping here and there to tell a story. Some claim to promise seeing a ghost via orbs on your photos (orbs most likely to be dust, bugs, dew or other weather related element). Some tell stories with minimal to no factual back story. While others give factual, historical information behind the stories and town’s people’s antidotes of unexplained events. You can have a great tour but a minimally effective tour guide and visa-versa. Guides expect a tip after the tour.
My favorite ghost tour is Ghosts of Gettysburg on Baltimore Street. The author, Nesbit wrote the series Ghosts of Gettysburg and runs this operation. Reservations are recommended. I prefer the longer tour as they take you down to the train station and college as well as around town.
End the night head down to the Lincoln Diner at 32 Carlisle Street for a great piece of pie. Located across from the Railroad Station, this college diner is known for its large, scrumptious deserts.
Sach’s Bridge
If you have a second day in town, check out the Jenny Wade house on Baltimore Street. Take a carriage ride. Check out the Lincoln Train Museum on Steinwehr Ave., Soldier’s National Museum on Baltimore Street, and Hall of Presidents also on Baltimore Street. Talk to some re-enactors stationed in encampments about life as a soldier. Pay your respects at the National Cemetery and location of President Lincoln’s famous address.
Little Round looking down on Devil’s Den
At the end of the day, find a large rock on the battlefield at Little Round Top and watch the sunset over Devil’s Den. This location, where thousands lost their lives in the Valley of Death is oddly serene and quiet in the rays of the setting sun. While you are there, don’t’ forget the message these hollowed fields deliver. Find peaceful resolutions. War is not the answer and it’s never what we expect. Once started, it’s hard to turn back.
It’s drive-in movie time again. Even though nights are still on the cool side, it didn’t stop our local drive-in’s opening weekend from being a near sell-out for Lilo & Stitch and Mission: Impossible.
Like good American nostalgia enthusiasts, we gathered our blankets, hooded sweat shirts, lawn chairs, a bag of McDonald’s food, folding table and a game of Haunted Mansion Life (yes it’s a Disney thing) and headed for the drive-in forty-five minutes away.
It was good to see so many other cars, vans and trucks in attendance. The enticing smell of popcorn, hot dogs and fresh coffee filing the air. Kids of all ages running about, throwing around balls, swinging on swings or playing games with family and friends around their vehicles. Adults sat around playing cards, friends were reunited. We were about an hour from show time. You have to go at least an hour before show time for a good spot and for socializing.
According to the LA Times, at the height of the drive-in theater craze there were over 4,000 drive-in movie screens or about 25% of all movie screens in the country. Today there are only approximately 368 or 1.5%. Drive-in movies are a dying bread in great family entertainment.
Why go to a drive-in when you can attend a modern indoor theater with rocking, cushy chairs and state of the art Dolby surround-sound? Here are my top ten reasons.
10. It’s an American institution that should be preserved.
9. Two movies for the price of one.
8. Before movie social time with family and friends.
7. You can talk all you want during the film and no one cares.
6. Sit in the car, on lawn chairs, laying in a truck or van, in sleeping bags on the ground. Whatever floats your boat.
5. You control the volume of the sound around you.
4. Bring the kids in their pajamas. If they fall asleep, no problem. Wrap them in a blanket. Once you are home, just plop them into bed. (Yes, put them in a car seat on the way home)
3. Bring your own treats but make sure to patronize the concession stand. Most drive-ins depend on this to off-set cost of the business. Our concession stand is like a take-out restaurant.
2. It’s an event, not just a film. Everyone gets excited when you tell them it’s drive-in movie night!
1. You get to watch the dancing concession stand food advertisement at intermission. “4 minutes till show time, just enough time to get a fresh bag of popcorn and a refreshing soda.. 3 minutes till show time…” As the dancing hot dogs in buns jig with a couple bags of popcorn to hooky carnival music.
Want to know if there is a drive-in near you? Go to DriveinMovie.com. They have them listed state by state. See you at the drive-in!
Oh yes, Lilo & Stitch and Mission: Impossible were great films. I recommend those too.
This morning I discovered a wonderful and deadly secret, Burger King now carries Cinnabons. I love Cinnabons! Until this morning, I could only get them at the airport. Usually, I could resist them, too worried about making my flight or having oozing cinnamon sauce dripping down my chin and shirt.
Now, I can go less then a mile from my home, sit in my car and indulge in cinnamon-sugar ecstasy. Burger King has Cinnabons!
Like a cocaine addict, there I sat. Could have ordered the bacon, egg sandwich or better still, the oatmeal with fruit. No, I ordered Cinnabons, two of them. I deserved them, I told myself. Reasons why, I have no clue.
I ordered, paid and planned to sit in the parking lot eating them. My napkins in hand for the dribble mess that only a Cinnabon can produce. I opened the box. Two scrumptious, twisted, doughy circles dripping in brown cinnamon syrup and decadent white icing stared at me. Oh my!
My cell phone clock buzzed. I looked at the dash clock. It’s later then I thought. if I sat in the parking lot, I’d be late for my class on spiritual discipline. You know, learn not to over indulge. Keep an even-keel, that sort of thing. So, I have to eat the Cinnabons on the go. What could go wrong?
I turn out of the Burger King parking lot and the first gob of icing hits my jeans. It’ll wait. I can’t turn, hold a Cinnabon and grab a napkin at the same time. I’m not that coordinated. Not a problem. For the three miles it takes me to get to my class on discipline, I gorge myself on these overly-large, incredibly addictive, way-more-than-I-can-eat rolls. Pleased, that I only have that one glob of icing on my jeans to contend with.
At my destination, I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. The rolls are eaten. Not something to be proud of, but next time, I’ll order the oatmeal. No one has to know I slipped up and once again found myself in a sugary stupor. I’d gotten away with it! Ha, ha, indulge today, disciple tomorrow!
I garb a napkin to remove the incriminating evidence from my jeans only to find… it is joined by five other considerable larger globs all down my shirt and jeans. Crap! Good thing they gave me many napkins.
Did you know napkins adhere to Cinnabon icing globs like flies on flypaper? Napkins ripped, shredding all over my shirt and jeans. I look like a kid just learning how to shave, ending up with toilet paper wads all over their face!
I should be in class several minutes ago! How in the hell am I going to clean this up and look dignified? No one is supposed to know I fell off the band-wagon! I wonder if I can lick some of it off. I don’t have any water and drowning myself in caramel-mocha coffee doesn’t seem like the answer!
There is a knock on my car passenger window. It’s a friend of mine also going to this class. Her gleeful expression quickly turns to confusion. I’d be confused too if I wandered up to her car only to find her sitting there with napkin shreds hanging off globs of icing all over her shirt, hands and pants.
There is really nothing to say here except, “Burger King now has CInnabons.” She still looks confused.
“I’m not really sure how to help you with this one,” she says. Her head cocks sideways the way my dog does when I’m trying to explain the concepts of karma to him.
“That’s okay, I don’t’ know either.” I wonder if I can claim this as a new grunge/bohemian look.
So, I’m going to class wearing shredded napkins and not-strategically placed globs of syrup and icing. A smile on my face. I’m taking responsibility for my actions. I’ll take the consequences, the tisk-tisks, the smirks, and the malaise when this sugar rush crashes.
I get out of the car and straighten out my newly decorated shirt and strategically hug my friend who says, “Wow, you smell like a bakery, like Christmas cookies! That’s not too bad. It could be much worse.”
And this is why I have her as my friend. Everyone should have friends like this.
Hello, my name is Deborah Sickle Hill, Burger King has Cinnabons, and I have a problem. Damn good thing I’m taking a class on spiritual discipline. I think I have a stomachache.
Kansas is the flattest place I have ever seen. Pancake flat. I-70 is one long stretch of flat, mile after mile of farmland speckled with occasional bouts of religious billboards. If you want to find your fate in the afterlife based on a billboard, I-70 in Kansas is the place to be.
Nestled deep in all this flatitute is a natural site that took my breath away. I called it the Monument Valley of the Mid-west. They call it Monument Rocks and Castle Rocks. We found it only because of a small sign on the side of the road and a reference in the Welcome to Kansas booklet.
It is located down a very long, meandering, dirt road through private ranches. There are no fences and cattle do have the right-of-way. The monoliths are considered a National Monument by the Department of the Interior and one of Kansas’ wonders.
I was positive, despite the sign saying public monument; we were going to get shot for driving across someone’s ranch. There was no hiding. There were no trees or buildings for most of the twenty-some miles of dirt road to the monuments.
They seemed to erupt out of the flatland before our eyes. Buttresses of chilling, lonely, death-white stone at least two stories high. We slowed the van down to a crawl and said nothing. There were no words to describe the awe in this eighty-million-year-old byproduct of the Niobrara Sea that once traversed from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada though this site.
I got out of the van and just stood. The only sound I heard was wind singing around and through the stone arches. The milky buttresses hungrily sucked in the rays of the bright sun leaving nothing behind. They were not quartz as I expected, but made of white chalk with streaks of grey lines.
I walked around the monoliths and arches trying to wrap my brain around my feelings. It was more than mere awe. It was spiritual. I was walking in the footsteps of countless others before me and walking over countless fossils of marine animals long ago extinct. I pulled out my camera, a video recorder and a digital voice recorder. I walked around for about an hour taking over a hundred pictures, a video, and recorded my thoughts and the environment. I left knowing I had not succeeded in capturing the experience. Some places refuse to be captured.
As we pulled away, I felt remorse and watched the site disappear in the dusty trail of our van’s wheels. I often tease that I am a restless wanderer but in this place, I felt grounded. If you get a chance, go see it. I understand the land where it sits was sold late last year but I am under the impression, visitors are still welcomed. ** Beware of rattle snakes! There are no bathroom facilities! *****
Directions: (derived from Kathy Weiser’s site, Legends of America)
Monument Rocks is located about 28 miles southeast of Oakley Kansas. Take U.S. 83 south, then 4 miles east on Jayhawk Road, 3 miles south, and 1 mile east (dry weather road only). From Scott City, travel 18 miles north on U.S. 83, east 2 miles on Dakota Road, 1 mile north, 3½ miles east, and 2½ miles north.
Castle Rock can be reached by taking the Quinter Exit #107 off I-70, traveling 15 miles south on Castle Rock Road to the intersection of GO-80 and GO-K, then 4 miles east to Castle Rock sign, and north across a cattle guard (dry weather road only).
Listening to the Sounds of Nothing ~ Approx. 4–5 min read
Monument Valley
Monument Valley National Park spans the corners of Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado, and rests within the Navajo Nation. I’d never been, but something about that red earth called to me. I wasn’t interested in the usual dirt drive tourists take. I needed more. I needed connection.
My husband and I hired a Navajo (Diné) guide and climbed into his jeep. He took us to parts of the valley off the beaten path. About two-thirds through our tour, nearly axle-deep in rich orange sand, he stopped the engine.
“What do you hear?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. I had never heard nothing before. My heart beat faster.
“Exactly.”
He grinned, turned the key, and we continued through the quiet, swerving toward a towering sandstone alcove. Once parked, he motioned for us to follow.
Inside the alcove, the temperature dropped twenty degrees. He told us to lean against the stone wall, and we did. The rock was smooth, cool, grounding. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to leave.
Again, he asked, “What do you hear?”
This time, I heard our breathing echoing in the stillness. Then he began to sing. Words I didn’t understand in a rhythm that seeped deep into my bones. His voice reverberated across the alcove in a way that felt like a secret between the rock and my soul.
He stopped. “Isn’t that something?”
I couldn’t answer. My body felt full and hollow at the same time. He nodded, understanding.
“We have to go back,” he said.
I didn’t want to. This encounter changed me, inspired me, and saddened me as well. What did it mean?
The Gift
Later,we detoured to a cliffside overlook where you can view ancient dwellings carved into the stone. As I walked the path, an elderly Native woman and a teenage girl approached me. The woman held a necklace—glass beads and juniper berries with a wire dreamcatcher pendant.
She said something I didn’t understand. The girl smiled. “It’s a gift,” she said. “From my grandmother.”
I hesitated. Was this a tourist trap? A silent exchange of expectation?
Maybe I looked wary because they grew more insistent. So, I took the necklace and said thank you. They both smiled, then disappeared up the path.
After taking my photos, I returned to find a tin can on a folded blanket with a few bills and coins inside. I dropped in a twenty, unsure if I’d just honored or violated something sacred.
And that’s the word that felt right–sacred. I felt at one with the universe, hearing something most people will never hear—nothing. And it was powerful.
The necklace hangs on my wall, a quiet reminder that in stillness, we touch the sacred.
Deborah Sickle Hill 
