Darger becomes Electric, DeKalb delicious

It took a good part of Wednesday morning to make my way from Joliet to the Chicago airport (I'm so glad I learned to drive in a really big city) and while I was waiting for Mac to emerge from the gate, I had the misfortune to stand in the wrong spot several times much to the distress of a couple of zealous TSA agents; but I managed to shrug it all off after I'd picked up my dear friend and the two of us had set off to spend some time together in the marvelous Midwest.

/

To further indulge the taste for Henry Darger that I had whetted while in Lincoln, we stopped at the Center for Intuitive and Outsider Art in the Cabrini Green area of Chicago.  I had stumbled upon a link to the Center's website while I was reading about Henry on Wikipedia and when I learned that the Center had the contents of Henry's Chicago apartment on display, I simply couldn't get there fast enough.  I hold a sort of hero worship for Darger and to be able to see the way he lived and the materials he used borders on sacred to me.

.

/ 

Precious little is known about Henry but the majority of the things that are known about him are a direct result of diligent efforts by his ex-landlords to preserve his life's work.  Henry worked in secrecy his entire life to produce a 15,000 page plus manuscript along with a multitude of paintings and drawings. And yet none of it was discovered until the day before his death in 1973.  Intuit worked with Henry's landlord to carefully preserve the contents of his tiny apartment.  The items were installed using photographs as a reference in order to meticulously reproduce the space where Henry had lived for 45 years.

.

Needless to say, I could write a book on Darger, but instead suffice it to say that I was thrilled when I got a chance to stand there and gaze into that man's life, musing all the while about the objects he'd chosen to surround himself with.  I especially liked seeing the framed newspaper article that hung on one of the walls, multiple images of a dark black tornado leaping from the page.  Tornadoes and other wild weather appears frequently in Henry's work and I find myself strongly drawn to those images in particular.

nm

Henry turned out volumes and volumes of writing during his lifetime, and if the little bit I've read is indicative, the text is mostly tedious, rambling and obscure.  But for me, seeing his typewriter was electric.  The experience that is, not the typewriter.

.

.

Mac and I enjoyed wandering around the Center and seeing the other two excellent exhibits that were on display.  I was on fire with creative energy by the time I walked out the door.

.

We headed on out of town, stopping at the Ellwood estate in DeKalb, a place that looked interesting and like it might provide a nice walk before dark.  I found a bottle that had a label on it that read, "Drink Me!" so I did.  That was shortly before they kicked me out of the house tour, but Mac managed to snap a picture before they ran me off the porch. 

.

After a few turns around the city of DeKalb we decided to stop for some dinner and thoroughly enjoyed the place that was recommended by a friendly passer-by.  After dinner, we drove on to Iowa City before stopping for the night - that way we'd have a reasonable drive to Des Moines the next day and would arrive fresh and ready to dish out plenty of attitude at the quilt show.   

In Your Own Front Yard

.

.

I had been so tired, so cranky and of such single purpose of mind the previous evening when I'd pulled into the Best Western in Lincoln, Illinois, it came as a complete surprise when I walked out the door of the motel the next morning and discovered the World's Largest Wagon (I am not kidding!) sitting right in front of the hotel.   Lincoln, Illinois, was named after Abraham Lincoln before he became president, back when he was merely a venerable lawyer for the region.  So naturally the world's largest covered wagon needed to include Abe, but in so doing sends a horrible message about the appropriateness of texting while driving [insert rim shot here - thanks for the wonderful punchline, Mac!] 

.

In reading about Lincoln Illinois on Wikipedia the previous evening, I'd stumbled upon a connection that I hadn't been aware of and was thrilled to discover: the outsider artist Henry Darger of whose work I am so fond spent most of his early formative years at the Lincoln Developmental Center (LDC); a state institution for the developmentally disabled founded in 1877.  I researched the LDC and it was just a few miles down the road, but it had been closed in 2002.  From what little is known about Henry Darger (say DAR-grrrrr), it sounds as though his childhood was extremely bleak, and most likely informed the ultra bizarre ideation that appears in his life's work.  I wondered if any of that flavor would remain in the very buildings he frequented and decided to take my chances trespassing and do a little driving around the grounds of the abandoned asylum. Unsurprisingly, what I could see without breaking and entering wasn't really all that compelling - mostly a lot of very old brick buildings with plywood nailed into the window sockets.  I saw several vehicles parked around the grounds, indicating to me that security guards or AHJs (Authorities Having Jurisdiction) were about and I didn't really have a good story about what I was doing there.

. 

I decided to instead fan out into the adjacent neighborhood and get a feel for the town itself and was immediately rewarded by finding a wonderfully creative Halloween display (please note bloody foot with tennis shoe at right).

Right next door sat a house where you wouldn't have been surprised to see Norman Bates strapped to the creepy chair on the front porch.  I didn't get the sense that the tenants had decorated for Halloween, either.

/

I headed out of town after a bit more meandering, following a grid of little county roads headed toward the town of Fairbury.  In one of the tiny towns along my route, I spotted a giant ball of string in a store window and stopped to photograph it.  The establishment was closed and offered no clue as to anything, really, so I asked a young gal that was busy smoking a cigarette in the doorway if she knew anything about the nascent roadway attraction featured in the window.  She shrugged and offered, "It belongs to my landlord.  He bought it awhile back and has displayed it several different places in town over the years and now it's ended up here."

"Do you happen to know how old it is or where it came from?" I queried hopefully, fishing for any little shred of useful information.

"Oh it's old, alright, but I don't have any idea  how old."  Not even a trace of curiosity in her voice.  As I headed back to my car, I wondered how on earth you could have a giant ball of string sitting in the front window of your building and not have pumped the landlord for all available details!  I guess it's because my sensibilities tend to be located out on the long thin taper of the bell curve.

After stopping for a late lunch of broasted chicken in Fairbury, I asked my vivacious waitress if she could tell me how to find the bouncy horses that were rumored to be about 3 miles out of town.  She posed the question to a trio of ball capped elders swilling coffee in the corner and one of them confirmed that it was indeed about 3 miles out of town and then paused and said, "You realize them horses ain't real, dont'cha?"  In my best Gloria Swanson voice I parried, "Do I really look to you like the sort of woman who would be out searching for real horses?"  The waitress cracked up and I felt the mettle of the roadside encounter rise in my blood.

Sure enough, when I was about 3 miles west of town on a lonely stretch of the blacktop, I spotted a row of plastic horses frozen in mid-leap, lined up in a single row in the middle of a corn field.  There were all sizes and shapes and most had come from those glorious toys that were around when I was a kid that allowed a rider to mount his or her valiant steed and rock raucously about on four huge springs. The little bit of story I could glean about the horses is that one of the steeds had mysteriously appeared one night many years ago, and then always under the cover of darkness, many more had joined the pioneer pony, one by one, over the years.   
/

'

I was once again reminded of the power of good art to inspire people long after the leap of faith that brings it into being has been made.  Did Stanley Marsh 4 ever envision that plastic horses would one day appear in a far off cornfield in Illinois in tribute to his marvelous gift to mankind, the Cadillac Ranch?  I doubt it.  Which makes his vision and determination all the more generous.

I drove west as the sun began to set, settling in Joliet (a southern suburb of Chicago) for the night so I'd be well situated to drive to O'Hare the next day and pick up my friend Mac.  We had trouble to get in to, after all, and it was about time to get started. 

Bucking the System

.

/

Before leaving Carbondale Monday morning I set out to find a house not far from my hotel, plopped right in the middle of a stolidly normal neighborhood near the college.  As you can see, it doesn't fit in with its surroundings very well and perhaps that's because it was built and inhabited by Mr. Buckminster Fuller while he taught at Southern Illinois University in the 1960s.

.

When I arrived, I spotted the familiar dome shape I expected right away, but was shocked to discover that the exterior was simply covered with a fabric tarp instead of glass or roofing.  I walked around to the driveway to get a closer look and when I saw that there weren't any cars or other signs of life, I decided to poke my head under the tarp and see just what was in there.

/

What I found was a homely little abode, not dissimilar in luxury to many I remember renting in my youth.  The roof was covered with a thick thatch of shingles which disguised the distinctive shape in an unpleasant way.  If someone in fact lived there, they weren't doing a very good job of keeping it up, but it looked more like it was being used as a guest house or meeting place.  Even with all my carping though, I always prefer that a place be gently used and humble rather than precious, glossy and well endowed.  The notion of some goofy student living in Bucky's old place seems far better to me than having docent tours led by the heritage society.  Which is, I have to say, rather hypocritical seeing as how I regularly reap the benefits wrought by diligent preservers of national treasures worldwide.  Maybe I was just grumpy because I was trying to put a good face on seeing Bucky's house look so forlorn.  Now that I think of it, the best use of the place would be a really good coffee shop where of course you could get little cookies called Bucky Balls to go with your steaming hot java.

.

Luckily  for me the morning was bright and clear and cool.  I drove away from Carbondale towards St. Louis on highways small enough that I could leave my window rolled down and enjoy the bracing air and vivid light.  I'd seen a tiny bit of fall color as I'd driven through Arkansas, but by now I'd migrated far enough north that signs were everywhere and every now and then I'd spot a magnificent tree in full regalia.

/

I made my way by hill and by dale to the northwestern corner of St. Louis to visit my dear friends the O'Donnells.  Ile Ann, Eugene and Shannon were there to greet me and after we sat at the kitchen table catching up a bit, the three of us girls decided to go off and have some late luncheon.  The meal was nice and tasty, but the best part of it was the lively conversation, which is part of every meeting with the O'Donnells.  I didn't tarry long after we returned to the house since I was eager to make it to Springfield or Bloomington by the end of the day.

.

I made a wide loop around St. Louis since it was rush hour and ended up hitting Springfield well after dark, searching eagerly for a Motel 6 sign on the horizon as I drove through town.  Before I knew it, I had been spat out on the other side of Springfield and without having seen a single sign for my favored lodging. As I drove along musing what I should do next, I suddenly found myself in hellish construction zone that wouldn't allow me to exit or turn around.  The barricades finally gave way about 20 miles north of Springfield and I was loathe to turn around and negotiate that nightmare again.  I called my roadside lodging wing man Mark and had him help me find a place to stay which ended up being in Lincoln, Illinois.  I had to drive a long way after exiting the freeway and it took three tries to get into the driveway because of more hellish construction, so I was tired and hungry and thirsty (yay, I'd even say dehydrated and hency very cranky) by the time I finished hauling my things to my second floor walk up room.  Tomorrow would be a day of meandering and that would be much more to my liking.  I should know the signs of pushing myself too far on too little fuel better by now, but they still sometimes sneak up and surprise me.

Pie for breakfast, pie for dessert

When I left Little Rock Sunday morning, I had one thing and one thing only on the brain: pie.  Pie for breakfast, in fact.  It was the fault of the wonderful website Roadfood (http://www.roadfood.com/) where I had learned that just off interstate 40 east of Little Rock in the tiny town of Devall's Bluff, Arkansas resides an enchantress of pie.

.

Mary Thomas gets up early every morning to make pies and bake them in a huge old fashioned black stove she got from a school that closed.  When the pies are all baked, she sits in her chair by the door of the little room that's attached to the kitchen where she works her magic and sells them to a steady stream of eager customers.  A hand written poster board above her head lists possibilities but regular customers seem to know to expect their choices to be limited to whatever's still left.  On Sundays, she told me, she usually takes it easy and doesn't bake or fry any pies - today I was just lucky, at least on the baked pie front.  She'd felt like it and had time so there were three flavors to choose from: chocolate, coconut and sweet potato. Hmmmmm.......!

We jawed on about all sorts of things, aching knees, grandchildren, photography, her granddaughter that works for CNN.  I welcomed the pleasant diversion since it gave me more valuable time to decide: chocolate, coconut or sweet potato?!?  It was no use, time wasn't going to help.  Alright then - sweet potato if I have to choose!  After fetching a box, Mary opened the tall door of an ancient icebox and extracted the just baked pie with one hand and guided it smoothly and gingerly into the waiting box with the other.  Just as she placed the cherished package in my hands, a trio of dapperly dressed men fresh from church pushed open the rickety screen door and the process began again.

Right across the street from Mary's pie shop is a barbecue place (where she used to work) called Craig's.  I stopped in and ordered some pork ribs to go, so I could have a picnic later when the mood struck me.  As I sat and waited for my order, it became clear that the only way I was going to enjoy the experience was if I was willing to turn the knob down from it's usual setting of ruthless city girl efficiency to a more laid back got all day country girl level. In the meantime, I amused myself by watching the steady stream of locals that stopped by to pick up grease spotted brown paper bags filled with lunch of various sorts.  At long last the Styrofoam clam shell holding my bright orange pork ribs appeared and I set off down the highway to find a nice spot where I could indulge in the ancient sport of separating meat from bone in the pursuit of nutrition.

I chose a classic rest area, one which had a number of shaded picnic tables fanning out from the main drive.  It was nice and quiet except for the soft roar of the nearby interstate and the sound of the breeze moving through the trees, which made the day feel distinctly fall-like.  I ate the ribs, one by one, thinking deeply on how they compared to those found in my home town.  Well, they weren't shabby exactly, but they sure couldn't hold a candle to what I was used to back home.  Silly midwesterners - I think they must put Twizzlers in their barbecue sauce!  Twizzlers and paprika.  That's what makes it spicy.

I really liked the vibrant orange color of the grease against the white Styrofoam and so began indulging my picture taking urges.  While I worked to get the composition and lighting just right, a gorgeous blue butterfly fluttered down onto the table at my feet, braving a fierce breeze to investigate the orangey scene of carnage.  From experience I knew to just go ahead and take a picture right away because time was of the essence and sure enough by the time I had stooped down to try and take a close up shot, the wind had blown the poor creature on its way.

After lunch, I got back in the car and hunkered down to put some miles under me since I was due in Carbondale, Illinois by early evening to have dinner with my dear friend Joan.  I chose tedious interstate driving to make time, but found to my relief that I was more than amused by the variety of signs I kept encountering.  For example, one billboard I saw proclaimed the road I was travelling on to be the "Highway to Hell Yeah!" Not long after that, I saw an 18 wheeler go by headed the other way on the interstate that had "Jesus is Lord" printed in huge two foot font arcing across the side of the container.  Underneath, in smaller, fancier script, the sentence continued emphatically: "NOT a curse word!"  There were plenty of unusual sights to entertain me all the way to Carbondale, including nonstop fields of cotton in various stages of harvest.  The puffy white fibers looked lovely against the backdrop of cotton ball clouds that dotted the sky.

I joined my friend Joan for some delicious dinner at a little vegetarian cafe in Carbondale (university in town=quirky food usually available).  Joan is one of those glorious friends that I can neglect to see or talk to for years and years but it never keeps us from just picking right back up where we left off when next we finally meet.  We caught each other up on what had been happening in our lives and compared the progression of gray hair on both our heads.  I experienced a feeling of comfort when I recognized that this is one of the ways that aging looks.

I bid Joan goodnight and retired to my room at the budget motel to get some writing done.  Later in the evening, I sliced a generous wedge of the ruddy brown pie from the round, the faintest scent of cinnamon reaching my nostrils as I pulled the triangle from the pie plate.  It was incredible.  Dense but not heavy, light but not flavorless.  The crust was masterful - flaky with plenty of body and taste of toasted flour.  Every time I took a  bite, a pleasant and mysterious flavor lingered on my lips after the morsels of sweet potato had dissolved away.

Thank you Mary, for making such marvelous pie and thank you life, for letting me find it.

El Regio Rustico

For breakfast on Saturday, I conquered the glossy red candy apple I'd insisted on bringing back from the Fair the previous evening and it was a delicious mess.  Free lipstick!  I topped it off with a tasty cup of coffee from the hotel lobby (remarkable!) and the five of us were soon checked out and headed over to Fort Worth to visit the Meteorite Museum at TCU.  I'd made a previous visit and was determined to share this little jewel of a museum with my pals since we were in the vicinity.  We made a quick but thorough tour, and then I left my cohorts to return to Austin while I myself cut a wide berth around the Cotton Bowl and high-tailed it northeast toward Little Rock.

I wanted to reach Little Rock well before dark so I could tour two parks on the north side of the city that I'd read about.  Both settings contain concrete sculptures by one Dionicio Rodriguez, a gentleman I'll call El Regio Rustico, because I love an alliteration.

Dionicio Rodriguez was born in 1891, in Talupa, a town not far from Mexico City. He came to the United States at the behest of a doctor in San Antonio that appreciated his artistry and seems to have had no trouble getting commissions for work all around the United States in the ensuring years.  There are several sites in Arkansas that feature Dionicio's work and I had plotted out two in north Little Rock to go by and investigate.

Footbridge, Old Mill Park, Little Rock, Arkansas

Dionicio's style is referred to as "faux bois" (say: foe-bwah) if you want to be all fancy and French or "rustico/trabajo rustico" (say: roo-stee-coe) if you want to get regional.  One way or another, it's sloshing concrete on wire forms and making it end up looking like a real honest to goodness tree.  Dionicio seems to have been the undisputed master of shaping and patterning cement like wood and apparently he protected his crown by working secretively out of the trunk of his car, hiding his ingredients and removing the labels so no one would know what he used.

Bench and railing, Old Mill Park, Little Rock, Arkansas

My first stop was the Old Mill Park in North Little Rock, Arkansas which contains one of the most extensive and varied collections of Rodriguez' work anywhere in the United States.   The focal point of the park is a replica of an old grist mill, made entirely of cement (again, to look like wood) right down to the wood grain on the rafter beams and the shine like polished wood of the cement floor timbers.  It's such a quaint little setting that in 1939, the exterior of the mill was filmed and added to the opening credits of the movie "Gone With the Wind" as an icon of the old South.

.

As I roamed over the paths and stairways and bridges of the park, a loud rustle sounded from the leafy canopy overhead heralding the arrival of a cool front.  Leaves of brown and gold rained down into the tawdry turquoise water of the ponds surrounding the Mill, making for a gorgeous palette with the ruddy orange of the iron rich dirt.  I can only surmise that the caretakers had made an ill advised attempt to beautify the color of the water, and this unnatural hue was the result. 
.

At the far end of the park sits a marvelous footbridge that is dotted with little faux cacti along the top and festooned with hand shaped stalactites on the underside.  It's a blast to scramble over with its giant fake log hand rails and jungle gym style footpath.  As I crossed over to the other side, snapping pictures furiously, two teen aged girls with wide eyes stammered, "Ma'am...I like your hay-uhr!"  That they had summoned their courage to say so was both apparent and appreciated. 

.

When I'd had my fill of the Old Mill, I dashed back to the car and hurried over to nearby Lakeshore Park so I could see a few more of Dionico's works before I lost the light.  There were two pieces there I especially liked - one is the gazebo, for lack of a better descriptor, at right - a hollow log shelter with a lovely pair of curved benches inside for sitting and gazing out the knot holes.  While I was busy snapping pictures, a young boy scrambled up the side and plopped onto the recessed roof, the best backyard fort ever.  I asked him if he had any idea how old the tree was, that it was older than he might think and he replied, "I dunno - from the 70s???" like that was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, or something.

>  

.

.

The other piece I particularly liked was a palapa that arched over a set of snaking tree roots.  The detailing on the piece is so exquisite - the man was definitely a master of texture and line.  It made me giggle a little to see a palapa in Arkansas - I liked that Dionicio had brought a bit of the border to this literal neck of the woods.

A single brief flash of golden orange shown in the sky before the sun slipped below the horizon.  As I walked back to my car, whorls of cool air wafted leaves and other debris past me, off into the encroaching dark of evening.  I got back in my car just long enough to locate a nearby Motel 6 which conveniently featured an adjacent Waffle House.  I was too beat to do anything fancy for dinner, and my waiter rewarded me with the crispiest set of hash browns I've ever eaten in a restaurant. Yes sir, I was living large in Little Rock!

A Fair to Remember

.

.

When I started plotting my latest adventure, it quickly became apparent that I'd be heading out by way of Dallas on my journey north.  Fortuitously, the State Fair of Texas (which I'd somehow never managed to attend) would be in full swing during my visit.   I decided to recruit Mark, Erin, Dave and Dan to join me at the fair and plied them with tantalizing mentions of pig races, deep fried delicacies and miniature donkeys. All four readily agreed to join me as guests of Big Tex.

  

 Dave found a wonderful place for us to stay, which was no small feat seeing as how it was UN-fortuitously the weekend of the big University of Texas/Oklahoma football game.  Dave was able to get us rooms at the swanky Belmont Hotel, a picturesque 1950s motor court perched high on an urban hillside that commands a sweeping view of downtown Dallas.  Shortly after arriving, we were ensconced on the chaise longues alongside the pool sipping cocktails and marvelling at the sumptuous view - the perfect preparation for the onslaught of the fair.  I say onslaught because the entire thing is enormous, so much so that the Cotton Bowl stadium fits easily in the middle of the whole fray.  Still, we were intrepid fun lovers, and by early afternoon had wrangled a cab to take us directly to the front gates like Dorothy and her friends, fresh from the poppy fields.

.

You won't be surprised to learn that one of the chief attractions at the State Fair is the diverse culinary smorgasbord , but what will surprise you is the creativity exhibited by some of the contestants in the deep frying category.  Some of the dishes have even become legendary.  Take fried butter for example.

See how innocent it looks?  Just like little doughnuts!  Fortunately, there were five of us to help mitigate portion size, thereby avoiding the full brunt of an entire order on any one person.  The fried butter was wonderful - a crispy doughnut hole with a pocket of buttery goodness deep inside.  It was readily apparent, however, that one was pretty much more than enough.,

.

Next up - fried BACON!  I'd sampled chicken fried bacon some time ago in the tiny town of Snook, Texas, but had been decidedly disappointed in the results.  I'm pleased to report that this version of fried bacon repaired my diminished hope and renewed my flaming desire.  Absolutely delicious!  I attribute the improvement to starting with a good thick slice of bacon and coating it with a crumb style batter (instead of a greasy sheen of flour). Erin and Dan relished their porcine planks playfully:  

,

.

About that time is when the deep fried free-for-all got out of hand and there were suddenly tasty morsels appearing from every direction:

/

Texas Tornado Twisters (i.e., foot long potato chips)

Dave honed in on the fried Snickers bar 

Mark selected fried Oreos (one of my favorites)

and I couldn't resist fried caramel apple.

/

I will now engage in what I'll call literary cinema by combining the above pictures with the one below:

.

.<

Yes my friends, the State Fair of Texas is also about pigs.  With the whiff of fried bacony goodness still fresh on our collective lips, we strolled the alleys of the Swine Pavilion in order that we might pay abeyance to this fine animal.  We even happened upon a backstage area where nervous owners and their prize pigs waited in line for their one minute spot on the auction block.  The pigs were all gussied up to look their best and make the most favorable impression on potential buyers.  The kids tending the pigs were even more gussied up with new boots and jeans, french braids and enormous belt buckles.  One gal even had a festive pig necklace that I couldn't resist photographing:

.

.

After we'd had a good look at the rows and rows of pens full of porky pulchritude, we took front row seats in the Swine Arena so we'd be up close for the pig races.  They were every bit as corny and ridiculous as you might imagine, but we enjoyed every minute of them.

.

Next it was off to the midway for some gaudy entertainment.  Dave got starry eyed watching the flight of fearless souls careening through the air in a wire harness high above the festival grounds and by the time we had made our way to the ticket booth for said attraction, he had even somehow managed to talk Erin into riding along with him and Dan.  It was really pushing the envelope for Erin and I'm pleased to report that she was extremely brave.  First, all three had to don festive aprons and get hooked into the contraption.  Then, they were yanked way up in the heavens, what I'd guess was about 100 feet up in the air (that's them - that little speck near the top of the spindle in the middle of the photo below right) and then Dan was in charge of unceremoniously yanking the rip cord that would send all three of them plunging in an enormous arc into the starry night.  I didn't hear a peep as they swooshed over my head and were flung halfway to the enormous Ferris wheel on the other side of the park.

/

.

Dave, Dan and Erin are the small speck on the right in the photo below.  The speck on the left is an airplane on approach to DFW.  And you thought I was exaggerating about the distance!

.

/

After the three astronauts had landed, we circulated about the midway a bit more until we recognized collectively that we'd finally reached our limit.  We summoned the pleasant driver who'd toted us over to the park and she had us whisked back to our cute little hotel in no time.

/

Curiously, even though we had sampled all those amazing State Fair tapas, we all seemed to be hungry.  Luckily for us, the hotel runs a wonderful restaurant directly adjacent, a place called simply, Smoke.  We had all sorts of fancy delicacies, with ingredients as diverse as fois gras, pork jowl bacon and fried squash blossoms (because it isn't just at the State Fair that we Texans love our fried foods).  Dinner was delicious and this photo of our tabletop aftermath pretty much tells the story: 

.

/

After dinner, we repaired to the front porch of our rooms and chatted about the day's surprises, compared delights.  The Dallas skyline glowed in the distance as a cool breeze blew over our aching frames.  We'd put some miles on us on this glorious day.  Some miles and some calories!/

.

 

.

I'm sure I must sound like a broken record, but I feel compelled to say it again, my what a wonderful life.