I went to the Library of Congress today to visit my book.

I boarded the Metrorail at Vienna in the dark and arrived at Union Station just after sunrise. Oddly, as I was passing through the main hall after disembarking, I noticed it was eerily empty; far from the compacted crowds I was expecting to find on this Friday morning in the nation’s capital. The relative emptiness followed me out onto Delaware Avenue, which led me past the U. S. Capitol building and to the steps of the Library of Congress. The last time I was in D.C., it was a claustrophobic, shoulder-to-shoulder scuttle through the streets. Today though, it was a comfortable delight.

After passing through library security, I went straight to the restroom. When done I must have looked confused. A man with no arms came up to me in the hallway and wanted to know if I was interested in a tour. I was planning on joining the 10:30 tour later, but he said with a wink that there was an opening in a special Reserved Congressional Tour just about to start. Not ever wanting to miss out on special treatment, I gratefully accepted the offer from the winking man with no arms. Our small group spent the next hour following Pat the tour guide as she provided a continual stream of fascinating details about this incredible building, it’s contents, and it’s history.



In 1800, the members of Congress began accumulating a reference library – books to help them better understand their constituents. In 1812, the British, still holding a grudge over that independence declaration issue, stormed Washington torching the White House and U.S. Capitol. And hence, the reference library went up in flames. Three years later, retired president Thomas Jefferson sold his immense personal collection of over 6,500 books to the U.S. government, and the Library of Congress was re-born.

In 1851, flames again brought trouble to Congress’ collection. An accidental fire on Christmas Eve destroyed approximately two-thirds of the Jefferson collection. It was a devastating loss. One hundred and fifty years later though, a football team came to the rescue. Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys, began financing an effort to restore the original Jefferson collection. A worldwide search remains underway to obtain copies of the books that were destroyed in the fire of 1851.

Today, the Library of Congress has grown into the world’s largest, containing over 142 million items covering every imaginable topic, including even the history of my father and his ancestry. In effect, the Library of Congress represents an accumulation of all knowledge garnered by mankind, cataloged and secured under the auspices of the United States government. It’s like a hard copy of the internet. Quite an extraordinary and ongoing accomplishment.

Some other fascinating facts about the Library of Congress:

I contains 650 miles of bookshelves.

The smallest book is a mere 1/25th of an inch square.

The library contains an original Gutenberg bible, printed by what is universally recognized as the most important invention of all time.

The building contains thousands of intricate and beautiful statues, paintings, and ornamentations full of thoughtful symbolizations.

And here’s one more fact, albeit a selfish one: if you search for “Koppenhaver” in the Library of Congress’ data base - all 142 million items - the first result returned is the book I came to visit today.

Tempting fate on Friday the 13th, I chose to start my day by mixing water and electricity.

For three hours this morning I hiked underneath a 220 kilo-volt power line in the rain. Power lines follow the basic principle of shortest distance. Regardless of whether a mountain is in the way, the path remains straight. Which means when crossing a mountain, there are no switchbacks to ease a hiker’s pain. It’s a thigh burning, Achilles stretching, heart pounding endeavor straight up from points A to B.

Point A was located where the power line crossed Forest Service road 375 in Page county at the base of Massanutten Mountain. Point B was up and over the 2,460 foot crest and into Rockingham county. By the time I had gone from A to B and back, I was soaked, aching, and covered in mud; but quite pleased with my accomplishment. It was a unique hiking experience, both in terms of its intense steepness and its deliberate immersion into wetness. I’m glad I had the guts to pull it off, wacky as it was.



As I was prepping for this hike and researching the dangers of power lines, I discovered contradictory results. To get to the bottom of the debate, I went to the source of all wisdom - my dad. A retired electrical engineer, he was quick to confirm that they pose very little, if any, threat to nearby inhabitants. Or to anyone nuts enough to use them as hiking trails like me.

On the way home, I turned my car around, going back to something I didn’t want to miss. This would be the first of two times I turned my car around today.

At the corner of Route 340 and Newport Road sits Kite’s General Merchandise Store. I initially drove past it, but then turned around knowing a unique experience surely waited inside. As I was about to pay for my soda, one of the two older women behind the counter asked if she could make me a sandwich. I wasn’t planning on eating lunch at Kites, but I said she was good at sales, then ordered chicken salad. While waiting, Mrs. Kite and I discussed the wet weather, chocolate milkshakes, and the good health care options that exist in my home town of Winchester. Then I asked both of them what was Newport’s claim to fame. “Chicken Salad” said the lady making my sandwich. All three of us broke out into laughter, which seemed a little louder than any of us were expecting.

Kite’s Store definitely was worth turning around for.

North of Mt. Jackson along Valley Pike, I turned around again. My eye had caught two things at one passing glance: an abandoned train and a huge field of beige corn stalks. I circled back and then for an hour trespassed among corn, climbed aboard the rail cars, and fired my camera incessantly. For the second time today I was glad I turned around. Second chances were good to me today.

Later in the evening, the day wound down for my wife and I with a hearty dinner – well earned - at a popular restaurant without having to wait for a table. Afterward, in the comfort of my quiet house, a Grimbergen Belgian White Ale finished off a pretty damn lucky Friday the 13th.

The choice tonight was to gamble or go to prison. Cell blocks seemed more interesting, so my choice was easy. And not just any cell blocks. Cell blocks that have housed some rather notorious criminals, including Charles Manson's mother. Known as the Alcatraz of the East, the West Virginia State Penitentiary was so horrendous in its day it once was deemed cruel and unusual punishment.

Our tour guide said she only had one dim flashlight for our group of sixteen on this dark and rainy night. At first, I thought this was just part of the show, but it turned out she wasn't kidding. She added that this tour focused on hauntings, not history. "We'll be looking for ghosts", she said, but some of us chuckled, knowing ghosts don't exist.

One dim flashlight doesn't provide much light. Not only was our way dim, it was cold, wet, and musty - exactly what you'd expect an abandoned prison where over 100 prisoners were executed to feel like. Creaky noises echoing through the darkness brought a touch of credence to our guide's ghost spotting optimism.

At one point, deep in the bowels of this massive Gothic structure, a bat flew out when a door was opened causing a burst of yelps and frantic scurrying. On a tour in search of the paranormal, you couldn't have scripted that moment any better.

While among the group, I felt at ease on this creepy tour, even after our guide acted like the gate to the cell I was in malfunctioned and would not re-open. However, after the tour ended and we were free to roam the prison at our own risk, I stepped alone into an empty, dark, and eerily quiet hallway. Just me, by myself in a hallway where shank carrying murderers used to congregate. Within seconds, I nearly shit myself, surprised at how quickly I got spooked. I hurried back to the safety of my fellow humans, affirming the adage of safety in numbers.

In the brightly lit lobby where we gathered just before leaving, I purchased a tin cup souvenir. Our tour guide was also our sales clerk but bad at math. She asked me what seven times six was, unable to figure out the sales tax. My answer was irrelevant; I told her to just keep the change as a tip for leading us through the dark.

Creepy as it was, the West Virginia State Penitentiary was quite entertaining, and clearly the better choice for the evening.

Just outside the visiting team's locker room, the coaches are gathered while the protracted dedication ceremonies are ongoing at the newly renovated James R. Wilkins, Jr. Stadium in Winchester, Virginia. I say to one of the coaches as I pass by, "Tough day to come visit us". He smirks and says, "That's the truth". His Kettle Run Cougar high school football team finished their warm-ups long ago and have been waiting impatiently for the festivities to end. When they finally do, our home team wastes no time trouncing the visitors.

Perhaps the home team was energized by the task of showing off what has to be the most impressive high school sports stadium in the region, if not the entire state of Virginia.

Though the expense of the stadium renovations have been an issue of contention with some taxpayers, especially during an economic downturn, there's no debate about the quality of the final results. The refurbished stadium is awe-inspiring.

For the first three quarters of the game, I watch from the home stands, absorbing the enthusiasm and energy on a day ideally suited for football. For the fourth quarter though, I can't resist the temptation of watching from the high vantage point at the top of the steps near the front of the school. Looking out over the field and the city on such a perfect day is a one-of-a-kind viewing experience.

Communities frequently are defined by what makes them unique. Often the characteristic that makes a community special starts controversially, but develops into a source of pride. Paris has Eiffel's tower. San Francisco has a Golden Gate. Roanoke has a star. And now Winchester has a spectacularly refurbished football stadium. Quite a pride-worthy accomplishment.

In one of my dumbest driving moves ever, I'm balancing a notepad on my lap as I drive at twilight down Seminole Trail south of Warrenton. I'm scribbling messages about some of the 200 people I'll be hosting at Wintergreen Resort over the next few days. Every now and then I look up from my notes to see if I'm still on the road.

Among other things, I'm trying to remember which of the 200 people have had terrible things happen, like losing a spouse or parent, or perhaps they're in a battle with cancer. I sometimes don't know if people are dead or alive. My memory just plain sucks. There are few feelings worse than asking how someone's father is doing, only to be reminded that he's dead. Which has happened to me before.

Near Culpeper, I seem to have entered Tijuana. Not a single AM station transmits English. I'm desperate to find out who's winning the Tigers-Twins one game playoff, however, the only clear stations are broadcasting an unclear language.

At a red light in Ruckersville, I'm baffled. I set aside my notepad. Two guys are chasing a mangy fox across the road and into a convenience store parking lot. After a bit, they both abruptly stop, grab their knees, and start gasping for air. Apparently, the sly fox has eluded both capture and a flattening by the traffic. Why these dudes are chasing a fox across a highway is a mystery.

Approaching Charlottesville I pass a billboard advertising Mammograms - 4 miles ahead on the right. An apparent attempt at attracting those highway travelers, who on a whim, feel the urge to pull in for a quick breast exam.

West of Charlottesville, I switch to FM. The first station at the left end of the dial is neither NPR, Classical, nor Christian. It's one of those edgy rock, college student stations. A UVA by-product for sure. A strange, yet catchy, chorus fills my car: Blood in my mouth. Blood in my mouth. Don't kiss me when there's, Blood in my mouth. It's a chorus I can't shake. Six hours later laying in bed, blood in my mouth is still in my head.

Near Nellysford, a truck flashes me. Trouble ahead. As I crest the hill I spot a woman in the road dragging a dead deer by its antler-less head onto the shoulder. For a second I think about stopping to help, but my brain can't figure out why. She and her car are undamaged. I drive on, then grab my notepad and start scribbling about deer-dragging women.

For dinner, I stop at the last possible option before heading up the mountain. Inside Chirios a friendly guy about my age is pushing out pizza dough but no one else is in the restaurant. Who's the pizza for? When he's done, I ask for a sandwich that's not on the menu. He cheerfully obliges. As he snaps the Styrofoam container closed on my meal, he says "Let's just make it five bucks". I then show him the drink I also want but he just shrugs and rings me up. Same price. Five bucks. No tax. A hell of a bargain. It's one of the year's best sandwiches too.

The last few miles become enveloped in mountaintop fog. It's a dark twisty road and the high beams, which I use to spot deer, only make the fog worse. Pick your poison: deer or fog. I make it to the lodge without crashing through a guardrail or having to drag a dead deer by its head onto the shoulder.

It's a three hour ride that I've made several times over the years. Never though, as compelling or risky as today.

A few months ago, when I bought tickets to the Watermelon Park Festival, I had envisioned spending a full day along the banks of the Shenandoah accompanied by a serenade of blue grass music and the entertainment that comes with gathered crowds of happy and inebriated people. But visions have a propensity for being full of too much optimism. The reality was that this fall Saturday at Watermelon Park served only as a preview, whetting my appetite for a return again next year.

Why it was only a preview can be summed up in two words: responsibility & rain. An unanticipated family commitment and a deluge of rain limited my visit to two hours. But thankfully they were a well timed two hours. In that short time we watched the final few competitors in the mandolin picking contest as well as a wave of bands competing for a spot on the main stage in next year’s festival. It was a compelling two hours containing a wide variety of blue grass performances that included a bit of yodeling; lyrics about lost love, whiskey, and Kentucky; and even a rendition of a Bob Dylan classic.

Sitting on my campstool under a huge elm tree a few rows back from the stage, I took note of a particular guy walking through the crowd carrying his guitar case. At this festival, nearly everyone was carrying an instrument, but this guy stood out. He exuded blue grass: the hat, the hairy chin, the denim, the dangling cigarette, the content smile, and even a pair of spurs on his boots. He looked the part - and later played the part - taking the stage just before I had to leave. A member of one of the last and better bands to compete. He’ll be the vision I take away from this brief visit to Watermelon Park.

On the way home, I noticed a hint of campfire smoke had permeated my jeans. How appropriate (and welcomed). It was just another added spice to my whetted appetite for next year’s festival, of which I no doubt will be attending.

Within my first few steps onto Peachtree Street I encounter a homeless guy. He asks if I can spare some money. He's down to his last quarter and needs to eat. I hand him 4 quarters and tell him he now has 5. He's thankful, though a little taken aback by my math.

A fellow vagabond across the street notes my generosity and approaches hopefully, like a seagull when a child at the beach starts tossing bread in the air. "Where you headin'?" he asks. "The Hyatt", I tell him, then think I should have kept my mouth shut. He says he'll show me the way. I think he's more likely to stab me, but what the hell. I'm not exactly sure how to get to where I'm going.

I strike up a conversation about football to lighten the mood. Georgia or Georgia Tech, I ask. He says Tech stinks. I say UVA stinks too.

When we get close to the Hyatt, I reach for my wallet and think maybe I'm about to die. Homeless guy backs away knowing that if he stands too close to a white man on the sidewalk with a wallet in hand it could be trouble. I respect this respect. I hand him only a single buck. It was either that or a five dollar bill. His help wasn't worth five bucks, I surmise. He then looks kinda pissed at my cheap tip.

Fuck 'em. I didn't exactly ask for his help.

Welcome to Atlanta. I'm in town for a national convention. Did the rest of the my fellow attendees have the same dilemma as I upon debarking from the MARTA train? Who knows and who cares? It's been a long day and I've made it safely to my temporary home in Georgia.

Time to talk insurance issues for the next three days.

7:35 a.m., Route 7 East, Clarke County, Virginia, 56 miles per hour...

I'm hesitant to change lanes as aggressively as I normally do. I'm driving a car I'm not completely familiar with. The blind spots and feel for the length of the car are far from instinctual at this point. I’ve only owned this vehicle a few hours, so I'm cautious this morning amid the commuter congestion.

The Volvo V40 that I’m driving was the linchpin in a three way deal transacted last night, all in an effort to get a car in the hands of my nephew. Ben’s a college freshman living at home, forced to share a car with his mom. Not exactly the freedom he was hoping for upon graduating high school.

The biggest players in the deal were my parents. Wanting to help out their grandson, they thought about donating their Volvo to him but were hesitant due to the higher maintenance costs that come with a Swedish import. But I had the brilliant idea (if not slightly selfish) of donating my Toyota Camry to Ben in exchange for a donated Volvo from my parents, to which they agreed.

The two cars hold similar retail value, however, my Camry has a few squeaks and dings, needs new back tires and the radiator flushed. The Volvo has many more miles on it and has a few dings of its own, but it also has those really cool headlight wipers and that trademark front grill. It's a car much more suited for a 44 year old man who's hair color is beginning to match the metallic gray of the Swedish import.

In the end, my parents gave up a car, and Ben received one. I was in the middle, just swapping rides.

Because of the generosity of my parents, Ben’s now been liberated. Free to roam and learn life's lessons like all college freshmen. I too have been liberated, but only from a few squeaks and a slight image problem. More importantly though, myself and my parents have been able to help out a family member in need, which is way cooler than headlight wipers.

I say, "Long way to go for lunch", meaning we woke at 5:00 a.m., drove 3 hours, then sat on a ferry for 2 more before walking a few blocks to eat lunch in a mobile home.

Allison says, "Yeah, but it was a journey", meaning we left the top of the Shenandoah Valley before sunrise and drove to the end of a Peninsula on the Northern Neck of Virginia before sailing to Tangier Island in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay for one of the most unique dining experiences you'll find: Lorraine's Sandwich Shop - where crab cakes rule, onion rings are better than french fries, and milkshakes come with a spoon.



Later I say, "I was a little surprised by how run down a few of the buildings were", meaning I was expecting Tangier Island to be more dressed up for the daily influx of tourist and their disposable cash.

But Allison says, "I liked it a bit run down. It's as if the town says you can come visit us, but we're not changing to cater to tourists."

And she's right. It does in deed carry a touch of haggardness that comes from regular batterings by mother nature. Heavy winds and tides have taken down a porch or two, peeled away a few shingles and siding, and clustered debris in ditches. Other than a few gift shops, Tangier Island isn't the typical tourist destination. Its maintained the authenticity that comes from being isolated and accessible only by water or aircraft.

If you're embarking on an adventure to Tangier Island, don't go expecting to find a glitzy shopping district or drinks with umbrellas. A crab cake and a coke on a picnic table overlooking the dock is more likely what you'll find. That's the true flavor of Tangier Island, and exactly what it should be.

This potent one-day trip for my wife and I was indisputably a cool adventure and satisfied a big curiosity about one of the more unique locations in the Commonwealth.

First Mile - 7:38 a.m. The normal buzz of Friday morning is all around me at the corner of Valley Avenue and Jubal Early Drive: school buses, people on cell phones, white utility vans and commuters heading east to their jobs. I'm heading east too, though not to earn money. In fact, I've got sixty bucks in my wallet, most of which I plan to waste on entertainment today.

Thirteenth Mile - The car in front of me is going a tad slow and the urge to zip past kicks in. Then I remember I'm on vacation, so I let up on the accelerator. No hurries at all today for me.

Fifteenth Mile - I step inside the Blue Skillet near Paris (Virginia). Other than two guys at the counter ordering breakfast-to-go, I'm the only customer. Rachel, the eighteen year old waitress with cell phone snugged into her tight jeans, delivers my short stack and coffee. With no other customers around, the cook has come out front and is pecking at her laptop. When I'm done, the formality of waiting for Rachel to bring my check is uncomfortable, so I saunter up to the counter and pull out my wallet. As I pass the cook I tell her the short stack was more than I could handle. She laughs and tells me that's what everyone says.

Fifty First Mile - The maneuvers and gyrations of Captain John Stratton's F-15 through the canyons of Nevada are making me dizzy, yet I keep watching. The scenery is just too spectacular to look away. Especially so when viewed in IMAX high definition on a screen that's two stories high. Like my breakfast at the Blue Skillet, I'm in the theater at the Udvar Hazy Air & Space Museum almost completely alone. The film, Fighter Pilot, is simply awesome, as is the rest of my time spent at the museum. Between the colorful aircraft, the architecture of the hangar, John Safer's Ascent sculpture, and the views from the observation tower of Dulles airport, the visual treats were seemingly unending during my visit.



Eighty Third Mile - The french fries are a little disappointing - they could use some more salt. Disappointing also is the decision I made after leaving the Air & Space museum. Instead of going where I should have, curiosity took me to the Old Dominion Speedway in Manassas. I thought it might be entertaining to watch race cars run practice laps, which is the normal Friday afternoon scheduled event for the speedway. But only one car was running, and it went around the oval just three times during the half hour I was there.

One Hundred Twenty Third Mile - Some shaggy haired guy is being handcuffed at the intersection of Routes 50 and 81 as I arrive back in my home town. I'm guessing he isn't having as good of a day as I am. Spending a Friday wandering free sure beats getting cuffed and stuffed into the back of a cruiser.

One Hundred Twenty Seventh Mile - 3:12 p.m. Time to download the 137 pictures I snapped today.

A six-point buck and I are in a stare down. We’re twelve yards apart and I’m wondering why he hasn’t darted away like most deer do when they encounter humans. After half a minute, I give in and the buck wins the stare down. I head down the trail, while the buck keeps an eye on me.

I don’t ever recall losing a staring contest in the wild. Typically, animals bound off just seconds after eye contact. But perhaps this deer did not feel threatened by my presence. Or any other humans’ presence. On preserved land, where no hunting is allowed, deer are comfortable enough with humans to win stare downs.

The invitation to wander about these 900 acres of preserved land just south of Harpers Ferry came courtesy of The Leggett Foundation. In the late 90’s Bob Leggett bought this property and established the Blue Ridge Center for Environmental Stewardship. Today the property is open to the public as a place to hike, enjoy nature, and participate in environmental learning programs. It also provides acreage for the operation of Mountain View Farm, which produces all-natural, sustainably grown produce, eggs and poultry.



My encounter with the six-point came just a few minutes into what would be a three hour tour of this land on the eastern slope of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Laid out over this property is a labyrinth of trails - over nine miles in total. Nearly every 500 feet of trail distance leads to an intersection at which a decision was necessary. Should I turn left to explore Piney Run island or stay straight to view the historic cabin ruins? But with no other plans for this day, I had the freedom not to have to make a choice. I went in both directions. And so, I was able to experience much of what the trails over this land led to, all in complete solitude.

I suppose that’s exactly the experience that Bob Leggett envisioned as he contemplated the purchase of this property. Give people that spend most of their time indoors a chance to experience and develop appreciation for an exceptionally pure, beautiful, and natural environment.

Thanks Bob.

Golf etiquette be damned. I've come alone and spontaneously to my local par-3 course wearing torn sneakers and an un-collared shirt, toting a cheap vinyl bag of mis-matched clubs. I'm here to shake off some rust and don't really care about etiquette.

I generally dislike the cliche of golf: scheduling a tee time with three buddies and playing all afternoon while gawking over the latest toy in each other's bags. That kind of b.s. is not for me. I'm the type that likes to just whack at the ball, preferably alone or with someone who isn't concerned with bag quality or footwear.

For years, I gave up golf - too wrapped up in raising a family, hesitant to spend the time and money a typical round required. But lately, I've been allowing a touch of golf back into my life. The family is basically raised now, so finding time and money comes a little easier.

Golf is like riding a bike. You don't forget how, but you can be a little wobbly when you get back to it. Today's round was an attempt to work through the wobblies since I haven't played in nearly a year (not counting a few buckets of driving range balls).

Being alone and on just a nine hole course, my round went pretty quickly. I played my iron game well but the putting greens gave me fits. Surprisingly I didn't lose a single ball - started and ended with the same Calloway. Can't remember the last time that happened (if ever).

I'm not sure if this short, spontaneous outing was enough to get rid of all the wobblies; regardless, it felt very good to be out in the summer heat sweating and hacking. Come Thursday, when I'm scheduled to play a round with a co-worker who will be wearing sneakers just like me, I guess I'll find out.

Uncle Woody, whose name is on eight patents, is one of those guys you’re glad to have in your gene pool. Tall, lean, composed, & sharp minded. He doesn’t even wear glasses. A former chemist who's living the good life after retiring in the year I graduated high school – 27 years ago.

He’s got guts too. As a world traveler, he freelances it. No tour groups for Woody. He just rents a car and follows his whims. In October, at the age of 83, he’s off to Argentina to see what he can see, expecting to get lost, which according to him, just adds to the adventure. Godspeed to Woody.

I’ve come to Valley View, Pennsylvania not only to see Woody, but for a last hurrah of sorts. My parents are selling their second home on Broad Street making this the final visit to the home they’ve owned for years.



After chatting with Woody, next was a trip to the beautiful Mahantongo Valley to hand pick some sweet corn. My cousin lives there and invited us to help ourselves. Harvesting produce by hand. What’s more elemental than that?

Back over the mountain again and supper time was getting near. But first, a quick tour of the Friday Night Farmer’s Market in Gratz where we picked up some central Pennsylvania classics: hand made hard pretzels, wet bottom shoofly pie, and teaberry ice cream.

Supper was at Vickie’s in Elizabethville (known locally as E-ville). Old fashioned home cooking. Vickie’s niece took our order, and shot to the top of my list of all time favorite waitresses. Socializing Vickie was working the room. When she got to our table, I had to show her my I.D. to prove who I was. Her husband and her son both have the same name as I. Only in Pennsylvania Dutch country would there be such a high concentration of Tim Koppenhavers.

After supper, the surprises continued. Though this time, I was giving the surprise, not receiving...

My brother and I strolled alone into the 901 Club in Buck Run. Before we even made it to the stools, the bartender came dashing over to give each of us a huge hug. It was our cousin Renee. She had no idea we were in town. The rest of our group followed and more hugs ensued. Then, courtesy of my Uncle Charlie, a round of Yuenglings for all. Funny seeing my 77 year old mom throwing back a cold one in a smokey bar, while a few stools down a loud guy was dropping f-bombs every sentence.

After our round of beer, it was back to Charlie’s for a round of cards. No trip to Pennsylvania has ever been complete without breaking out a deck of cards. Before we deal ‘em up though, we ask Charlie to see the hope chests he’s making for each of his grandchildren. It’s a stunning display of spectacular craftsmanship. His skill and patience are incredible gifts. Charlie’s another one you’re glad to have in the gene pool.

In the morning, after our last night sleeping in the house on Broad Street, it was time to say goodbye. Though we'll all be back to this valley someday, the comfort of this house, the wonderful backyard views, and the easy access it afforded to so many great relatives will definitely be missed.

Thanks Mom & Dad for buying the place so long ago. I'm sure it was worth every penny you ever spent on it.

From the stage, Bob Ladd jokingly notes the demographic of the crowd gathered on his property: "Everyone here's either a redneck or a biker, so why aren't you cheering any louder!?" Apparently, he didn't see me standing a little further back from the stage. I'm wearing a polo shirt and flip flops. I'm clean-shaven, tattooless, and my neck is pasty white. I'm neither biker nor redneck.

We've come to see seven bands battle it out in the parking lot of Bob's Shenandoah Harley-Davidson in Staunton. Bragging rights and a thousand dollars are at stake for the winner. I haven't had this much hard rock assault my eardrums since the early 80's when the Dixie Dregs opened for the Doobie Brothers at Meriwether Post Pavilion.

My daughter's boyfriend is the guitarist for Manic, the first band to play. In tribute to Michael Jackson, all seven bands have been challenged to perform at least one MJ song. An interesting intersection: hard rock meets the King of Pop. Manic though belts out an impressive rendition of Black and White. That, and the rest of their set establish a high standard for the other six.

Throughout the afternoon - as short breaks from the sun and sound system - we seek refuge in the air conditioned comfort and relative quiet of Bob's showroom. Each time we go in, I walk straight to the gleaming black 2009 Sportster 883 in the third row of bikes. I can't believe this fine motorcycle has such a reasonable price tag. Perhaps my dream of bike ownership is not as far fetched as I once thought.

The afternoon has been pure Americana. And pure freedom. Freedom to browse Hog heaven. Freedom to drink Bud, smoke Marlboros or pinch Copenhagen, and wear offensive tee shirts. Freedom to sing (or for some bands scream) uncensored lyrics. And if you were a contestant in the Ms. Shenandoah Harley Davidson contest, freedom to wear bikinis that were slight enough to fit into the back pocket of your jeans.

Though not a redneck nor a biker, I didn't feel unwelcomed this afternoon in Staunton. It was simply a great celebration of live rock music open to the public on a spectacular summer day, and a great way to relish in good old American freedom.

I ask, “So what exactly is a hog finishing building used for?” The guide explains it’s a holding pen to fatten up hogs before taking them to the slaughter house. I had conjured up visions of blades splitting hogs in two; guts splaying on the concrete floor. But no guts spill out in a hog finishing building. That comes later in a different building. My mis-conjuring is because I’m no farm expert. I’m just a farm insurance expert. Big difference.

One hundred and twenty of my fellow experts have been bused 65 miles southwest of Omaha to Don Mitchell’s Sunny Slope Farm in Roca, Nebraska. We’re traipsing about as part of a hands-on learning experience. After spending the last day and a half in classrooms, our knowledge is being tested this afternoon. Can we find the hazards on Mr. Mitchell’s farm?

Frankly, I’m not trying too hard. I’m simply enjoying the fact that I’m in Nebraska on a beautiful summer afternoon with a comfortable group of people. On the way home, I chat for an hour with a woman from Minnesota. Among other things, she loves Lake Superior, and her daughter stinks at tennis.

Back at the hotel…

I can feel the clock ticking. My time in Nebraska is winding down. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be airborne heading east - back home. I miss my family and my pillow, but there’s still one more Omaha outing awaiting me. With my jeans and boots still on (and probably some hog shit in tow), I head down Dodge Street toward the Missouri River snapping pictures of the sights Nebraskans take for granted. At the river I reverse course, turn the camera off, and begin my dinner quest.



I stop at Mr. Toad’s, an English pub, thinking bubble-n-squeak might hit the spot. Turns out they only sell drinks. What’s a man to do? I order a Guinness. The a/c and wet beverage help cool me off. I send a few texts home and then Ahmad shows up. His Persian restaurant is located next to Mr. Toad’s. He’s brought over a tray of grilled cucumber and mint sandwich wraps passing them out to whoever’s interested; which I am. They’re surprisingly tasty. I thank him for the treat. He then tells me the specials at his restaurant tonight. What the hell? After my Guinness, I head next door and choose a vegetarian platter. When done, I summon Ahmad from the kitchen and tell him it was one of the finest meals I’ve ever eaten. I’m not exaggerating. We shake hands and I’m on my way. Back to my hotel.

Time to dig out that plane ticket and start getting ready for home.

The pie might have been a Mrs. Smith’s for all I knew, but it didn’t matter. It tasted fantastic, especially since it was served to me at a diner in Iowa. Henry’s in Crescent to be precise.

In the corner was an old farmer multi-tasking: playing slots while watching All My Children. On another TV, the Action News at Noon was being broadcast from Omaha. Every few minutes they’d cut to the weatherman for an update, but the forecast wasn’t changing: rain was coming.

Everyone in Henry’s was wearing a hat except for me. I had on a golf pullover and felt a bit out of place. And I was acting funny too:

- Asking the waitress for a pen, then jotting down notes.
- Ordering onion rings and pumpkin pie, and asking that they be brought out together.
- Inquiring whether Henry’s sold hats. (“No”, said the waitress, “just shirts.”)

When done, grateful for my experience at Henry’s and to compensate for my funny behavior, I gave the waitress a hundred percent tip. She was surprised and thanked me twice. I’m guessing none of the hat wearers matched my generosity today.

Years ago, I started joking that my life wouldn’t be complete until I’d eaten pie from a diner in Iowa. It was a cool sounding statement, but it was more than just a joke. It meant I hoped to someday have the freedom to wander about the middle of America, and the fortune to satisfy a frivolous craving. And that’s exactly what Henry’s represented: freedom and fortune.

Henry’s was just the first of three points of interest I was aiming for today. When I realized business was taking me to Omaha, I began researching possible side trips.

After Henry’s my next stop was the Ice Age. Thousands of years ago, when ice covered the middle of America, a tremendous amount of silt accumulated beneath the glacial grind. When the ice receded, this silt was lifted by the prevailing winds and deposited on the eastern shore of the Missouri River. In some spots the silt piled up more than 200 feet. These piles, known locally as the Loess Hills, are a prominent geographic feature in an area otherwise flat as a skillet.

A few miles north of Henry’s on the Old Lincoln Highway is the 1,000 acre Hitchcock Nature Center. A climb to the top of the observation tower was a fast way to absorb the scale of the Loess Hills which stretch more than 200 miles along the Missouri River and can be as much as 10 miles wide.



Leaving the hills, I headed for another geographic peculiarity. North of Omaha an 800 acre oxbow lake was formed about 50 years ago by the meandering Missouri River. This lake and surrounding land is now the DeSoto National Wildlife Refuge. Instead of an observation tower, there’s a series of gravel roads leading to various viewing points. At the Missouri River Overlook, where I stopped to take some pictures, ranger Larry Klimer and I struck up a conversation. Enthusiastic and genuine, ranger Klimer had interesting answers for all of my questions, which focused mostly on the river and Lewis & Clark.

Unfortunately, our discussion was cut short when the rain arrived, as predicted by the Action News team. After a quick wet handshake, Klimer and I set out in opposite directions. It was time for me to head to my downtown Omaha hotel. My points-of-interest tour had come to an end.

Or so I thought…

For dinner, I was craving pizza and beer so I wandered several blocks and came upon Old Chicago Pasta & Pizza on Harney Street. I sat at the bar and immediately fell into an hour long conversation with a friendly and inebriated couple from Council Bluffs. They were regulars at this place and on a quest to complete the World Beer Tour, which involves ordering all of the 110 brews offered at Old Chicago’s.

They were proud and knowledgeable of the Omaha area and provided some passionate insight. Though I would have been perfectly content to dine alone, I enjoyed the company. It was an unexpected fourth point of interest and a nice way to end a really cool day.

On the back of my menu is an aerial view of the intersection of Franklin and Columbia streets in Chapel Hill. No cars in the picture; just a sea of compacted powder blue celebrating a national championship. Ground zero for Tar Heel pride. When I turn my head to the left I'm looking out at the same vantage point as the menu photo. I'm at the Top of the Hill Brewery sitting more or less in the same spot from which that photo was taken.

It's a hot and humid evening, but my family and I have opted to sit outside under the canopy. Given the opportunity to dine three stories above the street sounded more interesting than eating inside, despite the air conditioning.

The setting sun still packing a strong punch melts the cubes in our sweet tea rather quickly. This is sweet tea done right, not like the stuff you get up north. The refills can't come quickly enough. It's been a long hot day leaving us tired and thirsty.

We left at 6:00 a.m. for an 11:00 a.m. planned but impromptu tour of Elon University. Then unplanned, we drove west to Wake Forest to wander the campus in hopes of absorbing some impression of the school.

The genesis of this trip though comes from what's planned tomorrow: a university-sponsored official tour for my daughter of the University of North Carolina.

I was born and raised not far from the University of Maryland and graduated from one of it's sister colleges. As a young adult I moved to West Virginia, where supporting WVU not only was popular but a citizenship requirement. And for the past sixteen years I've lived in Virginia - home to several very fine and historic universities.

Nonetheless, after just a few moments on the campuses of the Carolina schools we've seen today, its easy to forget about past and present allegiances. They are very impressive institutions concentrated in an area that obviously fosters competition and one-ups-manship.

It's still early but these schools have set the bar high for all future planned or unplanned university visits.

We met at 5:30.
But first,
one delivered two bags of mail,
another deposited thousands.
the third stopped at a motel to change pants.

We parked three cars in two garages,
free of charge.
Free too was a beer,
delivered to each of us by a busty gal,
who spoke English as a second language.

Her voice rose above an incessant ringing.
Who she spoke to mostly ignored her,
lost in their own worlds trying not to lose.

Pushing buttons.
Trying not to lose.
Pushing buttons.

We took a break,
sat in a room with saddles,
and ate meat.

Afterward, more buttons.

I was here a month ago,
meeting two others,
pushing no buttons,
and eating meat.

Two meals; a month apart.
both surprisingly delicious.

When I got home,
I stripped and showered,
telling my family it was a disgusting place.
But a teen visitor sitting on my couch disagreed.

I may go back some day,
but only like today and last month,
as an invited guest.

Five couples, celebrating the
Fourth, representing
Three generations, arriving in
Two carloads, for
One big event at Great Meadow.

More than just fireworks:
cantaloupe cannons,
helicopter parades,
rocket launches,
roadhouse blues,
synchronized parachutists,
sprinkler soakings,
cooler top card games,
and porta-johns by flashlight.

Not just a summer picnic;
a summer picnic with entertainment and explosives.

Independence Day Rocks.

In the 1950's, Henry Griesemer began mining limestone from his farm located along historic Route 66 east of Springfield, Missouri. His mining technique, known as the "room and pillar" method, left behind vast open areas underground. By the 1960's, over a quarter million square feet of open space one hundred feet below the surface of the ground had been created by the extracted limestone.

In an extremely wise and resourceful business move, Mr. Griesemer began renting out this storage space. Due to the constant temperature underground, it made for an especially ideal location for food storage. And so, Kraft Foods became the first, and to this day still, the biggest tenant. Rail cars routinely drop off large shipments of cheese to age in Mr. Griesemer's man-made cavern.

But Kraft is not alone in utilizing this storage facility. Several food companies have taken advantage of the reduced costs of keeping their products cool more cost effectively underground where the air temperature stays a constant 58 degrees.

In a technologically advancing world where uninterrupted digital communication has become so important, computer servers have also been finding a home under Mr. Griesemer's farm. And that's precisely what afforded me the opportunity to partake in a guided tour of what is now known simply as Springfield Underground. A software company that my employer has contracted with wanted to show us first hand just how secure our new computer server was.

It was an impressive display of security. In addition to being located 100 feet below ground and completely surrounded by solid limestone, no less than 5 security gates need to be negotiated before reaching our server - some gates with air lock systems; others requiring fingerprint verification. Further, the number of back up layers guaranteeing an uninterrupted electrical feed to the server was equally impressive.

Limestone continues to be mined from under the farm that the Griesemer family still owns. And so, storage capacity of Springfield Underground continues to grow. As their website declares, it's now 2.2 million square feet and expanding. (check it out: http://www.springfieldunderground.com/)

It was a great tour and once again reminded me that the opportunities provided by my profession to travel this country and see cool places like Springfield Underground will never be taken for granted.

When you go head over heels, the first instinct is to throw out your arms to break your fall. But when you go head over heels while sprinting down a 45 degree slope, the instinct that kicks in is more drastic: tuck your head and flip. Which is what I did at sunset on Jockey's Ridge on Thursday. Flipping to avoid kneeing my fallen racing companion in the side of his head. Unfortunately, inexperienced dune racer that I am, I did not complete the flip. I thudded flat on my back, the force of which knocked the wind out of me bruising my back and ribs.

It was a humbling experience. Laying in the sand unable to talk or breathe for several seconds brought an abundance of seriousness to the situation and was not a memory I was expecting to come from this visit to Jockey's Ridge (or as I now call it: Jockey's Ribs). Tough guy that I am though, I was able to stand and wave confirming to all of the stunned spectators that I was fine. But really I wasn't. I hurt like hell and spent the rest of the evening and next day grimacing and wincing. Thankfully, ibuprofen is an effective drug. Without it, the last few days of our trip to Corolla would not have been as enjoyable.

It was a trip that also included growing a beach beard, riding some of the best body surfing waves I can ever remember, kayaking across Currituck Sound, and rushing home to catch a late afternoon flight, starkly transitioning from care-free vacationer to practical, clean shaven business traveler.

My daughter’s eggs slide off her plate as I corner a bit too fast. We’re hurrying to make it to the south end of Duck before a gate closes. The Army Corp of Engineers Coastal Research Facility gives tours daily and if you don’t make it onto the property by 10:00 a.m. sharp you’re shit outta luck. This is a regimented tour unsympathetic to the casually late.

In scene-from-a-movie fashion, we pull onto the property just seconds ahead of the gate closing behind us. It’s a miracle that on the spur of the moment I was able to round up our group of six and make it to Duck in time, despite the egg spill.

Justin, our tour guide, looks just like the pop star of similar first name. Though during his introduction he did not give his last name, we’re all convinced it’s Timberlake. Pop star or not, he's quite likable and a very adept tour guide. Just a college student, Justin has the knowledge and patience of a seasoned research facility staffer.

Ten years ago, I was on part of this property, but only the publicly accessible beach area. I was photographing the concrete research pier that juts out into the Atlantic one-third of a mile - one of the longest piers on the east coast. But today, before the tour takes us to that same pier again, Justin lets us in on some of the interesting secrets and facts coming from the sterile looking research structures behind the chain linked fence.

- This property used to be a bombing range.
- The surface of the pier is not actually connected to the pilings.
- The largest recorded wave in Duck so far has been 38 feet.
- Waves from Hurricane Isabelle submerged part of the pier.
- Uninterrupted oceanic data has been gathered here since the '70s.

To my wife and I, as well as my daughter's boyfriend who's studying Physics, it was a great tour, but for my daughters and their friend, they seemed a bit bored. And so as I was pulling out of the parking lot, I made this announcement to our group of six: Attention everyone. I've become my parents. Sorry for dragging you to boring places like this when you'd rather be at the beach.

After driving fast this morning to make the tour on time, this evening's focus is on driving slow.

When driving on the beach in North Carolina, the speed limit is 35 - a limit I have no plans of getting anywhere near. The type of four wheel drive that comes standard with my Pilot only works at speeds under 20. That's plenty fast for our needs.

We're loaded up with a cooler, a blanket, and four pizzas from the last pizza shop before the pavement ends. We want to find a spot to spread a blanket and enjoy a unique dining experience by the sea.

The trip starts out smoothly enough. The sand is well compacted and cruising is easy. It's exciting to be driving parallel to crashing waves while my wife takes pictures from the passenger seat of my impressive driving skills. Unfortunately, compacted sand is not the only texture of this beach road. Ahead looms soft sand and deeply rutted tracts, and I'm thinking this was a bad idea.



But the Honda engineers must have had Corolla in mind when designing the Variable Torque Management system, as my Pilot with six passengers plows right through the sand without issue. Nonetheless, it's an uneasy feeling. I can't get past thoughts that this sand is too deep and we're bound to get embarassingly stuck. And so, I pull off at the first reasonably cool spot to dig into the pizza.

After only the first slice, a rogue wave comes crashing ashore swamping our blanket and spilling underneath of my Pilot. I've lost my appetite all of a sudden. I'm again thinking this was a bad idea. Is my car about to get washed out to sea?

After ten minutes (and no more rogue waves) I calm down and start eating again, but only for a few moments. A truck nearby gets stuck in the sand and I wander over to help push. The dumb-ass from Indiana took a two wheel drive, empty bed truck onto the beach and got what the rest of us knew was coming. I'm no sand driving genius, but I surely know not to take such an ill-equipped vehicle onto the beach road.

Though our time on the beach road did not involve complete privacy, the Pilot's 4WD system did allow us to break away from the big crowds and enjoy a unique experience. I was a bit nervous about this experience and there may be some corrosion in my future, nonetheless I'm really happy I did it.

Like a lot of people, my life is dictated by plenty of routine and caution, so opportunities like this morning's spontaneous dash to the Army Corp tour and this evening's risky run up the beach road will become strong memories for me and my family. It's been a very good day.

Variable Torque Management comes standard with all Honda Pilots. I’ve owned a Pilot for several years, but haven’t once taken advantage of this feature. Don’t need torque managed while driving to Target, or picking up a kid from a sleep-over. But when taking a trip to Corolla, North Carolina, near where the pavement ends, the potential to use VTM has coming roaring into my consciousness. Why not take full advantage of both a beach road (which starts where the pavement ends) and a vehicle that can access it? On the east coast of America where any trace of privacy on a beach is a rarity, taking advantage of the opportunity to pass mini-vans and station-wagons where the pavement ends seems wise.

To confirm my plan, I sought the advice of three independent sources – my regular mechanic, the dealer who sold me the car, and the local oil change guy. All three felt the Pilot would drive fine in the sand, but my cautious mechanic bluntly stated “I wouldn’t do it”. His caution though was more related to corrosion than the embarrassment of getting stuck. As I age, caution is becoming less important to me, so I think I’m going for it.

Just hope I didn’t give my mechanic some I-told-ya-so fodder. Stay tuned...

The air conditioning inside the gift shop at the Holy Cross Abbey feels terrific on this warm and humid Saturday afternoon. Behind the counter sits a lone monk reading a book who doesn't even look up when I enter. Maybe that's the rules here - talking is prohibited. Nonetheless, I quietly say hi. He nods, then returns to reading.

I'm in search of a tin of Fraters - chocolate covered fruitcakes about the size of a Snickers bar. But I can't find them and I'm hesitant to ask the monk, so I start browsing the shelves for a book instead.

I've come to this abbey out of curiosity. My plan is to purchase some Fraters and then ask for permission to wander about the 1,200 acre grounds that front the Shenandoah River. I figure they would be more willing to allow a non-catholic stranger to explore their property if willing to drop twenty bucks first.

After ten minutes of browsing in this small shop, I come upon a whole wall of Thomas Merton books and select When the Trees Say Nothing - his writing on nature. It costs the same as a tin of fraters, and if I do get permission to wander about, a book won't melt in my car like a tin of Fraters would.

When I approach the counter to pay, the blessings begin. I spot a basket with individually wrapped Fraters. Instead of a whole tin, I can buy just one to go with my book. The blessing continues when I do in fact receive permission from the monk (who does speak) to explore the grounds to my heart's content. He even pulls out a map to show me the property boundaries.

Before setting out on my explorations, I return to my car to eat the Frater. It's two minutes of pure joy. Absolutely delicious. Fruitcake no longer will be the butt of my food jokes.



I wander off toward the chapel and the monk's quarters to see up close what I had viewed by satellite image as I planned for this trip. The property is immaculate, and exudes peacefulness.

On my way to see the retreat center a half mile away, I pass the gift shop again and the monk is now outside watering some plants. I decide to test the silence rule and ask him a question. He lights up, and we engage in a fifteen minute chat before another customer needs his assistance.

Our discussion about monastery-based living is potent. Though he seemed generally content, he wasn't hesitant to express disapproval of certain aspects of the life. Most notably, he felt there was too much quietness. And so this made me wonder whether I had prompted him into a noisy discussion he was not supposed to be having. Regardless, I was thankful that he was willing to share his thoughts; it helped satisfy some of my curiosities about the Holy Cross Abbey.

After wandering down to the retreat center and back, my tour was complete. I left feeling very peaceful. The quietness, beautiful setting, my new book in hand, and welcoming feeling I received from the monk made for a great way to spend a few hours. And of course, basking in the glow of a delicious Frater will last for quite some time.

Roger, born and raised in West Virginia, was my neighbor back when I lived on the east side of town. A quiet guy sort of, but once you got him talking he was worth listening to.

In the mid 90’s, he and his family invited mine to take a trip to the middle of West Virginia. Roger still owned some land there and we all agreed that visiting the property would make for a nice way to spend a summer day.

We drove separately since his family was staying afterward, but before we left he gave me some driving advice. Roger knew that most drivers instinctively brake going into tight turns, of which there would be many on this trip. However, he suggested that I accelerate instead. “It’ll help keep you in your lane.” he said.

The brake pedal is our security. If we’re ever uncertain while driving, tapping the brake and slowing down seems to make every situation more manageable. It's our safety blanket.

But damn if Roger wasn’t right.

It had a carnival-like feel, but accelerating into a turn did in fact keep me in my lane, and it also gave me a rush. I'm sure some physicist could provide a complicated explanation of the phenomenon with words like torque, tangential vectors, friction, and centrifugal force.

To this day though, Roger’s simple advice remains fresh in my mind. Though I don’t regularly drive the winding roads of West Virginia, I do occasionally drive tight turns in my travels. And when I do, tapping the accelerator not only keeps me in my lane and gives me a rush, it also brings back memories of my trip with Roger and his family.

Interesting, how a simple bit of advice 15 years ago has such a lasting impact.