Fort Belvoir  May 29

There’s a code of the road that bicyclists come to understand after they’ve put in a good many miles.

1.       Old men sitting under trees playing checkers, cards, whatever on picnic tables always wave.

2.       Spandex-clad riders of thin-wheeled extra light bikes never wave or even acknowledge fellow cyclists’ existence. They seem to be too focused on establishing a personal best time, speed, VOX rate, distance, etc.

3.       Families having picnics or cookouts generally all wave.

4.       Almost every dog will chase you. I guess you appear to be an easy meal compared to a 50 mph car.

5.       Front-porch sitting folk wave as do, generally, folks riding their lawn mowers.

6.       Trucker drivers are not very friendly.

7.       Only 1 in 50 people will ask to help you when you look lost standing there holding your map.

8.       Motorcyclists never ever wave at someone so lowly and slow as a bicyclist, despite our shared heritage of two wheels. They won’t even talk to you should you both stop at the same convenience store.

9.       No one in a fast food restaurant has ever asked me what I’m doing, despite my garish garb. Two waitresses in sit-down restaurants have asked.

10.   Most drivers see you as a nuisance, someone who makes them veer or slow down from their path.  A few will slow down to shout that you should be riding on the sidewalk, if there is one. In fact, the majority of states classify bicycles as vehicles and require them to take the road unless there is a designated bike path. Since a cyclist is operating a vehicle, bicyclists in these states must obey all applicable traffic laws, i.e., stop at all traffic lights, indicate turns, obey traffic signs, etc. Virtually no motorists or cyclists know or obey these laws.
11.  Bicyclists coming up behind you never let you know they are approaching you, as cycling courtesy requires. By saying "passing on the left" or "behind on the left" you make the front rider aware not to veer to the left into the path of the on-coming bike. 

A driver pulled next to me today and stopped. She was in the road and made no effort to pull off to the side. Cars behind her slammed to a stop. She rolled down her window. “Is this the way to Fredericksburg,” she shouted as horns blared behind her.

This was the third time I’ve been asked for directions. What makes people think that a guy on a bicycle loaded down with saddlebags and camping gear while wearing an orange shirt stating “Deirdre’s ride for ALS” would have any idea of where local streets are?

What made today’s request more aggravating was that the driver stopped as we were half way up a hill. She zipped away while I had to struggle to get back into hill-climbing mode.  

A rapidly vanishing gasoline sign.

To understand why I'm riding and raising money, please go to the first post--April 26.
To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Doswell   May 28

As I rode into Richmond this morning I was stopped by a policeman standing in the roadway. I had turned, as directed by my ACA route, onto 2^nd Street. However, this morning 2^nd Street was , closed to all traffic because it passes the Virginia War Memorial and a Memorial Day service was about to begin.

Despite looking very much out of place I wandered through the memorial while we all waited for the governor’s arrival. The memorial highlights all of our wars—American Revolution, Mexican, Civil, Spanish-American, World War I, World War II, Korean,  Vietnam, Persian Gulf, Desert Storm, Iraq and Afghanistan. That’s an awful lot for a country just 236 years old, one war about every 20 years.

The service wasn’t particularly moving except for the reading of the names of the 280 Virginia service people who died in action in the last two years.

Other cities have cows or horses
decorated; Richmond has fish
because the city is on the banks
of the James River.

It was wonderful riding though a deserted Richmond. The city is chock-a-block full of great museums, trendy districts, funky stores and just cool areas…all of which were closed. So I had to content myself with riding past some elegant houses and past several of the city’s statues of Confederate leaders.

Ashland is a pretty town north of Richmond. Randolph-Macon University is there surrounded by lovely Victorian houses. The town’s one drawback is that two sets of railroad tracks run the entire length of the town.

Sharon Evans and Cliff Middlebrook see the tracks as a positive; they’re train spotters. “We love coming out here with our cameras to take pictures of the trains. There’s such a nice background with the trees and houses,” said Evans.

 When we talked no trains were moving. A train had just passed through but had declared an emergency. It was sitting about a half mile north. To the south the white headlight of another train glowed down the track about a half mile away.

“No trains will move in either direction until the emergency is taken care of,” explained Middlebrook. “They don’t want to endanger anybody who is working on the emergency track.”

Going to the famous Folkston (GA) Funnel is on the bucket lists of Evans and Middlebrook.

To understand why I'm riding and raising money, please go to the first post--April 26.
To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Chester  May 27

I went off the ACA route, going straight up SR 460, so I could visit the Miles Carpenter Museum in Waverly.  Carpenter is one of the 20^th century’s most important folk artists. His works are in the Smithsonian, Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Folk Art Museum and many others.

He ran a sawmill until 1957 when he turned his attention to carving hand-painted creatures, interpretations of contemporary history and human nature. He used whatever wood he found—branches, roots, trunks, and saplings. However, the piece for which he received instant fame in 1972 was his watermelon slice, which has become an icon of folk art.

It was a wonderful experience to revisit the house where I interviewed Carpenter so long ago and to see so many of his creations.  

Popular legend has it that William Mahone, builder of the Norfolk and Petersburg Railroad (now Norfolk Southern), and his cultured wife, Otelia Butler Mahone, traveled along the newly completed Norfolk and Petersburg Railroad naming stations. Otelia was reading Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. From his historical Scottish novels, Otelia chose the place names of Wakefield as well as Windsor and Waverly. She tapped the Scottish Clan "McIvor" for the name of Ivor, a small town in neighboring Southampton County.

As they continued west, they reached a station just west of the Sussex County line in Prince George County where they could not agree on a suitable name from the books. Instead, they became creative, and invented a new name in honor of their dispute. This is how the tiny community of Disputanta was named.

I stop to read historical signs when I can. One between Wakefield and Waverly noted that near that spot the first commercial crop of peanuts was grown in 1842 by Matthew Harris. In the 1890s Louis Obici opened Planters Peanuts in nearby Suffolk.

The Scott’s pine bark mulch that you buy is created three miles outside of Wakefield in a huge mulch and compost mill.

Roadside sign:  Earth without art is Eh.

To understand why I'm riding and raising money, please go to the first post--April 26.
To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Roadside pictures



One of the many snakes I've seen in the road.



Georgia morning.



In Vilano Beach, FL, Castle Otttis (correct
spelling) was created as a "landscape
structure in rememberance of
Jesus Christ."



Georgia roadside flower.



One of the several turtles I've removed
from the road so they won't get
squashed.



Nice to have a prison named after you.



North Carolina



Suffolk VA   May 27

I crossed into Virginia on the western side of the Great Dismal Swamp National Wildlife Refuge about 10:30 this morning. This is home. At least it was for 26 years while we lived in Chesapeake, VA on the northern edge of the Dismal. 

The Dismal, one of the last large wild areas in the Eastern U.S., was appropriately named.  Those who first tried to traverse it cursed its impenetrable density. However, in the 1660s escaped slaves used the Dismal as a refuge by living on the few high and dry parts of the swamp. 

George Washington bought part of the swamp with the idea of draining it to access its timber. He abandoned the idea but the Dismal Swamp Canal, which was to be the commercial highway for the cut timber, is today part of the Atlantic Intracoastal Highway. 

As I rode, turtles kerplunked into the Swamp’s black-coffee water off the logs on which they had been sunning themselves. I counted 17 turtles on one log before they all disappeared.  The water’s color comes from tannin in the leaves the trees drop. Colonial sailors favored Dismal water because the tannic acid kept the water fresh on the long voyages back to Europe.

The flat lands around the Dismal Swamp are rich farmlands. 

To understand why I'm riding and raising money, please go to the first post--April 26.
To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Lighthouses of the Outer Banks

Bodie Island Light is near Nags Head.

Hatteras Lighthouse, in Buxton, is the tallest
 brick lighthouse in the US.  It is 200 feet tall.

Ocracoke Lighthouse is the oldest continiously
operating lighthouse in North Carolina. It was built in 1823.

Elizabeth City  May 26

An early start made sure that I wouldn’t run into any of the Memorial Day traffic crush that falls on the OBX.  By mid-morning I was cruising along NC 158 near Powells Point when I saw several monster trucks by the side of the road.  Turns out this is the home of Grave Digger, four time world monster truck champion.



The original Grave Digger.



In 1981 Dennis Anderson converted his 1954 Ford pickup from a mudbogger to a monster truck and created a multi-million dollar business that competes and performs all over North America and Europe. “And we’ve been asked to go to China, Australia, all over South America and Africa,” said Ricky, a mechanic in the engine and shock shop. In two weeks he’ll drive up to Halifax, Nova Scotia for a show.

30th anniversary Grave Digger.

The demand is so great that Anderson has set up similar shops in Texas, California and Illinois. 

Not much further up the road two chainsaw carvers were throwing sawdust everywhere. Brothers Skip and Bob Raymo opened their studio in Barco less than a year ago but are already eight weeks behind on orders.



Skip creates an alligator while Bob works
on a palm tree from the bed of his pickup. 



“People go nuts over these palm trees,” said Bob, taking a break from working on a leaf. “They put ‘em on their deck, at the end of their dock, in front of their house, and even inside.”

They also create furniture like
this turtle table.

Bob has moved to Barco from Michigan where he selling his house. Skip has lived in NC for 20 years but just last year quit his job as an electrician to focus on chainsaw carving. “I always wanted to go to art school but life got in the way, so now I’m getting back to what I really love doing,” he said.

I just had a wonderful dinner at Caribbean Cuisine, which describes itself as “New York style Caribbean cooking with a Southern flare.” What does that create? One fine meal, it turns out. The collards were the best I’ve ever had, lightly spiced with allspice, cinnamon and nutmeg.  The candied yams were hand cut and bathed in a sweet brown sugar and molasses sauce. And the jerked chicken gave my lips a light buzz amid the hint of lime, ginger and spices.

I asked my waitress how the restaurant came to be. She said the owners ran a Caribbean restaurant in NYC but decided to leave after 9/11. “When they moved here they decided to incorporate some Southern cooking elements into their cuisine,” she said. They did an outstanding job.

To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Manteo   May 25 (Somewhere along the way I messed up the dates. Dates going forward are accurate.)

The ride up the Outer Banks was lovely—the ocean on my right, the Pamlico Sound on the left, the weather beautiful. It was also a lesson in insanity.

Amazing what a couple of bicycle mechanics
from Ohio accomplished.

On my right I saw an endless necklace of debris on the back side of the dunes. It was evidence of the high water from hurricane Irene last year. The water had not breached the dunes from the ocean side; this was water that was vacuumed out of the Pamlico and Roanoke Sounds one minute and then spit back plus more literally a couple of minutes later as the storm raged. The debris line was above my head. As I rode north on the island’s single highway I passed piles of smashed doors, windows and unidentifiable pieces of woods.

Twice all traffic stopped both ways—once for a road crew to paint traffic markings on the new road, the other time to allow front-end loaders to remove sand that had washed across the road due to heavy rain last night.

We had a roadside moment.

Luckily the traffic stop allowed me to ride across a temporary Erector-set-like bridge across Oregon Inlet without encountering any other vehicles. It is it was a narrow and scary crossing. The previous bridge had been destroyed by Irene.

The insanity is that this rebuilding of the road and bridges has been going on for years. Every time this necklace of shifting land that is the Outer Banks is hit with a big storm, not even a hurricane, the necklace is broken or severely damaged and massive, costly repairs have to be made. But, since thousands of people have built their homes and second homes on this fragile land I guess the repairs will be deemed essential, regardless of cost.

Further on a black SUV pulled to the roadside ahead of me, blocking my way. A man jumped out of the car and came toward me. “Are you raising money for ALS?” he asked.  “Yes, my sister has it,” I replied. “Here,” he said, putting a folded bill in my hand. “My buddy has ALS and I can’t stand to see what it’s doing to him. Good luck.” As he got in his car to drive off I looked at the bill. It was $50.

Jason and Mary Ann moved to Manteo on Roanoke Island so he can open an office for Edward Jones Investments. This week Mary Ann was named youth pastor at their church. And next week they’ll celebrate their first anniversary.

Over a delicious dinner of pasta Mary Ann talked about the agony she endured cycling an MS 150 ride north of Pittsburgh. It had been Jason’s idea; he had done the ride a couple of times before. Not wanting to disappoint the man she was dating, Mary Ann, after getting over the initial shock of riding 150 miles in two days, doggedly took to training. She made it and thoroughly impressed her man. However, as she came to a stop at the ride’s end she was so exhausted that she simply fell over, bike and all. That’s some love she has for Jason!

To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Ocracoke  May 23

I’m on the Cedar Island-Ocracoke Ferry, heading north. It’s a two-hour 15-minute crossing. Two hours longer than my first ferry ride at Mayport, FL. And like there, I had to churn through some thundery rain to get to the dock.  But it’s nice not to have to run my feet in circles in order to make progress.

A couple of people have asked where I’m going and why but no one has volunteered to donate.

A state police officer drove his car on board. He’ll be stationed in Avon and most of his action will come from accidents, he says.  “And I’m going to do as much fishing as I can when I’m not on duty.”

This is the island were Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard, was killed in 1718. A party led by Lt. Robert Maynard under orders from the governor of Virginia trapped Teach and his men in the harbor. Teach’s body was thrown into the bay and his head was hung from a bow sprit. 

The island reminds me somewhat of Block Island off Rhode Island’s coast. There’s an initial flurry of commercialism, more so than on Block Island, but that quickly disappears amid the modest homes that cluster on the southern end of the island. The rest of the island is national park land. 

Sign seen on a house fence:  No trespassing without permission.

While on the ferry I received a call from Jason Sherwood whom I worked with in Pittsburgh. He invited me to stay with him and his wife who now live in Manteo. So, I’ll be up early tomorrow to peddle to the other end of the island to catch the Ocracoke to Hatteras Ferry.

To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Harkers Island  May 22, 2012

What a lovely day!  A good ride and I’m ensconced in a wonderful house at water’s edge on Harkers Island. The house is the very generous offer of Kim and Alex Nice, kind friends of my son. Thank you so much!

The view from the Nice house.

 Harkers island is east of Morehead City and Beaufort but protected by Cape Lookout, which is the beginning of the long northward-running string of barrier islands along the Carolina coast. Unlike many other places along this coast, Harkers is a quiet hamlet of modest houses and long-term residents. There are no hotels or motels, and I’ve seen only three restaurants, all locally owned.

I was out early from Jacksonville, home of the Marine’s training base, Camp Lejeune.  The skies were bright, the winds light and the temperature moderate. It was the kind of day where you notice every thing, all your senses are heightened. Bobwhites whistle to each other across a field. The sounds of bass guitar strings being plucked rise above a roadside marsh as frogs serenade. What is that smell—honeysuckle? Not quite but oh how delicious it is.

White bulbous clouds climb higher and higher as the afternoon heats up. Will they become anvils and bring storms? Behind them are still more clouds, softer, less ominous—light pink.   I can’t imagine the beauty the Marine pilots out of Cherry Point must see as they scream overhead. Nine guinea fowl set up a terrible, almost mechanical noise as scurry away from the roadside.

A roadside sign read: Cornhole Tourney, $1,000 first place.  I was on a two-day bike ride in Ohio the first time I saw a similar sign. The phrase concerned me greatly for the remainder of the ride—cornhole tourney.  How in the world could someone advertise such a thing? Only when I arrived in Portsmouth, OH did I find out that in today’s world cornhole is what we as kids called a bean bag toss. I’m old.

A sign yesterday threw me, too. “Organic horse manure.” I’ve been riding this bike too long already. The world has passed me by in less than a month. Evidently someone has developed inorganic horse manure and my Carolina farmer wants to assure everybody that his horse poop is the real thing. I’m getting very old.

In the past several days I’ve gone past five blueberry farms, all of them closed. Pure frustration as blueberries are one of my favorite fruits and I haven’t seen blueberry pie on any menu.  Not even on the menu at Fat Fellas BBQ and Grille in Newport. But what it lacks in pie it more than makes up for in its barbecue, hush puppies and BBQ slaw. The best I’ve ever had. All washed down with endless glasses of iced tea. As I left I noticed plaques on the wall from various magazines and newspapers declaring Fat Fellas as the best BBQ in Eastern Carolina.

Danyel, my waitress, asked about my journey. I asked her about the turnoff to Harkers Island. She checked with Fat Fella, the owner who never showed himself but whom she assured me lived up to his nickname. She gave me the directions and went to care for other customers. Several minutes later she returned to refill my tea. She also presented me with two printouts from Mapquest showing me the exact route I needed to take. She got a very good tip!

To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Holden Beach  May 18-20

Family time. We rented a house at Holden Beach, voted best family beach in the US by various publications/organizations, and gathered for a laid-back weekend.

Leah, Sadie, Calla, Graham

Son Graham, his wife Leah and their daughters, my fabulous grandchildren, Calla and Sadie, arrived Friday night from Raleigh. My daughter Jennifer and her wonderful partner Barb rolled in Saturday morning after we had taken a chilly beach stroll. Jen and Barb live six months of the year in Raleigh and the rest of the year outside of Pittsburgh, PA. (Their jobs allow them the flexibility.)

It was a big love fest, seafood fest, play fest, and Grandpa hugging fest.

Grandpa Mike and his two loves

We bailed out Sunday morning. Jen and Barb headed back to Raleigh to prepare for their Monday move back to PA. I hopped on my bike and rode to Southport where the NC Smiths were awaiting me at a great harbor side eatery.  Then it was onto the Southport-Fort Fisher Ferry for a 30-minute ride across the sound. After climbing the fort’s batteries we parted company, they headed back to Raleigh and I rode on to Wilmington.

Calla, Barb, Sadie, Jen

A number of people have been frustrated at their inability to enter comments on the blog. Here are directions:

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To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Holden Beach   May 18

Serendipity is one of the joys of doing this, discovering enjoyable/interesting things you didn’t expect. Today it was Mary Paulsen. I had been alerted to her by my daughter-in-law Leah who shares my love of quirky, off-beat art. But even if I hadn’t been on the lookout for Mary’s place, it’s very hard not to notice it.

Sitting along the road leading to Holden Beach, Mary’s folk art garden, baby doll village, bottle buildings and artworks lure you in.

There’s something about Mary…her contagious laughter, her magical garden and her brightly colored paintings on the reverse side of discarded windows, pieces of junk wood, bottles, furniture, tiles, and just about anything that people throw away that keeps people coming back.

In 1996 God told Mary to build a doll village using her collection of 6,000 dolls to help feed hungry children. She created the village but also felt moved to paint—on anything. Mary has now saved thousands of pounds of trash from the local landfill by recycling those unwanted goods into bright, happy, make-you-smile art that she sells. Feed The Children has given her an award for feeding more than 45,000 children so far.

“I just paint and create what comes to me,” she told me. “I have so many ideas that I have to write them on two pages of legal-size paper so I won’t forget them.”

She favors bright colors because” they make you feel happy.”

To see more of her work and to learn more about Mary, go to: www.marysgonewild.com

To make a donation to the ALSA, please go to: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Ocean Isle Beach, NC   May 16

I am out of South Carolina and thankful to be alive. That is not a bicycle friendly state. The roads have no shoulders and in many places the pavement looks like alligator hide.

While I escaped alive I was forced off the road twice, once by two logging trucks coming at each other, each refusing to give way for my presence. Luckily, the roadside was flat and grassy so the fall wasn’t too bad . The other time it was by a black SUV that came up behind me too close for comfort.

Two times I had things thrown at me—once it was a cigarette butt, the other time a drink cup that didn’t appear to have much in it. Neither hit their mark.

I was yelled at too many times to count. I have no idea what was said given that the yellers were moving past me at up to 60 miles per hour. I’m sure they were words of encouragement.

All of this in a state where virtually every mile there’s a Jesus Saves sign. I guess He saves souls but does not instill kindness and understanding for the slow moving.

Crossing the line into North Carolina gave me a shoulder on which to ride, a smooth roadbed and signs stating “Bike Route” and “Share the Road.” Ah, a state that cares for bicycle riders.  Love ya, ‘heels. 

My lunch stop was at the Sunset Beach Gourmet Deli because it had wifi. I ordered a walnut/cranberry turkey salad sandwich, pasta salad and ice tea. Ann Cuozzo, who with her husband Stephen, owns the deli, asked about my ride.  She is an exception to the vast majority of people I’ve encountered thus far.

Very few people have asked me anything despite my orange T-shirt stating “Deirdre’s Ride for ALS.” Most give me a quick glance and then look away. And no one who has taken my order in a restaurant has asked anything other than what I wanted to eat. OK, given my outfit they might have a little concern about my sanity, but the only people who ask about ALS are ones who already know about it. Except for the one guy who asked, “Who is Als?”

Ann and soon Stephen, out from the kitchen, were firing questions at me. They knew about ALS since a friend of their son had died from it. Stephen, a big bike rider in the past, loves the idea of touring on two wheels but doesn’t figure he’s up to it at his age. I asked for the bill. “It’s on us,” said Ann. “You’re doing something good and that’s our little thanks.”  Good people who create delicious food in a warm, inviting, caring atmosphere.

To make a donation please go to this site: http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Conway   May 15

The noise comes from behind. First you think it’s another logging truck, one of the endless train that plies these narrow roads. Focus on what you’re doing, you tell yourself. What’s the roadside look like should I need to dive for safety? Brace yourself for its piney air-wash wake that can unsteady a bike.

But no, it has a different sound, much throatier. It grows louder. Much louder. Soon you’re swallowed by 31 motorcycles with wide-bottomed riders. They rip past, their machines farting beastly exhaust noises to satisfy some deep psychological need to be noticed. Here I am world, listen to my mechanical flatulence. That means I’m important.

It is Bike Week in Myrtle Beach. Conway is not far from Myrtle Beach. I’m told for a biker this is an important rally, not on the exalted level of Sturgis, SD, but one you can brag about. So, given the number of black leather-clad iron horse riders who attend each year, the overflow spreads inland to places like Conway. The innkeeper said I got the last room.

Thirteen motorcycles were parked in a special area right outside my room. I got some long looks from do-rag-wrapped heads when I rolled my noiseless steel steed into my room. Two more riders blasted into the parking lot. They opened the back of a shiny trailer behind an SUV with PA plates and rolled their bikes into it.

 Man, those guys can’t even ride their cushy, super-suspension, radio-equipped muscle machines down from PA?  Hey, wanna talk about REAL ridin’? I got a thousand miles on my butt and some stories tell, but I’m tired and going to sleep.  

To make a donation plese got to this site:  http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride

Andrews   May 14

One thing that riding in the rain makes you aware of is places in which to seek refuge. You’re always on the lookout…there’s a nice side shed on that abandoned barn; that motel for sale has a nice covered drive-up area; that overpass ahead is dry; that store has a great awning.

 A lot of churches also meet the criteria due to their front steps porticos. So, as yet another storm cloud overtook me this morning I wheeled into the Cypress Methodist Church. This wasn’t a typical church; it was surrounded by 34 rustic wooden cabins.

Cypress Methodist Camp Ground is one of only a few campgrounds in South Carolina which continues to host annual week-long camp meetings—a vestige of the Great Awakening in American religious life in the nineteenth century. It s first session was held in 1794. Francis Asbury, pioneer of American Methodism, visited several times.

The campground is in the general shape of a rectangle of 34 tents, or cabins, made of rough-hewn lumber. These cabins, rectangular shaped, are generally 1½ stories and contain earthen floors. The typical floor plan features a hall extending the length of the cabin with as many as three rooms on the opposite side. The second story is accessible by a small stairway or ladder.

In the center of the rectangle is the tabernacle, an open-sided wooden structure that is the focal point of the revival meetings. Serving crowds too large for church buildings or homes, the campground originally responded to both religious and social needs. The tents allowed people to stay overnight, and the campground term remained even though tents were gradually replaced by the current rough-hewn cabins.

Andrews, where I’m staying tonight, is the home of musician Chubby Checker (born Ernest Evans), he of Twist fame, (sorry young’ns but he was big for us geezers) and comedian Chris Rock. A sign coming into town only mentions Checker. Both of them left before they even knew they lived in Andrews—Checker moved to Philadelphia, PA while Rock landed in Brooklyn, NY.

To make a donation plese got to this site:  http://web.alsa.org/goto/deirdresride