I don't know what it's like to "see the pyramids along the Nile". I've never visited Ireland, the birthplace of most of my ancestors. Neither have I walked on Roman streets or seen the Tower of London. I still hold out a faint hope to visit the Sydney Opera House (though I'll take a pass on the Outback). You see, I've never even had a passport. But I have had some humdinger vacations in my own country.
During high school, I saw Gatlinburg and Nashville, Tennessee, twice. Once was on chorus tour where we sang at various places en route. The other was with a group of Southern Baptist girls going to a retreat at Ridgecrest, North Carolina.
I got to go on a fishing trip with a college friend. We passed through the "twin cities" before we reached Sal's resort in the north. There I had the best luck fishing of anytime in my life.
While waiting to see the White House, I started remarking how my deceased father, the high school history teacher/guidance counselor, nee coal miner, would have loved to be with us. Then I remembered how he hated standing in line. Same goes for the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian.
Riding the streetcars of San Francisco and watching my older two children talk to Mickey Mouse at Disneyland seemed unbeatable.
As a single parent, tired to the depths from taking care of others, I took a Pressley tour through the south. It culminated in New Orleans where I got to sample Po' Boys and Gumbo, as well as jazz at Preservation Hall. It was wonderful to experience the atmosphere where music, not drink was the point and purpose. No alcohol was served there.
I've made several trips to Florida, especially the Tampa area. I even lived there the better part of a year. Epcot Center was great, as was Mt. Dora where I bought a quilt made in Missouri, a long-term home. Long Boat Key holds a special spot in my heart. It was one of the few places where I actually got to visit the beach. Perhaps Tarpon Springs is my favorite in that area. I like the boats along the coast. I tell myself that it gives a flavor of what a trip to Greece might bring.
We should not negate the fun and rest from many trips to Lake of the Ozarks where, as young marrieds, we owned a literal log cabin. There I found my second best fishing experience.
On Oahu, we did the Circle Island Tour where a native Hawaiian explained to us that we mainlanders couldn't pronounce muumuu. He said the only moo moos on the island were cows. The proper pronunciation, according to Lorne, is "moo oo, moo oo". He treated us to fried chicken breaded with pineapple juice rather than milk (yum) and showed us the best spot for surfing.
We safely skirted Pele's volcano and shopped in the International Marketplace. We bought souvenirs for others. I spent the money I had saved for my own favorite kind of souvenirs. I bought one ring in pink coral and a second made from one of Pele's tears, otherwise known there as the olivine. Here it is called a peridot.
We visited the beach. I heard my husband deliver a research paper to the American Psychological Association. I, as a faculty wife, attended more presentations than that APA member, who took time to visit a local dog handler. Their common bond was Afghan Hounds. I burst into tears in a restaurant upon hearing words of a song, "Baby, baby don't get hooked on me." Not for any normal reason either. My three year old son's rendition was "Baby, baby don't you pick on me." I was homesick for my kids. In fact, when I said I couldn't wait to board the plane and get back to them, one of my husband's colleagues called me a glutton for punishment.
But relating all of these wonderful experiences, there is no event more memorable than the following. We were aboard a tourist charter boat. The people nearest us were a John Wayne look-alike and an elderly lady who just oozed greatness, whoever she was. Her face showed every crack and crevice of a long eventful life. I was fascinated with her.
Yet, suddenly the atmosphere changed. There was a spiritual charge. The feeling was so strong that I felt the very presence of all those souls. The memories began to flood.
I heard an Orson Welles type voice announce, once more, "The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor." I saw my parents and grandparents scurrying around, speaking in hushed voices. I listened to President Roosevelt explain what had happened. I was, once again, in Junction City, Kansas, where my Father received his basic training at Fort Riley.
My Mother and brother and I were in that little trailer where we stayed so we could spend what might conceivably be the last minutes we would ever have with my Dad. I saw the landlady who let Mom use her oven to bake a pork roast and a chocolate cake for my little brother's third birthday. I heard the little guy going around the bustling town of Junction City, walking up to strangers saying "Hi. You don't know me. I'se Jimmy." I remembered myself singing Mares-e-doats (Mares eat oats) for a group of soldiers in a large hall; a mess hall, I guess. How could I forget it all in the presence of the souls of all those who lost their lives during that surprise attack so long ago? By this time you no doubt know that we were making our way toward the Arizona Memorial on Pearl Harbor.
December 7 is just around the corner. May we, during the Thanksgiving holiday, remember to thank those souls of World War II for sacrificing their lives in an attempt to protect our country, our values, our freedom. Let us thank all peacekeepers everywhere. For me there has been no greater sight to see or feeling to feel than what I experienced at the Arizona Memorial that day. It was the best tourist site ever.
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