Since my separation in 2013 and divorce in 2016, I have struggled with doing things by myself. It’s always great to get together with friends or family, but those times are sadly the exception rather than the rule. Most of the time I find myself alone. And more often than not, my urge to go out and do something is defeated by my hesitancy to be out at an event by myself.

Part of the motivation for my summer homeless tour has been to force myself to get out on my own. I’ve been traveling alone, going to attractions by myself, and visiting restaurants and bars all by my lonesome. Let me tell you about an experience that prompted me to push myself out on my own this summer.

A couple of years ago, I attended a play that was part of a book fair in my little town. I’ve always loved the theater, but I haven’t gone to a play or musical in several years. When I saw that the highly-acclaimed one-woman play Cake was coming to my area, I decided to go.

I was excited about attending the play right up until the day before the performance. When the play was off in the distance, I could focus on my desire to see it. But when it was almost time to go, my reluctance to not do things alone kicked in. I started dreading going to the theater, sitting by myself, and feeling self-conscious, which I knew from previous experience would surely happen.

When it was time to go to the play, I began trying to talk myself out of it. What difference did it make if I saw the play? I could just stay home and not have to deal with the discomfort. I heard a saying once that it is always easier to do nothing than it is to do something, but it is rarely as satisfying. I was tired of doing nothing, so I forced myself out the door and to the theater.

The play was good. I enjoyed it despite my discomfort and my certainty that everyone was staring at me (they weren’t). As I was leaving the theater, I vowed to start getting out on my own more often.

And then I didn’t. It was too easy to just sit at home by myself. Sure, I’d go for the occasional dinner alone, but doing so usually felt awkward and uncomfortable. I was disappointed in myself, and I knew that I needed to start living life and again be the social creature I once was.

That’s where my summer trip comes in. I knew that traveling alone would force me out into the world. I’d be going to new places, meeting new people, and I’d usually be doing it by myself.

When I got to the cabin in northern Wisconsin, I was surprised that it was as far from Mercer as it was. It took me about 25 minutes to get into town, and about an hour to Minocqua if I wanted to go to a bigger store or have more shopping options. The cabin was secluded back in the woods on Turtle-Flambeau Flowage, and it would have been easy to treat it like a hideaway, spending all my time there. And I admit, there were times I wanted to stay there, feeling the pull of doing nothing rather than something. But I fought the urge and made myself go into town at least once each day.

Most of my days were spent writing. After moving from location to location every few days for the summer, it felt good to be in one place for three straight weeks. I got a ton of work done, and every morning, after my walk, I looked forward to sitting down and writing again.

I often went into town for lunch, sometimes just to break up the day. And although I ate most of my meals at the cabin, I did go into town several times for dinner. Although I was eating by myself, I was also around other people, which felt good.

Then there were the times I went into town just to have a drink or three. This is something I have rarely done in the past. I’m a social drinker, but I almost never drink by myself. Even so, I wanted to be around other people, to talk and tell jokes. If you’re single you probably know this already, but after a divorce or death of a spouse, life can get pretty lonely. In fact, loneliness in the United States is currently at epidemic levels. And doctors say that it can really damage our health, especially as we get older. I don’t want to let that happen. So, I forced myself to go out for a drink and socialize, even when I wasn’t feeling the urge. I’m glad I did.

During my stay in Mercer, while I was out eating and drinking, I befriended the owner and hostess at my favorite restaurant in town, met and eventually won over the least friendly bartender in Wisconsin (he’s really not unfriendly, just kind of introverted), and met a couple named Greg and Jen (my second set of “Greg and Jen” named friends) that I had a wonderful conversation with. We even exchanged email addresses so we could stay in touch. And while all this was happening, the discomfort of being alone dissipated, and at times, even became a joke.

I can’t claim that my time in Mercer cured the discomfort I feel when I go out by myself, but it helped. Will I start going out to concerts, plays, restaurants, etc. by myself in the future? That remains to be seen. What I do know is that the prospect of going out alone doesn’t seem so daunting anymore. I’m still not crazy about the idea, but I know I won’t resist it as much as I have in the past. And that’s a good thing.

Most of our Founding Fathers were born in the 1700s. For instance, George Washington, the father of our country, was born in 1732. Benjamin Fraklin was born in 1706. Thomas Jefferson, who is credited with writing the Declaration of Independence, was born in 1743. And Alexander Hamilton, who’s not throwing away his shot (IYKYK), was born in 1755 or 1757. It’s up for debate. But it might surprise you to learn that the youngest Founding Father, Gregory Watson, wasn’t born until 1963. How is that possible? Let me explain.

True, Gregory Watson did not sign the Declaration of Independence or participate in the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, but I think he still qualifies as a Founding Father. You see, in 1982, as a sophomore at the University of Texas-Austin, Gregory was at the library researching a paper for his Government class when he stumbled across a dusty old volume on the Constitution. In that book was printed a list of amendments to the Constitution that were sent to the states for ratification as part of the Bill of Rights. There were twelve in all, but Gregory recognized that the Bill of Rights only contained ten amendments. One of the two that were not ratified caught his eye. It was the very first of the twelve proposed amendments, and it read:

“”No law varying the compensation for the services of the Senators and Representatives shall take effect until an election of representatives shall have intervened.”

In plain English, the proposed amendment said that any change to the amount paid to senators and representatives would not take effect until the next Congress is sworn in. The reason for the proposed amendment is clear. James Madison, who wrote the amendment, and those that supported it, didn’t want senators or representatives voting themselves raises. The feeling was that they would be reluctant to increase their pay if they knew it could become an issue the next time they ran for office. But in the end, the amendment failed to be ratified by the states, and it became a footnote in history. That is, until Gregory Watson came along and wrote a paper about it. He believed the proposed amendment was still alive and could still be ratified by the states. He was excited. He was determined. And he received a “C” on his paper.

The professor, Sharon White, who gave him the “C” was unimpressed. Despite Gregory’s insistence, White assumed that he was just an overanxious student who had misread the history of the amendment. Surely, she thought, an amendment written more than 200 years earlier couldn’t still be ratified. Gregory disagreed, and he set out to prove her wrong.

In order for the amendment to become law, 38 states needed to ratify it. Only nine had ratified it previously, so Gregory needed to convince 29 other state legislatures to sign on to the amendment. But rather than contact the state legislatures directly, he petitioned members of Congress to join him in pushing the states to ratify the amendment. He received a few responses, but got only one positive response. That was from Senator William Cohen of Maine, who would go on to become the Secretary of Defense under President Bill Clinton. Cohen passed Gregory’s letter on to someone back in Maine, who passed it on to someone else, and in 1983, Maine became the tenth state to ratify the amendment.

Gregory’s success in Maine emboldened him. He furiously wrote letters to other lawmakers encouraging them to take up his cause. A year later, Colorado ratified the amendment, a year after that five more states signed on, then three more, and it just kept going like that. In 1992, ten years after Gregory’s writing campaign began, a total of 35 states had ratified the amendment. Only three more to go.

On May 5, 1992 ,both Alabama and Missouri passed the Amendment. And two days later, with Gregory listening to the vote by phone, Michigan became the 38^th state to pass what had become the Twenty-Seventh Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

The Constitution is, by design, incredibly difficult to amend. In fact, the Twenty-Seventh Amendment, passed into law in 1992, was the most recent amendment to be added to the Constitution. And it likely would not have been ratified if not for Gregory’s stubbornness and certainty that he deserved a better grade on his paper. The University of Texas-Austin agreed. On March 1, 2017, Gregory’s grade in his Government class was officially changed from “C” to “A+.”

Gregory’s story doesn’t end with the Twenty-Seventh Amendment. During his research to pass the Amendment, he learned that the State of Mississippi had never ratified the Thirteenth Amendment ending slavery. So, he got busy and in 1995 convinced the Mississippi State Legislature to pass the Thirteenth Amendment. However, due to a filing error, Mississippi’s ratification did not become official until 2013.

Today, Gregory works as a legislative policy analyst in the Texas Legislature. His efforts have not only changed law, but have altered the document our Founding Fathers created, our nation was built upon, and which we still rely on to maintain our democracy today. Although he wasn’t born until more than 180 years after our nation’s founding, Gregory Watson still qualifies as one of America’s Founding Fathers.

I want to take you back to the summer of 1974. I was 14-years-old, and was in the car with my mom, who was dropping me off at the bus station in my hometown of Aurora, IL. I was about to go on a solo journey on a Continental Trailways bus to Green Bay, where I would transfer to a Greyhound bus and take it to my final destination in Mercer, Wisconsin. As I recall, the trip took fifteen-and-a-half hours, and in the end, I was neither kidnapped nor murdered on the bus or in the bus depot. All’s well that ends well, I suppose.

Can you imagine allowing a 14-year-old kid to take a trip like this all alone today? There’s no way I would do that. Children and Family Services would get involved. Criminal charges would be filed, and the kid would likely end up in foster care. But in 1974, parents were much more trusting and permissive. I’ve written often about how much independence I had growing up, and it has served me well. But I still find it amazing that my parents once put me on a bus and sent me to Northern Wisconsin all by myself.

Of course, this post isn’t about the parenting skills of my mother and father. It is about Mercer, the place I ended up at the end of the bus trip. It was then, during that summer of 1974, that I fell in love with Mercer and the Northwoods of Wisconsin.

I had been invited to Mercer by my friend Brad Lyon. His family owned a cabin on Crystal Lake, just outside of town. The cabin was owned by Brad’s grandfather, Ralph, who everyone referred to as Papa. It was small, so Papa and Brad’s parents, Bob and Nancy, stayed in the cabin while Brad, his sister Pam, and I stayed in a camping trailer that sat in the woods nearby.

I learned several new things that summer. First, the indoor bathroom at the cabin was reserved for “number 2.” “Number 1” was meant for the woods or the lake.

I also learned how to water ski, although I admit I was a slow learner. It took me several tries to get up on two skies. I might have never figured out how to do it if it wasn’t for Brad’s dad, who finally clued me in on the need to have the leading tip of my skis out of the water when the boat took off. Once Brad’s dad shared this ancient secret with me, I could suddenly ski.

Papa used to get a kick out of watching me try to ski because he thought it was hilarious watching me fall. Once it became obvious that I was going down, I’d start taking steps across the surface of the water. Of course, that didn’t work very well for very long. After a step or two, I’d tumble like a rock into the cool lake. Papa began calling me JC—short for Jesus Christ—since I thought I could walk on water.

I also learned that in the summer in Northern Wisconsin, the sun doesn’t set until 9:00 or 9:30 at night, and until the sun sets, fun on and in the lake continues. There were many nights we continued to ski or swim until sunset, took baths in the lake at the foot of the dock, and didn’t have dinner until 10:00 at night. I loved it.

The summer of ’74 was just my first summer in Mercer. I was back for the summers of ’75 and ’76 with Brad and his family, and I made the journey on my own, staying at a hotel during the summers of ’78 and ‘80. After that first summer, I constantly wanted to go back, to play on the lake, and see friends I had made, including a girl named Rita, who became my summer flame.

When my homeless summer adventure began after selling my house in Southwestern Wisconsin this past May, I knew that at some point I wanted to return to Mercer. I wanted to spend time on the lake, visit the restaurants and bars in the area, and enjoy the beauty and comfort of a northern Wisconsin summer. So, I was thrilled when I found a place to rent about 20 minutes outside of town on the Turtle-Flambeau Flowage. Three weeks in paradise was exactly what I was looking for. It was going to be a great way to end my summer adventure.

If you’ve never heard of the Turtle-Flambeau Flowage, you’re missing out on a true gem. The Flowage was created in 1926 when the Chippewa and Flambeau Improvement Company dammed the confluence of the Turtle and Flambeau Rivers, creating a 13,000 acre impoundment that flooded thousands of acres of land, and more than a dozen already existing lakes, rivers, and creeks.

Although the Flowage is now a popular recreational destination, that’s not how it started. It was created to provide a predictable flow of water to electric utilities and paper mills downstream. What, if anything, it did for the local area and economy was not the primary concern.

Creation of the Flowage was initially controversial, but locals learned to make the best of a bad situation. In the 1930s, 40s and 50s, resorts started springing up around the shoreline, and fishermen began to flock to the area. In 1990, the State of Wisconsin purchased the Flowage from the Chippewa and Flambeau Improvement Company, as well as much of the land in the area. Today, Wisconsin owns 114 miles of mainland shoreline, 150 islands, more than 11,000 acres of water, nearly 8500 acres of woodland, and 3700 acres of wetlands around the Flowage. The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources established the Turtle-Flambeau Scenic Waters Area in 1995, which today consists of more than 37,500 acres of spectacular water, shoreline, islands, woods, and wetlands.

The Flowage and the area around it are beautiful, wild, and pristine. It reminds me of the Canadian wilderness. The area is gorgeous, and is populated by black bears, wolves, deer, turkey, and even the occasional moose and elk. The other day, I watched out my window as an eagle circled overhead, then dove toward the water attempting to snag a loon. As far as I could tell, the loon was playing with the eagle, going underwater just as the eagle attacked, and surfacing several feet away. What a great show! Mercer and the Turtle-Flambeau Flowage truly are special.

In my next report, I’ll talk about what I’ve been doing since I got to the cabin, and I’ll talk about my plans for the immediate future once I leave. Until then, enjoy these final days and weeks of summer.

“If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” –Woody Allen

When I was setting up my travel plans for the summer, I knew I needed to be in Viroqua, Wisconsin on July 29 to give a presentation at the library about my books. After that, I had 12 days until I had to be anywhere. Since most of my summer adventure, which had been made possible by selling my home and not having a place to live, had taken place east of the Mississippi, I decided to head west. My plans called for stops in Deadwood, South Dakota, Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota, Cody, Wyoming to visit the Buffalo Bill Center  of the West (a museum I have long wanted to visit), a day or two in both Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, and a couple of other stops, including a buffalo ranch in Wyoming to take photos and a barbeque restaurant in Kansas City. My plans were set. Then everything changed.

I had contracted to build a new house in Tennessee back in April. My intention was to make a 5% down payment (I don’t like putting a lot of cash into a home purchase), and I wanted to conserve my available cash. The builder conveniently had their own mortgage company, and they offered $17,000 toward closing costs as an incentive to use them. It made sense to me, so I applied for a home loan with the builder’s mortgage company.

During my first call with the mortgage broker, she took a bunch of information from me, and said that both my income and credit score looked good. She didn’t see any issues moving forward. But in our next call, she advised that I’d likely need to put down 10%, rather than the 5% I had planned on. I didn’t like the change, but I agreed to it.

Before I go any further, I should point out that I had already sold my home and knew that I would be moving very soon. I was anxious to purchase another home, even if I couldn’t move in right away. It’s not that I was nervous about finding another home, but I wanted the peace of mind that comes from knowing where I’m going to live, even if I can’t move in for a few months.

I spoke again to the mortgage broker a few weeks later and was told that the underwriter (the person that makes the final decision about the loan) needed me to pay off my vehicle. That seemed odd to me. I owed about $20,000 on my vehicle, and I wasn’t planning on paying it off. Even so, I wanted the house, and that wasn’t going to happen without the mortgage, so I agreed to pay off my vehicle loan.

I was talking to the mortgage broker a few weeks later, and she mentioned that I “might” have to put another $35,000 into the deal. I wanted the house, but I really didn’t want to spend that much more money. I told her about my reservations, and she said she’d discuss it with the underwriter.

By this time, the underwriter had become like the Wizard of Oz in my mind. He or she seemed like the person behind the curtain, pulling levers and making demands, but never talking directly to me. I’ve purchased 17 homes in my life—including four new home builds—but I’ve never run into a situation where the mortgage underwriter appeared to be pulling all of the strings the way they were with this house.

Several weeks passed without me talking to the mortgage broker. By this time, it was late July—three months since I had contracted to buy the house—and I still didn’t have an answer on the mortgage. I reached out to the mortgage broker, and she said she still didn’t have a final answer on the loan, but she thought the underwriter would require me to either pay off my vehicle, put $35,000 more into the deal, or both. There was also talk of me having to buy down the interest rate on the mortgage they were providing.

At this point, I had enough. For me, the whole deal had soured. Nothing was working out the way I had planned, and it just kept getting more and more expensive. I decided not to go forward with the deal. I wasn’t sure where I would live or what I would do, but I couldn’t justify continuing to work with the builder or the mortgage company. I notified my realtor, and she notified the builder.

Then a strange thing happened. The very next day, all of the demands to payoff my vehicle, put more money into the deal, or buy down the interest rate went away. Just like that, all the demands they were making over the course of three months vanished. And to sweeten the deal, the builder voluntarily said they’d kick in another $10,000.

I don’t know exactly what happened, but I have a theory. Before I tell you about the theory, let me tell you that I don’t have any evidence to back it up. I could be wrong. In fact, I probably am wrong. But here’s what seemed to have happened from my perspective:

During my first phone call with the mortgage broker, everything seemed straight forward. They knew about my income, my debts, and my credit score, the way every other mortgage I have ever gotten has worked. But once they received the closing documents on the house I sold, things seemed to change. I was fortunate to make a decent amount of money on the home I sold, and it seemed that the mortgage company wanted to get as much of that money as possible into the deal. Why would they do that? There are two reasons. First, it’s easier for them to make mortgages when the buyer puts more money into the deal. There’s less risk for the mortgage company. Second, it’s easier for the mortgage company to sell the loan when the mortgage amount represents a lower percentage of the loan-to-value.

Even as I write this, I smell the faint odor of a conspiracy theory. Like I said, I could be wrong. But something weird was going on. From the time I said I wanted out of the contract until they decided I didn’t need to payoff anything or put more money into the deal, nothing changed. And as much as I appreciated the builder’s “gift” of $10,000, it smacked of desperation to me, like they had gotten caught doing something they shouldn’t have done.

The builder did try to make things right. I was contacted by people from both the builder and the mortgage company. They were all very nice. They apologized and encouraged me to continue with my plans to buy the house, but I couldn’t. A bond of trust had been broken. The only question left was, would I get my earnest money deposit back.

This was a long-winded story to get to this point: rather than go on my adventure out west, I decided the best thing for me to do would be to return to Tennessee to deal with the fall out from my broken house contract. I hated missing out on all the things I had planned out west, but going back to Tennessee allowed me to deal with the house contract in person (or at least close by), and to see my kids.

Our discussions with the builder went on for several days. They tried to convince me to stay in the deal, I kept saying no. That’s not to say I didn’t think about it. I liked the house and I wanted to firm up my living arrangements, but I just couldn’t rebuild the trust I once had with the builder. In the end, the answer had to be no.

The builder finally accepted that I wasn’t going to buy their house, so the next hurdle was getting back my $5000 earnest money deposit. Truthfully, I was willing to walk away from the money if need be, but of course, I didn’t want to. The builder pointed out the contract language which said if I backed out of the deal, they got to keep the earnest money. My realtor (who was awesome throughout this entire ordeal) and I argued that it seemed unfair to stick to the black letter language of the contract after everything they had done to prolong the financing process and dissolve the trust we once had.

In the end, I’m happy to report that I got my money back, and I have moved on from this unfortunate experience. Two days after ending the house contract, I found a nice house in Murfreesboro to rent. I hadn’t intended on renting, but it does give me the luxury to take my time and figure out my next move. Will I buy? Will I build? Will I continue to rent? Will I get an RV and travel the country? Every option is on the table, and I have a year to get it all figured out.

My time in Shenandoah National Park was cut short because of rain, so I headed to Tennessee with hopes I’d be able to do some hiking when I got there. I was able to get out one day for a short hike, but rain turned out to be a problem in Tennessee too. Before I knew it, my time in Tennessee came to an end and I headed north, back to Wisconsin where this trip began.

I was only planning on being in town for two days, and my schedule was pretty full both days. The night I got into town, I stopped by Kickapoo Creekside, one of my favorite restaurants in Southwest Wisconsin. I was in the mood for a beer and salad bar.

One thing I have noticed traveling around the country is that very few restaurants still offer a salad bar. Not so in Wisconsin. In fact, salad bars are a staple of Wisconsin supper clubs. “What is a supper club?” you might ask. Good question. I’ve always had a difficult time defining what makes a restaurant a supper club, so I asked Google. Here’s the answer I got:

“A Wisconsin supper club is a unique type of restaurant, often family-owned and deeply rooted in the state’s culture, characterized by a cozy atmosphere, classic American fare, and a strong sense of community. They are known for their Friday fish fries, Saturday prime rib, relish trays, and brandy old fashioneds.”

Goggle went on to say supper club tradition includes:

• Pre-dinner drinks at the bar: It’s common to grab a drink at the bar before being seated for dinner. 
• Reservations are recommended: Due to their popularity and focus on a relaxed dining experience, reservations are often encouraged. 
• A sense of community: Supper clubs foster a sense of belonging and camaraderie among patrons. 

In essence, a Wisconsin supper club is more than just a restaurant; it’s a social institution, a place to connect with friends and family over delicious food and drinks in a welcoming and nostalgic setting.”

In case I haven’t made it clear in previous posts, I love Wisconsin. During most of the year, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I love the people (most of them, anyway), the geography, and the traditions. True, I hate the winters, but the summers and falls are the best. And the supper club tradition is one of the things I like most about life in Wisconsin.

Day one of my time in Viroqua was spent in my office, catching up on paperwork and meeting with my employees. It was a productive day.

Day two began at the office and ended with me giving a presentation about my books at our local library. I was contacted by the library over the winter about doing a talk, but since I try to be in warmer climes during the winter months, I wasn’t available. We kicked around a few possible dates I could give a presentation, and we landed on late July.

By the way, Viroqua is a town of only 4500 people, but we are blessed to have a beautiful library. It was built new just a few years ago, and if you’re ever in the area, you should stop by to see it. The library plays host to a wonderful book fair each April (Ridges and Rivers Book Festival), and serves as an important institution in our area’s cultural life.

My talk at the library attracted a small crowd, which made for an intimate setting and discussion. I talked about how I got started writing, a little about the books I’ve written, and a little more about my most recent book, The Walls Come Tumbling Down. I read from the book, and then we had a very enjoyable question and answer period. It turned out to be a good night.

After the presentation, I went to dinner with two of my employees—one current and one former—so we could catch up on each other’s lives. During our visit, it dawned on me how important this kind of fellowship is, especially as we get older. In my younger years, I was often full speed ahead, not taking time to relax and talk to the people in my life. Recently, I’ve noticed a real desire to slow down and enjoy time with family and friends. Maybe it’s an age thing or maybe I’m just evolving. Either way, I’m enjoying spending time with others more now than I have in a long time.

Originally, my travel plans called for me to leave Wisconsin and head out west; first to Deadwood, SD and Theodore Roosevelt National Park, then to Cody, WY and Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. There are issues with the house I am building in Tennessee, and I feel I need to be in the area to handle them. So, back to Tennessee I go.

Next time, we’ll talk about the issues I’ve run into and how those issues get resolved. Until then…

America’s national parks are the nation’s crown jewels. They are full of beautiful natural scenery, have historical and cultural significance, provide recreation and enjoyment for millions of visitors every year, and they are a natural legacy that we pass from one generation to the next. They are spectacular. And sadly, I have only visited one in my life.

A few years ago, I went hiking in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve been to the park twice: once staying on the west side of the park in Gatlinburg, TN, and another time on the east side in Cherokee, NC. It’s a beautiful place, and it’s the most visited national park in the country. But I wanted to see more, to visit other parks, and hike on other trails. That’s what I was thinking when I decided to change my travel plans in the Northeast and instead visit Shenandoah National Park.

Shenandoah is a wild wooded wonderland that sits just 75 miles from the urban sprawl of Washington, DC. It’s a place with dozens of overlooks, several waterfalls, and plenty of hiking trails to choose from. I was looking forward to diving in and exploring a few of the more than 200,000 acres that make up Shenandoah National Park.

When I arrived, a rainstorm had just moved through the area. Everything was wet, but the sun was making an effort to break through the cloud cover. It was late in the afternoon, too late to hike, so I decided to prepare for my visit to the park by scoping out the terrain and talking to a park ranger.

The first thing I did was purchase a lifetime National Parks Pass. There aren’t a lot of things that are great about growing old, but for just $80, senior citizens (like me) can get a lifetime pass to all of the national parks and federal lands, so that’s pretty great. The park ranger that sold me the pass encouraged me to get my money’s worth out of it, and I told her that’s exactly what I intended to do.

Next, I drove further into the park and stopped at the Dickey Ridge Visitor’s Center. There, I met Colin Wainwright, a friendly park ranger manning the information desk. I wanted to know the best places to hike, as well as information on where I was likely to encounter black bears. I brought my cameras and wanted to photograph black bears in the wild.

Colin asked a few questions about my hiking ability and what I hoped to see, then recommended I hike Lewis Spring Falls Trail, part of the Appalachian Trail, in the Big Meadows area. The trail features an up-close experience with 81-foot-tall Lewis Falls. Colin said that the water was really roaring over the falls due to the heavier-then-normal rainfall the area had received recently. I decided to take his advice.

When it came to photographing black bears, Colin wasn’t too optimistic. He said that the bears try to stay away from humans, and sightings were haphazard, meaning he really couldn’t recommend a place I was likely to see one.

I thanked Colin, then went into the retail store at the visitor’s center to see what they had to offer. The store carries all types of items, from shirts and hats to coffee mugs and shot glasses, with the Shenandoah National Park name and logo on them. They also sell posters (which I really liked) and books about the park. I bought an overpriced T-shirt but didn’t feel bad about overpaying since a portion of the proceeds go to benefit the park and the services provided there.

Late afternoon was turning to evening, so I left the park to grab some dinner and get a good nights sleep prior to my day of hiking.

The next day dawned bright and sunny. The initial weather forecast called for rain, but the morning sun suggested otherwise. I looked forward to a good day of hiking. I made my way to the Big Meadows area of the park (around mile marker 51) and decided to grab lunch before hitting the trail. By the time I got to the beautiful Big Meadow Lodge, clouds had moved in and the sky was threatening. I hoped that if I gave it some time, the clouds would clear, and the weather would be good enough to hike.

Big Meadows Lodge is a large post and beam building that includes several lodge rooms, the Spottswood Dining Room, the New Market Taproom, as well as a terrace for lounging and enjoying the scenery. I went into the Spottswood Dining Room and ordered a Big Meadows Cobb Salad. Since I was soon to hike, I didn’t want anything too heavy. The salad was surprisingly good, featuring field greens, bacon, cherry tomatoes, blue cheese, roasted corn, pecans, hard boiled eggs, and avocado.

When I finished, I drove the short distance to Big Meadows Amphitheater, where the trailhead for the Lewis Spring Falls Trail is located. On the way there, rain began to pelt the windshield, tentatively at first, then more insistently. Colin had warned me that we were likely to get rain, and he cautioned me not to get caught in a downpour. I had hoped he was wrong, but it appeared his prediction was coming true.

My schedule only allowed for two days in the park, and I didn’t want to waste one sitting around waiting for the rain to stop, so I decided to drive the length of the park on Skyline Dr., a 105-mile- long scenic road that runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains and cuts through the center of Shenandoah.

As I drove, the rain was on-again, off-again. When it eased, I’d stop to take photos at some of the dozens of overlooks on Skyline Dr. Many of the overlooks feature spectacular vistas of the river and valley below, as well as other mountains in the distance.

While I was visiting the park store at Dickey Ridge, I saw a CD audio tour of the park designed to be played while driving on Skyline Dr. As I drove, I regretted not buying the CD. With every turn of the road, I wondered about the history of the area or the significance of certain landmarks.

The drive on Skyline Drive turned out to be a more tiring endeavor than I anticipated. The speed limit along the road fluctuates between 25 and 35 miles per hour, which makes for a long day driving a total of 210 miles. By the time I was done, I was ready for a beer and some hot food.

Back in Front Royal, I visited Vibrissa Beer & Kitchen a trendy microbrewery in the downtown district. I ordered a Polo Lager, a malty amber beer, and set out to look over the menu. I was in the mood for bar food, so I ordered eight wings tossed in buffalo sauce, with blue cheese on the side. Although the wings I got were tossed in barbeque sauce rather than buffalo, they were still very good. The wings were meaty, and the sauce was good and tangy.

Back at my room, I turned in early, preparing for a good hike the next day. I fell asleep quickly, but thunderstorms woke me around midnight. I love a good thunderstorm, so I enjoyed it best I could, hoping that the storm would get all rained out, and the next day would be sunny.

The next day was not sunny. Although it wasn’t raining when I woke up, the sky was threatening and rain was forecast throughout the day. It was my last day in the area, and I badly wanted to go hiking. I didn’t feel like sitting in my hotel room waiting for the rain to pass, so I decided to leave Front Royal and head to Tennessee a day early. My hope was that I could get in some hiking once I reached my destination.

My trip to Shenandoah National Park didn’t turn out the way I had hoped, but I was grateful to have seen the park, to have driven from one end to the other (twice), and to have gotten a t-shirt to commemorate my visit. I vowed to return some sunny day in the future. And I also committed myself to do as the park ranger recommended and get my money’s worth out of my lifetime park pass.

Until next time…

In my last dispatch, I talked a bit about my need to start eating healthier and get some exercise. That’s not what this post is about. This post is about gluttony.

My friend Sean lives in Newport, Rhode Island, but is spending the summer in California, teaching creative writing to gifted teens through a program with Johns Hopkins University. When he graciously offered his apartment as refuge during my homeless tour of America (Thank you, Sean!), I saw an opportunity to spend some time in New England, a part of the country I’ve neglected in my past travels.

The plan was to use Sean’s apartment as a home base to travel around New England, with stops in Boston, New Haven, and maybe New York City. I decided to get to Sean’s and play it by ear from there.

Front Royal, VA

Rather than drive straight through from Tennessee to Newport, I decided to break up the drive by spending a night in Front Royal, VA. There was nothing special about choosing Front Royal. It just happened to be roughly midway between my starting and ending points, and it was close to the highway, so I chose it. As it turned out, staying in Front Royal would completely change my future travel plans.

When I arrived at the hotel, the area had just experienced a significant downpour. The electricity was out, and the National Weather Service had issued a flash flood warning. Nice timing on my part. I checked into my room, then proceeded to sit in the dark with no air conditioning. I was hungry and wanted to go out for dinner, but I was afraid that the power outage would shut down restaurants in the area. Mercifully, after about a half hour of texting and playing games on my phone in the dark, the power came back on, so I decided to venture out.

The first two restaurants I went to were closed because of the power outage. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find a place to eat, then I happened upon Brick House Bar & Grill. The lights were on and there were cars in the parking lot, so I decided to give it a try.

The Brick House Bar & Grill is in what appears to be an old industrial building. The ceilings are high, the walls are made of brick, and the space is very open, like in a warehouse. I was greeted by a nice young lady at the hostess stand and was led to my table near the bar.

I ordered a Black and Blue Ridge Burger, which consisted of a quarter pound burger patty, blue cheese crumbles, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. It was terrific. There was plenty of blue cheese, the meat was tasty but not overdone, and the tomatoes, onions, and pickles were the perfect compliment. I eschewed the lettuce. The burger normally comes with fries, but I opted for tater tots (I swear I’ve eaten more tater tots in the last couple of months than I have in the last several years).

When I got back to the hotel, I was looking through pamphlets for area attractions when I suddenly realized that Front Royal is the northern gateway to Shenandoah National Park. I had no idea. I’ve long wanted to visit all of our national parks, but to date, have only spent time in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I made a mental note. At some point, I need to come back to Front Royal to visit Shenandoah.

Newport, RI

The next morning, I hit the road to Newport. During the drive, I was listening to the audiobook of American Ramble by Neil King. The book is part memoir, part travelogue. The author had been battling cancer, and when his treatments ended and his health improved enough to allow it, he set out to walk from his home in Washington, DC to New York City. It was a walk of self-discovery as much as it was a ramble through our nation’s early history and an exploration of the way we relate to one another in the modern world.

I enjoyed the book and the curiousness of its author. But what struck me most was that I was driving through some of the very areas King traversed on his journey, albeit in a vehicle rather than on foot, like King.

I couldn’t help but notice how outgoing King was during his walk, meeting new people and relishing the opportunity. I used to be that way. I’d talk to anyone, and I enjoyed meeting new people. I’m not that way anymore, and it bothers me. I don’t understand the change. After I had throat cancer in 2003-04, I became more introverted. I have no idea why that would be, although I’ve been told that chemo can impact the brain and potentially tweak a person’s personality. I have no idea if that is accurate, but it’s as good an explanation as any.

Around lunchtime, I was driving through New Jersey when I noticed a sign for Fuddruckers. It had been years since I’d eaten at a Fuddruckers, and I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

If you’re not familiar with Fuddruckers, it is a burger restaurant that is a cross between a TGI Fridays, a Five Guys, and maybe a couple of other places (that’s a pathetic description). In the old days, when I’d visit the Fuddruckers in Brookfield, WI, I’d always order a ribeye steak sandwich with provolone cheese, and a side of onion rings. I decided to recreate my order, with the only change being blue cheese instead of provolone (and I wonder why I have such a hard time losing weight).

After getting my order, I added ketchup and Worcestershire sauce to the sandwich, and got some nacho-type cheese for the onion rings. It was sublime (my mouth is watering just writing these words). For the past several years, I thought Fuddruckers had gone out of business. My old haunt in Brookfield was closed down, as were the other Fuddruckers I was aware of throughout the Midwest and southeast United States. But they are still going strong in New Jersey, and for all I know, they still have restaurants in other locations. I made a mental note to keep my eyes peeled for their sign.

This shouldn’t be a surprise, but the closer I got to New York, the heavier the traffic became. As I drove through the city, I hoped that traffic would ease after I got to the other side and headed into Connecticut, but that wasn’t to be. In fact, traffic stayed fairly heavy all the way to Newport.

The weather was hot and humid in Newport even as we approached sundown, with highs in the high 80s to low 90s. I worked up a sweat just taking my suitcase out of the car, and it was literally dripping off me after carrying my ridiculously heavy suitcase up three flights of stairs to Sean’s apartment. There was no elevator, and to my horror, no air conditioning.

I had gotten into town a little later than expected, and I was anxious to eat, despite the fact that I really wasn’t hungry. The steak sandwich from earlier in the day was staying with me. I simultaneously wanted to eat and not eat. In many ways, I am a creature of habit. I eat lunch around noon, whether I’m hungry or not. Likewise, dinner is around 6:00. It was already past 7:00, and despite not being hungry, I felt the compulsion to eat.

Sean mentioned a restaurant down on the Newport waterfront called The Moorings Seafood Kitchen. I decided to give it a try. Many of the buildings along the waterfront in Newport date back to the 17^th and 18^th centuries. They are among the oldest buildings in the country. Seeing those types of buildings isn’t unusual in New England, but having lived in the Midwest and southeastern parts of the country my whole life, I wasn’t used to it.

I had a strange reaction being around these buildings, a reaction I don’t completely understand. Being around them made me uncomfortable. I love history, and I’m certain if I had taken a tour of the area from a historical perspective, I would have enjoyed it. But being among the buildings on the waterfront, I felt an unease I can’t fully describe. It was the same thing I felt the first time I visited the old Spanish structures in Saint Augustine, FL. It’s very strange.

Despite my discomfort, I went into The Moorings and found a seat at the bar. I ordered a Buttonwoods Pilsner and began to look over the menu. I love seafood and hated the fact that I was at this highly-acclaimed seafood restaurant without much of an appetite. I ended up ordering a cup of the scallop chowder, as well as lobster and shrimp fritters.

Although the scallop chowder was very good, it was just clam chowder with scallops substituted for clams. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I guess I expected a completely different concoction. The lobster and shrimp fritters were wonderful. They were paired with a maple chipotle aioli that was delicious.

Eating good food makes me happy. There’s a spiritual component to having excellently prepared food that is hard to describe, but which somehow speaks to the soul. After eating the chowder and fritters, I was feeling especially good about my place in the world, and I decided to order a second beer. Life was very good.

Back at Sean’s apartment, I began thinking about whether I’d rather stay in the area to explore Newport, Boston, and maybe New York, or if I’d rather spend that time in Shenandoah National Park. I’ve always wanted to visit Boston and New York, but honestly, it’s something I’d rather do with someone else. Conversely, hiking in a national park was something I could do by myself. The decision was made. I was going to leave Newport the next day and go to Shenandoah.

However, there was one thing I was determined to do before I headed back to Front Royal. I was born and raised in the Chicago area, and I’m proud of our pizza heritage. Chicago-style thin crust pizza—also known as tavern-style pizza—is my favorite. So, it struck me as suspicious that Dave Portnoy of Barstool Sports, and the creator of the One Bite pizza app, recently crowned New Haven, CT as the pizza capital of America. I wanted to object, but the truth is, I’ve never had New Haven-style pizza. While I was in the Northeast, I needed to remedy that situation. So, I loaded up my vehicle and headed back down the road from Newport to New Haven.

New Haven, CT

For the uninitiated, here’s how I described New Haven-style pizza in a previous post entitled “Know Your Pizza”:

“The New Haven-style crust is thin, similar to a Neapolitan pizza, and is often oblong, as opposed to round. The pizza is normally cooked in a coal-fired oven, giving it a charred, chewy bite. The sauce and cheese are both applied sparingly, making a New Haven-style pizza drier than most other pizzas.”

My plan was to hit five different pizzerias in two days. To kick off my pizza extravaganza, I wanted to start with the granddaddy of them all, Frank Pepe’s Pizzeria Napoletana.

Frank Pepe’s Pizzeria Napoletana

I arrived at Pepe’s at about 10:30 in the morning. When I pulled into the parking lot, there were only a few cars. I knew Pepe’s didn’t open until 11:00, so I sat in the car for a while and waited for the doors to open. But I grew bored and decided to enjoy the morning on a bench that sat between the building and the parking lot entrance. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see the front door, so I kept an eye on the clock. At 10:55, I walked to the front of the building to find that a line had formed while I lounged in my vehicle and on the bench. I was maybe tenth or fifteenth in line. But no worries. When the doors opened, we all made it in and were seated.

I was given a small booth that sat straight across from a mini split blowing out ice cold air. My waitress came by and took my order. Normally when I try a new pizza place, I order a sausage and mushroom pizza so I can compare apples-to-apples with other pizzerias. But on the drive from Newport, I thought about it and decided that there was no need to rank the pizzas in order of preference. Instead, I’d order the house specialty to get a real feel for what each pizzeria does best. At Pepe’s, that meant that I ordered the white clam pizza (it was invented by Frank Pepe) and a tomato pie with mozzarella, which the New Haven Italians call “mootz.”

As I waited for my pizzas, I struggled to stay warm. Part of me wanted to ask for a different booth, but the truth was, the entire restaurant was freezing cold. The pizzas I ordered were both smalls, but when they arrived, I was surprised with how relatively large they were. They weren’t huge, but they seemed big for being smalls.

My first bite was of the white claim pizza, which consisted of fresh clams, garlic, oregano, grated pecorino Romano, and olive oil. The clams were a little chewy (as clams tend to be), and the pizza was dry. It doesn’t have a traditional sauce, only olive oil, so that shouldn’t have been too surprising. The crust was thin and crisp, with a smoky taste from Pepe’s ancient coal-fired oven. The pizza wasn’t horrible, but neither was it great, or even very good. I was disappointed.

The tomato pie was better. The sauce was a little bland, but not bad. Of the two, I preferred the tomato pie, but I wasn’t crazy about either.

One thing I have to mention is that New Haven-style pizzas are traditionally cooked in coal-fired ovens. Doing so causes the crust to char, leaving black, sooty debris on the skin of anyone that touches a slice, making it look vaguely like they been working in the garden. Several times during my lunch, I felt the need to wash my hands because of the black residue. I guess it’s part of he charm of eating New Haven-style pizza, but it’s a charm that was lost on me.

Zeneli Pizzeria e Cucina Napoletana

Because I had five pizzerias I wanted to hit, but only four meals to spread them over, I decided to have a second lunch across the street from Pepe’s at Zeneli Pizzeria e Cucina Napoletana. Zeneli’s is a small, intimate pizzeria that was started by an Albanian family that immigrated first to Naples, Italy, where they learned the pizza trade, then to New Haven. I thought the slogan on their menu, “Finally good pizza has arrived in New Haven” was kind of gutsy considering the city’s pizza history and tradition, particularly in the Little Italy neighborhood where both Pepe’s and Zeneli’s are located.

Although Zeneli’s wasn’t particularly busy, the service was slow. One person was waiting tables both inside and out (Zeneli’s has built a covered, outdoor seating area in front of their restaurant), as well as working the bar and the register. I was in no hurry, so I studied the menu to make sure I knew what I was going to order when the waitress finally found time for me. Of course, when she made her way to my table, I drew a blank and had to look at the menu again.

I ordered a Tartufella, which has fresh mozzarella, black truffle and mushroom cream, and sweet Italian sausage. The crust of my Tartufella was the thinnest crust I have ever seen on a pizza. It was practically translucent. In fact, it could not adequately support the weight of the toppings, causing it to flop when being eaten.

If I’m being honest, I was a little disappointed in the pizza. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t live up to the lofty expectations I had after reading the ingredients. Sausage and mushroom is my thing when it comes to pizza, but the sausage was mediocre, lacking in taste,  and the mushrooms—or more accurately, black truffle and mushroom cream—was kind of bland. Again, it wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t great.

By the way, of the first two pizzerias I visited—Pepe’s and Zeneli’s—Dave Portnoy gave them an 8.5 and 7.2 out of 10 respectively. I would not have given nearly such high scores. And unlike Dave, I preferred the pizza I had at Zeneli’s over Pepe’s. To each, their own.

Sally’s Apizza

That evening, I visited Sally’s Apizza, probably the second most famous pizzeria (behind Pepe’s) in New Haven. When I arrived, there was a line of about 30 people waiting out front, but I was able to snag a parking spot right in front of the restaurant.

One thing I’m not used to, being a small town guy, is the struggle for parking that businesses in New Haven have to deal with. Unlike Pepe’s, Sally’s does not have their own parking lot, and street parking is at a premium. So, I was super lucky to find a spot right in front of the restaurant.

It took about 30-40 minutes to finally get a table. Like Pepe’s, Sally’s is an old school restaurant that looks like it hasn’t been updated in 40 years. I don’t mean that as a slight. The retro feel adds to the vibe of both places.

At Pepe’s and Zeneli’s, the pizzas were basically circular. At Sally’s, they were oblong, which is a hallmark of handmade Neapolitan pies. I ordered two pizzas again: a mozzarella and tomato sauce pie and a pizza Margherita. The specialty at Sally’s is probably either the white clam pizza or the potato and Rosemary special, neither of which tickled my fancy, so I called an audible. I’m glad I did.

The Margherita was initially very tasty, although the allure of the pie seemed to subside as it cooled. Like the white claim pie at Pepe’s, the Margherita was kind of dry for my taste, although, as I said, I really did enjoy the first couple of slices. The tomato sauce was sweet and tasty, the mozzarella was fresh, the drizzle of olive oil added flavor to the pie, and the basil gave it visual appeal, although I didn’t eat it. As much as I enjoyed for the first couple of slices, I ultimately ended up a bit disappointed.

By contrast, the mozzarella and tomato pie was very good, with plenty of Sally’s signature sweet tomato sauce. I think it’s fair to say that Sally’s mozzarella and tomato pie was the best I had in New Haven. To that point, I was feeling a little despondent, making the trek to New Haven only to have pizza I didn’t like much, but Sally’s turned things around.

While at Sally’s, I also had a Foxon Park Root Beer. Foxon Park is a local soft drink company, and several restaurants have it on their menus. Like much of what I was tasting in New Haven, the root beer seemed to fall short of expectations. Foxon Park’s Root Beer has a more bland, less distinctive taste than other root beers I’ve had in the past. It especially falls short compared to root beers from places like Sprecher’s or Calvin’s 1836. In fact, I even prefer such mainstream brands as A&W, Barq’s, and Dad’s Root Beer to Foxon Park.

When it came to Sally’s, Dave Portnoy and I agree that it is better than Pepe’s or Zeneli’s. However, Dave gave it a monster score of 9.2, significantly higher than I would have gone. I would have scored it around 8.1.

Modern Apizza

With only two pizzerias remaining, things were looking up. For lunch the next day, I gave Modern Apizza a try. When you enter the restaurant, you are actually entering a vestibule of sorts, where you are expected to wait until a host or hostess comes out to get your name and the number in your party. That sounds worse than it is. The hosts and hostesses I encountered were very friendly, and the wait was not particularly long.

Once inside, I ordered a tomato and mozzarella pie as well as my go to favorite, sausage and mushroom. For a drink, I again went with a Foxon Park Root Beer (I didn’t say I hated it. It’s just not as good as other root beers I’ve had).

I tried the tomato and mozzarella pie first. It was very good, on par with Sally’s. If I want to be picky (I usually do), I found Sally’s sauce just slightly better, but Modern’s was close behind. The sausage and mushroom pizza was also good. The sausage at Modern was much better than the sausage used by Zeneli’s, but not as good as you would find at virtually any local Chicago pizzeria.

At Modern, as it was at Pepe’s and Sally’s, I was perturbed with the black marks I got on my hands from the coal-fired crust. It’s a small thing to complain about, but it did get annoying constantly having to wipe my hands.

For dinner, my plan was to go to Bar Pizza, but as I found out, their seating is limited and they were completely booked for the evening. Just as well. I had my fill of New Haven-style pizza. Despite some high points at Sally’s and Modern, I failed to see the alure of the pizza, or Dave Portnoy’s declaration of New Haven as the Pizza Capital of America. To my mind, Chicago still holds that title, with New York a distant second.

My time in Connecticut was up. It was time to head to Shenandoah National Park to try to hike off some of my gluttonous behavior in New Haven. I looked forward to getting out of the densely-packed Northeast and once again enjoy the wide open spaces. Until next time…

I left Aurora (see my last post) and headed south to Tennessee. Although I was staying in Murfreesboro, I would also be spending time in Nashville, and making at least one visit to Pleasant View, a small town midway between Nashville and Clarksville where I’m building a house.

In Murfreesboro, I had dinner with my son and future daughter-in-law, Isabelle, who I call Izzy. We met at Neighbors Bar & Grill, a new place in Murfreesboro. And like most new places that open in Murfreesboro, it was packed. There were no tables available, so we went across the street to Drake’s, another newer restaurant that used to be constantly packed until Firebird’s Steakhouse and Neighbor’s opened up nearby. The public is fickle, always looking for the next new, shiny object.

Unfortunately, Drake’s disappointed. Izzy and I both got the filet and grilled chicken combo. The 4.5 ounce filet was cooked perfectly (medium-rare), yet it was tough and tasteless. The grilled chicken was dry and overcooked, although it had a good taste. I got my meal with tater tots (like any 12-year-old child). The tots were very good, although not good enough to make up for the crappy steak and chicken.

Of course, the meal wasn’t the point of getting together with Louis and Izzy. Any time I come to town, it is good to see them and catch up on their busy lives. Louis is an exercise physiologist at a cardiac clinic, and he also takes on a few clients as a personal trainer. Izzy is a nurse who recently passed her boards (or certification) to become a nurse practitioner. They are both constantly on the go, busy with both their personal and professional lives.

One of the reasons I’m moving back to Tennessee is to be closer to Louis and Izzy, as well as my daughter, Shelby. Louis and Izzy will be getting married in 2026, and Shelby is currently in a serious relationship. I want to be close to them as their young lives move forward. Could grandkids be in the cards? Truthfully, I think I’ll love being a grandfather, but I’m in no rush. My main concern is that my kids develop successful personal and professional lives. If that includes having kids, all the better. But no pressure.

It was good catching up with Louis and Izzy. My next day was open, so I made my way to Cedars of Lebanon State Park in Lebanon, TN. It’s one of my favorite places to hike. Since I hadn’t been out hiking in a while, I decided to go on the two-mile loop Cedar Forest Trail. I’ve hiked this trail more than any other trail in the world. It used to be my go-to trail when I lived in Murfreesboro previously. But the trail looked different. Park personnel had created a new entrance to the trail, and trees and brush had been cleared away from the trailhead. As I hiked, I saw more changes. It appeared that a tornado had swept through the park, downing trees throughout the area, including felling a few across the trail. There were so many downed and uprooted trees, I lost count. Crews had removed some of the larger trees that were blocking the trail, but other smaller trees were left in place, making for a slightly more strenuous hike.

It took me a good half-a-mile to settle into the hike. It seems to take so long to get into hiking shape, but it can be lost so quickly. After not hiking for more than a month, my trail legs were gone, and my cardiovascular system had taken a hit. I huffed and puffed along the trail, climbing over rocks and trees. I cursed myself for not staying in better shape. I like to eat and sit, and I tend to be good at both activities. Exercising always seems to take a backseat. I’m counting on my son to whip me into shape once I get to Tennessee full-time.

Thankfully, both my legs and my cardio system settled into a rhythm after a half mile. My legs felt stronger and my breathing and heart rate slowed. I love to hike. I really need to make it more of a priority in my life.

After two miles, I made my way back to the car, drenched with sweat, but feeling better about myself. There are so many benefits to exercise. Getting out and walking through the woods is a great way to spend your time. It helps strengthen your cardiovascular system, builds stronger muscles, and it improves overall fitness. But maybe the most important benefit is what it does to you mentally. It gives your mind a chance to quiet and just focus on the task at hand, and it tends to make you feel better about yourself. So, why don’t we exercise more? I can’t speak for everyone, but for me, it’s because I’m lazy. I’ll also add that I’m often busy and I don’t prioritize exercise. But mostly, it’s because I’m lazy. Let’s see if I can change that as my homeless tour of the nation continues.

That night, Louis, Izzy, and I went to Tijuana Flats, a Tex-Mex franchise. It was Louis and Izzy’s first time to the restaurant. I had been there a couple of times before and really didn’t care for it. Even so, I agreed to give it another try. I’m glad I did. The food was much better than I remember it. That makes me happy because the restaurant was started by a fellow alum from University of Central Florida.  Us Golden Knights have to stick together.

On Thursday, I met up with Shelby and her girlfriend Kara to move a couch and Clavinova (a kind of electronic piano made by Yamaha). She picked up a sectional sofa from a friend’s house without my help, but needed my assistance to move the Clavinova, which she was picking up from her mother’s house.

My ex-wife, Kim, and I have been separated for twelve years and divorced for nine after a marriage that lasted 28 years. We don’t see each other often, but when we do, we have learned to be generally civil to each other. Even so, it was odd being in her house, moving something that used to belong to both of us.

The word “surreal” is often overused, but I think it applies in this situation. Standing in Kim’s living room moving something that we bought and owned together felt surreal. I remember the discussions we had about buying it, the time we spent in the stores looking at options, the sound of the Clavinova as each of us played it. I don’t want to imply too much emotion about the experience. It wasn’t emotional. It was just strange. Even hours after leaving Kim’s house and delivering the Clavinova to Shelby’s, I still had this voice in the back of my head saying, “That was weird.”

When we were done at Shelby’s, she and I headed to Bartaco in East Nashville. We parked several blocks away from the restaurant only to find that Bartaco has their own parking lot. Oh well, the walk did us both good.

I ordered two tacos; one pork belly and one crispy shrimp. We munched on chips and salsa while we waited. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the restaurant was pretty empty. Nashville is full of restaurants like Bartaco; hipster joints that serve delicious, gourmet-style food, locally-brewed beer, and craft cocktails. I’m not a hipster, but I enjoy the bar and restaurant scene in the city. I hope to take greater advantage of it when I move nearby later this year.

The tacos at Bartaco were the smallest I’ve ever seen. When I saw them, I involuntarily thought about the movie Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. The crispy shrimp taco was pretty good, but I was disappointed in the pork belly. There wasn’t much to the taco to begin with, and the pork belly was dry and overcooked. Shelby suggested we get some fried plantains. I’m glad she did. I didn’t expect it, but the fried plantains at Bartaco are the best I’ve ever had. And that’s saying a lot considering the amount of time I have lived in Florida, the fried plantain capital of America.

We went back to Shelby’s so she could shower, and I could move my laundry from the washer to the dryer (I was doing my laundry while I had the opportunity). Afterwards, we went to the Red Door Saloon in East Nashville for a couple of drinks. Shelby thinks it’s hilarious that I like the Red Door so much. I’m not sure why I do, but I’ve been there a few times and whenever I’m in town, I want to go back. Maybe it’s because the Red Door is a Chicago bar, with sports paraphernalia on the walls  for all of the Chicago sports teams. There’s even a sign in the bar directing patrons to visit the Country Club Bar in Wrigleyville the next time they are in Chicago. I like that.

I enjoyed sitting at the bar with Shelby, talking about our lives. I think Shelby and I usually communicate pretty well. I know it can be hard talking to your kids, especially as they get older, develop their own opinions, and build their own lives. But as we sat at the bar, Shelby and I opened up to each other, telling stories and sharing our feelings about a number of different issues. I’m sure the beer helped the conversation flow. Regardless, it was a wonderful time.

Shelby works as a sound engineer for country musician Jon Pardi. Her job keeps her on the road at least 50% of the time, so she is often unavailable to meet with me so we can waste time together, like we were doing at the Red Door. After a few drinks, it was time to leave. Shelby had other plans, and I needed to pick up my laundry. Moving furniture, eating mini-tacos, and drinking beer may not sound like the best day, but for me, it was fantastic.

In addition to seeing my kids, the purpose of my trip to Tennessee was to meet with the company building my home. Unfortunately, they’ve fallen behind (surprise, surprise) and were not ready to meet. So, on Friday, I drove out to Pleasant View to take a look at the house. When I got there, I saw that all four exterior walls were up, and workers were cutting holes in the walls for windows. In a few days, they’ll be ready to put the roof on.

I haven’t lived in a subdivision for a while. My home in Wisconsin sat back in the woods on 26 acres. Seeing the shell of my new house sitting on a postage stamp-sized lot was a bit of a shock. I mean, I wasn’t surprised about the size of the lot. I saw it before I bought the house. But seeing how much of it is taken up by the house and how relatively small the backyard is was a bit shocking. This is going to be quite the change.

On Sunday, I met Louis and Izzy for brunch at a little place near their apartment called Eggs Up Grill. I had not heard of it before, but it is apparently a franchise with locations across the southeast. We started with Eggs Up’s freshly made mini-donuts, split in half and filled with sweet custard and strawberries. They were finished off with a little powdered sugar. OMG! They were decadent and delicious. As I ate, I wanted to cry and sing and speak in tongues. They were that good.

For my entrée, I had a Crab Cake and avocado scrambler, which consisted of two crab cakes, chopped avocado, scrambled eggs, and chopped tomatoes with a hollandaise sauce. Delicious! I will definitely visit Eggs Up again, although I should probably start an exercise program and lose some weight first.

Leaving Tennessee this time was not as bittersweet as it usually is because this time, I know I’m coming back to stay. Until then, my journey continues. Next time, I’ll be in the northeast enjoying seafood on Narragansett Bay, pizza in what one person called the pizza capital of America, and I’ll visit a couple of our national parks.

I haven’t lived in Aurora, IL since 1984. Even for a few years before that, I was only a part-time resident, spending most of the year away at college. But even today, whenever I visit the Aurora area, I feel like I’m home. I still know my way around. I still know the names of most of the streets. And most importantly, I still know a lot of people in the area.

As I wrote in my last dispatch, flooding at my office in Wisconsin had me leaving Florida earlier than expected, and I found myself without plans for the 4^th of July weekend. The AirBnB I had rented in Wisconsin was booked for the weekend, so I had to figure out other accommodations. I decided to go back home to Aurora.

My first stop on the way to Aurora was in Malta, IL, a town I didn’t even know existed until my friend Linda “Luch” Luciani moved there several years ago. Luch has a beautiful little place out in the country that reminds me of Little House on the Prairie. We made plans to meet for lunch at Remington’s Gastropub in downtown Malta.

I got to Remington’s before Luch and was disappointed to see a sign on the door that indicated that due to a broken freezer, they were going to be closed for the day. I called Luch, and she suggested we go to Fatty’s Pub & Grille in neighboring DeKalb. I drove the ten minutes down the road to Fatty’s just to find that they too were closed for the 4^th of July. I called Luch again. This time, she suggested The Junction in DeKalb. The third time was the charm. They were open.

It’s a good thing that Luch and I had a lot of catching up to do because the service at The Junction was not speedy. In fact, we had to ask for extra ice twice, because the ice in our drinks had melted while we waited for our food. But the restaurant wasn’t the point of our visit. Seeing each other was.

Luch is a retired teacher who spent her career at Schaumburg High School. Actually, calling Luch retired is a bit of a misnomer. Although she’s not teaching in the classroom anymore, she does work one semester each year at Northern Illinois University (NIU) helping to coordinate the student teaching requirements of education majors. She also spends a good amount of time helping her son raise Shorthorn show cattle. Between her work at NIU, helping with the cattle, and visiting with her grandkids, she keeps plenty busy.

We had a nice slow lunch, then it was time for me to move on to Aurora for more visits. I didn’t have anything planned for 4^th of July evening, so I made my way to Portillo’s for a Chicago dog. What could be more American than having a hotdog on the 4^th of July?

The next day, my brother Mike and I went to lunch at Rambo’s Bar & Grill, near Mike’s home in Somonauk. Rambo’s is kind of a dive bar and restaurant that serves pizza from their sister restaurant, Uncle Milty’s Pizza Palace. Mike is particular about his pizza, so he ordered it well done with the edges rolled.

While we waited, we had a couple of beers and watched the beginning of the Cubs vs. Cardinals game. On another TV, IndyCar qualifying from Mid-Ohio was on. It was like being in sports Heaven.

Mike and I had a good time, reminiscing about our childhoods and the people we grew up with in our old neighborhood. Between being back in the Aurora area and talking about our younger years, my memory was working overtime.

I have always maintained that I had a great childhood. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But I have to admit that as a writer, it makes it more difficult to write characters who are going through tough times or suffering trauma. If you’ve read any of my books, you know that, although the characters face challenges, things are often not as bad as they could be. I’ve been told in the past that I need to put my characters in worse, more dangerous, situations. I don’t disagree, but it can be tough when you had the kind of great childhood I had. Even so, I’m working on it.

After a few more beers, Mike and I parted ways, and I went back to Aurora. With no plans for the rest of the day, I drove around a bit, going past our old houses and exploring our old neighborhoods. The memories continued to flow.

I had a very different childhood than my kids had. I was a free-range kid who was given a ton of freedom from a young age. I think most of us back then were raised that way. I remember being just twelve or thirteen and routinely riding my bike on the Pioneer Trail from Aurora to St. Charles along the Fox River. I thought nothing of being that far away from home (about 15 miles). In contrast, I would have never allowed my kids to ride their bikes that far away from home at such a young age. Again, I think that type of more protective parenting was the norm when my kids were young, but it makes me sad that they didn’t get to experience the type of freedom I experienced as they were growing up.

My next visit was with my friends Keith and Mary Johnson. A week earlier, Keith retired following a 40+ year career in the corporate offices of Ace Hardware, so we met up at Granite City Food & Brewery in Naperville to celebrate.

Keith is one of three friends I’ve had since at least junior high that I have stayed close with over the years. The other two are Ken Jordan and Paul Baudouin. People say it is odd to stay so close for so many years, but that hasn’t been my experience.

A few years ago, our friend Bill Breeden, passed away following an issue with his heart. Bill’s death hit me hard, and ever since, I have made an effort to get Ken, Paul, Keith and myself together once a year or so. It can be hard to juggle schedules, especially when kids and grandkids are in the picture, but I definitely think it is worth the effort.

Bill’s death made me realize how important it is to stay in touch with friends, and how easy it is to lose touch with them. It’s not so much that we lost touch with Bill, but we didn’t stay as close to him as we could have. We took for granted that we had plenty of time to talk and hang out. But the truth is, none of us ever knows how much time we really have. Bill’s death brought that home to me.

Keith, Mary, and I had a good visit. I’m already looking forward to seeing them again soon. And with any luck, Paul and Ken will be there too.

With the end of my visit to Aurora, I’m back on the original schedule I set for myself for the summer. Next stop: Tennessee.

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” –Robert Burns

One of the things I have enjoyed most about my homeless tour of America this summer is planning the logistics of the trip. It’s fun to look at a calendar and fill the empty days like an artist filling a blank canvas. There’s a certain freedom involved with making plans for a three-month adventure.

But there’s a reason that the famous Yiddish proverb says, “Man plans, and God laughs.” Even the best laid plans are subject to change.

I was enjoying kicking around Florida, seeing friends and family, and visiting some of my favorite places. My tenure in Florida was supposed to last until the middle of July, but fate had other plans. While I was complaining about an insignificant rain shower in the Keys, my office in Wisconsin was being deluged with several inches of rain. Not only did my office flood, but I stored all of my furniture and other possessions in an empty office in the same building, and it got flooded too. It was time to head north.

As you might imagine, I was a little freaked out. My business was literally under water, and nearly everything I owned had been damaged by the flood waters. But something unexpected happened. I stopped freaking out.

I tend to like to control things. I’m not a control freak, but I prefer to direct the outcome of my life rather than accept whatever life brings my way. It’s how I’ve lived most of my life, and although the results have been mixed, I’ve generally been happy with the outcomes.

For whatever reason, this flood shifted my thinking. Rather than continually worrying about the flooding, I just accepted that all of my stuff had been ruined. When I let go of the attachment to my things, the worry dissipated. Suddenly, the idea of starting with a clean slate became appealing. I came to embrace the idea of starting over.

Although I welcomed this change in perspective, I have to admit that it surprised me. As I drove north toward Wisconsin, several times, I caught myself trying to get upset about the flood damage. It was an odd phenomenon trying to be upset. I couldn’t do it. I was at peace with whatever damage the flood had caused.

I didn’t know it during my drive, but I soon learned about the destructive power of attachments from Anthony de Mello, an Indian priest and psychotherapist. De Mello, who died in 1987, spoke about how attachments lead to unhappiness and anxiety.

Here’s how he described an attachment:

“An attachment is a state of clinging to something or someone that you believe is necessary for your happiness. Thus, attachments have you thinking, ‘Unless or until I get or can keep [fill in the blank], I cannot be happy’…Attachments have us thinking that, I cannot be happy unless I get out of debt . . . I can’t be happy unless my boss appreciates me. . . unless I make that sale . . . unless my neurosis goes away.”

I remember hearing something similar from a Buddhist teaching. In that case, it was that attachment and expectations lead to suffering. Remove the attachment or expectation, and suffering disappears. The Buddha taught that all things are impermanent, and attachment to them, whether material possessions, relationships, or even our own bodies, leads to dissatisfaction and pain when they inevitably change or cease to exist.

For de Mello, this does not mean that we have to give up enjoyment of the material world. There is a difference between denouncing the material world and simply detaching from it. As he explains, “One uses the material world, one enjoys the material world, but one does not make one’s happiness depend on the material world. We begin to enjoy worldly things when we are unattached because attachment makes us tense, frustrated, nervous, insecure and fearful. Let go of an attachment to something, and we begin to enjoy what it provides.”

Although this way of thinking was not completely new to me, I don’t think that I’ve ever practiced it before. The experience was a little uncomfortable, but the outcome was great. I detached the connection I had to my material possessions in the office, and I was happy despite potentially losing nearly everything I owned. I was at peace with whatever happened. It’s not a feeling I was used to, but I wanted more of it.

When I got to my office, things were much better than I expected. Not only had the office that houses my business dried out, but I found that my personal possessions had only suffered minor damage. My initial worry was a complete waste of time. I suppose that’s another important lesson I need to learn.

I’m thankful that the flood didn’t destroy my things, but I’m even more thankful for the change in my thinking that the flood brought about. As a result, I’m going to work hard in the future to stay detached from material possessions, relationships, and outcomes. Easier said than done, I know. But it’s a worthy goal.

My time in Wisconsin came to an end. I’ll be back at the end of the month, but it was time to head out on the road again, this time to see my brother and a couple of friends. More on that next time.