Music

Posted on July 24, 2017 by Donna Coulson

I tried to do some research this morning because I am thinking about music. I didn’t spend long on it, but came up empty.  My research question is this: if a child was raised in such a way that he or she never heard music – no lullabies, no radio playing golden oldies, no television commercials – no people-made music whatsoever, would that child hum to himself when he drove his toy cars along a dirt path, or would she spontaneously sing a little jingle when she was skipping rope?  Would she tap out a little cadence with her fingers as her mom braided her hair?

I don’t know the answer to this – but I hope that the desire and need for music in our lives is natural, inborn and instinctual. I hope that our imaginary child would create her own music to grow by. There is no doubt that the natural world provides kinds of music to us in the form of bird’s songs and the tinkling of water as it runs over creek rocks.  The rhythm of horses hooves, the whining of air through a partially open window, or even the rattle of a loose shingle on a roof in the wind or the screaming of a teapot suggests music, so I just can’t think that music is actually the invention of man.

Now I’m not a musician.  I took piano lessons (as an adult!) for a couple of years, and I really hate to admit how bad I was at it.  I’ve tried to play the guitar since I was in high school, and while I know several chords and can bang out some semblance of a few songs, I lack talent.  I do love to sing, and sometimes I hit the right notes.  I’m not talking about performance. I also am not very schooled in classical music or music theory.  I can’t really have a conversation that contains any intelligence on my part if you want to discuss how a symphony is constructed or concepts such as minor thirds or the difference between a nocturne or the definition of contrafact or ostinato (words I just discovered when I googled musical terms…)

But, despite my ignorance, the fact remains that I love music.  I can’t imagine that we aren’t born with music, placed by God’s loving Hand, inside each of us.  I lack knowledge and talent, but still, music is essential for me. All kinds of music touches me. (Okay – not rap – the jury is out whether most of that is actually music or just noise- and not always jazz because I sometimes can’t discern the difference between the actual song and when the ensemble is just warming up!). Nonetheless, I surround myself with music.  The radio or my MP3 player is nearly always on within my hearing, and when it is silent, I am often humming or singing to myself.  Music can give me energy or relax me.  Music can make me laugh (try listening to Ray Stevens and not laughing), or it can make me hurt. Music can make me remember and can encourage me. There is an entire library of songs that can make me cry – In Christ Alone written by Keith Getty and Stewart Townend or Agnus Dei by Michael W. Smith can take me from distracted or crabby to worshipful tears within just a few minutes (Thanks, Dave for leading worship yesterday and having us sing Agnus Dei).

This has been a summer of amazing music for us. Worship time with our friends, singing with Karl in the trailer. Last weekend we spent three days immersed in cowboy music at the Cowboy Gathering in Encampment, Wyoming.  I enjoyed so much sitting in the shade in my lawn chair listening to great, mostly original music by men and women in jeans and boots.  Last night we went with friends to a concert that included the Bellamy Brothers (40 years in the music business, aged 70 and 66 and still they put on a great set with terrific music!), plus Joe Diffie and then Sawyer Brown.  Old country greats singing music so familiar and welcome.  Protected from overzealous speakers by ear plugs, I still heard each note and each word, clapping along and dancing in my seat.

I could go on, though this is already a long blog. I will leave it at this:  Joyful noise or finely crafted sonata, music is a gift.  I hope you find some time this week to partake!

Categories: Gypsy life | 7 Comments

Making a better mousetrap

Posted on July 17, 2017 by Donna Coulson

I am celebrating how terrific my husband, Karl is.  He joined me in retirement nine months ago – and it isn’t exaggerating to say that maybe he’s not completely grasped the normal concept of being retired.  He says that he is “working on his retirement skills.”  Even that sentence, said with a twinkle in his eye that tells me he’s teasing, belies the underlying truth that he is still striving for perfection instead of just rolling with the flow. My definition of retirement has been to blog and write, teach myself to tat, read a lot, lay in the shade or snorkel lazily. (The evidence of this sedate life style is in the small roll of jelly that has appeared around my middle). Karl’s definition of retirement isn’t sitting and doing nothing. (He does read a lot more than he used to, and he drinks his morning coffee while relaxing, not on the run, I will acknowledge that!) But, still, he’s worked HARD in the last nine months. Now that we are in Wyoming and there isn’t any building/remodeling on the house to do and he isn’t near a rain forest that needs taming or lawn to mow, I wondered how he’d fill the hours of his day. I’m amused to report that he has found a myriad of ways to occupy himself.

Take, for example, camping.  Now, for years he’s done all the cooking in our home, and I do all the cleaning and cleaning up.  It is an arrangement that suits us perfectly.  When we are camping, we continue our arrangement, the only difference is that part of the camping experience is to cook outside over an open fire.  Now honestly, most campfires look something like this: (I took this picture when we arrived out our most recent camp spot, just for reference)

In this model, the camper lays an assortment of odd sized rocks into some semblance of a circle, then throws in any wood the kids can gather along with some paper, a match and voila! A fire.  This imaginary family then finds several sticks that can impale a few hot dogs and some marshmallows and everyone is in business. Camping memories are being made and every belly is full of beaks and feet and fun.

This is not the model used by the Coulsons.  First, if there is a fire ring like the aforementioned, usually Karl’s first job is to dismantle it, moving the rocks and shoveling the ashes, unburned logs, and charred beer cans out of the way.  Next, he reforms the rocks into a sort of 3/4 oval.  The purpose of this, according the the master of the camp is that the rocks on the back of the oval then deflect the heat toward the front, thereby providing more heat to campers sitting within its parabolic reaches while also providing a more even cooking heat.  The next step is to install the grill that travels with us.  Now, again, some campers might just put a grill over the fire.  Oh no.  When I say install, I mean it.  The installation isn’t complete until the grill totally rocked in and level.  Yes.  Not eyeballed.  Level.  As in confirmed flat plane using a level tool.  Really.

The camp master isn’t satisfied until the bubbles are are in the middle.

Now, he can begin making fire.  But.  There is no gathering of odd twigs and branches for inclusion in a Coulson fire.  Instead, there is chainsaw lumberjacking to find wood that is perfectly aged and precisely dried, then cut all the same length (the length that will fit nicely into the fireplace). Next comes the splitting and stacking ritual.  This can take anywhere from one to two hours, so if you are hungry you might just as well grab a cookie from the camper. I stay out of the way as an ax is in use.

The end result: Please note that the small kindling is in the front along with a bit larger pieces. The actual cooking wood is the large stack in the back.  (We also carry a plastic tarp with us to cover the wood in case it rains!)

Now, he is ready to light the fire.  It is beautiful, nearly smokeless creation.

Karl feeds this fire, adding larger wood until he’s accomplished a nice fire over a hot and useful bed of coals.  Then and only then does the actual preparation of food begin.  Which is good, because by now we are out of cookies and I’ve begun chewing on the bark of a discarded twig.

But really, whether pancakes for breakfast or hamburgers for dinner, the worth is always worth the wait.  Why is it that food tastes different and better over an open fire? On second thought, maybe the little roll of fat around my middle has more to do with Karl’s cooking than any activity (or lack of activity) choice I make!

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New Mystery

Posted on July 10, 2017 by Donna Coulson

The main idea for my first novel, Mountain Time, came from two sources: first, the fascinating and rich history of the copper era near Encampment, Wyoming and second, an abandoned cabin.  I’ve talked about this cabin before, but just to remind you, when I was probably ten or eleven, my dad and I were camping near Haggarty Creek in the Sierra Madres just about three miles down from the ghost town of Dillon.  We were hiking and ran across an abandoned cabin.  In the middle of nowhere with no road leading to it, the cabin, that first time we saw it, still had part of its roof.  The thing that stayed with me more than anything else was that around the cabin the ground was littered with broken glass, pottery, and china.  My imagination soared as I thought of different reasons a woman in the early 1900s would leave a cabin and not take her dishes.  Thus, Mountain Time was conceived.

Now, I have a new forest mystery to ponder, and it just could be the makings of another novel because it is pretty intriguing.  Karl and I were riding last week on our four wheelers, exploring a road in the Sierra foothills we’d never been on before.  We stopped and climbed on some really cool rocks, then got back on the trail.  We hadn’t gone far when I spied something incongruous in the forest.  A fireplace.  Rock fireplace, complete with a seven-foot-tall chimney.  Now really, that doesn’t sound too interesting as nearly every house around here has a fireplace and chimney.  The interesting part, though, was that there wasn’t anything around this chimney.  Not a thing.  There were no foundations that signified an old cabin was built there and this is all that remained.  There was nothing on the forest floor but the chimney.  There were no signs in the whole area that there’d ever been someone living there. But clearly, someone spent many, many hours choosing flat rocks and creating this fireplace.  To add to the mystery- the inside of the chimney is absolutely clear.  There is no sign that there ever was a fire in the chimney. Why?

Huh!

So, I’m sharing a picture of my new mystery.  Any ideas?  Anyone have any background knowledge of this thing?

 

 

Categories: America and American History, Gypsy life, Mountain Time, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Finding Unexpected Secrets

Posted on July 6, 2017 by Donna Coulson

I found an interesting quote in a magazine recently.  It is attributed to Roald Dahl, author of James and the Giant Peach and other children’s stories, (actually, I am not a fan of Mr. Dahl’s books, but I like the quote.) Dahl says, “Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.”

It occurs to me that one of the reasons I love camping is that physically being surrounded by God-made beauty and listening to forest sounds of wind and bird and scolding squirrels gives me the opportunity – no actually, forces me – to watch what is around me with glittering eyes.  Karl and I have been in the mountains for nearly a week.  Yes, we are ‘glamping’ in some ways because we have a cushy trailer with a soft bed, hot running water and 12-volt electricity.  I can use my computer and I have a phone signal (but no Wi-Fi which is why I didn’t post this blog on my usual Monday!). But even though we have these luxuries, we choose to cook our meals on an open fire and embrace the forest as much as we can.  We do some hiking and we ride our ATVs back into even less frequented areas of the national forest. We try to take full advantage of the offerings here.  So what follows are some of the greatest secrets the Medicine Bow National Forest (Mary Jane, we went up Cow Creek Road just outside of Encampment to the mountains!) has chosen to share with our glittering eyes this week:

  • We rode our four-wheelers to a secluded lake high in the mountains. As soon as the engines were off, silence enfolded us. The silence of the forest isn’t really silent, though, and as we sat on the shoreline and allowed our ears to attune, the wind began a quiet symphony.  The bright green disk-shaped leaves of quaking aspen trees make a kind of clicking rustle as the miles-tall lodge pole pines provide a bass note hiss.  The melody then is taken up by bird songs echoing across the water.  Every once in a while the tambourine-like shimmer of a chittering squirrel joins in. Then, a small brook trout jumps, the splash and ripple add to the melody. An occasional small gust breaks a tiny wave against a rock and the sound is like the tinkling of a cymbal.   Then comes the climax of the piece.  Overhead, we’ve been watching a golden eagle soar in the air currents.  He (all eagles seem so regal and so strong I think of them as he…) dances a ballet with the air and we watch as the mid-day sun creates a shadow dance partner on both hillside and water below. All at once the eagle cries out. The sound is both lonely and haunting. I feel the breeze on my arms where goosebumps have risen.  I am aware of how my heart pounds at the dance and the music and for just a moment I become part of it, outside of myself and joined to the beauty and the peace.

South Spring Creek Reservoir

  • I am riding my four-wheeler behind Karl, our usual. He passes a spot where a group of new pines, maybe six feet tall, are growing tall in the sun. Karl continues on. He doesn’t see, but I do, the buck deer that is on the opposite side of the narrow stand.  The deer reacts to Karl’s passing and runs several feet and stops to look back.  I pull the brake on my bike and we come face to face.  Eye to eye about twenty feet apart.  He is tall and reddish brown, his ample antlers still covered in soft velvet.  We connect for a tiny moment, then he bounces over a bush and disappears into the trees. I thumb the throttle of my bike and catch up with my husband, a little richer than I was.
  • We stop for a rest one afternoon and to look at a little creek.  Something catches my eye.  It looks like someone has potted a yellow daisy in an old tree stump.  Up in the forest?  Not possible!  I investigate.  Sure enough.  Someone planted a beautiful flower in an old tree stump.  Cool!                                                                                        
  • We are hiking. We’ve ridden in this area before so we are comfortable with leaving the road and trekking through the forest.  We are armed with water, my camera, and fanny packs containing survival essentials just in case we get confused and lost (that happened to us once before we had the packs, and it was a ‘bit’ scary!). The day is warm considering the altitude, but we leave on our long sleeves to discourage the mosquitoes. We climb a good hill, keeping the sound of a small creek to our left.  I can’t stand not to see it, so we move left and watch as the water plays and jumps and runs over the rocks and limbs. I take pictures of the small waterfalls and feel the certain and special joy that only running mountain creeks bring me.  Eventually, we move on.  The forest becomes quieter as we gain a little distance from the stream.  The hillside crests and we come to a clearing.  I can hear a sparkling sort of sound. It isn’t the sound of a brook, different somehow.  We investigate and find a spring. Water bubbles out of a small rise in three distinct places.  The earth around the spring is full of flowers and tiny green leaves.  I flip my ball cap backwards, put my knee on a rock and put my face to one of the fountains.  The water is icy cold, surprising. A long drink leaves me with a pleasant, slightly metallic taste in my mouth.  I have just taken communion.  Communion with God and with the beauty and blessings that still can be found in this fallen world.  Karl takes off his hat and takes a drink.  No words can describe the moment.  No words are needed.  After a couple of pictures are snapped, we join hands and continue our hike.  Loved. Blessed.

Our little spring…the picture can’t let you see the bubbling water or hear the sound it makes…

 

Karl takes a drink from the spring.

  • Karl is sleeping. It is near midnight, and the moon is three-quarters full. I slip my crocs on stockinged feet and wrap myself in a soft blanket, then I ease myself through the door and step outside. There isn’t a breath of wind tonight.  The squirrels and birds are sleeping. The world is truly silent, forest music has faded into a tranquil depth.  I walk around our camp, then settle into a chair. My eyes, on the sky, drink in the shimmering of stars and planets.  Not as many are visible tonight as sometimes, thanks to the blazing moon, but there are still plenty.  I talk with God. With words and without, I praise and worship the One who created all this. From nothing. Because of His unending Love for us. Perhaps this is the greatest secret and most sacred Truth that Roald Dahl or donna coulson or anyone else can find.
Categories: America and American History, Gypsy life | 1 Comment

Where the Deer and the Antelope play…

Posted on June 26, 2017 by Donna Coulson

Another thing I love about Wyoming is how close humans are to wildlife – no matter where you go.  While we were parked just outside Cheyenne, we were surrounded by antelope.  The morning we arrived, we noticed a doe antelope wandering around near us, calmly eating grass and paying no attention to us.  Later that afternoon, a neighbor watched as she lay down among the tall grasses and gave birth.  The next morning, we watched the spindly-legged baby run and jump and play, staying close to his mama yet trying out his brand new legs in this brand new world.  Mama and baby weren’t more than forty feet away from us.  For the rest of the time we were there, it was a common sight to look out the trailer window and see them, or one of the other antelope that live in the area, munching grass and weeds right outside.

You can see how close this antelope is to the trailer. This is the morning before she gave birth.

This past weekend, we moved on down the highway and parked in a neighborhood in Medicine Bow, Wyoming.  We went to Medicine Bow for their annual celebration – Bow Days and had a fun weekend watching a parade, eating at the pancake breakfast, cheering at the old fashioned kids’ games like sack races and tug of wars.  There was a cow chip throwing contest, and old car show, a banquet, Bingo, a street dance and fun.  Medicine Bow is the epitome of a small town, everyone knows everyone. When you aren’t a local, people introduce themselves and welcome you.  You don’t need to drive, things are close enough to walk, and neighbors and cars passing wave and say hi.  People and deer love Medicine Bow.  There are lots of people (population 265), and lots of deer.  Walking to the parade, we met a young buck going in the opposite direction.  Maybe I imagined it, but I think he nodded as we passed one another. A mama and her fawn watched us from under a tree when we walked back home later. I awoke on Sunday to find that a larger buck, antlers still in velvet, breakfasting just outside.

This isn’t the best picture since I took it through the screen window!

Environmentalists will tell us that human encroachment is detrimental to wildlife, and I’m certain that is true to some degree, but I know from experience that animals and people adapt and learn to live pretty closely together.  The mama antelope who gave birth within just a few yards of a busy home was laying right below a wind generator turning in the wind.  The deer in Medicine Bow don’t mind the cars, have learned to stay away from the yards with dogs, and while they might not be their ‘natural’ source of nutrition, they’ve learned that petunias are yummy. For their part, the humans have learned to put fencing around their most prized plants.

For me, since I don’t own any of the petunias on the menu, I count these encounters as gifts, precious opportunities to connect with four-legged beauty.  Once again, I am thankful for God’s creation and thankful to be back home in Wyoming.

Categories: America and American History, Gypsy life | 1 Comment

Home is Where We are.

Posted on June 19, 2017 by Donna Coulson

I’ve left Wyoming,  my birth place and where I grew up, “permanently”three times in my life.  The first – at 18 years old when I joined the Navy. The second when Karl and I moved to California.  The third time just seven months ago when we moved to the Virgin Islands. Based on the previous sentence, you can know that I have also returned to my birthplace as well.  When I returned after my Navy adventure, I brought with me two beautiful little munchkins.  I came ‘home’ for safety and the circle of security and support that Cheyenne offered in the faces of my parents and a life I understood. As a newly divorced single mom, I needed all the help and encouragement I could find. The second time we returned we were seeking fewer people and a less harried life than the one we’d made for ourselves in the 15 years we were in California.  It was just Karl and me that came back that time… our kids were off on their own life journeys by then. Both times I came back willingly and eagerly but the reality is that I have always had a love-hate relationship with Cheyenne.

So now, we’re back again, but just for a little while. We are living in our ‘gypsy wagon’ parked a little out of town at the home of Karl’s cousin and best friend.  Being a visitor in a place that has been home is an interesting endeavor. We belong here, yet we don’t. Our  friends welcome us and are happy to see us, but sometimes there’s a tiny hesitation, an oddness that comes with absence.

There are lots of things I hate about Cheyenne and Wyoming, but then again there are lots of things I love.   We’d been here not even four days last week when a mean little storm blew in bringing with it hail (only pea sized for us – no damage thank God, but for others in town the hail was soft-ball sized.  Lots of broken windshields and dented cars in town now!).  I was in the trailer before the hail started when Karl called me outside to watch a tornado north of us. Its long, thin white funnel dipped and danced across the sky underneath a dark cloud.   I really love tornadoes, and since this one was far enough away from us that it wasn’t a threat and out on the prairie so that no one else was probably in peril I could just enjoy its power and oddity. Just like all storms in Wyoming, whether summer storms with green clouds, hail and small tornadoes or blizzards that blind and freeze, this one passed quickly enough so that by evening the sun came out in time for a terrific sunset.

That’s another thing I love about Wyoming.  The sky here is beyond imagination.  In a 360 degree panorama, you can look straight ahead and see the sky. (Unlike in big cities where it is only overhead, or back east where trees obscure the view.) Daytime skies are a deeper blue than anywhere else I have ever been. Night lets you see stars and the Milky Way so clearly it seems you could reach out and pluck one of the cold-silver twinkles from the darkness without even stretching to your tip-toes.  We love sitting on the gallery of our island home to watch the sun set into the Caribbean, but sunsets are different here.  Colors here are not the same, the clouds themselves have more dramatic, showy shapes.

Right now, I am writing and watching out the window while the wind makes the knee-high grass wobble and bend. I can count at least three hues of green in the field beside me, plus yellow, deep blue, white, and pink flowers thrown in.  A meadowlark is sitting on the fence, singing my most favorite Wyoming song (second even to the howl of coyotes, which I also love).   A bit ago, I watched a large hawk playing in the wind currents, too high to be hunting, just flying for the sheer joy of it. I know that by the end of the summer I will be more than happy to get on an airplane and go back home to my island.  I miss my friends and my church and my house there.  But.  This morning, I am also home, and I am thankful.

Categories: Gypsy life | 1 Comment

Stop and Eat the Roses

Posted on June 12, 2017 by Donna Coulson

Years ago my mom gave me a little ceramic plaque – which currently hangs happily in my kitchen at home – that has a picture of a goat and the words “Don’t forget to stop and eat the roses”. It’s always been a lighthearted reminder for me to enjoy the moment I’m in, which of course is not an easy or natural task.  Case in point: for literally years, every time we drove on Interstate 80 between Cheyenne and Omaha – at least 12 times, I have looked longingly at an antique store on a service road near Lexington, Nebraska.  Each trip past I’d say, “I’d really like to stop there sometime” and each time we’d decide it would be the next time. Now that we are ‘gypsies’, we have the time and inclination to do just that, but we certainly are not in the habit. It is surprising to me how difficult it is to actually follow through and stop to enjoy.

We spent one day longer at Hillary’s than we had expected to. I say that with pride since twice now since we got back to the mainland we’ve changed our original plans – evidence that we are honing our gypsy skills!  Our oldest granddaughter is in a community band  so we stayed to watch and listen to a lovely outdoor performance on Tuesday evening.  The extra day was terrific.   When we left Kansas City, we traveled only a short way to Abilene, Kansas and met two dear friends for lunch.  I hate to admit that even though we love this couple, we have blown by Abilene a couple of times before and not stopped. This time we stopped. When we left Abilene several hours later, full of a yummy lunch and the dessert of laughs and good conversation with dear people, we had a decision to make.  Should we take I-70 all the way to Denver then hit I-25 up to Cheyenne – which would be faster but would take us through lots of traffic, or should we go north on highway 81 until we ran into I-80 across Nebraska?  Hmmm.

Then I saw a sign.  A sign the likes of which I have often seen – an advertisement for a local tourist attraction that we’d never stopped at but talked about before.  This sign invited us to Rock City, Kansas.  Decision made.  We turned north and in just a few miles we were getting off the highway and onto a byway, then a gravel road leading us to Rock City…a field with large, odd shaped boulders, a small gift shop, and a bathroom (very clean!). The boulders are apparently made of sandstone and are called concretions.  Who knew?

In all honesty, the most memorable part of this side trip was that we were lunch for a myriad of flying bugs.  We didn’t stay long, but we enjoyed walking around the rocks, and the lady in the gift shop was sweet and kind.  Then we headed north, slept in a Cabella’s parking lot in Kearney, Nebraska (- thanks Cabella’s, for welcoming campers!) We had a good night – though we were only a few yards from a very busy train track.  In the morning we headed west on I-80.  I’m happy to say that we didn’t drive by the antique shop this time.  We stopped.  Yay!  We spent an hour or more just enjoying the kitschy garden art and cool antiques. We didn’t buy anything, and while there were some interesting offerings, it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. But.  More than anything, we are reveling in the plenitude of time that we have been afforded to stop and eat the roses!

Categories: America and American History, Gypsy life | 2 Comments

Timing is Everything

Posted on June 5, 2017 by Donna Coulson

The whole idea behind coming back to the mainland in May or June is so that we can enjoy the warm weather and summer months here and miss out on the hot months on island.  The plan is to go back before it gets cold here, thereby living in a perpetual summer that does not include snow or bitter winds or biting cold.  So far, our timing has been perfect.  Granted, it has been a little chilly (for us!) a couple of mornings and we’ve had to sleep using a blanket (gasp!), but overall life and temps are good.

We left Virginia on Wednesday.  It was hard to leave the Rosebrook Inn.  Mike and Cory treated us so cordially and made us feel so at home. But, new horizons beckoned and we spent Wednesday twisting and turning up and down steep grades as we crossed West Virginia’s Appalachian Mountains.  Gorgeous.  We took a little side trip to Seneca Cavern and enjoyed the tour underground. Slow and steady we ended up in Ohio at Karl’s Aunt Gwen and Uncle Ted’s house for a nice afternoon of picking cherries (yum!!), a nice dinner and a quiet night (except for a bass-drum-throated bullfrog that sang to us!).  Our timing was a bit off for that  visit because Gwen and her daughter Roxy are on a vacation of their own in California so we missed seeing them. Even so, we love to be with Ted, and his French toast on Saturday morning was really yummy.

On Saturday morning we left Ohio with Kansas City – our daughter Hillary’s home – as our goal.  We weren’t really hurrying, Hillary and the grandgirls had a swim meet all day in Topeka and we hoped to arrive around eight in the evening, which is when they were planning to be back.  Once again, perfection in timing – everything working like clockwork.  So, off we went.  It was a nice day. We were impressed by the  contrasts we’ve already seen on our trip.  We’d traded steep grades and lush, tree filled hills for the flat farmland of Ohio and Missouri. In the late afternoon, we needed to stop for gas.  We were still perfectly on time and I’d been texting with Hillary about which of us would reach her house first.  We pulled off the highway into a small service station and looked for the diesel pump.  It was on the side of the building, easily accessible for Karl driving our big truck and trailer, except that there was a pick-up truck parked in front of the pump with no one around.  Now, we aren’t really in a hurry, but waiting behind a vehicle that isn’t getting gas and whose driver is no where to be seen caused a hint of frustration, so after a minute I got out of the truck to go inside to inquire…about that time a gentleman came out and waved, hopped into his truck with a soda in his hand and moved out of the way.  We’d ‘wasted’ maybe two minutes.  Shake it off.  Get gas.  Get back on the road.  No harm, no foul.

Back on the highway, we’d just begun to settle in.  Traffic was pretty light, people were minding their manners, the sun was shining. Karl and I were playing a verbal game to pass the miles, when all of a sudden traffic ahead came to a quick halt.  Two lanes instantly filled with stopped vehicles.  We sat there for several minutes without a clue what was going on, then slowly traffic began moving, one car at a time edged over to the right side of the highway. We realized that we had been only about ten or twelve cars behind an accident.  The police were not yet on scene.  As we passed, we could see a car upside down in the left lane behind a semi-truck – its trailer on its side and cargo strewn over the highway, the tractor in the median all banged up.  A gentleman was lying on the side of the road alongside the former contents of his car (with people near him helping), a woman was standing there, looking shaken and dazed.  By the semi, two men in t-shirts just stood there as we crept passed. People were helping those in need and we felt confident that our stopping would not be helpful, so we both began praying and moved along.

The scene was upsetting, a reminder of how easy and quickly life can change. Our car was quiet for several miles as we prayed for the victims and their helpers and supporters.  Then, Karl broke the silence with one sentence. “If that guy hadn’t been blocking the fuel pump, we could have been mixed up in that wreck.”  The thought lingered with us in conversation and thought for a long time.  The seconds we ‘wasted’ by waiting for that gentleman to buy a soda may easily have put us ahead just far enough that what ever happened to cause that accident would have happened so as to involve us.  Karl calls situations like this ‘little miracles’ and we had to wonder if that thirsty man was an angel. I pray that God is glorified in the lives of the victims of that accident and that there will be quick healing and peace for them.  I also pray in thanks and that God is glorified for the perfect timing we experienced for ourselves on Saturday.

Categories: Gypsy life | 3 Comments

The Gypsy life begins with a wedding

Posted on May 29, 2017 by Donna Coulson

So far, our new gypsy existence has proven to be fun and relaxing – mostly.  There were the harrowing moments of getting the trailer pulled out of its winter spot among the trees.  The night before we left we had a downpour.  A truly drenching deluge that soaked the ground.  Pulling the trailer out meant putting the truck into four-wheel drive, and with a prayer and a clenched jaw Karl dragged it out of sinking mud, leaving behind some deep ruts at the side of our son’s beautiful driveway.

After that, it’s been pretty smooth sailing.  We arrived easily at the bed and breakfast/wedding reception venue, and what kindness we have encountered.  The owners of this beautiful place at the foot of the Shenandoah Mountains welcomed us and our trailer, tucking us into a spot in the trees and allowing us to stay for a few days after the wedding so we can be tourists.  (I’ll add a pitch here for the Rosebrook Inn in Stanardsville, Virginia – they rock!)

It’s funny and wonderful how people come into our lives.  Amanda, the bride at this wedding, was a quiet, serious student who sat towards the front right side of my ninth grade English classroom.  Within a few weeks of school’s start, I figured out she was Christian – her witness was (and is) calm and assured.  She shines with Christ’s touch and exudes His love.  Quietly, because as a public school teacher I had to be careful about sharing my faith, I started a conversation with this young one to let her know that I shared her love of the Lord.  We became friends.

Through her high school years she’d ask me to edit papers for her once in a while.  We’d meet sometimes for a chat. She left for college in Oklahoma full of excitement and fears, and we began emailing. She’d come home on breaks and we’d catch up.  She graduated from there and went to Yale Divinity School.  I no longer could edit papers for her, (I didn’t understand them!), but I was able to talk on the phone, email, listen, sometimes advise, but mostly pray with her and for her.  She gathered up her Master’s Degree from Yale and promptly moved to Emery in Georgia for a PH.D. program.   If I replay the eleven or twelve years I’ve known her, I can imagine it as a time-lapse movie of a daisy opening. Each petal unfurling to reveal more of this deep and beautiful person.  (watch this and you’ll see what I mean, but don’t forget to come back and read the rest!  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgNp7Ya4WoY).

So, on Saturday I watched the precious woman who calls me her ‘bonus mom’ unfurl another petal in her life and become a wife.  I got to meet family and friends that she’s gathered along the way, and put names to faces, which was fun in its own rite.  It was a perfect day.

 

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Dreams – pirates and gypsies

Posted on May 22, 2017 by Donna Coulson

The first thing that Karl said to me this morning was that he was tired from driving all night.  He went on to explain that all night, as we slept, he drove a big rig semi-truck through the jungles of Venezuela hauling styrofoam plates and grain to a meat packing plant.  I never have such creative or random dreams. I’m glad he does, though, because he often starts my day with a smile and a shake of the head as he relates where the night took him.

Tomorrow, a different sort of dream is taking Karl and me both on an adventure.  Five years ago this summer we arrived for the first time on St.Croix. We fell in love with the place, and we fell in love with who we are while we are here.  As we walked through the next year of coming back again and finding and buying our house, a dream began taking shape.  In November, when we retired and came here, the first half of our long-term dream took place.  Living on St. Croix.  Now, tomorrow, the second half of the dream will begin.  We fly off from here tomorrow to go to Virginia.  There, tucked safely into the trees at our son’s house, waits our fifth-wheel camper trailer and our pick-up truck.  We are trading our pirate life for a gypsy life for the summer.

The plan is to spend the summer months doing a second thing that we love as much as being on island.  Travel, exploring, camping and four-wheeling.  Also in the mix is seeing all three of our children and their families, who have followed their own dreams far from where they were raised and far (in miles) from their siblings.  We have a map filled with places to visit and people to stop and see.  We have a few obligations already on the calendar – a much anticipated wedding this weekend, another wedding in August, rodeo tickets, a family meeting… but mostly, we are going to go on vacation from retirement with the intent to wander and explore and to meet nearly each day with no plan.

But, if I’m honest, I have to admit that the closer it gets to us leaving, the more nervous – maybe anxious is a more precise word – we both have become.  Several times this week, as we have been making plans for being gone for several months, I’ve thought maybe I didn’t want to go. Then, I realized that Karl is feeling the same way. This is a puzzle to me.  Karl and I’ve both talked a lot about why we feel hesitant to embark on this second half of our plan.  Maybe it is because we have struggled in the past six months to understand what retirement is and how to live here, and now that we are getting the hang of it we are leaving.  Maybe we just aren’t all the way finished nesting here. Maybe we are getting old and set in our ways (NO  NO  NEVER THAT I HOPE!). Maybe since we are both very much planners with an eye on the clock and the calendar and our checked off lists of things to do, we can’t exactly imagine a plan-less existence.  Maybe we are just nervous because we’ve never done this before. Most probably though, the hesitation comes from a small worry that since the first half of the plan has turned out so beautifully that maybe the second half will be a flop and failure.

One way or the other, we are off on a new adventure.  We’ll button up this house – the tortoise is already at the neighbor’s hanging out with another tortoise friend named Percy Shelly and my potted plants and orchids are sitting happily in another neighbor’s garden to be nurtured until we return. We will get on a flight tomorrow and on Wednesday morning, my birthday in fact, we will  unbutton our little gypsy wagon and get ready to hit the road.  A new adventure is beginning!  Despite the fears and hesitations, I can’t wait to see what we are going to discover!

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