Growing up, my sister and I had a “Happy Place”: Grandma and Grandpa Ricketts’ trailer at The End of the Road in Anglers Paradise. Every Easter, our family took the 2 1/2 days drive from Charleston W.Va. to Bonita Springs Florida to get there.

The adventure always started with Dad packing the car, but “packing the car” doesn’t do the event justice. It was much more intense than just putting the suitcases in the trunk. It was the stand off between the US and the USSR during the Cuban Missle Crisis, it was Bobby Fischer concentrating on the chess board. It was a headline in the Charleston Gazette that read “DAD PACKS CAR PERFECTLY OR WE DON”T GO”.

It was the only time in my life I ever heard my Dad cursing. He never used anything stronger than a Damn! It was usually “Dern Ninny” or something of the sort, but said with the tone of voice that meant “Do you want to go to Florida? Then let me pack.”

It was a time way before Google Maps so Dad used a trip tik from the Auto Club to get us there. Every year. Even though we ususally took the same route. It was an easy flip map with the route highlighted. Mom held it, but there were some mild arguments along the way as to how she was reading it. I liked flipping the pages to see how many more to go.

We stayed in motels along the way. A once disappearing breed, that has made a comeback, motels were usually a single story with your own entrance.

There were few amenities: no business center, no gym, and no continental breakfast. If we were lucky, however, there was a pool. This was a huge plus, unless of course, it was too cold to use it.

It was in one of these motels in Padukah, Kentucky, where my sister and I found a note outside our door, in a spent firework casing. “I think you two sure are purdy”. We were probably 9 and 12 and should have been mortified but I took it as a compliment and held on to that hillbilly love note for a year to study it for clues. What if he was a cute 13 year old boy and maybe we belonged together but I would never know.? Or maybe one day, many years from now, we would randomly meet at a college mixer and he would say “I am the one who left you that note, and you are just as purdy today.”

My sister and I made mixed cassette tapes to listen to along the way. To this day, when I hear Elton John sing Philadelphia Freedom, I am sweating in the back of a beige volkswagon bug with my sister and our beagle Penny on the dividing line.

My sister, Missy and I always split the back seat. We each had a side and there was trouble if you crossed over the imaginary line. Tempers flared sometimes on these long hot drives, and boundaries were pushed. “She’s on my side!” Then Bogus Threats were made from the front seat, “We will turn this car around, I swear to you!” and we usually calmed down.

Penny rode part of the trip in the space behind the back seat that we called the well. It got hot in the well so she would jump over and sit with us in the back seat, which made it more crowded. No one wanted to ride in the well, but it seemed a logical fix to me that my sister should ride part of the way in the well and let Penny and I spread out for a bit. She has never been that gullible since. Ever.

Along the way there were billboards for such things as SEE ROCK CITY or WEEKI WACHEE MERMAIDS, CYPRESS GARDENS , SUNKEN GARDENS or the ever popular ALLIGATOR FARM. We had no interest in anything but getting to Grandmas. Mom and Dad even offered to stop at Disney World one year and we just moaned. Bonita Beach was our Disneyworld.

The Big milestones were crossing state lines: Welcome to “North Carolina, The Nation’s Most Military Friendly State”, now entering “South Carolina, Smiling Faces, Beautiful Places” Leaving Georgia “Ya’all come back now, ya hear?” . Leaving Georgia meant we were now in Florida! Near Orlando we could start smelling orange blossoms and see a palm tree or two and we knew we were close. Here and there were the small souvenier stands selling little shell people playing bongos, sand dollar necklaces, little glass bottles of sand, mother of pearl windchimes and little orange shaped bottles of orange blossom perfume.

Then finally, what seemed like a journey across the Great plains in a covered wagon, we were turning in to Angler’s Paradise Trailer Park. We made it!

It never changed much, the many years we visited. We passed the docks where the small fishing boats were kept and the fish gutted and cleaned, passsed the rows of well kept trailers surrounded by green lawns, palm trees, and gardenia bushes, passed what looked like a jungle on one side and the Imperial River on the other, to the driveway at Grandmas.

In our Happy Place we could chase Armadillos at night, and pet the barnacled backs of manatees in the river by day. I remember waking up so excited for the day because it could bring anything! And it always included the beach and the River and my Grandparents.

Grandpa had a little fishing boat named the Sari Du. We donned our padded orange

life vests nicknamed Mae Wests while Grandpa, bigger than life, like Ernest Hemmingway, deftly manuevered The Sari Du along The Imperial River through mangrove islands and back waters, amongst trees dripping with Spanish Moss, spotting turtles, and the occasional alligator.

He seemed to know everything about the ocean, including the names of every shell.

He taught me how to bait a hook, catch and clean a fish. Grandma bought us orange blossom perfume and made us sundaes with peppermint stick ice cream and hot fudge sauce. She made sure we wore sunblock and never let us go outside between the hours noon and two.

The trailer park was mostly Snow Birds, retired people who spent winters in Florida

and summers at the family home up north in Ohio or Michigan. They spent their days riding their 3 wheeled bikes around, chatting to each other about this that and the other thing. The ladies all wore sundresses, showing off those lovely grandma arms, and the men wore bermuda shorts, no shirts and either a fishing cap from Master Bait and Tackle or a panama hat.

We spent our mornings at the gulf, toes in the sand, or riding our floaties out to the sandbar with Dad. Afternoons were spent on the screen porch or watching The Guiding Light with Grandma. Evenings were out to fancy dinner or to Doc’s Beach house for clam strips and a sunset.

I have traveled the world and have fallen in love with many beautiful places, but to this day, none compare. It was a time in my life I will always cherish.

Two years ago, while visiting our parents in Estero Bay, Florida, my sister and I returned to our Happy Place. We turned off Bonita Beach Road onto Imperial and drove to the end.

The trailer park was no more. Someone bought the land to build condos but never did.

A fence surrounded the area but the small harbour and docks remained, and through the tall grass, we could see foundations of what once would have been a screened in porch or lanai. We could see the ghosts of the residents riding the 3 wheeled adult tricycles, walking up to get the mail in the communal mailbox, or bringing a boat in with a catch of the day.

The river looked the same, windng it’s way into the jungle, oblivious to the million dollar homes that had cropped up on the opposite side of the river.

In some ways, it was perfect. Maybe one day it would disappear into jungle again. More likely, it would become Imperial Manor, a subdivision of fancy vacation houses used by the wealthy once a year.

But for now, our memories were intact here at The End of The Road in our Happy Place.

For a brief moment, I wished I had taken one of those Young at Heart Tours, promising adventure for the over 50 set, with everything planned, from transportation to meal times to tour guides. It would be nice not to have to think. I could relax a little and go with the flow. Eventually, however, on an 8 hour bus ride in the middle of the night, my bus buddy would start complaining about the air conditioning, Mr Businessman from Milwuakee would be on his phone the whole time, and Miss Yoga Teacher from California would start complaining about the lack of gluten free food options, and I would wish I was on my own.

Like now. In Vrindivan. Looking for Krishna's Garden.

I had heard about the mythical garden many times and had set out from my air conditioned room at the Tara Palace to brave the sweltering mid day heat of India to find it. I walked through the busy market place, past the stalls of colorful sari's and the men beckoning with “Best price!” I hurried past the stall with the sad chickens cramped into little cages. The butcher, a woman with no teeth and a blood splattered apron, looked at me and smiled, as she plucked the feathers from a dead chicken.

After 20 minutes of wandering, I felt the panic creep in. The narrow streets all seemed to lead back into each other and I was trapped in this maze, overwhelmed by the smells of curry and cow dung. I stopped at a stall to buy a cold bottle of Pani.

“New bottle? Never opened?” I asked.

“No madam, never opened. Good for Westerners.”

I held the cold bottle of water against my forehead and felt the coolness before cracking it open.

Relax, I told myself. Take a deep breath. This is another experience. Being present. Getting lost. All good.

India was a challenge to be sure, and sometimes it took all my courage just to walk out of my hotel. I had no map, and no real agenda, just a desire to see Krishnas Garden. I had always enjoyed wandering, but this felt different. Between the oppressive heat and my internal anxiety, it was getting harder to breathe.

I was lost.

I looked up and there she was again, the Happy Butcher with her dead chickens and the sad ones waiting for the knife. It broke my heart. Maybe this search wasn't worth it. I was losing my will.

“Madame, I can take you.” A man appeared out of the shadows, hunched over like a question mark, his black hair slicked back with a pint of Argan oil. He had dark skin and dark eyes. He wore a sweat stained light blue cotton shirt with all but 2 buttons missing, dusty brown pants and no shoes.

“Madame, I am here to take you to Krishna's Garden.”

“What?!” I stammered. “How did you? I mean what makes you think? Um.. I don't have any rupees...” I said defiantely.

I was tired of haggling and getting scammed and swindled and not about to let it happen again. So I laid down the law.

“No, madame, no rupees, let me show you. I am Mohan your guide.”

It took me a minute to gather my wits. This was an amazing coincidence or small miracle, or was it? I had been to India before and considered myself a savy budget traveler. People were really poor here and sometimes desperate. When they saw a Westerner it meant money. And the word “guide” usually meant parting with rupees.

But I had also expereienced the flip side of that coin and I also knew their kindness and warmth. And I really wated to see Krishnas Garden. I took it as a sign and took a chance.

“Okay, but nahi rupees. I mean it.” I said with as much authority as I could muster.

“No madame, just follow Mohan.”

He lead me down a narrow street that opened into a plaza. At the far end of the plaza was an old temple. The Babas, in their orange turbans, lined the steps, silver pails in hand, waiting to be served the afternoon meal of daal and roti. Monkeys paced back and forth on the wall behind them. Naughty Bandars. The Babas would feed them and the monkeys would steal the left overs.

“This way, please.” Mohan made a quick right and there it was.

Krishna's Garden. I felt a small sense of pride in that I had been so close on my own.

“Madame, shoes please.” Mohan pointed to the shoe rack.

There was a handpainted sign written in Hindi and English above the turnstile entrance asking for an entrance fee. One price for Indians and higher price for tourists. Mohan took me by the hand and waved to the man at the entrance.

“No fee,” Mohan said and the man waved us on.

“Welcome to Krishna's home!” Mohan said reverently. “Late at night, when there are no people in the garden, Krishna comes to dance with his Gopis.”

We followed a dusty path that lead between a forest of gnarled leafless cypress trees. This was not what I had expected. I had pictured a lush green garden with peacocks and waterfalls. Still, there was something magical about this dusty little forest. If I squinted my eyes , and looked at the trees long enough, I could almost imagine them dancing like Krishnas Gopis.

Mohan lead me to a shrine. A young Indian boy sat in lotus position in front of the open door. The Gate Keeper. He pointed to the donation basket at his feet.

"Madame must respect Krishna," Mohan said.

I fumbled in my travel satchel, donated a few rupees. and was invited to look inside the room. It was brightly painted in blue and gold, and in the center was a large bed with a lavish satin bed spread. Mohan came up behind me and whispered in my ear.

“This is where Krishna and Radha meet at night to, you know.....” He smiled mischeviously and started pressing his palms together.

“Oh, yes, yes, I get it,” I said uncomfortably, wishing he would stop.

“This is where they make the sex.” Mohan grinned.

“Yes, I got it the first time. Thank you, Mohan. Well, this has been lovely. Thank you so much.”

I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable and decided now would be a good time to make my exit.

“Snap, Madame? Photo?”

“Oh yes, please, that would be great,” because there is always time for a picture.

I covered my head with an orange prayer shawl and stood smiling in front of Krishna's sex palace while Mohan took my picture.

“You want to stay with Mohan in the garden for a little while and see what happens?”he joked.

“No! I mean, you've been so nice, thank you, but I have to go” I said.

I grabbed my camera and headed for the exit. Mohan caught up to me and jumped in front of the exit turnstile.

“Madame is unhappy with Krishna's Garden?”

“No, it's been great.”

“Madame are you unhappy with Mohan?”

“No. Not at all. You have been so lovely and I am grateful. But I thought I made myself clear at the beginning, that I was not going to pay any rupees.”

He held out his hand, palm up.

“Madame, you needed a guide and Mohan appeared. Be grateful for who comes to you, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

I looked at his dirty clothes, his bare feet and she thought about what his life must be like. Maybe he had a wife and kids, maybe he wanted to go to school, maybe he had no home to go to except a straw mat outside the garden, maybe he was just trying to make a buck, or maybe he was a scoundrel.

Damn! Damn! Damn! I softened, opened my back pack and handed him 300 rupees, barely four US dollars. He stepped aside and we passed through the turnstile. I slipped into my dusty sandals and turned to Mohan one more time. He bowed his head, hands in prayer, and said,

“Namaste.”

The Light in me, sees the light in you.

“Namaste” I said.

He walked across the plaza, and slipped into the shadows, ready to appear to the next lost tourist as the magical guide Mohan.

Tatiana wrapped in a pink down comforter, in front of Public Storage, listening to classical music

Riding a super small wave on my big foamy board and feeling on top of the world

Palm trees bending into an unforgiving wind

Toothy smiles on big blue pitbull faces

The whoosh of skateboards passing by

Snakeman in his speedo, wearing red devil horns

Harry Perry on skates, turban on his head, amplifier on his back

My 3 year old son, swinging in the sandy park screaming “There’s imagination in my penis!”

A family of ducks crossing Venice boulevard

Tiny crabs hunker down as waves crash over the rocks

An orange canoe tied to a dock in the canals

Pink hair, blue hair, turquoise, and chrome,

Johnny Chronic in his wheelchair with a sign that says “Will Work for Weed”

A warm vegan burrito for a homeless man

3 Tombstones buried under an apartment on Riviera Street

V13s and the Shoreline Crips, the staccato pop of gunfire from the Hood

Dennis Hopper in Boys Market at 1 Am with 3 containers of Yoplait Strawberry yogurt in his shopping cart.

Blue cocktails and salsa dancing at Marcellas house at sunset on Horizon

Staying up all night at Hot Cuts Hair Salon, drinking brandy and cutting hair

Regretting blue hair in the morning

Artists and writers and freak shows and buskers

Roller skating on acid, on the bike path, 4th of July, Bam, whiz, Crack crack crack! showers of color and trails of light, whoosh, whoosh, shoosh, “We are going so fast!” yelled Catherine.

We weren’t.

Jim Morrison, forever young and sexy, painted on a wall

The #5 plate, fried, with churros and onion rings

The pop pop pop of the paddle ball courts

An early morning paddle out in the fog, for a fallen homie, ashes scattered, flowers in the water his name and image graffitied on a wall

Longboards on the sand, wet suits and zinc oxide

H.O.T. House of Terriyaki Donut, best breakfast in town.

Crack heads in the alley, police chopper overhead

Fred Ward locked out on his balconey

Warm nights, drinking tequila, skinny dipping in the ocean

Seagulls stealing peanut butter sandwiches and bags of chips

Dolphins so close you can see their eyes

Blue green water, still like a lake, and clear to the ocean floor

Richard in his green Chevy Blazer parked behind Golds gym, reading The Untethered Soul”

Tony, the homeless mechanic, tools scattered on the street, fixing my car door

A red naugahyde booth at LA Cabana at 2:30 AM

Fresh sourdough bread from Pioneer Boulangerie

The smell of urine and trash and insence

A white beach cruiser named Floyd.

Pumpkin, the orange cat, in her silver airstream cat trailer

Ray Rae and Jimmy Hendrix

5 AM, dark and quiet, first surfers in the water

Monster waves, from a dark grey angry ocean knocking the bathroom off the pier

Robes of orange twirling, dancing, “Hare Krishna Hare Hare”

Tourists and gypsies, runaways and addicts

Venice

The New Delhi airport was not the Indira Ghandi Airport it is today, with beautiful golden mudra statues greeting you as you enter the arrival hall. It was hot and dusty and oh, so crowded. And the minute you stepped outside, you entered another world. “Madam, best price.” “Madam, you have taxi?” Bodies pressed forward on my best friend Brandon and me, like paparazzi on a celebrity. The smell of sweat and hair oil was everywhere. It was oppressive and you needed the patience and fortitude of St Joan to get through it without yelling at someone or just laying down to die. We had been warned, however, and I had done my research, and knew to look for the “Pre Paid” taxi booth. This was an oasis for the Westerner as it was one price. There was no haggling and it was usually the cheapest option. Brandon’s eyes were as big as saucers as we lurched forward with dwindling confidence. Finding the Pre Paid Booth was like finding the fountain of youth. Luckily, an Indian doctor who had been on our plane, and had seen our confusion, offered to guide us to the booth. The whole thing was amusing him. Minutes ago, I was self assured and strong and not going to be swayed by aggressive rick shaw drivers. Now, already beaten down and near tears, I was more than happy to appear the helpless woman with gay friend close behind.

It was 3 AM when we finally got in the taxi. We had vague directions to my friends apartment in an area called Greater Khalish. The sky had the eeriest golden glow, like the fog of old London, where figures and shapes moved, came into view, then disappeared like specters. This mystical fog, as it turned out, was air pollution and Delhi is one of the most polluted cities in the world. It smells like wood smoke everywhere and it stings your eyes. I was shocked to see people squatting in abandoned hotel lobbies or apartment complexes stoking fires to cook or keep warm.

The driver assured us he knew the address I gave him, however when we got to Greater Khalish, he became unsure. It seemed the gated community had several entrances, none of which seemed to be opened at this hour. I did not have a phone and had no way to contact my friend, Amreen. We circled around for about a half an hour. A low level panic had started to sink in, until finally we found one guard shack opened. The driver gave him the address. The guard looked in at us for a long minute, then waved us on. Whew! We made it. However, we could not find her house number and the driver had no idea where he was going. (Tuk Tuk rides and getting lost in India are some of my best memories). From a process of elimination we narrowed it down to one or two buildings with no visible numbers in between buildings of similar numbers. The driver let us off and then was gone. We were scarily on our own. If this was indeed the correct building, Apt 3 was on the top floor. We dragged our things up the stairs, (There was no elevator) and debated about ringing a doorbell or knocking or just waiting until a decent hour. It was 4:00AM.

We were both already bedraggled from just that cab ride and a little intimidated by Delhi. I rang the bell and we waited. No one came for a little bit, but I didn’t want to ring again. What if this was the wrong place? I didn’t know how to apologize in Hindi. Then a young woman answered the door and stared at us. “Hi, Namaste. Does Amreen live here? I am her friend from America.” She stared at us and then looked inside the apartment . She clearly didn’t know if she should let us inside or not. Then Amreen, sleepy eyed, appeared behind her and said “You’re here! Come in!” The lovely girl opened the door, I introduced Brandon to Amreen, hugs all around, and we were shown our room. We walked through the kitchen and noticed a straw mat in the corner of the dining area where a young child was sleeping, the daughter of the girl who let us in. “Are we taking her room?” I asked. I felt bad. “No, she and her daughter sleep on the mat. Shiobana is from my village and came here to be my cook.” It took me awhile to wrap my head around that, but, I later learned, it was an opportunity for the young woman and her daughter to be in the city as a cook, earning money on her own, in the protection of Amreen. Sleeping on a straw mat on the floor was what she was used to. Brandon and I took the lovely room with huge bed and attached bathroom with a shower. In a matter of minutes, Shiobana brought us a tray with chai, steamed milk, biscuits and a candle. It was heaven. There is nothing like that first cup of chai when you get to India.

The first book I remember was “The Little Engine That Could”, and thanks to Watty Piper, aka Arnold Munk, “I think I can” is a mantra that has served me well in life.

Books have been my guides, my friends, and my escape hatch. They have lifted me up, made me laugh and cry, or taken me on a journey I could never have imagined ( Aldous Huxley and “A Brave New World”). A good story opens my mind and I am always a bit sad to read that last page. On the other hand books like “In The Spirit of Crazy Horse” showed me a history I had never learned in school. It made meangry. It was, at times, painful to read, but I still couldn’t put it down. It motivated me to become an activist.

Looking back, stories have been signposts of where I was, where I wanted to be, and where I was going. Like a favorite song, I can remember where I was, physically or emotionally, when I read them. I read “A New Earth” by Eckhart Tolle while traveling in Greece with my best friend. “The Art of Happiness” by The Dalai Lama was given to me at a time when I felt empty and adrift with no real faith or spiritual practice to hold on to. I felt Milan Kundera was speaking to me personally in “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” and, although I had not lived a life like any of the three main characters, I had been in love, and known loss. I knew heartache and longing. Was there such a thing as a soul mate? Can you be in love with more than one person at a time?

I also love picking up a book that goes against “the rules” like Kerouac’s “On The Road.” Basically a stream of consciousness with a lot of alcohol, it reminded me of my Bohemian days when I was living as an artist and could pick up and go (and drink like a fish BTW).

I read “Out of Africa” and “West to The Night” back to back, and dreamt of being an adventurous woman. Years later I found myself, in Africa, on an ultra light, flying over the Luwangwa Valley in Zambia, feeling the euphoria that Karen Blixen or Beryl Markham must have felt.

Did my reading of these books shape my life in some way? Perhaps not concsiously, but I feel each one showed me that anything is possible. When you are writing, anything is possible. But it’s also true in life. We just forget.

And now, at the age of 60 I have a new favorite. “Lincoln in the Bardo”. I was so moved by Lincoln and the true accounts of those close to him, and I loved the humor; the spirits whose most noticable characteristics in the afterlife were what had weighed them down in life. It’s a beautiful story reminding me that life is precious. Don’t get weighed down.