Opening the Can

It started around New Year, 2007.  The Florida Can Opener, a "little gathering" that has escalated into a New Year's tradition for many.  I've missed a few years, but this time 2012 worked out in the scheme of things.  Those are friends in the 310 and 345 Classic Moho's.  When I was the rocking horse in the caravan of three, I felt like baby sister Bambi protected by her big brothers. Baby has muscle!

In spite of forgetting to pick up my camera most days, here's a few shots from 2012 Florida Can Opener.  No apologies, but it seems I was more focused on socializing than photography.

As a charter member of the Florida Can Opener club, I can say it seems to get better and better every time.  Many thanks to the many Airstreamers that make this gathering possible.   May everyone have a healthy and prosperous 2012.

Photo by Linda of "LuckyDucks"

Ever Been to a DOG?

This is a dog.  Jim and Regina Rogers' dog, Cuteness.  A dog with unusually intense blue eyes, she is quite captivating.

But, this is a DOG.  A Dutch Oven Gathering.  There is an art to this kind of cooking and Jim here is an expert.

The Rogers hosts one of these every month or two weather and participants willing.   Usually willing participant's aren't a problem.  Some come to cook in cast iron, others bring a potluck dish to pass.

Some bring their own limited production vintages or a Thermos of "adult" hot chocolate to share.  The DOG brings in the entire neighborhood.

Jim has a set-up that would be the envy of any chuck wagon cook worth his salt.  If it's cast iron, Jim will find a way to cook with it.  Not long ago he was a representative for Lodge Cast Iron doing Dutch oven demonstrations.  See that utility trailer in the background?

We're talking serious business.  From charcoal to wash tubs, it's completely outfitted for on-the-road cooking. Just add food. 

Even the shelves have holes drilled in them for the Dutch ovens to rest their little legs.  Everything from 6 to 16 inch, Jim has them all and a killer cast iron grill set-up to boot.

He's even got an in-ground slow cooker created from two tractor wheel rims to cook beans, stews, and such.  Just put in the pot, add your fire, and cover.

To use Jim's words, "Watchya cookin'?" 

We got hot wings on the grill, fresh baked corn bread, 7 layer salad, sweet potatoes, and russet potatoes covered with cheese and green onions.

We got hot artichoke dip, crackers and chips, candied pecans, more salad, apple-lemon crisp, and muffins.  That's my Dutch oven deep dish apple pie there.

And we've got my first successful loaf of Dutch oven fresh baked bread!  Thanks, Jim, for teaching me how to pair coals of fire with perfect timing for bread baking.

Part of the Great Smoky Mountains, in the distance looms English Mountain on the left, and Mt. LeConte on the far right.  Many thanks to the Rogers for sharing your backyard with all of us.

Bringing Bambi Home

When I first started looking for an Airstream back just after the turn of the century, I was looking for something small.  Like Bambi small.  Put off by the difficulty of finding one that was truly worth the money they demand, one that was still original, one that was ready for real camping, I expanded my search which led me to my beloved 1960 Tradewind in 2006.  The Tradewind is an awesome trailer.  I cut my Airstream teeth on it.  I've made life-long friends traveling in it.  It has taught me much about vintage ownership.  And today I have the vintage Bambi of my dreams in my rearview mirror.

Late last week I went back to Milldale Hollow and the Waddell's driveway where the Bambi was living until I returned.   Sleeping in this little gem is, dare I say, more comfortable than the Tradewind.  A tiny Vornado personal space heater on low keeps the whole trailer toasty even with outside temps in the 30's.   Lulu thinks it's her personal giant silver dog crate.  It's perfect.

About as perfect as the Shenandoah Valley sunsets lately.  This shot was one of those times I was glad I had my camera in the truck. 

Friday morning, complete with new 5 1/2 inch drop hitch with sway control, the Bambi was hitched to the Titan.  Paul helped me do a final check and I was on my way.  I can barely tell the trailer is back there.

On the way to I-66 I stopped by Fairview for a photo op.   This historic early Front Royal home has always intrigued me each time I drive past.  

Doug and Terry Rowbottom broke out the Bambi at the WDCU's Installation Rally about three weeks ago.  My first Bambi outing would be a DOG at Jim and Regina Rogers' place.  More on that in a future post.  I proceeded on the 6 hour drive to Dandridge, Tennessee.  Even though about half the weight, I'm somewhat surprised that gas mileage towing the Bambi isn't any better than towing the Tradewind. 

Jim and Regina had a perfect spot for me behind their fishing cabin on Douglas Lake (drained for winter by TVA).  I'm learning that this little Bambi can fit just about anywhere and can turn around in just a wide spot in the road. 

Traveling with Bambi is not the same as traveling with the Tradewind, and I'm sure way far different than traveling with Elvis will be.  Trailer travel is about thinking small, multipurposing, even economy of movement in a comparatively confined space.   This is doubly true with the Bambi.  Any item will have to prove essential to justify occupancy within a precious few square inches of space.

One thing that is absolutely essential.  My vintage Atomic Brevetti Robbiati espresso maker.  There will always be room on my Bambi stove top for this.

After a truly delightful weekend with good friends,  I pulled on towards home this afternoon and backed it in alongside the Tradewind.  

 The Tradewind doesn't look so lonely anymore.

Fire and Ice

Like empty beer bottles cast out of "the trayla", the ground is littered with discarded propane canisters outside my Airstream door.   Living in the Waddell's driveway has always been, uhm .  .  . interesting to say the least.  This time it was the unexpected pre-Halloween snow storm that blanketed the northeast.   And a few other things.

Early Saturday morning this was the view from my Airstream door.  Virginia had made a snow man for me. 

My morning walk down the road into the hollow ended abruptly when I heard trees cracking and splitting around me.   It just didn't sound safe.

Back to the house.  Shortly thereafter, the electricity went out.

Paul, being the good host that he is, built a roaring fire in the century-old fireplace to keep all of us women warm.  All was well.  For a couple of hours.

I ran to the steps and shouted upstairs, "Paul, should this fireplace be making a noise like thunder?"  Actually, it sounded like F-14 Tomcat afterburners at full blast. 

"Chimney fire!  Call 911 and get out of the house.  NOW!"   

These old rock chimney's have no flue, and ancient mortar can melt allowing fire spread to the structure.

Mary Kim called 911.  No power to the well pump, so no water to fight fire.  Paul shot two fire extinguishers up the chimney which momentarily quelled the blaze only to reignite again.  I ran to turn off the propane supply to the house and all surrounding Airstreams.  Virginia and I crammed the animals into the vehicles and moved all living things out of harms way.  While we girls stood across the road on the hill watching what could easily escalate to a fully involved house fire, Paul was in the attic tearing out the wall adjacent to the chimney.

As North Warren County's finest arrived, things began to settle down.  

 

 They were on it.  

Part of their procedure was to remove the metal wind guard from the top of the faulty chimney.  After the saws-all made the last cut, the firefighter was about to pitch the giant chunk of metal towards the west side of the house. 

"NO!" yelled Paul, "you can't throw it there!  You have to throw it towards the road." 

"But if I throw to the road it may hit the power lines."  

"You don't understand, you will have to work around those power lines.  Because whatever you do, you can't let it come anywhere close to that Airstream."

Somehow, the obliging firefighter guided the 6-foot piece through the lines to drop on the driveway where it lay in pieces.  On the west side of the house, safely under it's own little baby blanket of snow, sat "that Airstream".

Yes, I've gone and done it again.  Thanks to Paul Waddell's finding it and the Rowbottom's of Ontario bringing it to me, I am now the proud owner of Doug Rowbottom's latest renovation, a too cute and pretty much original 1963 Bambi.
   

That night, still without power, the Waddell's were in their own Airstream living with me in their own driveway. 

I'm headed back up to Virginia in the morning to get the Bambino.  Looks like I'll have to expand the subtitle of this blog soon.

The Doormen

On July 31, 1956, Johnny was here.  So was Tony.  Are they still alive?  If only they could see Elvis now.  

These sections came from underside of the exterior door panels of Elvis.  Johnny Alonzo and Tony Villa left their marks on their work.  I'm guessing they were involved in final assembly as Dale "Pee Wee" Schwamborn tells me he clearly remembers that a thick-mustached man named Mario manned the door jigs for the California factory during that time period.

Apparently, it was Johnny's custom to leave his mark according to this thread and another thread on Airforums.com.   His handwriting style evolved somewhat over the years, but he always included a date.

Not sure about Tony.  Regardless, this is a way cool piece of evidence confirming that Elvis was one of the last Airstreams, and quite possibly the last Sovereign of the Road, to roll out of the Main Street factory in Los Angeles.  In September of 1956, the L.A. plant closed and operations were moved to the Norwalk address.  The production of the California whale tail Airstreams ended as well.

The door and door-within has been re-skinned and is ready for the final rivets.  I wonder if Dave, Joey, or Frank left their marks? 

On second thought, their signatures are all over Elvis.

The Guardian

Here I am in Mildale Hollow at the Waddell's living in their driveway again.  Yesterday, morning walk, Shenandoah River, cloudy gray with rain.  The pile of feathers came to life when Lulu poked her nose into it.  

Obviously startled, a huge Great Horned Owl pulled its head from under his wing and fluttered back a few feet.  Then, with wise yellow eyes sizing us up, it never moved and made no attempt to flee.

Harry Potter I'm not, but by some twisted fate this owl and I found each other.  Looking a bit like a mad wet cat, his head appeared to have been pushed into mud.   Something wasn't right.  After the privilege of an unusually intimate photography session with the great bird, I let him be.  If he was OK, he'd be moving on by nightfall.

Today he was still on the hilltop clearing above the river.  Rita, another dear resident of the Hollow, had been visiting with the owl and was equally concerned.  This particular owl has been seen in Milldale Hollow for at least a couple of years now. Being nocturnal hunters, no healthy owl would remain in one spot through the night.  Together we called Blue Ridge Wildlife, a not-for-profit rescue and rehab center in the area. 

"Great Horneds stand their ground so he might be fine.  Put a box or a sheet over him.  If he doesn't fly off when you try, call me back and I'll be right over."  Rita rounded up boxes and I went back to the Airstream to ditch the dog and get some sheets.  Paul Waddell decided to ride back to the river with me "for the entertainment value" of watching two chicks chase an owl.

After my failed boxing efforts, Paul could no longer simply watch.  Now it's two chicks and a dude trying to pin down an owl.  One disastrous attempt to throw a sheet over him and the bird flopped down the 20 foot steep bank to the river's edge.  Obviously, he couldn't fly.

Another call to Heather at Blue Ridge Wildlife, "take a left at the top of the hill, go past the house with all the Airstreams in the drive, we're down at the end by the river."

Paul's entertainment now seriously devalued, he and Heather scaled down to the water.   I'm halfway down the bank straddling saplings and Rita is the cheering section on top.

After a risky series of maneuvers resembling a high angle SAR mission coupled with a Wild Kingdom-style water rescue, together Paul and Heather managed to pull a wet emaciated owl from the Shenandoah River.  Paul is trying to keep from falling in the river while holding a giant net full of owl on a stick.  Heather, already knee deep in water, is just looking for a way back up.  Geez, my camera battery is dead?  Really?

It was clear that the poor bird hadn't had a meal in a while.  Heather and I worked together to get the owl up the riverbank and safely into a crate.  We chicks were high fives all around while Paul, whose entertainment value has completely plummeted, is yelling, "Hey! What about the guy still down here in the river?"

At least the Great Horned has a fighting chance now.  If rehab is successful, he will be released here again to be the Hollow's guardian just as the American Indians so reverently esteemed.  That's how life is in Milldale Hollow.