Category Archives: Travel

Art and Architecture, Cape Cod, Nature, Travel

Shore Road, Once Again

October 4, 2021 Wildtrumpetvine

After a two-year absence, I was eager to get back to my early morning walks along Shore Road in Truro this August. The section that we’d seen upon arrival appeared largely unchanged, much to our relief. As I’ve written previously, it’s this persistent sameness, this enduring sense of place, that our family has come to treasure so dearly.

This view is from Route 6A looking across Route 6 to a sliver of Pilgrim Lake.

My first Shore Road walk this summer reassured me that my favorite ribbon of land was much as I remembered it. No unexpected new structures intruded. Stretches of semi-wild landscape patches remained between buildings. Hearty, low-growing roses and juniper continued to thrive along the fence rows.

As hoped for, as anticipated, the familiar elements, like old buddies, were there: the glorious Cape hydrangeas that flourish in the salty sea air. . .

. . .the simple white cottages of Pilgrim Colony, grouped around a neatly manicured central green. . .

. . .and the tidy, picturesque homes of Bay Colony, set off from the road by a white picket fence and a thick hedge of well-tended roses.

Days Cottages, those identical little white boxes set in a long line, looked exactly the same. Each tiny, green-shuttered house bears the name of a flower: Bluebell, Peony, Dahlia. They’ve changed very little since they were built, beginning in 1931. The land is particularly narrow here, so that at high tide, the bay is but a few short steps from the front of each cottage, and Shore Road a few steps from the back.

Several years ago, the Days family sold off the last of the units to individual buyers and retired to Florida. The exceptionally well-stocked grocery/news stand/all-purpose beach store associated with the cottages was closed and shuttered during our visit in 2018. We feared it would be razed and the land developed. Instead, it was sold to a new family, who runs it as Days Market and Deli. An upscale specialty grocery and cafe, it’s a popular spot for coffee, pastries, soups and lobster rolls.

The threat of big change on Shore Road was satisfactorily averted.

My favorite homes continued to endure, like this weathered Victorian cottage, with its yellow shutters and white gingerbread trim. On a somewhat overcast day, a solitary mourning dove sat on the telephone line out front.

This pair of very similar Dutch Colonial houses appeared just as I remembered them. They sit close together on a bit of high ground, with few other structures nearby. Like Days Cottages, they’re a frequent subject for Cape artists.

The most significant transformation along Shore road was one that had been long anticipated, and therefore didn’t seem especially dramatic. On the site of the old motel that sat empty and decaying for over twenty years, two sizable, but not overly large residences are nearing completion. For photos of the property as nature took its course in years past, as well as other Shore Road locales, see my posts from 2012 and 2013.

Most other changes on Shore Road involved the gradual yielding of the built environment to nature’s determined advances. For as long as I can remember, the expansive lot above has been occupied by a single small, gradually deteriorating cottage and several decorative birdhouses. See That Satisfying Sameness on Shore Road, September 18, 2018. There were some years when considerable effort had been made to keep the ever-encroaching foliage at bay. This August, nature was winning. The grape vines along the remains of the old fence were wild and thick, the grass was tall, and only a couple of birdhouses remained. The little building was more dilapidated than ever, but its sailboat weather vane still protruded at an angle from the corner of the roof line.

Before long, only the cupola and weather vane of this small cottage may be visible above the growing tangle of plant life. The building, like a humble Sleeping Beauty cabin, has been in slow decline for two decades.

The small structure above, along with the picnic table, has occupied an otherwise empty lot for many years. This summer, there was one minor modification to the building. It received a hand-painted sign bearing an identifying label, or perhaps a name: SHED. On Shore Road, my comfortable, beloved old friend, that’s the kind of subtle change I can support and appreciate.

Art and Architecture, Cape Cod, Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel

Past and Present, Wrapped up Together in our Summer Village on the Cape

September 26, 2021 Wildtrumpetvine

Our family’s long-time summer destination sits on the skinny finger of land between Cape Cod Bay and Route 6A, or Shore Road. When seen from the water, the small cottages appear to be nestled between the sea grass and a low hill of dunes that rises along the banks of Pilgrim Lake.

As the aerial photo above shows, the complex resembles a miniature village. The look is classic Old Cape Cod. Basic, simple, absolutely without pretense. On each side of the central pool, two rows of white cottages, built in the 1940s, face a grassy, rectangular courtyard. Six additional cottages are covered in weathered cedar shakes. Constructed in the 80s, these are off the greens, clustered in the sand. In the broad expanse that leads to the water are two narrow boardwalks and a fire pit enclosed by a semi-circle of sturdy wooden chairs. The wide beach, unusual for the area, has grown much bigger over the years. When the colony was new, the high tide mark reached all the way up to the line where the beach grass begins now. It would seem that every bit of sand that’s continually swept away from the rest of waterfront Truro is being deposited here.

A trellis-topped archway and white picket fence mark the entrance to one of the greens.

The cottages farthest from the water have the benefit of being surrounded on all sides by a grassy lawn planted with bountiful hydrangeas.

The photo above shows the cottage that my family will probably always think of as “Grandma and Grandpa’s place.” It’s the one that my husband remembers as the vacation home from his childhood, beginning in the 1970s. His parents last occupied it in 2018. Sadly, that visit made it clear that their health issues had become too daunting to make the trip worthwhile.

There are several models of the white cottages. Those across each green are mirror images of one other.

The cedar-shingled cottage above is the one our family returns to in early August. It sits just in front and to the side of H’s parents’ old place.

A sandy lane separates this row of cottages from the pool. There are no paved roads in our summer village.

Just as I often expect to see my husband’s parents planted in their beach chairs every time I approach their old cottage, I can’t go to the pool without recalling the way our daughter, as a baby, delighted in the glistening, chilly water. The photo above shows her with my husband in 2001, on her very first visit to the Cape.

Nearly every spot in our pleasant village conjures an image of our daughter as she has been, over the years. I can see her at two and a half, sitting happily outside our cottage, talking to herself while pouring sand into a cup.

I remember her as a little girl, pausing on a sandy path leading to the water, a wistful expression on her face.

I see her as a young teenager, the summer before she began middle school.

All the while, I see and give thanks for the strong, compassionate, intelligent young woman she has become. Here she is this August with Dozer, one of the owner’s dogs.

As our daughter has grown, and as my husband and I have simply aged, our summer village has changed only minimally. Here in this timeless place, more than anywhere else, I hold simultaneously in my mind’s eye the various stages of our family’s life. With our every return to this sliver of sandy ground that floats serenely between sea and sky, I feel what it means to be young, to be old, and everything in between, and even beyond. The day will come when H and I, like Grandma and Grandpa, no longer make the trip. Will there be a time when our daughter gazes at the sunset over the Cape while watching her own child contentedly pouring sand into a cup? I think I can see that, too.

Art and Architecture, Cape Cod, Community, Family, Nature, Travel

Back on the Cape, One Constant in an Ever-Shifting View

September 19, 2021 Wildtrumpetvine

Last summer, the pandemic interfered with our annual trip to Cape Cod. For the first time in twenty years, our family failed to spend part of August at the modest little cottage complex in Truro that we love so well. My husband began going there with his parents and siblings when he was a little boy. Our journey to the Cape is not just a vacation; it’s more like a pilgrimage. That narrow ribbon of land, curved like a hook into the bay, is, to us, if not quite the promised land, then something quite close to it. Certainly it’s a second home. We have no financial claim to any bit of real estate there, but we’re loyal renters. More importantly, as pilgrimage sites do, the place has claimed us as its own.

When we return, we go back to the same waterfront cottage, at the same time every year. We reconnect with many of the same families. We look out to a vast expanse of sand that leads to Cape Cod Bay, framed on each side by islands of sea grass and wild roses. The spare, simple skyline of Provincetown, about a mile away, appears to float atop the water. Its most distinctive feature, appropriately, is the tall, granite bell tower that commemorates the arrival of the original Pilgrims to the area, in 1620. Five weeks before landing at Plymouth, the Mayflower docked at what is now Provincetown Harbor. Due to rough weather, the ship had missed its mark in Northern Virginia. Anchored far north in Massachusetts, where the contract the Pilgrims had signed with the Virginia Company was deemed void, the group determined “to covenant and combine . . .together into a civil body politic,” to maintain order and the common good. So it was in Provincetown that the Mayflower Compact, an early and largely successful attempt at democracy, was written and signed. The Pilgrim Monument, now the symbol of the town’s warm, accepting and all-inclusive spirit, reminds us that great things are possible when we work together. For residents and returning pilgrims like our family, it’s a welcoming beacon. I love it that the tower is the anchoring feature in the ever-changing view from our little cottage.

The Pilgrim Monument was completed in 1910. Its design was based on the civic symbol of Siena, the 14h century Torre del Mangia in the Piazzo del Campo, the town’s main square. Other features of Provincetown’s narrow silhouette are two water towers, several church steeples, and the Town Hall tower.

Our view toward the bay varies minute by minute with the shifting of the light, the play of the clouds and the passage of the hours. The ethereal, transformative quality of Cape light has long made this area a favorite destination for artists. Above, around noontime, the sun glints off sparkling blue water, and a line of clouds hugs the horizon, in an otherwise clear sky.

On partially overcast afternoons, the water tends to turn silvery, like a sea of mercury. It’s often on days like this that the wind picks up, and my husband, and also now our daughter, may be out windsurfing.

One evening toward sunset, a sky resembling orange sherbet settled above the town’s dark silhouette and a bay of molten lead.

The color of the sand is changeable, as well. In early mornings and late afternoons, it may take on a peachy pink cast, as in the photos above and below. The dark patches of seaweed that litter the beach no doubt seem unsightly to some. But we’ve grown so used to it that it’s no longer remarkable. It’s just more evidence of the abundant life that thrives in and around the bay.

Windsurfing boards await my husband and daughter.

Occasionally, as a storm or dense fog moves in, all the towers of Provincetown are rendered completely invisible.

To me, the loveliest time of the day is just before sunset, when the shadows in the sand turn a magical, brilliant blue.

Sunset itself, on every clear day, is an event that brings our small, enduring community outside in admiration and awe. The sky often glows with streaks of increasingly fiery red, orange and yellow. And then, as the brilliant colors gradually dissipate, and Cape light fades into Cape night, the Pilgrim Monument is illuminated. Its white granite glows clean and bright against the dark sky. The tower is typically the last thing I see before I close my eyes at night. How comforting to know it is there, a reassuring beacon at all hours, in all weathers and seasons.

Art and Architecture, Community, Covid-19, Holiday, Travel

On The Road Again, and Back into the World

June 7, 2021 Wildtrumpetvine 3 Comments

We did something highly unusual recently. Something we hadn’t done for close to two years. We packed the car and drove across several state lines to visit relatives for the long Memorial Day weekend. Thanks to the Covid vaccines, we could do so without fearing dire consequences. We had taken another major step the week before, when we attended our daughter’s graduation from the University of Virginia. We were there, in person, on-site! And when D returned home a few days later, we didn’t require her to go into a period of quarantine in our home office. We’re gradually easing back into something akin to pre-Covid “normal.”

My husband’s intentions to visit his parents more regularly had been foiled by the pandemic. He and my daughter had also been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to get some ice time with our young hockey-playing nephews. So H’s hometown of Rochester, New York was our first out-of-state family destination. At Bill Gray’s Iceplex in Brighton, H and D matched skills with the boys for an hour of non-stop action. My sister-in-law and I, in our figure skates, passed the occasional errant puck around and served as videographers.

The Eerie canal village of Spencerport, where H’s sister and her family live, was as charming as I remembered it from our last visit over the Memorial weekend in 2019. The lift bridge, which raises to allow the passage of larger boats, had been freshly painted. Bright flowering baskets hung from shop windows. Our nephews have become enthusiastic fishermen during the pandemic. They breathlessly described to us the many fish that inhabit the canal. On a cold Saturday morning, undeterred by the icy wind blowing over the water, they proceeded to catch a wide range of examples. “A pumpkinseed? Really? That’s a fish?,” I asked the boys, thinking I’d heard wrong. Yes, indeed. A small and colorful speckled sunfish. Kids are such fountains of knowledge.

As much as my husband enjoys speeding across the ice in pursuit of a hockey puck, I like a brisk stroll through picturesque neighborhoods. I had been looking forward to walking again along Spencerport’s tree-shaded streets lined with beautifully tended old homes and historic churches. I kept falling behind my daughter and sister-in-law as I paused to take photos. So many captivating architectural details, so little time.

Spencerport’s First Congregational Church

The lamp posts on the main streets of the village were again decorated with flags and Hometown Heroes banners. Photos of our military men and women currently serving in various branches of the armed forces gazed down on us. Although the images were different, the group was just as youthful-looking as those of a previous year. Some were smiling. Others had adopted more serious expressions. All, I expect, must have been feeling a sharp mixture of anxiety and optimism during those photo sessions.

Their faces look down on the quiet, peaceful streets of home. Yet the real young men and women are far away, in places where turmoil reigns and peace is elusive. Every time I think of pretty little Spencerport, with its inviting sense of homeyness, I think of these hometown heroes. I pray that they return whole and healthy to their families.

I pray also that we civilians do our part to earn that name. May we not forsake our civic duty. May we pursue truth and learn from it, especially when it is painful. Especially when it reveals shortcomings that need to be addressed. May we actively work toward justice and peace for all people. May our country, our democracy, remain worthy of our pride and of the service and sacrifice of our military men and women.

Art and Architecture, Nature, Travel

Springtime in Charlottesville

March 30, 2019 Wildtrumpetvine

Charlottesville is about a hundred miles south of our home in the DC suburbs. The weather there is consistently warmer and sunnier than here in Northern Virginia, and spring tends to arrive earlier. My daughter thoroughly appreciates the beauty of her temporary home. She knows I do, as well. I’ve been wanting someone in our family to attend the University of Virginia for the last thirty years, but that’s another story. Here now, thanks to my daughter, some photos of Charlottesville in its spring glory.

Cape Cod, Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel

That Satisfying Sameness on Shore Road

September 18, 2018 Wildtrumpetvine

Shore Road, Route 6A, is our Main Street while we’re in Cape Cod, and I walk it nearly every morning. As in our little cottage complex, major changes along the road are refreshingly few and far between. Its scenery is almost as familiar to me as my childhood back yard. My Shore Road walks serve to further sustain the illusion of timelessness in Truro.

Fence-hugging hydrangeas, for example, which thrive in the moist salty air, are always bountiful and glorious.

Typically, any changes along this thin ribbon of land by the bay are so subtle that they serve to reinforce the unchanging nature of the place. Most of the homes and cottage groupings appear largely the same, year after year after year. Routine maintenance, not extreme renovation, is the guiding principle. The small structures of this condominium complex, above, continue to be nestled snugly amid the roses, much as they have been for nearly two decades. Hours of diligent pruning, no doubt, keep the surrounding plantings looking luxuriantly abundant but not overpowering.

Nature can easily get the upper hand, if left unchecked, as it has above. Each year, untamed, weedy foliage encroaches a bit more around this small, sagging, cupola-topped cabin. Considering the high value of real estate along the bay, there are a surprising number of small Shore Road structures, some barely bigger than sheds, that exist in a state of ongoing gradual decay. They appear to lack all creature comforts, but some show signs of sporadic human occupation. This gives them an air of mystery that adds to their appeal.

There are certain areas where the tug-of-war between nature and the attempt to subjugate it is particularly evident. For as long as I’ve walked Shore Road, the large lot above has been occupied by a small semi-dilapidated cottage, whimsical bird houses on tall posts, and the occasional boat. Some years, the foliage reigns victorious, as in the top photo, dating from 2013, where the cottage appears to float in a sea of tall grass and grapevines. The following year, the weeds were mown and vines cut back substantially. Flower boxes adorned the cottage’s front windows. Near the road, a patriotic tableau had been assembled: a wooden bench painted like the flag, Adirondack chairs and a pot of geraniums

Since 2014, nature has been allowed its riotous advance. Once again, the cottage is enveloped by high grass and unruly foliage. The flag bench, its paint faded, appears to be sighing toward collapse, and the split-rail fence groans under a heavy tangle of grapevines. The chairs have disappeared, and even the bird houses are in advanced decline. The lighthouse is unrecognizable, and the caboose is little more than a façade. (See Shore Road Scenes in Cape Cod, August 24, 2012.) Next year, will the progression toward wildness and ruin continue? Or will there be another effort toward taming nature and renovating the manmade? I hope it’s one or the other, and not a dreaded third option: a gleaming new structure that stands out starkly from the pleasantly worn and familiar Shore Road sights I cherish.

I’m not averse to some instances of refurbishment. Two years ago, for example, this rusty roadside owl received a coat of white paint and amber-colored eyes. Such measured, unobtrusive alteration I can wholeheartedly support. I appreciate it all the more knowing that it’s likely to be overlooked. I enjoy thinking I know Shore Road the way I know an old companion.

I can also welcome a unique addition that fits in well with that which already exists. The gray shingled house above, with its American flag and rainbow banner bearing the word PEACE, looks essentially the same every year. Several years ago I noticed an interesting vehicle parked in front, a small car colorfully painted with a variety of sea creatures in a folk art style. This year the little car gained a sibling, a minivan painted with similar colors and designs: sharks, lobsters, fish and sailing scenes. A white plastic egret keeps watch from the roof. The light-hearted, slightly eccentric spirit of these vehicles is in perfect sync with the PEACE house and with the Outer Cape. (They remind me of the Key West Don’t Dredge on Me truck encrusted with sea creatures. See Uniquely Key West, April 24, 2015.)

It’s been five years since I last wrote about the Shore Road sights I hold dear. As I began looking back and comparing this summer’s photos to those from earlier years, I was afraid that the idea of sameness might prove to be primarily in my mind. Maybe my old friend has changed more than I’d like to admit?

Generally, I don’t think so. This narrow strip of land still seems to be largely immune to the accelerated pace of change that characterizes my former Atlanta neighborhood or the DC suburbs where I now live. Every return visit brings this reassurance: the familiar sights of Shore Road, and its inimitable essence, they endure. Perhaps I hope that through proximity, this immutability is contagious. By spending time each summer in a timeless place, can I slow my own aging process? Or at least feed the fantasy? These days, it couldn’t hurt.

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For more on this topic, see Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro, September 13, 2013.

Family, Parenthood, Travel

In Cape Cod, the Illusion of Timelessness

September 5, 2018 Wildtrumpetvine 2 Comments

At the end of July, our family made our annual drive from northern Virginia up the east coast, almost to the very tip of Cape Cod. Our happy summer place is an unassuming cottage complex in North Truro. It looks out on the curve of the bay toward the Pilgrim Monument in Provincetown. For two weeks every summer, a little gray shingled rental cottage is our home. Why return to the same place year after year? Once I didn’t understand. When I was growing up, my family considered real vacations as rare indulgences. With the exception of a few special trips when I was older, we made do with a few days accompanying my father to a public health convention in Jekyll Island, or a visit to help out extended family in Kentucky. Had H’s family been in thrall to the same sort of thrifty practicality, they never would have packed up their young kids in a cramped VW camper and driven from Rochester to the Outer Cape in the summer of 1974. They certainly wouldn’t have returned every year since. And that would have been a shame.

Cape Cod seems an odd fit for a couple that doesn’t swim, sail, or even eat seafood. But the unique beauty of the place casts its spell. It gets under your skin and beckons you back. My husband and I began joining his family there with our daughter when she wasn’t quite three. Seventeen years later, it’s hard to imagine a summer that doesn’t include our little piece of the Cape.

View from our picnic table: across the sand and the bay, the Provincetown skyline.

During my husband’s family’s first visit to the Cape, they crowded into a one-room efficiency in a Truro motel, all five of them. (The next year there would be six, after H’s sister was born.) Quarters were tight, to say the least. The proprietor could have been friendlier, but they chose to overlook his surliness. When, while checking on a malfunctioning stove burner, he spoke with biting harshness to H, a meek seven year-old at the time, that was simply too much. The Cape was wonderful, and they would return, but they would find another place to stay.

On their last day, they took a closer look at a nearby establishment set back from the bay on a particularly wide stretch of beach. It featured white dollhouse-like cottages grouped around two neatly manicured greens. Each house had its own picnic table outside. The interiors were basic, no frills. Each had two bedrooms, a living room with a fireplace, kitchen and bathroom. Some had covered front porches. There was a big, new, sparkling pool. Kids were playing on the greens and digging in the sand. Families were cooking burgers and hot dogs on the little grills in front of their cottages. It was a relaxed, friendly place. H’s family determined to try to stay there the next year.

Luckily, they succeeded. H’s parents return to the very same white cottage still. We have a cottage for the three of us, and H’s sister is there with her husband and two boys in their own place. The wide, uncrowded beach has become even wider and therefore even less crowded. All the sand eroding from everywhere else along the bay seems to be deposited there. Otherwise, the appearance of the family-owned complex, in the same hands since 1967, has changed little since then, or even since the 40s, when most of the white cottages were built. The atmosphere is still that of a big-hearted summer village. The well-maintained greens are still perfect for ball games and water fights. Several somewhat larger cottages, with more expansive views and open floor plans, were constructed in the 80s. These are covered in weathered cedar shakes. Accommodations throughout are still basic. While microwaves and WIFI were added in recent years, there is no AC. This is not the destination for those who require high-end resort living in a space worthy of Architectural Digest. Head to the Outer Banks or the Charleston area for that. But for those who yearn for reassurance that the Old Cape Cod of the Patti Page song still flourishes, this is the place.

Ripley the Golden Retriever rests in his customary spot outside the office door. He may appear to sleep, but his tail starts wagging when he senses the approach of a friend. As long as I can remember, there has been a resident retriever keeping watch by those steps. Before Ripley, it was Logan.

The “new” cottages, seen from the bay side.

The view from our kitchen, as sunset approaches and the shadows on the sand turn blue.

The summer village we return to every year is humble, but it offers a priceless luxury in this world of ever-accelerating change: the illusion of timelessness. As I’ve written before, the pace of change is exceedingly slow along this part of the Cape. (See Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro, Sept. 13, 2013.) While the light and the sands are constantly shifting, the narrow strip of land, its scrubby vegetation and unimposing, weathered buildings, like those in our cottage complex, appear much the same, year after year. Here, it’s easy to pretend, for a week or two at least, that time stands still.

A temporary time-out.

Time out of time.

Or the illusion of it.

It’s almost worth the drive.

Art and Architecture, Family, Travel

Coney Island, June 1993

September 22, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

According to the Farmer’s Almanac and calendar no-it-alls, it’s still summer, for one more day. The autumnal equinox occurs tomorrow, September 23, bringing with it the first day of fall. I’d thought the summer had slipped away, but it hasn’t quite. A couple of months ago, I’d intended to write several posts on summer places. But the days passed, filled with other preoccupations. On this very last day of summer, I’ll try to make up for lost time. First up, Coney Island.

I was about five years old the first time I heard of Coney Island. It sounded magical and exotic, an ideal, seaside summer place. Neighbors of my grandmother in Kentucky had just returned from there, and they spoke of it in glowing terms. It was way up north near New York City. There were roller coasters, carousels, and a huge Ferris wheel right on the beach. I’d never seen any ocean then. I’d been no farther north than Ashland, Kentucky, and no farther south than Waycross, Georgia. (Daddy’s job in public health occasionally took him to Waycross, and Mama and I went with him a few times. While it sounds like small peanuts, I remember it as a very cool place, home of the Okefenokee Swamp, a great Holiday Inn pool, and crumbling antebellum mansions.) Anyway, that family’s Coney Island experience made quite an impression. I vowed someday I’d see it for myself.

By the time I was living in New Jersey, twenty-something years later, Coney Island sounded decidedly less magical. But I was still intrigued. One Saturday in June before I moved back to Atlanta, H and I drove up for the day.

We were in H’s enormous 1968 Chevy Impala SS (last car on the right, above). I’d gone with him to Trenton in the spring to buy it for $450. Battered and well past its prime, it was the perfect car for Coney Island in 1993. Like the faded amusement park, it could be seen to possess an inimitable air of tough deadbeat cool. We parked right next to the old Thunderbolt roller coaster; there were no vast, well-maintained parking lots as at a typical Six Flags. The Thunderbolt, opened in 1925 and out of use since 1982, sat decaying behind a rusted chain link fence. At first I thought it was the famous Coney Island Cyclone. It didn’t look safe at all. But, on the bright side, there was no crowd.

Then I spotted the Cyclone, across the way. In comparison to the decrepit Thunderbolt, it looked positively spiffy.

The above photo shows the Cyclone from the top of the Wonder Wheel. The classic white wooden coaster dates from 1927. It’s not especially tall. It doesn’t look particularly impressive if compared to sky-high roller coasters of the twenty-first century. There are no full loops. The cars don’t hang upside down. It doesn’t go backwards. It’s associated with no blockbuster movie franchise. But it is one memorable, absolutely thrilling ride.

On that sunny summer Saturday, the queue for the Cyclone was surprisingly short, almost nonexistent. At H’s insistence, we waited out one run so we could get the front car on the next one. As a little boy at Seabreeze Amusement Park in Rochester, his grandfather taught him that for the complete coaster experience, one must ride in the first car. We got in. When the safety bar came down, I thought there must be some mistake. There was way too much room between the bar and my lap. In fact there was space for someone several times my size, or for me and a couple of friends on my lap. I was afraid I’d fly out on the first dip. I anchored my elbows forcefully into the worn vinyl padding of the bar.

The cars lurched, and we were off, chugging slowly up the first hill. At the top, there was that suspense-filled pause, and suddenly we were hurtling downward. Thrillingly, alarmingly. The first descent is banked precipitously, and I hunkered lower, dug my elbows in harder. We were back up, rounded a turn, and then we were headed down again, screaming, laughing. It was exhilarating.

At the end of the ride, when the little train arrived at the platform, we were laughing and wind-blown, like all the other riders. H’s shirt had become completely unbuttoned. My bra had come unhooked. We had been warned to secure all valuables. According to the attendant, false teeth, glasses, jewelry, wigs and even underwear had been found on the tracks. I can see why.

Back then, you could stay on for another ride at no cost if you chose. We both wanted a repeat, but we needed some time to collect ourselves, to button up, to recover from the thrill. To prepare to be thrilled again.

Reliving the memory, I think, as I have many times over the years: we’ve got to go to Coney Island with our daughter. Not surprisingly, she’s a roller coaster fan.

Next: More Coney Island

Community, Travel

Uniquely Key West

April 24, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

I’d thought I was done with the Key West posts. But then I remembered the manatee mailboxes, and the little blue truck that appears to have spent time on the ocean floor, the toothy back yard sculpture, and a few more oddities. I saw these as I wandered the city’s quiet neighborhoods during our winter visit. They’re among the many sights that evoke the quirky spirit and laid-back humor of this unique place.

On our walk home from Duval Street on New Year’s Eve, we passed this cast concrete postal manatee dressed to party.

A few streets away, on the first morning of 2015, another manatee mailbox balanced a Happy New Year beer can on its head.

In this shady front yard, a creature left over from Halloween, or a year-round ghost?

Gracing a white-columned porch, a Christmas wreath adorned with starfish, crabs and lobster.

No guard dogs needed for this gated compound.

The “Don’t Dredge on Me!” truck, ornamented with all manner of sea creatures, some painted, some three-dimensional, for a diverting, barnacle-encrusted appearance. It protests the proposed and hotly debated dredging of the Key West Harbor Channel for the purpose of allowing even larger cruise ships to dock.

In a classic Key West contrast, the truck, a sort of rolling folk art diorama, is parked in front of this neat white Gothic revival church. The historic Cornish Memorial AME Zion Church, built in 1903, is named for the freed slave who started the church in 1864.

Something that does not belong in a post on the whimsical eccentricities of Key West is the Celebrity Constellation, pictured above, in port during our visit. I include it here only in reference to the little truck that speaks out against harbor dredging. Could there be a need for bigger cruise ships in Key West? Isn’t this ship too big already? Most locals dread the sight of thousands of cruise ship passengers descending regularly upon their island city. But here’s what you’d think would make the proposal a certain no-go: the Channel is located in the protected area of the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary. It appears ludicrous to argue that dredging could be anything but harmful to marine life and water quality, although proponents jump through hoops in attempts to minimize the impact. While the city voted “No” last year to a feasibility study on dredging, the question is not yet completely settled. May the message of the “Don’t Dredge on Me” truck be heard, loud and clear. And heeded.

Perhaps as well-known as the Hemingway House cats, freely roaming roosters and chickens, and the art they inspire, are a common sight in Key West.

I’m not sure what the artist of this back yard assemblage intended, but I see a pitcher plant monster on legs of tree branches. As Audrey II demanded in Little Shop of Horrors: “Feed me, Seymour!”

The Key West Airport is tiny and charming. On our next visit, we’ll be flying (not driving) in as well as out.

Nature, Travel, Walking the Dog

Cherry Blossom Time in DC

April 16, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

Throughout the DC area, the blooming of the cherry trees in our nation’s capital is a much-discussed topic beginning in late February or so. Will the bloom coincide with the actual Cherry Blossom Festival? Usually not, but there is always hope. Over 3,000 trees, a gift from Tokyo during the Taft administration in 1912, border the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial. At their fleeting, elusive peak, they are a truly remarkable sight.

It’s a sight I can’t recall seeing at close range during the nearly seventeen years we’ve lived in Northern Virginia. My husband says we were there once pushing our new baby in a stroller, but I have no recollection of the visit and no photos to prove it. Our daughter certainly has no memory of it. Once, on our way to Atlanta for Easter, she and I saw the pink fluffy trees as our plane followed the line of the Potomac on takeoff. In the spring of 2008 we were at the Tidal Basin, with our daughter and puppy, about ten days too late, as the photo below shows. This past weekend, the trees were at peak bloom. After a winter that threatened never to end, the weather was almost unbelievably perfect. Sunny, warm, slightly breezy. Not hot. The ideal time to go blossom watching. Ideal, at least, in a less populated world. When I suggested a jaunt into DC, our daughter was enthusiastic. But my husband groaned as though he were suffering grievous injury. He had taxes to finish, yard work to do, work emails to face. Traffic would be beyond horrendous. And it was our first chance all year to relax in the comfort of our back terrace.

I didn’t press the matter. I agreed with his traffic prediction. We live eighteen miles from DC. Once, when we drove in during the early hours of Thanksgiving morning, it took us a mere twenty minutes. More typically, it means creeping along for an hour or more on I-66 or the George Washington Parkway. The Metro should be the obvious choice, but parking at the station, especially during cherry blossom season, is problematic at best. Better to stay home.

Around mid-morning we were all in the car, about to run some necessary errands, when H suggested a sudden change in plans: he could drop D and me off on the Arlington side of the river. Maybe he’d been thinking about what a wonderful, understanding wife I am and how I didn’t protest when he flew off to Aruba over Valentine’s Day. “I know what the trees look like,” he said, “but since you two like to look at pretty stuff, I’ll drive you. We’ve gotta go right now, though, because the traffic will be really bad this afternoon.”

My daughter and I didn’t need further persuasion. I dashed back inside to get Kiko. Walking through a beautiful landscape is not quite complete for me without my little dog. (H and D, however, disagree. They have a lower tolerance for Kiko’s habit of constantly pausing to smell every twig and blade of grass.) Kiko had just settled down to nap. He was lying on the playroom floor looking pathetic, his front paws tucked up under him, like this.

The dog appeared stunned when I popped back so quickly and asked his favorite question, Wanna take a ride? It took him a moment, but he roused himself and stretched. Oh yes, he’d gladly take a ride.

My husband dropped us off just before the Arlington Memorial Bridge. He headed to Crystal City where he could take care of errands and avoid the crowds of cars and pedestrians.

And then, there they were, those justifiably famous cherry trees. They resemble puffs of pale pink cotton candy sprinkled among the white marble monuments. Or paper trees in the magic crystal kit my daughter discovered in her Easter basket one year. Almost too pretty to be real, especially when set against a baby blue sky and reflected in the water. Worth enduring the slow-moving throngs. Perhaps even more often than every seventeen years.

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A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.