The English language, well perhaps every language though I am most familiar with English, has a tricky way with words, and sentences, when spoken aloud.
Growing up, the emphasis in this sentence, “Where have you been?” seems to have been placed more heavily on the where. As in, explain to me the circumstances around your tardiness or disheveled appearance.
And years later, the emphasis had often shifted to the last word; more plaintive perhaps and not just an inquiry into your location.
Now among my friends I still use this line of inquiry but the emphasis has again shifted, more towards the middle of the sentence and landing on have. Where have you been? And lately, the answer is, all over.
Growing up, my immediate family lived in Nevada but my cousins were spread across California and Oregon. I remember my grandparents would drive their Oldsmobile up from their home in Southern California towing a small nomad trailer, their trips planned to include several stops over the summer months.
They would stay for a day or two with us, parked on the street out front of our home, in their little home on wheels. Tiny bathroom, kitchen, a bed that folded down from the seating area around the dining table. I didn’t think a trailer could get much smaller, and it might explain my fascination with the Bambi model of Airstream trailers today; but that small size really packed a punch once it was loaded down.
I have a cousin who often takes his teardrop trailer out for weekends in the mountains outside Tucson, Arizona. My wife and I aren’t really camping people (let’s not do that again!), but the thought of jumping into my truck and heading out to the first RV park I see still has a grip on me.
Except…except I’ve seen some of the RV parks that are within driving distance and they leave me, well, concerned. So many people!
In the late 1980s when my Grandmother learned that I would be settling down here in Virginia permanently, we talked about their life on the road. My grandfather was an avid fisherman and there were always stories of their times parked along the Rogue River in Northern California or motoring out here in the East.
As one might expect, my Dad loved to fish as well. Me? This photo probably shows my best day fishing. Apparently I didn’t take to it quite as well and truthfully, I haven’t had a pole in my hands since the mid 1970s, but look at that cowboy hat! and swagger.
Perhaps the clearest picture I have of that “I’m moving to Virginia” conversation with Grandma is of dogwoods. Who knows when my grandparents would have come out this far. They both had retired when they sold Hilbig’s Pharmacy to my uncle Ralph in the early 1950s. But thirty years later she still had a vivid memory of the dogwood trees in bloom here in Virginia. Those and the redbud trees. And the fishing of course, not the cold water trout they were used to but the bass for sure.
I can just imagine them pulled up to some nearly-vacant campground, their folding card table and two chairs set out, my grandmother reading one of her paperback novels as she waited for Grandpa to catch something for dinner. Late afternoon, dogwood trees in bloom. Thanks for the memories.
Route 66, running from Chicago to Santa Monica, California, turns 100 years old this year. It’s iconic in a way that few other American roads are—so much so that a television series was created around it. Route 66 is probably unique in combining all of these things: a famous name, a clear beginning and end, and a mythology built around freedom, Depression-era migration, postwar family vacations, roadside architecture, and, eventually, nostalgia.
Known as The Mother Road, Route 66 was officially established on November 11, 1926, when federal and state officials approved its famous number as part of the new U.S. Highway System. Road signs were installed in 1927, but the full 2,448-mile route from Chicago to California was not completely paved until 1938.
Historic Route 66
In Southern California, the highway followed much of the earlier National Old Trails Road. That route crossed the Mojave Desert from Needles on the Arizona border through Barstow and San Bernardino before ending at the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica.
I think three American highways reward exploration more than any others:
Route 66 — the story of twentieth-century America.
The Lincoln Highway — the story of the birth of the automobile age.
The Blue Ridge Parkway — the story of the American landscape and conservation.
Taken together, these three highways tell different chapters of the American experience: how we first learned to drive across a continent, how the automobile reshaped the nation, and how we came to preserve some of its most beautiful landscapes.
I’ve traveled all three. Living in Virginia, with the Blue Ridge Parkway winding through the nearby Shenandoah Mountains, I’ve enjoyed countless drives along its ridges. I’ve also driven portions of Route 66. Yet it is my own family’s story that connects me most directly to that highway’s history and to the larger story of the Great Depression.
During the 1930s, Route 66 carried thousands of families west in search of opportunity. After World War II, it became the highway of family vacations, lined with neon motels, diners, and roadside attractions. Then, as the Interstate Highway System bypassed town after town, Route 66 was transformed almost overnight into a symbol of a disappearing America. Few highways have experienced such a complete journey—from necessity, to prosperity, to nostalgia.
Route 66 Diner
Several years ago, my wife, granddaughter, and I drove from Las Vegas to Williams, Arizona, on our way to the Grand Canyon. Along the way we stopped in several Route 66 towns, hoping to experience The Mother Road as it might once have been—or perhaps more accurately, as it has been lovingly remembered and recreated.
A roadside diner painted in turquoise and pink, a museum filled with vintage signs and memorabilia, small coffee shops, and family-run motels all helped sketch the outline of what traveling this highway must have felt like before today’s interstates quietly sidelined so many of these towns.
But my family’s connection to Route 66 reaches back much earlier.
In 1933, the California section of Route 66 had only recently been rerouted and fully paved. My grandparents happened to be traveling that highway at precisely the right—or perhaps wrong—moment. What began as a cross-country move ended with a baby being born in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
That unexpected stop tells a story of resilience, determination, and adventure.
An Emergency Stop at Wayside Camp
By April 1933, the newly paved Route 66 directed nearly all desert traffic through the tiny community of Essex, California. The Wayside Camp was the only formal roadside stop there at the time. It consisted of a handful of simple wood-frame tourist cabins, a modest café, a general store, and a service garage.
The buildings were captured in a postcard from the 1940s. I imagine they looked much the same when my mother’s family arrived on April 5, 1933, traveling from Colorado Springs to San Bernardino.
An Ad in the San Bernardino Sun from May 3, 1935.
What you’re looking at
From left to right:
The Essex service station with the large “ESSEX” sign on the roof.
Cabin office where travelers checked in.
Wayside Café, serving meals to motorists.
A long covered parking area, offering shade for both fuel pumps and guest vehicles.
Several tourist cabins, rented overnight.
This combination of gas station, café, and cabins was the classic roadside “motor court” that flourished before national motel chains appeared.
It was here that my grandparents stopped—not for convenience, but because circumstances left them little choice.
The Mojave Desert in April 1933 was beautiful but unforgiving. Roads were narrow, automobiles had no air conditioning, and thousands of families were migrating west during the Great Depression. The simple wooden cabin at Wayside Camp offered shelter and safety before the family would continue over the mountains into San Bernardino.
This is how Mom remembered that remarkable journey.
“Mother had inherited real estate in San Bernardino, and we moved in March of 1933. It was warmer there and she had family and property. Daddy was an electrician; had been a telephone lineman, climbing spurs and all. Could get a job anywhere, and did.”
“In my great Aunt Belle’s diary was this notation regarding Mom and her family: “When Orlo moved his family away from Colorado Springs to go to San Bernardino, Calif, she wrote ‘Quite an undertaking with the car, trailer, six children, goat with two kids, canary bird, and a cat and dog.’ Orlo’s caravan left March 15, 1933.”
“Neil (the youngest) was 18 months old . We had a goat and our stuff in a trailer, and the dog riding on the running board . And Mother pregnant. And six kids in (I think) a Rickenbacker. Shirley and I sat on jump seats that let down from the backs of the front seats. We had to sit out a sand storm in the desert on the way. Mother handed out raisins to us, one by one. I don’t know when we left Colorado, but we hit Essex, California April 5, 1933.”
For families with several children, the promise of steady work could outweigh the risks of relocating across the country. California had earned a reputation as the “land of opportunity.” Even during the Depression, it projected an image of abundance. A mild climate, productive farmland, and rapidly growing cities such as Los Angeles and San Diego offered employment in agriculture, construction, oil, and manufacturing.
At the same time, Southern California was experiencing an enormous expansion of its electrical infrastructure. For an experienced telephone lineman and electrician like my grandfather, moving west was more than a change of scenery—it was a smart career decision. San Bernardino sat at the center of one of the largest regional infrastructure booms in the country.
But before the family could begin that new chapter, there was one final, unplanned stop.
They had left Colorado with six children. When they drove away from Wayside Camp in Essex, California, they had seven. The newest passenger was my aunt, Dorol Elizabeth Willis, born that day in one of the small cabins beside Route 66.
For my family, Route 66 isn’t simply an iconic American highway.
It’s where our California story began.
Photo Credit: Wayside Camp, Essex, California Burton Frasher, Wayside Camp, Cafe and Store, U.S. 66 Essex, California, 1932 Photographic postcard, Frasher Foto Postcard Collection, Pomona Public Library
Take Highway 29 south of Charlottesville. The broad four-lane highway rolls gently away from the crowded streets of this college town, climbing into the wooded ridges of Nelson County. Mountains? Having lived in Nevada, I still think of these as hills. Beautiful, forested hills—but hills nonetheless.
The road passes wineries, cideries, and bed-and-breakfast inns that seem perfectly at home in Virginia’s countryside. As pleasant as they are, I found myself wondering what this landscape looked like during the 1930s.
Twenty-four miles south, turn left onto Route 6—Irish Road. A few minutes later you’ll arrive at the Walton’s Mountain Museum in Schuyler, Virginia.
Walton’s Mountain Museum building front
That’s how I drove home.
Getting there was another matter.
From Somerset, Virginia, I followed State Route 20, where road construction narrowed an already winding highway. Cars crept through one lane at a time, each of us patiently following the next toward destinations that, in my case, were entirely unfamiliar.
July in Virginia is predictably hot and humid. But on this particular day another visitor had arrived first: smoke from the Canadian wildfires, nearly 900 miles to the north. I had hoped that by climbing into the mountains I might outrun the haze—or at least rise above it. Instead, the smoky air that blanketed our valley had settled over Schuyler as well. The destination proved both new and strangely familiar, but the clear mountain air I had imagined never appeared.
Housed in the former Schuyler High School, the Waltons Mountain Museum features carefully recreated sets from the television series, including John-Boy’s bedroom, the family kitchen, and Ike Godsey’s store. Opened in 1992, the museum has become an important part of the local economy, drawing fans from across the country and around the world. During my visit, guests had come from nearby Charlottesville, North Carolina, and much farther away. A glance through the visitor log confirmed that the appeal of The Waltons extends well beyond Virginia.
Walton’s Mountain Tshirt signed by Richard ThomasNewspapers remembering Earl HamnerOriginal Hamner HomeThe Hamner Home-TV version
The television series ran for nine seasons and 221 episodes before concluding in 1981, followed by a number of reunion movies through 1997. Nearly three decades after the last of those specials aired, visitors are still making the pilgrimage to experience the world of a family who, though inspired by real people, largely lived in fiction.
The museum occupies an interesting space somewhere between celebration and remembrance. Visitors come to relive the lives of the fictional Walton family, but the museum never lets them forget the real family behind the stories. Earl Hamner Jr., whose childhood inspired the series, grew up here with his parents and seven siblings. Throughout the exhibits, photographs place members of the Hamner family beside the actors who portrayed them, gently reminding visitors where fact ends and storytelling begins. The Hamners first became a novel, then a film, and eventually one of television’s most beloved series. Yet behind it all remained a very real family from a very real Virginia town.
Spencer’s Mountain, by Earl Hamner, Jr. image from Amazon
The museum’s caretaker that afternoon had grown up in Schuyler. She was old enough to have known many members of the Hamner family personally, although I never quite sorted out exactly who or when. What mattered was that she transformed the exhibits from static displays into living history. She shared firsthand stories, local memories, and bits of background that never appeared on the exhibit labels. More than anything I read on the walls, she brought both the people and the town to life. I found myself disappointed when she excused herself for a break.
Earl Hamner Jr. was born in 1923 and died in 2016. He was only three years older than my father, one of five children, and five years older than my mother, who grew up with six siblings of her own. Like the Hamners, my parents lived through the Great Depression. Yet standing in Schuyler, it was easy to imagine that those difficult years were considerably harder in the hills of rural Virginia than they had been for my parents in Southern California.
Still, hardship has a way of producing stories worth telling. In this case, those stories have endured for more than fifty years, continuing to draw people who long for a glimpse of a simpler world—or perhaps simply a kinder one.
I spent an unhurried afternoon wandering through the museum, complimenting the caretaker on the thoughtful exhibits. I lingered longest in John-Boy’s recreated bedroom, which somehow felt exactly as I had imagined it. Before leaving, I picked up a few jars of Waltons Mountain jam from the gift shop. The Moonshine Jelly contained considerably more “moonshine” in its name than in its recipe, but it was enjoyable all the same.
After more than thirty years producing graphics and exhibits for museums and visitor centers, I’ve seen displays of every size and budget. Every exhibition hopes to honor its subject well. Could the captions have been more legible? Certainly. Would improved lighting and newer display cases have showcased the collection more effectively? Without question.
But they also might have polished away some of the museum’s charm.
John-Boy’s BedroomWaltons Living Room setWaltons Kitchen set
For me, the exhibits were memorable. The stories were unforgettable. And the best exhibit in the building wasn’t behind glass at all—it was the woman behind the front desk who remembered when these stories were simply the lives of her neighbors.
If you’ve been to the museum, let me know in the comments below.
The self-titled 1972 album by Manassas, the band formed by Stephen Stills of Crosby, Stills & Nash fame, features a memorable cover photograph taken at the train station in Manassas, Virginia. A Civil War enthusiast, Stills chose the location because of its historic significance and named the band after the town itself.
Photographer Ira Wexler captured the band standing casually on the platform, hands in their pockets, Stills leaning against a post. Aside from the unmistakable hairstyles of the early 1970s, they could easily pass for a group of groomsmen waiting for the train before one last evening on the town.
That photograph always brings back memories for me because I had stood on that very platform four years later—not as a music fan, but as a traveler crossing America.
Photo: Manassas album cover (credit: Ira Wexler)
A Summer on the Road
In the summer of 1976, during America’s Bicentennial celebration, I set off on a month-long bus tour across the United States. Along the way I met Simon, a young traveler from Wales who had come to experience America firsthand. We were the same age and quickly became good friends, sharing long hours on the bus and exploring each new destination together.
By the time we reached Washington, D.C., we had already visited places that seemed larger than life—The Alamo, New Orleans, Walt Disney World, and Cape Canaveral. Looking back, there wasn’t much to see at the Space Center itself, but simply standing where the Apollo missions had begun was unforgettable.
After the crowds and museums of Washington, Simon suggested something different. As a Stephen Stills fan, he wanted to visit the train station in Manassas that appeared on the Manassas album cover. It wasn’t on my itinerary, but that’s one of the joys of travel: sometimes the unexpected side trips become the memories that last the longest.
Photo: Manassas train platform, 2026
Crossing America on Two Wheels
That same summer, another branch of my family was making an even more remarkable journey.
My aunt Shirley and my cousin Colleen participated in Bikecentennial, the cross-country bicycle ride created to celebrate America’s 200th birthday. According to my mother, who has an incredible memory for family history, Shirley—45 years old—and eleven-year-old Colleen may have been the youngest mother-daughter team to complete the route.
They began in Reedsport, Oregon, and pedaled east across the country. Many riders struggled with heat, exhaustion, and injuries, and some left the ride altogether. At one point Shirley and Colleen separated from the larger group, continuing entirely on their own. They followed the established route and campgrounds, but without the companionship or support of other riders. Just the two of them—and they finished.
My brother Dave was serving in the Army at Fort Riley, Kansas, during their trip. He remembers visiting them as they crossed the state.
“I went to see them about mid-journey while they were crossing Kansas. They looked incredibly fit, thin, and tanned. It was quite an adventure they were having, and I remember thinking how unusual it was to see a mother-daughter team, especially with Colleen only about eleven years old.”
Reporter (and participant) Mark Donaldson wrote in 2016, reflecting on the Adventure 40 years before.
“Four thousand cyclists hit the trail the summer of 1976 — young, old, male, female, representing dozens of countries. Two thousand bicycled the entire trail from coast to coast. We all share one common bond. We all feel that the summer of the Bicentennial was one of the best summers of our lives.”
Years later, Colleen reflected on how unlikely the whole adventure really was.
Her mother had recently earned a degree in U.S. History after more than twenty years of night school. When she read about Bikecentennial, she assumed it would be perfect for her eighteen-year-old son. He wasn’t interested and simply replied, “You should do it.”
So she did.
At the time Shirley worked a full-time desk job, smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, and had hardly ridden a bicycle in years. Nevertheless, she bought the required camping gear, tents, panniers—and bicycles.
There was just one problem: the smallest adult bicycle was still too large for eleven-year-old Colleen. Their solution was wonderfully 1970s. A trip to Kinney Shoes produced a pair of platform sneakers that added two and a half inches of height, just enough to reach the pedals!
The family finally assembled the bicycles on Mother’s Day for a ten-mile practice ride.
Two weeks later, they left Reedsport, Oregon to bicycle across America.
Colleen, 1976
America by Rail
Nearly twenty years after my bus trip, I found myself circling the country once again—this time by train.
I boarded the Capitol Limited at Union Station in Washington, D.C., bound for Chicago. Twelve hours in a coach seat convinced me that sleeping accommodations were worth every penny, so I upgraded to a roomette before continuing west.
Traveling by rail offers an entirely different perspective on America. Unlike flying, where the landscape disappears beneath the clouds, the train carries you through small towns, mountain passes, deserts, rivers, and endless stretches of countryside that most travelers never see.
Looking back, I’ve crossed America three different ways: by bus, by train, and—through the remarkable story of my aunt and cousin—by bicycle. Each journey revealed a different side of the country, but they all shared the same reward: the chance to slow down, meet interesting people, and discover that sometimes the best memories come from the miles between the destinations.
In 1976, Americans celebrated 200 years of independence. Nearly fifty years later, as the nation celebrates its 250th anniversary, I realize those celebrations were never only about fireworks and parades. They were about movement—people setting out to see their country, whether by bus, bicycle, or train. My own memories of that Bicentennial summer, and the remarkable journey of my aunt Shirley and my cousin Colleen, remind me that America is often best understood not from a history book, but from the road itself.
Last week we went for a preview of items to bid on from an auction at Frascasti, an 1823 brick mansion in central Virginia. Frascati was built for Philip Barbour, Associate Justice for the Supreme Court. John Perry, known for his work for Thomas Jefferson in building the University of Virginia and Monticello, oversaw construction. Frascati is on the National Register of Historic Places and is a Virginia Historic Landmark. The Federal-style brick home has a commanding view of the valley down through Somerset and on to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Hidden from the road by overgrown boxwoods, it must have been an imposing presence on the hill two centuries ago.
While the home isn’t open for tours, it was recently sold and the family, who had held the property for over four decades, released many of the furnishings in an estate auction. We went for the preview and had the opportunity to walk through the home as we marked our list of items to bid on.
The peeling paint on the first floor walls gave no indication of the grandeur the home once possessed. Entering the parlor I was surprised at the size of the room, dominated by a large chandelier set within an immense ceiling medallion. Oftentimes even the light fixtures are auctioned off—this one wasn’t and I imagine that it will be staying with the home.
We walked from front parlor to office, on through the dining room and made our way upstairs to one of the bedrooms which had items on the auction list. We had intended bidding on a pair of crystal bedroom table lamps. They were as beautiful in person as they had appeared in the online catalog though their fragile shades would need replacing. Up another flight of stairs we found a third floor lunette window at the front of the house with an amazing view over the boxwoods to the neighboring properties beyond.
Frascati was one of four plantation homes in the area, only three of which still exist intact. A mansion designed by Thomas Jefferson, home to Governor Barbour, was built in 1820 and destroyed in a fire in 1848. Somerset Plantation, just down Rt 231 the Blue Ridge Turnpike, was built in 1821 and served as a design inspiration for Frascati. Montpelier, home to President James Madison and his wife Dolly, is now a historic site overseen by the Montpelier Foundation and owned by the National Historic Trust.
My first impression of the mansion? What an opportunity for a grand event venue or a ballroom! The ornate plaster crown moldings and soaring interiors just speak of the Regency era in England. With examples such as Downton Abbey and Bridgerton, what a venue this could be for concerts or recitals. There is an existing deed of easement signed by the owners in 1999 with the Virginia Board of Historic Resources which guides what can be done with the buildings and the 64 acres. It remains to be seen what the new owners choose to do with this historic property.
We ended up with a few items from the sale: a pair of crystal table lamps, three side chairs upholstered in a beautiful striped damask, two silverplate chafing dishes we hope to use for a party, a vintage illustrated book on Paris. As I was leaving, one of the daughters of the homeowner handed me a tiny green plastic house she had found while cleaning upstairs. A missing Monopoly game piece, she said, which went with the collection of games we had acquired. And then she spent several minutes telling me about each of the items we had purchased. I suppose it was her way of saying goodbye to a home she and her family had loved for more than 40 years and which had survived more than two hundred.
Sometime back I wrote a post on my website using ChatGPT; actually, I asked the questions and then used the system’s responses in an effort to susout the narrative and possible conclusion of a series on HBO. The series was a takeoff from a popular roleplaying game (which I had not played). And so, while it seems most of the show’s viewers already had the end in sight based on their familiarity with the video game, it was new territory for me. You can read the post here or watch it online here. No spoilers! But it writing the post did give me an appreciation for and a tiny peek into the world of AI.
Over lunch with a friend this week, the topic of AI came up again during our conversation. It has been all over the news recently, at least here outside the nation’s capitol, and with President Trump’s announcement of Stargate datacenter infrastructure investment, well it seemed like a good time to take another look under the covers. That, and with every software or App update seeming to push their own version of AI, I wondered how much it may already be impacting my life.
So Dave challenged me with a small stress test. I had used AI before, but would I be interested in using the technology to plan out an upcoming (hopefully!) overseas trip? Game on and challenge accepted!
We are interested in a possible ten day adventure to a country I have never visited before. I started by posting what seemed like a pretty modest request: plan an itinerary for a seven day driving excursion. stops for sites of interest, accommodations, and dining. In seconds I was rewarded with a detailed plan for my adventure. Pushing on, I asked for tweaks in the results: what about stops for pubs and restaurants? How about interesting castle or garden tours along the way? What about historical sites to visit, distilleries, shopping? There is a limit to what a free session will return but I had what I was looking for. When copied into a Word doc, I had ten pages of preplanned travel adventure.
One last outing with the software before I close. With ten pages of results, I wondered if ChatGPT would condense or summarize the information for me. Rather than wading thru all that paperwork with a yellow hilighter, let’s let the AI do the work. Again, seconds later, a condensed version of my summer itinerary in was delivered, one and a half pages of pure travel fun waiting for me. In the past we’ve spent considerable amounts on Fodor travel guides and read thru numerous online reviews of hotels and restaurants, various travel experiences recommended by others. This year we are going to give AI a shot as our personal travel planner.
Comment below with your own experiences with AI; for good or il, it looks like it will be with us going forward. Oh! one last thing. I had used Adobe Firefly to generate a graphic for this post. Not satisfied with the results, I went old-school and ended up creating my own montage of text images. It took quite a bit longer than a few seconds.
Do you have a Bucket List that you’ve been slowly working on, crossing off items as you accomplish a goal or visit someplace special?
I hadn’t really considered myself as having much of a list; if I did at one time, that list has definitely gotten shorter over the years. This month we were able to see Bruce Springsteen in concert (the tickets were a gift) so that was a major item checked off. We had seen U2 for my birthday a few years back at Madison Square Garden. The view of the Garden from the Empire State Building, below, was taken on a trip to New York City in 1985. I had seen Elton John in the 70’s and then again in the 80s in Germany, that was special. We saw Sting at Wolftrap a couple of years ago, but that’s it for Big Name Artists. I’m hoping to see Adele at some point although she has announced a hiatus from performing for the next several years. Deb saw Barry Manilo in concert many years ago. We both saw the Beach Boys recently, but after performing for 50 years, who hasn’t seen them? Check.
I’ve been to Taiwan on a missions trip but I would still love to visit Japan one day. Deb has been to S. Korea which I thought was pretty special. We’ve both lived in Germany and visited a number of European countries but I still have a visit to the Hermitage museum in St. Petersburg on my list. I doubt I will ever get to Russia considering the political climate today but I’m leaving it on the list.
Toured the Eiffel Tower, the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris and the Louvre but still haven’t been to the Vatican. The second view of the Eiffel Tower (below) is the smaller version from Las Vegas; we took our granddaughter there on our trip to Arizona. I’ve walked about on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, the World Trade Center before it fell, and the Top of the ROCK. So I don’t think I have any more tall buildings on the list. Having toured two of Frank Lloyd Wright’s landmark homes, I would really like to see a few more of those. We shall see.
One day I hope we get to Niagara Falls. We’ve crossed the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco, sat on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, and flown across the glaciers in a seaplane in Alaska so pretty good with those. Devil’s Tower is still on the list. Maybe an African safari someday though we drove through a nice, little safari in southern Oregon!
Alaska by seaplane
The Redwoods. Check. The Matterhorn in Switzerland. Check. Walked with the flamingos in parade in the Bahamas so that was fun. Never ridden an elephant or a camel but they can stay off the list. I did finally get to go up in a small piper cub airplane with a friend and that was better than I expected. Haven’t been in a helicopter yet.
We finally saw the Rockettes in New York City and the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center, definitely a Bucket List item! And catching a Broadway show was pretty special (considering what ticket prices are like today) but I would still like to see a show in the West End some day. The only time I went to London, going to a theater wasn’t on my list, though I did enjoy the Hard Rock Cafe in Piccadilly Circus; that was definitely a show.
We’ve enjoyed beignets and cafe au lait at Cafe DuMonde and listened to jazz in New Orleans, lobster and cold beer in Maine with fireworks, flamenco dancers and sangria in Spain, and Shakespeare in the Park, but I think it would be fun to experience a Mariachi band in Mexico, or at least in Texas, with a margarita, that would be nice.
I’ve stayed in a small castle in Austria, a yurt in Maryland, camper trailers and Army tents, cottages and cabins, but I would still like to stay in a treehouse. Also a tepee.
We’ve been trying to give our granddaughter a variety of experiences that I don’t believe she would normally get (though she has been up in a helicopter, jealous!) New York City, Boston, Las Vegas, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco (hopefully Los Angeles or perhaps London next year). I’m not sure how many more different trips we can take her on but we are hoping to keep up these summer trips with her. At some point it will be fun to see what she puts on her bucket list.
How are you doing on your Bucket List? Making any progress? or are you starting to add more items to the list after checking off others? It’s definitely a lifetime adventure, let me know what you have planned next!
I’ve always appreciated the singular artistic vision of architect Frank Lloyd Wright. After looking through examples of his early work, primarily residences in the Midwest, I was struck by his embrace of modernism over then contemporary building styles. I had toured Fallingwater, the 1937 iconic summer retreat of Edgar and Liliane Kaufmann at Bear Run in Pennsylvania many years ago. Built in 1937, Fallingwater is perhaps one of the best examples of Wright’s mature style and his desire to merge the built environment with nature.
The summer home of Grand Rapids businessman Meyer May and his wife Sophie that he designed and built in 1908-09 is a great example of Wright’s style as it transitioned during the early part of the 20th century. Settled into the community on a street corner, surrounded by other grand homes in the prevailing Victorian and Italian revival styles, his brick prairie-style home, nearly devoid of exterior ornamentation, seems peculiarly out of place. And indeed, our tour docent recounted how his children felt picked upon because they “lived in the weird house.”
ExteriorExterior from gardenExteriorInterior, living room with table, lamp, windows, and chairsInterior, living room with seatingInterior, living room with displayInterior, custom carpetingInterior with fireplaceInterior, muralInterior, dining roomInterior, dining room with table lightingInterior, sitting room
The home is a grouping of rectangular volumes and piers, with low pitched roofing and deep overhangs. Unlike the red metalwork of Fallingwater, the copper metal trim work here is a dark brown color throughout that contrasts with the sand-colored brick and limestone. Though perceptably a minimalist structure, it seems to me that the exterior moldings, especially those over the dining room windows, recall Japanese motifs. The overhang on the eaves bears a similar appearance to Japanese pagoda rooflines. Wright had visited Japan in 1905 and his love of Japanese woodblock prints is well documented. According to one website, he first visited the country in 1905 and created an extensive photographic record. No doubt some aspects of his designs going forward incorporated those interests.
While the Arts and Crafts Movement of the late 1800, early 20th Century anchored his initial designs, it seems that his stripped down mimimalism and incorporation of Asian design motifs (not to mention Native American) really took hold after 1910s Frederick C. Robie House in Oak Park. Again the long, stacked verandas recall the beautiful cantilevered trays of Fallingwater though constructed from brick rather than concrete. Each design features enclosed spaces, whether grand or intimate, that open up from or are connected with other spaces. The effect is a dynamic of seclusion and revelation.
From the Frank Lloyd Wright Trust, “In his design (of the Oak Park Unity Temple), Wright abandoned the use of traditional church features of tower, steeple, and nave, creating a “noble room” in which man could reflect upon God.” This approach to ecclesiastical design has had a profound influence on modern church design, for example the church we attend here in Northern Virginia and built 115 years after Unity Temple.
Wright’s pursuit of harmony: exteriors and interiors, ornamentation and furnishings all working together represents an individual who gave attention to details as well as the grand vision. While I personally felt that the Meyer May house showcased too much of the designer and virtually nothing of the home’s owners, his cohesive design can’t be ignored. Everything from carpets to wall colors, woodwork to windows complements each other. Motifs and materials are repeated throughout the building and nothing is placed by accident or without regard to the overall design scheme.
In 1987 Steelcase, the present owner of the Meyer May property, restored the home to it’s original design (along with removing a later building addition) and sourced either original or replicated furnishings of the time period. It remains a stunning example of one man’s creative vision, though I saw only a few photographs and personal possessions reminding us of the family who had lived there for 27 years. We browsed the gift shop before leaving, of course, and brought home a pair of FLW decorative mugs to commemorate our visit, a tribute to one man’s genius.
My Retired Life 