My Baltimore Vacation

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Wednesday, September 5, 2001

The whole trip got off to a bad start.

As I loaded my van with my luggage for the drive to the airport in San Antonio, clouds gathered ominously on the horizon. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned it was raining.

Ever since I lived in Austin, I have not liked driving in big cities in the rain. A single, solitary drop of rain could hit I-35 and it would cause a chain reaction of accidents up and down the freeway. If there was a slight drizzle, hospital helicopters would begin warming up. In a full-on rainstorm, Hell would boil out of its boundaries and spill across the freeway, turning six lanes of traffic allegedly going 55 miles per hour into a vast, twenty-mile long parking lot.

So it started to rain. I decided to make an early start just in case San Antonio had as many morons as Austin. I climbed into my van and started the engines. Gauges flickered to life, and radio blared into my ears. I turned on the wipers. They stayed immobile as the rain fell.

Shit!

I tried turning the engine off and back on. I am afraid I have been too long around computers. Rebooting has never fixed an automotive problem. I went through George Carlin's "Seven Words You Can't Use on Television" and stormed back into the house to wait out the storm.

I began doing complicated time/space calculations in my head and by 8:15 A. M., had convinced myself that I would miss my 11 o'clock flight from Sat Antonio. There was only one way to salvage the trip. But, that depended on my father.

Dad drove a school bus. He would leave the house at 5 A. M. every school day. He had a little route about 10 A.M. and was back at the house around noon. I normally had a day off every other Monday. On those days, he was back at the house at 8:09 A.M. without fail. However, if I needed to contact him while I was at work, he didn't get home until 9:30 or so, having just enough time to have a snack and go to the bathroom before returning to his route. But today wasn't Monday. Today was Wednesday. I had no idea when he would get home. I guess he thought he would see me off, because he showed up about 9 A. M. After asking to borrow his pickup, I threw my luggage inside the cab, and my golf clubs-inside a hard, black plastic case I called the photon torpedo-into the bed. Now completely drenched, I jumped into the pickup and drove to the airport at San Antonio.

It rained on me most of the way. But by the time I got to the airport, the sky was an almost metallic gray, but dry. I parked the truck in the parking garage, jotted down the stall number, grabbed my luggage (a black duffel that I intended to carry on because of some jelly my father had me carry to my uncle, and the golf case) and headed off for the terminal.

The San Antonio airport goes out of its way to make the trip to the terminal comfortable. At least until the last 200 yards or so. I walked under a covered walkway towards the terminal. About halfway there it began to rain. I smiled, smugly and told Mother Nature that it was too late, I was covered. Then the walkway came to an end 200 yards from the terminal. I could see a skycap, in black slacks, cap and tie with a white shirt, helping people check in as the rain began to fall harder. I hesitated under the shelter of the walkway for a few minutes, hoping the rain would break. I realized that it wouldn't, so I began walking, through the rain and across an empty employee parking lot.

By the time I got to the skycap, my shirt was completely soaked, except for a circle protected by my hat. I handed him my soggy ticket. I checked the golf clubs and entered the terminal. I went through the security checkpoint. I anticipated some problems because of the hat. In '84, I was required to take off my Fedora and show the inside to the operator. This time, no worries. All I got was a question about why I was so wet. I tried to explain the phenomenon of weather to the young man who had asked the question, but his attention had been drawn to a large breasted woman in a soaking T-shirt behind me. Apparently she was trying to smuggle something on board the airplane in her bra, and required a manual search. (Not really. I made this bit up. I had planned to regale everyone with my harrowing experiences en route. I told my uncle the story, but, by the time I got home, the story was no longer funny.)

I had a moment of panic when I set my bag onto the conveyor that would carry it into the heart of the X-ray machine. A small plate had been screwed over the entrance to demonstrate how big your carryon could be. It barely fit, and with a sigh of relief, I made my way to my gate. I dug out my paperback copy of Jimmy Buffett's Tales of Margaritaville, my preferred airplane travel book. It is a book of short stories, which allows me to read a bit, look around, read a bit, look around, and so on. I started the "Take Another Road," the story of Tulley Mars, a Montana cowboy who takes his horse to the Caribbean, when I was struck by the number of cell phones in the hands of my fellow travelers.

To be fair, one hung on my belt as well. These people wandered the terminal with their cell phones in their hands, and their earplugs and tiny microphones adorning their clothes, speaking to empty air with a glazed look on their faces. I could hear dozens of conversations around me as these folks talked to the home office, wherever that was.

Most conversations were of the "I'm about to get on the plane, but I just wanted to micromanage the project one last time" variety. "Make sure Jim gets pages one through four, and six through eight. Don't give him page five, because that's where the report insults his intelligence and describes how we are going to blame him for the failure of the project. Make sure Gene gets page five, but not page one. He's an ass. Oh, and go home and make love to my spouse, parent my children, and drive my car while talking on the cell phone so no one will miss me. Oh, yeah! Flip off the people who look like they are saying I shouldn't talk and drive."

Once I got on the plane, after the flight attendants had reminded everyone to turn off their cell phones, one asshole decided to show the entire plane what kind of boss he was. He was loudly instructing someone to write up an employee for being late. He then launched into a litany on the poor employee's transgressions. Apparently he was always late, blaming things on family crises and so on. As flight attendants stood beside him, fists on hips, he made sure that the report would be on his desk for him to sign when he got back. When he finally ended the call, a small cheer went through the cabin.

After that, things went quickly. Take off, level off, and then descend into Houston. I deplaned thinking that no one would be heading for Baltimore besides me. Everybody on my flight walked from our gate, across the terminal to the next gate. Everybody except Loud Boss. He wandered by, on the phone, no doubt planning the firing of some other hapless employee.

I checked in, and briefly toyed with the idea of being a smart ass when they asked the standard security questions. But a sign that said "We take security seriously! Do not make any jokes!" stopped me. I contented myself with making fun of her appearance, instead. Soon I had boarded the plane, wedged my oversized carryon under the seat in front of me, and was once more airborne.

Sitting on the aisle of an airliner under normal conditions is only slightly more interesting than watching paint dry. When you have to straddle a bag never designed to be carried onto a plane, it is sheer torture. By the time the plane began its approach into Baltimore, my backside ached like a one big, two-cheeked muscle spasm.

I have only seen Chesapeake Bay twice. This time, as we approached the airport, I watched as the setting sun made the bay glitter like a bed of jewels. And suddenly, we were at the airport. I am always amazed how quickly the transition from a graceful airplane to an awkward, ungainly bus occurs. After heaving my bag to the terminal, I soon found myself, for the first time, in Baltimore. And Steve was waiting for me at the gate.

I may be big, some would call me fat (I prefer the term jolly), but Steve is big in a healthy way. He has lifted weights as long as I've known him and has arms as big as my thighs. As soon as we picked up my clubs, we loaded into his Jeep and headed for Donn and Ann's house, a couple of hours away. As soon as we got on the freeway, Steve began telling me about his impending move to Baltimore. I was afraid what the next question was going to be, but he calmed me by saying he wouldn't dream of asking me to help. I guess he was afraid he would have to give me CPR when my ticker gave out, not to mention all the grief he would get at family reunions about killing his cousin. We got to Donn and Ann's house as the sun was setting, and unloaded everything. I must say that there is no meal like a meal at a relative's house. Even if it consists of only a piece of grilled cheese sandwich, a meal served with love is delicious. We spent a while chatting. I gave them the jelly my father made and before long had to wander off to bed.

Thursday, September 6, 2001

Steve found us a wonderful course in the tiny town of Triangle, Virginia. Forest Green is on the edge of the Marine Corps base at Quantico on one side, and the freeway into D. C. on the other. We pulled into the course and he gave me my first view of the course. Bear in mind that I play golf in Texas, and my idea of a tree-lined course is one with a few dozen mesquites on each hole. Pines that soared heavenward, with huge boughs that, even from the parking lot, beckoned every ball in my bag to come to them and be safe and happy and hidden within surrounded this course.

Steve was wearing shorts and a ratty blue polo shirt. I wore shorts and a banana yellow Margaritaville t-shirt. Apparently the guy behind the counter thought that Steve's ratty old polo shirt was more suited to the rarified air of his golf course than my clean and crisp t-shirt. He looked down his nose at me, and then tugged his collar, saying, "You have to have one of these to play." Steve tried to beg, but I wound up having to purchase a golf shirt. Fortunately, they were on sale. The clerk steered me to the most expensive shirts like he was getting a commission. I surprised him though by getting one that was only $40 dollars. Ha!

I shrugged the shirt over my shoulder, tag flapping in the air conditioning and asked if I would now be permitted to give him some money to play on his golf course. He snapped up my money and let us get a golf cart. The punch line to the whole story is, of course, that I had a yellow, ratty polo shirt in my bag back at Donn's house. I decided that I would play golf in this newshirt, then remove it, stick it in my golf bag, and when I returned in a couple of years, I could pull it, mold encrusted and ripe, from the bag. Then I could sniff and tell the clerk tugging on his shirt collar, "You didn't say it had to be clean!"

While I was shopping for my shirt, I overheard the manager talking to the starter over the radio. Apparently, some maintenance worker was, horror of horrors, trying to do his job. He was doing something on the green, no doubt making sure flag had a collar, and slowing up play. The manager yelled into his radio that the starter should get the SOB should get to his office RIGHT AWAY!!! (I could even hear the exclamation marks.) He was going to fire the poor guy. I slunk from the shop, worried that I had started a trend: Anytime I came into the presence of a boss in possession of a telecommunications device, somebody would get canned. I felt sorry for the poor guy. He had probably just bought a new set of collared shirts to wear to work.

I have nothing against polo shirts or shirt collars. But the idea that you have to have a costume to be allowed to play golf astounds me. I realize that at some private clubs they don't allow shorts. But forcing me to wear a collar puts me in the ranks of a lawyer who owns a Harley Davidson motorcycle, and wears his Harley-imprinted dew rag, black t-shirt, leather vest, red bandana, belt, leather pants, trucker wallet, socks, boots, watch, gloves and underwear (that cost as much as his bike) so he can ride his crotch rocket in style. And his spouse has to wear Harley clothes too. ("A butt that does not wear Harley pants shall not rest on my seat." There's a motto for Harley Davidson. I have even heard about Harley dealers losing their license to sell bikes because they sold more clothes.) Not only that, but he has a Lincoln Navigator towing a specially designed motorcycle trailer so he can tow his bike down to ride it. No sense being uncomfortable the whole way, after all.

Sorry. I ranted.

Once out of the pro shop (and just why is it that a pro is never seen playing golf, but running a cash register?), the course itself improved my mood. It was gorgeous. Besides the siren-like trees that framed each hole, the grass was a nice, rich shade of green. In Texas, by the time September rolls around, all the chlorophyll has been leached from the leaves, and the grass in an almost golden brown. Except of course, on the green. Then the grass is a slightly brownish green.

The starter, now satisfied that play was progressing to his liking, wiped the blood of the groundskeeper off his hands and paired Steve and I with a nice older gentleman named Wayne, who had come prepared, complete with a collared shirt. He claimed to be a duffer, but Steve and I told him we were going to make him look like Tiger Woods. On the first hole tee box I looked towards the hole and fell in love. Not with a girl but with a hole.

Just in front of the tee box, the ground sloped down to the fairway at a precipitous angle. A steep slope on my left, topped with demonic pine trees, framed the fairway as it doglegged to the left back to an impossibly small green 400 yards away. A smaller, but less steep slope, descended to another fairway on the right. A slight breeze blew from left to right and I knew that I could learn to like playing golf here.

Then I teed off.

For the non-golfer, I am afraid I must digress into the absurdly complicated world of grips and swings, and other bewilderingly complex arcane lore that make golf so puzzling for the initiate. I am a slicer. That means that my ball tends to travel from left to right along its flight path. Generally, two fairways to the right, but that's beside the point. Experts at the game say that when one grips the club the little "Vees" between your thumb and forefinger should point to your right shoulder (a "strong" grip) to counteract this slicing tendancy. The stronger the grip, or the more the little "Vees" point to your right, the greater the chances of becoming a hooker. A hooker's ball goes the other way, and wanders the streets at night, or something like that.

So I teed up, dutifully pointed the little Vees to my right shoulder. I swung. The ball arched high into the air, and began to turn-into the wind, mind you-towards the trees on the left. (Golf Rule number one: When a slicer faces a hole with no obstacles on the right, but dozens on the left, he will hook.) Steve shanked to the right, and Wayne, curse him, landed smack dab in the middle of the fairway.

I trudged up the hill to find my ball. I approached the edge of the tree line and discovered that on the other side of the trees was a road leading into town. I am always amazed to discover that in spite of being surrounded by tall pine trees in Virginia, if I walk through them, I am in another town. It's like each town exists in its own pocket of green. Amazing.

I didn't spot my ball right away, and Wayne tried to be helpful. "It's by the pine tree!" he shouted after he chipped onto the green. "They're all pine trees!" I retorted, and then found my ball next to the pine tree. I won't bore you with the rest of game. I sucked. I shot a 115. The week before I came to Virginia, I played golf with my dad, and had finally broken 100. I boarded the plane with confidence that I could smoke my cousin, who had broken 100 a few weeks earlier. Fortunately he shot a 115 as well. Wayne beat us handily, and is currently endorsing Nike sports wear and Oldsmobile on TV.

Humbled and sweaty, Steve drove us home. A head-banger from way back, Steve decided that the only way to cure our wounded pride was some good old heavy metal. Worked for me.

That night, Donn and Ann took me to a restaurant called Sakura. A Japanese-style steak place, the chef cooked your meal right in front of you. I had heard of Benihana's in California, and this was very much like it. I drank Kirin Ichiban beer one after another, then gorged myself on quickly prepared beef. A fine dining establishment, when we left, they could have rolled me to the car.

Friday, September 7, 2001

On Friday, Steve had to move into his townhouse in Baltimore. He told me that there was one part of his move that was scientifically possible, but it would be very difficult. Having been excused from manual labor, Donn and I decided to take in some sights while Ann was at work.

In 1972, my parents took Rodney and me on a vacation to visit Donn and Ann in Virginia. We, by that I mean my parents, drove a meandering path intended to cross as many borders as possible. On that trip we visited Appomattox Courthouse, Monticello, Mount Vernon, and the Mall in D. C. We also stopped at every tourist trap, I mean, attraction along the way.

I don't remember much about Mount Vernon on that trip. I was only 10, and could have given a fig about history. The only things that stick out in my memory is the back porch that faces the Potomac, and George Washington's tomb.

In 1997, we had recreated that trip, and stopped at the same places and found them horribly changed. At Appomattox, the field I remembered so vividly as being full of tobacco was a pasture. The little shop that sold apple cider was gone, and the gift shop didn't sell mouth harps anymore, and I couldn't annoy my folks by plonking on it for hours on end.

At Monticello we had to park at the bottom of the hill. In 1972 we parked just below the summit, and could see Monticello as we got out of the car. A gift shop has taken the place of the parking lot. I expect that it makes the view much like one Jefferson himself might have had, except for the tour buses dropping people off, and the huge line to get inside where it was air-conditioned. The gift shop was nice, though the people running Monticello were trying to sell reproductions of Jefferson's inventions for outrageous prices. For example, Jefferson invented a revolving bookstand that could hold five books. The Monticello people charge $100 for each book that it holds. At any rate, Monticello was more crowded and less hospitable than I remembered.

I am happy to report that Mount Vernon hasn't changed very much. Donn parked his car by a post office and we walked up the street to the gate. The gift shop was closed for repairs, but a large sign assured me that a temporary structure had been built inside the gate, just beyond the ticket booths.

The gate itself, if memory serves, is called the Texas gate, built with donations from Texans, and is commemorated with a plague. We strolled up the walk to the house, past the area where there would be an 18th century fair over the weekend. There wasn't much to see, just a few empty tents waiting for vendors.

We strolled along the approaches to the house, admiring the flowers, and spotting the little privies that line the walls. It is very easy to forget that the 21st century is swirling around the borders of the estate, and lose yourself in a place forever locked in time.

George Washington inherited this estate in 1761, two years after he married Martha, when the house consisted only of four rooms on the first floor, three bedrooms on the second floor, and the central hallway so common in the South. Just before the Revolutionary War he began adding the North and South wings. The last room of the house, the Dining Room, was added after the war. I learned all of this at the beginning of the tour. Stop one is a small building on the left of the house. A volunteer docent recites his bit of the history of the house with a tired air. I could see in his eyes he was mentally counting off how many more times he would have to give the speech before he could go home. Once the speech was over, he showed us a little video, and ushered us on to the main house.

The tour was excellent. All of the docents patiently explained the history of the house and story of Washington's life. When we finished the tour, after viewing the room in which Washington died, Donn and I went outside onto the back lawn.

I love the back lawn at Mount Vernon. The panoramic vista that follows the Potomac is so strikingly beautiful, and so obviously rural, that it is hard to believe that Washington, D. C. is just over the horizon. I walked down to the edge of the lawn to take a photo of the house, and saw a large boat traveling towards the city. The river is so wide that the boat had to have been a couple of miles off. If I wouldn't have to deal with the traffic in the area, I would enjoy living along the Potomac.

Donn and I walked through the restored outbuildings of the plantation down to the Washington's Original tomb, and then over to their final resting place. The tomb is a chamber dug into the ground with a plaza in front of it, and brick fa?ade, and an iron gate to keep the rabble from disturbing George and Martha's rest. All in all it is quite a peaceful spot well suiting our first President.

Donn and I followed a couple from New Zealand from the tomb down to the dock on the Potomac. When I was here before, the only thing at the end of the trail was the dock for the tour boats. I didn't see a tour boat then, which was a relief to my parents because I would have pestered them to go for a ride. This time, as I neared the dock, the tour boat came in and disgorged a flock of French tourists.

We followed the throng around the bend to a fairly new addition to the grounds, a living history exhibit called "George Washington, Gentleman Farmer." They had small plots with historically correct plants tended by people in historically correct dress. Since it was September, pretty much everything had gone to seed, but it was an interesting display. I had no idea that Washington purchased his plants in those little plastic six packs like I get a Wal-Mart.

We finished off the tour with a hike past the newly reconstructed threshing barn. It's a two-story octagon. Cattle or horses are yoked to a central spindle on the upper level and walk in circles atop wheat that lay on the floor. The floor has little gaps in it to allow the wheat to fall through to the lower level where it was gathered up. The only part of the process not explained in the sign on the wall was how they kept the horses or cows from pooping or peeing while they were walking on the grain.

Beyond the threshing barn was a nature path that leads up to the house. We followed the French up the fairly rugged trail through some spectacular wilderness. At times, it is possible to imagine that this was what the original pioneers saw when they landed-a densely wooded land where light seldom strikes the ground. We rested at the entrance to the bowling lawn in front of the house, and people watched. After a quick spin through the gift shop we found ourselves leaving the 18th Century and entering the early 21st.

Not far from Mount Vernon is one of Frank Lloyd Wright's Usonian Home, the Pope-Leighey House. In the 30s Loren Pope was a $50 a week copy editor for the Washington Star newspaper. After reading Wright's autobiography, Pope wrote a lengthy letter praising Wright's genius, and concluded by writing, "There are certain things a man wants during life, and, of life. Material things and things of the spirit. The writer has one fervent wish that includes both. It is for a house created by you."

Wright responded: "Dear Loren Pope: of course I'm ready to give you a house..."

Pope's request fit in with Wright idea of designing homes for people of more moderate means. The house, built for a cost of $7000 in Falls Church, enclosed only 1200 square feet. In 1946, Mrs. Leighey purchased the house, and she lived there until 1964, when highway expansion threatened the home. She donated it to the National Trust for Historic Preservation, with the proviso that she live there the rest of her life. The house was moved to the grounds of the Woodlawn Plantation down the road from Mount Vernon.

We walked down the drive to the house and met our tour guide. As there was a group ahead of us, he invited us to walk around the outside. What a cool home! I snapped a few photos before going inside. Our tour guide told the story of Pope's letter in excruciating detail. But the tour itself was fabulous.

One of the things the guide mentioned was that when the house was built, people didn't have that many personal effects. Today, we have computers, stereos, PDAs, cell phones, juicers, bread machines, waffle irons, gasoline-powered turtlenecks, and fur covered sinks. Donn nodded thoughtfully and said when he was growing up in the thirties his family didn't have all that stuff. This lack of stuff made living in a Wright house easier, because he didn't design much storage. In fact, Wright built in all the furniture so that when the Popes moved into the house, the only things they brought were their clothes.

The house was truly amazing. I am not sure I could have lived there, but I sure would have tried.

By this time it was shortly after noon, and we decided to find the Old Dominion Brew pub. I had read a review in the local paper of their stout, aged in bourbon barrels. We drove across town, past Dulles, where my family had flown in 1975 or so. Then, Dulles was in the country. Today, strip centers, malls, and apartment complexes surround it. Now the Redskins have a practice complex in the area, and AOL is headquartered nearby. Had I known where I would have gladly thrown a rock through Steve Case's window.

We found the brewpub after a couple of wrong turns, and went inside for lunch. I had a great chicken sandwich, and three glasses of the bourbon flavored stout. When the waitress asked if we wanted dessert I toyed with the idea of asking for another beer, but a sudden belch prevented me from speaking clearly.

Donn drove home and I tried to stay awake. I was so lost that by the time we got back to his house, I was convinced were in Georgia. I don't know how they manage to get around.

Saturday, September 8, 2001

On Saturday afternoon I found myself in Fredericksburg, Virginia, shaking hands with an incredibly beautiful woman named Melissa (or Mel for short) who was also equally pleasant. I had met her fianc?, John, a couple of hours before and he was infuriatingly good looking. To make matters worse, he was a real nice guy. They were, without a doubt, the perfect couple-incredibly bright, beautiful and blessed. I hated them instantly. Not in a malevolent way, mind you, but in a rather petty and envious way. (C'mon! John & Mel?)

John, Steve and I were going out to Locust Grove to play Meadows Farm golf course, home of the only par six on the East Coast. All I can say about the course is "Oh! My! God! Gorgeous!"

I won't bore you with a play by play, but three holes stand out in my memory, so I have to describe them to you. Hole #4 was the Waterfall Hole. A 149-yard par three, the green is atop a 60-foot high rock wall with a 3000 gallon per minute waterfall flowing on it. To the left of the green is a sloping spit of grass that descends to a large pond that covers the distance from the wall to the tee box. To the right, there is nothing but beautiful, rural Virginia countryside. Naturally I hooked it. (See Golf Rule #1, above.)

I wound up at the base of the rock wall to the right of the elevated green. But I was ecstatic to have crossed the water. I chipped up and over the green to land inches from a koi pond. I managed to get the next shot onto the green and two-putted to chalk up a 5.

A couple of holes later, we faced the Baseball Hole. It is a 160-yard par three shaped like a baseball diamond. The tee box is "home plate," and the green is right behind second base. The entire base path is sand trap. I bogeyed the hole, but I had fun doing it!

The twelfth hole is the Longest Hole in the United States according to the Guinness Book of World Records. Just under 1/2 mile of golf, the hole starts with a 100 yard 90 degree dogleg to the right, to the first of two lakes on this hole, and a huge bunker on the left. The second lake is just in front of the green. There is a large, sloping green, with a very large cloverleaf-shaped bunker on the left front and large bunker on the right. A thick, towering pine forest lines the entire right side of this unending fairway. "You can expect a score between 5 and 12 on this one," says the official guide. I say they are optimists.

I really wanted to do well on this hole. I lined up my shot, and swung. The ball dribbled fifteen yards in front of me. I grabbed another club and swung. Fifteen yards. Steve sliced his shot into the woods. He crashed into the woods to look for his ball and Shandra Levy, the missing Capital Hill intern whose disappearance was front page news all across the country at the time. I would hear him shout, "Shandra! Shandra Levy! Have you seen my ball?"

Finally on my seventh stroke, I decided I needed to calm down, cool off and swing easy. I landed near the first lake. The next shot landed just this side of the second lake. I chipped up in the general direction of the green and overshot it. (I really don't have a short game.) Finally, after I had stopped counting my strokes, my ball fell into the cup. John, the insufferably handsome and nice guy was also a great golfer. He shot par. Not just here, but on the entire course! After tallying up the scores, I beat him to death with my driver.

Sunday September 9 2001

When I was a kid, I could always tell it was Sunday by how bright the light was. It wasn't as bright as the weekday light that disturbed my studies during school, but it was, nonetheless, tantalizing. But, my brother and I would be scrubbed, gift wrapped and toted off to church by my parents, and they didn't even notice what the sky looked like. After I graduated from high school, I went to work, and wound up working every Sunday. The quality of the light stayed the same.

Only when I went to Japan in 1984 did I notice that the light on Sunday was the same as the light on Saturday or Monday: Japan doesn't observe the whole "Sunday day of rest" thing. The shops are open the same hours as any other day of the week. And I had no other place to be.

After I got home, I found jobs where I didn't have to work on Sundays and the quality of the light changed from the brightness of the potential of the day, to the harsh shine of sleep interrupted.

Anyway, on Sunday, Donn, Ann and I headed off for Gettysburg, Pennsylvania so I could see the battlefield. We drove for about two hours. As we drove through Maryland, Donn pointed down a road and told me that Camp Dave, the Presidential retreat, was down "that road."

Now it is time for a quick geography/history lesson. As the country was being created, the Northern states threw the Southern states a bone: they could have the national capitol. The District of Columbia was carved from the Northern part of Virginia. During the Civil War, Washington was the southernmost point of the North. Richmond, Virginia was the original capitol of the Confederate States. The drive from Donn's house to Gettysburg, the farthest penetration of the Confederate Army into the North, is about 100 miles, and across the panhandle of Maryland. Donn drove us all to Gettysburg, PA to visit the battlefield. It was one of my wishes on the list of things to do in the DC area. I hadn't really comprehended just how far Gettysburg was from DC, but I knew it was comparatively close. I mean, compared to Austin and Dallas.

Today the National Battlefield Park surrounds Gettysburg. The city ekes out an existence by catering to tourists, and to the students at the local college. Well, maybe "ekes" isn't the right word. To borrow a phrase from Scott Adams, the natives of Gettysburg, PA have found a way to stick a vacuum cleaner into a tourist's pocket and suck until they get lint. But they do it in a good way.

The Visitor Center is near the National Cemetery and we wandered through it after buyingtickets on the next tour, in about an hour and a half. After looking at thousands of rifles and pistols hanging behind glass panels, I walked across the street into the cemetery. I found the site of the Gettysburg address, and snapped a few dozen photos. Then I met Donn and Ann by the bus for our tour.

I realized that my digital camera was running low on batteries. No problem, I thought. I'll run inside and get some batteries. So I go back into the museum and asked a bored looking teenager behind the sales counter for some batteries. He gave me a blank look, as if he had never heard the word before. "Batteries? You have to buy them in town."

I thanked him for his commitment to customer service, waved goodbye with all my fingers, and ran out to Donn and Ann. "Okay," I wheezed. "I need batteries, and they don't sell them here. I need to run to the car and get some batteries out of the camera bag." After getting the keys, I raced across the shaded parking lot and grabbed the batteries, and raced back to join Donn and Ann as they climbed onto the tour bus.

Our tour guide was quite slender, and explained that the tour guides are volunteers who have to pass an exhaustive battery of tests to be accepted. They are all experts on the battle, he said. Some are experts on weapons; some are experts on military maneuvers. While he never said what he was an expert in, it was clear he was an expert.

The tour bus pulled out of the visitor center parking lot and our guide told us that the goal of the park service was to keep the battlefield just like it was in 1863. Well, that would explain the lack of batteries, I thought.

The tour was fantastic. He brought the battle to life with an immediacy that was startling. As we passed a landmark in town, he would tell stories about how the battle affected the citizens of Gettysburg. Then he told stories about the individual soldiers, and how the battle was affected by the invention of the modern bullet and rifled gun barrel. If anything, he was long winded, but it was fascinating.

I grew up in Texas. There were few Civil War battles around Fredericksburg. The closest we got was the Battle of the Nueces, where a group of Union sympathizers were massacred by Confederate troops. I can't quite imagine what it is like to walk out your backdoor and find Civil War bullets, and Donn said Alex used to do.

The highlight of the tour was a blond teenager in the back of the bus. She and her younger brother were the only people younger than me on the bus it seemed like. And you could tell that they were there because Mom and Dad brought them. Actually, I remember near the end of the tour, Mom chastised the boy. She complained that he wasn't paying enough attention. It was his idea to come here.

My only gripe is the fascination the Park service has with making things look like 1863. At the top of Little Round Top, our guide waved his hand across the panorama before us, and told us with pride that they were going to make things just like 1863. Then he said that the feild before was broken into hundreds of little fields surrounded by split rail fences. The smart alec in me waned to know why they hadn't partitioned the fields and put them under cultivation, "just like it was in 1863." Yep, it's just like 1863, except for lack of plowed fields, the modern paved roads, the monuments, and the tour buses. But I rant.

The tour over, we were dropped off at the visitor center. I went in a bought a book by Shelby Foote The Stars in their Courses, an excerpt of his mammoth narrative of the Civil War. Ann bought a DVD of Gettysburg. We went downtown for Ann to do some shopping, and when she returned empty handed, called it a day.

When we got back to the house, Ann put the DVD in the player and we started to watch the movie. About thirty minutes into it, I realized I was watching it alone. Donn and Ann had dozed off. The next time they woke up, I excused myself and went to bed.

Monday, September 10, 2001

Donn was going to drive me to Baltimore, where I would spend the night with Steve so I could get to the airport without having to wake up at 5 am. But before we left, Donn asked if there was anything I wanted to see. "The Enterprise," I answered without hesitation. So we ventured off into downtown DC.

My favorite museum on the Mall is the Air and Space Museum. It's just so cool. When I was twelve, we had visited and I had seen the original shooting model of the Enterprise, from Star Trek, hanging from a hook in the ceiling. I was amazed! I think I took 50 pictures of it. (If you know where I put those photos, I would pay you a dollar.)

A couple of years ago, I learned that the model had been removed from display. Then, only a short while before I decided to visit Steve, I learned it was back!

Donn found a parking place near the middle of the mall and we walked the rest of the way.Donn paused at the sculpture garden in front of the museum of art. He recognized a couple of pieces and wanted to admire them. Had I thought about it before, I might have scheduled a whole day to explore the art museum.

It started to drizzle, so we hurried on to the NASM, as it is known. A lot of the museum is being renovated, and the gallery where the Enterprise once hung was closed. I was disappointed but spent an hour exploring the museum. Finally, I remembered that the Enterprise was in the gift shop.

I found it downstairs, at eye-level, enclosed in glass, and newly painted. Someone had put on a level of detail I didn't remember from my last visit. The original model was only photographed from the right side. The wiring for the lights was run through holes on the left side of the model. When I saw the ship decades ago, a large gray patch, covering the hole, filled the left side. Now, the left side was meticulously detailed. I had Donn take a picture of me beside the 11-foot model.

Then we had to get back to the car before we got a parking ticket. As we walked back to the car, a helicopter buzzed the Mall. It was a black helicopter, the stuff of right-wing paranoia. I mentioned to Donn that I thought the Mall was restricted airspace. He said that it was, shrugged, and opened the car door. We drove south of the Potomac for lunch at a McDonalds, then back into town.

We passed the Pentagon, and Donn pointed out the construction. He pointed out a building where his son-in-law used to work.

A couple of hours later, we were at Fort McHenry in Baltimore harbor.

One of the goals of the trip was to see things I hadn't seen before. That's kind of hard, because I have been to DC so many times. When I figured out I would be spending the night with Steve in Baltimore, I knew I had to see Fort McHenry.

We got to Fort McHenry about 4 pm. Gray, fleecy clouds had been swirling all day, like storm clouds gathering. We went into the Visitor's Center to pay our admission, and learned that the free movie would begin in ten minutes. I spent the time in the gift shop trying to buy something with a Fort McHenry quality to it. I failed miserably. I couldn't even find a refrigerator magnet that appealed to me.

The movie was very interesting. In Texas, World History begins with the Pilgrims. After 1776, World History takes a break until the Alamo. Oh sure, we covered the War of 1812. Here's what I remember without having to look anything up: In the early years of the nineteenth century, France and England were at war. Again. In true capitalistic fashion, the United States decided to remain neutral and trade with both sides. The British, in particular, took exception to this, and began capturing American ships and impressing American sailors into the British Navy. We declared war. We won, but only after the British burned the White House. And, oh yeah, Francis Scott Key wrote "The Star Spangled Banner" while watching the battle of Fort McHenry.

Here's what I learned at the fort:

The British landed near Baltimore and marched to Washington where they sacked the city. En route, their officers spent the evening at a prominent figure's home in Baltimore. After the British left, he reported what he knew to the American Army. On their way back to their ships, the British learned of their host's actions, and arrested him. A group of citizens convinced local attorney F. S. Key to negotiate for the citizen's release. When Key got to the British ship where his client was being held, the British told him they would not release either of them, because they were about to attack Baltimore. Key watched the cannonade all through the night, and in the morning spotted the flag. He jotted down a quick poem, set it to the tune of an English drinking song, which is why they serve beer at sporting events. Since they couldn't conquer Baltimore, the British released their prisoners and surrendered. Something like that, anyway.

The film was shown in a theater that had a curtain against one wall. As the film ended, the curtain opened and the opening notes of the National Anthem filled the room. A huge picture window looked out onto the fort with its replica flag fluttering overhead. With the lyrics echoing in the back of my mind, Donn and I went over to the fort. It has been meticulously restored, with the notable exception of replica cannons. There are only a few, with emplacements for dozens more.

After exploring the exhibits, we walked the embankments and looked out into ChesapeakeBay. (Over the weekend, the city of Baltimore had had a fireworks show commemorating the event. Steve and I were coming back from Fredericksburg, Virginia when the show began. It would have been magnificent. (Co-incidentally, I read a newspaper article in the local paper about how President Bush's fireworks tribute to Mexican President Vincente Fox's visit to DC a few days earlier had startled and even alarmed the residents of DC, who had not been informed of the show, and thought the capital was under attack.) But, there wasn't enough time to see everything.)

We headed back to downtown Baltimore, where Steve worked at a gym as a personal trainer. Steve showed us around his gym, and told us to explore the Inner Harbor while he conducted a class. Donn and I wound up at the ESPN Zone having a beer while we waited for Steve. I was a bit disappointed when most of the TV screens in the bar were blank. I though ESPN broadcasted more sports.

After an all too quick beer, Donn and I wandered back towards the building Steve worked in. We watched a security guard close up the Baltimore World Trade Center, fended off a bum, and met Steve about a block into the Harbor. Steve told us he had another class, but just enough time to take me to his place, show it to his dad, and get back.

Steve lived in Fels Point, a collection of historic homes that is becoming gentrified. He had moved into the second and third floor of a four-story building. He showed Donn around, set up his computer so I could check my email, and the two of them took off. In the five days I had been gone, I had received 65 messages! Only two weren't Spam!

When Steve got home, he walked me down to a neighborhood bar a block from his place. Despite the miniscule size of the booth we were sitting in, the food was good and the beer was better. Our waitress was named Stacey, and had more tattoos than Steve. They compared tats and we learned that Stacey had a brother named Steven. After several beers, and some nice food, we returned to Steve's townhouse and went to bed.

Tuesday September 11, 2001

At about 10 am, the flight attendants began picking up our drinks only a few minutes after giving them to us. The flight had been routine until the co-pilot came on and announced that because of something bad happening "back east," our flight would be diverted to Birmingham, Alabama.

Birmingham?

I pulled out a set of jet flight maps and started looking at where Birmingham was in relationship to home. (In retrospect, that may not have been the smartest move I could have made. The gentleman sitting next to me probably reported a fat man with a beard checking maps in-flight.)

The passengers spent the next half hour or so sitting straight up, wondering what the hell had happened back east. Until we got to the gate, we were pretty much in the dark. One of the flight attendants boarded the plane and told us what happened. She told us to deplane, that we would not be leaving today.

On the way to baggage claim, a security guard was waving people off the concourse and into the terminal like a traffic cop. A guy walking beside me veered into a bar that had a TV on. I started to follow, but she waved me on, "Let's go! Everyone into the terminal!" As I passed the bar, I could see several dozen people crowded around a TV mounted on the wall, transfixed by the flickering images.

It was like a campfire. This one glowing box, transfixed everyone in the bar, shining light onto their faces, and the shadows on their backs blending into one wide, dark mass.

I turned on my cell phone, and was surprised to find a voice mail from the office wondering where I was and if I was okay. I tried to call and see what the heck was going on, but all I could get was a message that said the Sprint network is busy and that I should try again later.

I got both my bags off the carousel, sat down and tried to figure out what I needed to do. I managed to call Donn and got his answering machine and told him where I was. (Until Friday, I was never able to get through to Donn again.) I called home and talked to Dad. I tried calling Steve's cell phone, but the line was busy. I called Rodney and Jeanne. I called the office. I called Mom at work. I called everyone I could think of. Everyone said, "Just hang tight." So I went off to see the folks at Southwest Airlines.

The gal behind the Southwest counter looked frazzled. All she could say is, "I don't know," when I asked what the odds were I would be leaving the next day. She gave me a voucher for a Best Western Suites, and told me that the pick-up point was across from the baggage claim.

Great!

Baggage claim was at the far end of the terminal from the Southwest counter. I had navigated through a throng of addled and confused passengers, and a very visible, and very nervous, police presence to get to here. That included toting the photon torpedo case full of golf clubs up the escalator.

So, back down the escalator to wait for the van to the motel. Meanwhile I passed the rental car folks. They looked like a grocery store at 5 pm on the day before Thanksgiving, and, as a sure sign of the coming Apocalypse, everyone had a cell phone in their ear.

I found the van that took me to the Best Western hotel. A harried, blonde haired guy with authentic Southern accent drove the 15 of us dazed travelers to the hotel. Shortly after we got onto the Interstate, my cell phone rang. Gary's voice said, "Oh, man! I am glad your home!"

"No, I'm in Birmingham."

"That sucks."

"Amen, cousin."

After we chatted a moment, we pulled into the hotel. Hotel? This place looked like an apartment complex. I was seventh or so in line, and they checked me in. The clerk pulled out a map, and said, "Walk out the front door, go left, walk to the top of the hill and turn right. You're on the third floor. Next!"

I gestured dramatically to the photon torpedo tube, and my waistline, hoping to convince the guy that the cost of my imminent coronary was worth, at least, a second floor room. No dice. He was already telling a couple of ladies from Houston (we had chatted on the van) they were on the second floor.

"Bar?" I whispered to a frantically rushing hotel employee who was headed for the front desk. Our driver had already waved goodbye and said, "I'm going back to the airport!"

The young lady stopped in midstride. Apparently concerned with my torpedo tup to waistline display earlier, she asked, "Sir?"

"Where's the bar?"

She brightened quickly, stood straight up and pointed. "Over there, sir!"

It was a four foot bar you would find in someone's basement, complete with two beer taps and three bottles of booze on a small cabinet with a sink behind it.

"It opens at 6 pm, sir!" She said, and then turned and went behind the front desk to help check everyone in. It was 11 am. At this point, liquor was not an option.

By the time I lugged everything to the top of the hill and up three flights of stairs, everything I was wearing was damp with sweat, and I sounded like Darth Vader. ("*huff* Luke. *huff* I am your father. *huff*") I opened the door to my room and found an apartment only slightly smaller than my last apartment in Austin. I left the photon torpedo tube by the door, flopped onto the couch and watched TV, huffing and sweating.

I tried calling Steve again, but his phone was busy. I called Ann Turner and talked to her. I called Mary Jo and talked to her. I called everyone whose number was on my cell phone.

Here I am, fifteen hundred freakin' miles from home. I am calling people I haven't talked to in a while, just to hear a familiar voice. Just to be reassured that I am not alone. Just to know, that if the end of the world were to come, everyone would know where I was.

I kept trying Steve's cell phone, and got no answer. Then I remembered that I had programmed his new home number. So I called. Steve told me that they had evacuated downtown Baltimore near their World Trade Center. Then Steve paused and said, "They're on the fucking ground, man. The towers. They're on the fucking ground."

You want a title for this piece? That sounds like a good one to me.

I paced the hotel/apartment, calling people, using my minutes. (Travel lesson #1: Get a cell phone with free nationwide long distance. Take it with you everywhere you go, and don't forget to take a desktop charger and a car charger.) Then I got thirsty.

I mentioned that I had to walk uphill to my room. I should also mention that the hotel was about ? of the way up a big hill. Just at the bottom was little convenience store. God blessed me that day, my friends. He did not strand me in a dry county. I walked to the bottom of the hill, and perused the beer selection.

There were a couple of considerations. It was about noon. I had about $40 bucks left. And the hotel's restaurant opened about the same time as the bar. All I had had to eat since I woke up at Steve's apartment was a couple of bags of Southwest Airlines peanuts. I bought a 12-pack of Coors and bag of chips. Then I walked back uphill to the hotel. Across the street was a moderately sized strip mall, with a Wal-Mart.

Now a quote from Bill Bryson:

"? With a pack you walk at a tilt, hunched and pressed forward, eyes to the ground. You trudge; it is all you can do. Without, you are liberated. You walk erect. ? You amble. Or at least you do for four blocks. Then you come to a mad junction at Burger King and discover that the new six-lane road to Kmart is long, straight, very busy, and entirely without facilities for pedestrians-no sidewalks, no pedestrian crossings, no central refuges, no buttons to push for a walk signal at lively intersections."

Sound familiar? Urban sprawl at work. In another book, The Lost Continent, he describes trying to walk across the driveways of several fast food restaurants without the benefit of sidewalks. Think about your local Wal-Mart. How pedestrian friendly is it? See what I mean? I walked uphill, in the roadside grass almost waist high, until I got back to the office of the hotel. If you are familiar with apartment complexes, it was kind of like the complex office.

Back in the room, after another hour or so of Darth Vader impressions (well, it was a STEEP hill!), I sat down and started drinking my beer, eating chips and watching the talking heads theorize about Osama Bin Laden. Finally I found HBO.

I watched two movies. I still can't remember which movies I watched. My eyes glazed over as I thought about where I was, what I needed to do. But at least I didn't have to watch the towers fall again.

Finally, I took a shower. Hey! I'd been up and down that freakin' hill six times. I could not stop sweating. I put on my emergency, last ditch, set of clothes. (Travel tip#2: Always take one extra set of clothes. Especially underwear!)

I watched the news a bit more, and decided I was hungry. I had been told that the restaurant opened at 6 pm. It was a bit after 8, so I headed downhill to the restaurant.

Six people sat in chairs infront of the bar watching the news. I went into the restaurant, and found that it was a dining room with a buffet table at one end. I checked out everything and realized I was too late. I went back to my room, swearing.

I decided to go to the strip mall to get some fast food. What strip mall genius only puts one fast food place in a strip mall? All I could find was a Subway. So I bought a big sandwich (from a clerk who told me that in Oklahoma gas was $10 a gallon. True, as it turned out, but I poo=pooed him in my mind.), and headed back to my room. I watched the last bit of "The Xmen" as I ate my sandwich and went to bed.

For those of you keeping score, yes, I did drink all the beer.

Wednesday September 12, 2001

I woke up and went down to the lobby to see if there was breakfast. Just like last night, I was too late for breakfast. I picked up a cup of coffee and went back to the room. Honestly! Who puts up a motel and no restaurant?

With the TV playing in the background, showing an endless loop of the World Trade Center collapsing, I tried three of four times to contact Southwest. I finally got through and was told the flight I had rescheduled would not be leaving. They had no idea when it would be allowed to leave. I thanked them and thought about rental cars.

I tried the Birmingham phone book and started in the rental cars section at the top of the list. I worked my way down to Enterprise. They had a small car that they would let me take to Texas. Cool!

Now it was time to pick a route.

Okay! Birmingham is on I-20. I could take I-20 West to Meridian, Mississippi and then cut off for New Orleans, and Interstate 10. From past experience, I knew New Orleans was a 10-hour drive from Fredericksburg. I might be able to make it to Houston, I thought before I might have to stop and sleep.

Instead of New Orleans, I could go to Dallas, then turn left. I figured I could get to Dallas by midnight; spend the night with some family, than head home.

Now who would be the winner of a pleasant evening hosting me? I called Sam's number. I hadn't seen him in a while, and I knew Denton was somewhere near Dallas. An hour north of Fort Worth, is, compared to being in Birmingham, near Dallas. I told Mary Jo I was coming, so stay awake, I might be getting in late.

I packed everything, and began the arduous task of pulling the photon torpedo tube down the stairs. I lucked out! The van that picked me up at the airport was at the side of the building and the same driver loaded my stuff. The two ladies who had checked in behind me the day before were also leaving, headed for Houston. We got to the airport at noon, and by 12:15 pm I was pulling out of the Birmingham airport, and headed west.

I fiddled with the radio, trying to find something to listen to. All I could hear was news, so I found the NPR station and tuned it in. That whole trip was a game of "find the next NPR station." As soon as one would fade into static, I started frantically, but methodically, searching for the next station. I listened as bits and pieces of news began to gather into one slightly less fuzzy picture of what had occurred the day before. The smooth, silky-voiced NPR announcers somehow managed to convey the horror and tragedy of the events, while still projecting an air of calm.

I saw a sign that said Mississppi line was about 120 miles away, so I kept watch on the mile markers as the slowly fell to "0." Then I was in Mississippi.

My cell phone lost the signal once I passed Meridian, so I turned it off until Jackson, where I discovered voicemail from the boss wondering where I was. I called her back and told her I would be late getting in that day; I was in Jackson, Mississippi. I told her my plans, and hung up, not wanting to be one of those people who have a wreck talking on the cell phone while driving.

Between Jackson and Vicksburg I learned something. The name "Mississippi" comes from an old Indian word for "Place where traffic comes to a complete stop for no fucking reason." I had been cruising along, and about 6 pm, saw a long string of taillights light up. Interstate 20 turned into a five-mile long, two-lane parking lot. For forty-five minutes traffic inched forward and stopped. I was beginning to need to use the bathroom. (My last potty break was at the Mississippi Visitor's center just after I left Alabama.) At one point, I figured that I would have just enough time to put the car in park, walk across two lanes of traffic, down a hill, to a McDonalds on a nearby corner, use the restroom, get a meal, and walk back before traffic moved again. At about 6:45 pm I learned what caused the traffic backup: The right line was closed for 50 feet. For no reason! No construction, no damaged pavement-just closed! For 50 feet! After that, traffic sped right back up, and I was in Vicksburg by 7 pm.

In 1972, the family had visited the battlefield there. After the great tour at Gettysburg, I toyed with the idea of spending the night in Vicksburg and touring the battlefield the next day. I decided against it, only because I was trying to get to Denton. I swore I would come back, and pressed on across Old Man River, the Mighty Mississipp' and into the state of Louisiana and the mile marker was at 124.

After a quick pitstop (for both me and the car) at a gas station in Louisiana, I was back on the road, counting down along with the highway markers, listening to NPR, and watching the sunset. Right under the car's visor!

At mile marker "0" I crossed into Texas. It was about 9 pm, and I stopped at a little convenience store for a soda and something to eat, plus another "Smoke 'em while you got 'em" style pottybreak. You know, "as long as I'm here . . ."

Then, at 11 pm, I am on I-35 heading for Denton, with hastily scribbled directions to Sam's house. I keep having to turn on the inside lights to make out the chicken scratches I had made earlier. I did pretty good until I got on Strata Street. I wound up having to call Mary Jo and have her stand on the front porch and wave until I saw her. I was one house off.

September 13, 2001

After getting inside, Mary Jo fed me, and let me drink some of Sam's beer. We talked about what the world was coming to, how Donn and Ann were doing, how Ann and Bob were doing, and other family stuff. Sam got home a little after I arrived and we shared a couple of beers before I crashed. There's nothing like a 12 hour drive to make you tired.

The next morning, I had breakfast with the family. Garrett and Samantha were awake and wondering who was this strange fat man in their house, and why were Mom and Dad talking to him like they know him.

This was the first time I had seen Garrett. He was almost a year old at that time, and laughed a lot. Samantha was about four, and incredibly shy. That is, she was shy until she realized that I would play tickle monster with her, and then I was okay. So after tickling her in hysterics a few times, I decided it was time to start the next to last leg of the trip.

I had decided to go through Stephenville to Comanche, and pick up Highway 16 South. I would have taken I-35 to Austin, but I hate I-35. For some reason, I-35 has always seemed more crowded to me than any other Interstate I've been on, except for around DC.

The drive around Fort Worth was fairly quiet, almost like a Sunday, I guess. I don't really know what a normal weekday looks like, but the road seemed a bit, well, empty. No bumper to bumper, stop and go traffic was anywhere to be seen. No honking, no fingers thrust out open windows, and no quick slams on the brake. All very calm and tranquil.

I passed the airport where Sam works. It is an American Airline maintenance airport, and FedEx uses it too. The only reason I know that is the large fleet of FedEx jets sitting out by the hangers.

In the eerie stillness of that Thursday morning, the sight of a normally busy airport silent, and a virtually empty interstate reminded me of Christmas Day in Fredericksburg, and our empty streets. The mood was broken by a silver military jet streaking across the sky, heading, I guess to Oklahoma.

Traffic picked up when I got on Highway 377 to Stephenville, and the swear words started to fill the air. I did manage to refrain from waving a finger at anyone, though. But fortunately, I was soon out of the city on in rural Texas. And before long, I was in Dublin.

My grandfather, Roger Holt, loved this joke:

Q: What's the fastest growing town in Texas?
A: Dublin. It's "doublin'" day and night!

Dad says he would tell that joke and laugh like he'd never heard it before. I think Donn had even referenced the joke while I was there. I bring that up only to mention that it didn't look that big to me. Dublin has two claims to fame. It is the birthplace of golfer Ben Hogan. More importantly it is the home of the only Dr. Pepper bottler that still uses Imperial Pure Cane Sugar ("for that extra sweet taste") instead of corn sugar.

Since leaving Fort Worth, NPR stations had faded into the static, and I was now listening to any Classic Rock station I could find. It was almost possible to forget that the World Trade Center was gone. But here in Dublin, Texas, tours of the bottling company went on. I almost stopped, but decided against it. I'll have another chance to take the tour.

In Comanche I turned onto Highway 16 South, and the eerie, Sunday-afternoon-like feeling persisted. The small, Texas towns appeared deserted. I was driving 80 to 85 mph between towns and didn't see any major traffic until I got to Llano.

After Llano though, I could only drive 53 MPH, because Farmer Brown or Granny Grunt don't understand that the speed limit is 70 MPH! After driving almost 1200 miles at highway speeds, here I was, only forty miles from home, plodding along behind someone who braked going uphill. It took all my energy to restrain myself from thrusting a finger into the air. It doesn't help that there is only one passing zone between Fredericksburg and Llano, either. Because once you get to that passing zone, another Granny Grunt is leading another mile long string of cars at 54 MPH. And as soon as you get out of the passing zone, and into the curves, the road empties out. Traffic stays that way until you get to Kerrville, another 20 miles along. Finally, about 1 pm, I got home. S

o, why does Al Qaeda owe me $400?

The rental car cost $240, and I spent about $120 in fuel. The extra $40 bucks is ear marked for beer. The party will be at my house when they pay up.