ALL ABOARD!!!

 

I’m not sure whose idea the Rocky Mountain train ride was. Probably me, because I love trains. But I have to say Carolyn got right on board (pun intended) with the idea.

In our original conversations, we talked about taking the California Zephyr all the way from its origin in Chicago to its final destination in Emeryville, California. (Between Berkeley and Oakland.) But after some online research and conversations with people who had espied the landscape between Chi-town and Denver, we came to the conclusion that paying a premium to see hundreds of miles of farmland might not be that exciting. Sorghum anyone?

So, we set up a trip that involved a sleeper car from Denver and another from Emeryville to home in Vancouver. Rocky mountains, parts of Utah, Nevada, California and Oregon. Perfect, right?

        The flight was uneventful. My favorite four words to say after airline travel. Yes, the airport in Portland was an immense pain in the patootie. And yes, we had to huff and puff the length of Denver’s immense air terminal (It’s a mile high in Denver. Air is emaciated.) to find the A train to the Amtrak station, but still . . . uneventful. No hostile drunken passenger. No pilot announcement prefaced with “Oh, shit,” no clocking a delivery truck on the way to the terminal. Uneventful. Good thing, yes?

Union Station in downtown Denver is old, high-ceilinged immense and multi-dimensional. A wonder to behold. 

Along with the Amtrak counters and tracks,  there were half a dozen restaurants, an ice cream parlor, a coffee shop, pastry and candy stands, and a classy bar. Oh, and a fully stocked book store. 

                                                                                                 

Our thinking for spending the extra money on a deluxe accomodation. Twofold? We could get out of bed, shower, dress, throw our stuff in our bags and catch our train downstairs. Secondly. What the hell it's only money. Worth it? Without question. Hey, we got a free ice cream, coffee, and a drink thrown in. The rooms are lovely, service is attentive, and the food delectable. The Crawford had moved to near the top of the list of places we’ve stayed. Check out the painted ceiling.

                                                                              

You just don’t see that at your average Motel 6.                                                          

A quick kudo here. Carolyn found us carry-on size rolling bags 

at ReTails,  the Humane Society thrift store she volunteers at. 

The queen of space allotment, she cleverly packed everything we needed.

 Nice job, love of my life.

                                                                                               

The next morning, we boarded the train and were shown to our sleeper car by LaToya. The room was . . . it was incredibly . . . the room was . . . very small. 

It featured a couch that made into a double bed and a pull-down top bunk. It also included a combination toilet/shower that was . . . it was . . . 

imagine a large phone booth or a small closet. 

As we set out, we noticed a feathered train afficionado on a nearby siding. 

Have no fear, no gooses? geese? waterfowl were hurt on this journey.

The first night Carolyn gamely volunteered to take the top bunk. She clambered up the ladder and flailed around with the covers until she could approximate comfort. I could watch her from the lower bed using the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Comically, (although she was less than amused) her thrashing reminded me of the baby feathered things we watch on a webcam. Hopefully the link will work.

 The Royal Oaks Eagles                                                                                                                          

From our window and the ones in the restaurant and glass-roofed observation car we had front row seats for the most spectacular scenery America has to offer.

 

There were several short stops in mountain communities to disgorge and those riding on grab a snatch a batch of mountain air.

A warning. This trip is not optimal for the chronically claustrophobic. Not only because of the scaled back size of the loo/shower, but because of the railroad tunnels through the hearts of some mountains.

This baby was almost 7 miles along and took 15 minutes to pass through. I texted my sister Lana to share the experience and imagined I could hear her screaming from 1500 miles away.

So, we rode and snacked on the nuts and chips Carolyn packed among the changes of clothing. I'm convinced there should be a special trophy for creative luggage space usage. 

 We were staggered by the scope and variety of the geology we saw. Occasionally we'd gasp. Probably because of the high-altitude scrimpy oxygen supply. Oh, an in case you wondered there was still some snow in places. 

Snow pack in the Rockies this year was below normal. Seems like a pattern, doesn't it?

The second day wasn’t as scenic, but there were moments. Oooh! Ahhh!

 

We chugged into Emeryville  to be met and taken to dinner at a bayside seafood restaurant by John, an old friend from radio days and his lovely wife Dena. After dining and conversational catching up we boarded the northbound Coast Starlight and stuffed ourselves into another petite (another way of saying tiny) sleeper tank and set off for home.

That night, CJ elected to share the double bed instead of the upper bunk. A wise choice. And in my defense, I didn’t roll over and elbow her even once. In her defense she didn’t turn and knee me in the goolies either.

Compared to the Rockies the scenery in Northern California and the length of Central Oregon was pretty vanilla. Not to say there weren’t some memorable stretches. 

Our friend Merlene picked us up at the Vancouver terminal (which could fit inside the bar at Union Station in Denver) and ferried us to our place. There, we fell into the comfort and non-jostling of our bed. There’s no place like home, Toto, There’s no place like home.

The next day we retrieved our version of Toto

And resumed our regular routine. But as cramped and uncomfortable our train trip sometimes was, I know that I still long to hear the sound of the conductor outside my window bellowing “All abooooooard!!!”

   

False Hope Springs Infernal

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 If, as Emily Dickinson wrote, hope is a little bird perched in the soul, then false hope could be described as a buzzard pecking at the brain. If hope sings a sweet song of encouragement, false hope squawks with sarcastic delight when things don’t work out.

 

If you don’t indulge in false on a regular basis, chances are you’ve gone to Wishful Thinking Land now and then. Perhaps on election night. Or in a casino. At a sporting event. Or even during a marriage counseling session.

 

Experts say false hope is unrealistic and ignores evidence pointing to an impossible or highly unlikely outcome. But distinguishing false hope from the “real deal” can be as difficult as picking the AI faked photo out of a lineup. One reason is that there are many instances where what seemed to be impossible came to pass. Outnumbered forces won battles. Underdog sports teams triumphed. Dark horses came in first.

 

So if false hope doesn’t always turn out to have been false, and “real” hope can also be an exercise in futility, then why shouldn’t I live in La-La Land now and then? Why shouldn’t I take mental vacations from harsh reality, painful truths, and negative lessons from the past?

 

For example, why shouldn’t I cling to the hope that the refrigerator light, dead for three years, will beam on once more? And why shouldn’t I cross my fingers and hope it will bring the oven light, deceased since 2020, back to life with it?

 

Okay. I know I’m wasting time. False hope hasn’t changed anything. I should buy and install new bulbs.

 

But I don’t bake much and what I don’t see I don’t snack on. Besides, lightning has been known to strike. Maybe a bolt of electricity will light up those bulbs.

 

I’ll give them one more day. Or maybe two.

 

 

Who Are You Trying To Fool?

 

Let’s face it, we all have our insecurities. It’s just that some people are better at covering it up than others. And some of us wear it like an ill-fitting suit of clothes.

 You wonder if Donald Trump, for all his bluster, plastering his moniker on all kinds of national treasures and insulting anyone who dares doubt his omniscience, has his private doubts. I’d love to have surveillance gear in his gold-plated White House bathroom, to capture those personal moments before he hits the sack in his gold-plated bed. Exhausted from his regular late-night routine of posting several dozen racist and childish memes to his Truth Social account, what would he tell himself while washing the orange spray tan off his face?

        “President of the U.S.A.? Leader of the free world? You’re a joke, big guy. A chubby, blathering bozo who nobody really respects. The late-night comedians are right-on-the-money. Who are you kidding?”

        Anyone who performs for a living, be it actor, singer, dancer, ventriloquist or politician can tell you that you live with the constant fear of being exposed. I spent more than 40 years as a radio personality and I know I got up each morning and went to work, fully expecting someone to present compelling evidence that I was a fraud. My primary emotion when I retired was “whew, I got away with it.” After all, I only got into the broadcasting business because it was a way to make a paycheck without breaking a sweat or having to do any deep thinking. Mission accomplished. But to this day, I fully expect to run into someone who listened to me and takes great pleasure in sharing his/her review of my talents.

        “Man, you really sucked pond water!”

Well, yeah. But there were people silly enough to pay me well to suck pond-water. And pond-water is an acquired taste. 

        These days, my self-doubt centers on getting old. Grey hair? Memory lapses? Constipation? Who knew life would fly by so fast? And what, exactly is an aneurysm anyway?

My self-scolding these days centers on things I meant to accomplish but never got around to. Selling a novel to a major publisher. Seeing my screenplay made into a movie. Pitching in the deciding game of the World Series. Losing 20 pounds. (Oh, okay 50 pounds) and dancing with the Chippendales. After all, I wouldn’t look that bad in a Speedo.

But I can be excused for my underachieving. I had other pressing priorities. Golf. Binge watching British mysteries on Teevee. And I’m fairly certain that computer cribbage game on my phone wasn’t going to play itself.

Name That Car

 

Carolyn J. Rose

When I was a kid, the family vehicles had no names. They were referred to in

generic terms. “The truck.” “The Ford.” “The blue car.” “That piece of crap

_____ (insert make and model of your choice).”

When driving up a steep hill or in snow, my father sometimes used terms of

endearment. “Come on, baby, you can do it.” “That’s it, honey.”

If a vehicle failed to start, sputtered to a stop, or slid into a ditch, he used

colorfully descriptive profanity picked up in World War II. #$?!#

 (And, no, I won’t provide examples of the nouns and adjectives.)

In retrospect, I owned several cars that cried out for names—humorous,

flattering, or unfortunate. But the VW bug with fading salmon paint, the

Datsun F-10, and the Ford Escort remained nameless until they went to the

wrecking yard or on to other owners.

And then I met a man with a Monte Carlo he’d named Yvonne Dee (Remember

Lily on The Munsters?) 

The mental door of imagination opened. I married him. And

from then on my cars had names. Moby Grape. Inkspot. Windfall. Big Red

(now named Rosalita by new owners who, as you may have guessed, are

huge Springsteen fans).

When I admitted to friends that I name my cars, I was often met with scoffing

disbelief. But sometimes I found kindred spirits. A friend named her car

Bluebaru. Others ride around in cars named Buckey and Poppy. My sister-in-

law takes her canines to their favorite haunts driving Dog Car. My husband’s

Leaf is named Erikson.

My favorite, though, is the name given to a car owned by parents of a friend

decades ago: Leapin’ Lena. She (and, yes, I tend to assign genders to cars)

earned the name because too much sudden pressure on the gas pedal resulted

​in a leap and a lean. I think she would have been a terrific car to convey a

dozen clowns to the center ring at a circus.

The Dreaded Afternoon Nap of Childhood

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

As a child I loathed naps. In the first place, a nap was never my idea. Napping was a concept foisted on me by adults. The take-a-nap command came at inconvenient times, often in the middle of a game or an argument. Naps involved washing grimy feet or taking off shoes that needed to be tied again. Naps often took place atop a chenille bedspread that created telltale facial indentations. And finally a no-more-backtalk-from-you nap involved close-contact supervision.

 

Usually that meant lying beside my grandmother. She was a world-class napper. Once she removed her dentures, loosened her corset, and slid off the black shoes that were standard grandmother footwear in the early 1950s, she’d fall asleep before I could recite the alphabet. If I had breath to do that while caught in a grip stronger than a junkyard mechanical claw. Escape—without gnawing off body parts—was impossible. And, believe me, I considered gnawing. Especially when the snoring began.

 

My grandmother was a big believer in modesty and what I now call “ladylike-itude.” Consequently, she would never admit to the sound effects she created while asleep. But, trust me, their variety and volume never failed to amaze. Had we lived near the ocean, she could have stood in for a malfunctioning fog horn.

 

Trapped, I’d lie there counting flowers on the wallpaper or finding birds in the plaster swirls on the ceiling. And I’d constantly remind myself of the reward for serving time in nap prison—milk and cookies.

 

But, let’s flash forward seven decades. Now it’s my aging body creating a symphony of sounds, including snoring. I own it. I admit to it. But I still hesitate—if only for a few seconds—to sleep during daylight hours when my husband is awake to hear. Never mind that he could snore for the USA in Olympic competition, I can’t escape my early training in modesty and denial.

 

But my aging body insists on rest periods—a few minutes to slow down, sit, or maybe snatch a nap. So I shrug embarrassment aside and head for the loveseat. After much trial and error, I’ve established the optimum sleep-inducing position and accrued nap-enchancing accessories. Those include a fluffy blanket to cover my feet, a not-too fluffy pillow for my head, and a size-too-large hoodie. Pulling the hood down over my eyes means there’s no need to pull the shades and make neighbors wonder what I’m up to.

 

I quickly cataloged types of naps: the doze, the snooze, sleep surfing, out like a light, and down for the count. What took longer was learning how to tell when a nap was over. Aside from a pressing call of nature, ringing phone, pinging text, whining dog, or a knock at the door, there was often no reason to rise. Then, with a prompt from my stomach, I recalled that time-honored, nap-concluding reward—milk and cookies.