Sad Dream, Sad News

A few weeks ago, I had a nightmare.

In it, I was in a house with my mother and my father. I wanted to get something from the upstairs, but I was so tired that I could only crawl up the white painted steps. (Note: I have never lived in a place with white painted steps.) As I neared the top, Molly the Macaw came waddling around the corner, and as she usually does in real life, began coming toward me. 

As I do in real life, I tried to get away from her, but slid down the stairs. She landed on me, and I kept trying to keep my face covered while she flapped and squawked. I shouted for my mother to help me, over and over, but she just kept on doing whatever she was doing in the kitchen.

Finally, I was able to get an arm under the bird and fling her away from me. I scrambled to my feet, staggered over to my mother and shouted at her. "Why didn't you help me? Why didn't you help me?"

She turned to me, looked down her nose, and said, "Because I don't like you." I raised my hand to crack her across the face, but all she said was, "You can't hit me."

Indeed, she was right. In the dream I knew I could never hit her, and just turned away, sick at heart because my mother hadn't really loved me at all. I'd been loving someone who didn't love me back. And my father, in the background, just shrugged, as if to say he didn't care about it at all.

Honestly, in the dream, it felt like my heart was being torn into pieces. Even after I woke up from the dream, I hurt inside, and shed a couple tears.

Now, a person could be miserable for days after a dream like that, even to the point of being afraid to fall asleep in case they dreamt something like that again. But I do know something about dreams, and I believe that you have to tackle them head on sometimes, to find out what's actually lurking in your subconscious.

The parrot as fear is a no-brainer: I'm scared as hell of that bird in real life, and every time she screeches it feels like someone put a chainsaw to my spine. Perfect symbol of a fear from which I need to be saved, right? But what is it that I'm afraid of, that my own mother won't help me overcome, and just turns away from me instead, disdaining me? And how could I be that angry at her, that I would (as I never did in life) raise my hand against her?

Any guesses? Oh, right. Alzheimer's.

And with that realization, I understood that at some level in my subconscious, she should still be the Mom I knew growing up: fierce, fearless, vibrant. She should have been able to surmount Alzheimer's! But instead, she has drifted away on the tide of forgetfulness, not even looking back. On that deep and cloudy level of my mind, I have anger at her for leaving me behind, no longer remembering me. And Dad, oh, Dad, where have you been while her disease has been crippling her, and breaking my heart?

I was able to find peace in understanding the dream, and I know she loved me. She didn't always know the best way to love me, but I never doubted that she did.

This afternoon the nursing home called me. Mom's foot is ...'better' ... but she is not. Some new phase of the disease has kicked in, and she forgot how to feed herself, forgot how to swallow after a bite of food. Uncomprehending, she just spit out her food and couldn't figure out what she was supposed to be doing with it. For the last three or four days, she hasn't wanted or tried to eat or drink anything, too weak to stand.

The nurse said they would put her on an IV to see if rehydration would "perk her up" -- but warned me that if there wasn't a big change in the next couple days, they'd be calling me again to discuss ... "making her comfortable." That means, in real life, allowing her to die.

I know that. I knew from the beginning that Alzheimer's is terminal. But my heart still thinks ... well, you know.

This Writing Thing, Part 3: The Avalanche

So I signed up for National Novel Writing Month.

On Halloween, I dressed up in a long, ugly dress, put on a scaggy witch hat and wig, and painted my face in horrible patterns. And since I was wearing some funky high heels, I wore pantyhose. Alex and John came by to hand out candy. In the giddiness of the holiday, the visit, and the impending writing glut-to-come, I scampered through the family room, making my 7-month-old puppy Howie chase me. I stopped in the hallway, but Howie didn't. He crashed right into the back of my legs, knocking my feet out from under me, and sending me skidding on the slick pantyhose and carpet, right into a broken doorstop on the closet door. The rough metal end tore a hole in my right palm.

I didn't need stitches (though John thought I did and wanted to drag me to the Emergency Room), but by the next day, that was one sore hand. What a perfect excuse to not follow through with NaNoWriMo!

Instead, when I got ready to start writing, I just changed the bandage. The prospect of writing was overwhelming.

I don't remember how much I wrote that first evening. I do remember that letting the words begin to pour out onto the screen of my computer gave me a sensation very much like the one I got back when I would dive from a high diving board -- a sense of air, of stretching my arms out, of daring life to take me, and the glowing kernel of faith, that I knew I had the skills. I just wrote, drawing from a recent incident in my life, and one of the remembered dreams.

The following morning, I read what I had written, cleaning up typos as I went. It was all right. In fact it was more than all right -- it was part of Me there on the pages. As soon as I was alone, I set in to write again, thrilled to indulge my memory and my vocabulary. And then I began to lie.

I think that was when I really began to enjoy myself; the words were fun to build with, and the imagery delightful to paint, but when you write fiction, none of it has to be true. I was writing in the first person (which many literary snobs sneer at, but a point of view I have always loved in books) and allowed myself to peer at life through the eyes of my main character.

The most amazing part of this first writing experience was the deadline: if you're going to gush out fifty thousand words in thirty days, you can't stop and second guess yourself. You have to keep a-hammering. And to do that, I needed to hone a skill my father taught me when I was nine -- which fingers to use to type correctly, which I had always tried to do, but never had the motivation to do so without looking at the keys. That November, I didn't have time to keep looking down, I had to follow where I was in my paragraphs. One more thing was thrown into the mix at that time: Alex and I began to use an instant messaging program. Before the month was halfway through, I finally learned to touch-type.

No one read a paragraph of my story, not until the very end. I didn't "share" with others; writing was a wholly personal and private act for me. That's the only thing that got me through, I believe, because there were some parts of the writing that were damn good, and had someone told me that, I probably wouldn't have had the guts to try to finish it, for fear of spoiling it.

The timing was strangely right: only a day or so before the last day of November, the last paragraph was ready to pour out, and I was overwhelmed by emotion. Wondering at my sobs as I typed "The End," Bernie read over my shoulder what I had just written. "Wow," he said.

Now, was that month's writing a good and finished story? Hell, no. It wasn't supposed to be about good and finished. It was all about the writing, the doing, the writing, the thinking, just the writing, that's all.

This Writing Thing, Part 2: The Transformation

What did I have in my head that I wanted people to know, though? That's what stories are all about, aren't they? A writer has a message they want to get out there to people, a great thought that will change the lives of the readers, a beautiful idea that will dazzle the mind. At least that's what I thought writing was all about, and the fact was that I didn't have a great thought in my head.

My only personal manifesto was to enjoy life day by day. It's what I wanted to do from the time I was sixteen. Of course, my mother didn't think much of that idea at the time, and in 2001, she was still hoping that I would someday "bloom" and become "successful," whatever the hell that meant.

I could write about that, I posed to myself. Maybe I could have a character who thought that very thing, and lived her life accordingly. And anyway, no one would be going to read anything I wrote, so I could make the character just as boring as I pleased.

But fifty thousand words! That's a lot of words, and how would I come up with them?

While tidying up the bedroom, I came across a dream journal I'd used the previous Lent, loaded with six weeks of memorable dreams. The entries were just notes, fragments to bring my dream back to mind for meditation. I could stretch them into more words...

I could ...

What a transforming phrase! What a wonderful word, "could!" A couple days before Halloween, I was suddenly sweaty-palmed and trembling at the thought of writing all those words. ALL those words. All those WORDS!

No more concise, say-it-clearly-in-the-briefest-manner writing -- instead, I could allow myself to be as wordy as I wanted to be; I could describe everything until not a speck of it was hidden. I could jabber, I could embellish, I could use images from my own life and finally explore them in words.

And no one ever had to read a sentence of it. As many words as I cared to write, they were mine, all for me.

Obviously, I had changed my mind about NaNoWriMo. I was "in."

This Writing Thing: The Beginning

Before November 2001, I hadn't written a scrap of fiction since college days. I'd taken one course on writing fiction in order to take a class with Bernie in it (we thought that would make it more likely for us to actually get to class), and when that class was done, I was tremendously relieved.

Over the ensuing years, I read a lot and painted a little; then in the 80's got a bug in my ear about writing religious education courses for teens and adults. I wrote a teachers' manual -- one that was in use several years after I left that job, which would be flattering if they had any idea at all that I was the one who wrote it. I believe they simply used it because they had no idea how to write a new one.

For the next six years, the only things I wrote were letters and emails. I painted not at all; I didn't sew or draw. My garden was my canvas, and that was enough.

Then came October of 2001, and the e-mail from Alex with a link to NaNoWriMo. She was going to take the challenge and try to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. "Ma," she wrote, "you have got to try this!"

How to describe the feeling with which I recoiled? A boiling fear immediately surged through me, and I knew I wouldn't take the challenge. Fear of failure, fear of losing, fear of looking like a stupid hack with no imagination at all ... fear of trying something new and unexpected.

The fear was an old familiar thing, a hangover from something in my early twenties that had surfaced bit by bit: if what you do doesn't come out perfect, then what? People won't respect you, they won't buy the product, they'll stop thinking you're good at what you do, they'll pity you for your inferior effort ... That old familiar fear had put to a complete end drawing just for the fun of it; stomped to death my painting, squelched my singing. Nothing made me feel less like completing a project than having someone pause, have a look, and say, "Wow, that's really coming along!" God, then what if I spoiled it? If I tried to write a story, someone might read it and say, "Gee, Sand, I never knew just how much of a mush-brained incompetent you were." So I turned my back on the challenge.


No one would ever have to read what I wrote, though. That was the part of the deal that kept NaNoWriMo in the back of my mind. No one would have to see if I was stupid, or untalented, or banal. After all, I could hit Control + A for All + Delete at any time. Presto! Gone as though it never existed!

Because Bernie worked second shift, he was gone from about 3 pm until 2 am ... that meant that he wouldn't be there to peek over my shoulder at the computer. Alex and her husband lived in Modesto at the time, so they wouldn't be popping in unexpectedly to find me writing my pathetic little attempt, and the dogs wouldn't care if I wrote total trash, so long as I fed them.

A secret vice. A secret game. A secret club, just for me ... maybe it was worth a try.

Life Is All About The Each Days

This is the south forty. Corn.

I never planted corn from seed before that I can remember. I've grown tomatoes, peppers, onions, spinach, parsley, lettuce, radishes ... but corn? No.

So we planted sweet corn in a swath in our front yard. I have no idea if it will produce edible ears in that unamended heavy clay junk that passes for soil; and though I may have had fantasies of growing enough corn to put up for the whole winter, I don't actually believe that is going to be the case. Maybe the corn is too close together, maybe the seed was crummy (the germination rate sucked) ... whatever. We haven't got any eatin' ears yet, but two things commend this crop in a suburban front yard: A couple rows of corn look beautiful, and the sound of the afternoon breezes rattling the stalks is like food for the soul. We love the corn, and I will probably want to plant more again next spring.

Bernie grilled more spectacular chicken today. Dear God, thank you, it was so good. We swam in the pool, too -- thanks to this late heat spike, the pool is usable.

And we had a bit of excitement today, as well: our neighbor is going out of town for a few days and we find ourselves in custody of two female dogs.

A short aside -- except for the all-too-short couple weeks of my puppy Pumpkin (35 years ago) and the conqueration of my household by Grace Louise, a gray-cream calico kitten (20 years ago), all our pets have been male. (We don't count Molly; she is not a pet, she is a curse.)

Anyway, our household is baby-sitting a golden lab named "Honey" and a German shepherd named "Zena." They are ladies. They are hefty animales.

Howie has made known his antipathy for clumsy womens by showing his teeth and snapping (not biting) and looking crazed from his reclined posture at Bernie's feet. Both clumsy womens said, "Hey, dude, no problem, geeze, what a crab" and kept a good ten feet away from him. Sebastian just crawled under an end table and pretended the ladies weren't there.

We took all four of them to a fenced park and let them run and make acquaintances before we brought the girls into the house. They did fine. They're fine here.

Zena is a big girl German shepherd, though, and having her here has made us miss Babe so much. He was so big, so dark, so exuberant ...

Zena would have hated him.

Painting

No, this isn't the painting, those are leaves. I like those leaves. I like them a lot better than I like the painting!

I've been away from painting for so long that most of my oil paints are dried up. I also noted today that many of my brushes look like they are victims of mange.

And the reasons there is not a picture of the painting here are twofold: One, I don't feel like walking to the other end of the house to get the camera and cables, and Two, I don't feel like making all that effort for something that looks like shit.

No, I'm not being modest. The leaves really are easier on the eyes.

Nevertheless, I had the urge to dig out my oils yesterday, pulling the box of paints out from under the work table, squeezing each tube to see if there was any chance of getting any paint out of it, and opening my jars of medium and thinner to see if the jars would still actually open. "I'll find a simple picture in a magazine, scan it into the computer, and then fuzz it out in Photoshop so that I can clearly see the color values." That's what I told myself.

I found a simple picture. I got my scanner down from the shelf. I proceeded to introduce my laptop to the scanner... For almost three hours.

If one reads this blog regularly, one would possibly remember that the reason the scanner isn't on my desk with the desktop computer is that the suckasses who invented Windows 7 made sure it didn't work with most things that used to work with XP, as in planning obsolescence. However, the laptop I have has Vista on it -- should be no problem.

Should be.

The scanner, I should add, was already obsolete when I bought it for very cheap -- it was a display model and didn't even have the manuals with it. Still, it worked just fine for me for years. Therefore, I was optimistic about it getting along with the laptop.

No.

It said I needed a new driver after I installed the software. So I found one online, and downloaded it.

No.

It said it didn't see any driver, and also, by the way, had no record of scanner software being installed. Fine. I re-installed, re-downloaded the driver.

No.

Still can't see the scanner, said my laptop, squeezing its computer eyes shut. And you need a driver anyway.

"Fine, you shithead," I replied, and went to the Canon homepage to find and download the manual.

Heh, said the laptop, and refused to talk to the printer in the other room, printing out only the last page of the manual. I stomped to my desk and turned on the computer there.

Oh, trying to send a laptop with Vista to do a Windows 7 job? the desktop sneered at me. The desktop jerked the printer's chain and I retired to the studio once more with a stack of pages in my hands.

Wait. The manual was for Windows 98, Windows Me... and XP. The laptop began giggling like a naughty teen in art class who has just poured Elmer's glue into a dozing classmate's hair. My scanner is that old?

"That's just ... fine." I said once more. I re-uninstalled all the scanner stuff, drivers, schmivers, what all. I turned the machine off. Then, remembering an issue I had with a previous computer, I plugged the scanner into a different USB port, and started the thing up again.

By the numbers, Baby, and I didn't really even need the damned manual. The scanner installed, the driver that came with the CD worked, and the laptop said, Ooo! A new toy! Let's play!

By that time, I really just wanted to sit with a glass of wine and read a paperback and pretend that there were no computers, but I scanned the simple picture, fiddled with it in Photoshop, and then selected a small, small canvas.

Long ago I swore I would nevermore try to paint on a white canvas, so I got a disposable rag and a tube of paint for priming. I chose my cadmium red, because I was still pretty hot under the collar about the whole computer thing, and began smearing the canvas with a light coat of paint.

Fine. The red paint, instead of looking red, looked a sickly pink, very unappetizing, very uninspiring.

"Fine," I said, and put the thing to dry, opened the garage door to vent clean air in, and got my glass of wine.

Yeah. That works. The painting sucks, but at least I got a lot of paint on the canvas, covering the stinky pink priming. "Fine." Now for a glass ...

Gathering Clouds

The other morning, we woke to an unusual August sight: clouds!

Well, that many clouds, anyway, and that kind of clouds -- the ones that run in herds across the sky.

To me it seemed like a whisper, a reminder, a warning that the perfect weather we've been having is going to change greatly in the not too distant future.

In two weeks, we probably won't want to get in the swimming pool; it will be too chilly. Seems ludicrous today, when the temperature outside is 103 degrees outside, but the fact is, by the weekend, the low temps at night will make that pool feel like an ice bath.

So the clouds are an omen of cooler weather to come.

I got a phone call a few days ago that was a omen of changes, of clouds on the horizon of my life: my mother's nurse called from the nursing home to tell me that over night, Mom had inexplicably "bruised" an ankle badly. They took an x-ray, which showed no break, but then a couple days later, the nurse called again.

My mother's foot was still swollen, but turning red, with streaks going up her leg. I didn't need the nurse to explain to me why they had begun treating her for a possible infection; they were supposed to do some kind of tests to see if there was a blood clot involved.

No blood clot; so they tested for gout. No gout, no breaks, no clots.

I know this because they woke me up at 6:50 this morning to tell me that although the tests were clear of what they were testing for, her foot is still swollen, and because she can't remember from one minute to the next what her condition is, she tried to get up from her wheelchair to take herself to the bathroom, and fell. The nursing home always calls if there is a fall.

Mom wasn't hurt in the fall -- at least not this time.

I asked the nurse if there was a possibility of an insect bite that would cause my mother's foot to swell ... like me, my mother used to be very susceptible to "fly bites" -- gnats, in her case -- that would make her swell up with allergic reaction. (I got one off some bug on the surface of the pool about two weeks ago that made my left side swell and discolor like a bruise and systemic poisoning. That'll teach me to skinny dip at night and then not shower after!)

But the fact is, Mom isn't going to get all better, and the breakdown of bodily functions will continue to escalate. I'm not looking forward to how things will get more iffy, but I suspect that the breakdown events, knowing as I do that they must come, will be less traumatic than the onset of full-blown Alzheimer's was.

Goodbye, Nicholai

The 1977 printing of the Sunset Western Garden Book has this to say about eucalyptus:

No pests. In Australia, you seldom find a eucalyptus leaf unchewed by insects; here, by contrast, you almost never find one insect-chewed. Importing has been entirely by seed; no natural pests have been imported by way of living plants. There are no foliage-attacking diseases of eucalypts here.

Indeed, one of the reasons there are so many eucalyptus in California is because they were so easy to grow, so beautiful, so varied. At my previous house, and this one, my front yard planting had as its focus the feathery, graceful, tall Eucalyptus nicholii: willow-leaf eucalyptus.

"Nicholai," I whispered to this tree when I planted it, "your job is grow fast and tall and hide that ugly street light from me." (Right by the sidewalk in front of the house was an orange-tinted street light -- unsightly by day and glaringly bright at night. Ugh.)

And so it did. In only a few years, Nicholai soared above the street light, with grace and loveliness shading the yard, for peaceful darkness at night, and cutting the heat of the late afternoon sun.

Sitting in the front yard was like sitting on the edge of a rich forest, thanks to the nicholii and little brother tree Dwarf Blue Gum. Complete privacy from the street, even from the sidewalk a few feet away. On the hottest summer days, we'd sit under the tree with a mister spraying us, and be comfortable and content, surrounded by beauty.

Bad things happen even to good trees.

I'm not sure when, but a bug from Australia arrived in California: the eucalyptus psyllid. The infestation began as a few white dots on some leaves of Nicholai; when we found out what it was, we did some oil spray, which helped the lower branches we could reach. Alas, most of the tree was higher than we could spray, and the foliage began to really weaken, with great leaf fall sprinkling the lawn.

Last month, seeing the disgusting waxy exudate from the psyllids sprinkling the lawn, the front porch, the outdoor furniture, the sidewalk, our neighbor's lawn and driveway and cars, we knew that we had a lost cause on our hands. We could have tried systemic poison, but the amount of chemicals needed would be massive, and we'd have to trash the front vegetable garden, the blueberries, and forget ever planting edible stuff in the front yard, because the psyllids are never going to give up. Bugs don't quit. Moreover, runoff from our yard (and all the yards in this neighborhood) goes right into the river. The fish -- those left -- don't need more pesticides.

We love our trees. They don't talk, or beg at the table, but they protect us from the sun and the wind. They soothe our eyes with beauty, and share our home. Sometimes they dump stuff on the neighbor's yard, but we don't mind cleaning up after them.

It was a hard decision to have the nicholii cut down. We'd thought to wait until Fall, but economic times are tough right now for tree services, so we were able to get a really fine price ... for the job to be done today.

Maybe it was best to be done with it quickly, I don't know. The tree-cutters were most efficient, and very careful of the other plants in the yard. We said goodbye to the tree before the tree service arrived, and if that sounds dumb, so be it. I've been leaking tears all day over the tree that I planted and nurtured and admired through all the weather of eleven years.

My tree is gone. The yard, without Nicholai in it, seems strangely small. The dwarf blue gum (which is not affected by the psyllids) will fill in quickly; most likely in two years it will be hard to tell there was ever a second tree there.

Still, I won't forget it.

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Blocks

August is a fruitful time of year here in the Central Valley.

Peaches and nectarines and tomatoes and cucumbers and squashes, oh my! Apples and almonds are ripening; this year has been very good for the pomegranates, which are swelling with a promise of November deliciousness. Good stuff now, good stuff to come.

August 5th was the first day of school in this school district. My granddaughter was glad to start third grade, welcoming the volume of socialization that classes would bring. I'm glad she enjoys school, and thinks her classmates are fun to be with.

Nevertheless, I have two thoughts that are less happy.

Number Two is that August 5th is too damn early to take kids away from swimming and playing in the summer weather. What sense does it make to stuff kids in a classroom during just about the hottest time of year? Gosh, the state must be lying about not having enough money for education if it wants to pay for air conditioning in August instead of the lower rate of heating the crowded classrooms in the winter!! Damn that lying state! Damn that lying school district! Both of them would rather send the kids home for a couple weeks in the fall and in the spring -- times when neither heat nor AC are usually necessary.

Stupid, wasteful, inconsiderate, and unneccessary.

But wait! There's more! If you want a heaping helping of STUPID, try this one on: students are not allowed to bring their textbooks home.

Number One: STUDENTS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TAKE THEIR TEXTBOOKS HOME.

No, not even if the parents request it so that they can read the textbooks to understand what their children are going to be learning this year. Lil's parents made the request this year, and were refused. Because there is a chance of naughty students losing or defacing their books, even responsible students and parents must be treated the same as miscreants. Or so they say.

I helped Lillian with her math homework more than once last year, and once already this year, and I can confidently say that the person who wrote the courses is a moron. No repetition, no learning to memory. Memorization is Old School. Modern Learning means counting how many ones equals eight -- the "ones" symbolized as blocks.

Come on, this is third grade. Why are the kids still using blocks to count? Seriously, I'm not making this up. Learning to write numbers in the thousands, the little illustrative pictures on the worksheet (copying costs are far preferred to reading out of their text for free) literally had pictures of blocks to tell the children how many units were in the ones, tens, hundreds, and thousands columns. Now, the thousands column's number was represented by a picture of cubic figures of a thousand blocks each. Did each child count each block to make out a thousand? No, of course not. A picture of a cubic figure cannot show a thousand individual blocks. Well, the children are taught that the picture of the big block of blocks is equal to a thousand.

Let's review that quickly: the children are taught that a symbolic thousand is equal to one thousand. Isn't that like saying to the child, "This symbol -- '1,000' means one thousand." No? Did they make any of the children actually count out a thousand blocks? No, of course not, that would be a ridiculous waste of time for an eight year old.

A question on her homework this week ran something like this: "Write out the number eight thousand, four hundred, seventy-three. Explain."

WTF? Explain what? There were two whole page-width lines on which the student was to answer. My answer, when I looked at it, was, "8,473. Because that's the way it is written, Asshole."

I sent Lil with the page to Bernie to see what he would suggest instead.

I think the books are kept secret because there might be a couple parents with brains who would look at them, and either be able to explain better than the stupid teacher, or who would look at them and understand that our tax monies are being wasted on fads.

Morning Bug

On the back patio, while the morning was still cool, I was called to look at a bug. Although I was unable to identify this beetle (thereby spoiling my daughter's, husband's, and grand-daughter's image of my omniscience) I was able to grab my camera and get a nice macro.

What appeared at first glance to be a simple mottled coloring, in reality is an intricate pattern of bumps and tiny craters. Each leg of this bug is neatly striped; the antennae have segments, and contrary to cartoon sketches, do not protrude from the top of the bug's head, but rather the from the front, like a moustache.

This bug never knew its mother, father, or siblings. It hatched into a grub, and began to eat. That's all it had to do to take its place in the world: eat and grow and eat and grow until it was so large that it had to curl up and digest itself. In this transformation, it became a creature of legs and eyes and antennae; totally different, almost unexpected.

The bug walks the earth just like we do, but it is never surprised by what it finds. It doesn't worry about being outsourced. Drama holds no interest for it. Vanity is unknown -- uniform in its species, its wings need not out-do all the other beetles. In its travels, it may pollinate a flower or two, but being a successful pollinator is not its reason for living.

Bug will not climb up the tree and shout that it has a right to be left alone by ants or possums, or a right to mate and generate offspring. Rights have no meaning for it, as all it wants to do is walk on the world and live long enough to contribute to the survival of its race.

Its eyes are directed mostly towards its front; the bug intends to see what is ahead of it. Walking around something may be an option, or avoiding a danger, but there is no backing up, no second thoughts.

The fact that the majority of bugs like it will be eaten by predators, or themselves not have enough to eat to survive, or be able to walk far enough in favorable places to find a mate bothers the bug not at all. Statistics and reports have no place in its life. It does what it must, as well as it can, and success or failure are just part of its life.

Indeed, even a precarious and potentially dangerous stopping point for this bug's daily travel is not taken into account. The bug in the picture rests upon a flyswatter, completely unfazed by the looming camera and the large creatures that peer at it.

If people try to live this way, they're labeled slackers or losers or bums. However, if the people try to live this way and follow the path God sets for them ... well, the world still labels them slackers and losers and fools -- but aren't they the saints?

Summer Days at Home

I've gained five pounds since Bernie got his new grill.

Now there are a few reasons for this: my left knee has been acting up rather painfully, so I can't do power walks in the morning; the deliciousness of the grilled meats Bernie makes inspire the rest of us to come up with excessive amounts of side dishes; and I'm so happy to be back in California that I have no restraint in enjoying our culinary adventures on the patio to the very max that my stomach can hold.

Oy.

The hopseeds are drying on the tree, soon to begin dropping into drifts on the patio, signaling the half-way point of summer here.

A mockingbird has taken up her 5:30 am post on the neighbor's palmetto, singing her deafening refrain, "Come here, come here, come here, what-a-dummy, what-a-dummy, what-a-dummy, brrrt, brrrt, brrrt!" (The last bit sounds like a cell phone ring.)

The little mister is available on the patio for daily use, making a fine spray of water to cool the heated limbs while we chat in the shade; the big line mister is hoisted from the house to the hopseed tree to drench us in heavy drizzle on these triple-digit days.

Howie puffs and pants behind me as I move through the house in the mid-morning; Sebastian sits by the back door and makes squeaking sounds that should not come from a 75-pound dog. They know that the best part of the day is the part that includes leaping wildly into the pool. Each dog has his way of begging for the adventure.

I finally got around to reclaiming my studio after our days away, and afterwards, spent hours on the next project. I can feel my brain working on the possibilities even while I write this.

I love summer in the Central Valley, and I love a brain that can still work on autopilot.

The New Grill

On our back patio, the previous owners built a brick structure that held a grill on one side (on the top) and a storage cave on the other side (on the bottom).

We used this charcoal grill a lot over the past 13 years, even after the clever mechanism that could raise and lower the charcoal bed rusted out. We made do with cookie sheets and ingenious staging of food on the grill.

This year there was nothing left but the brick structure. We thought we'd chisel off the bricks on the non-grill end, and make a gigantic barbecue area. We thought we'd do that in April, when Bernie's job came to an end. We thought we'd make that project a high priority. We wondered if we were smoking the crack when we looked at nice portable charcoal grills and they were only about $200 -- much less spendature than we were looking at to renovate the brick structure.

Yesterday we went to Target for an unrelated shopping trip, and stumbled upon a charcoal grill/smoker for $99. Sturdy, functional, and with an adjustable height for the coals, we considered that it might make do in the interim until we could actually re-assemble the brick barbecue. We bought one.

Today, Bernie gave it a test run, with chicken wings (my favorite) and chicken breasts. The smoker component enabled the cooking time to be cut to about a third of the usual time, and all of it was deliciously done.

Given the versatility of the new grill, do we even want to consider the caveman primitive brick barbecue? Uhhh, no, I guess not. Conversation has turned from brick grill to ... can we make that brick structure into a fountain and fish pond?

Ah, the Kitchen!

Nothing would do for me the day after we got back but going to the grocery for a big package of chicken.

I had been jonesing for chicken all of the past week, even ready to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, knowing full well it would make me feel sick to my innards. Fortunately, the one time we were at a place with a KFC sign at the right time of day, the eatery was closed. Thus The Life That Guides The World saved me from gastroenteritis.

Anyway, Tuesday I cut up chicken leg quarters, surprised to find that part of the back had been left attached to the thigh, probably to add poundage to the cut, or maybe to produce a straighter, more "attractive" top line to the quarter. The back portion is almost all bone, and nasty for a diner to deal with, so I cut them off each piece and put them in a freezer bag. Along with the braised chicken, I made fried cabbage and rice. A feast.

Standing before the stove, tending my cabbage, I was truly at peace. Home again, in my kitchen again, making food better than anything we could get on the road.

We were hardly in the door Monday before John told me he'd picked up some lamb for black-bean chili, so Wednesday I simultaneously made the chili and cooked up the chicken backs from the day before, making broth from them and a stalk of celery and the last onion from last year's garden. The chili turned out fine, and in the evening, I strained the chicken broth and put it away in the fridge.

Today I made, for the first time in my life, chicken noodle soup. The broth from the day before, along with the liquid from the chicken braising came to a boil. I seasoned it with a little salt, some Louisiana Hot Sauce, and two teaspoons of juice from a jar of "tamed" jalapenos. When it came to a boil, I dumped in one kohlrabi, cubed the size of southern style hash browns, and began dropping the thin noodles into the boiling stock one by one.

Making the broth from bones took an afternoon; mixing and rolling out the noodles from scratch could be seen as a bother; nevertheless, the resulting soup was really pretty dang good. Why didn't I ever try this before?

Well, it just wasn't enough to make soup today. The other craving I've been having is for chimichurri, that South American sauce made from parsley, garlic, and olive oil. Most people like it over grilled meats, but I love it over fresh bread. I only learned about its existence last year, and only attempted to make it once (it sucked.) Today I was determined to try again.

It worked this time, largely because I got bold with the garlic and used enough to get a robust taste.

You have no idea how happy I am to be back in my kitchen!

Fifteen: Home

It is all well and good to make plans to do some sightseeing while traveling cross-country by car.

Especially in Arizona, there are tons of scenic feasts for the eye and mind. The giant meteor crater, the Grand Canyon, the lands of the Navaho Indians, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest -- those are only a start for beginners. There are so many more places to see and drink in and revel in.

However.

We slept only briefly. In Flagstaff, where the nighly low was expected to be something like 42 degrees, we woke sweating. The air conditioning unit in our room would not work. We opened a window -- and there was only one small window that could open, and put on the fan. Not an immediate relief.

I got up to go to the bathroom a couple hours later, only to discover that the bathroom door was stuck. It was a shutter-like device, like tiny French doors, very cute, but when half is stuck shut, you end up having to scuttle sideways to the potty like a crab. Not all that life-destroying, at all, but damn it, we were paying for fully functional lodgings, not as-is-take-your-chances.

In addition, my mythical city with its commitment to reducing light pollution had apparently exempted La Quinta Inn from light pollution. Just a few inches from the one window that would open, an all-night light threw shitful glare into the room. Close the drapes, lose the cooler air. Open the drapes, sleep under a floodlight. Bastards.

In the morning, I puttered with my computer, reading some comics; I said my morning prayers. I wished I could sleep some more, but once awake -- well, that's it. At 7:15, just as I was about to quietly slip out to let Howie take his morning pizz while Bernie continued to make up for the night's broken sleep -- a fire alarm went off.

Now, the day before, a wildfire was sending smoke billowing to the north of Flagstaff, so when a fire alarm sounds, you all jump up and say "WTF????" and run for the door to see if you are in imminent danger.

We weren't. But perhaps that was the last straw.

We packed our shit into the car in record time, shook the dust of the hotel off our feet, and said, "To hell with it. Let's go home."

And so we did.
Alex and John had a box of utterly delicious Hungarian pinot grigio waiting for us on the patio when we got home at 7:30 pm. It had been about an eleven-hour drive, but we were happy to be back.

Howie got the gallops as soon as he was out of the car, racing back and forth across the front yard in glee, and then, with Sebastian complaining to us about our absence with multiple "Buh-woo-woo-woooooo's" Howie joined him in doggy-talk with loud yips of exultation.

There were things we HAD to do back East, and we did them. Thus, it was a good trip, and we saw some wonderful stuff on the way.

But darlings, there is surely no place like home.

Fourteen: Flagstaff

We went to Mass in Albuquerque to start our day.

Hours may be at a premium; miles may need to be traversed, but the most important thing in all the world is participation in the Eucharist at Mass. We went to an early Mass to take advantage of the coolness of the air, and the church parking lot blessedly had a spot open shaded by trees, so that Howie would be comfortable.

We left Albuquerque after Mass, heading for Flagstaff. Estimated time of arrival: about 2pm. That would leave us an hour to wait before we could check in to the hotel. Not cool.

We opted to take a trip to Petrified Forest National Park, which straddles I-4o, and which Bernie said he had never seen. Outrageous! How could he not have been there? We had to go.

We walked through a few of the trails, some with Howie, others not. It was hot Hot HOT, but the dry wind made it seem bearable, and we looked at an ancient stone structure called Puerco Pueblo, and its attendant petroglyphs. We gazed at the Painted Desert, with its minimal plant and animal life, and touched petrified logs, wood turned to stone.

The heat and the wind and the altitude wore us out. By the time we got to our hotel, we were exhausted once again. Our intention was to stay in Flagstaff for two nights, seeing some more of the beautiful land, resting, pondering our adventure.

We had a delicious meal at a restaurant across the street called Coco's. Afterwards, watching TV, both of us dozed off.

Day Thirteen: Miscalculation

"We should be in Albuquerque by Saturday night," I told Bernie a couple days ago.

He was the more organized soul: he looked up a map on line and found the estimated time to be something like ten hours, which we really didn't want to do.

Traveling has been cool, but enough road in front of one is just enough. We're feeling a bit abraded by the heat and humidity, and the stupid, ignorant fucking truckers who amuse themselves by trying to pass one another on hills, causing traffic balls-up behind them. One is going 61 mph up the hill, the other 63. The faster one passes, blocking all the cars who are traveling at 75 or 80 mph. It's not just the time; the braking and slowing on uphill grades plays havoc with gas mileage.

However. We launched from Oklahoma City and set as our goal Santa Rosa, New Mexico.

Hurtling through Amarillo, Texas, I mumbled that we were going to end up in Santa Rosa around 12:30 pm -- kind of an early stop. Bernie queried anxiously, "You mean we're making too good of time?"

Well, we were, but thank God we did. When we got to Santa Rosa, it was a dump, and was heavily invested by a huge biker rally weekend. We opted to get back on the road after a hasty snack for lunch.

As it turned out, we had no choice but to make for Albuquerque. By phone I made a reservation for the night; we arrived too early to check in, but by the time we stopped at a WalMart for a small bottle of laundry detergent, our room was ready. It was still a short day compared to most.

The online advice had been 'way off.

It's still hot here, but the humidity is at about 6%, which is unimaginably better than the 95% we left in Arkansas.

Honestly, I didn't manipulate anything to get us to Albuquerque. It just happened.

Really.

Day Twelve: Truck Day

The start was in Arkansas, the morning so hot and humid that my sunglasses fogged up as soon as we left the motel room.

Arkansas looks a lot like Tennessee, which looks a lot like Virginia, which looks a lot like West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania ... you must understand that aside from the topography, and the strangely brown rivers, ponds, streams, we weren't seeing much that was different. I saw a few butterfly weed wildflowers today, but nothing took my breath away.

After the first hour of "same old" I saw a truck carrying something (I have no idea what) with massive chains securing the load to the flat of the truck. I wished my camera had been ready to take a picture of it.

That's it! A quest! I unpacked my camera and prepared to take pictures of Things on the Back of Trucks.

My friend Bill (see above post of Day Nine) is fond of doing projects that are a series, in part because once you have a series, you find yourself doing multiple works instead of just one effort and then lying down on a sybaritic couch with wine and goodies to congratulate yourself. Thus, the idea of a photo series excited me with the prospect of at least six hours to exercise my photographic skills.

I snapped pics of trucks as we overtook them, looking for something interesting, juggling the zoom, trying to ride the bumps in the road. A silly project, to be sure, but instead of hating the slow trucks we got stuck behind, I welcomed the prospect; and it kept me alert and watching, rather than yawning and checking my watch and map over and over again.

As we overtook trucks on the two-lane I-40 West, I felt giddily akin to the Plains Indians as they rode alongside the buffalo on horseback, poised to let fly an arrow into the heart of the thundering beasts at close range. Rumbling along the rough road, I would position my camera at my window: if Bernie was passing them too quickly, I'd miss my shot; if a bump in the road bounced me, I'd get something I wasn't aiming at; if I didn't aim right, the camera would automatically focus on the smashed bugs on the windshield and not the truck I wanted.

No, it wasn't an exhilarating experience, but it did make the day pass quickly. In fact, by the time the drive was nearly done, and I had to put the camera away, I was moderately annoyed that about four trucks with really interesting loads appeared.

What to do with the pictures? I'm not yet sure, but I'm encouraged that I want to play with them in some manner.

Having vowed to stop early on the far side of Oklahoma City, we did so, but defected from our preference of Holiday Inn Express when we stopped there, only to find that they lied on their website and did not indeed accept pets. Over the fence we went, to La Quinta Inn, whose rooms have very high ceilings (airy-like) and is very pet-friendly. (Howie approves.) Though the wind and the heat made us feel blow-torched when we arrived, a swim in the cool indoor pool helped us to relax; I have two bottles of water in the mini-fridge for the morning draught, and their soap smells very, very nice. Tomorrow should put us in New Mexico.

I haven't decided whether or not to continue the "Trucks" series, but my camera battery is charging anyway.

Day Eleven: Longer Than Planned

Tennessee is a loooong state.

We knew that we didn't want to push ourselves too much, so we figured we'd stop for the night somewhere just past Jackson. An early stop, a chance to maybe swim in a swimming pool, a leisurely dinner, lots of time to write.

Hah!

One of the "local" thundershowers appeared, but didn't slow us up. We drove on and on, the roads the best-maintained of any state so far.

We'd had a good breakfast, all of us, so we only needed to stop now and then for breaks. By the time we hit Nashville, we were optimistic about an early stop.

The picture is of Nashville, taken from the road, of course. The tall Batman-like ATT building dominates the scene.

On to Jackson, with time to spare! We began readying ourselves for a Holiday Inn Express -- but there were none to be seen.

Why Holiday Inn Express? Well, many of them are "pet friendly" which is helpful when you're traveling with the Dog. Moreover, the ones we've stayed at have been EXTRAORDINARILY clean and well-appointed and wow -- super-customer-service oriented.

We were sure there had to be one between Jackson and Memphis, but ... no. Still, we were about an hour ahead of where we'd thought we'd be, so we weren't worried. Surely we'd get to the other side of Memphis and find one!

Then the second "local" thunderstorm of the day hit, with a downpour of rain. We came out the other side of the storm congratulating ourselves that it hadn't slowed us much at all, when the traffic ground abominably to a halt. The storm hadn't stopped us, but somewhere up ahead, it had stopped someone else. We sat in traffic, unable to move, for nearly 45 minutes.

The Arkansas border arrived, no Holiday Inn Express. We kept on. And on. Finally, we gave up and thankfully accepted a plain old Holiday Inn. It's air conditioned, the beds are reasonably comfortable, and Howie is with us. Not what we wanted, not really, but it will do. Tomorrow we hope to make Oklahoma City; so optimistic are we that we plan on making a reservation there early in the day, and arriving there at a reasonable hour.

One of these days has got to actually feel like a vacation.

Well, the evening at Cheryl and Terry's did, but it surely wasn't enough.

Day Ten: Virginia

Good thing we struck the tent when we did, or we would have been awakened to a downpour. Instead, we were off down the road by 8am, headed for Virginia.

We opted to take Route 522 from Lewistown, PA, to Winchester, VA. I would have taken a photo but it was too dark all the way. I tried to do a quick sketch in Photoshop of how black the shadows in the trees were, and how gloomy and dark green the solid vegetation was ... pretty much all the way to Abingdon, Virginia, where we stopped for the day because we were both so tired. At least 1-81 was more than a two-lane. That was kind of claustrophobic under the trees.

I quacked a little along the way about wanting to detour to the Atlantic Ocean, but a good look at the map showed that would put us two if not three days behind where we wanted to be, and that isn't a luxury we can afford.

We did note that we had been in four states: Pennsylvania, then Maryland, West Virginia, and Virginia. Sounds like a lot of traveling when you put it that way.

During the ride, we were fairly quiet. Not because we didn't want to communicate with each other, but because the silence was a communication in itself. It was a firm agreement of appreciation of not chattering unnecessary words. Neither of us asked, "NOW what are you doing?" or "Why are you out there by yourself?" or "Oh, were you working on something?"

We just don't feel a need or a desire to be constantly conversing in order to know that we're alive and in contact... or for reassurance.

Maybe that's it. Bernie and I are almost always close enough to touch each other; we hold hands, touch shoulders, caress (not sexxy-like!). We know that we are most important to one another -- we say so frequently -- so we don't need the attention of chatter to make us believe in the importance.

Funny we're both like that, when our mothers are/were non-stop yakkers.

I have to stop and chuckle; I suddenly remembered that the only time my mother was quiet was if she was madder than hell and someone was going to pay for it. Maybe she felt that silence was punishment, and so her voice was an assurance that things were okay.

Day Nine: Wrapping Up Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania is beautiful. Never be in doubt about that. Tuesday morning I woke up again to the bazillion-bird chorus, realized twenty minutes later that I was not going to sleep past 6am, and decided to take Howie for a walk around the neighborhood.

The sun rose and turned the hanging mists into shimmering white gold draped on the dark green of Jack's Mountain. The temperature was still sweetly in the low 70's, most of the neighbors still not stirring. Howie and I ambled around, me marveling at how little of the place I remembered -- I'd lived in that very spot some 30-and-some years ago. While the street names only came back to me slowly, the glowing morning mist with the blues and greens of the hills seemed to have always been in a treasure chest in my heart.

I had slept without nightmares, without any anxiety.

Later in the day, I went to see my old friend Bill, who has been a friend since we were in first grade together. We chatted while his darling Jack Russell terrier snuggled and cuddled with me, probably remembering me, probably thanking me for NOT bringing Howie with me. (Three years ago, Jack was terrified of the looming How.) Once again Bill shamed me by showing me the 24 canvas oil series he finished this past spring, and I have promised myself I AM going to paint more when I get back home.

In the evening, after listening to the weather forecast, we decided to strike the tent and sleep inside so that we wouldn't be trying to pack a wet tent in the rain. I dragged all the luggage out of the car and rearranged it. We were ready for the morning departure.

There was one last thing to do: sit with my sister-in-law and drink up the rest of the wine.

P.S. The flower is a common one in Pennsylvania: crown vetch.

Day Eight: The River Will Keep Moving Along

The first business on Monday was to drive to Mifflintown to take sign some papers associated with my mother's trust fund. I was looking forward to this part of the day -- the people at the bank are really incredibly good at what they do, and I've emailed them, talked on the phone with them -- but never met them.

Before he let me do that, however, Bernie took a side trip off the road to a new Juniata River access point, built since the last time I was back East.

It was beautiful! If I lived back East, I'd be just about living at that access area. There's a nice boat launch, the parking lot is big, there are loads of areas that a rabid river fisherwoman could stand and fish and fish and fish. For one brief second, I wished we'd move back there.

A very brief second, to be sure.

The bank business went quickly, and then I gathered my fears and we drove to The Hearthside nursing home to see my mother.

The morning in-charge nurse had recommended to me a couple weeks ago that we take some soft ice cream for Mom -- something she would like, and we approached a common room, caramel sundae in hand.

Now, the last time I saw my mother, she was skeletally thin (and that is NOT AT ALL an exaggeration), a jittering, viciously angry talking skull, eyes bulging in emaciated sockets. I looked for her among the residents in the room, and didn't at first recognize her.

She weighs about 40 pounds more now, her gray hair has gone straight, and she was dozing quietly in her chair. When we called to her, "Tere! Hi! We brought you some ice cream," she responded, "For free?"

She took Bernie's arm when he offered it to her (declining me taking her hand) and we moved to a peaceful little lounge that has big windows. We asked her how she felt, and told her we were glad to see her looking so well. She told us that she had been born in Mexico, and that she had four brothers, and that the day they all became citizens of the United States was the best day they ever had. She really loved the ice cream.

Tere was bright enough in demeanor for me to be assured she wasn't drugged; her clothes and hair, hands and face were clean. The sagging wrinkles that had hung from her emaciated face three years ago were gone. She's being well-cared for. In her dementia, she's creating her memories as she goes along; she remembers very little of her life. I thought it was strange and sweet when she told us how very much she had admired her mother, and how, as a child, she wanted to be just like her. That's news to me, I thought as I watched her. She must have fibbed to me for nearly half a century. Again, it was sweet to think she's remembering nice things rather than bad and bitter things.

She didn't know who we were, and didn't ask.

After about 45 minutes of visiting, we took our leave of her. I hugged her, and told her I loved her. Goodbye.

I made it about 15 feet down the hall before my tears spilled over; the nurse put her arms around me and held me between her and Bernie. And then it was time to return to the world.

The visit was far less stressful than I thought it would be; it hurt so much more than I expected that she didn't know me. Still, what I needed to do, both for her (to see her cared for properly) and for me (to say farewell) was accomplished.

There was more, though. The past four years of my mother's decline have been hard. The outpouring of bitterness and meanness that presaged the loss of her memory and judgment, her refusal to admit to her illness, her pig-headed imposition of isolation on my sister, her uncooperative belligerence to her caregivers while she had 24/7 care in her home -- although I knew what Alzheimer's does to the people who have it, I carried, in some hidden talisman in my soul, a wad of anger for what her illness did to the people around her. In meeting her on Monday, seeing how very little of her life is left, I was able to put the anger down and leave it behind. Let it drift on down the river, so to speak. I have no need of it now; I can see that I only kept it to hide my fear and sadness.

I've looked at my mother's illness as a kind of purgation for her; a purification of soul on the spiritual journey. All the things that she clutched uncompromisingly to herself have been taken away. All the things that she grasped with unholy selfishness, now all gone. Her property, her possessions, her vindictiveness, her independence, her very memories ... with nothing left, she's calm and pleasant; as she told Bernie and me, "I'm very content." Her purgation and mine are connected at this time. In her inability to refuse my love now, and my leaving behind my anger -- together, we achieved a kind of reconciliation.

Day Seven: Day of Rest

The weather has been darn near perfect.

The day started out very hot, but then turned cool and sweet, allowing the house to be opened up and us to sit out once again, watching the clouds drift by. In the evening, fireflies took to the air and danced around. Even the sky was uncharacteristically clear of haze, revealing the stars between clouds.

Gorgeous, and yet my heart was really heavy as I prepared myself mentally for the next day. While my sister-in-law sipped margaritas, I finished off the last of my box of wine.

What else can you do?

Oh, I know there are other things I could do, but wine and friendship in a beautiful setting are not to be tossed aside. We earned our drinks: we did laundry, too, and even something as drudgey as folding clothes is fun when you're in good company.

Day Six: Birds at Base Camp

Saturday morning was really noisy. Base Camp is only about fifty yards away from thick forest; every bird in the area gets up before 5am and shouts his or her itinerary for the day to every other bird around. It was almost deafening, but glorious.

It also rained on us, a sweet sound to sleep by. And in spite of the cover on the tent, being up on the wonderful deck allowed cool breezes to make the humid weather more than bearable.

This deck is a stroke of genius on the part of my brother-in-law. Over what used to be a little used side yard, he put up a raised deck with a railing around it. On the north, east, and southern sides are steps down to the soft grass of the yard; a long covered section stretches nearly to the front of the house so that people can sit outdoors, or barbecue even if it's raining.

The widest part is not only open to the air, but is perfectly situated so that it catches the prevailing westerly winds and the first shade in the afternoon.

Howie loves the deck -- mostly for those stairs that lead down to the lower yard. He's a flatlander dog and just doesn't know about stairs as a means of transportation. However, in spite of how many times he has fallen on the way up, he gets a crazy-dog look in his eyes, races around the yard, and sails up the steps, crashes down them again, and then back up.

My sister-in-law and Bernie set up wireless internet access on our laptops. With RuthAnn on the her recliner, and I on mine, we computed for several hours while I put the Press up.

The sister-in-law worked at a nursing home for many years, and the brother-in-law helped his father while he faded from life with dementia. We talked about my concerns about meeting my mother in the nursing home, and they tried to put my fears to rest. Indeed, that impending meeting had caused me to break out in ugly blistering hive while we were on the road. But what I heard from my relatives did indeed give me heart.

Day Five: Ohio to Base Camp

This day was just a day of counting miles.

Under a mostly cloudy sky, we traversed past Columbus, Ohio to Wheeling, West Virginia; after the tiny strip of the top of West Virginia, we were in Pennsylvania.

Heavy, looming forests encroach on every open field or edge of town; everything is green, and humid. The light looks different, all edges softened by the haze of water in the air. Ah, yes, I remember it well.

We didn't travel with a road map other than a basic overview of United States Interstate Highways, so when we were bounced off Interstate 70, halted in traffic due to yet more road work, we stopped for gas. We knew more or less where we were, and we knew where we were going, so we figured we could just abandon the interstate and find our way on regular roads. While Bernie sought a map at the gas station in vain, I took pictures of electrical things to pass the time.

I thought about Mel Trent, who has the knack of making prosaic things look intriguing. With that in mind, I snapped about ten shots of "stuff", including a picture of gravel. Thinking about Mel certainly did not make my pictures very interesting, but it was a good exercise.

Then it was back to the road, and we did find our way around the stopped traffic; by late afternoon we were off the highway and slowly making our way through the jungly land to Lewistown, Pennsylvania.

There my sister-in-law had waiting for me the biggest bag of Hartley's Potato Chips I've ever seen. "This is Sand's," she told everybody, warning them not to snitch my chips.

"Do you have the straps so Sand can just attach the bag to her head?" my husband asked genteelly.

We retired to the beautiful deck to relax and take stock of one another; the evening was simply beautiful. A birch tree tickles one side of the deck; arborvitae and euonymus screen the eastern view and make the area private and strangely life-giving. It's a place you can feel your heart recharging, worries slipping away.

We were absolutely honored to be invited to pitch our tent on the deck, and astounded it fit so easily. Even with a 7' x 10' tent on it, there is room for everyone to sit comfortably. I'll include a picture of the deck in a later post, when my camera battery is recharged.

RuthAnn and I sat out until late, catching up with each other. For me, it was a way of gradually changing my rhythms, from the aggravation of the road and the Press-driven computer work to the very powerful sense of peace and present.

Here it's amazingly easy to find that everything you need is at hand, and that what you "need" is not all that complicated.

Especially when you have a bag of Hartley's beside you.

Day Four: Des Moines to Ohio

This, then, is Indianapolis, home to the great football team, the Colts ... in June, late in the afternoon, when I had expected to reach the border of Ohio by now, but was held up AGAIN by damnable road repair and subsequent detour that led us into the thick of rush-hour traffic.

The driver of this particular orange truck was a particular asshole: a lane-changer with no conscience, a road hog with the arrogance of someone driving a rig that could crush all comers.

So there, asshole, now you know, if you ever read this blog, which you won't, so I'm not worried.

Yes. We intended to be past Columbus, Ohio, by the end of today, but were not able to foresee the bloody congestion in Indianapolis.

I was so annoyed by Indiana's every-three-miles road repair crews that I was determined we should push on into Ohio.

Wait, what? Illinois? They had a nice rest stop, which kept me from wetting myself. Other than that it was fairly forgettable. I thought I'd prefer Indiana, but I was RONG.

Over the Ohio border, we spotted another Holiday Inn Express, but our AAA guidebook didn't think it allowed pets. We stopped anyway, and thank God and Holiday Inn Express, they DID allow pets, and not only that, gave us the end room so that we have only a few feet to traverse to take Howie out for his relief.

Tomorrow is going to be another long day, all the way to Pennsylvania and family. I'm trying to think: do I want local Original Italian Pizza for supper, or Laskaris hot dogs? Or both?

Day Three: North Platte to Des Moines

We awoke late again ... the Holiday Inn Express at North Platte, Nebraska was so clean-smelling, so quiet, so very, very comfortable, that if I was rich, I'd have just stayed there another day for the sleep. Also they served a delightful free breakfast.

But off we had to go, and I snapped this picture off old Lincoln Highway 30 just to have something to snap. All the little streams and rivers we saw were very full.

My guess is that this creek is lousy with sunfish and bass, and I hope that Nebraska waterways are not as polluted with dairy farm runoff and fertilizer from fields as our rivers in California. I live near a river, and I can't eat fish from it. That is WRONG.

Bernie decided he wanted to explore the old Lincoln Highway, and so we did. That creek was at the beginning of it, but most of it was empty, as the next picture shows.

I found the side trip a little depressing, as so very many buildings were vacant and crumbling into piles of rotted boards and broken glass; so many, many intact buildings had their business signs plastered over with "Available" placards.

The road was in ill-repair, making me think again about the Interstate System being irritating. At least the Interstate has rest stops periodically, where a weary traveler can take a pizz in a clean bathroom.

As lumpy as the road was, I would prefer to use trails like the Lincoln Highway. The towns and the businesses and the eateries aren't mass-produced; they're real, and real people live there and love their place. Those tiny motels are probably cheaper to stay in than the ones on the Interstate, but the irony is, that I can't afford to take the time to travel on back roads like that.

What a gas! I have no job, and Bernie is unemployed, but we literally cannot afford to take too much time on this trip. He has to be in PA, and I do, too, to deal with family stuff, and then we HAVE to get back to CA so that he doesn't lose unemployment benefits.

Well, the detour off the Interstate road only cost us about 2 hours of travel time, and we very nearly ran out of gas (.4 gallon left), but we arrived in beautiful Des Moines to stay with Cheryl and Terry for a night.

Our friends had scouted a wonderful restaurant, Palmer's Delicatessen, to treat us to fabulous food and a delightful outdoor venue that allowed us to include Howie in the party! OMG, as they say, the lasagna special was so good that I ate twice as much as I should have and had less than half the guilt that I should have. Cheryl needs to do an in-depth review of that place for the Piker Press.

Do you hear me, Cheryl?

One of the draws, aside from the glorious friendship, is the firefly display in Cheryl and Terry's yard in June. We've seen and appreciated it before. This time they upped the ante, however,
and while Bernie and I played with fireflies/lightning bugs, Terry set up his telescope.

We got to see Saturn and its rings, and a moon of Saturn, and Mars, and the Ring Nebula, and my favorite, globular cluster of stars M-13. (I think that's which one, if not, Terry, forgive me.) My heart fills, thinking of that sight. I've seen Hubble pics, but clear though they are, they are not the same as seeing them through a friend's telescope while sitting companionably sipping wine.

We slept that night in Terry and Cheryl's camper, listening to crickets singing, and the strange sounds of a city, and woke before dawn to want to throw rocks at robins who were eager to be early birds getting the proverbial worm. When the robins took off to forage, we slept again, and felt no need to hurry away. Indeed, we were reluctant to leave.

Day Two: Evanston, Wyoming to ... North Platte, Nebraska

This lovely wind-and-rain carved stone overlooks the little city of Green River, Wyoming.

We stayed in this town the last time we came through here three years ago. We arrived at night and left in the wee hours before dawn, so I had been unable to appreciate the beauty of the land there.

Good thing there was beauty there (we stopped for breakfast) because the night in Evanston was a nightmare of broken sleep. The air conditioner of the Days Inn sounded like a jet engine being fired up in the room, the beds were uncomfortable, and the walls so paper thin that I knew exactly when the occupants of the next room started and finished coitus.

Howie was distressed from the long drive, and put his back up against mine. My goal for the night was "any sleep at all" and "do not disturb Bernie" -- he was so tired. At one point during the night, Howie put all four of his feet up against the base of my spine and pushed gently. It was a strangely comforting feeling, and I think that's when I finally fell asleep.

Again, the day's trek was broken by accursed road repairs. I know the infrastructure of the roads of the US is crumbling, and needs desperately to be fixed, but what a pain in the ass to fall father and farther behind in our travel. Good thing we had set our goal as North Platte, Nebraska, because to have gone farther would have kilt us.

Off We Go!

The day began a bit inauspiciously.

After a week of broken sleep due to worry about preparing for this trip across country, Sunday night found me sleeping like a drugged log. Instead of waking at 4am the way I always do to fret about the day to come, I didn't wake until close to six. Bernie claims he tried to wake me earlier, but he didn't seem too inclined to get up himself and rattle noisily about the room.

So we got a late start.

I had no idea there was still so much snow in the Sierras. Living in the Central Valley, I don't see snow except in pictures, so I was amazed at the sight, as though I was looking at exotic animals in a zoo.

Indeed, with the exception of a couple hours' stretch outside of Reno, Nevada, I was astounded to see snow on mountains all the way to Wyoming.

Compared to the last time we took this route (three years ago), Nevada was amazingly green, and decorated with pink and yellow and red wildflowers here and there. Far from the barren desert I remembered, Nevada was beautiful.
On the eastern side of Nevada, and in Utah, we saw lovely orange wildflowers. Not surprisingly, at the rest stops, there were no flowers. People have a difficult time leaving beautiful wildflowers alone for others to enjoy. However, Bernie The Ever-Indulgent took a few exit ramps until he found some of the lovely blooms for me to get close enough to. I wasn't able to identify them, but now I have a reference photo!

By the time we got to the Nevada-Utah border, I knew we were about an hour and a half behind where we should have been, and I was getting very tired. We missed the lunch-meal turnoff, and had no more opportunity to stop for food until Salt Lake City. At that point, we decided to stop in Evanston, Wyoming instead of pushing on to Green River. A rain storm was catching up with us, which would have just slowed us up even more.

Besides, there was the God, I'm Tired thing hitting us both. Howie was also sitting up and panting on our necks as though he'd had enough road vibration himself.

Thinking ahead to the next phase of the journey, I knew we had to be realistic. We'd hoped to reach Des Moines, Iowa by tomorrow night, but it would have been about a 16-hour drive, and we would have arrived stinking and exhausted sometime after 9pm.

Maybe I'm getting old. Tonight I'm so tired that my shoulders hurt. I felt better about making the decision to stop in Nebraska tomorrow, when shortly afterwards, the rain was shot through by sun, and a vibrant rainbow appeared over Evanston, Wyoming.

Here we are, and tomorrow, Wyoming, and then some.