Alicia

Cakes by Alicia

2011-10-18T20:31:00.000-07:00

Cakes by Alicia

Lexington Ky

Individually created and customized cakes and cupcakes

Dinosaurs

African Animals

Ocean Scene

Bird Cake

Winnie the Pooh

Cats and Dogs

Cat Cupcakes

Dinosaur and Halloween cupcakes

9 " round cakes...................

Sheet Cakes..................................

Cupcakes......................................

Building and Remodeling

2010-03-27T18:16:00.000-07:00

Headboard (& platform bed) that Mom designed. I constructed the bed and covered the headboard with Mom's instruction.

Dresser I refinished/painted. Nightstand I painted with marble look effect.

Daybed/couch designed by Mom and constructed under her direction by me and my niece Tamara

I stripped old carpet off the floors and recarpeted the living room and sanded and stained the dining area wood floor beautifully.

I painted the cabinets and wallpapered the wall.

The Circle of Life

2009-12-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

Sabe and Tayne

"R-r-a-w-w" came the sound from outside my front door. I sat up in my chair. "That's Sabe!" I exclaimed to myself as I got up and went towards the door.

Sabe, my beautiful part seal point Siamese with turquoise blue eyes. I had her for 14-1/2 years. About a year ago she had been diagnosed with FIP. Gradually over the course of the year she became weaker until the time came that both she and her sister Tayne let me know it was time for her to go. Friday I took her to the vet. She quietly curled up in a ball on the examining table and closed her eyes as if to say she was ready, and the vet injected euthanasia. I took her body home and showed it to Tayne and their younger sister Nala so they would know where she had gone, then dug her grave in my back yard. That was 2 days ago.

Sabe had a distinctive, deep throated Siamese meow. How could this be? I opened the front door, and just to my left by the tree sat a beautiful big gray tabby with emerald green eyes. At first he'd stay a few days, then he'd leave. Then he'd come back a few days and repeat the process. Eventually he stopped leaving and grew into a beautiful 17 pound tiger. I named him Moufasa after the Lion King. Moufasa never meowed like that again. I knew Sabe had sent him to me.

Less than 6 months later I came home to find my beloved gray tabby Tayne dead at the age of 16-1/2. It was hard to lose them my girls, but I found comfort in knowing they had lived long, full lives. And having Moufasa around helped to detract my attention away from my grief. Moufasa had beautiful markings, a large face and huge paws, and we bonded strongly. Then we added Houdini. Then we moved and got Simba, who had been abandoned at the house we rented. Then we moved to Arizona, leaving Nala in Tennessee with family, and acquired Little Bit. When we returned to Tennessee we were a four cat family.

Moufasa

We rented a cottage atop a mountain that set behind another house. I always had a cat door and lived in the country away from roads and close by neighbors. My cats went in and out during the day but stayed in the yard, and at night I brought them in and closed the cat door. Moufasa absolutely loved the outdoors. He didn't have to go any further than the front porch. He just needed to be outside. One Sunday seven years after he originally appeared I noticed a convertible in my landlady's driveway as I left. I thought to myself perhaps I should get the cats in as they might jump in the back of the convertible. But it was a beautiful day and I knew they'd enjoy it so I left without getting them inside.

I wish I had followed my instincts. When I returned, my beautiful Moufasa lay dead at the side of the driveway. I never knew if he had been hit by a car – no one ever confessed - or been killed by a stray animal. I got a bee bee gun, prepared to run off anything threatening, but we had lived there over a year and never had problems with stray animals before. I took his death hard. He was 9 years old, and it was not his time. I missed him so. And I know the boys did. He was a wonderful big brother.

Eventually I decided that three cats were plenty for me to take care of and had no intentions of adding to my cat family. Then one evening three months later I heard a slight meow just outside our screened porch. I went outside to look, but it was dark and difficult to see and the cat ran into the woods. In a couple of days it returned in the evening and then left, and then returned. By the time I was able to get a good look at him I realized - he looked almost exactly like Moufasa. Though younger than Moufasa so smaller in weight, he was a huge gray tabby with big paws and beautiful green eyes.

I passed out notes around the neighborhood trying to find out who owned him. No one claimed him. Gradually he came inside the house and the rest is history. He looked and acted just like Moufasa. I named him Sarabi (after Moufasa's wife in the Lion King – he never seemed to mind I had taken his name from a girl). A friend of mine told me at the time that creatures that are low to the ground that unexpectedly died young would often reincarnate. Sarabi was Moufasa reincarnated. I'd call him Sarabi Moufasa Gray. Once again, a new addition to the household helped to divert my attention away from my grief.

Within a few weeks work was forcing me to move again. Sarabi had not been with us long, but he did excellently with the move and bonded with his brothers the way Moufasa had. Moufasa was always closest with his big brother Simba, and now Simba and Sarabi were very close, just as Simba and Moufasa had been.

Sarabi loved the outdoors just like Moufasa did. Then one Sunday a year and a half later, Sarabi did not come home. I searched and searched and called and called to no avail. The next morning I searched again, and found him, weak and barely able to walk. He had no scratches on him, no limbs broken. Up until then he had been the picture of health. I could not imagine what was wrong, but within a couple of weeks he had been diagnosed with both FIV and Feline Leukemia. I was devastated. My beautiful boy would not get better, and I would have to euthanize him. This was even harder. Sarabi was only 3-1/2 years old. I wondered if he had had either of those diseases when I initially got him. I blamed myself, as I always had when any of my cats died.

Sarabi Moufasa

That was 6 months ago. Since then a job loss has forced us to move in with family. But Sarabi is here is here with us in spirit, always. At night I have his picture by my bedside and I talk with him. Once again Nala is a part of our family, along with Miss Kitty, making it a total of 5. I still don't need any more than 3 cats of my own, but Sarabi knows he can come back to me again. Perhaps he will. Maybe he's waiting for me to get a place big enough to keep him. Or perhaps the combination of his 3 years with Moufasa's 9 is enough. Only time will tell.

Cancer - A Family Journey

2009-12-04T11:16:00.000-08:00

"How do you tell your mother you have cancer?" I wondered as I drove the scenic highway through the Cumberland Mountains from Chattanooga to Cookeville. I barely noticed the scenic vistas I passed as I thought of the last few weeks and the events that had taken place in my life.

It was Friday September 28, 2007. I was 56 years old. I had my routine mammogram on August 30 and was advised to go in for further studies. I was not unduly alarmed as this had happened frequently through the years. I discovered my first lump when I was only 20 years old and remember being terrified that I was going to die. But I had been diagnosed with fibrocystic disease and because of irregularities had a collection of films and reports I had kept through the years. On September 11 I returned for additional studies and was advised they needed a sonogram of the right breast. "We just want to be sure" the mammogram tech advised reassuringly. "Well one out of two isn't bad" I thought to myself anxiously. After the sonogram I walked down to medical records and got a copy of my initial mammogram report. As I walked down the hallway and read the report, the words "suspicion of malignancy" struck into my heart like a dagger. I had to return to work, but that evening at home I pored over my previous reports. None of them ever, not ever, had the word malignancy in the text. All of them referred to suspicion of fibrocystic changes. I was mortified.

I had recently moved to Chattanooga and knew very few people there. My closest family lived two hours away. I called my brother, and my cousin, and told them what the report said. When the sono report came back it was inconclusive and said I could follow up in 6 months or get a biopsy. My maternal grandmother had breast cancer when she was in her early 70's and had a radical mastectomy. My mother had her first breast cancer at age 72, followed by a lumpectomy and radiation. Last year, 9 years later, she had another early stage estrogen positive breast cancer in the same breast, and had it removed. I didn't want to wait 6 months, and my newly found doctor agreed. "You're going for a biopsy" she said, offering me no choice.

The surgeon she sent me to turned out to be a God send. When you are frightened and lost in the medical system, unaccustomed to all of those cold machines and sterile rooms, compassionate physicians and nurses mean the world to you. They can take you through a hell you never thought possible. Dr. King was very knowledgeable and reassuring. He scheduled me for a biopsy and Genetics counseling.

Just a few weeks previously my mother decided to have her right breast removed. She had spent the past year feeling lop-sided and wanted to alleviate her fear of recurrence, even though her surgeon had told her at age 81 "something else will get you first". Her surgery was scheduled on an outpatient basis on September 20 and I took off work to be with her. I had been reading Norman Cousins "Anatomy of an Illness". He cites how endorphins are raised with laughter and help with the healing process. We followed his advice, and the morning of Mom's surgery I switched the television to I Love Lucy re-runs. When the nurses wheeled her into surgery she joked about inviting them to a "burn the bra" party.

She fared pretty well, except for some blockage in her bulb drainage which resulted in her having to make weekly visits to her surgeon for the next 4 weeks to get the incision drained. That Sunday I returned to Chattanooga and I had my biopsy on Monday September 24. The waiting room at the Imaging center was comforting, with comfortable sofas and décor in soft pastels. In contrast, the room for the biopsy was cold and sterile. I began to feel panicky, and when I am stressed I get claustrophobic and can't stand to be held down. After saying something to staff, I prayed, turned it over to God and I felt a peace I couldn't have come up with by myself. The procedure was brief, and when they offered me the option of getting my results by phone or from the surgeon I advised "from my surgeon", knowing that if it was bad news I did not want to be home alone.

That Thursday I had an appointment with the surgeon to get the results. Throughout this time and in the weeks to come, I would lie in bed at night and look at the gray walls of my bedroom. I live alone, with 4 cats. I started again to re-read a book by Joel Osteen, who emphasizes the power of positive thinking in faith. I began listening to relaxing music tapes at bedtime, did progressive relaxation and deep breathing exercises, prayed and meditated. After a few years' absence from any sort of Sunday services I felt a tugging at my heart and attended the local Quaker meeting. I did everything I could to remain upbeat and positive, but the underlying fear was ever present. I called my cousin in Texas, or my brother in Kentucky. I remained upbeat in my conversations with Mom, never mentioning the words "suspicion of malignancy" that appeared in the report.

I didn't have any one to go with me to the appointment, so I brought a pen and a notebook with a list of questions. .Dr. King came in, sat down and said "They've found some cancer". I was still. "Oh my God" I said, "Oh my God", and looked aside. He was quite reassuring, telling me it was estrogen positive. "If you have to have breast cancer, that's the best kind to have". It appeared to be very early stage, and he had a consulted with a Tumor Board of physicians who concurred that I probably would only need a lumpectomy and radiation, followed by oral medication. I asked him my questions and wrote down his answers. "Lumpectomy and radiation is equal to a mastectomy alone" he told me. We discussed my family history and he gave me a copy of my biopsy report. I left needing to decide whether to go for the lumpectomy or mastectomy. I asked for him to call me in a prescription of Xanax.

I was numb, and stood and waited about 30 minutes at the pharmacy for my prescription. I went home and called my brother, and my cousin. My brother was quiet and didn't say much. My cousin, who had lost her 23 year old daughter to Hodgkin's lymphoma, offered comfort and support. Then my mother called wanting to know the results. "The surgeon had an emergency and had to re-schedule my appointment for tomorrow" I told her. I said I would be coming to see her tomorrow anyway and could tell her the results then. She bought the story. Friday morning I went to see the Genetics Counselor. She was very helpful and provided me with a large notebook with information on the breast cancer. She said I scored so low on the test I did not really qualify for Genetics testing for BRCA, the only currently known gene related to breast cancer, which tends to occur in younger women.

So here it was, Friday September 28. I walked in the door and sat on the couch next to Mom. We hugged and exchanged a few words. "They found some cancer" I told her, and offered brief reassurances about it being early stage. Her face turned white and she handed me a piece of paper, looking drained. It was the path report from her surgery, and she proceeded to tell me that she had found out Wednesday there was cancer in the removed breast. "Its genetics", her surgeon told her, shocked at the report. We were numb and I don't think either of us could move for a while.

We didn't know yet if Mom's cancer was Estrogen positive. If it was, she probably would not need further treatment. If not, then she probably would. Her oncologist was having the breast tissue tested. We talked about how to tell my brother. The next morning we spoke with him by phone. We continued to focus on the positive, making light of anything we could, but wondered how in the world we were going to manage. What if she had to have treatment, or if I did? Even though my surgeon said he didn't feel I would need chemotherapy, you don't feel sure until you get the surgical path report. I didn't want my Mom to neglect herself trying to help me. My income was limited and I had very little paid time off. My brother's family was 5 hours away, and they were leaving soon for a month long trip. Mother had friends nearby. I had a minimal support system.

I poured over the book from Memorial and both of our reports. I need to understand what I am faced with, and the information on understanding what the reports said helped me greatly and alleviated many of my fears. I wrestled with my decision, but in the back of my mind I think my decision had already been made. By the end of the weekend I knew what I needed to do. I drove back to Chattanooga and Monday morning I took a Xanax, went to the surgeon, gave them a copy of Mom's path report and requested a double mastectomy. Then I went to work and told my supervisor what I was going to do. She was female, and quite understanding. Dr. King consulted with another Tumor Board and they concurred with my decision. He advised that I could have reconstruction immediately after the mastectomy and though I was hesitant, I agreed to see a plastic surgeon. As I sat in the surgeon's office and watched the film about breast implants, inserting something like a deflated balloon and returning for several visits to get it inflated, then having another surgery, I made up my mind. It was just too much for me to deal with. I scheduled my double mastectomy for Friday October 12, without reconstruction.

I sent out emails to friends and relatives, sought out friends who had gone through breast cancer. I sought out success stories of breast cancer survivors– Jaclyn Smith, Cheryl Crowe, Melissa Etheridge. I had a photograph of my father who had died in 1961 on my bedroom shelf. I felt his presence and support. . I read "Spontaneous Healing" by Dr. Andrew Weil, following many of his recommendations for diet and lifestyle changes, as well as what questions to ask about cancer. Mr. Cousins' book emphasizes the importance of being knowledgeable about health issues and working with doctors in a supportive relationship. I used his advice often in the days to come. This doesn't come easy. Some doctors get irritated at this. Others won't talk much. But I made sure the physicians I chose did not respond in this way. I continued to focus on being upbeat. All the while that underlying terror, that fear, was there.

Mom, who was 82 and still recuperating from her mastectomy, was with me during my surgery. A member of the Quaker meeting I had not even met yet kindly offered to be with us that day and helped keep the mood upbeat. As I lay on the table I mentioned my right breast being the one that had cancer to the surgeon, trying to avoid being obvious with an underlying concern he might get confused and take off the wrong one! "There's been a little problem" he told me. My heart jumped. "Some of the testing they did revealed a problem, and I cannot have the surgery! I've GOT to have the surgery!" I thought. Dr. King revealed that the procedure to inject dye for the sentinel lymph node biopsy had not been ordered, causing a slight delay. "That's no problem at all!" I said, breathing a big sigh of relief. It was getting late, however, and I worried about him being tired. "You'll get some rest won't you Dr. King?" He smiled and assured me he would. In due time someone a radiologist came and injected a needle in my right breast to deaden it. It sounds extremely uncomfortable, but I focused on deep breathing for about 15 seconds, and it was over. He then injected the dye, and soon thereafter I was wheeled into surgery and given anesthesia which immediately knocked me out.

After surgery I had bandages and a tight fitting harness over my chest. The tight fit apparently was to assist with drainage from the site. I had two small bulbs on each side for drainage of fluids. I had to lie on my back in bed and could not turn on my side comfortably because of the bulbs. When I started getting up, I'd tuck the drainage bulbs in my pockets and joke about being pregnant and giving birth to drainage bulbs. One of my friends had given me a book that recommended you face your pain head on. I put it down. I could not do that at that time without sinking into an abyss. I continued to listen to soothing music tapes at bedtime. I joked about the ugly hospital gowns, saying I wanted to get some bright colored materials with flowers or pumpkins and black cats and sew some new hospital gowns to cheer patients up. One nurse, upon walking into my room and seeing my Mom sitting beside me, remarked "You two look like twins!!!" I looked at Mom and retorted "In more ways than you know!!!" and we laughed. I stayed at the hospital until Monday and was released to go home. Just before going home the surgeon removed one bulb from each side.

At home, I wore myself out reading about breast cancer. I had to understand what I had, what factors contributed to its development, and what could I do to assist in preventing its return. I pored over books and magazines I got from Memorial Hospital's library and read stories of other cancer patients and survivors. It helped me put everything in perspective, and gave me reassurance and hope. When I went to Dr. King for my final path report on Thursday, I had my "boob bag" with me – a tote bag with my spiral notebook and list of questions, the Memorial book and the Joel Osteen book. "This is the day that the Lord has made I will rejoice and be glad in it!" I read that passage several times on the way to his office.

Dr. King informed me that it was as he has suspected and early stage. He had consulted with another Tumor Board and that they agreed I probably would not need anything other than an estrogen blocking pills for follow up treatment. I was ecstatic! On the way home I called work to tell them the good news. Then I called my cousin and my brother. I had a copy of the path report and followed instructions on how to understand it. It did confirm early stages. I emailed all my friends and told them

At night to sleep I had to lie on my back, unable to turn to one side or the other because of the drainage bulbs. After a couple of weeks the surgeon removed them, and I got an appointment with the oncologist for October 30. I went with Mom for her first oncologist appointment. We did not get the news we had hoped for. Mom's cancer was HER 2 positive, and she would need 5 chemotherapy treatment followed by Herceptin immunotherapy IV for a year. We were disappointed and still reeling from everything we had been through. No lymph nodes had been tested, and Mother was hesitant about undergoing another surgery and possibly losing the use of her right arm. Rather than surgery, her oncologist scheduled a full body PET scan the next week and advised that it would show any cancer larger than the size of a pea.

I stayed off of work a little more than 3 weeks. I did not know how I would make it financially since I only had 4 days' vacation pay. I applied for financial assistance with the Y-Me Breast Cancer organization, and after a couple of weeks was informed that my December rent and utilities would be paid. I asked my brother for a loan but he refused. Instead, he and my sister in law gave me money to make my truck payment, buy groceries and tide me through.

Mom's PET scan revealed the cancer had only spread to about 4-5 lymph nodes. We were thankful that it had not spread elsewhere, and she was scheduled for chemotherapy to start in early November. October 30th I saw my oncologist. Outwardly I had remained positive and upbeat, but still I felt that I would not know for sure what my treatment would be until that first oncologist visit. To my relief he confirmed what I had been previously told, and I was started on Arimidex. He wrote me a prescription. I went to the pharmacy to have it filled. "That'll be $300" I was told. "For how long?" "For 30 days" $300 for 30 days????!!!! I was shocked. There was no way I could afford that monthly payment. I thought about what to do, paid for a week's prescription and left the next day to be with Mom for her first chemotherapy treatment. "I've been through so much this far" I thought. "I'll get this resolved too".

Our family had agreed that one of us could accompany Mom to her treatments, and on October 31 I went with Mom for her first round of chemotherapy. The nurses went over all the instructions– what to eat/drink, what side effects she could have, etc. etc.. It was a lot of information to absorb. "Let's wait and see if something weird happens and if it does we'll look at this list!" I told Mom. She laughed and agreed. I talked with her social worker and learned about the prescription drug program for low income persons for Arimidex and applied for emergency assistance. The next day morning Mom had a severe heart pounding episode and I brought her to the hospital.. Her oncologist took an EKG and the heart doctor wanted to admit her. By this time she and I were both exhausted and as they wheeled her to a room, she protested. A few hours later they decided not to keep her and she came home. Her oncologist had ordered lighter doses of chemo because of her age, but now we wondered if she would be able to handle the chemo. The oncologist suspected it had been caused by Neulasta, a medication that boosts the immune system, and suggested we stop using it. Within the week I received an emergency supply of Arimidex, and was approved for a free one year supply. Mom's next treatment was at Thanksgiving, and my niece came and brought all the meals. From then on Mom did relatively well and didn't want anyone to accompany her.

By December I started to feel I had focused so much on being upbeat I hadn't allowed myself to grieve. I had only cried once, and that was at my physician's office the morning after I had been diagnosed. For the first time I broke down and cried on Mom's shoulder. "I'm 82. I've lived a full life" she told me. What she feared most was dying in pain. I still didn't have much time to grieve. I had gone back to work full time, and I was getting ready for Christmas and getting stuff from my mini storage to complete the move in I'd started in August. I should have rested more, but I didn't.

At work, comments were being made about business being bad and "changes" having to be made. In the midst of everything I had had bleeding in my stool and right back shoulder pain.. I asked the surgeon if he thought the cancer had gone on through to my back and he nodded no and grinned. "That's a common fear" he said. In January I had a colonoscopy. When I awakened after the procedure the nurses told me it was clear. I burst into tears. "I don't have cancer!" I cried. The anesthesia felt so good after all I had been through I grinned and asked "Can I have some more of this stuff??!!"

Then we were hit with another bombshell. My brother, my only sibling, told me he had a place on his head and his doctor wanted a surgical biopsy. After the biopsy he called to tell me - it was a malignant melanoma. Surgery was scheduled for early February. I offered him reassurances but I was devastated. I called Mom after he had told her the news. "What's happening to our family??!!" she grieved. He underwent the surgery. He did not want me to come. He had his family and preferred not to have that many people around. There were difficulties as they were not able to biopsy any lymph nodes, but fortunately his surgeon felt he had gotten everything. At his follow-up appointment he learned did not need any further treatment.

For me, the medical bills continued to come in. I had already been in debt from a near fatal automobile accident three years previously. My employers did not provide insurance and my policies had high deductibles. By March I was in bankruptcy court. The job continued to fall apart. Business was not good and the owner had been hateful with me. I diligently searched for work to no avail. Eventually I was told my salary would be cut to a level I could not live on. That evening I was offered a job that I took out of desperation, and it turned out not to be a good move, but I was bailing out of a sinking ship.

Over the course of the year Mom continued her treatment. She had some nausea and occasional diarrhea and general feeling of being drug out but did not have another heart pounding episode. And over the course of the year I worked through my grief. I learned that while being positive is good, I had often been overly positive to please others who couldn't handle the pain at the expense of myself. I was often being the "good little trooper" for the sake of approval. Once one of my co-workers called me "a brick". At home I broke down and cried. "I'm not a BRICK!!!! I'm a HUMAN BEING with FEELINGS!!" I'd cry at unexpected times. Every summer there is an outdoor concert series in Chattanooga and as I walked to the concert that May I burst unexpectedly into tears. I couldn't believe a year had already passed. "A year of my life has been taken from me! Why did this happen to me? Oh my God it happened to me!?" My mother and grandmother had it in their 70's. Why did I get in my 50's? My mother's came back 2 times. I feared recurrence.

That summer we had the burn the bra party Mother had wanted. Initially I did it for Mom as I really didn't want to joke about it any more. But many friends attended and some brought bras that we burned, so it turned out to be fun and uplifting! I never second-guessed the loss of my breasts. I'd always been a tomboy anyway, and I had lived in terror of them ever since I found that first lump in my 20's, so their loss was a relief to me.

Burn Baby Burn!!

I told someone at one time that I had faced my greatest fear – cancer. But then I backtracked and said no, my greatest fear was chemotherapy. But I turned it over to God, knowing that if I had to undergo chemo, I would do what I had to do. That's what you have to do in life, and during the course of time I had done what I could to get through. I sought out success stories. I meditated, and listened to soothing music every evening before bed. I prayed and had devotional time every morning and evening. I exercised, and changed my diet to eat mostly vegetables, and only eating organic meat and dairy products to avoid the hormones in them. People questioned what I was doing, and at times it would upset me but I continued to say this was MY journey and do what I felt I needed to do.

And I made it through. My Mom made it through. My brother made it through. And we all made it through.

OVER THE SHOULDER BOULDER HOLDER

King of the Road

2009-11-19T10:34:00.000-08:00

King of the Road
(A Tale of Three …e..r..r Four… Kitties)

"Trailers for sale or rent. Rooms to let 50 cents. I'm a cat of means by no means … King of the Road". Moufasa my 17 pound gray tabby sat next to me on the passenger seat looking around contentedly at the ever changing scenery as I sang to him. 6 months previously I had been life flighted to Vanderbilt Trauma Center after an automobile accident with a 50% chance of survival. I did, and now I was pursing a dream. I found a job at a Guest Ranch in southern Arizona that would provide living quarters for me and my 3 cats, and we were on our way.

How in the world would I manage a move from Tennessee to Arizona driving alone with 3 cats? I purchased a camper cover for my Nissan pickup, put a twin mattress on the bed of the truck, rented a small Uhaul trailer and loaded all of my belongings. I put a litter box and a bowl of dry cat food on the mattress, partially opened the screened windows so the boys would get some air and locked the back of the truck. I put a bowl of water on the floorboard of the passenger seat and one at a time I loaded the boys into their carriers, got inside the cab, closed to door to prevent escape, sat the carrier in the extended cab, slid open the window to the camper, held up the carrier, urged a cat into the camper and closed the window.

For the first 2 hours on the road the boys cried. And cried. And cried. I tried letting them in the cab of the truck but that didn't help, and by the time I hit traffic in Nashville I was stressed! By the time we hit the other side of town I had to pee so badly I pulled into a gas station. Parking along the curb so I didn't have to back up (something I could never manage to do), I put the boys through the window and into the camper to prevent escape, closed the window, opened the door, stood on the sidewalk and the floodgates broke!!!

After cleaning myself up, we were off again. I opened the window to the camper and let Moufasa into the cab. He sat on the passenger's seat and Simba, my 17 pound black shorthair, joined him. By that time we had all settled down, and they never cried again the entire trip. Eventually my 9 pound black shorthair Houdini nervously came out and squeezed between me and the steering wheel. The other two wanted to follow suit, but I eventually managed to convince them that it wasn't possible for me to drive with a 17 pound cat on my lap.

I had made reservations for the trip at motels that would allow pets and always advised them I had "a couple of cats". That first day we drove about 8 hours and spent the night in southeastern Arkansas. I dreaded the next day, as that was the day I had to cross the West Texas desert. Miles and miles and miles of nothing. Just nothing. I figured if I made it across that desert to El Paso, alone with 3 cats and a Uhaul, I could do anything! We traveled about 8 hours through miles of desert with sporadic towns and gasoline stops and made it all the way to Van Horn just 2 hours east of El Paso. The next morning we loaded up and made it to El Paso and although we'd be traveling through desert in New Mexico and Arizona, nothing is as isolated as that desert in Texas.

Throughout the trip we managed to get rooms away from the office, and every evening I'd talk with hotel staff about the Uhaul situation. I'd get a room where I could park the truck within view of the room and not have to back up. Then I'd urge Simba and Houdini into the camper, look around to be sure no staff was looking, load Moufasa into a carrier, take him into the room and repeat the process with the other 2. Then I'd take in food, water and the cat litter box. That first night I left only long enough to get some supper and bring it back to the room, but eventually I felt comfortable enough to hang a do not disturb sign on the door and go somewhere nearby to eat. Every morning we'd repeat the loading process, which I refined in time so that I'd load the lightest cat first, then the heavier cats so that I could set their carriers on top of Houdini's and not have to lift them.

Each day entailed one or two gasoline stops and a lunch stop. Every day I managed to find gas stations that I could pull into without having to back up and every day for lunch I'd park the truck in a spot where I could see the boys. Each time we stopped, I'd put the boys in the back of the truck, and every time we started back up I let the boys come back into the cab. After a day or two of this routine, Simba and Moufasa figured it out and just went into the camper on their own whenever we stopped! The boys enjoyed sitting in the motel room windows and looking around outside to see where they were that day. Moufasa loved to sit on the passenger seat. I'd sing "King of the Road" and Simba would often join him there. Houdini would eventually come and sit on my lap, or get inside one of the cat carriers in the extended cab.

We spent the third night in eastern Arizona and arrived at the ranch on the fourth day. The ranch was located on the Mexico border southeast of Tucson and completely surrounded by desert. The owners warned me about owls at the ranch that would eat cats, and if the boys wandered into the desert they would surely get dehydrated and die or be eaten by a coyote. Our small apartment had only one window, and it was in the bathroom, so I put a box and some throws on top of my filing cabinet and set it underneath the window so they could see out. One morning just a few days after we arrived my neighbor called to tell me my cats were outside! I freaked and ran to the apartment, and to my delight all three were sitting on my front porch! They had apparently fallen through the screen and jumped back over the stucco fence surrounding the apartment to get to the porch.

Moufasa loved the outdoors, and I took him out on a leash first. Guests at the ranch marveled at me walking a 17 pound tabby on a leash and steering him like a horse –leash to the right, he'd go right; leash to the left, he'd go left. Next I trained Houdini, and then Simba. Eventually I figured the owls couldn't pick up a 17 pound cat and I let them out occasionally on their own. I put in a cat door with a lever that I could set for them to go in, or out, or in and out. Houdini however proved true to his name and learned how to get out the "in" door by tweaking it constantly with his paws until it opened inward so he could go out. The noise drove our neighbor the cook crazy. Houdini was quite appreciative with him, however, and on more than one occasion delivered a dead lizard to his doormat. "Why's he delivering it to MY door!!!" he'd screech. "Because he wants you to COOK it for him!" I'd retort.

Moufasa loved working at the office. He'd come in and visit the office cats, then go out on the front porch and greet guests when they arrived. Houdini didn't like office work. Every time I tried to bring him there he'd freak and growl. Simba never made it that far and wound up being the cat that stayed the closest to home. Sometimes I'd gather the boys and we'd explore the ranch together. Then once after we'd been there a couple of months Houdini turned up missing. I searched and searched in a panic, but eventually I found him in the desert just a few feet from some of the guest rooms.

We stayed there until the end of the season and then moved a little east where I rented an RV on the landlady's property and worked at another guest ranch. There we met Little Bit, who became the 4th member of our cat family. After a few months the job played out and I got a job at a guest ranch in West Texas. Off we went again. Little Bit was new to travel and would not come to the front of the truck. So every evening when we'd stop, I'd put the other boys in the room, grab a carrier, look to see where he was in the camper, crawl quickly into the camper and shut the back door. Then I'd put him in the carrier and take him inside. Our living quarters were a guest room at the ranch and the owners had large dogs so the boys had to settle for being taken out on leashes again. They adapted amazingly well and enjoyed sitting on the beds looking out the windows at the ranch as well as exploring the ranch with me when I could take them out.

About three months later we returned to Tennessee. Almost a year had passed, and by then we had refined cat travel to a fine art. Simba, Houdini, and Little Bit are still with me. Moufasa, my handsome King of the Road, has since passed on to the Other Side.

A visit to Rama Cay

2009-11-19T10:18:00.001-08:00

A Visit to Rama Cay
As Published in the National Christian Reporter April and May of 1989

Rama Cay is about a 45 minute boat ride from Bluefields, Nicaragua. Normally. But when six Presbyterians from Grace Presbytery decided to travel to Rama Cay from Bluefields to participate in their worship service on Sunday, March 12, 1989, little did we know what lay in store…

We left Bluefields that morning much later than scheduled in a little fishing boat with an outboard motor. It was operated by a Hispanic fellow who spoke no English, as sort of a "water taxi". We had not ventured far when we spotted three men in the water next to their boats that were inoperative, waving to us for help. As they climbed back into their boats and we tied their boats to ours to tow them back to shore, we noticed their army fatigues and realized – we had just rescued three Sandinista soldiers from the waters off the coast of Nicaragua.

Our journey began again. We traveled south along the coastline from Bluefields. The land to our right was desolate – the forestry had been devastated by Hurricane Joan, and there were no inhabitants. To our right were a few tiny islands scattered here and there – none of them inhabited. This ….. was isolation.

About 35 minutes into our journey, with Rama Cay barely visible in the distance, our motor died. All was quiet and still. Motors here do this often, as we had discovered from previous jaunts. Usually the fellow in the back just puts in more fuel, and we are on our way. Usually. "Surely that's what he's doing now," we think, as we look back at the driver. But you don't need to take the outer covering off of the motor like he is doing just to put in more fuel! His face begins to look twisted and puzzled, and he begins tinkering with the motor. "Lydia, what's wrong?" we ask our Spanish speaking traveler. "The piston," she says. "It's broken." "How far are we from Rama Cay?" we ask. "About ten minutes" comes the reply, sounding like something your mother used to tell you on long trips.

So here we are, stranded, in the middle of nowhere, off the coast of Nicaragua during a time of civil war. In a little boat with no motor, only one oar, and no life jackets (they are lucky to have boats). What did we do? Stuart and Mike, both Presbyterian pastors in Texas, grab a dark green plastic garbage bag from the bottom of the boat, sit on each side of the front of the boat, hold their arms up and make a sail. "Two pastors leading us and they don't know where they're going!" we laugh. "Just like at home!" Then we sing hymns. "I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore" takes on new meaning at a time like this. "Down by the Riverside" comes next. And we crack jokes and laugh about our predicament. "I'm sure glad my mother doesn't know where I am right now!"

We are going with the current. I spot two little hills on the shore. By watching these, I figure, I can tell if we are moving. So I watch. They don't move. "We're not moving!" I say. "See those two little hills! They're not moving!" The Spanish speaking driver understands none of this. He is standing in the back, with the one little oar in his hand – inside the boat.. "Why isn't he rowing?" we wonder.

Finally, he picks up that one little oar and begins to row. We inch along. Slowly, very slowly, those two little hills begin to move behind us. One hour later, after what should have been a ten minute ride, we drift ashore.

A Visit to Rama Cay
Part II

Rama Cay is but a speck in the water. It can be no more than a mile across. I find myself wondering why in the world would anyone want to settle here? A few native children in tattered clothing sat on the shore and watched our little boat drift in. As I sit in amazement at what lies ahead, I recall a conversation with a native pastor the day before. "We have no reliable transportation," he told me. "Many times there are no boats with motors on the island. It all depends on when the fishermen are in. It takes me six hours to get to Bluefields by canoe. We get all our groceries there." Wasn't this pastor from Rama Cay? I began to calculate. We were arriving at 11:30am, taking part in worship and eating a meal, which meant we would probably leave about 1:30. Traveling by canoe, we would be returning AGAINST the current and still be on the water late afternoon when the current got very rough. If we spent the night in Rama Cay, we would miss our early morning flight from Bluefields to Managua, and THEN miss our flight home the next day. This….was isolation ……

A little dirt pathway led up the hill, past the children and the homes of the inhabitants, which were nothing more than a few unpainted boards nailed together haphazardly. Their doorways had no doors, their floors were dirt. When it rained, they got wet inside their homes.

For the first time on the entire journey to Nicaragua, I became panicky. My heart began to pound. "What if I have HEART problems out here??!! There's no hospital!! And we're SIX HOURS by canoe from Bluefields!!!" We continued up the little dirt path until we came to a weathered, concrete school building. It had withstood Hurricane Joan last October. Their church had not. This was where their service was to be held. It was surrounded by islanders, many of them children, who watched us as we entered the small room and peered at us through the open windows once we were inside. About 25 people sat at small wooden school desks – all towards the back of the room. Their altar was a small wooden table covered with a simple cloth with an embroidered cross which lay across the front. A little man, elderly and weather-beaten, stood in the far right corner holding a tiny, battered red accordion – their "organist".

A Visit to Rama Cay
Part III

My heart was still pounding as we walked towards the front of the room and sat in those little school desks. It was so primitive, so simple. This little table for the altar – it was all they had. As I sat and prayed in silence, my fears subsided.

One of the pastors from our group preached a sermon, and we sang a couple of hymns. There were not many hymnals, and as we began to sing I moved back a few rows and stood next to a young Indian woman dressed in the best Sunday clothes she had. She was holding a tattered Moravian hymnbook. Its binding was loose, and its pages were worn. But as we sang, the voices of those natives echoed vibrantly through that little room, up through the air…to the heavens.

The service ended and we were escorted to an adjacent room in this two room schoolhouse. A meal had been prepared by the island women – fresh fish and a BIG bowl of rice – and we sat to eat on a short, oblong table meant for children. "You almost felt guilty eating it", one of my fellow travelers told me later. "They have so little, and we have so much." Their water had not been boiled, and we could not drink it. Conditions were so primitive that I found myself fearful of my food. I had not been sick yet, but this could be the place to do so and I would not want to be sick here. I guiltily picked the skin off the fish. We were dining in their "clinic" – two tables piled high with medicines – aspirins, cough syrup, etc. Their nurse was a native man with a long ponytail.

Just prior to eating, one of the church members had informed me that he had a 9hp motor. Knowing nothing about motors, my fears were soothed and I ate in peace, only to discover on completion of the meal that we had arrived on a boat with a 55hp motor. We waited for quite some time to leave. A man with a 25hp motor had been located, it seems, and was being convinced to let us borrow it.

The motors were switched, and we departed. The pastor's son who attended school in Bluefields had planned on returning with us, but we had to leave him behind as our motor could handle no more weight. We waved to him as we pulled away, sorry we could not take him with us.

The current was against us now, and strong. Our tiny motor sputtered, and sputtered, and the waves splashed against us. I wondered if the men knew what they were doing as we inched away from Rama Cay. "Brrrn…brrrn….brrn….brrrrn….brrn" it sputtered, and sputtered, slowly along. The two hills I had spotted when we were stuck on the way in took us thirty minutes to reach, and I calculated we should arrive in Bluefields – hopefully – in three times the usual amount of time – 2-1/4 hours.

A Visit to Rama Cay
Part IV

Slowly we sputtered, and sputtered, and sputtered. Our Hispanic driver constantly worked with the motor – the choke – to keep us going. Sometimes the motor would die. We'd look back questioningly, to see him start it again. We inched along. About halfway through the trip it sputtered again….and died. Our driver's face became distorted, and he said some things to that motor in Spanish that I bet even I could translate……

"What's wrong?" we ask, again. "The pump" Lydia translated. "It's not pumping fuel automatically from the tank to the motor." It starts again, and we look back. Now we have the driver fiddling with the motor to keep it going and pumping the little bulb on the fuel tank so that the fuel will go into the motor. Moments later I look back again. He's got a tin can, and he's dipping water out of the back of the boat. "It must be water that splashed in from the sides," I think to myself. This time I didn't ask.

Our two Presbyterians sitting in the back seat decided this poor fellow could use some help. Nancy takes the can and begins bailing water. Mike grabs the plastic bulb to the fuel tank and begins pumping. This leaves our driver to do what he's been doing all along … working with the motor trying to keep it going. "Brrrn…..brrn….brrrn….brrrn….brrrn" our motor sputters along for perhaps 30 minutes or so. Those of us in the front are singing and joking about our predicament. Mike continues to pump the gas, nervously cracking a joke here and there but secretly whispering to Nancy, "They're not taking this SERIOUSLY enough! I'm glad YOU'RE taking this SERIOUSLY!!!" At one point I ask, "Mike you've been pumping for over 30 minutes now. Don't you want someone else to help you? "NO!" he replies quickly. "This is the only thing that is keeping me SANE!" I burst out laughing. He doesn't.

A Visit to Rama Cay
Part V

The two in back are close to the motor, and cannot hear as well as those of us in the front. 'POW!!!" Off on the shore we hear the sound …. of gunfire! About that time, Mike, who missed the noise, panics. "We're NOT gonna make it! We're just NOT gonna make it! We're gonna run out of gas! I think we'd better pull off to the shore and HIKE the rest of the way!" All of us in front turn to him in unison, "NO, Mike! WE'RE not going on shore! YOU go on shore!" 'POW!!!...POW!!!.....POW!!!!...POW!!!" more shots echo through the air. Our Hispanic driver grimaces, his eyes get wide, he shapes his hand like a gun and gestures, pulling the trigger. Mike's face turns a peculiar shade, his eyes bulge out, and suddenly his little hand begins pumping as it's never pumped before!! I don't think it made us go any faster, but it must've made him feel better.

Slowly, we inch towards Bluefields, and away from where the gunshots were heard. They could have been anything those gunshots. But this is Nicaragua, in the midst of civil war. And even though we sensed that we were far enough from shore we could not be hit by one of them, their break in the silence instilled a fear in us that these people must live with every day. Eventually, Mike relaxes. "Boy, I'm sure gonna have a hard time explaining to my wife why I have muscles on just one arm when I get back!!" he quips.

We ease into Bluefields, nestle in the arms of the port … and run out of gas. The folks in Bluefields have begun to miss us, and a Moravian search boat is headed our way. We change boats and go ashore.

Isolated villages only accessible by water; fishing boats with one oar and no life jackets; motors they cannot afford to replace or repair properly; shorelines of devastated forestry as a constant reminder of the fury of Hurricane Joan; the sound of gunfire in the distance; the continual fear of warfare and death in your midst. This is the reality these people experience every day. This …. is the experience of Nicaragua.

Great Places to Walk in Cookeville – Part II

2009-11-18T13:50:00.000-08:00

There are several ways to approach the trails at Cane Creek Park for a beautiful and interesting 30 minute walk. The park is centrally located off CC Camp Road. Just take Jackson or Buffalo Valley west from Willow and at the intersection of the two streets take Buffalo Valley west. Go 4 streets to CC Camp Road and turn right at the intersection with house with only its roof exposed above ground.

You can turn into the park, follow the road to the lake and park where the boats are, or continue just a little further and park on the right at the restrooms. If you park at the boats take the dirt trail to your left along the lake to the restrooms. From there it's a nice wide dirt trail that eventually becomes a gravel trail. You'll walk along the lake and join the paved trail at the small pier. Continue alongside the lake to the edge of the lake and across the pasture you'll see Buffalo Valley Road. If the grass is tall and not freshly mowed here, you'll see marsh and hear the pleasant chirping of frogs.

The trail forks to the right and circles around the lake, but if you take the fork to the left it goes up and away from the lake and into the woods. In the Fall you can still see the lake in the distance. The trail winds back and parallels the trail the lakeside trail you came up on, winding its way back down and meeting that trail at the small pier. You can go left there and then take a right off the paved trail to go back on the same trail you came up on, or continue to the right on the paved trail for a short distance until it ends at the playground area. Then take a short walk to your left down the road back to the restrooms and your parked vehicle. The trails on this side of the lake are wooded and it's nice to walk on them on a hot day, or when there's light rainfall because the trees guard you from the rain.

For another nice 30 minute walk you can drive past the park entrance on CC Camp Road and park at the Cane Creek Recreation center, cross the road and follow the paved trail on the north side of the lake. Most of the trail on this side is not enveloped by woods, so you're exposed to the sun for warmth. You'll walk alongside marshland and vegetation initially that blocks lake views and the trail curves around to a nice wooded area and a scenic little bridge over a creek. Beyond the bridge is a split - to the left the trail continues right alongside the lake; to the right it goes up and around away from the lake but offers beautiful lake views from a distance. If you go right there, you'll wind around to a small cluster of trees. Take the little trail into the trees and you'll see signs identifying White Oak, Southern Red Oak, Eastern Red Cedar and Black Cherry trees. Continue on the trail wind around to eventually join the lakeside trail that initially split off to your left. To make a good 30 minute walk at a 3mph pace, continue to the right along the lake and at the end of the lake double back on that same trail and join to join lakeside trail. Towards the end of the lake go left at the fork and you'll meet the intersection where the trail first forked. Veer to the right back across the bridge and to the parking lot.

The third way to approach the trails is to park at either the Recreation Center or inside the park where the paddleboats are and take the trail that hugs the lake all the way around for a good 45 minute walk at a 3mph pace. The trail will continue along between the paddleboats and CC Camp Road, hugging the road and crossing the lake.

Trails here are well maintained and well marked, and there are benches scattered along the way if you need to rest. One of the things often missed at the park is its educational value, so be sure to stop and read the park signage along the trail. You'll learn about water pollution, what you can do to prevent it, shoreline erosion and sedimentation, and efforts made to preserve Cane Creek. They give some useful tips on pesticide use, motor oil and paint disposal, or watering lawns in ways that protect our waters. Don't forget to look at the back of the signs, too! You'll walk past a variety of ducks, an occasional blue heron and deer peacefully grazing in the pasture or nestled in forest of this protected area. And other walkers and dogs who will greet you as you pass. All of this combined makes this one of the prettiest places to walk in the area.

Great Places to Walk in Cookeville Part I

2009-11-18T12:56:00.000-08:00

Walking 30 minutes a day is often recommended for good health, and if you're motivated to walk when surrounded by beautiful scenery or interesting things, Cookeville offers several great places to do just that. One of those places is the Cookeville Cemetery.

It's conveniently located between Spring and Stephens Streets, west of Walnut and east of Willow. You can wind in and out of the trails and make for a good 20 minute walk at a moderate 3 mile an hour pace, or go past the cemetery office, cross Walnut Street and
take a stroll in Walnut Park for a nice 30 minute walk.

It's interesting to note the ages of people when they died. Many of the tombstones are from the 1800's, and you'd expect people to die younger then. But there are many markers for people who died young in the 1900's, as well as many for people who lived to a ripe old age in the 1800's. Makes one pause and appreciate where you are and offers hope for the possibility of a long life in one's future.

Tombstones tell stories. About people. About families. There are stones for couples, like the one for the wife who was born in 1920 and died at 59 in 1979 and the husband who was born in 1927 and is still alive in his 80's. The McDonald family has markers for 4 siblings, all born between 1907 to 1915 and died between 1928 to 1936. Except for Lorena, who lived to the ripe old age of 81. The Montgomery family has a set of three partial above ground concrete vaults. For Laurie Marie Poisont Montgomery, born in 1920 and died in 1991, her husband, a World War II vet, born in 1915 and died in 1984 and their son Ronald born in 1954. Ronald died in 1985 at the age of 31 a year after his Dad. Laurie's stone is beautifully inscribed "Pour ma jolie Maman nothing is more beautiful than a mother's smile. Je t'aimerais tourjours. Nicky" You stop and think of the grief both Laurie and Nicky's experienced.

There are flat bronze markers provided for soldiers by the Veterans Administration. Raised markers and an occasional above ground vault. Freshly dug graves with no markers yet. Tombstones for babies with lambs atop, like the two for the Starnes family dated 1923 and 1934. Many markers are over 100 years old. Older stones show wear and tear and their inscriptions can be difficult to read. Newer ones are bright and clear. They come in all shapes and sizes. And each one tells a story.

About the Herbold family – Judy is still living, Jack was born in 1949 and died at 56 in 2005. Mitchell was born in 1979 and died 2009 at age 30. Jack died young, but not long enough to see his son die at so young. Markers for the Bilyeu family tell about Glenn, Pvt. US Army Korea, born in 1930 and died at age 44 in 1974, and his mother Lula, born in 1886, who died one year later in 1975. The stone for James Kyle Farley, who died in 2003 at the age of 15, is a large cross with Psalm 139:13-18 inscribed on the back. On the ground just beside it is a flat plaque for James Farley, who died just 3 years after his son at the age of 42. You pause to think about grief of parents whose children died so young, and before they did.

Some of the stones are hand written. Some markers tell us what was important to those whose bodies lay beneath them. Like the one for Dale Jones, born in 1962 and died in 1996 at the age of 34, with the simple inscription "father of Levi and Joseph". Or the one for Robert Ament who died in 1990 at the age of 34, inscribed "Oh to live on Sugar Mountain with the Barkers and the colored balloons". I'm sure he's there now. There's an eloquent memorial to Confederate soldiers with an inscription honoring those whom it says "died for freedom". But the marker that takes me most aback is the one for Gilbert Mayer McGee CoH 34 Inft. 7Div Born 1/27/1897. Died in France 10/28/1918. Next to him are Addie (1868-1936) and Robert (1866-1945). A soldier killed in World War I. Was this their only child?

One day as I walked a young man in a City of Cookeville truck pulled up alongside of me asking if he could help me find anything. We began talking about the cemetery. "A lot of the graves are of young people who committed suicide" he remarked. He pointed out some of the more interesting markers, and told of a set of 7 markers from one family who all died on the same date. "From a house fire".

It's Fall, and the trees in the cemetery are brilliantly colored. Leaves cover the ground and Winter is on its way. Then Spring comes with its beautiful greens and fresh blooms and the circle of life continues.
.

Great Escapes Photography

2009-11-17T06:41:00.000-08:00

Santorini at Sunset

Peaceful Village in Normandy, 2002

A Barn on Phifer Mountain Road

Temple of the gods

Sonoran Desert Scene

Along the De Anza Trail

On a Hike in the Tongass

On a Trail at Rock Island

Mystic Macchu Picchu

Lahaina at Sunset

Ahka Tribal Woman and Child

Paintings in Acrylic and Watercolor

2009-11-10T13:01:00.000-08:00

Introduction

2009-11-07T16:56:00.000-08:00

I have worked in clerical/administrative support, in sales and customer service in travel as a Vacation Travel Consultant, in Admissions with Hospice.

My skills and experience include:

Coordinating monthly educational programs on environmental and conservation issues for two years for the Sierra Club in Nashville, serving on their Excom Committee and leading occasional group day hike outings and outings to regional archaeological sites.

Volunteering in cat care and socialization at the Humane Society.

Initiating promotional opportunities by researching special interest groups, local specialty publications and venues. Creating promotional material and coordinated advertising and coordinated mass mail/email promotions.
Coordinating travel presentations for the public with myself as guest speaker or by arranging vendor participation. Creating event promotional materials, coordinating event promotion setup. Creating a special interest travel newsletter.

Coordinating special programs on international issues with guest speakers or myself as the speaker for churches. Creating promotional material for event announcement and coordinating annoucements in newsletters. Leading group outings to Arts facilities and archaeological sites for churches.

Teaching classes on international cultures, chairing committees writing newsletter articles on international issues and coordinating the collection and delivery of hurricane relief supplies to Central America at churches.

I've had the good fortune to travel to archaeological ruins in Peru, Mexico, Honduras and Greece, stay in an ecolodges in the Caribbean and Thailand, cruise in the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Greek Islands and Alaska, explore native cultures in the Southwestern U.S. and Alaska, experience beautiful scenery in Hawaii & Canada, visit Hilltribes in Thailand, indigenous peoples in Nicaragua, shrines in Japan, Normandy and World War II sites in France, cruise the Mediterranean and the Greek islands.