Fall beckons the nomad in us

America has always been a country of nomads, beginning with the original Indian hunters and gatherers. My husband, Dick, and I received an e-mail from friend Sarah who lives in West Virginia. "Why don't you come and see us?" she wrote. We looked at each other and said, "Yeah, why not?"

West Virginia is a long trek for a weekend visit, but in mid-October, we loaded our covered wagon -- a 22-foot RV -- and took off anyway. It took us 21/2 days driving each way, but when you're retired, you can offer yourself these luxuries. Getting there is half the fun.

We drove through Florida to Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia and finally West Virginia. There is an old saying in California that you have to go east to get to the west, and something like that was true on our trip. From Florida, you have to go north to get to the south.

On the way, we saw the October foliage changing from deep green to beige, and then gradually to yellow, gold, orange and burgundy. Cattle grazed on the landscape, and raptors wheeled and circled overhead.

We saw acres and acres of fluffy white cotton. "T-shirts in the rough," I thought. Then forests of pine trees destined to become paper. We like to travel the "red roads" as much as possible but use freeways when it works best that way.

We weren't the only nomads on the road. We saw license plates from Canada and Colorado and Texas. We passed many vehicles with table lamps and boxes stacked in the back seat. Rented trailers were towed behind. These people were moving. They gave us the message: "We're outta here!"

We spent the first night in a campground on the St. Mary's River, just over the Florida state line in Georgia. The tannins in the water made our skin feel smooth. We were far enough north that we needed jeans and sweat shirts instead of shorts and T-shirts. In the morning, we left early while the sun slanted through the clouds and angled rays into pine forests.

In Georgia, we passed the Cherokee tribal grounds and recalled the tragic trek those people had to make when new Americans told American Indians to move on. The Indians did not buy and sell real estate. They did not believe you could own Turtle Island, as some called the continent. They simply lived on it.

After the Indian Removal Act of 1830, the U.S. government forced them to move west. In 1838, 12,000 Cherokees started walking the "Trail of Tears." Only 8,000 completed the journey to Oklahoma.

In South Carolina, we drove through small towns named Denmark, Sweden and Norway. All of us but the Indians came from elsewhere. My people came from Denmark and Dick's from Norway. There were American flags everywhere -- big flags, small flags, flags on tall poles, flags on short sticks, flags on cars, in windows and on hats.

As we continued, a small truck passed with "Books on the Go" written on the side. It was a nomad library.

In North Carolina, we passed Interstate 40, and I tried to talk Dick into turning left. We could go to Nashville, Amarillo, Texas, Tucumcari, N.M., or to the Bagdad Cafe in the Mojave Desert. Dick wouldn't do it. He said he had to get back for his flute lesson.

Finally, about noon on the third day, we passed over the Virginia state line into West Virginia. The small towns and classic, simple American architecture made me feel calm and serene. We skirted the Greenbriar River and then drove up the hill to Sarah's house, on a narrow road that dropped off sharply at the sides.

Sarah is an artist, a writer and a darned good cook. Her husband, Rick, is a psychologist and is proficient at carrying in the firewood for the stove that is their heat source. They live in a two-story frame house nestled on undulating, velvety hills. As we arrived, their big black dog, Sam, bounded out to greet us.

That evening, over a dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli and salad and then apple pie, we talked, laughed and exchanged news.

In the morning, we saw five deer prancing over the hills through the low-lying fog. Later, we all drove into Lewisburg and saw a house that dates back to 1800 -- before Lewis and Clark took off for the West Coast. The little cottage sits on a main street and is small, brown and sturdy looking. It's a survivor.

Across the street is a library that was originally an infirmary for Civil War soldiers. A piece of the original plaster was signed by those soldiers. It was every bit as amazing as is an honest-to-God old wooden card catalog -- with cards. Talk about history. (The library had computers, too.)

We ate lunch at an outdoor cafe. Even though it was October, the weather was sunny and cool.

In the afternoon, another visitor came to Sarah's house. Seth was traveling on business. He is an architect, and we saw his brown-and-white spaniel, Charlie, in the back seat of the car as Seth came up the drive. Charlie and Sarah's dog, Sam, romped and played. We could almost hear them laughing. It was heartening to see dogs without leashes, free to run.

Over pancakes and sausage the next morning, there was more talk. This is the kind of household where a spirited conversation at 7 a.m. includes history, architecture and the environment.

Later, we headed toward home again. We relished being nomads once more. We passed Interstate 10, and I wanted to take that road and go to El Paso, Phoenix, Tucson and 29 Palms, but Dick wouldn't do it.

And then we were home again and off hunting and gathering at the supermarket and back to sending e-mail: our new form of smoke signals.

- Niela M. Eliason is author of "Kitchen Tables and Other Midlife Musings.' Write to her in care of Seniority, St. Petersburg Times, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731; or send e-mail to Niela@prodigy.net

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