Showing posts with label Google Maps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Google Maps. Show all posts

06 August, 2012

Southern Jaunt: More of the Name Game / Of Anachronistic Cartography

We make trials of ourselves and invite men and women to hear - Walt Whitman

It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to. - W.C. Fields

hic sunt dracones. - Old Cartographer Shorthand for "We Have No Fucking Clue What's Here."


A redemptive rain fell over the weekend, potentially wiping out several weddings -- but to anyone paying attention, the Earth moaned like a woman in the throes of an long delayed orgasm. A friend here in town, whose garden was struggling so much she and her husband were debating whether to quit watering it or not has reported that the garden has exploded since the rain. I was sitting out on the Front porch at Dave and Julie's yesterday, smoking my pipe, and heard one of the neighbors actually mowing his lawn. I was pretty sure there still wasn't anything to mow, but gawd love him, he felt the urge anyway.

Growing up, I had a neighbor like that, Mr. Foster. He would mow his lawn every few days, manicuring down to the dust during the driest years. I understand from my brother that one of  the Foster daughters -- WHO I DID NOT, I repeat, DID NOT peep on while she was sunbathing in a bikini --  has bought the ranch style house we grew up in. And though Mr. Foster has been dead for a while, his widow continues on in the house, probably not mowing nearly as much or messing up neighbor kid's attempts to sing along with Molly Hatchet or Waylon Jennings by getting on the H.A.M. Radio. 

Today marks a full week since I arrived here from Chicago, thanks to the kind assistance of my old friend Paul H., the Medinah Train, and my new friend John Briscoe, no longer of Stone House Fudge, but still playing the blues guitar like a fiend. And while I was hoping my long lost birth certificate would be waiting for me in the 40 pounds of mail waiting for me at the Post Office, I am (not all that) sorry to report it was not.

I did wander back into something resembling a jobby job, though, in the form (once again) as an itinerant local newsraker for The Prairie Advocate News. And while the news of my return as undoubtedly rippled through the ranks of those who were more than happy with my departure in January, I am sure that none of the town or county officials -- I will refrain from naming names herein, but find me at the bar later, if you really want to know them; I'll talk for shots of bourbon -- who had, in the past, tried to get me fired because they didn't like my "editorializing" (replace with the appropriate term "style") -- would stoop to anything so coarse and vulgar as trying to beat me to the punch and get me fired before I even get started gain.

Naturally not.

I expect much more from current and former elected officials like Doris Bork and Nina Cooper.

Oops.

Ah, well. I need to keep a lid on my bar tab anyway. Moving on...

More Of The Name Game

If you're a regular reader, you may recall this post wherein I question, again, what it is a person has tied up in a name. Not long after it posted, I received a text from a friend of mine here who informed me that her name directly impacted who she became and that she couldn't imagine being named anything else. She also pointed out the difference between how she felt when she was married and took his name (which was Smith) versus how she felt about retaking the last name she was born with. Now, I will admit -- as someone who grew up with essentially two names -- one of them being associated with a nauseating little cartoon mouse that had his own club for years, and which has given us such cultural icons as Annette Funicello, Britney Spears, and Justin Timberlake (one of which was known for her swim suit, the other known for free-twatting*, and the other for being smart enough to ditch the free-twatter before she went crazy and for being completely overlooked in the Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction debacle that turned the Super Bowl Half Time Show into a geriatric sock hop), not to mention the most evil pop song ever written, I have to agree. To a point.

My friend was, of course, named after a race horse, and her middle name is Twilight. I have ample sympathy, given that she now feels chained at the ankles to that annoying series of badly written books that have spawned terrible movies. Growing up with a name outside of the norm, and putting up with the usual verbal (and sometimes physical) jabs from other kids with names as unique as John (Sorry JB! I don't mean you!), Terry, Mark or [insert name of average named bully here] does impact the sort of person you become.

And that, actually, was sort of the point.

Part of the that culturally constructed applique personality I was talking about comes, in part, from how we're socialized as kids. Some people get past all the juvenile shit. Some people, well into adulthood, allow themselves to be defined by whether they were picked last ... or not picked at all ... in high school gym class.  Some kids grew up enduring far worse, and somehow managed to grow beyond it... and somehow, I think it had less to do with their names than with one of those undefinable qualities that most people have and few people access. As humans, most of us have the ability to change who we are and how we are -- if we're willing to do it. That many who are able to simply don't says more about the culture that seeks to blind us all.

I mentioned that I grew up with two names. That's true. My given name is Michael. But no one calls me that. There's nothing wrong with it, the name. It translates roughly as "One Who is Like God." I've been called Mickey, or Mick most of my life. That's also the first name of the guy who saved my Dad's life in the Navy. It translates roughly as "You're so fine, you blow my mind."

As you might be able to tell, I'm still not all that convinced my name means much except that The State can identify me, track me, share my information with the Grand Marketeers of the New Millennium. I'm still me... and the me I am in the process of becoming. Whatever the hell that means.

Anachronistic Cartography

To stave off the itch while I'm waiting for my State Identity to catch up with me, I look through my travel atlas and ponder my next jaunt. My plan... still... is to go south, like the birds, and spend some winter days in southern Florida, maybe celebrate my birthday in New Orleans. But I've also been thinking, lately, of going north... to North Dakota, specifically, to check out what an oil boom looks like. I've seen boom towns in decline. I'm thinking it might be worth noting what one looks like as it's building up

But then there's that whole winter thing. And I don't want to count on another preternaturally warm winter. So I'm thinking. And looking over maps. And pondering my own ridiculousness.

The Crossing of St. Frank

The 8 page chapbook is ready and for sale. For a $2 minimum donation (that includes postage), I'll send you a signed one. It will be signed with one of the names I go by. You can try requesting which name, but chances are good I'll pick a different one. If you run into me on the street, chances are good I have some with me. Ask nice, buy me a beer, or donate to the travel fund, and I'll give you one.

If' you're reading this from Where I Am, find me, I probably have some on me. I"ll give you one for a $1 donation, or something in kind (a cup of coffee, a beer, a bowl of soup.)

If you're reading this from Not Where I Am, go to the Beggar Bowl Page. When you donate to the Travel Fund, there's a box for a comment. Make sure you tell me where to send it and who to send it to.  Gawd Bless.

__________________________

*free-twatting -, noun. Female version of free-balling.

01 August, 2012

Southern Jaunt: Ye, Tho I Walk

Truckin', I'm a goin home. Whoa whoa baby, back where I belong,
Back home, sit down and patch my bones, and get back truckin' on. 
                                                                                                - The Grateful Dead
There is something to turn us mad. -Kenneth Patchen

These are the days that must happen to you: -Walt Whitman


My legs are a little sore even today. Still. That's what I get for not paying attention.

The trip up from Cincinnati to Bloomingdale was pretty easy. I rode up with my friend Paul, and his wife Cathy. She doesn't normally accompany on his Sunday run to Illinois, but she was going to catch a ride on a California bound truck. She's heading out to visit her family and attend to some sick relatives. Riding long distances in a big rig is actually sort fun. I will admit that it's one of those things my soon-to-be ex refers to as a "boy-man" sort of thing. I still remember wanting to be a truck driver when I was a kid, the appeal of all that romance and the sense of freedom... fueled, no doubt,  by Smokey and The Bandit and copious reruns of BJ and The Bear.  At one point, before I left Cincinnati this time, My Dear Sweet Ma asked if being a truck driver was something I might be interested in doing; after all, it could mean being out on the road for an extended period of time, and there's travel, of a sorts, involved.

Sometimes, though, when you talk to people about what they do, you learn a bit too much. I suspect that if many soon-to-be educators had an honest heart to heart with working and soon to be retired teachers, they would, en masse, drop out of whatever teacher education program they're in and apply to law school. Having talked to Paul about his job a lot, I can honestly tell you, Dear Readers, that while I enjoy riding in big rigs and don't mind helping load and unload cargo, I have no interest in entering the industry as an actual trucker. I should also mention that my innate ability to get lost -- in spite of have spot on directions -- would probably keep me from being effective at moving a trailer full of Stuff That Costs Entirely Too Much from Point A to Point B.

And yes, it may be true that pretty much all truckers use GPS.

I would like to point out though that GPS, as a mapping or directional system is flawed to the point that it's almost useless.  There was a time when I thought maybe my problems with Global Positioning Satellite doo-hickey-thing-a-ma-bobs was that I simply prefer to wander willy-nilly... or, as my ex often complained whenever I was driving anywhere I wasn't familiar with or had never been, that I have the uncanny ability to find the longest possible route to any place. The tried and true bumper sticker wisdom

ALL WHO WANDER ARE NOT LOST

is very much true in my case. My (increasingly well documented) tendency to wander has always found one outlet or another. And I do have a lousy sense of direction. Always have. Some people can stand in the middle of the prairie on a cloudy day and tell you what direction they're facing. Some of us need a little help. A compass, maybe. But I don't have one. My friend John, who met me in Chicago and brought me back to Mount Carroll yesterday evening, seemed surprised that I could travel from one end of the country to the other in the manner that I have without a compass. I admit there were times that it would have come in handy.

Like two mornings ago.

I woke up early and decided that since the Medinah Metra Station was ONLY about 6 miles from where Paul's rig was parked overnight... and since the morning was relatively cool and the sky looked rain free for the time being... that I would go ahead and walk I felt pretty well rested, and felt like I could get an early start, take advantage of the coolest part of the day. With any luck, I could get there before the boil really set in. Maybe catch the train into the city, rent a locker for my gear, and wander the city a bit before meeting John. I've never been to the Haymarket monument, or to any of the art galleries or museums. My trips through the most metropolitan of Midwestern cities are generally passing through... either on a train or, most often, the Greyhound Station. The ex and I visited Chicago once, not long after moving to Mount Carroll. We stayed with friends of hers in Oak Park and road the El into the city.

It was cold. It was windy. And the Macys frightened me a little.

But we did eat at a nifty little restaurant where I paid too much for a really amazing burger. (It was.)

After I said my so long/see you laters, I headed off, following what I thought were the proper directions. I had, after all, looked them up on Google Maps. The walking directions were slightly different than the driving directions.  More of a zig zag than a matter of 2 or 3 simple turns. But I thought maybe there was a specific reason for that. Maybe there weren't any sidewalks. Maybe it was a busy highway. Maybe there was no crosswalk.

I set off walking, looking for W. Army Trail, then Cardinal Drive. A few of the streets had bird names: Cardinal, Eagle, Raven. 5 or 6 miles isn't a lot, but it isn't a little either, so I didn't worry that none of the street names I had been looking for didn't appear. It was still (relatively) cool, my feet didn't hurt (more than normal) and the pack didn't weigh me down (yet.)

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all until something like an hour passed and I started seeing signs for Glendale Heights.

There was nothing in my Google Maps directions that mentioned cutting through Glendale Heights.

Not one to panic in these situations... they are far too typical to be worth the energy required to panic... I stopped and pondered my situation, looked at the directions I'd written down in my travel journal. Looking up, I saw an Indian (You know, the kind from India, not that kind that Columbus named Indians because he didn't want to admit that he got lost). He was walking toward me, in a semi-hurry, dressed in all white like an extra from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Being generally polite and only slightly smelly from one night in the rig, I smiled as he approached and signaled to him. As he approached, I asked him if I was going the right direction to cross W. Army Trail.

"I don't know anything," he mumbled quickly.

I didn't believe him, really. But I wasn't going to press it. Sometimes, in spite of my generally friendly, jovial nature, people are put off by me. It could be the hat. Or maybe the beard.

Oh well. As the Great Sage said, A Hater Gonna Hate.


It was then... AND ONLY THEN... that I took note of my surroundings. No street indicators that I was at all heading the wrong direction. Or the right direction either, for that matter.  Then I looked at the sun, climbing in the Eastern sky.

In the Eastern sky.


FUUUUCK ME. 


It finally occurred to me that I had been walking south, rather than north, for the better part of an hour.

No compass, remember? But If I had simply paid attention to where I was, I would have known.

Truthfully, though, I knew that I knew better. I still know how to  read maps and atlases. Honestly, I prefer a good road atlas to some cold digital (and always British female... coincidence? ) voice telling me how to drive.

Sometimes it helps to focus on where you are and what you're doing.

After backtracking an hour, I found W. Army Trail without difficulty. It was less than a quarter of a mile from where the rig was parked. I was across the parking lot from it when I walked over to Wal-mart at 6 in the morning to take a shit and splash cold water on my face.

It wasn't long before I found Cardinal Drive, which led me straight into a residential neighborhood. Nice homes. Not McMansions or anything like that, but still very nice. It was the sort of neighborhood that had it been closer to sunset than sunrise, someone would have noticed me and maybe called a cop. (Yes. It's happened to me before.) Mostly empty driveways, so either no one had a car (unlikely) or they were at work. Maybe in Chicago, having taken the Medinah Train that I, as of yet, hadn't made it to. As I made my way through the neighborhood of Stratford Trail, I looked again at the directions scribbled in my travel journal. The zig zag was really more of a zig, a zag, another zag, and another zag, followed by an amble, another zig, two more zigs, a zag, and a short bounce across the railroad tracks. It seemed to me like I was going around the block once, then going around another block, when there was clearly a street that connected all of the outer points.

Hmmm.

And I thought I was directionally challenged.

I finally got to the train station with plenty of time between trains. I was able set my rucksack down, sit down on a bench inside the abandoned station house. With an hour ride on the train into Chicago to look forward to, I drank water, waited, rested my feet, and read more from Philip Dray's weighty tome on Labor History in America, There Is Power In A Union: The Epic Story of Labor in America.