I’ll be driving down the road, with Barry snoozing in the passenger seat. I hate to wake him up, but I have to. “Honey? Could you write something down for me, so I don’t forget?” If he’s driving, I sometimes ride with the notebook open in my lap. The result is what I call “fluff,” those funny things that flash by as we’re lumbering down the road at 55 mph.

***
North Carolina has many institutions of higher learning, like Duke, and UNC, and Back Swamp Community College. If I was trying to get into graduate school, I’d hate to have that last one on my resume.
***
We recently drove past an antique store in Woodbine, Georgia, where they call a spade a spade. Their sign simply said, “Dead people’s things for sale.”
***
Speaking of signs, our nearby farmer’s market has a huge banner that says, “Collards,” in 2-foot tall letters. At Thanksgiving, I watched a man come in and buy so many that they filled the cab of his truck. He drove away, his head barely peeking above the sea of green.
***
Near Christmas, I saw another huge banner, along a back road in North Carolina. This one said, “Collard Kraut.” I bet that gets a lot of takers.
***
Somewhere along I-95 in Florida, we saw an actual restaurant called “Ying’s Chinee Takee Outee.” That’s either an anachronism or a sadistic signmaker.
***
Speaking of Florida, I’ve got a new slogan for the state, based on recent observations: “Florida, the dead armadillo state.” Then again, there are a lot of states vying for that title.
***
Georgia might consider a new slogan, too. “Interstates under construction…since Eisenhower.”
***
And South Carolina might use this: “Y’all be nice, or we’ll secede again.”
***
OK, what’s with the Christmas inflatable yard decorations? Only about one in ten is inflated. The rest are not festive holiday cheer, they’re what Barry refers to as “technicolor flaccid lumps.”
***
Real streets I would not like to live on: Tattletale Lane. Embarrass Avenue. Dead Cow Lane.
***
Real streets I would like to live on: Ju Ju Lane. Daisy Street.
***
Can you imagine having a friend in Friend, Nebraska? It’s easier than imagining an enemy there.
***
Laramie, Wyoming: Where the truck stop ladies’ room has a vase full of plastic flowers…and the vase has water in it.
***
What would you find across from the Sleep 4 Le$$? The competition — a white sign, black letters: “Generic Motel.”
***
In Elko, Nevada, we drove past an establishment called “Inez’s Dancing and Diddling.” Wow. Are there really still women named Inez?
***
We stopped at a rest area next to Stinking Water Pass. When I took my water bottle to the fountain to fill it, I was stopped by a large sign that said, “Non-potable water.” No kidding.
***
On I-95, we were passed by a car with a personalized license plate that said “Ms Epoxy.” She was driving fast, probably trying to get away from a bunch of single guys with boats.
***
Weirdest boat name this year: A fishing boat called Dang Brothers. I guess, to be grammatically correct, that should be Danged Brothers.
***
I wish the folks at Gaskills Hardware had some punctuation for their changeable sign. The last time I saw it, the sign said, “Crab Pot Trees.”
***
Speaking of things that don’t go together, here’s my favorite pair of highway signs from Route 24: On the top, “Welcome to Turkey, North Carolina.” On the bottom, “Bird Sanctuary.”

As part of my Bahia Street volunteer work, I set up a storefront on Greeting Card Universe last year. The site sells some charming original cards designed by Fio, of the Bahia Street Center. Every once in a while, I check in on the site, but it mostly takes care of itself, a “nickel-generator” for Bahia Street. Cards sell, and small amounts of commission money go to my favorite nonprofit.

So I was a bit puzzled to get a garbled email the other day, with “Greeting Card Universe Feedback” as the subject. The person’s name was Abuga Jones — is that a man or a woman?

Hello,
I’m interested in purchasing some Christmas card as a gift to some of my customers …..i will need like 50 pieces, could you kindly give me total cost………I will be responsible for the shipment of the card from your location using my private Shipping Company.So I want you to calculate for me what will be the total cost of the order the card,tax if included so once I have your reply for the total I will remit my credit card for you to charge for the total cost.so that you can have the order book right away.this is because i’m not in the state presently on offshore and i will not be back till 2 weeks time. I await your reply soon.

It sounded kind of weird, but I put that down to a non-English speaker, and I wrote back a polite reply:

Thank you for your interest in Bahia Street’s Brazilian Christmas cards. At the current time, we’re only offering them through Greeting Card Universe. They can send personalized cards out on your behalf, or you can order one batch of 50 at a discount.

best regards,

Margaret “Meps” Schulte
Bahia Street public affairs

I wasn’t expecting a reply, but Abuga wrote back fairly quickly:

Hello Thanks for the mail can you calculate 50 for me and let me know the amount and don”t worry about the shipping i will take care of that myself ok

“What an idiot!” I exclaimed to Barry. “I don’t want to be rude, but this person just doesn’t get it! Do you think it’s a scam?”

“Maybe, but it can’t hurt to tell them how much 50 cards would cost. Maybe they can’t do math,” said Barry, helpfully.

“Sure,” I muttered, “a business owner who can’t calculate the cost of a bunch of greeting cards.”

I sighed, and typed this out:

On Greeting Card Universe, 50 cards is $114.50, or $2.29 apiece. However, I can’t help you place the order. You’ll have to do that at www.greetingcarduniverse.com.

Finally, today, my friend Abuga revealed his hand. I was laughing so hard, I could hardly read this out loud to Barry:

Hello Margaret

How are you this morning i got the email you write to me and i ‘m so glad you gonna sale Greeting Card Universe for me I’m so much okay with the price of the Greeting Card Universe …..I will like you to know that the price is not a problem and i want you to know that i don”t have time because of my work to be doing that right now if you know that you want to help me i will send your my card information the price is not a problem which the $114.50.

More so you don’t have to worry about the shipping cos have already registered
with a shipping company that will come and pick the Greeting Card Universe up with a cooling van after you have done with them.

Christmas card cost $114.50
Shipping cost $850
Total cost $1100

NOTE: THE SHIPPING COST WILL BE FOR MY SHIPPER WHICH YOU WILL HELP ME TO SEND TO HIM VIA WESTERN UNION.THIS BECAUSE I’M STILL IN OFFSHORE NOW.

Let me know if this suit you if yes you can get back with me with this following information so i can remit my card to you.

YOUR FULL NAME
ADDRESS
PHONE NUMBER.

I await you quick reply…….

Barry and I once read an article about Nigerian scammers, and it described them as young men who get up in the morning, dress in nice clothes, and go to the Internet cafe, where they sit around with all the other nicely-dressed young men, sending scam emails. I can picture the fellow on the other side of my email exchange, sitting in one of those cafes, hoping that I will simply accept his fraudulent credit card payment and then wire the bogus “shipping charge” to his “shipper.”

Poor guy, he must be a beginner. Sure, people fall for this sort of thing, but they usually do it because of greed, and that means offering them thousands or millions of dollars. A woman in Oregon sent $400,000 dollars to a scammer over several years, because she was convinced that she’d get back $25 million. She became so obsessed, the only thing that stopped her from sending more money was that the police told her she’d be charged with money-laundering if she didn’t stop.

One reason she kept sending the money was the encouraging emails from George Bush and the President of Nigeria. That would set off my bullshit detector. As it is, “Abuga” has set off my bullshit detector with an $850 shipping charge on 50 greeting cards.

Unless I’m going to take up scambaiting as a time-consuming hobby, I think it’s time for me to stop writing back to Abuga. However, I’m considering sending this parting message:

Dear Abuga,
I don’t think the cooling van will be necessary. These are Brazilian Christmas Cards. They do not come with snow.

Every once in a while, I have to turn my head to the side and shake all the excess brain fluff out of my ear. I also have to clean out all the small info-snippets that have gathered in our traveling notebook. So the following post is sort of like the soup you make after cleaning out the refrigerator.

–

I recently found the receipt for some postcards I bought at Graceland. At the time, I hadn’t noticed the name of the store at the top of the receipt: “Welcome To My World.” Considering that Elvis Presley is dead, I’m wondering, what does that signify?

–

At a Wal-Mart near Bentonville, Arkansas, we had a strange experience. As we walked in, instead of a regular greeter, an older woman walked up to us and said, “Happy Earth Day! Would you like a clothespin?” We accepted this strange gift, on which she’d handwritten, “Save energy! Hang clothes out to dry!”

A day later, checking into a campground, we were handed an 8-1/2×11 sheet of paper, single-spaced, with campground rules. Rule number 13 was, “…use the washers and dryers provided in the laundry room. Clotheslines are very dangerous and things hung outside to dry can blow away in the wind, or be unsightly to other campers.” (the emphasis is theirs) Laughing, Barry clipped the rules sheet to our notebook with the clothespin, leaving me to ruminate on the paradox.

–

Favorite street names: Side Street, Friendly Street, Liberal Avenue. The first two were in Eugene. The third one could have been, but wasn’t.

–

Favorite billboards: Two checkboxes, reading “Stick head in sand” and “Fight global warming.”

And: Lose 3000 pounds in one day! Donate your car to…

And: Be an Oklahoma State Trooper — company car provided!

–

Most common question from strangers on our trip across the country: “Is that a boat?”

Answer most likely to be met with a chuckle: “Yep, my wife built it.”

–

I put a magnetic peace sign on the back of our van, my quiet statement about the Iraq war. However, I was confused, and I put it on upside-down, with the three prongs up. My sister, who also has one, laughed at me, but I still wasn’t absolutely certain that she was right. After I’d seen at least six peace signs along I-5, all of them with the prongs down, I flipped it over, embarrassed. How could I have lived through the 70′s and not noticed?

–

Funniest missing comma: “This road adopted by Wal-mart Marina.”

–

Funniest Texas sign: “Don’t mess with Texas. Up to $2000 fine for littering.”

–

Strangest highway equipment: On Highway 1, along the California coast, rockslides are so common that they use something like a snowplow to clear the roads. We dubbed them “rockplows.”

–

Favorite exit signs: “Santa Claus Lane, next exit.”

Also, “Mexico, next exit.” Don’t you wonder what the one on the other side says?

–

Best question on a billboard: “Have you ever met an honest mortician?”

–

Three great business names: HAYKINGDOM, Insane Autos, Aggressive Towing

–

If cows could read, and if they appreciated fine wrought-iron work, maybe the lovely archway that says “Cattle Town” over the entrance to the feedlot would make them think they’re going to a nice place. I doubt it, though.

–

Weirdest church name: Bovina United Methodist Church (I bet the sermons are very mooooving!)

–

Two beautiful California things I saw firsthand: Fields of purple artichokes and whales spouting in the Pacific Ocean.

–

Not an April fools’ joke: On April 1, 2008, we stopped at 1 Infinite Loop Drive, also known as Apple Headquarters. This was not to pay homage to the maker of our new computer, but to have lunch with Todd, who we’d not seen in 17 years. He looks exactly like he did when he graduated from college, one advantage to losing one’s hair young.

–

Dumb question, smart answer: Driving through Arizona date country, Meps asked, “If dates come from palm trees, and coconuts come from palm trees, are dates related to coconuts?” Barry answered, “As much as peaches are related to oranges, I guess.”

–

Friona, Official Cheeseburger Capital of Texas.

Twenty miles later: Welcome to Hereford, Beef Capitol of the World. Sorry, the folks in Friona say it only counts if it’s official.

–

Most propitious lunch stop: We received an email in February from our friend, Drew, that read “Rudy’s BBQ is a must stop. All other BBQ including Mary’s (his wife, rumored to make the best homemade BBQ in Seattle) is judged by this Texas Standard.” Two months later, we happened to be passing Rudy’s, outside El Paso, precisely at lunchtime when our stomachs were growling.

–

In Oregon, where all gas is pumped by attendants, we started chatting with the man pumping our diesel. He asked where we were headed, and when we told him “North Carolina, via San Diego” he told us about a trip he once took. They drove from Grant’s Pass to Charleston, South Carolina and back, over 6000 miles, in 5 days. He seemed proud to have “seen” the entire USA.

Since we purchased the Squid Wagon in Florida and took it to Seattle by way of Newfoundland, our trusty Ford van has not crossed the USA, it has actually circumnavigated it. Compared to the fellow from Grant’s Pass, though, we’re slow. We’ve only traveled twice the distance, or 12,000 miles. But it took us four and a half months for the northern leg, and a speedy five weeks for the southern.

I came back from Burning Man a changed woman. Not in any large, obvious way. Just a few little things. The world seems like a funnier place now.

I dyed my bangs pink. Then I put on the sweater vest I borrowed from my sister, Daisy. It’s neon orange and very rectangular, knit with half-inch fuzzy strands. I looked like a neon-orange fuzzy varigated box with arms. As I went out the door, intent on my project, I didn’t pay any attention to the fact that I was also wearing black sneakers, blue socks, and a pair of bright red patterned pants.

For a couple of hours, I was working on the van, parked on the side of the street. I didn’t want to get run over.

“I think you’re more likely to cause an accident,” said Barry.

When I came back in, a couple of hours later, I told him I’d finally gotten to meet the neighbor next door. “In THAT?” he squawked.

“Oops,” I said, a little chagrined. I’d forgotten about the pink bangs.

The next day, I stopped by the thrift store to see what kind of fall additions I could find for my wardrobe. I found lots of things I could have worn at Burning Man, but had to keep reminding myself that those things are not suitable for Seattle. I’d been looking through the lingerie rack, forgetting that most people wear such items only to go to bed.

My crowning moment came yesterday, when I looked out the kitchen window and noticed two young fellows in black pants and white shirts walking down my street.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Mormon missionaries. I find their doctrine pretty interesting. But I wasn’t in the mood right then to have a conversation with two serious, earnest young men.

If I stayed in the kitchen, they were sure to see me through the blinds and come to my door. So I did the logical thing. I went into the bathroom, where Barry was taking a shower. “Hide me!” I said in a loud stage whisper. “They’re out there! On the street!”

“What? I can’t hear you,” he shouted. Of course, he couldn’t hear me over the sound of the water, but I was whispering because the window was partially open, and I was sure the fellows were right underneath it. I turned down Barry’s chivalrous invitation to join him and cowered on the dry side of the shower curtain.

After a few minutes, I thought they were gone. I went back into the kitchen and closed the blinds. If they did come back, I wouldn’t have to answer the door.

Then I noticed the Burning Man costume box. Just as I was wishing they would come back, there was a knock on the door.

So I was wearing a very large, fierce rabbit head when I opened the door for two young Mormon missionaries.

They jumped back about a foot. “Oh! You scared us!” they said.

Afraid of a cross-eyed rabbit?

“Sorry about that,” I said politely, as if I was not wearing the rabbit’s head. They were at a loss for words, looking at each other for reassurance. Was this really happening to them? Were they really talking with a giant rabbit?

I wasn’t sure what to say, either. I guess that was when I should have asked if they believed in the Easter bunny. Instead, I gave them a gentle warning, not wanting to waste their time.

“I have to tell you, I’m not able to hold a serious conversation right now.”

That part was absolute truth. The giant mask was hiding a huge grin that threatened to turn into all-consuming giggles.

They looked at each other. Evidently, whatever they wanted to talk with me about was serious.

“Um, do you know of any of your neighbors who might be interested in our message today?” the freckled one asked.

“No, I don’t know my neighbors very well. They think I’m weird.” the rabbit answered. The two fellows grinned, then quickly stifled their smiles and looked at each other again. Evidently, they thought I was weird, too.

“Well, we just wanted to invite you to come to our Sunday service.” They told me where the church was located, and seemed very surprised when I said I knew where it was. Maybe there was hope for this rabbit, after all.

As they turned to go, the taller one said, “You’re welcome to come to church, with or without the rabbit mask.”

I nodded my giant furry head and foot-tall ears. “Thanks! But if I come without it, you won’t recognize me.” He quickly glanced back at me. Maybe I was a member of their church already! But only the rabbit’s inscrutable and slightly disturbing face looked back at him.

They wished me a good day and made their way off the porch. I closed the door and only then could I collapse on the floor, tears of laughter running down my face.

Barry came hopping out of the bathroom. He couldn’t see the laughter, only hear the strange burbling sound and see the shaking shoulders of a large rabbit sprawled on the kitchen floor.

I told the story to friends at a dinner party last night, and the eight of us laughed ourselves silly. Somewhere, across town, I hope my earnest Mormon visitors were telling friends at a dinner table, too, and laughing themselves silly about the giant rabbit on Mercer Island.

Pass the carrots, will ya?

As an aspiring writer, I collect words the way a seamstress collects scraps. My notebooks are full of unpublished paragraphs, sentences, and ideas. There are character sketches and conversations. There are even single words jotted in the margins, words I want to use someday, like “urticate” (if I can figure out what that means).

Travel writer Ronald Wright was once asked to submit some really gritty travel writing for a collection. He used this as an excuse to publish his scraps, cobbling them together with rough transitions like literary rusty staples. With no editors beating down my door, I thought I’d just publish some of my scraps here, an end-of-the-year housecleaning.

---

Bounding down the road on Cape Breton Island, we pass a café called “The Yack ‘n’ Snack.” A street called “Puddle Hill Lane.” A mailbox in the shape of a grinning lobster, covered in pastel polka dots.

“Polka dots” is a funny phrase. Why do we call them polka dots, and not just dots? It’s an example of rampant commercialism from the 19th century. There was a polka dance craze in Europe and the U.S., and many unrelated things were named polka-this and polka-that, from polka hats to polka curtain-hangers. Dots became polka-dots, and have stayed that way ever since. We experienced something like this during the (polka) dot com boom of the late 90′s, when the country went crazy with e-this and e-that. My employer at the time, a loser with the awful name of “Millennia Vision” had a slogan, “E-business in e-time.” What the heck is e-time, anyway? Someday, children will ask their parents what eBay means.

Leaving Nova Scotia for New Brunswick, we tuned the radio to CBC. Over a month before Halloween, there was an overview of modern witchcraft in popular culture, provided by a man from British Columbia. He told the moderator, “I’m a witch. Not a wizard, or a warlock, or any of those silly things. A witch.” A radio book club panel discussed the role of the acknowledgements section in books. The panel’s conclusion was, “It’s not who you put in, it’s who you leave out.” A registered dietitian discussed the nutrition of hot dogs. Did you know one wiener can provide 26% of your RDA of saturated fat and 22% of sodium? As the dietician said, “Hot dogs are, well, marginal.” Our favorite radio show was a college student who did a blind survey to rank brands of macaroni and cheese. The winner, based on cost and color (blaze orange), was Kraft dinner, affectionately called “K.D.”

I have an incomplete list of places where we connected to the internet. The Columbus Colony for the Deaf. A miniscule library overlooking the harbor in Cutler, Maine. The most stunning library building I’ve ever seen, the Athenaeum in St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Echoing hallways after school at Roncalli High, in Newfoundland. In Québèc; the keyboards were French. A rest area with computer kiosks at the Nova Scotia border was mobbed with tourists. In Baddeck, Cape Breton, Barry used the internet at the library while I took a walk. I found a free computer at the tourism office and sent him a message. “Hi, Sweetie! I’m on the other side of town!”

One Sunday, we find a community center with a sign indicating that they have Internet. In the parking lot, a bewildered couple asks us if we’re here for the birthday party; they’ve either got the place or the time wrong. The front door is open, but the restrooms are locked. We use a hallway computer to download our e-mail before being gently kicked out by a tai chi instructor who informs us that the building is closed.

In Port Au Choix, we were resting after a hike to the Dorset Paleoeskimo village. An angry fisherman, the only one I met, sat down beside me on the edge of the parking lot and bent my ear. “Confederation was the worst thing to ever happen to Newfoundland. The Canadians raped our land! If you put all the politicians together, you wouldn’t get the brains of a chicken.”

On a beautiful, sunny day, Dad tried to start a conversation with a fellow sitting by the beach in his truck, the window rolled down. “Great day for fishing,” Dad said. “It’s not allowed,” the man said. End of conversation.

We toured a blacksmith’s forge, full of working original equipment. There were rows and rows of letter openers and candle holders for sale. “Do you ever make grapnels or anchors?” I asked. The blacksmith said, flatly, “You can’t fish.” End of conversation.

In Canada, a scenic view is a “lookoff.” Bathrooms are washrooms. The cash register is simply the “cash.” No Chevy’s, only “Chevs.” We had no idea what we were getting when we ordered a “donair” pizza. It turned out to be seasoned lamb, what we call “gyro meat.”

My favorite signs: “Sydney Curling Club – New Members Wanted. Take advantage of our early payment plan!” “Memory Lanes – Glow in the Dark Bowling.” “Thank you for visiting Newfoundland. Long may your big jib draw!” In Minnesota, “Coffee and Fresh-Baked DIESEL Cookies.” In a Montana rest area, “Rattlesnakes have been observed. Please stay on sidewalks.” It’s November, and 45 degrees. Are there rattlesnakes this time of year? Going into the bathroom, I’m extremely nervous. Maybe that’s where the rattlesnakes go to keep warm.

In Idaho, a highway sign says “Weather Info: Tune Radio to 620 AM.” When we do so, it only brings twangy country music with a Christian theme. Is the highway department in cahoots with the evangelical Christians? We listen as long as we can stand it, about 45 seconds. The same thing happens again in Montana, and we turn it off immediately.

Gordon and Gloria Smith are country music fans. She wears a denim jacket with rhinestone snaps. His cap says Nashville. Chatting beside their fifth-wheeler in Nova Scotia, we shared a laugh about the bluegrass concert we’d attended the night before. “We were the youngest people there,” I said. “When we go to bluegrass concerts, we’re the youngest people there,” Gloria replied, “and we’re sixty!”

In Cox’s Cove, two men were driving a small herd of cattle. They looked like Laurel and Hardy. One rode an ATV. The other one, wearing rubber boots, ran up behind a cow and kicked it in the butt. It took off running, along with the rest of the cows, whereupon he tried frantically to get ahead of the stampede, waving his arms and shouting, “No! No! No!” Watching, unseen, from our cabin, I laughed myself silly.

Tyrone, an EMT, was pinch-hitting for his sick wife in her parents’ restaurant, waiting tables. His mother-in-law needed him to help with the french fryer. He drafted a friend, who happened to be eating dinner, to take over the water pitcher and order tablet. When Tyrone came back, he was friendly and chatty, and told us a variant on an old sailing joke. “A Newfoundlander wins the lottery. He goes out and buys a big new pickup truck and a fancy snow blower to put in the back. Then he heads south. When someone asks him what the snow blower is, he knows he’s gone far enough.”