That Hill

The Hill, straight ahead...

While you have been reading a remarkable tale of beautiful horses, mules, donkeys, and the people--of all ages, shapes, and sizes--who love them, there is always That Hill. You know, the one that tests people, their confidence in themselves, the animals and people with them, and so on.  In Life, there is always THAT Hill.

That Hill, on our journey, was the literal hill towards the end of a good 6 or so hours of  our wagon train through unspoiled forest, breathtaking slopes, sudden and stunning bends around creeks and waterfalls. We were in awe of it all. Mr. Jim, his wife, Kira and I spent the day talking, laughing, and ooohing and ahhing at the caravan we were on. It was a wonderful cornucopia of equines, old time horse lovers, and filming.

And then we got to The Hill. We were warned by several of our caravan companions that the last steep hill would be a tough one. By then, our animals had been pulling us around for several hours. To be fair, Kate and Hank, Mr. Jim’s mules were rather small--not draft mules at all. And, there were four of us atop that wagon, whereas most wagons only pulled one, maybe two, occupants.

Sure enough, half way up that hill, they mulled, balked, then stalled out. They absolutely would not budge. I think Mr. Jim was embarrassed by this, but what could he do?  Those scouts I mentioned that were attending the wagon train were there to help, and help they did--two burly fellows and their horses quickly pulled ahead, attached some leads to the mules, and led them to catch up with the rest of the train ahead of us.

We weren’t the only wagoneers with issues--I could be happy we weren’t three wagons up, when another team with two black mules had to deal with one of their animals suddenly rearing up as we traversed the hill. We still don’t know why the sudden attitude change in the animal, one of us guessed that the some part of the driving gear was irritating the mule…but it‘s still a mystery.

But we all made it up safely. No one was made to feel bad, silly, or a failure. None of the animals were reprimanded(and most good teamsters know that most problems lie in human miscalculation, never with the animal).  I think about the worst it got was when the scouts dragged our wagon straight up to the Wagon Boss, Mr. Thomas.

See, Mr. Jim’s mules were sold to him by Mr. Thomas, the original owner. Hank and Kate were trained up by Mr. Thomas until they were about five (or was it eight?) months old. Mr. Jim had them ever since and I think the scouts thought it funny to bring the “wayward” mules back up to see their original owner. As Kira astutely observed while the scouts brought us forward: “I feel like we’re going to the principle’s office.”

Mr. Thomas had a mock grim look on his face, shaking his head at the poor performing mules. Mr. Jim joked back: “I want my money back” on the two long-ears. Overall, though, everything boiled down to a few good laughs by old friends who probably have seen harder times in life than the climbing of  that hill that day.

I say this for those kind, sweet emails I have gotten lately by people who, shockingly, say they not only read the strange little stories I scribble here, but think they are an inspiration. These same people who wish to know how they, too,  can live their dreams, that they have given up theirs for various reasons…

You have broken my heart.

I don’t have any great secrets, just blind faith and dumb luck, mostly--equal parts hope and foolishness. I think this boils down to an illogical, but proven trust that I can get out of most fixes, as I have been through several crazier scenarios than finding myself behind the business end of a mule--not least of which is the failure of MY OWN dream--a full time life in performing arts.

But that doesn’t mean happiness doesn’t exist, and other beautiful hopes cannot be attained.  Can one find peace and contentment in pastures with horses, with great friends, and making new experiences, as well as new friends? I will take that on as my dream any darn day of the week…and so I have.

One simply needs to look up at THAT Hill, pack their courage and hope into a back pocket, and climb. It also helps to have friends pull you up, and joke about it later. And mostly, never should one feel like a failure, even if things don’t work out quite the way they wish. That, my friends, is the secret to my dreaming.

Of Mules and Men

 As with the middle of most stories, here is the intermission to our Alabama Wagon Train tale. And this tale is a tale within a tale (or is it a tail?), a story related to the equine story I’ve been telling you so far.

If you’ve been paying attention to our Big Southern Wagon journey you may have noticed,  amongst  pictures and descriptions of the many tall and long horses, are mules. Yes, mules.

I should probably place this disclaimer, here and now, before I fling myself headlong into this little interim: people, I am not a mule person., not at all. Subsequently, I can say this post has been brought to you, in a very indirect way, by my friend Kira--a fellow Mischief Maker, and camera person for our Alabama adventures--and a mule lover extraordinaire.

But let me back up for a moment, for those rural friends now snickering at me, and those urban friends whose eyes are glazing over in disbelief.  Folks, I am a horse person--or I would be, if I had the acreage. I’ll also confess right now,  my preference for horses isn’t based so much on scientific reassurances or performance proof. I just like the LOOK of them….long manes and lush tails and all sorts of color schemes...if loving a horse is wrong, I don't want to be right, I tell you! Plus, at least where pulling animals are concerned, as I said, I’m a Yankee (also known, with ambivalent affection in the American South, as a damnyankee), and up North, draft horses are the animals of choice if you've got to get something moved or plowed.

Donkeys and mules...suddenly I'm surrounded by them....

But draft horses in the South? Hooboy, no siree. Historically, mules were the beasts of burden below the Mason-Dixon line. For those of you out of the loop, a mule is a cross between a male donkey and a female horse. What results is a an animal with the sturdy donkey hooves, the donkey’s better heat tolerance (perfect for the hot and humid South), and a better resistance to colic. Overall, the mule is considered a much “lower maintenance animal” than the horse, who will need more hoof care, and tends to be a flightier sort of animal.

How do I know this? Why, Miss Kira, of course. To be fair, Kira herself started as a “horse-person,” been one for most of her life, in fact. How she got mixed up with mules, I don’t quite know, but by the time I had caught up with her again, over the holidays last year, I literally met up with her while she was riding the love of her life, a long-ear named Marshall.

Now, Marshall is quite a lovely fellow, honestly, but have you ever seen a mule? You can holler up and down at me about how reliable in temperment (some would call this stubborness) a mule is or how great their feet are, but they look like…umm, large donkeys (and I wouldn't call myself a die-hard donkey person).....not a lush mane or tale amongst the lot of them. Plus, I hear these crazy stories about how particular these beasts are; they’ll plumb kick you with their back feet if any part of their schedules are off in any way.  Are any of those stories true? I don’t know, but you can’t tell Kira that! Mules can do no wrong, according to most mule-o’-philes, and that's that.


So far, she’s convinced another horse friend Keely to convert over to muledom, and I fear that by the time she’s done with me, my far-fetched dreams of owning a Gypsy Cob, or even a Percheron, will be trumped by two draft mules or something…..and next thing I’ll know, I’ll be dang-gum mule skinner….or muleteer.

Which--by  the way--I’d love a definitive answer: Kira swears that mule drivers are actually called Mule Skinners. I say I’ve heard them called nothing other than Muleteers. Maybe there’s a difference in names based on regional specifics.

Whatever you do, don't let the long-eared lovers get to you; I have a feeling this damnyankee will be a Mule Skinner or Muleteer, one way or the other!

Vagabond Video: The View From Here

If you've followed my last post, you might remember the last picture being that of myself and my friend Kira, stowed on the back of Mr. Jim's mule rig and wagon. We were on a long caravan, the air of old-history and camaraderie ablaze all around us as we traversed the Taladega Forest in Alabama.

I thought I'd give you a small snippet of real time view of that magical little trip. Note the other wagons ahead of us in the hitch line. We loved Mr. Jim's mules, the hard working Hank and Kate!

Tales Of An Old-Fashionista...

 

 I guess you can call me the accidental old-fashionist (or, for the savvier set, the old-fashion-ista): a decade or so ago, the idea of seeking out people and places that adhere to a much simpler life, from an earlier time would have been an impossible thought. Now, as has been better put by a more eloquent writer: I have thought of six impossible things before breakfast.

At present, I find myself in the thick of it, amongst people who find a kinship amongst each other, and with older folkloric type ways.  This, folks, is unapologetic NON- progress--I think there is something important in the keeping with these olden ways, and something we lose in each precious skill forgotten in the past. But all is not lost, as there are those, whether casually or purposefully, keep the small simple ways alive, and this is the stuff that makes my tiny soul gleeful. 

There are those who still listen to the Songs of the Past. There are simple, maybe courageous, little stories to be told in them. There are people who still bother to keep up with the traditions, and while I can't say that this sort of life is a glove that fits all hands, there is something still worthwhile in it.

A swirl of these thoughts run through my mind on my most improbable journey yet: I am sitting here amongst the kinsmen of a Southern Wagon train about to trek for six days using nothing but literal horsepower. There is something powerful about this, but equally ironic and sad: this is the last year of a 31 year run for this grand event.

There was no time to dwell on anything but beauty and adrenaline. We had just gone through the first part of the Alabama Wagon Train ,  and I and my friend Kira had just hopped onto one of the wagons, the lowline cart hooked up to Kate and Hank, Mr. Jim's mules. Mr. Jim and his wife were already at the front seats, and Kira and I rounded the back, jacketed and gloved against the chilly morning.

We were wagon number 9 in a long line of thirty-odd wagons and then 60 riders who brought up the rear. I won't lie: there was a grandiose feeling to the whole affair, even the equines seemed to sense it, stepping high as if they were in a four star parade. The whole morning affair seemed pretty straight forward, despite the clammy and gray morning weather. Wagons got hitched, horses and mules lined up by an owner and a wife, daughter, or family member; most folks around here were old hands at this, they'd been coming to this wagon train for years.

Mr. Reynolds, his daughter, and their two mules. He was the number two wagon and had apparently been to this wagon train over a dozen times...

I marveled at the skill of it all--there were scouts on various mounts--their ultra neon yellow vests with the word "SCOUT" marking them unmistakably--whose goal was to ride back and forth along the train, looking for problem spots, helping those that needed. Each wagon ranked by those who had been at the train the longest (in my last post, you'll note that Mr. Hollis was the lead wagon), and various wagons carried decorative flags, their steeds decked out in various finery.   Wagon Master Mr. Thomas was something straight out of a Western, grey haired with a near-handlebar mustache, with a jovial attitude and wise crack in the face of all problems.

Scout's honor....

In fact, there seemed to be a general jokester camaraderie amongst most of the participants, perhaps a Southern response to "don't worry, be happy," toward any adversity.  Take that, New York worriers...most folks on the train weren't phased by much, and even the humorous answer to the question "are we there yet?" was officially "4 more miles," a joke so long running they had even made a pin with that very saying for people to wear at the event.

I have to say I was impressed overall with the openness and simple joy extolled by everyone I met. There was no "them" and "us" mentality amongst anyone who saw or talked to me (well, there was the young fellow who called me a "Yankee" when I told him I was from New York, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye so that you couldn't be mad at him!).  Indeed, I interviewed several people who, upon finding out the reason I was there sad with sincere grins and happy surprise: "Welcome to the Alabama Wagon Train!"

Most of them seemed to enjoy talking to , were very forthcoming about their love for the Wagon Train community, and genuinely loved equines. My addled brain tried to wrap around simple answers to the question "how many horses (or mules) do you have." The answer I mostly got: "oh, fifteen," or "a half dozen mules and half dozen horse."  Yep, these folks had not jumped into this life headlong, or casually.

The odyssey itself was as beautiful as it's participants. We traversed some of the most pristine forest land, crisscrossed by streams, hills, and other wild and woodsy places.  We joked about rest stops, and mostly admired the horses (and mules):

The white mules in the wagon directly behind us.

Percheron Crosses.....

Mr. Mike's horses (you saw him hitching one up in the last post)

The view from our wagon....

And that was just half of the story.....

Is it strange to say that I envied these people? There was no high tech magic, no slickery to anything that was happening. These people had dirt under their nails and boots. There was tons of training in each beast, hours of work and sweat and hope, prayers, and blessed luck. And I wanted to be amongst them, another olden day vagabond, another modern old-fashionista....

After The Rain...

 Life: it's surreal around here, maybe everywhere. After leaving the frozen North Tundra (or, a very cold Pennsylvania) and traveling for 28 hours on a bus, the first thing I did when I got to Florida--after hugging my little mother--was hop into the family car. As I opened the door, in the hollow where the door hinged, a teeny tiny bold-green tree frog had audaciously stowed away for the car ride. I think he may have been the unofficial welcoming committee. I let out a big laugh, gently grabbed him, and placed him on the leaf of a shrub. Then, when I got home, a chorus of bumble bees surrounded me in our driveway. There's a wild bee tree somewhere around here, I think-- or else there's something to the wive's tale of bees always recognizing a beekeeper (and I'd like to think there's a little bit of both at work here), but there's no lack of weird enchantment in these parts, lately.

The trick of living, by my compass, is to find this same sort of charm when it doesn't look too promising. After finding The Rainbow Connection in our initial foray at The Alabama Wagon Train Camp, where we frolicked in picture perfect conditions, things were about to change, in a big way.

While the sky glazed golden all day, it was a temporary hold to weather that threatened dangerous rain--tornadoes even. By good fate, the weather during the daylight hours stayed sweet but soon enough, the darkness brought with it a Dr. Jeckyl's laboratory of dramatic lightning, which inched closer and closer.

While my friend Kira and I had pitched the huge rambling tent she had brought, and there were tons of towels, my faith in getting a good night's rest flew with the high level winds that slowly heralded themselves with the coming of the lightning.  As the night wore on, and the Headmaster and scouts had finished convening about the next day's ride, we headed first to the tent, but I quickly suggested sleeping in Kira's car itself, as the sides of the tent made a big show of flapping around flamboyantly. What can I say? I'm a light sleeper and the swishing sounds (and feel) of nylon jigging in the wind was probably not going to lend itself to good dreaming.

The car was no better, but probably a happier option as the rain spit down--on and off--all night. We stuffed ourselves amongst pillows, packs, coolers, and cameras....

The next morning was a study in mud. The vast farmland that had hosted us turned cold with the storm, and even our wake-up call (4:30am!) and hitch-up was postponed due to the continuing rain, now confined to a slow downpour. I felt for the poor equines--those left out overnight in the weather--who were soaked and, like us, dealing with the nippy morning air.

A city girl's muddy shoes....

A rain jacket for a mule...

Kira was warrior woman, grabbing a thin plastic poncho, and hopping outside with no fuss, packing up that wayward tent that stood sentinel all night behind the car.  Finally, in the gray light of day, the extent of the weather showed itself: the dirt roads squished stickily under shoes, horses shook their soaked pelts, and soggy participants trudged about, figuring what needed to be done. The chuck wagon (yes, there was one!) hosted a long line of trench coated dogies wearing long black trenchcoats; hot coffee and hot chocolate was the drink of the day.

This blacksmith was doing brisk last minute work, shoeing horses:

While we pulled ourselves together, I managed to grab a camera and jaunted through the long labyrinth of trailers and horses and wagons and riders. I aimed to interview as many as I could, and was happy that folks still seemed to be in fine spirits. It's humbling to know that people closer to nature don't seem to sulk when it gets adverse. I wondered what a Manhattanite would do if rain soaked their good Armani or Calvin Klein made suits. And why weren't $300 dollar shoes waterproof, anyway?

Those little questions were put aside as I immersed myself into the morning setup, listening to the metallic sound of hitches, the brash laugh of the old-timers as the regaled in another fine and friendly outing, the sound of horses and mules, and of little cow-pokes running around. My interviews consisted in talking with folks who had been to  YEARS of these wagon trains--after all, this particular train had happened for THIRTY-ONE years.

I think the wizened ones regarded me as much of a strange bird as I thought of them, but there was still a respect between us:

Mr. Hollis is in the lead wagon. His molly mules are 13 and 14 years old.....

From some of the older participants....

 

To some of the youngest!

We found out we would be riding in the Wagon of the lovely Mr. Jim and his good-natured wife. He had been parked directly next to us the day before, his mules patiently waiting out the rain overnight. They were a golden colored pair, a molly mule named Kate and a john mule named Hank. And yes, I DID know that information, but I had to be gently told that it made no sense to try to help Mr. Jim harness up the equines; mules were creatures of strict habit, and even something as simple as being handled in such an intimate manner by someone totally unfamiliar to them would send them in a sulk. Mules: they were particular that way.

Mr. Jim harnessing Hank....

Full harness, hames, headstall...

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of us was Mr. Mike, harnessing his two horses

Finally, slowly but surely, muleteers and horseman squared away their steeds to wagons, and riders got together their mounts. It turned out to be about 34 wagons and 60 riders--a great turnout, indeed! There was a palpable excitement in the air as each participant lined themselves up to this special caravan...smiles were cracked, jokes were made, a sense of happy urgency ruled the day....
 

Finally, as Mr. Hollis rounded out the front, his red flag a proud bulls-eye marker for the train, and the other rounded formation, I hopped on board with Kira, Mr Jim, and and his wife. A joyous hullabaloo raged in my heart. Despite the wet and cold, my soul was aflame with a happy glow....

The Rainbow Connection...

Hoofprints of riding horses at the Alabama Wagon Train

It might be easy to think that everyday is magic around here, and that would be correct--but only in the fact that I choose to grab hold of those reigns tightly in a world that can prove as disappointing as anything else. If you are clever and lucky, then grab onto as many rainbows in between those ordinary and sad moments, I say. Make your own luck and jump on whatever bandwagons strike your fancy. With enough planning and praying, they can happen anytime.

I'd just left a world full of boxes, packing up my life in the city; moving from an apartment I called home for ten years was a heartbreaking, sentimental journey...and I'd all of that, plus a  non-move to a dream farm and the wedding tied up with it, that never happened.

But before bleakness blemished this, there were opportunities--the rainbow connection-- as there always are, if one would only polish the grimy parts away from the true,beautiful things.  Up ahead: a fellow Mischief Maker, and one I proudly called friend Kira, who sneakily lured me (because I am so NOT a pushover for horses and adventure, I tell you!) back down South with the idea of participating in a historic wagon train. What was not to love?

Wending and winding roads later, we found ourselves right outside the campsite of The Alabama Wagon train, stopped outside of a massive cotton field. The cotton had clearly been harvested, but the vastness of the fields and the beauty of the day had forced us to stop, bursting through our automobile, to record the day.

Photo: Kira Burdeshaw

Then, after we found the sign pointing us to the Wagon Train camp, we mosied over to the farm that hosted what looked like something between a gypsy horse sale, a surreal Wild West movie, and a beautiful mosaic of equines and the people who love them.

The sprawling green land-scape hosted countless numbers of horse-trailers of all sizes and shapes, with some still rolling in, carrying any number of equines. Outside of several parked trailers, horses and mules uniformly seemed to be tied to some part of the machinery. They were stunning, all of them, and of every size, color and ilk. Several of them were already being ridden by their owners, while others were being led to a stunning pond on the property, to either drink or bathe, it would seem.

Kate and Hank, Mr. Jim's mules that would eventually pull us in their wagon

 Watering horses at the pond....

One of a team of white mules...

Two handsome black horses. I think they were Percheron crosses...

 

Close up of the older of the two black horses...

Two paint ponies...

This fellow liked whinnying at anyone passing by....

A study in colors: blue truck, red vintage trailer, and the green field surrounding it..

 

Horses waiting at their trailers...

Meanwhile, families and friends seemed to be setting up their wagons (many of them mostly hand made), visiting, and talking with one another. Children gamboled out on the huge field, even dogs were allowed to this big party.  An air of kinsmanship abound on this day. Clearly, I was the strange haired-odd girl out, but no one seemed to pay it any mind. It helped that Kira seemed friendly and set up many opportunities to talk with participants in this historic gathering

I bravely went and spoke with various folks, especially the neon-yellow jacketed trail boss and other officers and scouts. Turned out I needn't have felt intimidated; people loved talking about the Wagon Train, with a deep affection for it's history and concern for it's outcome. We mingled with the people and awed at the horses. There were several old codgers, and folks with bitty babes who were already better on a horse than I would be for years!

In the midst of it all, the weather, though holding up, did eventually give in to a small shower. Within minutes, the drizzle downpour had fizzed out and while Kira and I were busy whirring our cameras, I zoomed out for a long shot, then quickly pulled my eye away from the lens, happily astonished.

THIS is what I got:

Yes indeed--if you look closely you will see the rainbow.... sometimes the Rainbow Connection happens more often then not.  And here, we were only on day one of the adventure!

Tomorrow: Into life a little (or BIG!) rain must fall!

The Tribe of Mischief Makers

 A duo of Mischief Makers.....Kira and Zan

If you've been around here for any amount of time, you will quickly understand that magic is through the work of many hands. Indeed, this whole traveling debacle lies squarely on the shoulder of many friends, old and new, who decided to take a chance on me. First through the Midwest, and now in the South, I have been graced by the generosity of fellow Vagabonds and Mischief-Makers.

You will know them when you meet them, and I have to chuckle at the idea of meeting more of The Mischief Maker Tribe than I can remember, in recent history. They will announce who they are easily: they are creative types, happy in their own skin, doing no more harm than living their lives authentically, lovers of unconventional ideas, perhaps eccentric and if you look closely, I'm sure you'll see a twinkle in their eye. Their sort of trouble is benevolent and their greatest sin, a love of adventure.

 This Southern chapter of the trip was made possible by my friend Kira,  a fellow dancer, animal lover, and Mischief Maker that I reconnected with during my holiday stay in the South.  With a background in horses (and mules!), a gregarious spirit, full knowledge of equine folk in the area, and organizational skills that put mine to shame, it was inevitable that I would find myself about to trek through the forest along with several horsemen and horsewomen, and muleteers and their wagons.

Her love of adventure was fueled by her own ingenuity and the idea that life is too short....and, indeed, it simply is. While one should not shirk responsibility, there was still enough time to live dreams and follow unusual paths...and so here we were, ready to travel down winding dirt roads in search of one folksy project...

The Alabama Wagon Train actually started over thirty years ago by the Sand Mountain Saddle Club in Alabama as an event within an event; the train made its way over several days toward the giant Montgomery Livestock Auction that happened every Spring.  Travel times varied from 6 to 10 days, but the recent economy had made it hard to host the event, and the threat reached further, as more and more people were “getting out of horses,” which were becoming a large expense to keep. We were there to film what I was hoping was not the last of the few wagon trains happening in the South, or America altogether.  But if we were time keeping by film, so be it…

Within days of my arrival, I was packing up clothes and vittles, and lugging not one but TWO different cameras to capture the wagon train in every possible angle. Not to be outdone, Kira had a tent, towels, pillows, food, gloves…everything but the kitchen sink neatly stashed into the car…and off we went!

Taladega Alabama was roughly five to six hours from where we were, and while this might garner fainting spells from the folks I’d left up North, neither hail, sleet, snow, or outrageous gas prices were going to stop one rural chick or her rural friend-at-heart.  On the road, we gabbed about our human experiences: crazy family stories, life stories, and war stories…the kind of subjects most people talk about on long road trips.

Soon enough, the flat lands of Florida swept out before us in beautiful and unexpected sloping hills, strangely verdant and full of all sorts of flora and fauna I’d never expected to see in Alabama. In fact, if I didn’t know better, the surprising bursts of  red leafed maples, yellow leafed aspens and the truly green  mountains  there reminded me more of upstate New York. Add in the old red or white wooden barns, and cows and horses tucked  into quaint field between all of this? Heck, it could  even pass as a bucolic New England landscape, not the cradle of the Confederacy. We definitely weren’t in Kansas anymore; Alabama’s landscape was knocking our socks off. 

Despite it calling for rain, we had stunning blue skies, and after hours of postcard perfect fields and small towns, short naps and laughing spells (the best came when Kira admitted that life in flatlanded Florida had left her ill-prepared to drive at fast speeds on Alabama’s hills--her ears were actually popping from the velocity and trajectory of the car!), we FINALLY came upon THIS sign:

And within a few minutes, and a few turns down a dirt road, we would find ourselves on the first farm site was hosting the big train camp site and...magic...


And that, Friends, is the next part of the Tale!

The Church of Grit and Soil

 Jumping into the Church of Grit and Soil means a whole lotta dirty shoes...

I am not scientifically oriented, but one of my favorite science classes was in astronomy, and it was for this purpose: it proved that distance was actually bound to time, and vice versa. The further something was, distance-wise, the longer it took to get there, and time was it‘s own measurement of distance. The same can be said about Life. All the time in the world we have is measured by how far we have traveled. And we are all travelers, figuratively and literally.

We are the litmus of the era we were born and raised in; you are the time-keeper of your childhood. My childhood is different from those of children today; there were manual typewriters and Cabbage Patch Kids and the unbelievable time when online computing DIDN’T exist. But I also live in a world past the era of non-electricity, china-headed dolls and handwritten everything. These are just some examples of our time-keeping. Our ages tell the tale of our time, and the distances we have come.

I have to laugh at this, sitting on a bus…going back to see my parents….seven weeks since I was last there. 

There are many reasons for the Beyond Vagabond Project, and the engine fueling this thing has always been a love of traveling. As I may have alluded to, there is a love of meeting new people, new experiences, and the character of each new landscape I fall into. 

There are other reasons too--a particular restlessness and feeling of belonging to no particular place. I don’t say this with any sad feeling or desire for pity; but just a statement of fact. When you come from parents of two different cultures, have been schooled by particularly old-fashioned standards, but look ultra modern, where do you fit in. Instead of saying I don’t fit in anywhere, perhaps I fit in everywhere, so why not go visit many parts of the country and let’s see what happens, I say!

Finally,  the whole kit-and-kaboodle is about getting dirty. Yes, jumping in. For this formerly shy girl and awkward teenager, life is not about standing at the sidelines, keeping the manicure flawless. At least not for me. I am about the Church of Grit and Soil because, in my opinion, that’s where the fun is, the meat of the matter, the testing of all fine and soulful things. Now, YOUR Church my not involve any dirt whatsoever, and that is equally as fine. I believe we know where each of our hearts will lie happy, so why not dive right in?

And so here I am, officially starting another year of traveling…which brings me back to that seat on the Greyhound, grinning like an idiot about Time Travel, while headed straight back into the South, a few short months after I’d been there for the holidays.

I had just left from a short detour from Pennsylvania (another story altogether!), and was scheduled for a 28 hour bus trip to Florida. Yes, while this sort of time frame would probably garner a serious freak-out response from most people, I didn’t flinch. It was all travel, it was all good.  Mind you, my twenty-year-old self would have been a caged tiger with each passing hour, but here and now, I was enjoying the scenery and getting much needed rest.

Each mile brought me closer to the new goal: I was going home on the advice of  my super-friend and fellow Vagabond, Kira. There was a historic wagon train in Alabama, the last of a thirty year run. Like so much else, it was in trouble because of the economy. The horsemen and muleteers had been driving their fine animals and hand built wagons through the large and lush Taladega forest, and we would be amongst them, filming the whole thing.

And THAT would involved a whole lot of THIS:

And that story will be coming up on Friday, Dear Friends!