Traveling Laughs

Trains, Planes, Illness and Choices

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Sat, 28 Oct 2023 19:44:00 +0000

The Roomette. Those stairs lead to the upper bunk we can neither access, one of us not bendy enough, the other too fluffy.

We're dealing with an interesting scenario. Soon we are to launch our Amtrak trip to the Tampa FL area to visit George’s brother, who is ill. Since we’re traveling all that way and we haven’t been to Florida for many years, after spending time with his brother, from there we’ve (read “I’ve” since all tech and travel plans are on me) planned a couple side trips to visit a friend and a cousin.

We’ll drive about 4.5 hours from our home in Winona MN to spend the first night of this Old People Extravaganza in the Chicago suburb of Bartlett IL with a dear friend, get in a good gabfest. Wednesday she’ll take us to the commuter station where we’ll catch a train into Union Station, which is handy dandy since that’s exactly where we’ll board the Capital Limited for Leg One of our Amtrak Journey.

Trip Overview: Winona MN to Bartlett IL to Chicago Union station, to Train One to DC (roomette); to Train Two to Tampa area (roomette) three nights; to private car driving us to The Villages For three nights; after which The Villages friend drives to meet my cousin halfway to Oviedo (where cousin lives) to pass off said Old People for three nights; to departing Oviedo for home on the Amtrak out of Winter Park, twenty minutes from my cousins, to DC; and DC to Chicago; and Chicago to burbs and home. The only time we'll be manning or womaning (Grrr!) our transportation is driving back and forth from Winona to Bartlett. Nice. No rental cars in the midst of all that! Soon away we’ll blast off on our long-and-carefully-charted trip!

Or will we? (Enter DRAMA from Stage Left-Field)

You see my husband has been ill since the end of September. He is guardedly better but definitely not good—by a long shot. Cause of his misery after three urgent care visits, 2 appointments, two IVs, 14 hours of being seen: Clueless. Toward the beginning, a two-week fever and super wonky blood work--fever now thankfully gone--they suspected something tick related (not Lyme) so a 10-day protocol of 200 mg/day of heavy duty antibiotics ensued. His “whatever” was/is producing lingering extreme fatigue and occasional light headedness. And he is unsteady on his feet.

Tick results came back negative--at least thus-far. Symptoms and wonky blood work continue but some blood work has “resolved,” as they say, or is “trending in the right direction”—like a sloth on the "run." He's wiped out.

These issues have caused us to wonder: a) should we pull the plug on this trip?; b) should we fly instead?; c) do we care how much money we lose on any changes? and d) should we head out in spite of his issues because staying home doesn’t get rid of them? Just cross our fingers and bloody GO FOR IT?

As for choice c] (do we care about money), of course. We’re financially okay but we don’t have money to burn. To decide to fly at this point in the game could lose us serious Amtrak money, should we just cancel, plus add the whackydoodle price we’d pay for purchasing plane tickets on last-minute flights.

Also, for those who say, OH MY WHY would you subject a less-than-perky man to two nights on a train when he could fly and be there in a little over three hours?! BWA-HAHAHA! Like actual time in the sky has anything to do with how many hours flying takes! First we have 2.5 hours to get to MSP, and the best rates leave at 6 a.m. so that means a hotel the night before. Then security and making it to the gate, hoping for no gate changes, and hoping it’s on time and prying the ol’ bod into a seat fit for an American Girl Doll and perhaps languishing on the tarmac for hours and then ZIPPITY ZAP in three hours in the air we arrive in Tampa to sit on the Tarmac and … You know how it can go.

Enter Winter Weather from stage right and ...

The last time we flew, the woman sitting next to me hacked her snot-laden self to pieces while never once covering her mouth. Not once. Also fragile George would be stuck sitting next to me (How do you feel? Are you okay? Do you need water?) after we pay extra money for the privilege of choosing that marital bliss opportunity. Whereas on the train, we have a roomette (good LORD, more cozy togetherness) but at least we can close our curtain-that-serves-as-a-door and keep all snot-laden folks at bay. For two days, over two trains.

But, on the train we’d get all those yum meals in a dining car whereas on the plane if we’re lucky we’d get two peanuts in a package we can’t tear open, or perhaps nothing. In either case we’d get to sleep sitting up because neither of us can make it into the top bunk in the train’s roomette. Trust me: we sized up that opportunity when we took the Amtrak to Albuquerque last April. Nonetheless, it was a trip we really enjoyed right up until on the way home when our sleeper car was DIRECTLY behind the engine, its train whistle blowing all night, drilling BLARING siren-ous sounds into the dark recesses of our brains. But still, compared to driving or flying, we appreciated the scenery and the lull of the clickety-clack and the chance to meet new folks during meals.

What have the docs thus far said about him traveling? “If he feels up to it, he can go.”

What, exactly, is “feeling up to it?” That he can manage to get onto the train with the help of a wheelchair? That he can make it to the bathroom without falling over during a train shift? I mean he can have meals brought to the roomette and … But there’s the on-and-the-off of the commuter train, and the Leg One to DC train, and the same on Leg two and reverse all of that and … Does he have to feel GOOD to “feel LIKE” it?

What should we do? His brother is combating the Big C and the outlook is somewhere between short and long and they are each other's only siblings who haven't seen each other for two years and …. Anyone who asks how George is, and we tell them the truth-- and the options in front of us-- finds it necessary to weigh in with STRONG opinions about “Of course go!” or “Are you nuts to subject him to that?” to “MY GOODNESS FLY!” to…

What to do. What do DO?!

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK…(we already know some of this, but not all of it yet)

Post Vaccine Reentry (?)

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 25 Mar 2021 16:11:00 +0000

Early this morning one of my beloved cousins phoned. Such a happy way to begin a day—right up until he posed the most difficult question I’ve been asked in a year.

Frankly, the last year rendered nary a question with a tough choice since all questions required no brain power: The answer was no. No we’re not getting together with anyone. No we’re not getting haircuts in salons. No we’re not skipping our masks, ever. No we’re not considering attending book club in person. No we’re not grocery shopping in the store since we’re ordering online and picking up in the parking lot. No we’re not sitting indoors with children and grands for Thanksgiving, Christmas or any other whatevers. No we’re not (fill in the blank). No. No. NO!

But my cousin delivered a question for which I don’t want the answer to be no. (I don’t think.) George and I are now both two vaccines in, although not yet past that prescribed “two weeks past.” But … this morning’s question from my cousin involves long-distance travel.

Travel?! Holy schmoly!

Will we come if he books our annual family reunion reservation which was of course canceled last year? As was every other delightful thing we’d booked for our lives.

My cousin’s question comes with a financial commitment. A few years ago the cousins began a lovely new tradition of each chipping in to rent a large house for a few days so as to spend every last non-sleeping minute together. This luxury replaced the annual grind over which hotel/motel to select that could: accommodate everyone’s budget; offered large enough “food rooms” for us to drag our caches into and engage in a proper snacky cocktail hour; satisfy personal tastes regarding extra space vs desired room configurations…

After that first experimental year with our own community kitchen for cooking and game playing—no elevator waits, loud neighbors, bad air conditioners--we were hooked. We even rented a place with a large enough living room to comfortably seat us all for a little TV watching, which happened when we needed a break from talking. Talking, talking, talking. So much to say when there’s a lifetime of shared history, now so many age-related health conversations (sigh), grand-kiddos’ photos and hijinks over which to oogle and laugh and be horrified. (Kids today!)

That is after we first slog through lengthy opening conversations about how to use the houses’s unfamiliar wi-fi and remotes, which is its own ongoing revelation into the Aging Adventure. At least we cousins are doing it together. YAY COUSINS!

So, cousin called and asked. And I … sputtered. He and his wife are a couple weeks ahead of us with vaccines so they’ve already experienced some post-vaccine break-in time. First a meal at an outdoor patio. Then inside. Then a short trip to visit with other vaccinated relatives. You get the picture. Let’s call it Post Vaxx Reentry (PVR).

PVR requires a process. Increments. Ones that hopefully build toward a YES to travel. Choices that lead to a plethora of happy Yes Yes YES!

I hate these chicken-s^*# inner dialogue shenanigans I play with myself since COVID-19 struck. Well, I know several fully vaccinated people who have gone out to dinner and none of them are dead. Yet. Or sick. Yet. And they haven't totally proven the new strains are going to bypass the vaccines. Yet.

Even though I trust the science, in the beginning the science itself demonstrated a teensy yet prudent hesitancy to conclude what We Vaccinated could safely do. Although they’ve finally landed the verbal plane with “You can visit with other vaccinated people without masks,” there always seems to be a small caveat that appears in my brain in capital letters: UNLESS WE CHANGE OUR MINDS AS WE LEARN MORE.

Make no mistake: I love my cousins and am more than ready to swirl in the energy of their laughter, love and realness. And the food. OH THE FOOD! (Which involves eating out, which we haven’t done yet. Are we ready for that? Shut UP overactive brain!) I’m also desirous to visit friends in Illinois on our way from Minnesota to Indiana, where the reunion takes place. We always drive and always spend a couple/few nights in our old neighborhood in a series of whirlwind visiting/talking events with old-time friends we accrued over 47 years of marriage before we moved to MN. This past year several of them have experienced heart issues, cancer and other traumas. We want to see the bright light of their faces while we’re all still here on planet earth.

A barrage of “Are you fully vaccinated yet?” questions has begun. By reunion time (perhaps June) we shall all be, which is GRAND news! So … what’s the hesitancy to Just Say YES?

ME: Don’t carelessly erase the safety of an entire year of hiding out at home!

ME: SHUT UP OVERACTIVE BRAIN and just jump in! If things go haywire after reservations are made, we can always bow out and eat the money. After all, surely we’ve saved lots of money the last year with all those NO responses. Right?

Bwa-hahahahaha!

The packages are still arriving. Items received like dozens of masks (there's always one better than the one I just received), organic flour since my oven is now always on, more KitchenAid attachments, cute new shoes I have nowhere to wear... My first ever Le Creuset pan is in transit, as is my purple hair dye. (Created for brown hair and mine is gray but it was a Deals and Steals on GMA [found poem] so what could possibly go wrong?!) I’m also shopping for my first ever good 8” chef’s knife. These purchases happen after you watch a year of cooking shows and have time and a cell phone on your hands—and have avoided the salons. (And apparently imagine you’re 22 and magically hip rather than 75 years old and bored, what with the purple.)

Here’s what I’m imaging at the moment: I’m going to say YES! YES, YES, YES to the reunion! And I’m going to cook something fabulous to take in my new pan after cutting the ingredients with my new chef’s knife. And I’m going to pack my QVC-ordered wig—just in case the purple hair experiment runs amok.

Yes, we’ll have so much to talk, talk, TALK about when we all get together! Won’t we?

Won’t we?

Mississippi Love Affair #4: Levee Drive

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 27 Aug 2020 17:59:00 +0000

Our condo is right behind Waterworks Park, upper left

Levee Drive. That’s what we call it. The one-way, less than 4ish block route ends only ½ block from our condo building and skirts Levee Park. Any time we’re on our way home and have a moment to divert a block off the main road home, our Subaru, as if possessing a will of its own, veers toward the river to slowly take the beauty in. (Process of full disclosure: it often does the same thing for casinos, as did my last car. Well, back in the day when our automobiles actually left town.)

Even though we view the Mississippi River from our condo windows, it feels different when you’re right down next to the Ol’ Man. His shiny skin sparkles more in the ripples. His power reigns more palpable. A 19- year-old boy drowned right across the river from levee drive within the last couple months. Not the first or last time for dive teams in our area. Not all bodies are recovered within such a short amount of time, his quick enough to encounter fruitless CPR on the shore.

Respect the river.

Officially the levee drive is named East Front Street, which I only discovered during research to type this paragraph, this after driving it since the 90s. (Thanks, Google!) You enter East Front Street via Walnut Street (the Subaru veer) where you currently pass by the busy-bee construction site of Bay State Milling’s new expansion and storage facility, the old site of Godfather's Pizza.

Aside from her occasional rebellions, even though the river stays the same, there is always change around her.

When Godfather’s Pizza suddenly closed, most in town hoped a new restaurant would take over the space since it’s prized river view location came complete with an outdoor deck. Before we moved here from Illinois—back when we rented a hideaway place in Winona where we’d stay to visit our son and family and I’d come to write under book deadline--I spent many a leisurely lunch sitting on that deck, eating, lolling, visiting while discouraging scrounging birds and seagulls from heisting parts of my meal. You know how it is around the water.

Memories gathered along the river, like the river itself, run deep. Fond crisp memories, as crisp as the edges of a good pizza dough.

I often parked my backside in that very Godfather’s pizzeria after the lunch pizza buffet shut down (1:30 I think it was) until shortly before they’d reload for the dinner buffet around 4ish. After pigging out on lunch, I wrote major portions of my Dearest Dorothy series for Penguin Books looking at the river. Unlimited self-serve drinks, those last couple pieces of dessert pizza I’d hoard before they’d remove the remnants, taking a bite between typing words while watching the river and towboats and … What’s not to love about that kind of working environment?

Although I also owned a laptop, I never took it to Godfather’s. I mean … pizza grease. So I often wrote on an AlphaSmart, later moving to the Neo version of same. You can still find used ones on the Internet. They run hundreds of hours (like 600-700!) on I think it was 3 AA batteries. The best news: they do not (at least my versions) access the Internet. They were big in grammar schools and nearly indestructible. You can only see about a sentence at a time, so there’s no getting bogged down in editing. Nothing but you, a keyboard and words that seem to blaze forward. Many of my author friends loved them for the same reason: no distractions; you can edit later. Then when home, after a simple tethered connection, you push a button and it dumps those words into your computer. You actually watch them TYPE IN across your screen!

This YouTube video affirms my take and shares everything else I recall, right down to people passing by asking, “What in the world is that?” The only thing you don’t see in her short take is the words actually typing on your computer screen when you dump them in. They’re kind of fun to watch, akin to a player piano.

I always tried to ignore checking word count as I worked and was amazed how the input would type and type, going to a next page, and a next page … I’d do a word count after they uploaded and consider how much lack of interruptions for self editing can accomplish. Even while licking pizza grease off your fingers.

Pieces of my past. My imagination set free and recorded in Godfather’s restaurant at the head of levee drive, the Mississippi as a backdrop. Such a peaceful and productive time.

Before Godfather’s moved in, I have a very brief but warm memory of drinking a cocktail at a higher end restaurant, Finn and Sawyer, at that location. We dined there with our son and his college roommate during one of our many visits to see him, waaaaay back (he’s going on 50 now!) when he attended Winona State University. I recall him pointing out the gorgeous stained glass mural map section of the Mississippi River they’d commissioned and had installed. The beauty remained in the building when Godfather’s took over. I learned when Bay State razed the building it was saved and reinstalled on the 2nd floor of the 201 Walnut building in Winona, picture courtesy of their landing page which also gives you a hint of the beautiful restorations going on around our fine town. Thank you Peter Shortridge for this info and your hand in preservation around Winona.

All these ingrained memories, right where we turn the bend to enter levee drive. Memories that spark my enjoyment of the jaunt; it’s more than simply viewing the river. The ongoing igniting of great moments along that stretch cannot be underestimated.

For instance last year, for our 50^th wedding anniversary, as part of our celebration we invited friends on a charter of the Winona TourBoat, which departs from levee drive. We told our guests we’d be serving Golden Mimosas and snacky treats. I remember walking up and down the tour boat aisles, champagne bottle in one hand, orange juice in another, filling and refilling during the 90-minute journey up river through Yeomans Lake, up past the Dam Saloon near the lock and dam, the cut into Pollywog past our friend’s cabin, downriver past the boat houses, continuing the loop past Bay State Milling right back to levee drive.

One guest asked, “What makes this a Gold Mimosa?” He looked perplexed at the typical mix.

“Fifty years. Golden Anniversary,” I said. “Golden Mimosa.” Bam! Shortly thereafter I knocked back yet another, "Hold the orange juice for me!"

Further back in time, our beloved dog Kornflake (RIP) and I would often sit by the river together for writing breaks. He also loved walking along the cement walkway watching the ol’ man roll by. His tail activated into hyper-drive when he’d take note of the car veering over to the levee road. He knew what was coming next.

If I had a tail, it would do the same.

Mississippi River Love Affair #3: Towboats, Tugboats and Barges

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 06 Aug 2020 22:02:00 +0000

“Tow!” Via texts, phone calls and hallways the cry ricochets throughout our condo building situated alongside the Mississippi River in Winona MN. After watching the river freeze over then slowly open her veins again in the spring, the sight of that first towboat causes quite a flurry of excitement.

The joy of the towboats’ return feels almost as if our very own blood is once again pumping through our winterized and sluggish bodies. Sharing the joy revs our energies and therefore begets life itself a warmer ride.

It's as if the Hope of All Things Good rushes back when the towboats return--especially this year since COVID-19 lockdown began before they returned. At least something felt normal as they floated on by.

While shopping for a new home for our move to Winona, we first visited this condo when the towboats were still pushing barges up and down the river. Sure, the river view enticed and lured us. But when a tow pushing 15 barges passed by while we were sipping a glass of free champagne during that initial viewing (15-tow limit on upper Mississippi [3 wide, 5 deep], but 30-40 barge limit on the lower which is downstream of Cairo IL), the sheer magnitude, grace and humming while softly pulsating and vibrating sound caused our eyes to follow the giant river creature upstream.

Yes, going on five years ago, I still remember the direction of that first sighting from our condo window. That is the power of the river to imprint an aging brain.

In our naivety we referred to the ensemble as “a barge.” In other words, everything moving together in a grand choreography was known to we ignorant interlopers as “a barge.” The kind and proper gentlemen who’d served us champagne quickly gave us a schooling.

The tow is the towboat. The giant containers it pushes (neither tows nor tugs them but pushes) are the barges. One may refer to that particular ensemble as a 15-barge tow. To state anything otherwise is indisputable proof you are not OF or FROM anywhere near the big river.

Since husband George and I were both born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago, we took our corrective medicine (while continuing to sip champagne) and are now the fine deliverers of same education when out-of-town company arrives and makes that same misguided verbal utterance. There is no letting their faux pas quietly pass. Nope. They need to KNOW. We shall pour them anything in our booze cabinet while doing so.

Egregious verbal missteps grow to feel disrespectful to the Old Man himself when people don’t get these things correct about his vital and muddy life. We are a protective lot, as it turns out. Speak river talk or watch him roll along in silence. Please. (We are, after all, Minnesota nice here.)

When we moved in, the river was pretty well done with traffic for winter 2015/16. Fish houses,

Brave Souls

whether wood-structure fancy, portable or tent-like, dotted the white of winter. And of course there are those hearty souls who bundle up and park their behinds on buckets right out in the elements, shelters be darned. The beauty of the frozen river surrounded by the luscious curves of Her Wintership’s bluffs continues to render majesty as the howling winter winds cause snow to ski downriver atop the ice. There is that mysterious time of winter and dusk when the sky and snow and ice and land all turn that same certain moody shade of blue … Ahhh. Oneness.

But after our first winter on the river, then came spring. Fish houses need to be off the rivers and lakes by March 4 in our parts, a little later further north. The last thing you or the DNR want is to show up for yet another attempt to land that lunker (or simply drink a lot of beer) and find your fish house gone, or the ice too thin to get your truck out there to tow the fish house off. More than one truck has disappeared through the ice during this endeavor.

Usually by mid-March, openings appear in the river, luring gathering eagles to their fishing spots and watering holes. As the river continues to shed its winter skin, ice chunks begin floating by as the river gussies up her sparkles and readies herself for Big Barge Business.

So many purposes

But Mother Nature … well she sometimes casts her own meddling spells. Here’s a 2018 link to one perspective on those happenings. You'll also find there interesting explanations about Lake Pepin (upriver from Winona), its vastness freezing deep and long, creating one of the most difficult and last places on the entire river to open in the spring, enabling the journey upriver toward the northern headwaters. This year barge traffic/commerce through Winona was held at bay until into April, due to high risky waters, high enough to keep towboats from handling their brave chores. Early on they couldn’t even fit under some of the bridges.

Barge commerce. Whew. The first time—and every time thereafter—we took the Winona Tour Boat ride and heard Captain Aaron Ripinski (a great source for just about anything Winona and a jack of all trades) talk about the cost of barge transport vs. truck or trains, we were blown away. Every. Single. Time. Gobsmacked. For a great nutshell visual education, check out these charts. The barge/truck/rail visual comparisons are amazing, right down to the Rate of Spills in Gallons per Million Ton-miles for each. For instance did you know it takes 16 rail cars or 70 large semis to contain the contents of one barge? Yeah, I didn't think so. Check those charts!

[Now that you’ve taken a moment to check the charts, all together now: raise your hands for river transportation!]

Among the action of skidoos, fishing boats, pontoon boats, house boats and commercial river boats, a 15-barge tow creeps along the river like the holdover dinosaurs of the waters. Of course not all towboats are pushing 15, but nonetheless they are working.

Yeomans Pond to the far left, right past the bridge next to our condo.
The river bends to the right past the bridge and just before Yeomans.

Speaking of working, the local White Angel and Suland tugboats (not towboats) are the tireless local Winona port workers. They are like the busy-beaver-little-tugboats-that-could on the stretch of river in front of our condo. They belong to the Port of Winona, Commercial Harbor located in Yeomans Pond which is practically a rock-skip upriver from us. If you really want to geek on stats, check this out. They spend their days shuttling barges around in our port, staging and whisking barges to and from the port to CHS Winona River and Rail, out of the picture to the right and helping large tows back out of Yeomans and make the bend … You’ll find interesting stuff at that link.

Towboats have come a long way baby. Over six decades ago the Super Towboat came into being. “Powered by four Cooper-Bessemer diesel engines delivering 8,500 hp., the vessel was, at that time, more powerful than any towboat ever built. The engines were fitted with a “vapor phase” cooling system, which made it possible to use relatively inexpensive low-grade fuel oil rather than the marine diesel fuel normally utilized by towboats.

Each tow proudly displays her name. The first spring we lived here our son gifted us with The Little Tow-Watcher’s Guide (this edition along with info about the author), a field guide that includes maps and photographs and other information to stock your brain and help you keep a log. Every time we spy one from our windows or deck we yell TOW! or BARGE! to the other spouse so someone grabs the book. We used to log the date and time but this year we began logging date only. We always enjoy the “Oh, we’ve SEEN that one X times before!” discovery. Or, “We’ve seen this one every year!” And now, after 4 years, there is still a happy moment when we spy one we’ve never caught before—or one not even in our book. There is a newer edition but switching to that triggers a dilemma: if we swap now, how do we compare our history? Our sentimental dog-eared copy whispers Please don’t ignore me… So we scribble on, oftentimes writing upside down and in margins. Sometimes even take note that "this one" (Samual B Richmond) is a "Twin screw, 6,000 hp; formerly Ulysses; Ingram Barge Co., Nashville, Tenn.

From our patio

Lots of loading in Yeomans Pond

Up close and personal

You can always tell empty barges since they ride high in the water, while full ones need at least nine feet of river depth, which is why there is endless dredging on the river. After 4.5 months of staying home to stay safe (oh, so NEAR the pantry!), I know the feeling.

I found an interesting recap of life on a towboat as well as keen info about the actual structures here, along with some terrific photos. I’ve even checked in with a Facebook group called Mississippi River Photos. Folks up and down the entire length share their river moments, including a few avid posters who work the river. Their point of view is breathtaking and informative.

I’m going to sign off for now because I hear that familiar hum coming our way. Gotta go grab the book, record in our log! I feel there is more than enough here to get you acquainted. My hope is you start to “feel” the river in your spirit. She definitely grows on you.

A Love Affair with the Mississippi River: THE RIVER #2

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 16 Jul 2020 19:35:00 +0000

Looking upriver from the walking path in front of our condo

Welcome to the 2nd installment of my series A Love Affair With the Mississippi River. Today I focus on the river itself.

The Mississippi River. The Ol’ Man. The Big Muddy. The Big River. The Great River. The Mighty Mississippi. The Father of Waters. More regional and written nicknames than we can imagine.

Friend. Peaceful. Steadfast. Soothing. Epic. Romantic. Steady. Alluring. Mesmerizing. Obliging. Transporting, in so many ways, from literal to the most fanciful.

Powerful.

Dangerous. Frantic. Fickle. Destructive. Hellish. '

Untamable.

Necessary. And to me personally, as described in a previous Traveling Laugh, a Necessary Goodness. I even purchased a silver ring inset with a small Mississippi River Pearl so I can stare at a token reminder of the beauty and majesty I leave behind when I'm away from a view of the river.

Although there are many massive rivers in the United States, I would venture to say throughout the history of literature none can boast more widely written and read tales than the Mississippi.

Dear Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain, I LOVE you for gifting me my first exposure to all that’s possible, magical and moving about the river. I also thumbs-up your fire and damnation essays in A PEN WARMED-UP IN HELL: MARK TWAIN IN PROTEST since the way politics and the pandemic are rolling, I’m scorchingly close to these smoking fingers flaming my keyboard.

The Mississippi River, derived from the old Ojibwe word misi-ziibi meaning 'great river' (gichi-ziibi 'big river' at its headwaters), is the second-longest river in the United States; the longest is the Missouri River, which flows into the Mississippi. (quote from link)

The Ol’ Muddy is touted as the largest and most important river in North America, and one of the world’s major river systems in size. With astonishment we learn the entire Mississippi River originates as a small brook flowing out of Lake Itasca in Minnesota. (Reread that last statement. Reread it again. A small brook evolves into the Mighty Mississip’ which means perhaps my one letter to a senator can start a revolution! **blows on fingers**) After traveling somewhere around 2,340 miles (different mileage is reported in different places), the Ol’ Man empties his accumulative sustenance into the Gulf of Mexico.

My grandgirlies love to spew known stats and retell their rock-hopping adventures of crossing the mouth of Her Majesty. (Note to readers: I often refer to God as female too.) Brian, their dad and our youngest, and his wife have taught them well. They’ve traveled to the headwaters several times, camped in the park. I discovered a live webcam. Have a look for yourself.

Mississippi Headwaters, Lake Itasca MN
photo link credit here

As odd as it seems, making the trip to Lake Itasca Park is a pleasure I have not yet experienced. At the tapping of every keystroke in that last sentence I asked myself Why?! I promise you that when this pandemic lightens enough for us to feel free to travel again, that adventure will take place. I shall submerge my toes into the river’s birthplace where he's only between 20 and 30 feet wide. I’ll stand and watch the waters swirling over my wiggling happy toes (surface water speed only 1.2 mph right there) and imagine those same waters traveling all those miles, picking up speed to a raging 3 mph [stat] in the Big Easy and into the gulf, an overall rolling-along journey that takes about three months. THREE MONTHS.

On a personal note, and again a repeat of my first installment in this series, the reason we live in a condo rather than a house, which we’d been seeking for our move from IL to MN 4.1 years ago, is because we can view the river from the kitchen, living room, dining room (all open concept, how trendy) and the master bedroom. The stoic view-hogging condo building stands in the river city of Winona MN, dubbed by the staff at our energetic and creative visitors’ bureau The Miami of Minnesota. A future installment of this series will reveal more about Winona.


Our condo building, walking path top atop rocks

We first officially "came to” the river in 1990 when Brian, our "baby", visited Winona State University as a possibility for his college education. Oh sure, throughout our pasts we’d seen the river. Side-eyed her here and there. But as we explored Winona to see what we could see as far as what Brian's entire experience might be, we SAW the river for the first time. She no doubt added allure to our son’s ultimate choice in university since he is a true outdoorsman.

Among top facts about the river, in 2015 we read this. DUBUQUE, Iowa (AP) — A report released at a gathering of mayors in Dubuque finds that commerce along the Mississippi River generates more than $400 billion and supports 1.3 million jobs. You can read the economic history here. To say the Ol’ Man supports a lot of children is an understatement. Mother Hubbard’s got nothin’ on this dude.

This past spring the river here in Winona--many places actually—was frozen late into the season, then so high for so long tow boats couldn’t make it under many of the bridges, including the one shot from so many of my condo deck photos. Other transport methods needed to be utilized as they could, all costing more than barge transfer. (Another edition of this series will feature the tow boat industry and the barges they move.)

Imagine what portion of income and jobs were held at bay until Mother Nature decided to give the Ol’ Man a break. The marriage of Mother Nature and the Ol’ Man seems as volatile in temperament as my own marriage, especially the longer our pandemic lockdown continues. At least no swings other than verbal are thrown here in our condo though, so that’s awesome. 😊 But Mother Nature and the Ol' Man? Well they have historically had at it, no holds barred.

The report referred to earlier found that “the upper Mississippi River area, comprised of parts of Minnesota, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin and Missouri, generates $253 billion annually and supports 755,000 jobs. The total figure was devised by combining the upper river report with a report on the lower river released last year.” The lower Mississippi consists of Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. In case you weren’t counting, the Mississippi runs through ten states. The top three industries along the entire Mississippi are manufacturing, tourism and agriculture. Apparently old retired folks living in condos is not considered industry, although we certainly contribute to the overall financial situation.

The levees and 29 lock and dam systems along the entire river are worth encyclopedia volumes each. Absolutely fascinating and amazing stuff, all designed to try to control the dynamic couple from swallowing us alive in their waters, which happened often before all of the engineering, planning and back breaking work—and occasionally still does in spite of humans’ best attempts. In order to not wax all stats-and-facty herewith, I’ll keep these notations brief and specific to where we live via a few links.

Evening Levee Drive

-- Watch local filming of our Levee Road when the waters were up. This little strip of road right along the levee is very popular in Winona. One of the things I love about living in this city is how much the locals continue to daily appreciate the beauty and lure of the bluffs and river. One is hard pressed to find a slot in the day when there is not a car or two or more passing along the levee road, necks craining just to see the river up close, witness that beautiful shot under the bridge and check out the beach across the river.

--Hop aboard our local tour boat that departs from levee road, let Captain Aaron take you for an educational ride. He is a great story teller with a wealth of information. You can even bring your own beverage of choice and/or buy some cookies and stuff aboard.

--US Lock and Dam 5a, the closest to Winona.

--Winona is at Mississippi River Pool 5a. Learn more about the location of river pools.

A love affair with the Mississippi River, the series setup

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 02 Jul 2020 16:52:00 +0000

Aw. Welcome to our new home circa 1969!

George and I have been married for 50 years. Mostly blissful, as it said on our 50th wedding anniversary party cake.

For 46 of those years we lived in the Chicago suburban home we purchased when we wed. Then we decided to move to Winona MN to be near our youngest son, his wife and our grandgirlies. This after receiving several versions of The Talk in which we learned from our children that we were now The Aging Parents and should probably might wanna ought to (various verbiage delivered by serious faces of Good Grown Men who dearly love their parents) live nearer one of them than continue the possibility someone would have to make a frantic Minnesota-to-Illinois or New Mexico-to-Illinois trip. You know, in case of an elderly emergency.

After much gnashing of teeth and a surprise decision--especially to us--we purchased a condo right along the Mississippi River here in Winona.

The surprise part was choosing a condo.

We’d spent months looking for a small single-floor home with a little yard and at least 1.5 bathrooms on the main floor—not in the basement where that half-bath often seemed to have been added as an afterthought, which kept us from buying several places we otherwise liked. After all, we’re old and getting older (yes, we know) and no longer want stairs, especially to get to a toilet in a hurry. When arriving home (in our elderly waning state of life, and WE KNOW!) inevitably both of us have to pee. Before the move, I was in need of a knee replacement and George already sported two new ones. Visions of the need for a Life Alert danced in our heads. So yup, two bathrooms on the same floor. Period.

At the end of yet another exhausting and fruitless house hunting marathon, as a lark we stopped to look at said condo only because we saw an advertisement that at an open house they were serving free champagne and refreshments. Why wouldn’t we?! After one glass of champagne plus a river view, we were all in. That free champagne turned out to cost us plenty, but in the best of ways. To loon country we moved—and I mean that as pertains to the state bird, not as it applies to our most colorful friends or precious family here in MN. Mostly. XO

Patio from bedroom taken at original showing

From kitchen and living room first winter

Back of condo looking out at the river.

How we HAPPILY got from there to here

Thus began my true love affair with the river. Before the move, for more than 25 years we’d been visiting Winona regularly, and sure, we enjoyed the river. But after the alluring gent greets you every waking morning with the assurance that no matter what is happening in your life or the world, at least one thing remains the same: the river keeps rolling along, I was owned. I began to digest that visual assurance as Goodness. Now I relate to it as a Necessary Goodness. I need the river. Should we leave town for a few days, I miss that steadfastness and beauty. I long to gaze upon the Big Muddy. Feel the ahhhhhh vibrate through my veins after we return home and I first view him flowing ‘round the bend.

Much of our lives changed with that move. We (as in George) no longer possessed a yard to maintain. That transition from yard to no yard was difficult for him. He still enjoyed digging in the dirt. Planting a garden. Weeding and mowing. He even professed to the thrill of the sound of our snow blower. And I know he enjoyed helping a neighbor occasionally shovel out. No matter the season, he’d stop to crack a beer or two with the back-yard “fence” folks. Thus, that little home we were seeking where he would/could at least still do his usual, even at 76 years of age, was priority.

As for me, for decades I'd been ready for a change. Born and raised in Illinois, the actual state never thrilled me. The idea of moving to the beauties of MN and being near family beckoned: watching soccer games, swimming meets, dance recitals, musical performances... A chance to reseason those bleacher buns. I couldn't wait to get a loon on my license plate and become a Vikings fan. (I hear you, Bears folks. It's not like I disowned Da Bears, but they were no longer my people. Plus I look good in purple.) Who wouldn't want to live in a town with the slogan "Surprisingly weird, incredibly entertaining."

How quickly the river reorganizes your thoughts and desires. At the condo, no matter the weather (snow, grass-producing rain and sun, ice …) nothing much matters since those tasks were no longer on our plates and for the most part the urge to do them slipped away with the freedom we gained.

We lived just outside of the city limits in Illinois, so almost every chore and errand involved an automobile. In Winona (population about the same as our suburban town in Illinois), the CEC Theatre, a drug store, a lovely co-op filled with super groceries and yum foods, and several restaurants and bars—did I mention several bars?—and a plethora of quaint shops were not only within walking distance, but a couple blocks. We even selected a dentist just down the street. All this is the good news in case a day arrives when we can no longer drive.

When I was still book touring and speaking, yes, it was pretty nice to be near O’Hare Airport. We’re now at least 2.5 hours away from MSP but that’s okay since … well … work travel has all blissfully come to a halt. Plus we’re only about twenty minutes from LaCrosse Regional Airport in WI which connects to several hubs with security and parking, traffic and sanity much easier to navigate.

From our patio

And of course there is the river.

We live at the foot of the bridge and can hop on State Route 43, travel a minute and be in Wisconsin. We have a walking path along the shore, visible from every room. The beach right across from our condo patio--the beach where they set off the spectacular annual fireworks display that arcs out over the water, sparkles in the river’s eyes. And Levee Park where all types of festivities take place (pre COVID-19), including a farmer’s market (still on), craft shows (still on) , Big Muddy Brew 'n Cue … Even the annual Steamboat Days beer tent is only a block off the river and thus from us. The Budweiser horses have slept practically next to the Ol’ Man and therefore we old folk.

Although I had written a Traveling Laugh that summed up what we love about living where we now do, as my heart began to unravel and sort the many wonders and comforts our condo provides here along the river, especially during the sequestering pandemic, it dawned on me I’d rather take my time , unfold, expound, delve into the corners, educate... Write a series about life where so much interest and eye candy collides. I want to introduce you to personal nuances and tidbits. Present a separate column each on the train spur outside our deck; the bridge reconstruction; the mesmerization of tow boats; what it feels like to live where the river runs West to East through town; the beauty and entertainment of bunnies and hummingbirds, ground hogs and chipmunks, swans, pelicans and soaring eagles. And endless fascinating people passing by. All visible from our condo.

Am I traveling all over the place at this point in my life? No. But when I do go away, the river is where I return and it sure puts on the miles. Drops of Mississippi headwaters travel 2,348 of them through ten states from mouth to the Gulf of Mexico.

So there you go. Mini Mississippi Traveling Laugh Series, here you come. Next week we shall convene.

What We Choose to Follow

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 04 Mar 2020 21:52:00 +0000

For the sake of wonder, frustration and HOLY COW!, years ago I began snapping phone photos of surprising things we by happenstance travel behind on the highway. Well, “travel behind” at least for a split second until we careen past them, or for several minutes as we poke along blind to everything but that which was in front of us due to its enormity. (Curses. Reaches for phone to snap a photo…)

Sure, we follow road signs and GPS instructions. Let's not forget lead cars through construction. And globs of scrambling people to another changed gate.

But what we choose to follow throughout life is a bigger topic. For instance:

Tweeple on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram
The recommended food pyramid and the “new” upside down version of same
The person in front of us in the restroom line
Fashions. (I wear Crocs almost every day, so file that where you will)
Trending diets
Pill bottle instructions
Our spouses and significant others across the country
Musicians
News channels
Bad advice
Hollywood types and the movies …

Case in point. In an attempt to slowly crank my slothy rigid body back to life again, I began following a gentle online yoga instructor. In a further attempt to bribe myself into actual participation, I paid for the series. FOR PETE’S SAKE YOU PAID FOR IT SO DO IT! It’s only ten minutes a day and the instructor’s mother sits next to her in a chair. (Chair yoga. It’s a thing. They offer it at senior centers and it is also in the title of this particular course.) Mom engages in the same poses but in a modified version due to lack of agility/mobility/youth.

For instance there is the Warrior Pose. Young Instructor (that’s not “my” course or instructor in previous hyperlink but a good illustration--and also I assure you I look NOTHING like that slim young poised woman) stands with one bent leg forward, the other leg outstretched behind. Mom carefully perches (careful Mom!) on the front side edge (-ish) of a chair, one leg forward, the other stretched back. There are arm and breath movements involved. Although I stand for this one, I sometimes LOL since I look anything but a warrior while weebly-wobbling in my ginormous sweat pants, sans warrior weapons, while occasionally grunting from the strain.

Anyway, mom has a bum knee (one of mine replaced, the other sometimes moody) and she’s not very seasoned at yoga. **raises hand** I waffle between following the mom or daughter based upon trust in my balance on any given day.

Sometimes this decision intersects and changes directions depending on how long Younger Woman decides to blather on between poses after instructing us to Iiiinhale … Reeeach to the ceiling… then forgets to instruct us to exxxxxxxhale because she gets distracted by her own storytelling, at which point if standing, I crash into a nearby chair on my desperate near-death exhale after holding my breath too long.

This freaked us out until we realized it was being towed

But back to questionable following choices as they relate to travel. One incident in particular springs to mind: the day I road shotgun with a guy.

[TRUE CONFESSION INTERJECTION: Okay, there were dozens of those times and guys, but this One Particular Case In Point the guy I was riding with was lost and would not stop for directions. Okay, that one particular time and dozens of others. My marrying choice was partially based on a dude humble enough in spirit to not waste large portions of our lives lost. Thank you George Baumbich!]

We were in St. Louis MO in an unfamiliar area trying to return home to Illinois. He deduced that if we “followed that guy over there with the Illinois license plates” we’d find our way. And so we cut lanes and followed him.

We ended up at a zoo.

#truestory

DISCLAIMER: Following can be hazardous to your relationships.

Retiree versus Business Person: Travel Choices

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 19 Feb 2020 14:38:00 +0000

Many retirees are booked solid with volunteer work and babysitting, sometimes raising grandchildren, toting them from here and there via sundry car seats and strollers.

Or their dance cards are filled with golf and/or pickleball and/or tennis and/or bowling… Whatever sports float a person’s boat and—and this is key—don’t cause us to fall down and break something, or keel over from dehydration, or dizzy us due to inexplicable vertigo because we stood up too quickly.

Many retirees are vacationing their way around the world, or at least to our kids’ and cousins’ homes due to free lodging. We’re cruising, bus tripping and adding to lines through airport security, causing Business Persons great duress.

Of course breakfast, lunch, diner, cocktails or coffee dates (raises hand to all) catapult seniors (gross exaggeration [refer to the Slow Rise]) toward travel. Not to mention the lure of Bridge or Euchre, casinos, Mahjong and/or other gaming enticers.

Oh, and doctor appointments. Sigh.

Most aforementioned activities are a choice compared to the confines of a 9-5 job that pays the rent, the price of Susie’s braces and that fancy latte. Plus car repairs, child care, electronics and counseling to learn how to deal with their aging parents.

In other words, The Retiree could schedule a Bridge game for 4 p.m. at Frank’s house but if it’s sleeting or looks like it might, bow out.

Ring-ring.

“Hello?”

“Frank, I won’t …”

Frank, “I know. Everyone else has already canceled. Don’t know what I’m going to do with the giant punch bowl of rum drinks. Lois has already warned me about too many dips into that pool."

Or say The Retiree (okay, me) has a lunch date scheduled and by ten there’s already three new inches of snow on the ground and it’s still near white-out conditions. Depending on my desperation for either the listening ear of a dear friend or chicken fried steak, I have the decadent choice to cancel or bundle up and fire up the ol’ Subaru whereby I tighten that seat belt, pat the dashboard and say, “Let’s go, Greyhound!” which is what, yes, I’ve named my Minnesota-ready vehicle since, well, I have time for such folderol.

But if I’m a thirty-five-year-old with a 2 p.m. meeting with my boss at the office when, according to Very Excited early morning weather persons, ten inches of snow are piling up, it’s pretty clear I won’t feel a choice. I’ll throw kitty litter in my trunk, pack a snow shovel, make sure I have my AAA card in my wallet, fill my coffee tumbler, leave early and white-knuckle my way to the office.

Now that my husband and I live near a bridge over the Mississippi River connecting Minnesota and Wisconsin, I find looking out the window a better barometer of roads than staring at one of my three phone weather apps, two complete with radar. If a steady flow of cars continues moving over the bridge at a decent pace, I figure Mother Nature is civil. Yup, I will absolutely head to Frank and Lois’s to help them with that rum punch. But should there only be an occasional creeper up there on the bridge—and no sedans, just giant pickup trucks that populate this area, some with snow plows—I’ll stay put. Even though George’s Lounge (several televisions, slot machines, deep fried hot dogs, good whiskey brands and Shake of the Day) is just across that bridge. If I’m thirsty enough for company or a libation, I can always walk one block south or east of our condo to a nearby watering hole.

Since the theme of this post is travel among Worker Bees vs Retirees and all I can seem to talk about is booze—and especially since it’s five o’clock not just “somewhere” but here—I find I’ve now chosen to travel from my office to my liquor cabinet to make me a cocktail!

If you’re a Retiree, please join me in a toast to those who are still working. We shall safely stay put and clinky-clinky to their One Day.

For Better or for Worse: The Traveling Life

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Sat, 01 Feb 2020 17:40:00 +0000


After my Great Went-Septic Appendix Eruption in 2017.

A recent post by bloggers Dan and Cassie Cramer got me to thinking about all the times I’ve traveled sick. Or sickly. Or feeling like I’m about to become that way—you know what I mean.

We also just rendered a big “Happy vacationing!” to two condo neighbors, one who’d been hacking for two weeks, enough so to send him to the doc AND get me washing my hands after each condo elevator ride, once sneakily (HA!) covering my nose and mouth and holding my breath for two whole floors when he hopped in the elevator and began chatting with me. (Hey, it’s FLU SEASON!) He said he was feeling much better and was ready for his adventure, I hoped enough better to avoid airline head compression severe enough to explode his nostrils.

All together now in a grand chorus of Eeuuuuuyuckysnotbucket.

Decades ago, in the dead of winter and under my first book deadline, I packed up my Portable Vectra (pre laptop days, weighed nearly twenty pounds and used a 5-1/4” boot disc—picture HERE) and road-tripped up to a friend’s cabin in Wisconsin where I became wildly ill. Fever. Twenty-four/seven chesty cough. I sought out an emergency room where I was given bold amounts of drugs. Which I took while soldiering on with the writing since, well, book deadline. (Read payment after manuscript was turned in.) The only thing I had energy to cook was frozen pizza, which sat on the counter as I nibbled from it for two days. All alone. No neighbor to bring me soup. Out of my own home state.. No room service or husband to field my bitchety-bitch demands.

In all cases, we do what we must to survive.

Which circles me back to Dan and Cassie’s most recent post about vacationing when one of you is living with noncurable stage four metastatic breast cancer. Their post reminds us we never know what someone’s going through, so BE NICE to strangers on the road, including those who seem whiny and self absorbed. Including cranky security folks, tired parents and snooty gate peeps. Perhaps even check yourself from overreacting to a slightly bungled hotel reservation or a luke-warm baked potato. Dan and Cassie’s entire blog, Meaning & Stuff, is dedicated to the down-and-gritty real thoughts and trials and celebrations one must live with after a terminal diagnosis.

No, we never know what the person next to us is going through, or what we might soon be enduring. I repeat: BE NICE. Karma and all that.

Since we lost our daughter-in-law to the same illness last May Day (for two months we helped our son care for her in home hospice) and I adore Cassie and understand her journey from the shoes of a helpmate, I read every post. She and Dan make us think. Our son and DIL posted their entire journey—hilarious and gut-smacking--on Caring Bridges. People with terminal illnesses have some important stuff to say, something for each of us! Among all the truth and horrors the Internet wields our way, it also delivers the opportunity for us to know what’s happening in the lives of those we care about, and gives those walking through tough times one singular place to dispense updated news without having to repeat it fifty times a day via exhausting phone calls.

To all you road warriors out there, and to those feeling no warrior vibes but who simply enjoy wandering, I send you wishes for that old Irish Blessing about the road rising up to meet you, which means "May your journey succeed", or "May you succeed [in the journey of life]" or even simply "Good luck!" Through good health and bad, I know you’ll travel on until one day that Great Road will come to a Dead End, which, who knows, might eventually lead to a brilliant new Rising Up Road the likes of which you could never ever imagine, even after reading every travel brochure on this planet.

Every day in which you’re on the road with nothing major happening in your health or the health of those you care most about, give thanks. Gratitude makes any trip oh so much more enjoyable. Let that gratitude spread from your inner being to your face until your lips give a few strangers a smile. That little chard of bright might be just the thing that helps them push through their next trying moment.

...Beautiful day for a neighbor, won't you be mine?

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 01 Feb 2017 21:55:00 +0000

When I had no gray hair and our kiddos were young rather than their current 50+ and mid forties, our good neighbors and swell friends sold their house to move to a larger one a town over. We were sad and a tad worried. Handy-dandy neighborly proximity had treated us well. Would it continue to do so?

Then we met the new owners: she a lovely very fair-skinned redhead with freckles, he with dark eyes and dark thinning hair. Both wore welcoming smiles. It took us exactly one get-to-know-you cocktail hour to feel at home with them, desire to see them again. Real soon. Which we often did. Nicknames the likes of Sherbert, Baum and Norb quickly evolved. Gatherings ranged from cookouts to bouts of soap-opera watching (just the girls), rousing card-game nights, dinner outings, sporting events … You name it, they were ready. One of my favorite Christmas photos is the four of us in our living room, Carolyn and me wearing small stuffed Reindeer, their soft legs splayed across the crowns of our heads. Don’t ask.

We helped each other out, the way excellent friends and neighbors do.

Some time in we learned they were Muslim, she converting earlier in their relationship. Since we were friends with a Lutheran married to a Jew, a black married to a white, lived in a culturally diverse neighborhood and also enjoyed atheist friends, we viewed their religion as an opportunity to learn. Throughout the years we engaged in many conversations about their faith, watched them observe Ramadan, were blessed to imbibe in fabulous Iranian dishes and continued to always—always—be grateful for their abundant goodness. Over time, we met all the extended members of their family including the non US citizen relatives who annually visited from Iran. So much excitement for everyone’s vacation arrival. Same as families everywhere. We looked forward to their jovial and smart company.

As years marched on, our friendship deepened and flourished. Best. Friends Matter. I’m not sure we ever laughed harder and longer with any two people. I couldn’t imagine getting through some trying times with a member of my family without the steady, caring and tender guidance of Carolyn, a mental health therapist. A white-collar dude with a brilliant job, Norb volunteered to chauffeur our youngest son and his date to senior prom using his shiny blue convertible, complete with a fancy chauffeurs' hat to fully play the part. Oh, the pictures, memories and joy!

Eventually they sold their house next door (the people who bought it couldn’t say enough about their kindnesses and outreach during ongoing financial glitches) and moved into their first custom-built home a few towns away. Next they moved back to Colorado, from whence they’d originally arrived in Illinois. No matter, we still kept in touch, visited them there, and they us when they were in town. Eventually there came long stretches of time when we didn’t speak, but when we did, cliché-ville: it was as though no time at all had passed. “Our pet rabbit chewed our telephone lines in the family room,” they told us. “I’m heading to a convention in your neck of the woods,” I told them. At which point Carolyn and I wrangled a way for her to come stay in the hotel room with me for a night where we resurrected a few zany fun antics peculiar to us, swapped stories and laughter late into the night.

Then came 9/11.

Oh, how I worried about them, prayed over them. I’d talk myself hoarse defending our dear-heart friends over careless blind prejudiced statements about race or religion. My heart crushed when they reported receiving scary phone calls from strangers trolling phone books looking for last names that sounded like “something”. (I view such actions nothing short of home-grown terrorism.) More prayers. More leaning on my faith. “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” Psalm 56:8 (NLT) Did you know Muslim’s believe in the genuine divine revelation of the Psalms? Norbs prayed for us too.

Time passed and public hostile talk settled down. I quit worrying about them, at least over that kind of heinous treatment. We all aged into retirement, swapped travel stories, shared a few heartaches, more laughter, and news of our eventual move to Minnesota. “Come visit us on the river!” “We will. We WILL!”

Then … There we were again in the midst of presidential debates and political wranglings filled with blanket prejudiced religious statements. Again I prayed to the One True God (God of all) for their protection from such broad suspicions and fear-based spewing. Prayed that people’s land of origin and religion would not be held against them as a matter of political platform—as though any of us have control over where in the world we’re born. I ask, should springing to life from your mother’s womb automatically make you The Enemy, to anyone?!

Now we have the temporary (Lord, hear our prayers!) travel ban directed by our president. On that list, Iran. “No!” I shouted to the cosmos. “You mean to tell me that Norb’s family cannot come and visit them because … because … What? Why?

Because I said so?

Because we've let fear hijack us rather than standing strong and positive?

Because too many (or just one) misguidedly believe all Muslims are evil?

Because we are impatient?

Because in the midst of building a sand castle one believes it’s easier to pan for a bad grain by putting mountains of sand into a sieve and shaking? Or it’s determined we’ll just protect our imaginary castle by leaving all of the sand “over there” so that bad grain stays put?

Or … and I believe this is the answer: because too many never question their assumptions. And people in power who are afraid, who’ve built political platforms on fear, act on those assumptions.

In the meantime, homegrown brutality continues to strike from within. To list acts of horrid violence against children and our neighbors by our very own would be a list unending.

Instead, I prefer to write about just two people: a redhead with freckles and a gentle man. Goodness. US Citizens with dear family and forever friends, all who long to simply be in each others company.

Whiling Away While Up and Away

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Fri, 20 Mar 2015 02:58:00 +0000

For the greater part of a recent two-hour flight I studied what appeared to be perfectly placed hair spikes on the precise crown of the back of a man’s head. (Spike Dude) Using the pinch-method zoom on my phone camera to snap the accompanying shot caught the attention of Guy To My Left who leaned decidedly away from me.

I began to wonder:

Does Spike Dude twist those teensy gathers of hair into little spindles, or does he haphazardly use a spiking gel? Or both? I pictured his morning hair grooming taking place in a three-way mirror, found myself curious as to how many times he might sigh, flatten them and start over.

Does he always manufacture the same number of spikes? Every time he moved his head I tried to double check my count, which fluctuated so I had to start over. How long has he worn that do? His head is nicely shaped for it.

Time whiled away as I compared Spike Dude’s head shape to Shaved Head Man—or was he really Bald Head Man?—seated a row closer to me. I tried to picture myself without hair, imagined how much easier life would be. My dad was mostly bald. I dig bald heads. I remembered the day one of our dear bald-headed friends showed up wearing a toupee. A horrid toupee that screamed TOUPEE! For decades he wore various toupees, each evolution looking more natural, right up until a recent unconquerable rash forced him to give them up. Such a sad day for him... But I didn’t want to ruin my relaxed flight time being sad so I refocused.

I wonder who influenced Spike Dude’s hairdo? I tried to picture Hollywood types, fashionistas still sporting spikes … Huh. I could only envision the current Mohawk trend. Michael Strahand came to mind. How long have spikes been out of vogue?

Maybe the spikes are an accidental result of a hat situation …which diverted my attention to a study of Gray Hat Guy directly in front of me. I decided he had the perfect size hat for his head. Does he typically wear baseball caps? Bet he does. His ears reminded me a little of my dad’s ears which endeared this stranger to me—this stranger whose face I had not seen but whose back of head had likely never been studied that closely. Or maybe it had. I cast my eyes around to see who else was studying the back of heads. Impossible to tell when all I could see was the back of heads.

Spike Dude changed position. I retrieved my phone, snapped another picture, used the pinch method to enlarge it, compared my first capture to the second. Guy To My Left shifted further away from me. I’m creeping him out.

I stopped to consider if I was creepy, decided I was not. I’m just an old creative type who’s very entertaining in her own mind. I smiled, which I thought could be construed as creepy, which further entertained me so I smiled more broadly. I considered taking 20 more pictures just to see if Guy To My Left might actually crawl over his chair arm into the aisle to get away from me.

Heart zing! Perhaps Guy To My Left is a sky marshal who’s not moving away from me but rather leaning to unsnap his holster. I put my phone away, wiped the grin off my face. Went back to staring.

After I calmed down a new thought struck me. Spike Dude may simply suffer an unconquerable cowlick to which he applies heavy product in attempts to make it obey. But it doesn’t and never will. Although it frustrates him, his Happy Hair is adding eons of distraction to my flight.

I relaxed, closed my eyes, gave thanks for all the wonders of the world including Spike Dude. May his life be as merry and self-entertaining as mine.

And may you all be able to relax during your next flight without wondering what someone is thinking about your hair, your ears--your life.

Tweets, Texts, Emails, Phone Calls & Whiskey

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 05 Mar 2015 16:56:00 +0000

READING CODES:

Tweets

Texts

Emails

Phone

Whiskey

__________________

What a great plan: American Airlines Flight 2315 (which was of course Envoy also sort of known as American Eagle) direct flight from ABQ to ORD home. Seats in row 10. Huzza! Super plan, right up until they first posted delays and then ... canceled. We learned of the cancellation via a recorded message to my cell phone which arrived simultaneously with notification of same on FlightStats, which I’d been dogging. This explosion of wonderfulness occurred about two hours before departure.

Here we go.

Our son had been through this a few days previous. Around noonish via email he was notified that his AA ABQ to MSP connecting flights were canceled for his next-day flights and replacement flights left him driving in the middle of the night from MSP to his final destination. It took hours and hours and hours on the phone and disconnections and starting over and then having someone difficult to understand tell him they could see flights he couldn’t see on the website (Oh, really?—and another disconnect) until finally he left a message, assured he wouldn’t lose his place in line and that someone would phone him back when it was his turn. Sometimes one just has to go to bed. Hours later around 11:30 p.m. he received a call rebooking him for a day later than originally scheduled but with the sane and suitable replacement flights he'd been trying to get all along. Via PHX not DFW. Enough said.

Fun fact: while he was on hold I tried every online trick I could think of to help him. This included sending a Tweet out to @AmericanAir. After all, I’d just read an article somewhere whereby an AA customer touted timely Twitter help she received after she accidentally ended up outside security. Their quick response Tweet saved her from missing her flight. Why wouldn’t I try that?! SUPER MOM TO THE RESCUE!

6:58 PM 2/22/15 @AmericanAir Any hints to get through to and stay connected with you to rearrange weather related cancels? Hours in now w/nothing.

11:58 pm 2/22/15 @TwinkleChar Please continue to wait, Charlene.

But enough about my son’s trial. Back to our dilemma.

I phoned AA from our hotel room (close to the airport and with a free shuttle) to rebook flights and was put on hold. As I kept the phone to my ear and replayed our son’s plight in my head I said to my husband, "Let’s take the shuttle to the airport now. I want to be able to talk directly to a human and be available to reroute in an instant." A storm was due into ABQ later in the day. GET US OUT OF HERE, right?

When we arrived at ABQ hubby and I both noticed no other airlines had customer lines. Only AA. About 20 folks. From the line chatter and grumbling we soon learned everyone in that line was trying to reschedule their canceled Chicago flight. The line was moving (hahahaha) very slowly. One dude at the back of the line, trying to make a connection, yelled thus and demanded folks MOVE IT ALONG!

Oh, that always works. To get you stared down like the dumb petoot you're acting like.

About 25 minutes in I was still on hold and we were next up to the counter.

[While all this was going on and I was still on hold, my call waiting sounded. It was American Airlines. I clicked over (holding my breath I didn’t get disconnected) to listen to a recording telling me they were sorry about the cancellation, that there were no other direct flights, but not to worry that we’d “been protected” on alternate flights. If I had a pencil and paper handy, which I did, the recording said I should say CONTINUE and they’d tell me what and when. CONTINUE, I said, but the voice was sorry it didn’t understand me. After three more failed attempts for it to understand CONTINUE it said I should call American Airlines. Goodbye.

Alrighty then. I clicked back over to my holding.

An AA rep eventually came on the line. I told her we were next up for the counter at the airport and asked if we should just hang up and let them handle it. "NO!" Seriously, she nearly yelled. She reassured me that yes we were “protected” and confirmed on flights connecting in DFW. The next day. I explained there was a storm coming into ABQ that evening and couldn’t she please get us out of there. I was uber nice, funny even. Charming you might say. After long pauses and an “I know this is crazy but…” The only thing she could offer was Albuquerque to Phoenix to NYC (don’t remember which airport) to ORD.

I can’t possibly imagine anything going wrong there, can you! Oddly, we declined.

We hung up in time for the gate agent to tell us the same thing. Sometimes things just are what they are. At least we weren't about to miss a wedding or funeral or our last moments on this earth with someone we loved. Just lean into this, Charlene, I said to myself, and be grateful. Visions of whiskey began to dance in my head.

I phoned the hotel, which I'd highly recommend. The kind manager, who said he understood our precarious situation when we’d earlier checked out, answered. I asked for his very best rate. He extended a “distressed passenger” price of five bucks cheaper than our previous night which had been a good deal to start with so I said thank you very much and okay and he said he'd send their free shuttle (van) ride back to the airport to retrieve us.

There is nothing like feeling both “protected” while also affirmed you are “distressed.”

We opted for our same room which hadn’t yet been cleaned but we didn’t care. We often blow off housekeeping anyway. We like to leave our stuff strewn all over the place.

[begin group texts to our sons]

1:04 p.m. - So we get to go home tomorrow now, barring the incoming storm doesn’t hose that. No longer nonstop. Routed via DFW. Will keep you posted. Checking back into Comfort Inn for distressed passenger rate. Where’s the bar?

[We enjoyed a four-hour, time-killing eat and libation session at Applebees across the street, got a dinner sandwich to go, watched TV and retired early for the first of our next day’s flights due to depart at 9:01 a.m..]

Yep, that storm arrived. Here's the view out the ABQ concourse window flight morning.

8:35 a.m – 9:01am flight shows on time out of here so far but DFW now has weather warnings involving ice. Ah, travel.

9:49 a.m. - Seated on flight one.

10:07 a.m. - And now… Deicing…

10:17 a.m. - And … now a bunch of other stuff [gas] and then deicing and then …

10:42 a.m. - Seriously we are going to deice.

1:07 p.m. - At DFW. Still showing #2315 leaving on time at 2:55 but standing by on #2309 departing at 2. Just got here. Whiskey ordered.

[Then whiskey and diet slammed because, miraculously (or so I thought, even though we had the very back row) ...]

Dad's View

1:54 p.m. - We are on early flight! In end probably won’t save time now since made us check bags last minute and tons of empty overhead space on board. Grrr. This is dad’s view. Oh well, still hope to make Irish COD [College of DuPage] performance tonight. [Note to TL readers: it never occurred to me when I bought these $50+ each tickets weeks’ previous that we wouldn’t be home for them, since we were due in the day before.]

2:07 p.m. - And now starts delays…Need gas. Will then get in line to deice. Lesson learned: stay the course.

2:26 p.m. - Original later flight beating us out. Haven’t even pushed back yet, then deicing. Then luggage pickup in ORD. More whiskey please. [Although no whiskey was available to us. Just wishful texted thinking. I kept checking FlightStats on our original flight too, which stayed on a par with our speedy standby maneuver. I later learned DEPARTED only meant pushed back for both flights seemingly having a race to lose.]

2:37 p.m. - And now ... Nobody is leaving Dallas. [meaning on our plane] Flight attendant disarming doors.

2:51 p.m. - Final update (hahaha): we are now leaving DFW at 3:35. Welcome to captivity. So glad I pounded a whiskey. [Referring to the 1:07 pounding, not another whiskey people!]

3:54 p.m. - We’re waiting for deicing. Hahaha!

4:19 p.m. - We’re on our way to get deiced. Hahahahaha!

4:34 p.m. - We’re on our way to decing. Bwahahaha!

4:43 p.m. - Still on the ground in DFW

Email to Joe Brancatelli at JoeSentMe.org, a longtime road warrior and my travel guru.

4:49 p.m. [Can you tell I’m bored?] Been on our way home from ABQ since canceled direct flight yesterday. Been in plane on ground at dfw today since 2. It's now 4:30. Travel sucks. Bless you for enduring.

4:52 p.m. – [from Joe] At 3 hours you have the right to disembark

5:07 p.m. - [text to sons] Just now getting de-iced.

5:20 p.m. – [Email to Joe] We're out on tarmac. Been here forever now. Just got deiced, we think. FlightStats lies. =:-O Says we left 3:47. Thanks for outreach. Makes me feel better. We have been so jacked around but you know what it's like. Oh well, more material. [always a writer]

5:24 p.m. – [from Joe] The dot rule is three hours ON THE TARMAC. They can't hold you longer. Dot rules

[I don’t explain to Joe till the next day that we had one chance--that 2:37 disarming doors text where the captain said looks like maybe 3:35 pushback--to get off the plane. The captain said we’d have to take everything with us if we deplaned and if the flight received clearance ahead of predictions they wouldn’t wait and he didn’t advise we get off.]

[We finally take off. Whiskey and diet ordered, paid for with credit card, received and happily consumed. Souvenir picture.]

7:17 [Back to texts to sons] Just landed in ORD. Still taxi. Then get luggage [Note to TL readers by way of reminder that there was plenty of room for our bags in the overheads] then wait for limo. Probably missed whole Irish show but will try to catch end.

THE REST OF THE STORY:

We quickly stopped at a no-line fast food on the concourse and bought one quarter-pound cheeseburger to split in the limo. We had the limo driver take us directly to College of DuPage where we arrived just before the intermission. We checked our bags in the coat room and I ordered a whiskey and diet. Anyone surprised? Anyone? A friend who also had tickets gave us a ride home.

We later learned—and for a few days running—that hundreds of people slept on cots at DFW. Maybe they are still there. So we were the lucky ones. Our flight crew out of DFW, who remained pleasant, efficient and sympathetic, shared with us that they were on their fourth flight of the day. All previous flights had gone well. They’d started flying at 5 a.m. that morning and they didn’t deplane until after we did, sometime around 7:30.

After two days, many texts, one Tweet, a few Emails, countless hours of holding phones calls and some whiskey along the way, it was agreed upon that at least we weren’t them. Talk about a long travel day ... Bless you, flight crews. Bless you.

PS In case you were trying to count, I had two whiskeys over four hours at Applebees on Thursday. Friday I had one before our second flight, one on flight two and one at the college, which made for three drinks (and no driving) over a period of 7.5 hours. (I am a responsible drinker.) It just looked like more because I used bright flashy pink and large type. For emotional reasons. Hey, I'm a girl who likes whiskey. Deal with it. :)

Rusty Stupidness and Banked Miles

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 22:12:00 +0000

Photo by Scott Robinson
https://www.flickr.com/photos/clearlyambiguous/19243890/

Here’s the thing about staying out of the skies for a couple years: you get rusty. Stupid rusty, thereby making stupid rusty stupid mistakes.

Backstory: We haven’t flown since our oldest son married back in May of 2012. Come to think of it, we didn’t even fly then from Chicago to his wedding in Albuquerque. We drove because we could and it’s easier and healthier since I could spread my altitude adjustments over a few days and it's cheaper and we could pack any dang thing we wanted to without extra fees and eat what and where we wanted and see new things along the way and we’re mostly retired and we have a comfortable car with heated AND cooled seats. Ba-BAM!

So when was the last time we flew? Hm. I had to search my mind (nothing) and email files to learn it was back in 2009, also to ABQ. Before that, in 2007 we flew to Florida for a cruise. Before that, I flew Very Often while book touring and speaking my way across the country and back again, and then from here to there in an X pattern and then a star and…

So here we are in 2015 when we still really don’t want to fly but need to get to Albuquerque for our son’s 50^th (declared his Five-OH!) birthday party. Since we tempted the fates and drove 3200 miles this past December without severe weather incident (future TravelingLaughs and boy have I got stories to tell!), we decided doing so again in February would be pushing our luck.

But moreover—and thus starts the STUPID (a word I just typo-d and had to correct, gheesh!)--I was tired of babysitting 43,145 American Airlines miles (out of a lifetime 560,145) which have been on the verge of expiring several times over many years thereby causing biannual Ridiculous Encounters of the Vigilant Kind.

Facts:

--Years ago I lost over 40,000+ hard-earned (actually flew) United Airline miles because they expired. I’ll take the blame: I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I discovered the loss the day after they expired. I contacted United who would have been glad to sell them back to me for a bunch of money I didn’t have. Gone. Not gonna happen with my AA miles, I vowed.

--We quit using a credit card to rack up AA miles way back when they started charging to use said miles. We opted for cash-back cards with dollars that don’t expire and are easy for me to spend, right dear?

So, how to safeguard my 43,145 miles if we weren’t flying or using a mileage card? Well, we could add to them, thereby keeping them, by shopping via an AAdvantage eshopping portal (set up another account to manage and remember that password) that offered ever changing X number of miles per dollars spent at various stores. Which triggered its own separate vigilance: after jumping through all the appropriate click-through links, did they actually POST the miles? Sometimes not. But please contact them if that happens. :)

To stop the madness, as Mr. Wonderful on Shark Tank says, we decided to finally rid ourselves of those always-need-to-be-vigilant brain draining miles by using them.

Too bad this decision didn’t stop the RUSTY STUPID but instead highlighted it!

Since it took 50,000 miles to fly roundtrip to ABQ, I needed to purchase the difference which cost $177--with 145 miles left over which I'm telling you right now I've decided never to care about. Ever. Just before I clicked PURCHASE an “invoice” of sorts presented itself adding a $30 “processing fee”. I sat staring at the screen. I shall not repeat what I first said aloud to nobody, then repeated even louder. But eventually I said to myself, You’re going to end the quickly compounding madness, remember? Just push BUY and get the miles, Charlene!

[SIDENOTE: I am in the wrong business or I am double stupid since before you read this TravelingLaugh you were not charged a $30 “blog processing fee” to read it. But my wheels are spinning for the next installations, so watch out.]

I was notified said purchased miles could take up to three days to show up in my account, and if they didn’t, I should contact them. (More vigilance.) They advised making and holding my reservations until such time as I received notification my account was funded with necessary miles and THEN I could actually purchase the tickets. I made the reservations for all three legs (from a bunch of not-so-hot choices), selected seats (from abysmal choices) and said, Whew! All those years of fretting about protecting miles finally comes to an end.

The next day (well, at least it wasn’t three days) I received notification the miles were in my account. The email came complete with a handy-dandy purchase link which I clicked. I quickly received my eTickets and an email receipt charging me $150 MORE ($75 per ticket) plus taxes.

Wait. What?! What is this $150? Seems waiting for miles (and being STUPID RUSTY—I used to KNOW these things!) put me at 21 days before travel, which costs $75 per ticket to use my own miles on flights I’d never otherwise select in seats that suck. In case you forgot, if you book 21 days or sooner, you’re financially doomed—I just didn’t remember that would be the case with FREE.

So now I was up to $177 plus $30 more plus taxes plus $150 plus yet more taxes to rid myself of those tormenting 43,145 miles, a nut I couldn’t quite swallow. I sat at my desk and prayed, did shoulder rolls, pictured puppies romping through fields of lavender, inhaled, exhaled, counted to 20 and prayed some more, let my shoulders drop and phoned AAdvantage.

Question One, asked in the nicest kindest voice (lavender, puppies…) I’ve ever heard come out of me: Is it costing me to talk to you? I honestly asked that question because some latent memories began to kick in … Don’t call, don’t call ... if it costs $30 to process online, what will a voice charge? The swell woman (seriously) answered No and I began to explain the order of my events leading to what felt to me like a complete surprise $150 charge, $150 more than was in my budget for this trip. I still had the rental car to contend with, oh my.

She looked up everything and verified the “Day 21 Beforehand” timing. First she said she was going to turn me over to someone, then took pity on poor ol’ me and decided she could handle things herself, which would be her attempt to eradicate the $150 by moving our reservations back two days, if such a move was possible. After lots of her clicking and me holding and endless Thankyou, thankyou, THANKYOUing on my part, mission accomplished! I even received a confirmation email complete with an invoice for nothing but yet more taxes—although as I type this I’m thinking: check your credit card charges STUPID! (Did you feel the tension-filled pause there while I checked, and thank goodness STUPID didn’t find anything bad, like a $150 charge.)

At 3 a.m. I was awakened by what I can only call another subconscious STUPID alarm. Why hadn’t she asked me about seat assignments? Why hadn’t I thought about them?! I ran into my office, booted up and discovered zero seats available for the first leg of our two-leg flight to ABQ. The note at the top of the page said:

Heads up!

The number of seats available to pre-reserve are fewer than the number of people in your party. Please check back later or see a Ticket Counter or Gate Agent on the day of your flight.

WHAT? I clicked to the next outbound leg via DFW. We had the same two seats I’d originally selected (the last two-together left at the back of the plane). One more click to our return flight home and … Another Heads up! (And head bang.) I phoned and inquired about this predicament and was told not to worry. It was explained that they hold certain seats which they’d release 24 hours before the flight. I could go online flight day and select them when I checked in, or get them assigned pre-flight at the airport. Again, I was told not to worry, that the flight was not oversold as I’d suggested, and that We. Would. Have. Seats.

This is when I knew they knew I was STUPID!

I have checked multiple times since and see there are still no seats. I am trying not to fret since the Five-Oh! party is mid-day the day after we’re supposed to arrive on a flight for which we have no seat assignments.

STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID!

SPECIAL REQUEST: If any of you seasoned travel vets knows how I can be assured we’ll get seats or overcome this dilemma, please chime in now in the comments. I'm exhausting myself constantly checking what I feel pretty sure isn't going to change.

If all you have for me is the bad news I feel pretty assured I’m up against, go right ahead and reaffirm my RUSTY STUPIDNESS. I deserve it. Years ago I would have known better.

I can only hope that if we do get to fly I don’t have all kinds of stuff confiscated at the gate since I am, yes, THAT RUSTY STUPID. (All together now, it's 3-1-1 but what exactly does that mean again ... **Charlene goes Googling**)
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PS I'm sorry for crazy font issues toward the end of my post. I have no idea why that is happening. The more I tried to fix it, the more widespread it became. Although the issues don't show up on my working end, they sure do when I post. Sigh...

Making Plans--HAHAHAHAHA!

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 22:21:00 +0000

This week my business travel plans have been so flexible I’ve gone nowhere. That seemingly never ending “wintry mix” (read ICE!) keeps hanging around my driving destination causing my ongoing delays. If I’d scheduled a flight, I’d likely be there already.

Maybe.

This morning, after pulling the plug again (WHAT?! MORE wintery mix?! Yesterday they said it'd be gone!), I did get to enjoy a combo business/social breakfast meeting with an author friend, something I’d have missed if I’d headed toward Minnesota yesterday as originally scheduled. We chatted about the state of publishing (watch for a future TravelingLaugh on THAT hairy topic!) and the fact that today, her husband set off on his first of many future business trips to downtown Chicago. Due to situations beyond his control, he’s become a part-time Windy City commuter, something I sure wouldn’t welcome. Out here in the burbs, we like hopping in our cars and actually getting places without trains and transfers. When there isn’t road work mucking things up, slowing us down, bringing us to screeching halts. (Process of full disclosure: there is ALWAYS road work everywhere since this is Illinois. **she sighs**)

At 10:30 a.m., my friend received a phone call from her daughter, due home today from college. Via the airlines. Her daughter had just received an email from Orbitz announcing her 7 p.m. flight had been cancelled. Weather? I asked. Could be, but sometimes airlines cancel flights that aren’t full enough. We all know that.

I pulled up RadarNow on my smart phone, an app worthy of full-feature pay. Whoa! There was a huge-o-rama storm moving her daughter’s way, a massive multi-colored swirl broadcasting plenty of watches and warnings. After a few phone calls, it looked like they could get her out early, before the storms. If everything went as planned, her cancellation would ultimately deliver a Good Thing. Although she was supposed to be in classes today, she could work with professors to turn a few things in early.

I, on the other hand, cannot drive over the storms or beat them as they linger and aim right at me.

In my younger days, I poo-pooed the possibilities and hit the road. Now, fully aware how many cars quickly crash and meld together on Interstate highways during those snaky wintry mixes (and foggy episodes and no reason at all snarls), I make decisions carefully, especially when what waits on the other end can postpone. If business can’t stall, tighter budgets and advancements in teleconferencing present Option Three: stay put and get your business done anyway.

But not all delays are so easily swallowed. A couple weeks ago my beloved aunt passed away. In good weather, it wouldn’t have taken more than a two-and-a-half hour drive to attend her Indiana funeral. But here came another doozy of a storm.

We watched the weather, made calls, fretted …. One place you seriously don’t want to be when snow is flying and the winds are howling is on Interstate 65. I kept in close contact with scattered cousins in the area, most who said “STAY PUT!” In the end, that’s what we did, but it was a gut wrenching decision. As it turns out, I-65 partially closed the day of the funeral, the day we would have been coming home. The storm was so bad the after-funeral meal was cancelled. One of my cousins said her prayers and blasted through local drifts in her big old pickup, grateful she wasn’t worried about us making our way back to Illinois too.

In the end we each do what we can*. I wanted to say what we must(*), but Mother Nature’s rip-roaring laughter might shake us all off the planet.

**********************************

UPDATE: It’s now 3:30 and I just received a text from my friend. Her daughter’s tickets have thus far been rewritten twice. She’s now scheduled on a 6:30 flight. The poor young thing has a headache, is almost out of cell phone battery and doesn’t have her charger. Rather than expend any energy on frustration (WHAT? No CORD?!), together we momma’s are praying. What else is there to do when you’re up against the airlines AND Mother Nature? “God, just keep our babies safe.”

FURTHER UPDATE: It's 4:49 and I heard back from my friend who just heard from her daughter. She's been delayed again "a few hours" so it may be midnight before she gets home. BUT, she had some coffee to kick the headache, used her mom's credit card to buy a phone charger, got herself a decent meal, and is feeling better about having to sit tight.

You know, my lounge chair suddenly looks really inviting. There is something to be said for going nowhere.

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PS AND THE REAL KICKER: I just Googled "pictures of Mother Nature" to add to the beginning of this blog post. First up in the "sponsored results" www.Tampax.com . And you think Mother Nature isn't laughing now?!?!?!

Don't Mess With a System That Works

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 21:50:00 +0000

Although I’m no longer flitting around the country like a “fart in a whirlwind”, as my grandma used to say (for real, she said that), I still do my ample share of trekking between Illinois and Minnesota. In my car. Where I can pack any size knife AND my dog Kornflake. Even when he has gas. (Thank you God for inventing mouth breathing.)

But no matter where/when I find myself planning that next trip, and no matter how long between trips, for the last decade there is one bag I never unpack: Kipling’s Sherpa Carry-on Tote. Brilliant red, baby. I simply work out of it so that when I get to the “otherly” place I’m sure I’ll have my toothpaste, eye shadow, emergency Zantac, deodorant, foot powder, moisturizer, book of matches (you never know), knee brace, exotic earrings and all other must-haves like a few pair of Dollar Tree glasses and way too many ballpoint pens.

When I get home, I set this bag out of the way on the bathroom floor and leave it unzipped. Whatever comes out of it goes back into it. Working out of a bag on the floor helps my health: Bend and stretch. Bend and stretch. Bend and stretch.

Since I'm doing no air travel as of late, the only time I'll alter this system is when I do have to fly, in which case I'll find the few tall bottles and swap them for my short ones. Trade off the large toothpaste tube for the travel one. Trade for trade. That way I For Sure won't take something out I need.

I’ve talked about my Kipling bags before. I also shared a picture of the vintage snap-lock “cosmetic bag” I keep filled with of G.I.Joe body parts from yesteryear. (Mother of sons who used to like to pretend to blow things up, so you might want to check that link out after all guys, relive your own memories.) I can always—always--cram just one more thing into my Kiplings, although as of yet I’ve found no need to add any body parts. I hope the TSA or some other federal agency doesn't start watching me now, just for saying that.

These soft bags weigh almost nothing when empty, have extremely durable zippers and just the right amount of exterior and interior pockets. Truly great organizers. After years of use they still look brand new. Wish I could say the same for my face. They come with shoulder straps too. They're also offered in manly colors like boring black. (Nothing personal.)

Process of full disclosure: don’t fall in love with my exact large Kipling duffle bag show here because I can no longer find it online, not even on eBay. But just so you can lust after it ... And there are other versions.

Since I often make that Chicago/Minnesota trek between our main digs and the writing hideaway we rent year-around, there is another “bag” which is really a “bin” that stays active, for lack of a better definition. We (hubs and I) keep it out of the way, but “out.” Our marital shorthand goes something like, “Put it in the blue bin.” This way as soon as we think of something that needs to go back or forth, and because we’ll soon forget what we thought of, we put it in the bin rather than on a list which we’ll also lose.

There are a few must-have, always-use household items we don’t want to duplicate, so we keep them stored in the bin, like my Tupperware Spin N Save Salad Spinner and my Pampered Chef garlic press.
(Who doesn't love a good party?!) Seriously, that garlic press transformed my life! Why put them in a cabinet here or there where we might forget them? Use, wash, dry, back in the bin. We store the camera there too, and my prescriptions and vitamins and a small empty White Castle hamburger box (lower right-hand corner of the bin). I'm not sure why the White Castle box is there, but it's been there for years and like I said, DON'T MESS WITH A SYSTEM THAT WORKS! Since the blue bin is always "active," the giant thing is hard to forget when we're packing the car.

So there you have it: one old woman’s methodology. What about you? Got any “always do it this way” keen-o, neat-o, fail-safe, gotta-have travel ideas and necessities? Go ahead and share them here in the comments.

Hunka Hunka Burnin' Bod

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 16:53:00 +0000

Recently a dear male friend of ours underwent fairly long-term radiation therapy. He said he could finally identify with the hideousness of hot flashes since his radiation caused not only bouts of the daily surges, but night sweats too. His clinical explanation of the two-for phenomena: “They suck.”

Yes indeedy-do.

Coldfront®, a product that at first glance might seem like it’s just for aging women, turns out to be a good all-around nongender traveler’s match. Although I do believe the largest target market is menopausal women, the rest of you, dear male readers (and women too), can find so many more uses. Suggestions range from minor burn comfort to sore muscles after a workout. Freeze first, put the pack in your flight bag, then move to your gym bag since one package freeze lasts for up to 12 hours of recooling pleasure. Why, you could even use them to help you when the big guy seated next to you on the plane is a hot body and you’re trying not to ignite.

In the process of full disclosure, I know what I’m talking about. Horrid bouts of inferno heat waving began attacking my body in my late thirties. I’m now sixty-seven and still endure them, especially the night sweats. I was temporarily rescued from this pit by low dosages of estrogen (I WANTED TO KISS MY DOCTOR FULL ON THE LIPS!), but quickly grew a rare tumor surmised to be fed by estrogen, so off the happy pills I had to go.

PHOOEY, although that’s not exactly the term I used. Several times. Still utter it. Often.

[So you don’t get hung up here worrying about my tumor, it is, for all practical purposes and according to a fine doctor at Mayo Clinic who studied the dumb thing for a year, currently just taking up space. This is a Good Thing. Since this rare el stupido interruption has the propensity to cause severe issues, if it shows the least signs of growth, out it’ll come, but odds are looking better it won’t. The more they learn about these rare tumors, the more they find watching and ignoring the small stable ones causes the least trouble. YAY!]

I used to write for the healthcare industry so I still occasionally receive PR pitches, most which I ignore. But when an email arrived publicizing Coldfront®, “interval cold therapy originally invented for menopausal hot-flashing women, and now being used by everyone” (does this mean YOU?), it sounded like something I ought to try, especially since drugs grew me that thar tumor. So again in the process of full disclosure, it’s only decent to admit that after desperately begging for a sample (okay, they offered one), I received the product free in exchange for an honest review.

Oh, baby, I LIKED it!

Since I often observe women (and myself) trapped on airplanes and in hotels and business meetings speed peeling outer layers of clothing and fanning their red-faced sweating selves, again, the product review seemed like a good traveling match. (Since I’m so aggravated by these blast-furnace episodes, I even cursed one of my fictional characters with them.) And since I’ve learned about so many other more general uses, here ya go.

Coldfront® is a simple idea: flesh color, palm sized, portable cold pads in a nice “ergonomically designed” insulated zipper case. No direct electronics needed. Feel the wave or need begin, unzip the case, put each pad discreetly in your palm and place them where they offer the most relief, like one on your forehead, the other on your neck. Or both on your neck, or on a wrist, or under your arm pit. Or just keep patting them around your blazing zones, perhaps inside the knee. All those around you will see is you resting your hands on yourself, same as we all do anyway.

But like I said, uses far exceed menopausal women. The most well-rounded list of situational uses for Coldfront® can be found here. http://www.mycoldfront.com/who-needs-coldfront/. While I was on the Coldfront® site, I watched several short video testimonies, which were as effective and convincing as my personal experience and response. I also read reviews. One woman said a fire fighter recommended them. Brilliant! Perhaps they could work miracles on hot-headed executives? Perhaps I’ve just recommended next year’s gift idea for your less-than-calm boss?

To keep the little pads cold throughout a day, you simply put the entire case in the freezer for 12 hours (overnight). You can chuck it into your briefcase or purse, if your purse is large enough, which mine currently isn’t since I'm in one of my scale-down bouts, which will probably last another two days since I never have what I need. At about 7 by 4.25 by 3 inches, along with everything else in my ridiculously small bag, I’d currently also have to carry a tote to keep the Coldfront® with me--another reason to just go back to the bigger back-breaking bag so that I can decide I need to scale down again. **sigh**

The entire loaded Coldfront® packet only weighs about 13.5 ounces, which is amazing, considering it works like a mini refrigerator. Since the whole enchilada contains three total gel packs (one large one which you don’t use, but which freezes and keeps the other two cool [“and patented Recool Technology” – more later], I wondered about TSA acceptance. (But then I wonder lots of things about the TSA.) I visited the Coldfront® website to see if there was anything official on that topic, and as luck would have it, the last person to write a review talked about successfully taking it on the plane with her--although one woman's experience doesn't necessarily add up to legality. Here’s Coldfront®'s official website statement on the topic. Read carefully. There are some limitations.

Q. I want to fly with coldfront. Are there any rules I should know about?

A. coldfront® provides cooling relief on both short and long, DOMESTIC flights! When coldfront® is in its frozen state contained in a carry-on item, going through security is a breeze as it meets Transportation Security Administration (TSA) requirements. If partially or completely thawed, bring coldfront® to the attention of a Security Officer, or place in your checked luggage. Use of a cooling device for the management of surgically, chemically, or hormonally induced hot flashes, or medically necessary heat relief, is permissible. For details on TSA compliance, go here: http://www.tsa.gov/traveler-information/medically-necessary-liquids, and... enjoy!

And another tidbit:

Q. I want to take a long trip, how should I keep coldfront cold?

A. Enjoying overnight accommodations? Ask to use the facility's freezer! We've found that staff members are happy to honor this request. If you don't plan on staying at a hotel or somewhere with a convenient freezer, then you might be better off keeping coldfront in your freezer at home so upon your return, it's extra frosty.

The FAQ page with other pertinent info is here.

I realize I sound like an infomercial, but to be honest, in this day of gadgets and our over indulgence in pill popping, it’s lovely to see something come along that’s based on common sense and practicality. Using the Coldfront® sure beats putting your head in the freezer when flashing, which I’ve done—seriously—on many occasions.

The packet also comes with a small sweat mopper, although they refer to it with more decorum. The Recool Technology implies exactly what it means: you can put the used packets back in the holder and within twenty minutes, they’re recooled for your next use. I successfully tested this, several times throughout a day. Some folks keep them bedside. Hey, buy two packs and never go without! Twenty-four hour sanity!

I was going to post a bunch more pictures, but to be honest, the ones on Coldfront®’s website are quite effective. Although $49.94 plus a chunk of bucks for shipping might seem steep, when you consider that no melting ice cube messes are involved in this simply technology, and that the pads are discrete and recoolable for up to 12 hours, and that you’re not drugging yourself, and that you don’t have to keep buying new disposable breakable packs that cool you, the Coldfront® offers worthy game. If you think about it, they've even got the name right, because what sounds more appealing when your body is on fire than a cold front?

I receive no compensation for this testimonial, other than the product sent to me for an honest review.

Oh, The Things We Saw

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 20:56:00 +0000

Between business and leisure, solo travel and highway boogieing with my spouse, we put a lot of miles on our car this year, including a round-trip journey from the Chicago suburbs to Albuquerque New Mexico. We nearly beat the path between the burbs and our MN hideaway to death. My honey and I journeyed up and down super slabs, pay-for highways and plenty of back roads, including miles of pinging gravel.

We've enjoyed lovely consistencies via our literal road travel versus airlines:

The comfort of our own leather car seats. (Adjustable lumbar support. YAY!)
No limitations on snacks or shampoo. (Hair looks great. Unbuttons jeans again.)
Alternative routes due to weather or whim. ("I've never been to Mabel MN. TURN LEFT HERE!")
Up close and personal scenery. (Fall's been glorious!)
Venue/menu choices. (Drive-through or cocktails?)
Unlimited baggage. (To fishing pole or golf clubs, that is the question.)
No rental vehicle snafus. (Let's hear it for an HONEST nonsmoking vehicle!)
No missed connections. (Do I have to count wrong turns?)
The ability to stop and go when we want to.
No running for gates or sitting on the tarmac.

Of course there were drawbacks too:

Couldn't watch a movie. (If I was the driver.)
No call button. (Unless one could count on one's spouse or traveling partner (TP) to pass one something.)
We couldn't change elevation to avoid bad weather. (And bridges can be icy.)
Traffic congestion occasionally played havoc with our schedule. (Especially if we didn't listen to our spouse (TP) and stayed on the main route. The words harassment and neener-neener come to mind.)
We couldn't eavesdrop on conversations around us. (Or get kicked in the back by a kid, unless he was ours, and they're 47 and 42, so no.)
We couldn't stand up and walk around while still "making time." (Cruise control only covers so much.)
Couldn't work on a laptop while you're driving.

Okay, we didn't follow this, but ...
STOP! I gotta get a picture
of THAT!

But one of the most enjoyable benefits, which, to be honest, also occasionally caused a time detriment, was the many unusual and interesting things we followed, as opposed to one of those ongoing and annoying two-hour stares at the crooked part in the back of the guy's head in the airline seat in front of us. You know, the guy who reclines his airline chair up against your knees?

I herewith offer a relaxing visual testimony to a few of our more recent-ish Favorite Follows. Enjoy the ride. Feel the pace. Imagine the fury of wrangling around with a cell phone to capture a moving shot. :)

Nothing like giant side-by-sides to help you make time.

Okay, not exactly a "follow" but ...

Giantest fan EVA!

Mega Bus touting $1 rides

Yep, that's the Trester Trolley
chugging up that hill in front of us!

Whoa.

Sometimes things GOING look like
they're COMING AT YOU.

Harvest Time!

Super 8 Update (poet and know it)

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 00:24:00 +0000

Super Eight Logo

After my September 4 post about my unhappy Super 8 stay (Whaaaa!), a few of you encouraged me (YAY, and thank you!) to report the incident. So I sent a short note to Super 8 Customer Care via The Form that pops up under Super 8's "Feedback on my hotelstay". In it, I included a link to my blog post account of the gnarly details.

Within a day or two, I received a nice response email from Julie, an Internet Specialist with the Wyndham Hotel Group. Super 8 is now under their umbrella. In case you're not aware how many other brands fall under that umbrella, and at which you could be earning Wyndham Rewards, check the bottom of that page. You might be surprised at the size of this alliance which includes Microtel, Ramada and Days Inn. [You will also find call-out boxes on the Super 8 home page: HEY STOCK CAR FANS. HEY RODEO FANS. Of course this got my attention because I do believe it was greasy stock car driver fingerprints that graced my keycard holder upon check-in. :)]

Julie thanked me for contacting them, apologized for my dissatisfaction (good business) and said I would hear directly, by a named timeline, from the hotel's manager to "assist" me "in reaching a resolution".

The response deadline date, also my 43rd wedding anniversary, came and went with nary a word from Super 8, but I did enjoy a wonderful breakfast out (blackened catfish omlet!) with my honey. (He ordered two eggs over easy. That's the way we roll.) Either the response of the manager was lost in the cosmos (always possible) or he didn't get to it. Oh, well, after that kind of stay, that's pretty much what I expected.

However, Julie then contacted me via phone (surprise, and terrific business) to see if I'd heard from him. I told her no, but that I sure appreciated her followup. She said the matter would be handled in house. She wanted to know what I expected by way of resolution.

Whoa! What an excellent question, one I hadn't actually thought about--well, aside from the whining part. What did I want?

Since my mouth is always quick to speak, even when I haven't thought about much of anything, I told her I'd never asked for a "resolution". I guess all I really wanted was for The Powers that Be to know about it. After all, via the comments on my blog, seasoned travelers had encouraged me to Give Peace a Chance. I told her I doubted I'd be back that rural Super 8 way anyway; the incident was over. But I wished to have my complaints acknowledged, and to hopefully help spare anyone else the same yuck treatment. I told her I'd originally put my experience out there in part just to ask others to share their GOOD Super 8 experiences with me, so that I didn't write off the whole brand over that one experience.

The next day I missed a call from the Super 8 manager, which I later returned. He said he'd tried to contact me previously too, within the timeline. Nothing on my phone logs validated that, but then again, technical glitches sometimes do happen. My default is one of "benefit of the doubt" when it comes to technology, so I set aside my skepticism.

He was extremely engaging and apologetic. He said he speaks with his workers all the time about first impressions and the importance of little things, which was the gist of my post.

He THANKED ME for the specific feedback and said if I ever came that way again, I should let him know before I arrived so he could make sure everything was fine. He was going to go over all my complaints again with his employees. He mentioned something about keycard cover changes. (In case you missed the original post, you won't believe what I was handed at check-in. I posted the disgusting pictures.)

His attitude was humble, his apology charming, he sounded sincere. We hung up and that was that.

The next day in an unrelated conversation, a friend of mine shared her recent terrible experience at a new restaurant in town. She said her turkey burger tasted like the entire thing had come to the restaurant frozen, then was heated in a microwave. Since she had to wait an hour to get her food (strikes one and two), and because she was starving, she ate the fries, which she said were good. She did not, however, take even a second bite of the turkey burger, it was that bad.

When the waitress came around to ask if everything was okay, my friend, encouraged by her tablemate, told the waitress exactly what I just told you about the turkey burger. The waitress asked if she wanted something else to replace it, to which my friend replied, "No thanks." She had to get back to work and she was already more than an hour in.

When the bill came, the waitress had deducted $3.00, presumably for the turkey burger portion of the turkey burger/fries basket combo, not even half the combo amount.(Did they discount the value for the bite she took?)

There are two ways to handle customer service: one gets a job done, the other breeds extreme good will, something that packs a much heartier come-back-again wallop than a "Sorry" or a few token bucks. Since it was a new restaurant in a small town and word-of-mouth spreads quickly, and this was my friend's first impression (again I refer to my initial Super 8 post), I believe her entire meal should have been comped. My response to her story was REALLY? That's just bad business.

Which got me to thinking, oh, boy.

When Wyndham asked what I was looking for by way of resolution after my Super 8 stay, like I said, I responded that I just wanted to let them know. I hoped to help spare future travelers the same horrid experience. My benefit-of-the-doubt self imagines that complaints will be taken seriously and corrective measures taken. And again, the Super 8 manager was friendly, humble, apologetic, thankful and sounded sincere. When I hung up, I felt satisfied because I'd received what I asked for. (Pollyanna here believes nobody else will ever have this problem again.) I was impressed with Wyhdham's speedy response and in particular, their follow through, especially since I'm not a heavy hitting Wyndham Rewards' customer.

But since then (here comes the thinking part, oh, boy), since hearing the story about my friend's restaurant yuck and considering my response to it, I've been thinking about good will--and money-back guarantees. There are hotel chains out there with such offers. I've always been a fan of Hampton Inns. I see in a simple Google search that their 100% satisfaction guaranteed offer is front and center, even though I've never had cause to try to call in that marker. I know what to expect from them, and it's almost always 100% positive.

Who knows: maybe Super 8 has such a guarantee too, although I don't see up-front evidence, nor did web prowling produce such a promise. But if they did offer such a thing, and I knew about it, and if/when someone asked me about "resolution," I could have just said, SHOW ME THE MONEY!

Dear Hoteliers, IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS! The story of A REAL SHOCKER of a "Greeting"

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 19:22:00 +0000

No matter how ~~cheap~~ economical or ~~over-priced~~ luxurious a hotel, it’s the little things that stick in my brain. Things like a sensible clock, a variety of pillows, a heating/air conditioning system that doesn’t sound like an off-balance washing machine. Or careless things like beverage rings on the furniture. (I stop typing a moment here to growl since the lowest paid on the totem pole usually delivers the most important impression.) Or bright cheery lighting versus dull light bulbs, so dull I need a minor’s light attached to my head. Complimentary or ~~raping~~ high-cost Internet service. A free breakfast with at least an ounce of protein versus an offering of doughnuts. A lavish manager’s reception, chips plus drinks to order, versus a weeks’-old bowl of dusty apples at the reception desk.

But it’s a hotel/motel’s first impression, especially a bad one, that triggers my high-alert alarm. While a few microns of dust under the television in my room (you know, that line of sight from the prone position?) might otherwise go uncharted, start me off with a bad first impression and I’m gunning for other areas of neglect. Like a few microns of dust under the television.

Mind you, I don’t need a manager’s reception or hot chocolate chip cookies to lure me back to a brand. In fact, I most often can’t afford to stay where they’re offered. And I don’t mind a simple bowl of fruit. No siree. In fact, I sometimes actually take a piece, and—wait for it-- eat it. But gimme that bruised bowl of dusty apples on a check-in desk, sans a desk clerk in sight to greet me, and I get itchy to grab my blacklist pen.

Nonetheless, even when I have to wait a few minutes for an employee to materialize, even if there is no newspaper or juicy morsel to pop in my mouth, if I get to my room and it’s clean, bright, smells fresh, doesn’t have a concave bed, nothing is crawling around on the floor or under the sheets, and there’s a semi-comfortable clean chair and a desk, I’m pretty forgiving about other things. I’m not much of a whiner—although I am one of those people who might have a private chat with the folks at the desk before I leave, especially when things run amuck.

The following experience garnered a book-length chat, although when I left, I doubted my polite feedback would result in even a hiccup of change. You’ll see why.

For the first time in years, and due to a lack of choices in the rural area, I booked a room at a Super 8, which is now a subsidiary of Wyndham Worldwide.

My very first shocking impression (and it went downhill from there) was enough to turn me off from ever booking a Super 8 again. If THIS is how they welcome new guests, I wonder about cleanliness in any other areas, like my sheets, the toilet or the carpet. It doesn't take long to imagine a stockpile of cost cutting shortcuts, inattentive management, germ laden nightmares and creepy crawly things that go bump in the night.

Seriously, this is how they handed me my keycard! Seriously. For real. Front and back. Real pictures. Of real “service” and first impressions. This alone nearly turned me off the entire chain—for the second time in my life.

When George and I married 43 years ago, every trip we took was on a budget nicely matched by Super 8 prices. The chain was founded in 1972 so for the most part, they were not only new, but clean and dependable. When you walked into the lobby and your room, you knew what you’d see, what to expect, right down to the pictures on the wall. I’d compare their initial dependability with what I expect and receive today from Hampton Inns.

We stuck with Super 8--were loyal to Super 8--well into the eighties, at which point reliability started to slip, boredom set in, and our financial situation had upped a notch. “No matter where we go in the country, George, it looks like the inside of a Super 8." Back-to-back stays with cleanliness issues turned me off the chain for good. Right up until earlier this year when I was invited to speak. In a rural area. In a wonderfully friendly little town with a raceway. (Perhaps that explains all the grease on the keycard cover, but it sure doesn't explain why I GOT IT!)

I was told there were only two local hotels in town, and that the Super 8 was recommended. By the locals who booked me. Who ought to know good from bad. Except now that I think about it, they never stay there, do they?

Perhaps I should have heeded a subliminal warning when the woman who booked me to speak invited me to stay in her home. I enjoyed her company, immensely, but not wanting to be "talked out" before I had to present three times in different venues the next day, I kindly declined and made my reservation. After all these years, I felt pretty confident Super 8 had upped their game. After all, they had that Wyndham connection going for them, and they had that whole sort-of-new-logo thing .... And they rebranded from Super 8 Motels to Super 8 International, which sounds way more awesome.

How bad could it be?

In case you missed it, please look at the keycard case pictures again. Don’t you wonder exactly what the desk clerk thinks your first impression of their establishment might be when you’re handed a grody mess like that? My thought was, “Super 8, where we really don’t give a crap.”

I realize this is a harsh way to judge an entire chain, and is in fact an unfair way to judge an international group. I even feel a teensy bit bad for yammering on about it. But ... Seriously? You handed me that? When that's my first impression, and that's all I have to go on ….

But wait, there’s more.

Even though I’d requested nonsmoking, I opened my room door and was nearly bowled over by the stagnant fog of exhaled tar and nicotine. I marched (okay, at my age it's more like a determined saunter) straight back to the desk and asked for another room, hopefully with a fresh keycard cover. “I’m afraid I don’t have any rooms that will be better,” she said, “but I can bring down some spray.” Which she did, which, as you can imagine, accomplished nothing other than to add another layer of stinky yuck.

I thought about the personal invite I’d declined and quivered at the thought of what the other motel in town must be like that was not recommended. But the hard cold reality: I was tired, I needed to get both some rest and some sleep, and it was too late to reinvite myself as a house guest.

Holding my breath, I checked the bathroom. My assessment: dated with smidges of moldy grout but otherwise “clean enough”. I removed the smoky smelling bedspread and checked the sheets. Paper thin but mostly white. Nothing moving. Flat pillows, but oh well, my only other option was sleeping in the car.

I moved to the small fridge, which I appreciate in a room. Score one, Super 8! When one travels on a budget, one doesn’t waste food. I always seem to have a doggie bag hermetically sealed to my fingertips when I walk into a hotel room, which I did after that day's five-hour drive.

Wow! Head start! Someone had left a Styrofoam carton containing a chocolatey dessert in the handy-dandy fridge. There didn’t appear to be mold around the edges (why do we risk taking a look?!), so perhaps it was from last night’s guest? (For the record, I've experienced this same Refrigerator Surprise in extremely expensive hotels too.) For a misguided nanosecond I considered downing it to calm myself and receive the benefits of the chocolatey *polyphenols that combat heart disease and may influence metabolism, therefore making me slimmer, not to mention the wonders of antioxidants and flavonoids, which … do something good. Instead I ceremoniously—as in STRIKE THREE!—marched (no hint of saunter) the container to the front desk. Where it was received with a smile, an almost-but-not-quite apology, and where it quickly disappeared to a back room.

Oh, boy.

Before reluctantly crawling into bed that night, I turned the fan on high, closed tight my eyes and said my prayers. Big time prayers covering all types of requests that I please be spared from contracting all kinds of stuff. I finally dozed off. I didn’t bother with the free breakfast the next morning because, well, KEYCARD COVER, and by this time I was afraid I might find a chocolate dessert cut up in little squares passed off as breakfast bites.

Ending on a positive note, during my stay a carpet cleaning company busily spruced up the hallways and empty-room carpets. At least I witnessed that.

My one regret is that I didn't come home and send a letter to the highest people I could find at both Super 8 and Wyndham. But honestly, after an experience like that--my overall first impression of Super 8s after nearly a thirty-year absence--I just blacklisted them from my realm of options.There was no way for management to undo that which was already done, starting with the littlest thing: the keycard holder. I'd rather add a hundred more inconvenient out-of-my-way driving miles next time rather than risk another gross experience.

I understand my decision to just Let The Whole Thing Go. These days I strive to conserve my energy for ongoing battles that must be waged. But blacklisting an entire chain after one experience also makes me kinda sad. Sad for other Super 8 establishments and their hard working careful employees who I'm sure must be out there. In fact, if you’ve recently experienced a terrific Super 8 stay(s), please post about it here in the comments. I’d like to know there is another side to this chain, one that might—might—lure me back on a tired night on the road.

*http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/chocolate-can-help-keep-you-slim-7592944.html

Reservation Roulette (travel planning on a budget)

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 13:57:00 +0000

I stare at my monitor through zombie eyes. Planning a multi-leg trip on a budget sucks the life out of one's brain.There are a gajillion inroads to choose from. Expedia, Kayak, Priceline, just to name a few, each offering their own benefits and dozens of alternatives.

I also check in with my loyalty (hahahaha!) rewards programs, which are multiplying like dust bunnies. Because prices at my good ol' tried-and-true favorites have often eked their way up and out of my shrinking budget, I've been forced to engage with alternatives. Any and all of them.

Come directly to us, to our URL, they entice. We guarantee you the best deal! they promise. We have a terrific rewards program for which you've earned enough points to receive a free stay, I imagine.

As if.

Back when the boys were young and we only traveled once a year for vacation, it was so simple.

Where’s the closest and cheapest hotel/motel to our destination? (Likely a Super 8. BOOKED!)
Where is the next McDonald's? (Likely just around the corner. PARKED!)

But now that I’m a seasoned business traveler, I expect too much, know too much, ask too many questions, have too many options. I've experienced what can happen when things run amuck, know how easy it is to be ~~ripped off~~ ~~deceived taken advantage of~~ miss a detail.

What does this price include?
By the time they add parking and the internet charges, is that room still a good deal?
Do they charge for carry-ons?
Is this coupon for the rental car going to save me money, or is it cheaper using AAA?
Wonder if that hotel still has AARP rates available?
If I choose this best-price set of flights, yet I’m knowingly flirting with missed connections... Hel-LO!
The neighborhood has changed to not-so-safe anymore.
What are my flight alternatives if/when weather turns bad? Perhaps I should choose another airport.
Sure, I got that super-good, uber upgraded Priceline steal on that hotel, but transportation hassles to get from their location to the book gig ruined my day and offset any savings.

With my insane version of Reservation Roulette, I’m currently holding five hotel bookings for the same dates. I think. Due to my new loyalty program frenzy, not all chains could email me a confirmation. "After we hang up, just join our loyalty program online," they said, this after I called to inquire about a few amenities, made my reservations and THEN learned about their program. "Just give us your new loyalty number at check in." This means some of the confirmation numbers I found scribbled on the back of an envelope don't yet show a match in my new loyalty accounts.

Terrific, Charlene, you DOLT!

Knowledge is sometimes not power, but vexing, hexing and dogging crazy making. For instance, I know that various booking prices are cheapest on certain days of the week. Sometimes. I’m living with the tormenting fallout of comparing prices every day or two, switching reservations as choices appear and disappear, dollar signs excel and dip, new hotels come to my attention. It is during schemes like this I really do wish I’d won the lottery so I didn’t have to think about travel on a budget. Otherwise, who needs the headache of all that money, all those friends and relatives you don't know asking for massive amounts of moolah so they can go someplace without all this cheapo planning torment?

But for now, budget questions prevail:

Does a manager’s reception really matter to me? (Right about now, a cocktail sounds like a terrific idea, especially a free one!)
What have others said about this location? Do I trust them? Maybe they're impossible people who complain about everything or are related to the owner.
Do I need a restaurant nearby? Their continental breakfast might not include an ounce of protein.
Is there a refrigerator and/or microwave in the room?
Where is that bedbug list posted again, and why didn’t I bookmark it the last time?!
Okay, I never heard of this chain, but thankfully, research shows travelers did enjoy their stays ... Oh. Back in 2008.

**She sighs.**

The only reason I haven’t locked in the Very Cheapest Prices yet is because to do that, you must pay ahead with nonrefundable bucks, and pieces of my plans are still in flux. My biggest fear is that I’ll forget to cancel the reservations I eventually leave behind, so rather than saving myself money, I’ll end up paying for three rooms in three locations for the same night because they took my credit card info to hold them, and I lost track by writing on the backs of envelopes.

DOLT! DOLT! DOLT!

At some point, I’ll run out of time to continue playing this game. To be honest, that will be a relief. But until then, although I know I can’t allow twenty bucks to overrule my safety or rob me of sleep, twenty bucks times a bunch of nights can make the difference between a few nice meals out versus another bowl of Wendy’s chili.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE Wendy’s chili (only 310 calories in a large with 26 grams of protein), which is why I often buy two of them at a time when I have a refrigerator and microwave in my hotel room. Which reminds me, I need to recheck the amenities at two of those places…

And so my travel shenanigans continue. At least for now.
------------------------------

A QUESTION FOR YOU, DEAR READERS:

Out of curiosity, does anyone else play this tormenting game? Or do you just trip your trigger, make your reservations and move on, satisfied that any money saved wouldn't be worth the hassles or your time?

Please let me know in the comments section. So I can either set up my therapy session or tell me husband, SEEEEEEE?! I'M NOT ALONE!

When in Rome (or Minnesota), SOUVENIR THYSELF!

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 17:58:00 +0000

When I think back on all the souvenirs I've purchased on vacation, or as What-did-you-bring-me? business trip "gifts", I sail through a variety of responses.

I am lucky to have experienced so many swell destinations. (well, not that one bathroom)
Whatever happened to most of those souvenir trinkets? (junk pile)
So glad I bought those heavy-duty tee shirts 15 years ago, otherwise I might have forgotten I was there. (still wearing them, complete with frayed necklines)
I still wish I'd purchased the better necklace on that cruise. (wrong cheap-o decision; beads everywhere)
Buying consumable regional goods like jams and jellies is practical, but not as memory branding. (belly fat)
Wonder how much I've spent, altogether, on souvenirs? (don't even thinkaboutit)
How well do souvenirs define the region? (Don't most sell the same slogans with different city names?)

For better or for worse, souvenirs are markers of time.

Imagine this. You are blindfolded and given a headset powerful enough to block out chatty Captain Announcements. (Oh, baby! suggestions anyone?) You take a flight to "somewhere." After you arrive at your surprise destination, you're led into a car and driven to the closest souvenir/discount store where your impediments are removed.

I doubt it would take you long to figure out where you were, especially if you were near the beach or circled back into the airport.Towels, tote bags, hats ... all announcing You Were (are) Here!

Well, I didn't experience the kidnapped-to-play-the-souvenir game. But I have to admit I laughed out loud when I saw this Snuggie on the shelf during one of my routine visits away from home. "Only in Minnesota," I said out loud to the stranger standing next to me. Because he was Minnesota nice, he did not respond.

Of course my comment wasn't really true. This type of camouflage everything -- sunglasses, sheets, chairs, lingerie, tents, rifle cases, doll clothes -- can be found anywhere hunters lurk (and hide, what with all that camy). Camouflage isn't just a force of gamesmanship; in some areas, it's a way of life. And there is protocol.

Case in point. Several years ago I was browsing in Fleetfarm in Winona MN (not to be confused with Farm and Fleet in LaCrosse WI) when I came upon a rack of men's insulated hoodies. On a terrific end-of-season sale. I tried one on and thought WARM! Soft. Nice.The price is right! Who cares if it's blaze orange; it'll be easy to find in the closet. So I bought it.

Several months later, I was scheduled to met my grown hunting/fishing son at the local Winona Perkins Restaurant and Bakery. It was a chilly day. I grabbed my cozy hoodie and headed out.

"Mom!" my manly son said when I arrived, eyebrows sailing. He leaned toward me, looked right and left, then all but whispered, "It's not the season for blaze orange." (This might be a slight exaggeration, but not by much.)

A blaze orange fashion Faux Pas? Who knew? The only thing I was hunting for was pancakes. Why should it matter what color anything I wore in a PERKINS?!

In case you're wondering, no, I didn't buy the souvenir (practical?) camouflage Snuggie for my grandgirlies. I do have to admit, however, that I have purchased my Minnesota sweeties a few camy hats and articles of clothing. Pink camoflauge, to be exact. And to the best of my knowledge, pink Camy was a bit of a fashion statement this winter.

Then again, I bought said pink camy items in Minnesota, at least one state that is home to the camouflage Snuggie.

Seriously, they only sold Snuggies in red and blue in the Walgreen's in the Chicago suburbs. I guess practical is as practical does. A fun souvenir to one person is a practical way of life to another.

All Together Now: WHAT ABOUT THE FEES?!

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 21:07:00 +0000

A clever chap’s blog just fired me up. Andy T. Le Peau, associate publisher for editorial at InterVarsity Press, posted a tongue-in-cheek speculation as to how it might look if publishers “look to the airline industry for inspiration.” Since I’m an author and a traveler, his topic nabbed my attention. Odds are you’re a reader with an astute business head, so please take a moment right here and now to read his thoughts before you move forward. His post is short.

[Pause, you're reading ... and, YOU'RE BACK!]

Oh, boy, Mr. LePeau, and AMEN! I sure do resonate with the preposterousness of it all.

For instance, some book stores don’t allow exchanges, but they will issue store credit for a returned book, barring a few circumstances. Otherwise someone could buy a book, take it home, read it, bring it back and exchange it for another one. (Local book store as lending library. It happens.) But when they do offer an exchange or store credit, how nuts would they be to charge a fee for that type of service? If they did, who’d shop at their store, ever again? Whereas with the airlines, you don’t want to sneakily use the seat you need to exchange. You just want … a different one. Something better for your circumstances, or your body. Yet, the airlines charge a service fee PLUS the upcharge, and we shell out. And fly them again and again. [Southwest Airlines, I do believe you are among the teensy few who still treat passengers with respect, charging only for the difference in current fares at the time of the exchange, even if a live person helps. I seal your mention with a big kiss! ]

Whether we're talking about an exchanged book or an airline seat, the “product” we leave behind can and likely will be resold to another chap or chapette. It’s not like we consumed it.

Yes, I understand there is employee time involved in scheduling changes. Someone has to pay said employee to do these things. Although shipping and handling fees on Internet and catalog purchases are annoying and sometimes exorbitant, it does take manpower to accomplish the task. People need to earn a living.

But in the end, doesn't that still circle back to us? We’re often the ones facilitating such online changes. At the very least, airlines could consider our time a fair exchange (pay us instead of themselves), which might look something like this: airlines trade at least one of their ~~scurrilousness~~ surcharges for the time we spend buying upgrades or making our own scheduling adjustments. I'm sure someone could invent a handy app for that.

You know, I feel suddenly compelled to do some tricky math involving OUR TIME: We pay for the seat, the difference in fares if we change the seat, do all the work AND pay an additional fee for the privilege to give the airlines even more money for the more expensive seat, perhaps even the seat we already earned with hard earned airlines miles?

Okay, now I’m mad.

This past weekend, I watched an awe inspiring segment, video here, on the CBS Sunday Morning Show about the digital revolution. It included an interview with the vibrant Molly Katchpole, the young woman who posted the original change.org effort to revolt against banks (read Bank of America, the first villain) inexplicably deciding to charge us fees to access our own money. (Note, when the banks tried to charge us the way the airlines do, a revolt ignited!) The CBS segment highlighted and affirmed the power we wield when we turn our collective efforts toward determination.

So, is there no way we can put a stop to these ~~blood sucking~~ airline fees?

Seriously, imagine what would happen if the publishing industry—if any industry (keep the banking industry in mind here, aside, of course, from Freddie and Fannie and … the imagination can only stretch so far)—followed the airlines’ lead by so dishonoring its customers. What say ye, road warriors? Is there something we can do to launch change, rather than continue counting on the government or the airlines themselves to stop the insanity? What do you think?

Or are we just doomed to suck it up and pay, no matter how dumb it looks when we see such a comparison lined out by someone in the publishing business.

I think I need a stress tab now. Thanks for that, Mr. Le Peau! :)

In the process of full disclosure, I know Mr. Le Peau. He's a really smart and likable guy. I published my first book with InterVarsity Press, way back in 1991. DON'T MISS YOUR KIDS, they'll be gone before you know it. It is (subliminal message) still in print and available through InterVarsity Press and via other resources.

When Small Things Matter (or should they?)

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:38:00 +0000

Last week, we purchased a new car for hubby. Well, new to us. It had 15,000 miles on it, which put the make, model and year we at long last narrowed our choices down to, in a range we could afford. We felt good about the deal.

Today, I'll spare you most of the sordid shopping details, aside from the One Thing I really want to talk about, which I shall do later. Suffice it to say that on numerous occasions, our (hubby and I together, to use the word loosely) car buying experiences have been so horrendous, and so funny (in hindsight), that I've sold several stories about the hysterics and drama, the wars and compromises, the song that might best be titled I Left My Spouse at the Car Dealer Blues. If one of us likes it, the other doesn't. Exasperating is the word that comes to mind. I'm told couples can relate.

Having said all of that, we drove happily home in a 2011 Toyota Avalon Limited. (Factoid: the average age buyer for the Avalon is 64.) For two people who qualify for all senior discounts, not just some, we found the Sizzling Crimson Mica color quite exotic. It goes well with our cement driveway and the earrings I wore the day we signed the papers. Su-weet!

We traded in George's 2001 Buick LeSabre with 122,000+ miles. He loved that car; it served us well. My car, a 2003 Lexus RX300, has nearly 120,000 miles on it. We bought it used in 2003 with 5000 miles. I'm still in a love affair with my black comfy beauty. Both the LeSabre and the Lexus ran well, but we decided it was just time to up one, especially since we have a couple long trips in front of us, so we picked the oldest vehicle for our farewells.

I'm sure the Avalon's tricked out Navigation System will come in handy since we love to travel back roads. We adore the hands'-free functions, as well as the bazillion other fancy things the car offers, including reclining back seats and a back-up camera. It's HUGELY roomy. Whatever you need, we have a button for that. As soon as we figure them out and stop turning on our windshield wipers instead, life will be grand. The Avalon's ride is amazing. Street noise is missing. (Nice!) The same day we picked it up, we drove to Minnesota and averaged nearly 31 miles per gallon. YES!

But none of that is what I really want to talk about today. When we were signing the papers—literally—something struck in my craw, and I can't seem to get over it. Perhaps it's because I'm a seasoned traveler. But before I deliver the craw-sticker, let us recap: we dropped a bucketload of money on a new-to-us car, purchased at a Toyota dealer so large, it has access to a test track. (Yes, we used it. Perhaps I'll post about that another time.) Their service department waiting area is pleasant and well lit; the ladies' room is regal. The ginormous overall facility is spotless. But when we went to sign the papers, back in the secret bowels of the building, the gentleman handed us each a very familiar ballpoint pen with Hilton HHonors™ printed on it. One was slightly chewed and missing the cap clip.

"Seriously? These are the pens you give people to sign contracts?" I said this out loud, volume slightly up, without a trace of humor in my voice because I felt none. I didn't sound angry, mind you, but … serious.

"Hey, they were free," the guy said with a smile, thinking this was all in good fun.

"This is pretty tacky." Again, no smile from me. "It's just wrong to hand these to your Toyota buying customers."

"What kind of pen do you want?" he asked, now sounding confused, perhaps slightly offended himself, which I'm sure I sounded by now.

"One that doesn't say Hilton HHnors™ on it. Maybe one that says Toyota and includes your dealer name?" I refrained from adding, One that hasn't been chewed.

"Those disappear," the guy said.

"You mean the same way these pens disappeared from your hotel room? They're advertising. They're supposed to disappear."

By now, the guy figured out I was not kidding, about any of this. He commandeered the Hilton pens and swapped them out for what he called the "plain Bic pens with no character."

"Good," I said. "That's much better." At last, I smiled.

For the record, I am a proud Hilton HHonors™ member, and likely already have a bunch of said pens here and there and everywhere in my travel bags. And my husband and I didn't keep the plain Bic pens, which we weren't offered to keep anyway. To be honest, I don't need another pen and likely wouldn't have taken it unless the person handing us the pens would have said, "By the way, keep the pen, maybe in your car. It has our phone number on it in case you ever need to call."

Since this episode, my husband has brought up the topic with every friend we've visited. "And she didn't have a trace of humor in her voice," he says. "She wasn't kidding." I can never decide whether he's more amazed by the Hilton pens, or my strong objection to them.

(Pause two minutes here while I ask. I can't believe I haven't asked before this!)

I called a quick kitchen-table meeting and made my query. George's response, "I was surprised this bothered you so much. I mean, I'll admit it was strange to be handed Hilton pens, and you could have mentioned it. But maybe you didn't need to sound so … demeaning about it."

In all honesty, since he said that, I feel a little embarrassed. It was surely not my intent to demean the guy! Talk about tacky and disrespectful, Charlene! But I did want to make a point: in business, small things matter. Toyota makes a good product. The sales' team (and of course their managers) had worked hard to give us a quality experience and seal the deal. Why ruin it with a final tacky action? Come to think of it, I guess it felt kind of demeaning, to use George's word of the day, to be handed some guy's chewed pen from one of his hotel rooms, a feeling which is perhaps what set me off. I mean, go ahead, collect the hotel room pens, dude. Just don't hand them to your Toyota customers.

But now, I'm curious: am I the odd one here? Barring my apparently insensitive response to the guy's tacky chewed pen offering (okay, it still grinds me), what do you think? Should this kind of traveling business detail matter? Say if American Airlines handed you a pen with Fairfield Inn and Suites printed on it to sign your credit card purchase for first-class tickets, would you even take notice?

Please weigh in with a comment. Help save a marriage. (Just kidding. Seriously.)

On Bucket Lists and Contests

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 02:46:00 +0000

I received an email from American Airlines enticing me with a come-on that says, "Been there. Done that." It's a chance to win one of three trips I have on my bucket list. I know this because they said that after I win it, I can cross the trip off my bucket list. (American Airlines: We read minds!)

All I'd have to do to win one of these experiences (after I register and read the small print and select which trip I desire, making sure to follow the exact instructions provided), is to then, before March 19 of this year, book an airline trip through American Airlines. To enter. And then, if they pick me out of the hundreds of thousands of entries (or however many), VOILA!

Although their trips are, for many, undoubtedly already on your bucket list, I wasn't hugely interested in any of them. Once you check out the link, you might wonder what is wrong with me that I neither crave a Napa Valley Excursion, a Paris Fashion Immersion, or an opening day Baseball Experience in NYC. If I even had a bucket list, my travel wishes would skew more toward ALASKA again! Or what about IRELAND! We have so many old friends in Florida now! Wouldn't it be nice to putter around and visit them before we're all dead? But that's just me. I'm not a huge wine fan (whiskey, please), I'm definitely not into fashion, and although I do love baseball, unless one of the NYC teams is playing the Cubs ... (Why do I torture myself?)

In order to win, you have to have an AA Advantage #, be 21 years of age, and make sure you use the same email to both register and order tickets.You must have somewhere you need to fly, and buy those tickets by the deadline. You also might want to read the entire list of official rules (link located on the choices page), barring you're not already running out of time to achieve your bucket list--especially if you want to allow time to read the privacy statements about what they can do with your information. Prizes are worth $17,000 each (they will award one of each), so you also have to be able to afford to pay the taxes. It says so in those rules.

I supposed you have to be nuts not to register, because, hey, it's free, and it could be fun. All trips, even to your local Denny's, can be filled with adventure and frivolity if you're with the right people, correct? They're all four-day trips, and they are for two. It doesn't say you have to take your spouse or even your significant other. In fact, from what I can tell, you don't even have to be one of the two. But then again, I didn't read all that fine print because I'm now too busy working on my bucket list, since even AA thinks I have one.

In the process of full disclosure, I did register. I plan on taking up a collection to pay those taxes, should I win--and I am, seriously, the luckiest person I've ever met. I'm in for the NYC baseball experience. By the time I read that I'd get to spend time with "a baseball legend," receive a tour of NYC (I do love the energy of that place!), a "spa experience," (okay, they started getting my serious attention), a $2500 MasterCard gift card (to procure a few items on my shiny new bucket list), and dine at Red Rooster Harlem (I'm definitely in now: there's FOOD!), I found myself seriously HOPING to win, this after my whatever beginnings.

But my problem is this: I have no airline reservations to make, which is their motivation for offering the prizes: FLY US. But just in case a surprise journey should pop up by mid-March, when I'll be doing a little book touring, albeit driving, you can bet I'll try to fly AA, just to have a shot at winning. I can already taste those mm-mm ballpark dogs. With my MC gift certificate, I'll be able to afford them.

**I can't imagine why I wrote about this! My personal advertising might cause you to enter, thereby lowering my odds. Then again, maybe if you win, you'll take ME!**

Negotiating Life's Speed Bumps (take heed)

noreply@blogger.com (Charlene Ann Baumbich) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 22:31:00 +0000

Feel it?

Sometimes, we temporarily need to let go of a few Good Things in order to handle the rest of the Good Things—and a few rocky ones as well.

Alas, my TravelingLaughs blog posts fell among the “backburnered for a spell”. (My apparent definition of “a spell”: Basically since May 2010. Where does time go?!) Too many deadlines, too much stress, not enough of me to go around. Yada-yada.

But the main reason I had to temporarily uncurl my fingers from a few ongoing due dates: too many compiling health issues.

Need a break?

Not surprisingly, the health issues were induced/exacerbated by the deadlines and stress and … you get the picture. Maybe you’ve been there. Maybe you ARE there. (I pause here and fire up a prayer for those currently living in those crazed trenches.) Add in a heart monitor, a biopsy, endless medical tests, a high-rise worth of worry and insurance papers, and … fast-forward to this brief explanation about my absence.

The Good News: I’m ba-ack (at least once in awhile) because after a steep learning curve, I’m wiser (do not ask my husband about this), better paced (for a slow person), and for the most part, pretty well mended. I’m also old, getting wrinklier, but still considering myself fascinating.

It seems not one of the numerous health issues I have--and I “have” several wonky ones, including a rare benign tumor--is going to kill me. YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY! There is a time for coping, a time for sucking it up, a time for stopping or at least slowing down, and a time to resume one’s New Normal. Welcome to my world!

As for travel, I no longer board many airplanes, for which I am grateful. This coming May, we’ll be attending a family wedding in Albuquerque. George and I have already decided we’re going to drive, a plan that used to make my nose hairs curl. But these days, Post Physical Meltdown, there is something lovely about the pace of driving, the ability to “Take that back road, George!”, to stop at local cafes and see a bit more of this great country through something other than a Martian’s-eye view--although sometimes that view is breathtaking. Perhaps driving will even help me adjust more normally to Albuquerque’s elevation. The last few times we flew in, it took at least two days for the headache to subside.

In accordance with my new dedication to living wiser, I herewith proclaim: the mother of the groom should not have a headache throughout the festivities, just because she was in a flying hurry to get to the wedding. (EXCITING! However, due to the casualness of the wedding--but mostly for the continuing betterment of my health--I am totally NOT reading the stressful information on that mother of the groom link!) We shall take our time, see the sites along the way, arrive a couple days ahead of schedule, press through the adjustment, and, as a result, be in our finest shape to witness and enjoy the miracle and blessing of Love.

Perhaps it’s a good day for you to check your schedule, see if you can’t find at least one upcoming road-warrioring trip that allows you a little breathing room. Maybe a tweek here, an extra four hours there before you have to fly out or home. Maybe you can even skip one of those trips. For Real.

These are pretty cool.
They're made out of 100% recyclable
materials, and can be moved--to where you
need speed bumps the MOST!
Get the metaphor?!?!?!

Once you’ve experienced burnout and helped crash-land your own health, you feel it’s your responsibility to at least suggest a few speed bumps in the traveling lives of others.

Signed,

The Voice of Experience