Trick or Treat

I never had a fancy Halloween costume as a kid. We didn’t have big Halloween stores stocked with expensive costumes, talking skulls and life-size, animatronic Freddy Krueger dolls. We also didn’t have a Wal-Mart with rows of discounted outfits and semi-realistic rubber masks. Halloween was low-tech back then, but just as fun.

Each year was pretty much the same. We bought a cheap, thin, plastic mask (which was supposed to look like Frankenstein or an evil clown) and wore it with our regular clothes. If Mom had an old white sheet, we might cut a hole in the middle to stick our head through and go as a ghost clown or a ghost Frankenstein, but that was about as fancy as we got.

The masks were held on by a rubber band that barely stretched enough to get over my head. It was so tight that a tiny ridge would form in my scalp and remain there for days. The band never made it through the night, however, usually breaking and being retied several times, which only made it tighter. By the time we got home, it had created a new part in my hair, running around my head just above my ears.

The sharp oval edge of the mask, pulled snug by the rubber band, dug into my chubby round face and created a seal which held in not only the plastic smell, but also the toxic Petri dish of hot breath and sweat building up inside. There was usually a small slit across the molded mouth and two eye holes which never seemed to line up with my actual line of sight and provided almost no relief or fresh air from the oppressive heat and moisture. On even the coldest Halloween nights, I staggered around the streets under the delirium of growing heat exhaustion, pushed on only by the promise of the goodies slowly collecting in the bottom of the pillowcase I carried.

There is a particular excitement about walking up to a stranger’s house, knocking on the door and getting candy. You never know if the person will be happy to see you or maybe be that grumpy old man you’ve heard about who grabs little kids and feeds them to his Doberman. The air is full of mystery and the rustle of the leaves whisper to you as you walk. It’s dark, and in the distance you can see little clusters of other creepily dressed trick or treaters, passing under streetlights and disappearing in the shadows.

Mrs. McClain, a short, sweet widow lady who lived just across the street, always made popcorn balls for us, wrapping them in plastic wrap and tying them with ribbon. She’d have other candy too, and not the cheap stuff. She gave us full size candy bars, like Almond Joy (which was my favorite), or hands full of Hershey Kisses. As I got older I realized that she had two bowls of candy; one for the regular trick or treaters and one for the Warford kids.

When we got home, we’d dump our candy out on the den floor and wade through our treasures, separating them into the good stuff and the stuff that would go back in the bag for a day when we were really desperate. The rare packs of M & M’s, Snickers and Reese Cups barely made it into the good pile without being eaten immediately, while Necco Wafers, Dots, and those bizarre orange Circus Peanuts were pushed aside to be experimented with and thrown out later.

Candy Corn fell into an in-between ranking. They didn’t have a lot of flavor, but at least they were easy to eat and could be made into a game, of sorts. My goal while eating Candy Corn was to try and dissect the three unique colors (white, orange and yellow) evenly with my teeth. After all these years, on the rare occasion that I eat candy corn, I still eat them the same way.

These days, we’re serious about our trick or treating. We drive to high volume, high yield areas. We plan our attacks with the precision of a military exercise. Costumes ideas are more elaborate and often unified in theme. Although our two older kids have outgrown the act of begging for candy (at least from strangers), they still dress up and go with us. It’s a family event we all enjoy and look forward to each year. I hope their memories of Halloween are as special as mine are.

Video-drone

I’m not fond of the term “couch potato.” First, a potato has no arms, so it would be incapable of either using a remote control or reaching for snacks. Second, without a brain it’s just a starchy tuber, unable to master the complexity of multiple technological gadgets. I have four remotes on my end table and the exact order of use, menu options and necessary interactions require what is the equivalent to a Master’s degree in quantum mechanics (and that’s not counting the additional learning curve required to fire up the Wii). No, my living room is not a playground for veggies. It’s serious stuff.

However, I am not offended by the term “TV junkie,” although I’m sure I should be. It would be dishonest (and easily proven false) for me to say that I do not love television. I’ve been a watcher all of my life, starting with my parents old black and white console and continuing to my current home which has a TV in almost every room except the bathroom (and I have considered that, but I am afraid it will cut down on my already limited reading time).

Now, I know that a lot of people will argue that too much television is a bad thing, and I’d agree. You have to sleep…that’s a basic human need. Work too, is important. Without those paychecks, the power would be cut off, and eventually some kind of eviction would take place, removing me from my home and the televisions. So…there has to be a balance.

I was speaking to someone the other day who said they do not own a television. She said she didn’t need it. She had cats. My first thought was, “those must be some mighty entertaining felines,” but I knew that there could be no comparison. Cat’s would never wear a puffy shirt, or eat Kerosene pickles, or boldly go where no cat has gone before. No, the cat lady went into my mental file cabinet, labeled the same as everyone else who says that they don’t own a television is classified, “eccentric and weird.”

Like everything else that’s either good or bad for you, there have been improvements over the years. When I was a kid, we had an antenna on a pole attached to the side of our house. If one of our four channels did not come in clearly, we opened the den window, reached out and turned the antenna. Simple fixes for simpler times.

Now, I have digital high definition cable. 450 advertised channels (although two hundred of those are music channels, which I do not classify as television). The rest are split between the regular versions of cable channels and the HD versions. Then there are the multiple versions of MTV, VH1, Discovery, ESPN, Disney and HGTV, most of which hold little to no interest for me. By the time it all narrows down, there are about six channels that I watch consistently. That’s two more than I watched when I was a kid for free. Now I pay over $100 per month. That’s called “progress.”

Still, I have my shows that I do not want to miss, and the one piece of technological genius that I have fallen in love with is my DVR. No more blank VHS tapes and tricky timer settings for me. Just label a show a “favorite” and the DVR will record all the episodes. This works great, as long as the kids don’t do the same for “Suite Life of Zach and Cody” and “Hannah Montana.” Disney airs episodes of these shows constantly, so the DVR space will fill up in less than a day. (This situation has been dealt with in my home. I would explain further, but we agreed as a family not to discuss it anymore).

The best thing about recording our shows on the DVR is that we have the ability to fast forward through the commercials. We can skip through a half hour show in less than twenty minutes, and a full hour show in less than forty five. When you watch a lot of television, that’s important. That gives us extra time to do something as a family, or take a nap.

Because I’m sure you are dying to know what my “don’t miss” shows are right now, I’ve made a little list. I keep telling myself that if I stuck to this list and did something productive with the rest of my free time, I’d probably accomplish something, but that’s the problem with TV addiction…you stare at the screen even when there’s nothing worthwhile flashing across it.

Monday:
How I Met Your Mother (I’ve been a fan since day one. Definitely under-rated and absolutely Legen---wait for it—dary)
The Big Bang Theory (funniest show on television right now and a family favorite)

Tuesday:
NCIS (what can I say, that Mark Harmon is sexy)
Biggest Loser (great to watch while gorging on pizza rolls and ice cream, especially if you want to hate yourself in the morning)

Wednesday:
The Middle (brand new and already a family favorite. Second funniest show on TV. The whispering kid kills me!)
Glee (words cannot express how much I love this show)

Thursday:
Bones (this is the one show on the list I do not watch regularly, but should. I love this show and the characters. Better than any of the CSI shows)
The Office (not as great as it used to be...but neither am I)
30 Rock (the previous funniest show on TV is still funny…and I never get tired of Tina Fey or Alec Baldwin)

Friday:
Monk (an old friend that will soon go away. He was the one person more weird than me. What will I do when he’s gone?)
Psych (funnier than most sitcoms, our family watches this…and Monk…together. If there were no other reason, that would still make it one of my favorite shows)

Saturday:
Saturday Night Live (almost always more “miss” than “hit,” I still like to see when it knocks one out of the park. Thank goodness for the DVR, I don’t have to stay up late anymore to watch it)

Sunday:
I have no great love for the shows of Sunday night, so I give my eyes a rest (or catch up on shows I’ve recorded).

Of course, this list does not include 24 or Lost, which don’t start until after the first of the year, but it’s a pretty good list. Like I said, it’s not as bad as I thought. When I honestly looked at the schedule, these are the only shows I really feel the urge to see each week.


That leads me to a bigger question. What do I do with the rest of my time?

Sunny Daze

I’ve tried to think of a way to put into words the beauty of the sky as I flew into Knoxville Thursday evening. After the weirdness of the previous flights, it was nice to be on that last short leg of the trip and know that I was finally going home, but once I was in the air, flying higher and higher above the graying clouds, I almost wanted to stay up there.

The gloom and rain that has saturated our days in the last few weeks seems to have seeped into our souls. I’m used to my buddy Thaddeus whining and complaining about the miserable weather in Seattle and I like to give him a hard time, telling him it’s not so bad and he needs to just deal with it. Now I know that it’s not so easy. Constant rain and clouds saps you of energy and joy. Those who grew up in the Northwest might be used to it, but it’s not normal for us. We’re shiny happy people. We like our sun.

Like Superman, we tend to get our energy from the sun. On a beautiful, sunny day, we feel empowered. It makes for a good day to hike, or doing outdoor chores. When the sun is shining we feel we need to do something, because it’s just too glorious a day not to.

Rainy days, however, are great for staying in bed…or just lounging on the couch and watching reruns of shows you weren’t sure you liked in the first place. Anything but having to expend energy which we are pretty sure we don’t have. Our batteries are used up, and without the sun, we don’t have a way of recharging.

I have been reading about everyone’s shared despondency on Facebook. Rain, rain, go away, they all seemed to say, we’ve had enough and we want to play. As I talked to Connie each day on the phone, she talked in hushed tones about the ever present drizzle or downpours and the despairing mood at home. As much as I wanted to be there, I knew that I was not walking into a party, but more the mood of a wake.

Yet, as I stared blissfully out my oval airplane window, nearly blinded by the brilliant, radiant light, I could hardly comprehend the doom and gloom below. As we sank lower and lower in the sky, I was amazed at how long the sun stayed with us. Below ten thousand feet, it was just as powerful. Farther and farther we dropped, and my eyes still squinted from the rays, even as our wheel bays opened and I could feel the hydraulics expand and lock into place.

We sank into wisps of white clouds that quickly grew darker, and in seconds we were out of them and racing toward the quickly approaching ground. Splatters of rain hit my window and our wheels touched down with jolt on the runway. I bent my head to look out the window and up at the sky. Dark clouds, gloomy and denying, lay low over us.

I don’t know how many times I’ve flown over the years, on both clear, beautiful days and those when I felt that noontime could just as well be dusk, but I had never been struck with such a clear vision of how small my peripheral vision was until right then. We see what we see, and are often easily blinded by the swirl dark clouds in front of us. When that happens, it is almost like that is all there is and ever was. That the sun is not simply hidden, but non-existent. Nothing could be further from the truth.

As I drove home, swallowed by dark clouds and spit at by rain, I smiled. I felt energized. I had seen the sun, and had captured a piece of it to take with me. I knew now that what I should have realized all along. The clouds were only a few hundred feet off the ground, and they were thin and weak. The sun was always in its place, as bright and powerful and life affirming as ever. I just had to have the faith that I could still feel it’s warmth on cold, dreary days, and wait for the day that it would wash over my face again, so bright that I will have to cover my eyes.

Flying High (the unintended sequel)

Flying High 2

As I settled into my seat on flight 6127 yesterday afternoon, after another round of delays and airport aggravation, I was primarily thinking about getting home. It had been a relatively short trip, but it made no difference. When it’s time to go home, you just want to get there.

This plane was smaller than what I had flown on Monday, with two seats on one side and a single seat on the other. I was happy to have gotten a lone seat, avoiding the uncomfortable head nods and awkward press of body to body that always seems to be more my fault than theirs.

While I stuffed my backpack under the seat in front of me, I heard a voice that plucked at my memory and my nerves. “Good Gawd, I don’t think they can make these things any smaller! I can’t hardly get my big butt through here.”

I looked up to see the frizzy hair and frowning face of Ann, one third of the drunken trio who had tortured me on my previous flight. I almost had to laugh. Maybe this was some kind of Karmic retribution for my withering lack of patience with folks who lack certain basic social skills. They say you get what you deserve, so this must have been God’s way of saying, “straighten up, buddy. Fly right.”

To make matters worse, she sat behind me again. If this was to be retribution, then there could be no other place. She had her three bags of Phillies’s memorabilia and her Ben Franklin coffee mugs (which, even when wrapped well, can give a good wallop to a shoulder when they are swung through the aisles with mad abandon). She grabbed my seat and used it to guide herself into a sitting position, pulling with such force that I nearly reclined into her lap.

The other two ladies came along soon after, and were fortunately seated somewhere in the rear of the plane. I almost expected them to carry on a conversation across ten rows, but thankfully, they did not. The younger woman had a bag of food from Panda Express, so I was even happier that she was not sitting near me. I’m not a fan of smelly food on an airplane, and the aroma of Mu Shu Pork or Sesame Chicken can be a bit overpowering. If we encountered any turbulence, that smell would not help keep stomachs calm.

Ann seemed to be having trouble with all her stuff. The overhead bins were mostly full and there wasn’t enough room under my seat for her combination of souvenirs, large purse and leopard print carry-on. The man across the aisle from her, trying to be nice, offered to help stow her bags. I glanced back and saw her eyes mist over. I think she fell in love.

“Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart” she said, her voice dripping with smoke damaged southern charm. He took part of her bags and stuffed them into spaces in two different bins. “Oh Gawd,” she gushed, “I just might have to take you home with me!” He smiled politely and I considered grabbing his arm to warn him; “run man…get off the plane! Rent a car or walk if you have to, but don’t get caught in her snare!”

She continued having trouble getting situated, and I could feel her twisting behind me, pulling hard on my seat over and over again, and then letting it go to spring it forward against my head with a thump. Her knee jabbed into my back repeatedly, and if I hadn’t been more than a little bit scared of her, I would have said something. Instead, I just grimaced in pain and thought about how I would decimate her in my blog.

Before the door was closed for takeoff, a passenger in one of the front seats made their way down the aisle to the back, and not long after, the co-pilot did the same. Ann reached across the aisle and poked her new boyfriend in the arm. “What’s the deal? Is there a bathroom back there or something?”

I glanced back and caught the look on his face. Like most people, he didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled and buried his nose in the Delta Sky magazine. She wouldn’t let him off so easy though, adding, “I hope we don’t fly too high this time. That just kills my ears.”

I have to admit that this time I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud.

The rest of the flight was fairly non-eventful. Ann fell asleep not long after take-off and alternately snored and snorted through the rest of the flight. When we finally landed, I was tempted to ask how her manhunt had gone in Philadelphia, but decided against it. My curiosity was not worth the mental scars that too much information would no doubt create.

I hurried to get off the plane and found my way quickly to my next gate, desperately hoping that they were not somehow on my flight to Knoxville. They were not, and I did not see nor hear them again. Much later, after more delays and some mechanical troubles that kept me in Cincinnati longer than I wanted, I sat and wondered if there was some lesson that I was supposed to learn from all this.

I’m sure there were plenty. Maybe I am supposed to be more tolerant. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about people being obnoxious in public. Maybe I should simply drive instead of fly if my destination is within the continental United States. All of these and more are likely true. If I were a better person, I might actually learn from them, but like the drunken trio, I have my own faults, and I seriously doubt that I’m gonna change.

Flying High

Flying always seems to get the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. This is very unfortunate considering the frequency of my air travel, but nonetheless it provides me with constant fuel for my various rants.

Yesterday I was struck by delays and cramped seating, oversold flights and cranky fellow travelers. Topping that off, when we finally landed in Philadelphia, after what had been a long layover in Cincinnati, our gate was occupied by another plane and we had to sit on the runway for over thirty minutes, staring at the dozen or so empty gates that surrounded our final destination. Obviously, the decision makers at the airport had no idea the stew of frustration and anger already boiling inside our metal tube.

Taking up the entire row behind me, window to window, were three women who I will politely refer to as “classless rednecks.” Two sat in the seats directly behind me, and the third lady, rather wide in the hip area, sat in the two seats across from them. Undeterred by the loud hum of the jet engines, nor the fact that they were surrounded by fellow travelers who were trying to read, sleep or carry on their own quiet conversations, they bellowed across the aisle to each other.

I’m not sure how they had spent all their time in the Cincinnati airport, but I’d wager everything I own that a good portion of it had been in a bar. Although I am fairly confident that they were relatively obnoxious when sober, the intake of alcohol had given them the added delusion that they were sexy, funny and the only people on the plane.

Throughout the flight these three conversed loudly on a variety of subjects; anything from one’s lack of texting skills to another’s irritable bowel syndrome. Apparently the one named Ann had a husband named Ray who didn’t pay her a lot of attention. She seemed fine with that however, and stated clearly that she intended to find someone who would, hopefully at their hotel bar that very evening.

One commented on the fact that her daughter had developed quite a “potty mouth,” and then proceeded to prove that the fruit did not fall far from the tree. In fact, all three sounded like they had just come ashore from a six month tour of duty, where they likely terrorized their fellow sailors with their obnoxious behavior and crass language.

I realized through their incessant chatter that none of the three had flown before, but I also had to wonder if they had ever been out in public. I only hoped that where ever they came from, it was neither Tennessee nor Kentucky. Holding claims to both states as home, I would have been very embarrassed.

Ann complained for most of the flight about her ears hurting. At one point, and I swear I am not making this up, she actually said, “Why do these damn planes have to fly so high?” The woman in the seat next to me looked up from her book when she heard that nugget of genius and glanced at me as if to say “did I just hear her say that?”

Of course, when it was finally time to leave the plane, they did not follow the rules. Pushing their way forward, they muttered “’scuse me” and elbowed people back into their seats to clear a path. I heard one cackle throatily over her shoulder to her friends, “Why are they all in such a damn hurry?”

I can walk pretty fast when I want to, so inside the terminal, I got away from them as fast as my legs would go, but could still hear their throaty horse laughs echoing down the corridors, frightening small children and peeling paint off the walls. I have no idea where they were going or in what hotel they were staying. I prayed that it was not mine, and I also said a little prayer for the unsuspecting fellow who would cross their path later that evening in a hotel bar. I hoped that he would not be so drunk that he would fall into their grasp, or if he did, that he would be too drunk to remember.

A Noble Attempt

It’s been fascinating to watch the reaction today to the announcement that Barack Obama has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. There is a considerable amount of shock, which is understandable, especially since Obama has only been in office for nine months and his legacy has barely been sketched, let alone carved into monument. The view that this prize might be a tad pre-mature is reasonable, but the more base reactions of the American public might also give more credence as to why he actually got the award.

He survived a fairly vicious presidential campaign with his dignity intact. He maintained a level of civilized behavior despite personal attacks and a barrage of misinformation. He has since withstood ridiculous accusations that he is not an American citizen, is a socialist, and been compared to Hitler and the master criminal, The Joker. Louder and louder screams from some factions of our nation have yelled, essentially from day one of his Presidency, that he will destroy our country and should be impeached. I would assume that some of these concerns are sincere, while others are based on blind ignorance or even worse, racism.

Throughout all these attacks, he has remained calm, dignified and respectful to others. I don’t know if I would have done that. If someone calls me a liar in the capital of our country in front of the entire nation (at least those who cared enough to watch the speech), I think I wouldn’t have been very quick to accept his weak, forced apology. Obama did and tried to put the outburst behind him.

What I’m trying to say, and probably not very well (not that it matters, because those who hate him will continue hating him, even if they don’t know why), is that Obama just might have gotten the Nobel Peace Prize for not quitting his job already or slapping someone in the face.

Most of us who work are protected by various legalities. If I go to work and my co-workers or bosses give me too hard a time, I can go to Human Resources or hire a lawyer. I can fight back against working in a “hostile” work environment. The President of the United States doesn’t really have anywhere to go! He’s been called names, threatened and disrespected. There was a teenager recently who started a Facebook survey to ask whether someone should kill the President! I don’t know about you, but if I were Obama, I’d have been on the phone to some secret CIA group right away and that kid would have disappeared off the face of the earth. But that might be why I will never receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

Seriously though, it’s pretty sad how much hate there is in this country right now. There is no consideration that the world outside our borders might be looking upon us in a new, more hopeful light right now. There is no thought that this prize might not be for just Obama alone, but for the powerful democracy that elected him. They recognize this, even if we do not.

Despite our childish arguing and posturing, our stubborn grandstanding and belligerent bellowing, the world is looking at us for the first time in a long time as a nation capable of great things. One hundred and fifty-five years ago…barely four generations…we were fighting amongst ourselves to abolish slavery. Fifty years ago we were still segregated…and this year we inaugurated our first black President. I don’t care if you don’t like him or his politics, that’s pretty amazing.


I know it’s hard to see past our own front doors and porches. It’s almost impossible to see past our own cities, towns and states. Imagining the expansiveness of the world, and the diversity of thought it contains, usually escapes us all. Today, we received a wake-up call from the world. They are watching. They are waiting for us to live up to our promise and potential…and unlike many of us…they think we can do it.

Getting away (part one)

It’s nice to get away sometimes. I highly recommend it. I know that sounds strange for someone who travels for a living, but there’s a big difference between “going away” for work and “getting away.”

Connie and I have been trying for a while to take a little trip. It didn’t matter too much where, just somewhere different and somewhere quiet. Between my work schedule and the responsibilities of family and kids, we had not had a lot of luck. But then things suddenly fell into place.

It took some careful planning, and I had to build our “get away” around a work meeting, but somehow we made it happen. Last Thursday afternoon we packed our bags and headed Northeast, arriving that evening in Roanoke, Virginia where we had a nice dinner at a local diner and then a wonderful visit with our niece Angela and her adorable newborn son, Noah.

Our timing was perfect. Noah had been born on Monday and had only been home from the hospital for one day when our little adventure brought us right by their door. His grandparents, Connie’s sister Sally and husband Dan were there, glowing in pride, and it was great to see them too, although the focus of everyone’s attention was on the baby.

Angela’s husband Jeff staggered through with the weary, happy, slightly overwhelmed look I knew and understood well. It doesn’t matter how many parenting books you read or how many videos you watch trying to get ready, nothing prepares you for the massive amount of stuff you have to do as a new parent. Every waking minute seems to revolve around doing the right thing in the right way for the baby. It’s exhausting.

Friday morning we got on the Blue Ridge Parkway and headed north. We had debated taking our convertible, thinking the wind in our hair on a beautiful fall day would be great, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to put 1500 miles of wear and tear on our car and ended up convincing Connie that the “logical” thing to do was to get a rental. Amazingly, it turned out to be a good idea.

I doubt we would have had our top down for more than five minutes during the entire trip. The average temperature across the parkway and Shenandoah’s Skyline Drive was probably no more than 55 degrees, but with fierce gusts of wind that came along about every two minutes and drove the temperature down to near freezing.

When we stopped at overlooks to take pictures, Connie would hop out, snap a few with her camera and then jump back in the car, where she would wrap herself in a blanket and shiver. I did not mind the cold so much, being fairly well insulated from years of macaroni and cheese, hot wings and lack of exercise. While Connie’s teeth chattered and she feared that she might get frostbite, I stood proudly on the mountaintops in my short sleeve shirt and khaki shorts, throwing a few more calories into my internal furnace that runs a few degrees higher than the average person anyway.

Despite the cold, and the fact that it was a little cloudy that day, it was still amazingly beautiful. It was my third trip along Skyline Drive and it was still as awe-inspiring as my first time. Riding across the crest of ridges with expansive valleys sprawled out on either side, you are tempted to stop at each of the many overlooks, just to take the time to breathe it in.

After two hundred miles of peaceful, scenic driving, we reached Front Royal and merged with the heavy highway traffic heading north to Winchester, Virginia. Being tired and a little too reliant on Interstate signs, I did not reach for my printed Google map directions and quickly realized that I had missed the exit to our hotel. I took the next Winchester exit and in a brief moment of reasoning that somehow ignored my miserable history in terms of navigation, I decided that rather than turn around and go back the way we knew would get us there, I instead would blaze my own path across back roads and alleyways to what must logically be the location of our bed for the night.

We had a thorough tour of Winchester. I’m sure those who live there think it is a lovely town. I hope they are happy and that their children live in peace and prosperity. I also wish to never visit that flaming pit of despair again.

You never fully realize how tired you are until you are ready to be where you want to go and just can’t seem to get there. We were tired and hungry, and all we wanted to do was get to the hotel, drop off our stuff, freshen up and then get a nice dinner at one of the restaurants that invariably cluster nearby. It was a simple plan, but nothing about it seemed to work.


First, of course, I had gotten us lost. This was frustrating for us both. I don’t like being an idiot and Connie does not particularly enjoy being married to one, so the rising tension in the car as we seemed to drive further and further toward a final destination of nowhere was getting uncomfortable. Stupidly, as I took another random turn, I would say, “this has to be it,” and then moments later, after turning around in any available driveway or wide spot in the road, I would say, “it must have been that other way.”

For lovers of apple sauce and other apple products, we did learn that Winchester, Virginia is the home of White House Foods. We also learned that their dock areas are very busy and if you sit still for very long looking at a map, they will attempt to load your vehicle onto an outgoing rail car.

Oddly, we also learned that Winchester has two roads by the same name which run through town in various mis-directions and for no apparent reason (and no warning by way of signage) become other road names entirely. I’m sure that if you grew up there and worked in the Apple canning facility all of your adult life, you’d know how to get from point A to point B without the use of street signs, but for visitors and those who are not blessed with magical intuition, a clear and obvious street sign would be NICE!

When we finally stumbled upon our hotel for the night, we were surprised to see that it was a practically new facility and had obviously been built on the promise of future development in the area. With the exception of a gas station across the road, there were no restaurants within sight. The friendly front desk clerk pulled out a map when I asked for potential eating establishments and pointed to a small dot on the far side of a white expanse. “This is where we are,” he said. “You can go here,” and pointed to a group of dots on the far side of the map, “or here,” designating another grouping farther up the page.

“How far are they?” I asked.

“Oh,” he cocked his head to the side and thought a minute, “it’s only about five to seven miles to any of them.”

I was not looking forward to another visit through the tangled streets of town, so we chose to stay on the road that led back to the Interstate and the exit that I had previously missed. By now it was dark and our exhaustion and hunger was getting the better of us. We normally like to find restaurants that we don’t have in the Knoxville/Oak Ridge area. We can eat at Outback anytime.

My preference is usually for small, local, home-style diners and café’s. I especially like the notion of a family run business. I imagine Momma in the back frying chicken, baking biscuits and pies. Dad doing dishes and checking the ovens while the kids serve the yummy goodness with a friendly smile and a refill on sweet tea. It’s part of that Mayberry utopian existence that floats around in my brain.

Our options for local goodness seemed limited in Winchester. There was a steak and seafood place that had a promising name, but when we started to turn by the sign we realized that it was located in a Holiday Inn. I don’t eat at hotels located next to an interstate. That’s just a rule that has served me well. No offense meant.

There were a few Mexican restaurants that appeared to be housed in converted bank branches, and a promise of the best fried chicken “you’ll ever eat” at a place which also sold gas. We ended up at Golden Corral, if for no other reason than I was about to run out of fuel, and Connie out of patience. At that point, our hunger was not willing to wait for a server to take our order and prepare it as requested. We just wanted a plate and anything that was grilled, fried or sautéed. Fortunately, there was an abundance of all.

Back at our hotel, collapsing on the couch in exhaustion (and a bit of buffet regret), we ended up laughing about how such a wonderful day in the mountains had ended so ridiculously. Despite our frustration at being lost and trying to find a good meal, it had still been a great day. Even our mutual dislike for this small apple town in Virginia would only add to the warm memories of our trip, which had barely even begun.