Grandma and the car named Hamgravy
November 8, 2009
On June 23, 1930, my schoolteacher grandmother and three girlfriends set out on a road trip in a car named Hamgravy. They left from Janesville, Wisconsin, and spent two months driving around, with Grandma keeping meticulous records in a trip journal the entire time. There is an accompanying photo album.
They took a southerly route through Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado (Denver), Utah (Salt Lake City), Nevada (Las Vegas), dipped into Mexico, then made their way up the coast of California, through Oregon, Washington, up to Canada (Banff, Alberta), down through Montana to Wyoming, where they turned east and headed across South Dakota and Iowa home to Wisconsin. According to statistics noted in the journal, they traveled for 62 days, 9969 miles (50 of which were apparently on ferries), visited 133 towns, and spent a total of $271.04 which worked out to 1-1/2 cents per mile. ???Lena and I met the girls, Edna and Irene, at Janesville this a.m. and we were finally off at 10:30. At 11:15 our most able pilot, Hamgravy, decided to have a flat tire. The man in the Ford garage was the first to inquire if we had a couple of guns with us. At Dixon we saw a statue of Black Hawk on the banks of the Rock River. At 4:30 we crossed the Mississippi River. Landed in De Witt at 6 and had a chicken dinner for 50??. Traveled 166 miles. Temp. 93.5??.??? It looks like the four girls went in together on the cost of buying the car, and had it freshly painted for the journey. There were eight flat tires altogether. They apparently were not opposed to flirting a little with people they met on the way. ???We stopped at Loveland [Colorado] for gas and Lena promised the service man some Schlitz beer next time we come. ??? Otherwise, the car was dependable. ???Yesterday we saw cars towed through the mud and today they were towed through sand in the desert. Found some awful detours but our Ford rambled right along while other cars were standing still. If Hamgravy only knew! ??? It does seem like my grandmother was kind of the captain of things: ???We are driving along the Great Divide and can see many snow-capped mountains ??? Irene gave up driving at Twin Lakes when a fellow told us we still had 30 miles of mountain driving to Aspen. So Hamgravy and I are taking the rest over the mountains by way of Independence Pass ??? an elevation of 12,200 feet. Lost a bit of my courage but got up the steep grades in second. It???s cold up here and we had our pictures taken on a snowbank. We are glad to be over and finally reached Aspen at 3 o???clock for dinner.??? Nightly accommodations were at travelers??? campsites, where the cost of various sorts of cabins and cottages was $1???$3. On at least one occasion, they drove further than they had planned, with some extra adventure and more praise for the car. ???These lodges are expensive places, $14 a day, so we decided to drive 40 miles before we could afford to sleep. At the ranger station we were informed that we couldn???t go on because of forest fires but we followed four fellows to the fire and cars were taken through by forest rangers. Eleven cars went with us and Hamgravy went up the long grade to Summit Inn on high. We passed a Buick on up grade so are we ever proud of our Ford. Some exciting day! Wild bears even crossed our road. Reached cabin at 11:45. Traveled 235 miles. Tent cabin $3.??? After two months on the road, they were anxious to be finished. ???We are going to make home today so are stepping on the gas all the time. ???It???s Janesville or bust!??? We didn???t stop to eat but bought a lunch to take in car.??? On August 22, my grandmother the road-weary traveler reached home in Almond, Wisconsin. ——————— I know there???s a book project in these materials. First, it is simply extraordinary that in 1930, these four young, single women set off on such a journey unchaperoned (well, I???m assuming it???s extraordinary). Second, it???s such a complete accounting of all aspects of the trip that it would be too bad not to share it with others. I suppose I could do the journal and photos, and intersperse history and contemporary events in appropriate places. Remember that bit yesterday about sitting on my ass? It was back in 1993 that I typed up the handwritten journal and scanned all the photos.Inertia
November 7, 2009
This is the Shubert Theater. Ten years ago, the Shubert Theater had its 15 minutes of fame when it became the heaviest structure ever moved, traveling a block and a half through downtown Minneapolis. Grandiose plans were made for its historical preservation and renovation. Then it sat untouched for ten years—a big, cream-colored brick that hasn’t accomplished anything lately. The Shubert Theater is an apt metaphor for my life.
The big thing that I want to accomplish is moving to London, England. I first visited Europe in 1989. I was just about to graduate from college (anecdote: My mom told her friend that I was finally graduating after eight years. Friend: What’s she getting her PhD in? Mom: Oh no, it’s just her Bachelor’s degree.) and my mom, who collects teddy bears, booked herself, my dad, and me on a group tour. It was a pretty interesting time to be toodling around Europe. We arrived and departed from Frankfurt; we were warned not to smile at the East German border patrol across the barbed wire lest they open fire, spent a few days swooning in Vienna, and got incredibly nostalgic driving our motorcoach past the American Embassy in Budapest on the 4th of July. The second teddy bear tour was to the UK in 1998. I knew I had found my soulmate. I can’t explain it, it was just a gut feeling that I was meant to live there. I’m a firm believer in intuition, instincts, and The Spark. It was a splendid two weeks. We spent the first few nights in London, then Brighton, then headed north. There were two nights in the Lake District followed by three nights in North Berwick, Scotland, just to the northeast of Edinburgh. On this trip, I remember that time in North Berwick most fondly, actually. Our hotel was an old Georgian manor with a golf course between it and the Firth of Forth. I spent two of the three evenings walking the beach, singing Del Amitri songs to myself. We ended with a few more nights in London, and by this time I was acclimated and loving it. I dragged my mom along on my pilgrimage to the Dr Marten’s shop in Covent Garden, where I also discovered Lush Soap. I didn’t get too crazy—it was a group tour with my mom after all—but the seeds were sown. I returned home and embraced as much day-to-day culture as I could from Minnesota. I listen to 5 Live Drive nearly every day (still sad that Jane Garvey moved on, though Anita Anand is a firecracker in her own right) and Clive Bull on LBC, and at this very moment I am resisting the urge to bawl like a baby at the way Barry’s treating Pat at Roy’s wake on Eastenders (I’m seven years behind). I made a friend because of LBC and rabbits, and made several trips to London until 2002, when the finances collapsed. The point isn’t for this to be a travelogue. I think you understand that I love England, or my slight experience of it. There are three other germane points. I’m coming up on my 15-year anniversary at my job. Groan. I’m comfortable and so don’t make a change, even though I think about doing so all the time now. For the most part, I have liked going to work every day and I have great bosses. If I didn’t and didn’t, I wouldn’t have. It’s hard to roust yourself when your laziness trumps your desires. I know it’s entirely within my power to effect a change. But I don’t. As well, four years ago I bought a condo. What was I thinking? Because not long after I paid too much for my home, the housing market tanked. I’m trapped in a mortgage for at least five years, I figure, until things begin to turn around. I hope I’ll be surprised that it doesn’t actually take that long. Recently, however, some stuff has happened with regard to my mortgage that lessens my financial constraints. So unfortunately, that will put the focus of failure more squarely on myself with regard to actually accomplishing something related to this dream I’ve had for 11 years. The Shubert and I have been sitting on our asses for a long time. But at least I don’t weigh as much.Water, running
November 5, 2009
Since June 1, 2008, I have drunk 67,522 ounces of water. How do I know this? Because I keep track and measure up on a nifty little site called zeaLOG (shout out!). I didn’t set out to be a compulsive grapher of my water consumption (or any of the other things I keep track of there); it just happened.
My mom is always telling me, “Your grandfather would be so proud of how much water you drink!” (He was never proud of how I braked the car when he was riding along.) Although he was a big advocate of water drinking, I doubt he had in mind the quantities that I accomplish.
The most water I’ve ever drunk in one 24-hour period is 248 ounces. That’s right, two gallons (almost) of the universal solvent. I managed this feat twice in the past summer, on July 5th and September 6th. The zeaLOG also allows me to notice my trend of consumption over the course of a year. In the hot summer months I average almost a gallon and a half per day. In the cold winter months that drops to about three-quarters of a gallon. It’s a lovely little sine wave.
(Sorry for the delay—I was having a drink of water.)
I do not prefer ice, and I’m not picky about what kind of water it is or whether it’s cold. Plain old tap water is just fine, though at home I do have a carbon filter on my kitchen faucet. I keep two half-gallon pitchers ready in my refrigerator. That way I feel like I’m conserving the filter by not turning it on for each individual glassful. The literature that comes with the filter says it’s smart enough to wear out based on a combination of times used and quantity filtered. I don’t believe it.
I do the actual drinking in 24-ounce increments and for the sake of logging, I always finish a glass, even if I have to chug most of it. But often I do that anyway. Lately, I’ve developed the new habit of making sure that I drink a glassful as soon as I get up in the morning. It honestly helps me feel better as I start my day. I usually get up during the night, at which times I work on a glassful which usually is finished by the time I arise in the morning. After my shower, I drink a small 8-ounce glassful to wash down my multivitamin and calcium supplement. So by the time I leave for work, I’ve had 56 ounces since I went to bed. I have the same 24-ounce cup at work, where I don’t like to drink fewer than two during the day; three is better. I take a 24-ounce repurposed Diet Coke bottleful with me to work out. That gets polished off during the 45 minutes I’m there.
I break out of the 24s when I go to bowling. Then, I pack a green, 32-ounce Nalgene bottle. A couple of years ago I had the unoriginal idea to make an ice plug in the bottom of the bottle so the water would stay cold. In the winter, I freeze 200 milliliters. In the summer, 300. That’s just about right for the two-and-a-half or three hours the bottle is in service. Shall we talk about a huge advantage to drinking a lot of water while bowling? That’s right, I feel less fuzzy the next day from the beer if I’ve also kept up with the water. If I can finish a second Nalgene during the evening, I know things won’t be as bad in the morning. As I pay attention to the trend, I see it works best if I roughly match water ounces to beer ounces.
(Just a sec, I’ll be right back.)
You may wonder if I am always running for a ladies’ room because of all the water that goes into me. No, not always. Oh, I know I go more than the average person, but I am beyond thinking about it. The benefit is worth it. Okay, it’s inconvenient if, say, I’m in the middle of the row at a Minnesota Twins game, however my need to excuse myself in that situation is just as likely to be because of all the fresh, cold Summit Extra Pale Ale that I’ve been enjoying. And buying another one. But I digress.
When I travel, I have to pay attention to the situation. On driving trips it sometimes gets tricky because I like to stay off the interstate as much possible, and U.S. and state highways don’t have the same shiny, fancy rest areas—or any, usually. And if you stop at a gas station or fast food joint, you do feel as though you should make a purchase in exchange for the use of their facilities. Yes, I’ve been known to buy just one banana. In England, the 20 pence coin quickly became my good friend.
(Time to refill my glass.)
Try taking a big drink when you get up for the next couple of days. See if you don’t think it helps you feel just a little bit fresher.
Gospel
November 4, 2009
I don’t have faith.
Maybe God is laughing at me, because today I have to write about my relationship with religion. If I believed in God, I wouldn’t accept it as chance that when asked to get a random article from Wikipedia, Wikipedia came up with information about the Greek Gospel Book. I would believe that it was a message from above that I was forced to pay attention to, what? the first four Books that got the Bible going? But I don’t believe in God, so, in the definition of irony that I learned in college literature classes, it’s merely “a cruel twist of fate” that that’s what happened.
My parents did what they could to give me the chance to culture my own beliefs. Science got in the way.
My earliest memory of religion is that my dad was the organist for the Methodist Church which was two doors down from the house in which I grew up. Sometimes, whether it was on Sunday or on Wednesday practice night, I had to go along. Nothing was shoved on me, I was just present.
When I was old enough, I dutifully attended Sunday School classes. According to my recollection (35 to 40 years on by now), again it was mostly because I was a hanger-on to my dad’s obligation as organist rather than because of anybody’s rapture that I be indoctrinated. I don’t remember anything that was ever discussed in Sunday School; but I do remember that one time only, my question (whatever it was) was briefly the topic of discussion. I vaguely recall that shortly thereafter, my attendance was no longer mandatory or even expected from anybody’s point of view.
One of my fondest memories of familial bonding was when my mom attended the expanded, holiday version of the church choir to participate in the singing of Handel’s Messiah. (I’m quite certain that this was mainly because of my mom’s love of music.) My mom is an alto, I held my own in the same range; I was taking piano lessons by then so could read the music. And I have a good ear, so I could follow along otherwise. Even now, I must listen to the Messiah at least once in December. In general, baroque music is my favorite, especially Vivaldi.
As related in the orthodonture saga yesterday, at some point, I moved to a different state. I was pretty sure by then that I didn’t believe in God. But I did like my new friend a lot and I liked to sing, so I attended her Catholic church and choir for a few weeks. Even in my teens, I understood the concept of the old college try.
Faith was long gone. I can’t remember the last time I made the attempt. I think religion is fascinating, intellectually. And also architecturally. I have a recurring dream about the Methodist Church. I’m always trying to find a place to sit in the righthand pews on the south side of the room, without disturbing anyone too much. Maybe one time in 10, it’s on the lefthand side. If that is unsuccessful, then I’m transported to the balcony, where the Sunday School rooms were. If that doesn’t work, then I’m trying to make my way through the labyrinth of halls in the basement (which don’t actually exist), usually to find the bathroom. Then I wake up.
You can believe what you want to, and that’s fine. So do I.
[Thank you, Google Street View, for the images.]
Pearly whites
November 3, 2009
Toothpaste. I couldn’t do without it. Yes, it freshens your breath. Yes, it contributes to mouth health. But the real reason I couldn’t do without it is because I had braces for four and a half years.
When I was about 10 years old, my then dentist (a former Army man with hands the size of frying pans) apparently recognized that I had a small jaw. He recommended that I have four of my permanent molars pulled to make room for future endeavors in my mouth. The deed was carried out by an oral surgeon whose office was in a single-storey, red-brick building on the south side of the boulevard. When they put the gas mask over my nose and mouth to knock me out, I made it to 93 counting backwards from 100.
This was in the day when surgeons still used cloth thread to tie wounds closed. I can’t tell you how much mileage I got grossing people out with four spots of thick, black thread in my mouth. It was even better if I had just eaten lunch.
When I was 13, I became Metal Mouth.
The orthodontist confidently said, “Oh, it’ll take one year, maybe a year and a half.” Although he was a tooth professional, he was apparently unable to recognize that mine were rooted in cement. We began the ordeal. And when I say “we,” I include my parents, usually my mom. See, it wasn’t just going to the orthodontist. It was driving the 20 miles to the next largest city where that single-storey, red-brick building on the south side of the boulevard was located. This was the same city where my dad worked, so frequently we’d make a day of it, all of us driving over in the morning—my mom and I doing my time at the orthodontist’s, then spending the long rest of the day at my dad’s store. He sold pianos and organs, and as I was years into piano lessons, if nothing else, I could practice. Sometimes I goofed off and shakily rode a skateboard around the smooth-floored basement of the store.
Then, when I was 15, we moved to a different state. The metal bands still securely encircled my teeth with no sign of coming off. We had to find a new orthodontist. Now, the next largest town was 35 miles away. My mom and I engaged in orthodontic carpooling with an unfortunate classmate who was enduring the same trial as I. This went on for a couple more years. Every six weeks, my gums would ache for a week as I adjusted to the pull of the new configuration of tiny rubberbands. I knew I’d have a perfect smile one day.
Finally, when I was 17 and during my senior year in high school, it ended. The braces came off, and so did the glasses. I did have a perfect smile, I had become the swan.
But one thing that didn’t go away was my by then well-developed compulsion to brush my teeth for little or no reason. Thirty years later, it is still an overpowering urge.
It is as almost a postscript to all of this that I have realized what was maybe the more important benefit of having had those four molars removed at age 10—I am the proud owner of all my wisdom teeth. They never needed to be pulled because there was room for them to coexist peacefully with my remaining teeth. And in fact, I have a supernumerary fifth wisdom tooth in my upper right jaw which I am kind of proud of. I figure that’s why I’m so smart.
Childhood obsession
November 1, 2009
I did eventually develop the obsession with real horses at about age 10. Not flesh-and-blood beasts so much, but my imaginary stable full of the finest thoroughbreds, quarter horses, and Arabians a girl could dream up. I made incredible crayon illustrations of each horse, and on the back of the pictures, I kept detailed charts of their pedigrees. I’m sure that notebook is in my parents basement somewhere.
As for the cars and trucks, I’ll have to ask my mom whatever happened to those. I have a vague recollection that those were given up many years ago. But it was fun to remember pure, childhood fun today.
Photo came from here.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 