A PARTY - UNEXPECTED

Having never set foot on Louisiana soil before, the day I made my debut, it was a sunny Mississippi morning in Clinton, a suburb of Jackson. My self-guided tour of downtown Jackson, of the previous day, revealed a city far different than my misguided preconceived expectations. Isn't it interesting how we often make judgements based on fragments of information that come to us through the years - such an unfair notion we adopt about so much in life. The clean and well kept downtown I cruised through brought to mind the boiling stories of civil rights conflicts of the days of my preadolescence. And, of course, the American History lessons I dismissed as not-so-important, now flash boldly into my conscious mind - an abundance of southern history enfolds this city. My more mature mind, now a sponge, soaks in the public documented history I see on many a street corner in this creole section of the country.

Some enlightened person I met on this Jackson morning assured me that a ride down 'Natchez Trace' while in Mississippi, was a must. This new phrase - was it a residential enclave?... a river? ...a road? The answer - a road it IS, a long one at that, and one not to be missed! I arrived at 'the Trace' by way of Vicksburg, MS (a history lesson all it's own!). The 444 miles of the Natchez Trace is similar to the Blue Ridge Parkway - an meandering oasis of nature's bounty with no intersecting roads, only short exits here and there to connect to other highways. On May 18th 'The Trace' will celebrate 75 years of existence, however the 'path' has been used by Choctaw Indians and other natives for over 10,000 years. Today the roadside landscape shows a perfusion of flowers and fauna - an April delight. Few cars were traveling this road on this weekday morning. I stopped about a half-hour into my day's journey, parked in a small wayside rest, and walked into the meadow of flowers, surrounded by magnificent trees, the sound of a babbling brook over yonder. Standing there in near silence ....listening.... looking... smelling... a flood of senses like no other. The sounds of water, a gentle breeze, birds chirping - it could have been heaven as far as I was concerned. Without a doubt, the full-color sensuous moment of that day will last in my memory always!

Arriving in the town of Natchez, I was greeted with street after street of 'vintage' homes, many with signposts listing it's date of origin in precise lettering. This would be the town best suited to sign up for a historic architecture class! The impressive Vistor's Center tells a complete and rather discomforting story of the often ruthless days of slavery and emotion-ladened events of the civil rights emergent years. So much to learn - to absorb.

A glance out the window revealed the morning sun giving way to the threatening look of gathering clouds. Heeding the warning, it was time to move on if I was to arrive in Shreveport by nightfall. The Mississippi River separates Natchez from the Louisiana state line. If I were to play Huck Finn, I'd hop a river raft and follow the snaking path of the mighty Mississippi about 200 miles south of here to the great city of New Orleans. My yearning to explore the capital of southern Jazz was placed on hold for a future time, when I can 'do the town' - perhaps with a companion. Crossing over the Natchez bridge, I am now traveling Louisiana Hwy 425. The inevitable rainstorm hit with a fury, but this determined 'Iowegian' hunkered down at a 15 mph pace, taking the winds and hail in full alert, following the tail-lights ahead of me. As you may expect, my itinerary was modified because of the storm. Shreveport would have to wait until tomorrow. Always -flexibility. The post-rain twilight hours usher in an ethereal relaxing drive into Monroe. The bayou signs and swamp grasses have given way to more agricultural land. A tractor here and there, cows grazing, and an occasional grain field reveal a changing terrain - always a traveler's delight.

At the dawning of a new day, my hour's drive into Shreveport seemed almost Minnesota-like. Spring's green vibrance enlivening my inner spirit, and following me all the way to the door of my next art museum perusal - H.R. Horton Gallery in Shreveport. I am continually amazed to find art museums all unique in one way or another. H.R. Horton was no exception. Though the exterior shouted - 'old high school building' - the inner sanctum was nothing of the sort! As museums go, it was rather small, but packed a wonderful punch! The collection of American and European art - inspiring; the antique doll collection - artfully presented and the gallery of antique guns - well, I passed through quickly - not really my thing!

My short early afternoon drive-through of Shreveport was satisfying/interesting, but my eagerness to be on my way to Dallas spurred me out of town, and onto State Hwy 80 for the 2-1/2 hour drive to Preston Hollow, of north Dallas notariety. The east Texas tree-ladened roadsides seemed to sandwich-up to my ribbon of highway, a toothpaste squeeze of a journey through ten-gallon hat towns, full of Spanish flavor, and with flea market tables lining the community streets like a spring festival of 'has-been merchandise' extravaganza. Had I been a flea-market guru, that day would have been eutopia! The reality is, my life in recent months has been all about 'simplifying', a natural result of living in 90 sq. ft. of mobile living space! On this day, the has-been markets flew by my window with not a thought of braking for a look-see.

Dallas, Texas is BIG - rather like the state it is situated in. It was apparent that I could have spent more than a week visiting museums, gardens and the like, had I wanted. Two days exploring this bigger-than-life place sufficed, a rather enjoyable time, but a descending 'vacant-soul' aura was beginning to invade my psyche. This can happen when traveling solo and living in a rather introverted shell of personal being. My cerebral knowledge of 'Immauel' (God with us) is a constant companion, but streams of consciousness take we humans in unhealthy detours now and then - a natural part of life, I believe. Seeking to fill the 'vacancy', a voice came quietly to my awareness ...'Go to Santa Fe'! Cutting short my prior roughly constructed itinerary, I hit the open road once more, toward the western Texas plains with their ranches, cattle and scraggly, aged juniper shrubs on the vast horizons.

Lying west and loosely connected to Dallas is the equally vibrant, almost-twin, city of Fort Worth. My Wipedia search had informed me of an Art Center in the suburb of Irving, close to my route. One last hurrah before the open road - I'll stop for a quick visit. I'm told there are wonderful outdoor sculptures in the gardens surrounding this relatively small Center for the Arts. Always thankful for my GPS, I easily find my way to a rather unassuming neighborhood and find the school-like setting quickly, filled with cars in the parking lot. For a Sunday afternoon, on a lovely sunny day, this seemed a bit of a surprise. The quiet expanse of man-made geometric ponds and large metal sculptures that lies adjacent to the Center's entrance was soothing to my soul as I meandered the carefully contoured walkways, listening to the flowing waters, admiring the sparkling twisted metal sculptures standing proudly in the hot Texas sun. I smile, nurtured once more by the essence of earth's sounds, albeit manipulated by the hands of God's human creators of art. Ambling slowing into the building, I follow the signs down a hallway and hear in the distance the sounds of a crowd. What's this? Rounding the corner I enter a room filled with party-goers in various manners of dress. Tables are ladened with artfully arranged platters of tasty eats. Numerous large and small floral arrangements flank various art pieces here and there in this fine gallery. What -- did they throw me a party??? Well, it would seem so --I'll just pretend to be the 'invisible guest' and fit in as 'one of the crowd'. It is soon apparent that this is a yearly regional art contest, entered by perhaps a hundred artists who's artistic media range from oils to pastels, to mixed media, watercolor, acrylic and more. What a true serendipitous moment!

I choose to believe that God leads us to healing places when we find ourselves 'empty', in need of encouragement. In the latter part of this day, my spirit is uplifted. I float around the room for an hour or so, studying the beautiful art, enjoy a strawberry or two, or three and listening to the announcement of the contest winners. Such a mixture of personas - art always seems to draw out the unique in people. Walking to my RV in the late afternoon sun, there is a new bounce in my step.

"Thanks for the party, God", I say, as I slide into my captain's chair and turn over Pedro's engine. New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, here I come!

Intothewind-

NATUREGIRL