We are non-commercial, all volunteer and supported by our readers. Please help sustain the Dew by making a donation.
Number of posts: 5
Email address: email
By Rob Coppock:
winter camping fiasco
“There it is,” I said, easing our big motor home across the dip at the edge of the pavement and onto the dirt road, “won’t be long now.” My wife, Arlette, who is French, pushed in a CD, and soon A Canadian Brass Christmas boomed through our cozy home on wheels. It was Christmas Eve, and after the pre-Christmas frenzy and getting ready for sub-freezing camping, we were anxious to begin a week in the woods. I started to relax. Although the slope down to the left seemed steeper than I remembered…
elegance from another era
The cab driver deposited our luggage on the sidewalk in front of the Gare de l’Est train station in Paris where the uniformed porters didn’t blink at the two huge suitcases, the carry-on bag, the hanging garment bag, and several shopping bags. We followed the two pillbox-hatted young men through the station crowd, beneath the sign announcing: Train spécial – VSOE Istanbul, onto the carpeted area on the platform cordoned off by a red silk rope where we showed our papers.
good vs. evil
The American populace is split, nearly right down the middle, on critical issues: abortion, capital punishment, gun control, mandated health care, immigration, national debt, education, social support programs–the list goes on, and on, and on.
In his 1996 book Moral Politics, George Lakoff describes how different views of family structure and morality underlie this split. He claims the idea of a strong, authoritative father underlies conservative views whereas the concept of empathetic, nurturing parents underlies liberal views…
crossing in style
The driver called for us in Georgetown just before eight and delivered my wife, Arlette, and me to the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal a little after noon, where the Queen Mary 2, flagship of the Cunard Line, waited for our transatlantic crossing. The comfortable point-to-point, or more precisely door-to-port, limousine presaged a magnificent trip.
As the deep-throated, bone-jarring, creeping rumble of the Sturgis motorcycle rally dimmed with each mile, we rode south toward Nebraska. My wife, Arlette, a native of France, and I, both 55-year-old “boomers”, were on a ride we had dreamt about for years, the kind of venture many people imagine but never get around to actually do, following not the famed Route 66, but the equally captivating Highway 50 back to our home in Virginia.