July 21, 2025

The bounce house, or bounce room, is part of the Greenville, S.C., Pavilion County Recreation Center, a few miles from our house.  The Center is mainly an ice-skating rink, open to the public, also used for practice by the local minor league hockey club. The bounce room occupies 7,000 square feet of the place, roughly a basketball court.

I’ve taken the grandsons a few times. I pay the $19.95, the girl behind the counter fastens bracelets to their wrists. They run for the half-dozen giant brightly colored inflated devices, a couple of which resemble slides that extend nearly to the ceiling. Kids climb a ladder and fling themselves happily down, landing on a soft mat. There’s a sort of maze, a pit full of soft balls, a tunnel, a big round enclosure. Everything is soft, pliable, bouncy.

With several dozen children present the place is bedlam, yells, laughing, crying, with minor bumps. Kids do sometimes miss the mats and land hard. The moms (I’ve yet to see another male) rush over with a hug, a Kleenex, a gentle word. Mostly they sit together chatting or looking at cell phones. I’m at a small table by myself, watching the kids run around, slide, play.

Sometimes my attention wanders. This is not kids’ play as I remember it. Sixty-plus years ago, in my Jersey hometown, we played stickball in the street, dodging traffic. We wandered through the rough woodland behind the neighborhood, a forest probably a half-mile deep and two miles long, well out of sight of our moms. We camped and fished and skinnydipped in a creek that flowed through the woods. We brought home bloody knees, mud, and poison ivy. Once I was sprayed by a skunk.

The woods are still there, declared a protected natural area by the county. Six or seven years ago, my younger brother, who then still lived in the neighborhood, led me on a walk and showed me my name, carved in a fallen treetrunk, along with the year: 1961. Someone had carved “I love” in front of my name–no idea.

Today it’s the bounce house. No one gets dirty, no one gets hurt, no one is out of sight of mom for more than the minute it takes to dodge from one bounce device to another. The $9.50 admission fee is for the entire day, 10 AM to 8 PM Sunday through Thursday, and to 10:00 PM Fridays and Saturdays.

The bounce house offers safe exercise away from the TV and computer games. It’s temperature-controlled, kids aren’t out in the summer heat or winter cold. They’re in no danger of being hit by a car, or of meeting people parents don’t want their kids to meet. They’re not going to tear up their clothes. They’re in no danger of anything. Parents will gladly pay $9.50 for that.

With all those positives, bounce houses are doing a booming business. They host parties for birthdays and other occasions. A few years ago our daughter and son-in-law held a bounce-house birthday party for the older boy, the formula being play, pizza, birthday cake, pictures. Parents drop their kids off, no worries. The employees, usually teenagers or college kids, set up tables, host the party, set up for the next one.

My suggestion for this Pavilion visit was ice skating; skate rental is included in the admission price. Skating offers the same pluses as the bounce house, with the additional challenge of actually skating. The idea stirred memories—my hockey skates and hockey stick, Christmas gifts from my parents so long ago, skating on a neighborhood pond and on a local lake.

They chose the bounce house. Like other bounce-house parents and grandparents, we knew the routine. The kids would get their bracelets and scoot to the giant slides and start climbing. I’d take a seat and watch or read something. It’s the bounce house. That’s what happens.         

So it went for 15 or 20 minutes. Lots of kids were there, some wearing teeshirts from a local day camp. The place was loud. My two were out there, sticking together, up and down the slides, as usual. Then they walked toward me. The older boy asked, “Can we go, grandpa?”

I looked at my watch. I had forked over the $19.95. I thought they’d play for an hour, minimum. They both looked serious. They were done with bounce house. We headed for the door. Near the front desk a crowd of boys and girls were lacing ice skates. I paused and watched for a moment.

We got some fast food. I didn’t ask why they cut the bounce house visit short. But it seemed that those 15 minutes were the same as any 15-minute segment of all previous visits. The kids climb the ladder, slide down, climb the ladder again and slide again or move on to another device. Then the next, until they’ve done them all.

Later I thought again of my adventures as a ten- or eleven-year-old. We were outdoors, the greatest difference with the bounce house routine. If it was raining my parents or my friends’ parents might let us watch cartoons until the sun came out. Then: go out and play.

Today’s kids do play outside. Even the youngest are on fall and spring soccer and Little League teams, with practices and games scheduled, coaches teaching. The kids are in uniforms. Parents pay fees, buy equipment. They sit in the stands or stand on the sidelines, taking pictures, cheering, sometimes groaning. There’s the prospect of advancing to the next level, the middle school or high school team. Then what?

We sometimes see kids tossing balls, or kicking them with each other or with parents, and somehow feel good about it. It could be that the good for our grandsons is that the positives of the bounce house: the contained space, the structured play, the absence of even minimal risk, the near-total parents’ surveillance, just get old. Maybe the kids are over it. Maybe they’ll try stickball.

July 14, 2025

Last fall I wrote that everything is big in Texas: big business, big ranching, big energy, big tech. Now we add horror, grief, government deflecting. On TV last week a Kerrville police officer said, “as bad as it was, it could have been worse.”

We drove across the state twice in 2018. Outbound across the Panhandle we saw flat, dusty ranchland dotted with cattle. The return a month later, from El Paso to Fort Stockton was more of the same, empty desert, rolling prairie, massive, out of proportion to everything else we know.

Then, Hill Country. Eventually we crossed the Guadalupe River where it passes under I-35 between Austin and San Antonio.

Heading west, we stopped overnight in Shamrock, between Oklahoma and Amarillo. It’s a speck on the vast state map, a couple of modest historic buildings, two or three motels, fast food, St. Patrick’s Catholic church. We had breakfast at a place just north of town. Six old gents in cowboy hats were the only other customers.

We headed west toward New Mexico. Wind moaned over the desolate landscape. We stopped at the Cadillac Ranch, where old Cadillacs are half-buried, hood down, in mud. Then nothing but prairie and sky. We drove on to Albuquerque.

The return put us on I-10 east out of El Paso. We skirted the Mexican border for maybe 60 miles, driving with the big trucks at 80. The interstate turned east into green Texas vastness. We passed the start of I-20 to the oil country and pushed into Fort Stockton, biggest town on the Stockton Plateau.

An RV campground advertised with a giant “God Bless You” sign. The lady in charge gave us a tentsite next to the interstate. Long-haul trucks roared past through the night.  We left before dawn, drove 100 miles to Ozona, gassed up and turned onto U.S. 290, the direct route to Austin. We stopped in Harper because it’s Sandy’s maiden name.

The town says it sits “at the headwaters of the Hill Country” near the Pedernales River, which flows west-east toward Austin. This is part of what’s called Flash Flood Alley. We stopped at the Longhorn Café, then drove around Harper, passing an exotic animal farm. Llamas and camels stared at us from their corral.

The Hill Country, setting for the Guadalupe River tragedy, rises and falls in gentle inclines and descents. It’s cattle and wine country, pretty and green, showing off nice homes and estates. The highway winds gracefully around the curves past the vineyards. Eventually traffic picks up as you close on the Austin suburbs.

We were about 20 miles north of Kerrville, the county seat of Kerr County, through which the Guadalupe flows. We stopped in Fredericksburg and looked at the tourist shops, then headed to Austin.

Hill Country continues into the city. Austin—this was seven years ago—was even then a bedlam of traffic and sprawl, McMansion-type homes going up in cookie-cutter subdivisions along eight-lane local highways. An old Virginia friend who relocated to a suburb northwest of downtown now lives next to a steep precipice above a creekbed that becomes a raging flood after a heavy rain. Like the Guadalupe on the July 4 weekend.

Texans love Texas. Years ago someone I met from just outside Austin, on a work assignment in D.C., urged us to retire in the Hill Country. Every weekend she flew home, she missed the place that much. A Marine officer I knew from New Braunfels, a German-heritage place between Austin and San Antonio, swore it’s the best place on earth.

We paused in San Antonio and saw the Alamo then stopped at the Riverwalk, the famous tourist trap. We got tired, and picked up I-10 again, heading for Houston. At some point we turned southeast onto a traffic-choked spur to Galveston. We got there, got a room on the seedier end of town, ate at a Denny’s. Texas was becoming a chore.

In the morning we walked on the beach through the jungle humidity, took a picture to prove we were there, then headed for America’s oil refining strip from Beaumont, past the Gulf Coast’s oil rigs, gas cracking plants, and tanker piers. We drove through Louisiana’s Atchafalaya River Basin, America’s largest swamp, 20 miles of bogs and mangroves. The Hill Country was a half-state behind us.

We now are seeing and reading about Hill Country police chiefs, mayors, and state officials groping for answers. The National Weather Service says it issued a flood watch at 1 PM July 3 for south-central Texas. At 1:14 AM July 4 NWS sent a flash-flood warning for Kerr County. CNN reported that County Sheriff Larry Leitha says he didn’t get the word until 4:00 or 5:00 AM, when 911 calls started.  

“We’re putting together a timeline,” he said last Wednesday.  At this writing apparently no one had a copy of the emergency management plan for Camp Mystic, where close to 30 girls died.

Floods kill millions worldwide. In the U.S.:  Johnstown, Penn., in 1889, the St. Francis dam failure (Los Angeles) in 1928. Ohio River in 1937. Katrina in 2005, the Dayton great flood of 2013, Floods all over, Massachusetts, Vermont, Idaho, Illinois, Ohio, North Carolina.

Last fall Hurricane Helene killed 250 people in five states, North Carolina leading with more than 100, many in remote places where wilderness rivers rampaged. Helene was a monster storm.

The Hill Country flood came in a ferocious night rain. People in charge are saying they didn’t know about the forecasts, the warnings, the alerts. Children slept close to the river. Teenage counselors saved most, not all. As of right now the flood has killed 129, 160 still missing.

The political types who didn’t have a plan now are talking. The state legislature has scheduled a hearing. Meanwhile thousands are wading in Guadalupe muck, still searching, coping with grief, honoring families. Nightmares are big in Texas. So is humanity.        

July 7, 2025

The mercury was forecast to climb into the nineties, but the men planned to finish before the heat set in. The early morning air was humid, yet cool in the deep shade.  Their target was four miles, a rough endpoint of a stretch of easy descent. They left Grant’s truck at the trailhead and moved forward.

The trail was soft, the canopy thick overhead. They moved easily over the first hundred yards and made a gentle turn. A piece of orange fencing blocked the route, a hand-printed sign warned “landslide,” a remnant of Hurricane Helene nine months ago. Ribbons tied to branches showed the detour. They slogged uphill around the wrecked patch, then turned down onto the trail.

Heading east from Laurel Valley off U.S. 178, the Foothills Trail follows gravelly, rough Horsepasture Road in a kind of arc, then turns west and climbs. The trail builders years ago installed wooden steps at steep points as an aid to casual hikers. The steps intrude on the natural slopes and actually slow progress. From the road level the men climbed three or four stairwells as the trail followed the hard slope.  

The trail repair team had bulldozed an alternate path along the rocky, root-lined first climb. The men stayed on the original trail, following the white Foothills blazes. The trail wound up, up, they bent forward, moving deliberately.  Beyond another sharp upward turn they found a short stretch of level ground. Then more climbing.

At the near-two-mile point the forest opened up a bit, the trail widened. They exhaled, past the worst of it. Ahead they found gently rolling terrain. The trail now was soft, easy going. They quickened their pace past hundreds of hurricane blowdowns, chain-sawed and pushed off the trail. The thousand-year storm had scarred the forest, opening stretches of once-dark woodland to sunlight. It was nature’s way.

At two miles the rolling country inclined upward again. The forest thickened under dense deep-green canopy which, it seemed, the storm had left unscathed. They moved into the heart of the Jocassee Gorges Management Area, a massive expanse of mountain forest straddling the N.C.-S.C. state line, crossed only by winding trails.

The trail inclined downward, curling towards Laurel Ford Creek. At three miles they could hear the laughing of fast water. They glided through young forest growth, feeling the air grow warm as they descended.  

At close to four miles the trail opened to a ladder, recently built, at a ten-foot drop. They climbed down into a lush, moist jungle, the new growth entangled with towering oaks and maples. The ground was muddy, lined with briars and vines, the trail now bordered to the south by a rock wall. They moved forward, hearing the roar of the creek.

They crossed a bridge, paused, sipped water, then checked their map. Virginia Hawkins Falls looked to be another half-mile. The trail ahead faded into thick woods. They rehitched their hydration packs and moved on.

The trail zigzagged across the creek over sturdy bridges. The creek rushed on its winding course, lined by tangled underbrush and fallen trees. The rock wall rose into heavy forest. Young trees grew in impenetrable thickets, blocking the sky, the heavy air grew heavier. They followed the white blazes and descended another long flight of forest stairs to a narrow clearing alongside the falls.

They stared at the cascading water as it gushed over the falls from ten or twelve feet high, raising an airy mist then flowing over a rocky streambed to a quiet pond and west toward Laurel Falls. A large flat rock served as a bench. They both gulped water and ate something and watched the clear water on its picturesque path. Grant, the athlete, climbed down to the water’s edge for a closer look.

The waterfall, the moss-covered rocks of the creekbed, the young growth rising into the treetops, conveyed the sense of deep rainforest transplanted from some tropical place. The dense greenery crept down to the water’s edge. The only sound was the creek’s flow over the rocks.

In 1904 the Argentine-English writer and naturalist William Henry Hudson wrote Green Mansions, a romantic novel set in the Venezuelan jungle that draws the reader into his perception of the mystical beauty of woodland.  As his narrator travels through wilderness, he says, “I felt purified and had a strange sense and apprehension of a secret innocence and spirituality in nature, a prescience of some bourn, incalculably distant, perhaps, to which are all moving.”

The men sat for those few moments within and surrounded by a vast, silent green mansion, a sublime creation of nature: the vernal, dense forest wildness, the humid air of the Carolina summer, the rich woodland soil, the remoteness from crowded places. They rested, watching the falls, feeling the delicate serenity of the natural world.

They stood, their legs stiff from the break, and reversed course. It had been nearly five miles. They trekked slowly up the first set of trail stairs and moved back along the creek, stepping over fallen tree trunks.  

They recrossed the bridges and picked up their pace. At the end of the straightway beyond the fourth bridge they slogged into three short steep switchbacks. The easy outbound descent became a battle uphill. The sun bore down, mosquitos swarmed. In an hour they found the rolling, sunlit trail, and leaned forward into the fast return.

June 30, 2025

Fannie Mae Dees Park, on Nashville’s Hillsboro Village side, has so far survived the bulldozers. The park, a humble green patch, lies in the shadow of the Vanderbilt University and hospital urban jungle, at the corner of a major thoroughfare and a slightly less-trafficked neighborhood street.

In the 1960s Ms. Dees shared a home on nearby Capers Street with her mother. She was known in the area for bringing flowers from her garden to nursing home residents and patients at local hospitals, which would be Vanderbilt a few blocks away and Baptist just off West End Avenue. I read that she got into trouble by taking old jars from dumpsters at Vanderbilt.

The city planners came to seize residential property in the area, including on Capers Street, to cede it to Vanderbilt, Ms. Dees and her neighbors fought the city’s voracious appetite for tearing things down. She hung protest signs on her house and displayed a coffin to symbolize the death of the neighborhood. The battle lasted into the ‘70s, the neighbors lost. Fannie’s home, among others, was demolished. She died in 1978.

A small parcel of land survived the urban rampage and was reborn as a park. Later, a city councilwoman, Betty Nixon, declared it should be named after Fannie Mae. So it is.

In its early days the park was a neighborhood afterthought, the space wedged in the corner between two elementary schoolyards and a tennis court. The grass was mostly scratched away, leaving bare dirt.

In 1973 a neighbor, Ann Roos, asked sculptor Pedro Silva to create a unique structure to distinguish the park. He designed a 150-foot-long replica of a dragon, to be fabricated in a gorgeous, chaotic mosaic of tile sizes and colors, including images of animals and mythical figures and faces. Neighbors showed up and helped lay in the tiles. The work was completed in 1980. Today the park named after Fannie is called the Dragon Park.

The park was three blocks from our early 1980s Nashville home. In the evenings we’d walk over with our kids. We’d sit and watch them play. Other neighborhood couples came, the kids clambered over the dragon’s serpentine body, which seems to emerge from the earth to undulate across the playground. The park had the usual swings and slides, but the dragon drew the kids.  

The Dragon Park became legend for children who grew up in the neighborhood and for many from elsewhere around town and from other places. Some, like ours, left when their families moved away. But they remember.

Years went by, our kids grew up in Jersey and Virginia. The park was spruced up a bit in 1988. We drove back a few times, in ’97 for Sandy’s parents’ fiftieth anniversary, again in ’01 for a nephew’s funeral. A year later we were back for a niece’s wedding. Those trips were distracted, rushed; the kids were years beyond playground age. But the Dragon Park was a benchmark, a beacon. We drove past.

In 2017 the neighborhood association raised funds to renovate the park with the help of Pedro’s son, Tony Silva. The work added new playground toys, the kind with kid-safe plastic ladders and netting and new swings, replacing the old metal swingsets. The bare-dirt play areas were carpeted with durable artificial turf.

Two weeks ago we stopped at the Dragon Park with our grandsons. I noticed the parents of other kids. They were children themselves, in the age range of our kids, when we brought them to the park.

As the park construction completed, the city transformation sped forward. The Vanderbilt University and hospital complex across the street from the park now is a traffic-choked maw of office towers, medical facilities, and parking garages cheek to jowl with shops and restaurants along one-way streets of short blocks, traffic lights, and stop signs. University and hospital staff people, hospital patients, and college kids crowd the sidewalks and jaywalk through traffic.

Multi-story buildings along the main thoroughfare, 21st Avenue, cast shadows over each other. A few blocks over, Baptist Hospital, where our three older kids were born, was swallowed by a large hospital corporation.

Fannie Mae’s street, Capers, is lined with cookie-cutter townhomes and The Village at Vanderbilt, a big upscale apartment complex that offers granite countertops and extra-large balconies with French doors.   

The suburbs reach into virgin space. In our town pastureland is being turned into apartments. Two weeks ago a nearby tract of woodland became, almost overnight, a two-story-high pile of splintered logs, making space for a new subdivision. Some ask, is it all necessary?

But then—it’s been 60 years since Fannie Mae stood outside her home with her protest signs and coffin. Sixty years! Should we expect anything different? Urban renewal. This is the way it is in America.

Why are they bulldozing this forest or that one? We know why. Demolition is the way to creation, the first step in the construction of new single-family homes, condos, apartments, offices, and the retail activity that supports them, the malls, hospitals, schools, and the roads that link all of that. In urban spaces, the Vanderbilt complex, replicated.

Still, we can imagine Fannie Mae watching her home torn down, the remains hauled away. This is the way old people look at these things. Today’s residents of Capers Avenue, the tenants at The Village of Vanderbilt, never knew her. Many, most likely, have never heard of her. For them, the Dragon Park is a five-minute walk, to another world.

June 23, 2025

Sikeston, Missouri, is a spot along I-55 that if you’re not heading there, quickly recedes in your rear-view mirror. Leaving the highway, though, should mean a visit to Lambert’s Café. There you have a chance to catch “throwed rolls.” Yes, that is “throwed,” not “thrown.”

Taking a seat, be ready, because wait staff will pitch fluffy, warm rolls, which may hit you in the head if you’re not ready to make the catch. Our grandsons Noah and Patrick, without being warned, caught three each. You can check: http://www.throwedrolls.com.

An American road trip wouldn’t be complete without a Lambert’s, or Loveless Café, near Bellevue, Tenn., or Rocky’s Grill, in Brevard and Bonnie & Clyde’s in Marshall, N.C., or Cosmic Rabbits in Greenville, S.C., or any of hundreds of odd, one-only eateries across the land, all pushing some kind of dream. Loveless does the Southern thing, Rocky’s the Fifties, Bonnie & Clyde’s, guns and vigilantes. Cosmic Rabbits does tea with a dose of Star Wars.

Lambert’s does have two other sites, in Ozark, just south of Springfield, Mo., and Foley, Ala., about 40 miles south of Mobile. They both throw rolls.

Backing up: our original plan, on leaving St. Louis, was to drive to Memphis and spend a day or two, then head to Nashville, which would have come to about 500 miles. A fallback was a pit stop at Sandy’s cousin Mike’s office in Cape Girardeau. Mike was the mastermind behind the family reunion in Chapel Hill, Tenn., reported here two weeks ago.

St. Louis to the Cape is about 116 miles. From there I guessed we’d get a state road back to Paducah and retrace our steps to Nashville on I-24. Instead, Mike invited us to follow him to lunch. Lambert’s was the place. He mentioned it to his staff assistant before we left his office. I noticed her smile.

We followed Mike for the 30 miles to Sikeston. This was new country for us. Cultivated fields, mostly corn, stretch to the horizon. Eastern Missouri isn’t Kansas, but it’s close. We whizzed by Kelso, Blodgett, Benson, other small towns, counting barns, tractors, and grain elevators shimmering in the Missouri noon sun. The Mississippi winds south a few miles east of the highway. From a distance, Sikeston didn’t look like much.

Lambert’s seems to occupy half a city block. It was Tuesday, but the cavernous dining room was packed. The walls are lined with hundreds, maybe thousands of license plates from everywhere. Model aircraft swing from the ceilings. We sat, I spied something airborne. Noah reached up and caught the fat homemade roll. A waiter standing nearby launched another. Patrick grabbed it in mid-air.

We learned that Earl and Agnes Lambert opened Lambert’s on March 13, 1942 in a cramped building on Sikeston’s South Main Street. Their son Norman took over running the place in 1976. On the website he explains that he threw his first roll on May 26, 1976. He tried to serve rolls to someone, but couldn’t get to the customer through the lunchtime crowd. The fellow yelled, “Just throw it!” So he did, and everyone joined in. “What once was a job was now fun. … We never have been, nor ever will be, a suit-and-tie joint.”  

The Ozark location opened in 1994, the Foley site in 1996. The Sikeston restaurant moved to East Malone Street in 2002.

Lambert’s is a comfort-food place. The menu features country fried round and ribeye steak, barbecue ribs, meatloaf, pulled pork, country ham steak, hog jowl, frog legs, fried catfish, and chicken cooked any way you like. You can get a vegetable plate. There’s a kid’s menu with kid-size portions of all of the above.

I went off reservation and had a burger. The kids had their usual, chicken fingers.

Everything comes with two sides, but the real deal is the “pass-arounds”: servers, all in red bow ties and suspenders, haul around pots of fried okra, black-eyed peas, tomatoes with macaroni, fried potatoes with onions. They don’t stop coming, it’s all you can eat. I thought the okra and peas were excellent. We asked for some rolls to go.

We gawked at the big hall as the wait staff made their rounds. The lunch crowd kept coming, the rolls kept flying. We thanked our smiling server, who said be sure to come again. The lobby featured a Model T, an old telephone booth, and bric-a-brac. I browsed the gift shop, but didn’t feel any of us needed a Lambert’s teeshirt or coffee mug.

I didn’t get to ask why the other locations are in Ozark and Foley. The distances mean Lambert’s is a tour stop for us, with no other reason, thus far, to visit those towns. Really, no other reason to visit Sikeston. We pulled out of the packed parking lot onto the hot interstate. 

As we slogged down I-55 I sensed in Lambert’s a little bit of Cracker Barrels I’ve known, which also push hard on the country shtick. Cracker Barrel Old Country Stores is a monster, with 660 outlets in 45 states. What’s the appeal of all this country theming? Americans like the off-the-highway casualness, the home-cooking menu. They like the rocking chairs and farm implements near the door, the license plates nailed to the walls. Why? They just do.

We sped through light traffic to Caruthersville, Mo., then swung onto near-empty I-185 and crossed the fast-moving Mississippi. Sandy closed her eyes. In a few minutes we were in Dyersburg, Tenn., at the far western end of the state. A friendly lady at the rest stop sent us down U.S. 412 to Jackson and I-40. In two hours we crossed the Tennessee River, in three we were inching through rush hour in downtown Nashville. For dinner, the kids wanted pizza.