Brooklyn Brotherhood

As a kid, I asked my dad if he had a best friend growing up. "Yes," he said, "we called him Champ." Champ and my dad, nicknamed Boom Boom, grew up on 41st Street in Brooklyn, dad born in August 1932 and Champ in January 1933. Together, they played stick ball in the schoolyard, obsessed over the Brooklyn Dodgers, were paper boys then soda jerks, and both equally awkward and shy around girls. In their early twenties, they closed down bars in the wee hours of the morning, but "were never rowdy or drunk, just always having fun with the gang." Where one would be, you'd find the other.

At age 29, my dad married my mother, and Champ was the best man in the wedding. Soon, they would each have their own families and jobs, and dad would move to NJ then to western Pennsylvania and Champ to the west coast. As many times happens, they lost touch. But Champ remained very dear to my dad, and around 2008, he asked me to find him on the internet. He thought of him a lot and wanted to see if he could connect with him again. I tried to find him, but his name was quite common and had no luck. Part of me was a bit relieved because I was concerned that, given he also would be in his mid-70s, there was a chance he was no longer with us.

Fast forward to May 2014.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table in the house I grew up in, going through my father's phone directory and planner. My father had passed away unexpectedly a few days before, and I wanted to make sure folks close to him knew of his passing and funeral arrangements. I was a good bit numb and in denial at the time, but found some solace in tending to these details, much like my father would have done in a similar situation. 

At the top of a phone list in his planner was a name I didn't recognize. But given it was at the top of the list, I called.

 "Hello sir, my name is Sarah Lawrie. I'm the daughter of Eugene Lawrie. He has you here in his phone book but I'm not sure how you know him. Are you from his days in New Jersey?"

"No way! I'm.Not.From.Jowsey!!" said the man, thick accent intact. "I'm from Brooklyn!!" 

At that moment, my memory of the search name came back and I could feel the surge of emotion in me.

"Did you have a nickname?"

"Yes, Sarah... they called me Champ."

Tears gushed down my cheeks. Aching to hear my dad's voice one more time, I felt I could hear him through the stories and humor Champ proceeded to share, in the same accent as my father no less. 

Around the same time my Dad and I looked for Champ, he asked one of his daughters if she could try to find my dad. (Both men refuse/d, in their lifetimes, to touch a computer.) She found one of my brothers, and they exchanged numbers for Champ and Boom Boom. Neither fella worked up the courage to call, both a bit shy and embarrassed they had been out of touch for so long.

"Champ, you feel like the uncle I never met. When I visit California, can I come and visit you?" 

"You sure can...if I'm still around. I'm an old man, ya know."



Meet Champ.
And judging by his reaction to how Notre Dame was playing yesterday, he has a lot of Fighting Irish left in him, as well as many fun and heart-warming stories of the 30 years growing up in Brooklyn as my father's partner in crime. He lives in Vacaville, CA with wife, Rita, and together they're a comedy duo I would pay money to see.

Oh Good Grief

When I set out on my road trip, I had a decent sized list of intentions. I intended to spend time with dear friends across the miles, explore the country's vast landscapes and cultures, write more, meet family I haven't met before, explore options for re-locating, and to allow myself some space to grieve the loss of my father.

This last intention was a bit elusive. I didn't really know how to "accomplish grieving.” I don't know that you can say "Today it is. Today I will grieve." Though I tried this. I'm task-oriented, and I wanted to put the task on the list, bullet the executive actions to accomplish the task, then check it off.  Grieved Loss of Dad - CHECK. 

For those of you reading that, like me, enjoy having control of the reins most of the time, grief is an incredible teacher. And also perhaps, the teacher whose house you might egg and toilet paper in the dark of the night because, well, Fuck Off, you challenging, instigating teacher of my least favorite topic.

Maaaine. Good ol' Maine delivered a WWF move into a grief lock-and-hold that would make Hulk Hogan tinkle in his star-spangled leotard. And given it’d be quite cumbersome to egg and TP an entire state (especially one with 3,500 miles alone of coastline), I had little choice but to surrender.

Maine feels like a kindred friend. In many ways, it reminds me of Newfoundland, my father's land of heritage. Have you ever had a sensation like this with a place? It felt so good. And it felt emotional.  Sometimes for me, any cobwebs or shadows in me thrust forward in the presence of a kindred friend. I have a friend with whom I often cry within moments of our get together. What relief it is in being with someone who really sees me and loves me all the same. And also, what a party-starter for all those secrets and insecurities hiding in the internal crevices, craving time in the light! I felt this with Maine. As I flew from Washington state to Maine, the turbulence seemed to jostle my grief from its hiding place, it slowly but surely making its way to the surface as I touched down in Portland. And in event my controlling self tried to quell what surfaced, I met a few Mainers that helped keep me on track in touching more deeply into the well.

I generally operate under the spiritual principles of "everything in its time" and "what happens is meant to be." I feel Maine's landscape and zeitgeist, and some special people I met while visiting were instrumental in really getting in touch with losing my dad, and with some deep-seated grief I was carrying for quite some time. And the one-two punch of it all was exactly what this control freak  needed to really surrender into it.

Grief has been an incredible teacher, and the diploma is a ticket to living more expansively and fearlessly.

Road Stats

I'm cozied into my friends Daphne and Emily's guest bedroom here in the Mt.Baker neighborhood of Seattle.  Emily is in the kitchen, brewing up tinctures made with herbs and flowers from the community garden.  The sun is high in the southeastern sky. While it routinely ignores Seattle much of the fall, winter and spring, this sun ain't got nothin' but full devotion to this city at present.

It is full-tilt lush here with edible gardens in many nooks of Mt. Baker.  Construction workers are digging a trench next door.  Their conversations include flavored sparkling water, using essential oils for congestion, and how the other slept last night.
Awww, Seattle, a Patchouli-Lovers Paradise.

Lest you think I found my utopia, I'd like to draw your attention to a story about a package. Said package was robbed off someone's front porch, and the thief threw the packaging away in the bus stop garbage bin before making off with the goods. A couple days later, the people who were robbed received a note from a neighbor. This neighbor wanted to let them know she found the packaging in the bus stop bin and  1) it's recyclable and  2) should not be placed in the community garbage bin but rather their personal garbage.
Awww, Seattle, Home of the Hall Monitors. No thanks.


It has been five weeks since I left our nation's capital. Here are some stats from the trip thus far:

Miles on my chariot to date this trip:  3,800 miles
Number of corn silos turned into gas stations:   1

Number of times I've spun "All About the Bass" at full volume:  40

Number of times pulled over:  1.
I was just over the border of Kansas, near Missouri. It was 11pm. When I told the cop what I was up to,  he gave me tips on sightseeing in Wyoming and Oregon, and told me to add Alaska to my plans. Then he let me go without a ticket or written warning. My bra was hanging from the rear-view mirror when he pulled me over. I thought maybe that was banned in Kansas. As it turns out, I was going 54 mph in a 35 mph zone, and that was why he pulled me over.
Conclusion:  everyone, it is okay to hang your bra from your rear-view in Kansas.  So, go on and let it hang!

Number of hitchhikers I begrudgingly passed:    9.  
One had a banjo.

Stupidest decision I've made to date:  I drove 23 hours in a row.
I mean, I still don't think it was a horrible decision.
My mom had a different take-away on this one.
It was pretty cool to drive through Kansas under an almost-full and supermoon sky. And I was excited to get to Colorado. I was on a northern route, less traveled by the routine road crew. I passed seven cars through the entire state…and one fox-like animal... and three towns… and one, maybe two, trees. And  I never felt tired. Was it the pack of cigarettes I purchased at the border with  large-ass Snickers bar chaser? Mika's "Happy Ending" on mind-numbing repeat?  I did,, however, start to hallucinate. When the road became blood-streaked and it started snowing at 55F, I knew it was time for a nap. Thanks to Children of the Corn, I had to wait awhile to pull over until I was clearly in a town, and given I passed only three towns in 7 hours, the rest stop took a minute to reach. I was ready to skip over the KS-CO state line after my nap-coma, which was 45 minutes long, tucked snugly between my massage table and collapsible bike.

Take-Aways thus far:

• This country is vast and incredibly diverse in every sense.  I knew this, but to see/smell/feel it is a whole different ball of goodness and awe.
• I didn't really need to go anywhere to grieve or write.  I'm happy I did.  But I didn't need to. 
• The 80% of shit I packed that I didn't think I'd use is so not being used.  I wear the same obnoxiously-happy pants I got at a Brisbane flea market in 1997 almost every day.  
• My mother was right about everything.  This reality is going to take a few more decades to digest. 
• I like having a schedule and a job a bit more than I realized.  A lot more actually.
• This trip has been less about meeting new folks and more about re-connecting with dear, old friends.  I have the honor of being friends with some really fantastic, loving, fun people along these here highways.  I'm looking at you all of 15853, Katie, Brooke, Whitney, Jaime, Sandra, Concetta, Karl, Colleen, Lindsey, Scott, Myrna, Ken, Tashia, John, Jefferson, Daphne, Emily, Grace, Meg and Merrisa.  And Cowboy Jim. 

Next stop is today, and it is MAINE!  I will fly from Seattle to Maine to explore, well, many things.  Stay tuned! 

Li'l Stella the Great

Meanderer Spotlight:
Stella B.
Missoula, Montana


Stella and her brothers were quite the hospitality crew. They all stood in the cul-de-sac, waving me in as I arrived from DuBois, WY.  The smile you see above is the smile I got in the driveway, and the smile I got for roughly 93% of my visit with this awesome family.

I knew Stella was good people from the go. Here's a couple examples:

Stella is a straight shooter.  She lets you know what's what and doesn't waste time or mince words.  

I set down my bags and joined the family - Scott, Lindsey, Wesley, Lucas, Max and Stella - in the kitchen.  The kids were playing the video for "What Does the Fox Say" at a spirited volume as Scott, Lindsey and I started catch-up chat over dinner prep.

Stella: Sawah!
Me: <smiles at Stella and looks back at parents, in midst of conversation>
Stella:  Sawaaaaah!!
Stella:  Saaaaaaawaaaahh!!
Me:  Yes, Stella, yes.  I'm listening…

Stella:  Uhmmm,  I have a 'gina.
Stella: <looking around the room>  Wesley has a penis.  <bite of her Rice Krispie treat.> Lucas has a penis. Max has a penis. Dad has a penis.  And mom has a 'gina.

Then Stella looked at the dog sitting on the porch just off the kitchen, looked up at me, then dog, then me, and decided to toss her in to round out introductions:  "Char Char has a 'gina too."

And with this, she lets out a sigh of relief having got all of that off her chest, and jaunts over to her brothers at the computer, Rice Krispie treat in tow.

Stella gently holds your face when she is telling you something.

Who does this?!? Stella will hold your face and look you in the eyes, non-verbally getting you completely on board with whatever tidbit or request she is about to lay on ya. It's quite the savvy strategy for the youngest of four.

I would like to create a federal law that mandates us all to do this when talking to one another.  In my book, it is pretty much the sweetest thing going.

Stella sets loving boundaries. 

After an hour or so of visiting, I just wanted to give her a squeeze.  I mean, I wanted to squeeze her upon first glance, but I felt after the hour mark a reasonable amount of time had passed. I decided to give it a go. She had said "yes" to a number of questions her brothers were asking ("Stella, are there aliens on Earth?" "Stella, can you fly?") so I felt probability was weighted in my favor.

Me: Stella, may I give you a hug?
She smiles at me…this is looking good….
Stella:  "NO!" <then a close-out smile>
The gail-force wind from her "no" rustled my bangs. It was evident to me that Lindsey and Scott had already sent her to self-defense class.  I appreciated her boundary setting…until the next day and tried again.  Win!! See above.

Stella has her own style.  It's also practical as it frees up her hands. Further, Stella beats to her own drum on Freedom to Bare Arms (and Toosh).

We hiked into a forest to a waterfall and natural swimming pool.  After snack, Stella stripped down to her birthday suit in front of everyone, then grabbed her bathing suit and took it behind a tree because she "wanted some privacy when she was getting dressed." 

To sum up:  

Nudity in public.

Robed in private. 

She is a serious hiker, seen here with her own Camelbak. 

Stella's fun-loving older brothers- Wesley, Lucas and Max (from left) 

Title of picture: "Born on a Wednesday:  Lookin' Both Ways for the Weekend"

I look forward to hanging out with Stella in years to come! I'm certain I will 1) gain new perspective from her 2) have a lot of fun and laugh a bunch and  3) lose my hearing.  

Love,

The Stella Fan Club

Which Coastest Has the Mostest?

Haylo and welcome to my travel blog!

Fasten your seatbelt. Or not. The ride is going pretty slow with a lot of pull-overs and U-turns to take it all in.

I was living in Washington DC -- mecca to the valedictorians and hall monitors from around the globe. I had a business in integrative bodywork that was going swimmingly. What better time to jump into the great void, close up shop and take to the scenic backroads and growling highways of North America?

Now.
I determined through intricate algorithms that the best time was Now.

My father passed away unexpectedly a few months ago.  I wasn't quite sure how to access even the most superficial layer of grief I was feeling. But something told me the open road with some time in grand, expansive badlands, wheat fields and crater lakes would provide some perspective, and a tree stomp or two would be available along the way to sit and reflect, to cry and to yell my hurt into the winds.

Further, I have never done a cross country trip.  What self-proclaimed nomadic hippie reaches the age of 38 without zig-zagging the country?!

So, now I go.
The 1998 Honda CRV is packed with shit I so likely won't use.


Ride shotgun with me awhile.  Or take a nap in the back.
Just know I'm in control of the radio.