Five years ago, I marched in my first Martin Luther King Day parade in Brunswick, Georgia. I found myself immersed in a joyful celebration of black culture that most white people don’t experience, and I have always treasured the photos and memories from that day.
A couple of years later, I photographed a similar parade in Clearwater, Florida. I wondered why it was so small, even though the community was bigger. I’ve since learned that nearby St. Petersburg boasts one of the oldest and biggest MLK events in the nation, so Clearwater is strictly a neighborhood event.
I considered driving to St. Pete this year, but bigger doesn’t necessarily mean better. Instead, I drove to Cherry Harris park, just a few miles from my home, and used my camera to capture the beautiful faces of the parade as well as the people who live along the route.
Thank you to everyone who attended the march and allowed me to photograph your smiling faces! Please send me an email if you’d like a higher resolution copy of one of these photos (free).
A couple of years back, I got tired of trying to keep up with over 120 linnear feet of mural space at Burning Man. It was time for a new solution, something I could paint at home and either ship or carry to Nevada.
The following painted panels are my solution. There are now 21 of them, each about 4 feet wide and 7 feet tall. In 2018, my theme was an encounter between DMV Hotties and Burgins. This year’s theme was “The Gift,” and it depicts gifts I have given, received, or witnessed.
I am honored to also display these panels at Alchemy 2019 and AfterBurn 2018 and 2019.
If you’ve followed my past travels along “the Mother Road” you might recall that Highway 66 was officially dismantled, with I-40 using much of its roadbed. However, there are many short bits of Historical Route 66 that run through towns along the route. I find thought-provoking gems on the old, weed-choked sections, like this ruin that I found west of Tucumcari, New Mexico. Artists and poets had left their mark on it.
People in Florida don’t usually know about Burning Man. When it comes up in conversation, I have a chance to position it as “a gigantic arts event,” “an experimental temporary city,” or “a campout in the desert with 75,000 people.”
However, driving across Nevada this year, I discovered a different kind of people: Those who think they know about it, and are 100% wrong.
At a rest area north of Las Vegas, I stopped to fill my water bottle. An older fellow in a truck rolled down his window and started hollering at me. “The water here is not drinkable! It’s full of mercury and lead! You should go across the street (there was a gas station over there) and buy bottled water!”
As the truck drove off, I noticed a young man cleaning the restrooms watching the encounter. I walked over to him and asked his opinion. “They test the water here,” he said, shrugging. “I drink it all the time. But be careful — it comes out really fast.”
He wandered over as I was filling the bottle, and somehow, it came up that I was heading to Burning Man. “It’s getting really big out there, isn’t it? I heard you guys have Burger King and McDonald’s out there now.”
“Well, no,” I answered. “Have you ever heard about decommodification?” He shook his head at the big word, and I launched into a description of what it was really like. “There’s nothing for sale out there, except for ice, and in one place, coffee. We practice gifting, so you might find someone giving away hamburgers, but nobody selling them. Some people give away jewelry.” I touched one of my earrings, which featured the Burning Man logo. “There are even bars that give away free alcohol.”
I could see from the look on his face that he was skeptical. He’d probably seen the Instagram photos of supermodels, and he was thinking, “I clean bathrooms for a living. I don’t belong at Burning Man.” Then a stranger pulls up in a van and tells him it’s a magical place in the desert with free food and booze, and he’s very welcome there.
I can see that overcoming the misconceptions will be an uphill battle.
A couple of days later, I stopped in Reno, where I had new tires installed and bought about a hundred dollars worth of provisions. On my way out of town, I made an additional stop at Wal-Mart for about a dozen forgotten items.
Evidently, this store had a problem with theft, because many items were in locked cases. The bicycle tire and tube I needed were among them, so a clerk got them out and then walked to the cashier with me. She placed them on a shelf behind the cashier and bid me good day.
Ahead of me were three young men with tattoos and four shopping carts. From their conversation, I discovered that they were buying all the supplies for a theme camp. It took the cashier over 45 minutes to ring up their $900 order, and all I could do was wait patiently.
Finally, they left and he turned to me, shaking his head. “Wow, those Burners…they’re weird.”
I smiled at him, saying gently, “Don’t make fun of us, now!”
I thought his jaw was going to hit the conveyor belt. “Y-you?” he stammered. “I didn’t know there were ol- um, um, older people out there. Is it true the tickets are $500?”
I nodded, adding that there were some discounted tickets available.
“You mean, like a senior discount?”
I was in a good mood, so I didn’t smack him or call for his manager. I was still laughing when I reached the playa, three hours later.
The number one question asked at Burning Man is “How many Burns have you been to?”
When it was time to leave Burning Man, the three-hour trip took took ten hours. Half of those were “pulsing” on the playa, where the cars are grouped and let out onto the road in batches. Rather than sitting alone with the engine idling, you can turn off the car, walk around, chat with folks, and pass out the last of your dusty Oreos.
During one pulse, I was sitting in the driver’s seat with the door open. A young man walked up carrying a stick with a butterfly on the end of it. Holding it out like a microphone, he asked me to give my best Chewbacca imitation! That was probably the best conversation-starter ever.
He then asked us the number one question, so I told him it was Stig’s first. “Mine, too!” he said. They compared notes about the life-changing experience.
Whenever this happened, I would sit back and enjoy the encounter. If it was a veteran, Stig got a super-warm welcome, like he was now an initiate of a very special club. If it was another first-timer, they shared feelings that only first-timers can understand.
Eventually, the fellow with the butterfly looked at me. Was it my first Burn, too?
I chuckled, because it was so far from the truth. “It’s my thirteenth,” I said. Like the kid in Wal-Mart, he was blown away with astonishment. And then he had a million questions. What was it like when I started? What did I think of it now? What had I learned? Had it changed me?
I couldn’t answer all his questions in such a short conversation, but I was honored by his respect. I found myself thinking that if I stop going, it will be OK — folks like him will keep the spirit alive.
After dropping Stig at the airport and catching up on 15 hours of sleep in Java Mike’s hotel room, I pointed Muffie the Van eastward on US 50, the “loneliest road in the USA.” There were few cars and fewer towns, so I topped up the tank whenever I saw a gas station. At one such stop, in the old-west mining town of Eureka, a fellow driving a propane truck walked up to me and asked, “So, how was Burning Man?”
We both started laughing at his question, because despite wearing “normal” clothes and having taken two baths and two showers, there was no way to hide my Burner status. The dust-covered camper and four bicycles were a dead giveaway.
The propane driver’s name was Bob, and he was about my age. He admitted to wishing he could go. “But my adventurous spirit left me about four years ago.”
“I think you should go,” I told him. “Your adventurous spirit is out on the playa, waiting for you.”
I told Bob that you are never too old to go, and there have to be a few responsible folks like us out there to keep the place safe. “Besides,” I pointed to his truck, “we burn a TON of propane!”
I felt like a one-woman mission, traveling the country to overcome Burning Man misconceptions. No, it’s not just young, sexy people with money. Everyone is welcome. Especially you.
The legendary Bill Brown once defined the modern frontier as any place more than two hours from the interstate. If you look at a map of the US, there’s still a lot of frontier to conquer.
Crossing Mississippi on US 49, I saw gas prices as low as $2.11. To my dismay, the tank was full when I saw that price, and by the time it was getting low, gas was over $2.35. So when I saw $2.24 at a nondescript gas station, I decided to make a U-turn.
I filled the tank and washed the windshield, but I still needed a restroom and a receipt, so I stepped into the mini-mart, where the woman behind the counter greeted me with, “If you ever decide to sell that van, you should let me know!” I admitted that I’d only had it for two days, so she was going to have to wait a while.
There was something unexpected about finding Janet at Fastmart #09 in Magee, Mississippi. She didn’t have a local accent, so I asked where she was from. The list included New York, the Carolinas, and Tennessee, but she dreamed of traveling in a rig like mine, a follower of the #vanlife movement.
At one point in our lively conversation, I mentioned Strangers Have the Best Candy, and her eyes widened. She reached across the counter, grabbed a big bunch of candy, and pressed it into my hand. “Here you go!” she said, laughing.
Janet had the look of “what am I doing here, of all places?” that I see when I look into the mirror in Dunedin, Florida. Her husband’s family ties had led them there in that flow of life that picks us up, swirls us around, and drops us off in unexpected frontiers, like Magee and Wichita Falls, Texas.
After I passed through Dallas on a Sunday morning, I started a long northwest trek on US 287, with fields and ranchlands on either side. I had passed through Wichita Falls when I realized it was time to stop for the day, but there was nothing ahead for hours. So I turned around, returning to the KOA north of town.
The place was tidy and well-appointed, but the woman running it apologized for its condition. It was under new ownership, and they were working the kinks out.
There was something about Tina that spoke of a broader experience, so I inquired about where she was from. It turned out she was from my old neighborhood, between Havelock and Beaufort, North Carolina!
We had another interesting trait in common: We both had retired too young. She and her husband retired and built their dream house, but sitting and drinking coffee as they gazed at the water wasn’t as fulfilling as they expected. The retired folks in their community were much older than they were, and it was hard to connect. They decided to try full-time RVing instead and set off across the country.
Then the opportunity to rebuild this business turned up, and all of a sudden, they were living on the frontier in Wichita Falls, Texas. Running a KOA campground, rebuilding and expanding it will provide lots of interesting challenges. But six months had barely given them a taste of the traveling life, and I wondered if Tina, like Janet and I, asks herself, “what am I doing here, of all places?”
There’s a story in Strangers Have the Best Candy about a lady who lived literally just up the road from Tina’s dream house in North Carolina. Belle had never driven outside her own county, but she ran a farm stand and strawberry farm on Highway 101. She taught me the important lesson that you don’t have to travel to meet interesting strangers. They will come to you, even on the frontier.
When I look into the mirror and ask, “What am I doing here, of all places?” I’ll remember that.
Thanks to some kind friends, my first night was not even in the van, but in a real bed in a house in Santa Rosa Beach. I was extremely grateful, since that first day of driving was super-stressful.
On day two, I continued west through Pensacola and Mobile, and then headed northwest on US 49 in Mississippi. It’s considered a “scenic highway,” which translates to wooded vistas and a wide, 4-lane road. At the end of the day, I pulled into a campground that said “WiFi” and looked like it had plenty of room, with some heavy equipment indicating construction in progress.
A confusing set of signs at the office directed me to “the back.” At first, I tried to walk around the building, then realized they were referring to the back of the property. Back there, I found a handful of very grubby RVs and cabins and the manager, Carrie.
She took my payment and told me to choose any spot. “Except, well, maybe not that part…” She gestured down the road, and her voice trailed off. “And not out front, because, you know…” her voice trailed off again. I didn’t know, but it didn’t seem like a good time to ask.
I thanked her, got in the van, and selected a site near the restrooms. I was excited about my first campout in the new van.
As soon as I plugged in the electrical cord, magic happened! The house air conditioner started humming and pouring cold air into the tiny (hot) space. The display on the microwave lit up. And I tested the stove burner — it works!
I sat down and read through all the manuals. I am now the proud owner of something called a “cartridge toilet,” which features a custom-molded toilet paper holder. I also have mood-lighting. It’s cool, but not as cool as my toilet paper holder.
It didn’t take long to go through all my new systems. I was ready to stretch my legs and explore this mysterious campground.
It had the feel of a ghost town, where you walk past a cabin and the curtains stir. In the middle of the road, something shiny caught my eye. It was foil from a Polaroid photograph, mixed up with the dirt and a handful of family snapshots. The people were awkwardly charming, posed in their 70’s outfits, washed out by the bright flash.
Why were someone’s precious memories scattered in the dirt?
A few minutes later, a golf cart overtook me, with Carrie and her black lab. I asked her about the photos, and all the pieces fell into place.
Three months earlier, on May 11, there was a record rainfall — almost 15 inches. In less than an hour, this place was completely under water from the nearby creek, and people had to be rescued by boat.
Now I understood. The strangely flat, sandy terrain. The mud stains on everything. The small handful of remaining RVs. The furniture piled up in the office window. “That was my home,” she said. “I had four and a half feet of water inside. I lost everything.” She shrugged and looked at her dog.
At the time of the flood, there had been 55 families living at the Perk Creek RV Park. They all lost everything. I thought of the handful of photos in the dirt and asked where everyone had gone. “I don’t know,” she said, “but they’re not coming back. They’re scared to.”
Thinking about the former residents, now scattered, left me somber, recognizing how easy it is to lose everything in a instant. But Mother Nature is resilient, and I noted bright green grass poking up through the sand. It gave me hope that a new community will eventually grow here, like the grass. Although the faces and memories will be different, joy and laughter will return to this place, as it does to all of us.
This past January, I said my final farewell to my father, and if you’ve read any of the old stuff on this blog (which goes back 15 years now — yikes!), you’ll know that was a big deal. I was my Dad’s mini-me, the kid who knew his whole history and could finish his sentences. He was my buddy, my mentor, and my companion in travel and exploration.
It’s taken me about six months to work through my grief, but one day, I emerged from my chrysalis and just like that, I bought a camper van. I can imagine Dad now, saying, “You bought a WHAT? What did you do THAT for?!?”
Well, Dad, I was looking into cabins where I could go and write and paint. And then I thought, why not get a cabin on wheels? Then I can have a creative retreat in any state park, or even a fancy RV resort with a swimming pool!
This is how I ended up with Muffintop, a Chevy conversion van, complete with bed, toilet, kitchenette, air-conditioner, and a 13-inch TV with a VCR. I can stand up inside, and she still fits into a regular parking space!
Muffie belonged to Denise and Bob for many years, until they decided camping wasn’t in the cards any more. They took very good care of her, with trips to Alaska, Oregon, and Connecticut. There were only a couple of minor things to fix, we all thought. But Muffie wanted to test my love, so those turned into a series of hard-to-diagnose issues that almost drove my mechanics to tears. By the time they got done, I didn’t even have time to get used to her. I picked her up in the morning, literally threw my stuff in the back, and hit the road, heading for the Florida panhandle and then Burning Man.
But first, I bought a Good Sam emergency road service policy.
That was about 1000 miles ago, so I think we’re good now. My teddy bears and I are currently sitting in an RV park in Louisiana, with all the comforts of home — well, actually, more comforts than home. I don’t have a microwave or a VCR at home!
As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve been talking to strangers along the way. I even got some candy from one of them! In my next post, I’ll share some of their stories with you. Thanks for following along, and remember, I Smile First!
My “I Am Worthy” sign from the Women’s March on Washington
When I got home from the Women’s March on Washington, I hung this sign over my bed as a reminder that the moment I’ve been waiting for since my 20’s has arrived: The Women’s Movement has finally been reawakened.
You know that saying, “What goes around comes around?” The ERA sticker was gifted to me by a stranger in front of our nation’s Capitol. It is the exact same design as the 40-year-old button I inherited from my mother, who raised me to believe in equal rights.
But it’s not the sticker or the phrase, “I Am Worthy” that made me hang it up. There is something even more special, and it’s for you as well as me.
The bus ride from Washington D.C. back to Melbourne, Florida took about 17 hours, and we were all completely exhausted. A few hours before we reached home, I stood up and called for my fellow passengers’ attention. I held up the sign, to which I’d tied a pen, and asked everyone to sign it with a message of hope for the days ahead.
It took a couple of hours for the sign to come back to me. When it did, I was blown away by the sentiment, a wide range of powerful, inspiring messages. This is the real reason the sign hangs over my bed.
These messages are not just for me, they are for all who believe in equality and are willing to stand up for what is right. I’ve done my best to transcribe them below, in hopes that these powerful words, written on a cardboard sign, will travel far and wide to bring hope and encouragement to all.
The messages of hope on my Women’s March sign.
“Remember the story of the snowflake; no two are alike, they are all beautiful, and while one by itself doesn’t seem like much, together, they are a force of nature. Surround yourself with snowflakes.” Debra
“When you feel discouraged, remember your aches and sore muscles from today. Remember the march you did with us. Remember you are a part of HISTORY now! We forge a path for our young women. THIS IS YOUR LEGACY.” Roseanne
“We were heard across the world, and we will continue to be heard, using our kind, loving, yet strong voices.” MB&Zzzz
“You were on the right side of history on this day! And you are not alone. We stand with you.” Jill
“At the core of you is all peace & freedom, ready and eager to be unleashed upon the world. Reach deep, see it in your sisters, give your gift. TY!” Elizabeth
“Don’t ever forget, we are all with you in solidarity. We will stand together, One Love.” Anne
“We are strong together. Girl power!” Isabelle
“Remember on your journey, whatever it may be, my hope for you is that you laugh until it hurts, love like there’s no tomorrow, live every day like there’s a million tomorrows, dance until you can’t…”
“Never forget what a group of women can do when we unite our voices!” Koreena
“Always remember why we march – for those who cannot! Stay strong, stay proud!” Tina
“Our children & grandchildren need us to fight.”
“Stay strong. As women united we stand.” Betty
“Be true to yourself.” Lauren
“We’ve just experienced a phenomenal reawakening of the power of women. You’re part of a sisterhood, and we can change the wrongs as a group together – and we are – you are NOT ALONE!” Cynthia
“May all your aspirations be blessed and fulfilled to benefit all beings and our planet.” Janice
“Hope will always keep you going.”
“There are a lot of us! Hang in there.”
“We are stronger together and I’ll keep in touch with you!” Christine
“Stronger together.” Cheri
“Hillary said, ‘Please never stop believing that fighting for what’s right is worth it.’ We just marched with thousands who agree –remember that!” S
“We were glad to be part of this history-making day, Women’s March 2017. We can happily say that HOPE is still alive. Seeing young families with their children, seeing the elderly in their wheelchairs, kept this hope alive.” Leigh
“Stay strong. Stay fierce! Fight the good fight! We are all in this together.” Elizabeth
“Stay strong and march on!” Carol
“Nasty women never stop fighting.”
“Keep the strength alive. #Women’s March.” Alicia
“Never let anyone try to convince you that you are not powerful.” Karen
“The world heard us yesterday! XO’s!” Susan
“Girl power! Stay in the fight! T
“I “We have seen an awakening, and we will be there to support each other. God bless.” Jenny
“Just never give up.” Gabe
“The future belongs to the young. They know it, and they will never let this happen to them again.” Frank
“You have a voice. Let it speak always.” Trish
“Remember the community of women (and men) that have come together this special weekend. We are not alone, we just have to find each other. ” Barbara
“When you feel frustrated with how people are treated badly, remember the March and the hope and empowerment you experienced with the awesome ladies from Brevard.” L
“I have your back. Remember this weekend and the memories will get you through. We stand together forever, Women of Brevard!”
“Persistence – with a strong voice – can accomplish anything and everything. Love & light.” Kristie
“We have been and will continue to be a positive change in history! That gives us all the hope in the world.” Lindsay
“You are not alone! Stronger Together! We can make a difference – and we are!” Crystal
“Remember to always follow your heart…do what you know is right, even if it is hard.” Pamela
“Women who stand together can create miracles.” Robin
I lived in Seattle in 1999, when activists and protesters turned the meeting of the World Trade Organization into “the Battle in Seattle.” I’d seen firsthand the broken windows and burnt-out bus shelters. I lay in bed listening to concussion grenades going off a short distance from my home. Estimates say that about 40,000 protesters were responsible for that chaos.
In the days before the Women’s March on Washington, I wondered if I was going into a situation like the Battle in Seattle. Even though the organizers were telling us to keep it positive, emails were circulating that warned us how to deal with things like being arrested or pepper-sprayed. While I traveled on a overnight bus to the capitol, the media reported that several hundred protesters at the inauguration were arrested for vandalism, setting fires, and damaging vehicles.
When we arrived at first daylight, we found no evidence of that violent anger. Our group was bubbly and excited, pressing our noses to the bus windows as we passed the Pentagon and the Lincoln Monument and crossed the Potomac River. Once we left the bus and joined the throngs, there were pink hats, clever and creative signs, and a hugely diverse group of people.
Everywhere, I saw strangers being kind to each other.
Some offered me free stickers and signs. In the potty lines, people shared their tissues and hand sanitizer. A woman on the street handed me a bottle of water, right when I needed it the most — I had gotten a headache from dehydration. I passed out Happy Spots and York Peppermint Patties.
There were over a half million people at the Women’s March on Washington, including thousands of children. They rode on their parents’ shoulders, carried their own signs, and even led chants with megaphones to amplify their high-pitched voices.
I overhead one father tell his son that on this day, he was allowed to say any bad word he wanted, as long as it was about the president. The little boy whispered something in his father’s ear, and the man’s eyebrows shot up. Then he nodded, and said “Yes, you can even say that.”
There was not a single arrest at the Women’s March, even though there were three times as many people there as at the inauguration. What a wonderful example we have set for our children and young people, showing them that peaceful resistance is possible.
“Just a Mom here for my kids.”
The next generation
“I marched before I walked.”
“Planned Parenthood Saves Lives”
“My disabled sister is AMERICAN”
“Let girls be awesome.”
“Girls rule. Boys drool.”
“Fighting for us”
“I vote in 2 years”
“Trump is not my president”
“A woman’s place is in the White House”
“We believe in women”
“Love is love is love is love. It cannot be killed or swept aside.”
“My Mom went to war so I could make my own choices”
“Today, I turn 18. Tomorrow, I vote for equality!”