Reading, politics and Rome (8/12/2025)

I am currently reading three books at the same time:

• Thomas Jefferson: Writings (just 1599 pages including index or 1517 pages of actual writing).
• Anthony J.C. Wallace: Jefferson and the Indians. The tragic faith of the first Americans.
• Edward J. Watts: Mortal Republic. How Rome fell into Tyranny.

These books are connected by a common thread. First of all, it is Clay Jenkinson (from Listening to America). I am reading the first two books in preparation for a workshop that I will be going to in January, which is somewhat similar as last January’s trip that I took, but then on a different subject. The third is currently being discussed in a book club hosted by Clay. Although I do not attend the club, a friend who is, told me that this is the book that the members are reading and discussing. It sounded interesting and I decided to read it independently. As some of you know, of late, I have been reading on Roman stoicism and this felt like a logical follow up book, or so I thought.

Is there another common thread between these books? Jefferson was a student of the Roman civilization and was most likely familiar with Rome’s democratic system before the rise of the emperors. Rome was, in many ways, very democratic and treated its citizens fairly equally (except for slaves). This idea is echoed in the U.S. Constitution, where everyone is considered equal (now stop snickering). The Romans considered themselves civilized and all others were seen as savages. In Jefferson’s time, the white settlers considered themselves civilized, and my understanding is the Indian population was considered savages, while the black slaves were seen as barbarians. The prevailing belief was that savages could be educated, assimilated and civilized, but barbarians were considered a lesser class. There even was a push to relocate freed slaves to Liberia in West Africa. This worldview is troubling, especially considering how we continue to judge people by skin color or gender today. The latest examples of that are the outrage from our president (with a very small p) about folks from Afghanistan and Somalia, and by his derogatory treatment of women, calling them stupid and piggy. This clearly shows that we have not evolved much. In some way, we may be regressing into a stage similar as the one that ended in the turmoil which resulted in Rome’s decline into dictatorship.

The Romans normalized violence with their gladiator fights, desensitizing the public to brutality. Similarly, today’s regime is doing the same thing with boat strikes; the ICE-stapo that is going rampant in some town; and visits to Salvadoran concentration camps. Are these actions meant to immunize us to violence, especially with upcoming elections? It definitively feels like that. It may well be an effort to maintain power by rallying the base and encouraging others to look away. This “immunization campaign” is happening while public health efforts are being undermined and the CDC and JFK jr. are trying to curb access to vaccines. A strange and disturbing world, indeed.

I realize that I am oversimplifying these complex issues. As I am sure you know, I expect to write more about these topics in future posts, especially after my workshop in January.

A photograph from the site of last January's workshop.  I wonder how much snow there will be this time.

Veronica and the fornicating deer (11/18/2025)

On our walk this morning we saw a gorgeous (at least 8 point) buck humping a doe in the woods. This made me think about a wool hat that a friend of ours knitted for me. We always call this hat “The Fornicating Reindeer Hat”.

Ever since we met in April 1994, Veronica was special to us. She was an archaeologist at the company I joined, she was half Dutch and still had a grandmother (oma) in the Netherlands. Her father was a Mennonite from Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania, and her mother was half Indonesian and half Dutch. Her dad was ultra conservative, a chiropractor, alternative medicine doctor and anti-vaxxer. Mom was a traditional housewife and somewhat of a homesteader. Veronica had a lot of fights with her father but often showed the same conservative streaks that he had. She was an amazing fiber artist and an expert spinner, knitter and weaver. Lastly, Veronica was grossly overweight.

She left her profession and moved to Burlington, VT right after we left Cincinnati for the Hampton Roads in Virginia. We did not lose touch, especially early on. We exchanged monthly phone calls, and her job required her to travel all over the place, so she made an effort to visit frequently. Veronica became her mother away from home when our daughter moved to New England. We had fun visiting her one autumn to coincide with the famous New England leaf-peeping season.

Eventually, the phone calls became scarce and when we spoke, she seemed out of it, or even drunk. At times we spoke the day after and she did not remember that she had called us the day before. Veronica lost a couple of jobs, but it was never her fault, and we never clued in that it could be alcohol related. After a hiatus of a half year, she called us and told us that she had used her frequent flyer miles to fly to Rio de Janeiro to attend the Olympics, in particular the rugby games which she loved. Not long thereafter we got a phone call from her mom telling us that Veronica had died.

Veronica was 55 years old when she died, and we learned she had a thyroid issue but like her stubborn father refused to take the regular medicine that could keep it under control. Our daughter went to look for the obituary and googled her name. It was then that we learned that Veronica had a couple Driving Under the Influence (DUI) convictions (for drunk driving) and actually was sentenced to a half year in jail. This was during the time she was supposedly in Rio (the lies alcoholics tell). A combination of thyroid disease and alcohol abuse must have killed her. We suspected alcohol before but never figured it was that bad. We still often kick ourselves that we did not clue in and did not drive up to intervene. We miss her terribly and often talk about her, even some six or seven years after her demise.

Crazy what a couple of screwing deer brings back. While Veronica technically did not commit suicide, she did it in her own way. She hated her father and loved him at the same time. Some famous person once wrote that hate and love are the same emotion. We knew that a lot of her drinking was about her father. Every time our friend called while under the influence, she spoke about him. If you suspect that a friend is in trouble, go out and help him or her. I do not think we would ever make that error again, and neither should you.

This is the cap that Veronica knitted for me.  She told us that she would go to a bar and knit one of these in an evening and when a guy would tell her that he loved it, she would sell it to him on condition that he would pick up her tab.

Road trips of the past (11/11/2025)

I now have taken four extended road trips since we retired two and a half years ago. I made one solo trip and three with my wife and our dogs (2023, 2024 and 2025). As part of these trips, I have seen the Grand Canyon twice (the South Rim during our first visit and the North Rim, a half year before it burned down, during my solo trip). After twice visiting the town, I have learned why folks always say, “Get the hell out of Dodge.” Maybe more about these events later, However, I do not want to make this post another report of my trips. Wherever possible, I have tried to stay away from the Interstate Highway system, interact with people I met on the way (one of my favorite books is Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon). Highways were some cases unavoidable, or they saved us a lot of time.

Now, this is going to be a long post.

The overarching item that I learned from our trips is that every state we passed through had absolutely beautiful areas. I am sure there are also horrible parts in each state, although we have not seen many of them. What I mention as ugly may be because of the place’s sordid history. Moreover, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. When I am writing about ugly areas, I am thinking of places like Uvalde (TX) that had a mass shooting and we visited the memorial. But I am also thinking of Selma (AL), where we stayed overnight and walked the Edmund Pettis Bridge. This small Alabama town seems to be very depressed and probably ignored town of very important historical significance. Sorry Alabama, the 16th street Baptist Church in Birmingham elicited a similar reaction in me. While nice looking, these spots were saddening because of what took place there.

What were the most memorable things we saw or experienced? This will be a list, and I will start with the most recent. The ferry between Ludington (MI) and Manitowoc (WI); the drive from Van Horn to the McDonald observatory (TX); Big Bend and Guadalupe Mountains National Parks in Texas; Death Valley (CA); the Dignity of Earth and Sky statue in Chamberlain (SD); The Grand Canyon (AZ); Theodor Rosevelt National Park (ND); Lemhi Pass (MT and ID); Sedona (AZ); Selma (AL); Uvalde (TX); Naca Valley Vinyards (Nacogdoches, TX); and Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes National Lakeshore (MI). I am sure I am forgetting one or two, but these are burned into my memory bank.

What were the most disturbing things we encountered? Driving through Georgia and South Caroline (Macon to Savana) we were amazed by the hurricane damage so far from the Gulf of Mexico and now more than three months after it happened. It remined us of our situation after hurricane Isable in 2003. Other items that bothered us included the begging coyote in Big Bend National Park, the stop at Uvalde, the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham and our visits to Selma and Freedom Trail. We both graduated from Utah State University in Logan and were sadly reminded of our lives there when we visited.

Were there things we really hated? Driving a whole day to heavy rain is no fun. It ruined our driving pleasure between coastal Texas and coastal Louisiana. That drive from Victoria (TX) to Baton Rouge (LA) was stressful and horrible, oh well. It would have been nice to see the Louisiana bayous from the road or even stop here and there, but the rain was relentless.

In the western part of Texas, we were plagued by very heavy desert winds between Fort Stockton and El Paso. It is a shame because this is one of my favorite eco-regions. I got my Ph.D. doing graduate work in the Chihuahuan desert. Writing about weather, the 105 degrees we experienced in September in North Sioux City (SD) provided little camping pleasure and we had to spend that night in a motel.

While there must be nice areas in Kansas (for example the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve), the region around Dodge City isn’t it. The area is full of feedlots and slaughterhouses. The area stinks and has more flies than you can shake a stick at. It almost made us vegetarians. We need to feed the nation and therefore need hamburger producing regions like this, but it added very little scenic or cultural value to our trips.

Which folks are staying with you in your memories? Two young waitresses are still on my mind. One in Selma (AL) and the other in Pratt (KS). Both were in their late teens or early twenties. They both seemed resigned to where they were in life, but not happy. They wanted to get out of the town they grew up in, which is understandable when you examined the towns we were in. Both appeared to be at a loss on how to get out and go to the big city and have a life. They tried to make the best of it and earn some extra cash waitressing.

At the North Rim, I was served by a set of waiters that came from Turkey. They were engineering students at the university in Istanbul and spent the summer months working in US National Parks to earn some extra money and learn about the US. I had fun talking with them.

There were these two couples in the tram going up the St. Louis Arch. They lived a couple of blocks apart (less than a mile) in Madison, WI and did not know each other. They even had friends in common but met for the first time on that tram going up the Arch.

We had a great evening talking with a younger couple while sipping wine at the Naca winery near Nacogdoches (TX). She was a teacher, and we talked about education, vacations and the world in general. She would spend the summer in an RV somewhere along the TX coast and her hubby would visit on weekends.

We met a lot of interesting camping owners or hosts. The lady in Miles City (MT) was a riot, and so was the manager of the McDonalds in that town. It must have been the water. We met a couple from Florida that managed a camping area on the Blue Ridge Parkway and the lady with a colostomy bag in the UP of Michigan. A lot of the hosts were retired and got free camping in a beautiful spot or maybe a small stipend. The lady in Lisbon (OH) either made a little money or had free camping while hubby worked at a refinery nearby. They were from Billings (MT) and she homeschooled her two kids, while they followed her husband’s job.

Talking with people was fun, and I noticed that most of them are friendly and nice, especially if you treat them the way you want to be treated. We tried to stay away from the hot button issues like politics and religion. Although, when we told them during our first cross country trip that we were either on our way or returning from our daughter who was going to be or just was ordained as a minister, everyone melted and reacted very friendly.

I wanted to make this essay a lot more detailed, but once I started listing the items I noticed that I could write a book about these experiences. I hope you like this. My message is, smile, be kind to people and start a conversation.

Driving the north shore of Lake Michigan

Ready to descend into Death Valley

More detailed account of our Sept. 2025 trip - Part4 (11/3/2025)

So now it was time to turn the front of the vehicle towards the south and southeast. That morning, we headed to the so anticipated Mackinac bridge. This is a 4.9 mile (8 km) long bridge that is 200 feet (61 m) above the water. It has four lanes (two each way) with the center lanes over a metal grid; in other words, when you look down you can see the water. This bridge seems to unnerve enough people that you can rent a professional driver to shuttle you across. Not for us, it actually was a fun easy drive across in our Transit on our way to Traverse City.

Little did we expect that the drive through the northern part of Michigan would be so beautiful. We fell in love with Charlevoix (another French name) and Traverse City. The next day, we stopped over at the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore Park on our way further south. Sleeping Bear Dunes is another place we need to spend more time at during a subsequent visit. It is absolutely all that it is made out to be. That afternoon, after a nice hike through the dunes, we drove south to Weidman via Pontiac. But first lunch and coffee in the parking lot at the park. It is nice to be able to do that in the van. Our Anker Solix (no I am not sponsored by them) has been an invaluable during this trip; we had no problem brewing our own coffee while just sitting in a parking lot.

The KOA in Weidman was at least better than the one we visited on our way up; the owners had really made an effort, but our site selection was somewhat dismal. Our neighbor, a welding inspector from Texas, had been living there for a couple of months. When he returned from work, he sat outside a spoke very loudly over the phone with his brother who had his birthday. We learned more about that family than we wanted to know. We now learned that inexpensive sites come with their own challenges. But then the cheap off-grid $10 and $20 sites are sometimes much better.

We had missed Holland, Michigan, so this Dutchman had to go there. We first stopped in Muskegon at the Hackley and Hume Historic Site and had a nice walk along the harbor. The father of a dear friend of ours grew up in the Hackley and Hume house in the 1930s. The windmill and the New Holland Brewing were on our schedule for that late afternoon and evening. Holland reminded me a little of what I left in the Netherlands. For example the Dutch Reformed Church (de Gereformeerde kerk or Zwarte Kousen Kerk = Black Stockings Church), there were four on one block in the beautiful center of town. Shops in parts of the town were closed on Sundays, another relic from old Europe. The architecture downtown was charming.

The next day we went further south, with the Hocking Hills in Ohio on our radar. We left the interstate highway after a beautiful hike in Hudsonville and headed south to Bowling Green, Ohio. A little piece of highway near Kalamazoo and then we drove relatively narrow farm roads to our motel. While driving, we wondered how many people would enjoy the narrow rural farm roads and observe farm life, like we did. It was absolutely delightful; corn and soybeans were yellowing which cast a wonderful fall vibe to our drive. The next day down to the Hocking Hills we tried to do the same thing but eventually could not avoid the hustle and bustle of the highways around Columbus, Ohio. We did stop for a very brief walk at Stepping Stones Park in Upper Sandusky; another place where after exterminating all the native Americans we memorialize them; at least that was our feelings after visiting the place.

Hocking Hills is a must-visit place. It was crowded, but that is not surprising since it was a nice warm Sunday afternoon. We had a great hike in the canyon. The most expensive space at the KOA in the area gave us a concrete pad where we finally could get rid of some of the sand we had picked up in Michigan. We have an outdoor rug that we put out, and oh boy, did it accumulate a lot of sand during our beach camping nights

This brings us back to the post about September’s trip that I started out with; Douthat State Park. I hope that I did not bore anyone to death with these travelogs. Let me know. I have tried to add a few of my observations and thoughts in this four/five-part series and tried to stay away from a travelog that goes like: we went here to here and then here; although that is unavoidable. I promise, my next posts will probably again be more political, philosophical and educational. Moreover, one of these days I will write about my impressions of America after four extended trips through this amazing country. But I encourage all of you to travel, see your country and learn from the folks who’s lives you touch in your daily lives and during the trips you take.

Fall in Central Ohio

Hiking in the Hockin Hills, OH

The Hackley Hume Historic site

Camping in Weidman, MI

More detailed account of our Sept. 2025 trip - Part 3 (10/23/2025)

Back down the peninsula we go. The area was lovely to drive through. It has a mixture of agriculture fields, pasture and forest. There were some signs that winter was approaching: the trees started to show their fall colors, the corn and soybeans were yellowing and ready for harvest. We stopped at a road-side cheese store (Renard’s Artesian Cheese) or tourist trap, but that was ok. Wisconsin is the cheese state after all. The cheese was good but probably overpriced. Once we rounded the southern tip of Green Bay, we pointed our rig northward and saw the town of Green Bay speed by us at a distance. Later that day we wondered if we should have visited the town; however, our time to run around is short, and the cheese shop and our lunch stop delayed us enough and we reached our camp site around 4 pm.

We had a great lunch in Oconto at a funky coffee shop (The Shop on Main). Afterwards we went for a brief walk on the Oconto Marsh Bird Trail. We saw a few wood ducks, but I found the trail a little disappointing; you just should not expect many birds around noon. Ice stop in Menominee (Michigan) then up Highways 41 and 35 to OB Fuller County Park.

OB Fuller is in Bark River Michigan. It is situated on Lake Michigan, and we got a spot right on the beach. It was a wonderful place, but little did I realize how sandy Lake Michigan shore is. Even at the bath houses had a hose in front of the entrance asking people to wash the sand of their feet outside before going to the bathroom or taking a shower inside. In other words, sand is everywhere. I am still surprised we did not get sand in our bed; but I can still find sand in the van. The park was nearly a dark sky park. We loved sitting outside drinking a glass of the wine we bought at the cheese shop that morning and just enjoying the night sky, the sound of the waves on the beach and the honking of the Canada geese. The camp host was very nice and helpful, but she complained about her medical issues including her colonoscopy bag. I am amazed that she was still doing this. But it is a free space to stay for the season and that might be a savior if you are indigent or need to make some money while relaxing. Our mostly quiet and private neighbors could barely be heard; it was enjoyable to hear them play guitar and sing softly in the distance. After walking around, we decided that next time we should take a spot slightly inland, on the grass. Yes, there will be a next time; it was very enjoyable, and we plan to come back.

We departed for the Big Knob campground, the next morning after breakfast and a shower in the bathhouse. Big Knob was the campground that was highly recommended by our fellow steamship voyagers a few days ago. On our way there we got groceries in Gladstone, and lunch in Manistique. TAB 21 was a neat bar with some good bar food. We walked across the street to a tourist store named “The Mustard Seed.” The next stop was the Seul Choix Pointe Lighthouse.

Some of you may know that in January I will join Clay Jenkinson of “Listening to America” and “The Jefferson Hour” fame at the Lochsa Lodge in the Idaho Bitterroot just west of Missoula, Montana (here are two accounts of my visit this past January <part 1><part 2>). This time we will be spending a week discussing “Jefferson and the West.” I am required to read a number of books in preparation for this workshop and in Donald Jackson’s Thomas Jefferson and the Stony Mountains I learned that the UP (Upper Peninsula) of Michigan and the northern part of the lake were part of a trading route between French Canada and New Orleans. It was also settled by the French. Hence the French name for the lighthouse. The point on the peninsula was an important navigation landmark for the travelers. It seems that after the Louisiana purchase the future (short-term) President William Henry Harrison was instrumental in informing the traders that they were now passing through territory owned by the USA.

Big Knob State Forest Campground was our destination for the night. It is located just south of the hamlet of Engadine, Michigan. We had a 7-mile dirt road drive, our second of the day; the trip to the lighthouse also required a dirt road trek. Big Knob turned out everything that it was promised to be and more. It is a primitive campground with no running water or electricity, but it had a hand pump well that yielded potable (drinking) water and a pit toilet. There was plenty of room at the campsite and we chose a spot behind a vegetated dune close to the lake. We had a nice interaction with the couple neighboring our site. They had a daughter with them who appeared to be in her early teens and on the “spectrum.” When we arrived, the girl was running around in a cat-suit, hopping around and digging in the sand. She acted shy, and the parents were nice. They told us they were from the northern part of the UP and came here for a week to relax. They could do this because they homeschooled the girl. The couple were amazingly decked out with a 500 liters water tank, loads of firewood and a generator which they used for about an hour to charge their house battery. The lady was in a sleek long black dress. In general, what we noticed during our travels, adults that travel with children during school season like this couple are homeschoolers and probably more conservative politically. We once overheard kids telling each other that in regular public schools you enter in the morning as a boy and come out that afternoon as a girl. I think that says it all!

At Big Knob I walked in Lake Michigan, it is very shallow. The only negative about the park were the mosquitoes so we spent the evening inside the van to avoid most of them. The next morning, we had a wonderful hike through a marsh-sand dune region. The dunes were completely vegetated with white cedar, maple, aspen, and pine with an understory of ferns, blueberries, wintergreen and cranberry. Of course, many more species, but this was what I casually observed. Nature was impressively abundant, and we spent an absolutely amazing time in the northern regions of Lake Michigan including Wisconsin and the UP of Michigan. To think we only explored a thin sliver, probably less than 25 miles wide along the northern edge of the lake. Little did we expect how gorgeous it was, and we need to come back to explore more.

Next, the return trip.

Camping on the beach at OJ Fuller

The night sky

Seul Choix Pointe Lighthouse.

In Lake Michigan

Hike in the woods at Big Knob

More detailed account of our Sept. 2025 trip - Part 2 (10/19/2025)

Arrived in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, after a pleasurable four-hour ferry ride. Ah, my last state in the lower 48! Our vehicle was the second one being unloaded from the ferry and off we went, before most of the others vehicles came off. A quick stop at a park along the harbor to allow the dogies to relieve themselves after being cooped up in a swaying van for five hours. The plan was to drive only approximately 100 miles to Ellison Bay where if everything went well, we would stay two nights.

We had to stop in the town of Two Rivers to visit a knitting store. The town had a festival, which we walked through since the knitting store was right in the middle of the festivities. Parking was at a premium, and we parked at a paid lot. We got to talk with the parking “manager.” This was an older lady with young girls around her. The local credit union had asked the high school to manage their lot, since they were open on Saturday mornings and needed to keep rogue parkers away from the lot so they could service customers. The curse of having a downtown bank at festival time. I forgot which high school club the proceeds were for, but I bet it was a good fundraiser. They told me that there will be another festival in two weeks. I guess they need to get their parties in, up there in the cold north, before the world freezes over. This is the Green Bay area also known as the frozen tundra. Interestingly, we were told that in winter, people drive their vehicles as far as one mile far on Lake Michigan to go ice fishing. We bought a dozen cookies from one of the stalls at the festival, and they gave us heartburn.

On the road again. Now our regular quest for ice, to keep our perishables cool. Amazing how all small convenience/gas station stores are staffed (owned or managed?) by what appear to be either folks from Indian, Pakistani, or Middle Eastern decent. Even in the cold environments of northern Wisconsin or Michigan. Somehow, I felt sorry for these folks, for one because of what I assume the winters in these areas would feel like and on the other hand what discomfort must haunt them knowing that ICE and their boss ICE-Barbie (Kristi Noem) might be looking to deport them. (ICE = U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement). As is the case very often, there are not a lot of people that are willing or able to own, manage or staff these types of stores. Later, during our drive home, on a Sunday morning, in Ohio the 25-year-old (Indian looking and sounding) attendant told me (at 10 am) that he was tired. He had to get up at 5 in the morning to open and run the gas station in this God-forsaken little village in central Ohio.

If you look at a map of Wisconsin, there is this thin peninsula sticking in Lake Michigan just east of Green Bay. A large section of this peninsula is in Door County. I had decided to camp at the far tip of the peninsula at the highest rated camping I could find. Our camping, The Wagon Trail, did not disappoint us; it was worth a two-day stay. Getting there from Two Rivers took us through small towns, Algoma used to have a train ferry to the other side (Green Bay to Frankfort?). Baileys Harbor was party central. In that town we saw two weddings, two microbreweries and a winery. We tried the winery and found it mediocre. I have a friend who is a major, award winning vintner in Washington State and he mentioned that a lot of these types of wineries truck in tank wagons of grape juice to make wine from. It definitely tasted like cheap wine, but they charge premium prices.

The Ellison Bay area and the Wagon Trail camping were magnificent. Absolutely worth a two-day visit and maybe more. I would like to return and make it at least a three-day stop-over. The first evening and night we had a few terrific thunderstorms including some small hail, which sounded nice on the van roof. We had some nice nature walks: Sand Bay Park/Beach and Ellison Bay Bluff State Natural Area. A restaurant in Ellison Bay proper: Della Porta, was stylish and the food was delicious. In the next post I will chronicle the next leg of the trip, back into Michigan and homewards.

Walking the dogs after arriving in Manitowoc and looking back at our ferry.

Looking over the Green Bay from Ellison Bay Bluff State Park

A neat trail to Sandy Bay Park

More detailed account of our Sept. 2025 trip - Part 1 (10/9/2025)

Looking over the railing we watched the lighthouse slowly drifting by. Quick a selfie. Soon, the vastness of the open space. Lake Michigan. The boat slowly started swaying and rocking on the waves of the lake. Not badly, but it was perceptible, especially when you watch the horizon. Just a pleasurable experience.

We are standing on the front deck of the Ferry “The Badger.” Built in 1953 as train ferry to shuttle trains between Ludington, Michigan and Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Now it only ferries vehicles across the lake. We are six days into our fall trip. A trip that will eventually take 16 days. It is taking us, somewhat on a whim, on a drive around Lake Michigan, or so we thought. This was partially prompted by the fact that Wisconsin was the only state in the lower 48 (for the non-US residents, these are the US states excluding Hawaii and Alaska) that I had not set foot in, and partially to try something new this year. We had yet to go camping in our van. I miss it. But, we did not want to do another cross-country drive to Los Angeles this year.

The initial plan was to drive up the eastern coast of Lake Michigan and down the west coast. As we all know, all good plans have the option to change; we wanted to stay away from driving in heavy city traffic. All said and done, we decided to drive to Ludington and take the car ferry across to Manitowoc. We would then eventually drive north along the shore of Lake Michigan and cross back over on the Mackinac bridge (a 5-mile long very tall bridge). Both were somewhat anxiety evoking to my wife. Honestly, both were very pleasurable crossings, and absolutely no anxiety was needed (more later).

You are required to travel a few days when you live in Virginia and want to catch the ferry across Lake Michigan. The first two days were spent at the Shenandoah River State Park, where we hiked and visited the Shanandoah National Park. We hiked 2 miles on the Appalachian Trail which gave us some gorgeous vistas of the Shenandoah valley.

After crossing 5 state boundaries (in order: Maryland, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, back to West Virginia and then finally Ohio) we ended up at a camping near Lisbon, Ohio. It was a nice ride, but the camping was so, so. The camping included a good education on how some people live. The manager (or camp host) was a gal who lived with her husband and two kids in a nice large trailer. They had moved to the area from Montana for his job at a nearby refinery. It seemed that the couple just moved from job to job. Follow the money. Then she would pick up some odd jobs here and there, while home schooling the kids. However, this year their oldest had wanted to go to a real (public) school. The next morning a school bus dutifully stopped in front of the camping to pick her up.

We visited friends near Ann Arbor the next night and in the morning, we continued our trip to Ludington. I had screwed up and booked the ferry a day earlier than intended. It meant postponing our planned trip to Holland, Michigan to our return trip. Once in Ludington we visited a microbrewery in town and to the delight of our dogs spent a night in a motel room. In the brewery our dogs provided a rich source of interaction with the folks around us. I do not remember any earth-shaking interactions with folks in Ludington. The beer was decent, but the pizza was strange and fair.

Getting on the ferry and the ferry ride itself was a different story. It was rich with human interactions. Folks with dogs get singled out and their vehicles are boarded last. We had fun walking the dogs before boarding and interacting with fellow dog owners. On board you kept running into the same folks and mid-voyage you were escorted down below to check on the pouches. We really got to know one couple with whom we discussed their vehicle set-up (Ford F-150 pickup with a hybrid package and a camper shell), in particular because we learned that they drove to Alaska in 2024. They also gave us the name of one of their favorite camping spots on the UP (upper peninsula) of Michigan.

The ferry ride was absolutely fun and relaxing. The ferry (the Badger) is an old coal-fired steamship that was built in 1953. Naturally, that fact created a bond between me and the boat, since I was born the same year. The boat served as a railroad ferry, and you can still see the railroad tracks on the boat’s vehicle deck. The ride was 4 hours and the waters on the lake were relatively calm. The boat has two restaurants/snack bars, gift shop, museum and of course the famous Badger Bingo.

The Badger

Breakfast in Manchester, MI

Lighthouse selfie

Boarding the Badger (see the old train tracks?)

The end of a trip (10/2/2025)

A CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp) log-cabin in the woods on a lake, not a bad thing to end a vacation. The cabin was built around the mid-1930s and obviously was restored and upgraded over time. I remember staying in one some 15 years ago; the floors were rough-sawn planks, now they look like (fake) oak flooring; the kitchen is upgraded, as is the bathroom. Now it even has a covered porch and a nice steel and wire baluster. But it is still rustic; you can see the lake through the trees. An occasional vehicle passes by on the road below.

A sixteen-day vacation book-ended by two 2-day stays in cabins at Virginia state parks: Shenandoah River State Park going, and Douthat State Park returning. It is nice to unwind and relax for two days after 14 days on the road. I tried to make it less frantic, for example, we stayed two days in Door County, Wisconsin at a camping (Wagon trail) that was absolutely one of our favorites. Although I tried to keep each day of driving under 200 miles or theoretically under 4 hours of traveling, we never got to our next destination before 4 pm. Too many fun side trips to natural areas to walk the dogs, or interesting lunch stops. There were the McDonalds, Subways, Arby and Wendys stops for lunch as well, not endorsing anyone.

We were off grid in Douthat, and most of our trip we have tried to keep away from the news. Some news was not easy to avoid since we tried to keep our Wordle streak going and had to sneak a peak at the New York times headlines every time we wanted to solve the various puzzles.

But there were times that we had to look. This was the case when Donna said: “Oh shit, Kim mentions on her Facebook page something about a shooting in Michigan.” We had just exited Michigan the day before and were on our way home driving through central Ohio on our way the glorious Hocking Hills when she mentioned that. When it was her turn to drive, I had to look up the event, to find out we had our next mass shooting, now in a Mormon church. It is extremely tragic to lose all this life to senseless gun violence. Moreover, it is unavoidable to ignore events like this, in particular since I am now the president of a church; a very liberal church at that.

It felt good to be away from church, although I am only president since July 1. I enjoy the challenge and managing the church in a neutral, balanced way. However, it is demanding a lot of patients and maturity from me. I like to joke, be cynical, crack dad (or bad) jokes, but now I must behave myself.

Highlights from these 16 days of vacation? Can I really call it a vacation when you are retired and tell folks that every day is Saturday? When I asked a gas station attendant how he was doing, he replied with OK and asked me how my day was. I told him great, especially since I am retired and every day is Saturday. He replied with “I am retarded too.” Anyway, the highlights include our brief walk on the Appalachian Trail; the visit to our friends in Michigan (for whatever reason); the ferry ride across Lake Michigan; all three camp sites in Wisconsin (Wagon Trail, O.J. Fuller and Big Knob); the Sleeping Bear Dunes; the Hocking Hills and now off grid at Douthat State Park.

It has been a fabulous trip; we have seen and learned a lot. I will write more about it in future posts.  Finally also, I now have set foot in all 48 states in the lower 48. Still missing are Hawaii and Alaska. Oh, what a challenge.

Last leg of the trip first; Douthat SP

Yes, we traveled with our dogs

Relaxing on the porch of the CCC cabin at Douthat SP.

Hocking Hill, SP

Made it to Holland, Michigan

A nice night at a campground without mosquitoes

Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore

Seuk Choix Pointe Lighthouse

Camping on the shores of Lake Michigan, sand and mosquitoes 

Ellison Bluff State Natural Area, Wisconsin

On the Badger, the ferry from Ludington (MI) to Manitowoc (WI) a 4 hour ride across Lake Michigan

Get on those barricades (8/18/2025)

As you may have seen in my previous posts, I have been writing about my life and of my immediate family. However, I am currently hitting somewhat of a wall. I guess that happens when you have been reading, listening and watching too much news and combining that with the responsibility as president for a board that is responsible for running a church. Don’t worry, I am not going religious on you. While Unitarian Universalism is definitively a religion, it should not be confused to proselytizing religions. Our motto is that we except folks from all religious and philosophical walks of life. This includes atheists and humanists. We don’t recruit much, but maybe we should; I think a lot of folks could find a spiritual home with us.

But let’s take a step back. These past few months we have been bombarded by news that the climate is worsening including the horrible floods in Texas where at least 135 people died; floods in Milwaukee, New England, New York City, etc.; a pretty strong earthquake and tsunami warnings; wild fires all over the world; and hurricane Erin that went from a category 1 (75 to 95 miles per hour wind) to a category 5 (more than 157 miles per hour or 252 km per hour) within 18 hours. We learn about a flip-flopping tRump who now supports Rusia again, or worse has given us whiplash from his tariff games. Finally, I cannot escape talks about sexual predators on television or in my own life, and no, I am absolutely not one of them, nor have I ever been abused. I have simply not been able to find any good news these past few months. So, why the hell write about my youth and my family; I should be on the barricades.

The Buddhists tell me to live in the moment and enjoy the shitshow. Stoics tell me that even living in the moment will not do it, since this last word I typed in already in the past. They tell me to concentrate on things that I (think) have control over. Talking about barricades, I have participated in a few demonstrations, but is that control? Maybe I have taken control of some of my frustrations by these actions. It definitively feels good to be among peers, people who think the same. However, it sure does not look like I am changing anyone’s mind.

Looking at the blogs that I wrote over the past 12 or so years, I have been warning you about climate change, political extremeness, war, gun violence, the environment, stormwater, soils, life on or near the water, and I occasionally write about life and bonsai. I am hoping that that the occasional post may affect some of you in a positive way; although I have no illusions that I can change the world this way. I confess, I am not doing a damn thing about it except write about it. Yes, I pick up the dog poop when we walk our animals; I recycle (not the poop); we have not used fertilizers or pesticides in our home in years (except my bonsai); we have little to no lawn to speak of; we drive a hybrid; and we vote. Remember, your vote matters!

What message am I trying to convey in this post, what charge am I giving you? I don’t know, maybe this is just a bitch session, a bitch post. Maybe I am trying to get myself motivated to do more; to write more; to bitch more, in the hope to change maybe one mind a year; to get you all motivated to work harder to change this world for the better, for your children and grandchildren. Our descendants deserve a livable world when we are no longer here. Fuck the fake republican fear of budget deficits, environmental deficits make the world unlivable whether we have a balanced budget or not. Let’s get on those barricades together and change the world.

Stolen from the movie Les Misérables

The Story of my parents (Part 2) (8/4/2025)

Back to 1940. A few days after the Dutch government surrendered my grandparents on my father’s side got a knock at the door. The visitor was someone from the red cross informing my grandmother that one of her son’s had died during the Battle of the Grebbeberg. The visitor handed Wim’s military dog tag to my oma and he left. I have been told that my distraught oma locked herself into a private room and meditated for three days. My oma was a known fortune teller; family lore told us that one of her foremothers was a gypsy fortune teller. I remember that when I was young, during card games with my oma, she would suddenly gasp when she looked at the new hand she had been dealt and say something like “Oh my someone I know will become ill and will be dying soon.” She would refuse to tell you who the person was and that made it even more spine-chilling.

When my oma exited her room after three days, she announced that “Wim wasn’t dead.” Less than a week later Wim walked in the home, very much alive. His partner in the foxhole had been killed and Wim had swapped dog tags with the dead body in the attempt to hide his identity and enable him to join the resistance without implicating the family. The story goes that my grandmother’s hair had turned white during the three days of meditation. She had been a redhead before the episode.

It also seems that my dad worked in France during the early part of WWII. This might have been in 1940 or 41. He never told us much about it, except that he lived or spend time in a brothel in northern France (near Amiens?). While I assume he had a good time with the ladies, he never provided a lot of details of his life there. I found old photographs which showed him on a building site at an airport. On a few pictures you can see him doing some kind of roofing job; he was sitting on top of the roof rafters. I can assume that this was a work camp of sorts. The Germans forced a lot of young adults into forced labor. Jan, my mother’s oldest brother ended up in a labor camp (the concentration camp Bergen-Belsen) and died there two days after being liberated by the Americans.

What happened after that is somewhat of a mystery. I don’t know when exactly it took place, but my dad told me that he tried to escape to either a neutral or an allied country, and he traveled to Finland to try to cross the border into Sweden. I assume he somehow left or escaped the labor camp in France. He probably made it back to the Netherlands and took off for Sweden. I am not sure what his route was, except that he spent some time in Latvia. My research shows that Latvia was officially occupied by the German Army in July 1941 during operation Barbarossa when Hitler tried to invade Russia. Latvia remained under German occupation until October 1944. I also wonder how the heck he was able to do this as a young adult (it must have been in either 1941, 42 or 43, so he was between 19 to 21 year-old) without attracting the attention of the Germans and being (re)captured; however, it seems that he made it to Rovaniemi in Finland and spent the winter there.

The stories that my dad told me of this time include an account of him sitting in a soup kitchen in Latvia across from an elder man with a Jewish star on his jacket. My father told me he was able to sneak one of his id-s in the hope that the guy could use it to stay out of the hands of the Nazis. Stories of Finland include tales of cold, darkness, skiing, drinking and saunas. I learned about one of his buddies who was drunk and went outside to relieve himself. They found him, the next morning, just outside the door dead, frozen solid. Dad told me that they assumed that he tripped and that was it. Dad was never able to cross the Swedish border and somehow made it back to Holland.

Here it gets strange. When I got an interview for a job at a company in Amersfoort, my father insisted on going with me, and he and Donna went to visit the site of Kamp Amersfoort. After my interview they took me there, as well. It seems that my father ended up in that camp after the Finland episode. Amersfoort was a work/transfer camp. I am not sure how long he was back before he was captured. Kamp Amersfoort seemed to house a few Jews, but mostly workcamp evaders waiting for transfer to work camps in Germany. Furthermore, it had some resistance fighters, black marketeers and Russian prisoners of war. It seems that the surviving Russians (Uzbeks) were executed after a few months. Dad talked about having to work in the camp filling sandbags. He told us that he responded to an inquiry by the Germans if there was someone who could operate a train. The train was taking the sandbags to a point from where they were shipped to who knows where. Dad told us that he volunteered but did not know how to drive a train. The train promptly derailed. Did dad sabotage it? He claimed he did, but I am not sure. It could also have been pure incompetence. He told us that he was put in the “Rose Garden”, an enclosure surrounded by barbwire and had to stand in it for 36 hours without water and food.

He became ill with dysentery in the camp and credits his survival on a Russian guard who somehow smuggled in opium which stopped the diarrhea. Amersfoort was mostly a transfer camp. Jews were sent to extermination camps in Germany and the non-Jews to work camps. At times they were the same camps. It is therefore no surprise that my father was put on a transport train to the German concentration camp Buchenwald. It appears that he was not sitting in a cattle car but in a regular passenger car with guards. This might be a separation between the forced labor and the Jews, who I am sure were stuck in cattle carts. Somehow the Dutch resistance jumped the train near Venlo, overwhelmed the guards and my father was thrown out of the slow riding train. He was still very ill and somehow made it to a nunnery or cloister in Belgium, where he was rehabilitated. He told us that he was in a coma for approximately a week. “I saw the light,” he often told me, a near-death experience.

There is another gap in his stories and the next one he told me about was that he joined the Canadian soldiers in the spring of 1945 when they fought their way through the Netherlands, freeing it from the Germans. They were sitting in a barn somewhere in Over-IJssel or the Achterhoek when all the sudden a projectile came flying through one of those typical thatched roofs that many Dutch farmhouses and barns had. It had gotten stuck in the thatch, not exploded and was hanging above their heads. One of the soldiers was brave enough to climb on a chair and decommission the bomb while it was hanging in and from the ceiling. He mentioned that this was one of the scariest episodes in his life. And there you have it, my father’s life till the end of World War II, as I can remember from his stories.

A picture of my mother and her friend Hennie being silly during the war.  The sign says "Safety order, it is forbidden to take pictures or have cameras on you.  The storm troupes from the Netherlands."  These were the German troupes stationed and/or recruited in the Netherlands under Hitler.

The Story of my parents (Part 1) (7/29/2025)

My father was born in 1922 in Rotterdam; he was the youngest of three brothers. I would need to do some research one of these days to figure out if being the youngest had anything to do with how he turned out. It always seemed to me he was always running away from something; maybe not so by the end of his life; but that is even debatable. He committed suicide in 1984, which is a method of getting away from it all; but that is getting ahead of the story.

My grandfather owned a contracting business. I previously wrote about my family’s background in the construction trade in my blog, and the following is a quote from the post:

Uncle Willem (Wim), dad's brother owned a construction company, and when we moved back to the town of Capelle and den IJssel in 1996 he had developed and built almost ¾ of that town. As I mentioned before my opa (grandfather) owned a construction company, as well. However, my uncle Wim built his company on his own, from scratch. My great-grandfather (my grandfather’s father) was also into construction. He was a very skilled carpenter and his claim to fame was that he supposedly built the Bijenkorf (a large department store) in the center of The Hague (Den Haag). This must have been in the early 1900s.

The one thing he told me about his growing up was the meetings that were held at his home. I think they had maybe clandestine meetings of the Dutch communist party. I am not sure if these meetings were held before or after the second World War. He told me about his memory of the singing of the “International”, the communist anthem. He also mentioned often intently listening to Joaquin Rodrigo’s Concerto de Aranjuez; during or after discussions on the Spanish civil war of the 1930s; the same one Hemingway was in. This concert was published in 1939 and first recorded in 1947. My father played it a lot when I was young, telling me that it brought him back to those (post WWII) meetings; to the time, I guess, when he was 25 and about to marry my mother in 1948. The second movement of the piece may actually be a memorial to the bombing of Guernica in 1937.

My father had one best friend, Piet Doornbos and his parents lived in an upstairs apartment in the house owned by my grandfather. Piet’s father worked for my grandfather and stories abound that my grandfather would frequent the upstairs apartment, especially when Piet’s father was at work. My grandfather had a reputation of sleeping around; and my mother, Piet’s wife and my grandmother (oma) were always privately wondering if my father and Piet were half-brothers, since they were so alike in behavior. But on the other hand, they grew up together, so who knows? They confided their suspicion to me, but I do not think they ever told the two men. I am not even sure if Piet’s kids were ever told of the women’s suspicion.

My grandparents owned a vacation cabin and a daysailer on the Rottemeren, a lake on the river de Rotte, north-northeast of Rotterdam. I have photographs of the family outings to the lake, and my father and brothers (including Piet) as boy scouts sailing on the lake.

Germany invaded the Netherlands on May 10, 1940. My father was barely 18 years old. His brothers were in the Dutch military, and my understanding is that they took part in the Battle of the Grebbeberg. The Germans won that battle and slowly advanced. On May 14 they bombed Rotterdam and demanded unconditional surrender. Right after the bombing, probably on the 14th or 15th the city emptied; people fled the burning city. My father and his parents traveled up the Rotte to their cabin. It is my understanding that during that evacuation or maybe during previous outings, my mother who lived in Terbregge along the river noticed my father and vice versa and a love story developed. My mother was almost 13 years old at the time of the bombing, and she told me that her friends and her were fascinated by these older boisterous boys on the river.

My mother told me that she did not have a happy youth. Her mother was mean; and when I grew up, we all thought grandma looked like a witch. I realize that is not a nice way to think about your grandmother, but later I learned she had acted a little like that as well. When my mother grew up, she would tell her: “I don’t understand why I have three beautiful sons and you an ugly daughter. I am not sure where you came from; maybe the milkman left you here with one of his deliveries.” She also treated her husband like dirt, and he walked (was kicked) out of his home three times for six-month stints, and then he crawled back home. He (Simon van den Ende) was the proprietor of the local butcher shop and when he left home he moved into a boarding house near his store. My mother told us that he was somewhat of a pushover, a softy. Hence, my young mother’s interest in this happy family that had fun on the river.

Opa van den Ende died in 1956. I know that I met him (I have a photograph of me sitting on a potty in front of him); I was 3 at the time. I stayed with oma in Terbregge for 3 months in the summer and early fall of 1959. I briefly attended the first grade in the village and contracted mononucleosis; kissing disease at the ripe old age of 6. I remember the walk from school to the gate in oma’s back yard.

My grandparents on their sailboat on the Rottermeren

My parents.  I am not sure what the date is, if they were dating or married.

My eulogy/autobiography (7/4/2025)

I just turned 72 and am sitting here on pins and needles waiting for the word that my first grandson was born. This will be a thing of the past by the time this writing will be made public, either as part of a memoire and/or a blog post. Why now, can we blame turning 72, my grandson, or my daughter or her wife for this introspection? I don’t know; it is probably a combination of a lot of things.

I am in a men’s group, and we assigned ourselves the project of writing our own eulogy. If that wasn’t enough, during a birthday get together a good friend asked me all kinds of biographical questions, and unbeknown to me he taped the whole conversation. He showed me that he was recording it after my birthday dinner at a Mexican restaurant. This made me feel self-conscious, and together with the fact that I now will have someone to carry on the torch (a grandson), it made me want to record a little more of mine and my family’s history. I have done a bit of this already in some of my blog posts, and I may refer to them when appropriate. I expect that I will publish sections of this writing in my blog, again in the hope that those of my direct family that comes after me will read it and find it interesting, useful and informative.

Where to start? But below is a section of the eulogy that I wrote for myself or maybe for those celebrating my life on this blue marble once I kick the proverbial bucket.

“What the heck is Kalemi? Well actually it is a town in the far eastern part of Congo. During colonial times it was the Belgium Congo, and the town was named Albertville after one of Belgium’s monarchs. I (my name) was born in that town on June ??, 195?. We are gathered here to celebrate the premature passing of Jan-Willem or as many of his friends knew him “Jan the man.” As he often told us that when at a doctor’s office no one got up when a name was called, it meant it was his turn to see the doctor. Everybody seemed to have difficulties pronouncing his name, and then when “Jan” got up they seemed even more confused. Is Jan a guy?”

Did it frustrate me that folks had difficulties with my name, my first and last name? Not at all, I found it amusing. In its own way it showcased the lack of cosmopolitan experience that I have observed in this country. Living in Cincinnati in the late 1990s I was always tickled when during our first meeting folks would ask me which high school I had graduated from. Like the majority in the area, they had never spread their wings, and they could obviously not fathom that there was actual life outside Cincinnati. Even more fun was when they told you about the great vacation they had in Indiana, a state maybe less than 20 miles to the west. Here in the Hampton Roads, where I currently live, it is a little less narrow-minded, since there is a large concentration of military and ex-military that have spent time in foreign countries on military installations or at war.

During the clandestinely recorded interview our friend Mason wanted to know how the heck I ended up being born in a small town situated on Lake Tanganyika (or now Lake Tanzania). Well, my father had a job there as director of a furniture company. That raised even more questions, so here we need to pause and start with the story of my father, which then raised the question of how my father and mother met. As you can imagine, the questions never ended.

I'll stop here.  If there is a next post it will be about my father before 1948.

Me as a 10-month-old on Lake Tanganika in the Congo

My dad and I around the same time.

Mother and son