WHAT'S IN A NAME?

We traveled from Birch Bay to Everett, Washington. It rained. We woke to more of the same this morning.  Climate change is seeking revenge everywhere. Never a better time to enjoy a good book and cook soup. And, make plans for next year. New Mexico is beginning to sound like a good bet.
The book I just finished, where William Least Heat Moon  followed  highways on the map that are blue lines, was filled with observations about place names.  He frequently asked locals why a particular town was named what it was;  he sought them through rickety taverns,  cafes with four calendars,  hotels; he asked gas jockeys,children, waitresses, fishermen, and roadies to understand why people congregated in one place rather than another, and why they stayed.  He swallowed and tasted the local food, wisdom, jargon, opinions,  and names with pleasure and shared them with his readers, often helping pronounce the unpronounceable. And, signs also piled high in his vision.
I had the same fascination with place names as I traveled 14,000 miles last year in the motor home and another thousand or more in the “toad”.  (Toad is the vehicle towed behind the motorhome). My penchant for making lists of rivers, sloughs, bridges, and unusual town names, plus taking pictures of signs,  left me feeling validated by Heat Moon’s story.  My sign for yesterday in Birch Bay was this one: “A meeting is an event  where minutes are taken and hours are lost.” (Couldn’t get the picture.)
One from Heat Moon at Ida, Kentucky: Welcome All God’s Children:  Thieves, Liars, Gossips, Bigots, Adulterers, Children. He said he felt right at home.
And, some towns Heat Moon passed through:
Bearwallow, Belcher, Subtle, Neon, Decoy,  and Bug, Kentucky; Defeated, Difficult, Shakerag, Chuckey,  Wheel, Turtletown, Peeled Chestnut, Only, Cooketown,  and Nameless,  Tennessee;  Snowcamp, Silkhope , Swanquarter, North Carolina;  Thicketty, South Carolina.  Strange sounding names…I think there is a song  with that line…It does make you wonder.

FINDING HARMONY, PEACE AND JOY

 Several months ago, I picked up the book Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon. He calls himself a half-breed. Part Indian, his father called himself Heat Moon, and his oldest son Little Heat Moon, thus, born last, William became Least Heat Moon. Least Heat Moon set out in a home-made camper van and traveled on "small roads", across the U.S. from Missouri headed east to the coast then back through the Carolinas, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas, Utah, Nevada;  north to Oregon; east across the top part of the U.S., through the Great Lakes, up to Maine and then back to Missouri. An epic journey of trails and travails in fascinating prose. What made it special to me is the many places he passed through that I have passed through these last three years, with Jim, at the helm of a motor home. Least Heat Moon  reminded me of other RVers, (particularly our friend Randy Vining,) who take the path less traveled, and adopt philosophies of a simplified life. Emerson, Thoreau, poets, Walt Whitman, and other historic figures like Muir, who relate to nature and the simpler things in life. People shed their possessions and find harmony, peace and joy. On the road, we meet people who profess to want that, few find it. Be inspired by this book.  Here is a link to Least Heat Moon:
 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Least_Heat-Moon

Jim ordered 68 books from the Book Barn in Connecticut, at $1.00 each. He finds an author he likes, and they ship him the used books. He is set to put in another order, and I've ordered two more "journey" books by Least Heat Moon and a Walk In The Woods by Dryson. What a treat, what a deal.

Yesterday was a quiet day of letter writing, swimming  and reading. The weather remained cool, but dry with a weak sun. Enough sun for Jim to get out and put new battery cables on the Bronco while I swam. At the pool, I met three kids from Tennessee with their grandfather. None of them knew how to swim. I had fun with the youngest, seven year old, teaching him the basic rules of learning to blow bubbles, getting used to having his face in the water, and holding onto the edge and kicking. All benefit of watching my own grandkids take swimming lessons a few summers back. The boy was pleased with himself. I was taught the old, regrettable way, as a kid, when my dad pushed me off a stump and said, "swim."