Blue Ridge Parkway

Here are some photos from the Blue Ridge Parkway. It has been at least 30 years since any tree maintenance on the "scenic viewpoints." What a riot! All you can see is the trees blocking the view. Good grief Charlie Brown. Anyway, we did have a great visit to Luray Caverns. Old school roadside weirdness. They specialize in the "Stalacpipe Organ" -- tapping on the stalactites to produce music is a truly piece of inspired madness.

Smothered & Covered

There is a mysterious shroud that appears on the roadsides as we cross from Eastern Alabama through Western Georgia. It’s historically oppressive, relentlessly committed, and growing stronger over time. No, it’s not Southern politics, or evangelical religion, or even hash browns from Waffle House that are smothered and covered (onions and cheese for the young or inexperienced).

It’s an invasive week species called Kudzu. Originally imported from Asia to help with erosion control, Kudzu has spread like a virus throughout the Southeast through the Mid-Atlantic, and we’re pretty sure we saw it in New Jersey. It probably accomplished its original goal – to control erosion – but unfortunately, like Paris Hilton, once unleashed upon the public, it wasn’t very well controlled.

Today, you’ll see Kudzu hanging like frosting over trees, fences, walls, power poles and in some cases, houses, as it eclipses life as we know it. And that really is smothered and covered, if you ask me.

Mother Ship

On the beaches of South Florida at certain times of the year, the sand is cordoned off to allow sea turtles to drop their eggs. Mama takes off and a few weeks later the babies scamper off into the surf. A few, when mature, return to that very same beach to drop their eggs. I think about his as we pull into the Honda plant just outside Lincoln, Alabama.

This is the very birthplace of our road trip Mother Ship – the 2009 Honda Pilot Touring Edition we’re driving courtesy of American Honda Motors. She’s a sweet ride, if a little road weary after a couple thousand miles. In fact, if you licked her bumper she’d taste like the sands of West Texas. But, you can sense the comfort of home as we roll past acre after acre of sister Pilots under tents waiting to scamper off onto the roads of America. Few will return to this place. Probably none.

We are greeted by Ted Pratt, Director of Communications for Honda Manufacturing at the plant in Alabama. He’s our guide for a private tour. Collin (age 12) is with me and he’s a little road weary too, quiet and keeping to himself a bit. Gillian was too young for the tour so she and Steve are sitting it out today.

The plant is vast and Honda Pilots roll down the line beneath a series of catwalks. We use these to look down on various operations. You can tell that Ted is proud of this plant and soon you can see why. I’m impressed as I see the stylish gauges I’ve been looking at for a few thousand miles popped into place and the entire dash assembly installed. I’m amazed as I see the doors fitted, then removed to be detailed. They travel in pairs across the ceiling to an entirely different area where they are reunited with the precise vehicle they were fitted to earlier. The precision is breathtaking. And, there are more people than I expected on the manufacturing floor, tucking, touching, and making sure things are done just ever so. This personal attention surprises me.

“People can feel imperfections that machines can’t.” explains Ted. And, he’s right. Even in our era of precise technology, nothing is as sensitive to defect as the human being.

Standing on the curb after our tour I ask Collin “What was your favorite part?”

“The robot welders,” he replies not so sleepy now, “they were pretty awesome!”

“Pretty awesome” is his favorite expression now and he’s right, the welders are pretty awesome! We watched entire doors and large panels move through a sophisticated ballet from one weld angle to another; occasionally sending sparks many feet in the air.

“I liked the sparks,” I said to Collin.

“Yeah, but remember what Ted said. A good weld has no sparks.”

I smile at him as we pile into our Pilot and head toward the Southeast, probably never to return to this place. Certainly never to return to this time. It’s a happy, sad feeling all Moms have, even mother turtles I imagine.

Grand Canyon

The Grand Canyon is no less spectacular now than it was when I first saw it years ago. The difference this time was seeing it through the eyes of my children, wide with wonder. We lingered at the view point and as the sun melted into the western rim. In the lingering twilight, the kids pulled out their guitars and played. The hundred or so people crammed onto the overlook were hushed for a minute or two as the sound of Spanish Romanza wafted through the air, spilling into the canyon below. Then, they resumed conversations and picture taking. One couple, who had scrambled over the barricades never did break their face-sucking stride, making out through the entire sunset. Their dual immolation was almost as spectacular as the canyon itself and an act almost as old too.

Leaving the canyon we find ourselves behind a line of 5 Porsche 356s ranging from a 1955 to a 1963. One red, one blue, one green, two white – a couple of hard tops, the rest convertibles. We catch up with them at a Route 66 diner and chat for a few minutes. One driver, Bill Collins from Windham, NH, has a friendly smile and is eager to talk, even though he’s been driving a while and I’m keeping him from his lunch. He says “the boys” left New England a week ago and covered 800 to 900 miles a day to pick up the “women” in Phoenix. “Your own women? Or just some women?” I asked to clarify.

He smiled even wider, “Our wives,” he said. “We’re on our way to Squaw Valley, Lake Tahoe for a car show. People will show up from all over the country who have trailered their cars in and handle them with white gloves. We show up with bugs on our windshields and mud and stickers from where we’ve been.” They’ll cover 9,000 miles total to the show and home. I ask if he’s concerned about putting those miles on a vintage automobile. “No.” he said. “These cars a made to be driven. I’m carrying 28 lbs of parts in the nose, so I’m ready if there are problems.” Apparently, each car carries between 25 and 30 lbs of parts and they’ve already made one stop for repairs.

We let the boys and their women go to lunch and pop into a “soda fountain” just a few doors down in hopes of finding an authentic fountain root beer. What we find is a fake. Festooned in Coke signs and upholstered bar stools, a modern soda machine cranks out the same soda you’d pour for yourself at 7-Eleven. A real soda fountain would ladle a scoop of root beer syrup into a tall fluted glass in a metal rack with a handle, and then fill it to the brim with carbonated water and stir. We love these, and the family tradition is to order it without stirring. That way, you can nick a little of the syrup straight from the bottom and stir when you’re ready. Needless to say, it was a big disappointment to be handed a paper cup with soda you could get anywhere. This is Route 66 after all – The Mother Road – you would think you could get a mother of a root beer. But alas, it was not to be. Not today anyway.

Turning Left

Gillian on her scooter at the Venetian

David Sedaris once wrote about a compulsion he had to only turn right. It took him hours to get anywhere because he could not bear to turn left. His life was one big cork screw as he plotted all routes to include only right turns. It seems Steve and I have a tendency toward left, though of a lesser intensity.


Traveling in New England years ago, we got to New Hampshire and decided spontaneously to turn left, ending up in Montreal, one of the most romantic cities in North America. Some years after that our personal politics leaned left, then veered left, then left us in Leftville forever more. And yesterday, we were in Needles, CA and the itch to turn left hit hard.

Our plan was to continue on I-40 through the Mojave Desert and make the Grand Canyon mid afternoon. We stopped in a Mexican restaurant, a great, family-owned place and the decision was made over flautas and tamales. We turned left and 95 miles later found ourselves in Las Vegas. Okay, actually, we found ourselves and a few other people in the swimming pool at the Venetian with tall, frozen drinks and smiles as big as Nevada. Las Vegas was not in the plan for this trip, but hey, sometimes left is the only choice and sometimes it’s simply irresistible.