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Major in Mustard at Poupon U
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Having
just seen the movie “Sling Blade” on video with
its classic line “Mustard's good on 'em to me” we
simply could not resist a trip to Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin and
its world famous Mustard Museum. Much to our delight, what
we discovered was a confluence of cheesy tourist diversions.
A veritable treasure trove of camp with metal monsters, trolls,
the great outdoors and of course, mustard. |
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Before
we even made it into town we were granted a wonderful surprise.
Rounding a bend in the highway, we encountered a rolling,
attractively landscaped yard hosting giant scrap metal sculptures.
Closer inspection was definitely called for.
After
a few
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dangerous...
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Bling Me Back to Graceland
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We
were married on Elvis' birthday. Hold on there big fellah,
it was just a coincidence. I didn't even realize it until
I woke up in a champagne haze, with the TV still blaring on
my wedding night. I knew the Fates had conspired when I half- |
opened one eye
and saw there on the news, thousands of fans lined up to worship
outside the gates at the temple of Elvis, Graceland.
I have a deep
appreciation for all things Elvis, first and foremost his music.
The early stuff was genuinely groundbreaking, classic Rock &
Roll and some of the later “Vegas” era tunes were also
outstanding. The King of Rock & Roll may never have threatened
to walk off with an Oscar but hey, who doesn't like it when an
Elvis movie pops up on your TV in the middle of the night or on
some rainy Saturday afternoon? C'mon, good clean campy 60's fun
with the star speeding his brains out on “medicine”
while bursting into song every five minutes. Hollywood's starlet
du jour fighting the Elvis magnitism, but in the end, falling
head over heals for him and then joining in for a duet. Yup, formula
scriptwriting and songwriting to die for. No academy awards here
but a Spinout, Roustabout, Clambake of a good time.
The clothes,
the cars, the airplanes... he was great at the whole star power
lifestyle, with a hillbilly twist, and Graceland was a huge part...
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Of Tulips & Fat Balls
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Eight
decades of tulips and fatballs. EIGHTY years. This is no amateur
operation. This is serious stuff. It’s Tulip Time in
Holland (Michigan), and when it comes to festivals, these
people don’t mess around.
It
would seem that the six million tulips alone would be more
than enough for any small Midwestern |
town, but not
so for Holland. They take it to the limit -- right up to the edge
of crazy -- creating a veritable Tulipalooza.
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That’s
why Tulip Time was named Best Small Town Festival by Reader’s
Digest.
The
eight days of festivities begin and end with a Klompen good
time. Several times a day, the Klompen Dancers don Dutch
garb and take to the streets around Centennial Park. The
sound of wooden shoes clomping on the pavement literally
fills the air. Excruciatingly thick socks are worn to fight
the friction caused by the mercilessly unyielding footwear
as well as to keep the lumber leg caps from becoming noggin
knocking missiles during the high...
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16 Boxes
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Almost
everyday we hear somebody say “I live vicariously through
you” or “ I wish we could do what you’re doing.”
As inviting as it may seem, it’s probably not the lifestyle
for everybody. There is actually quite a commitment to chucking
it all and becoming a gypsy. It takes a dash of nerve and
a pinch of intestinal fortitude to get rid of everything you
own
except a handful of personal items that can be fit into a
few boxes.
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16 boxes to be
exact. 25 years of marriage and 3 kids later, we're whittled down
to 16 boxes, most them in storage. Many of these boxes are tagged
to go directly to the kids when they are more settled, and some,
containing photo albums and baby clothes will not be opened for
years. We no longer own a stick of furniture, an appliance or a
bit of clothing we are not planning to wear in the near future (including
those skinny jeans that were hanging around as incentive). It is
amazingly freeing and, at the same time, a little bit frightening.
Back when
I was packing the boxes -- they sat taunting me surrounded by
a heap of bubble-wrap, packing tape and intimidation -- they made
things a little too real.
"A change is ahead," the boxes mocked, knowing I have
issues with change.
I am no longer a Mommy, but a long distance mother. I no longer
need to wake up in the middle of the night to breastfeed...
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Home, Home on the Strange
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Of
the 5000 souls that reside in Mulvane, Kansas, only one vies
for the title of America’s strangest folk artist. On
the main road cutting through this little burg, sits a house
whose owner is a painter with, well…divine inspiration.
The structure itself serves as his palate, his preferred medium
-- spray paint. |
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A little
leery of getting too close to the place, Veronica was making
good use of her zoom lens before realizing that capturing
the full extent of the subject could only be executed from
up close. Cautiously exiting the car, she left the door
open.
As a shield against a sudden burst of gunfire? Hmmm, a
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tad
paranoid,
but a quick getaway could be needed. Behind the wheel, David inched...
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Rockin' & Rollin' Down Route 66
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It
is the Mother of all Roads. The escape route from the dust
bowl. It is the 1950s American Dream come true. Inspiration
for songs and shows. It is legend. It is Route 66. She served
as America’s Main Street from 1926 until 1985, then was
sadly decommissioned. Making way for the faster pace of the
big four-lanes and our newer, hectic world left only scraps
and remnants of the way out West. |
The Mother
Road is now spotty at best, but a true haven for nostalgia buffs,
foreign tourists and GypsyNesters alike. Starting in Chicago and
crossing eight states into Los Angeles, the old Will Rogers highway
is still a terrific way to see the “real America” --
IF...
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Mama Loves a Ball of Paint
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It’s
Mother’s Day. This one is a milestone for me. It’s
my first without chicks in the nest. I’d received phone
calls from all three of my children -- the fast-walking, subway-chasing,
black-wearing, taxi-flagging NYC urbanite daughters, 24 &
22, and The Boy, 18, sending their love and best wishes. Each
expressed their undying gratitude for spawning them and shared
all the wonderful things going on in their busy lives. Absolutely
lovely, everyone remembered me, and no guilt calls would be
needed for at least a week.
Now
the rest of the day loomed menacingly. This GypsyNesting
Mama
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needed a diversion.
It had to be a well established diversion, something so spectacular
that any sort of baby-missing hysterics would be averted.
A brunch at
a really, really nice restaurant? The thought of just the two
of us surrounded by long tables of celebrating families was just
begging for a Chernobyl sized meltdown. The very idea of food
reminded me of those wonderful Mothers Day mornings with the pitter-pattering
of footy pajamas, dry scrambled eggs with shell fragments and
burnt toast served to me in bed. Planning in advance might have
been the sensible thing to do, but hey, the plan is no plans.
After discussing
a few scenarios, we decided that anything even remotely traditional
would not do. So what TO do?
Eureka! We hit
the road and headed for the World’s Largest Ball of Paint...
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