19 Days and 4000 miles

 Our mission was simple. Get out of Dodge. See some country. Visit some old and valued friends. Try not to gain ten pounds eating road food. Not inflict any life-threatening injuries on each other. I'm happy to say we accomplished each and every one of our goals.

We set out on Sunday, December 19th hoping to avoid weekday, Portland rush hour traffic. Other than the fog and driving rain our departure went exactly as we'd hoped for. We made it to Mount Shasta. 

Winter had already arrived, but not enough snow had stacked up to cause Big Red to slip and slide. We drove on in wintery conditions to Susanville. 14 degrees, but no ice on the road. 

We stopped the second night in Tonopah, Nevada, where, at Carolyn's insistence, we didn't stay in the Ghost Clown Motel. 

Apparently, the whole John Wayne Gacy thing 

soured her on clowns forever. Geez, let one guy in white face paint, big shoes and rubber ball nose go off the tracks and slaughter some children and they ruin it for all of us with fond childhood memories of Bozo, Buttons, and all the rest of the good guy clowns. 

Speaking of jokers and clowns, on to Las Vegas.

We stayed with Mike's best friend Michael and his wife Mia. We had a great visit with our Goddaughter Kiri and her teenaged kids Alina and Michael. All of us attended a performance of the Van Gogh Experience. Multi-media, Virtual reality and certifiable mind-blowing. We also took in Fremont Street in downtown Vegas, which combined bright lights, laser graphics and street performers of all kinds. Up until that moment, I'd never seen a bonus size hooker in an ultra-tight-and skimpy Santa outfit. Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho!

We set out for Albuquerque on day 8, stopping in Winslow, Arizona to pay tribute to one of The Eagles finest moments. 

Humming "Take it Easy" all the way out of town, we outran the snow and eased into Holbrook, Arizona. After driving by the Mesa Italian Restaurant, we asked the desk clerk at our motel if it was any good. He said it was the only restaurant in town he'd recommend. We ate a terrific meal there. 

On Monday, we made it to Albuquerque after an easy morning's drive and stayed with our friend Faye. Carolyn went with her to help her buy a new car the next day. Carolyn (who has a track record of bringing car salesmen to their knees) warned Faye not to show too much enthusiasm in front of the rep. After getting behind the wheel of a Ford Eco-Sport, her first words were: "I love this car!" Carolyn still managed to negotiate a good deal for our friend. And she loves the car. 

We caught up with many friends from our days in living in the Land of Enchantment. On the third Sunday of our journey we left Albuquerque and stayed the night in Willcox, Arizona. On reflection, I'd say Willcox was a great place to be leaving the next morning. Monday we arrived in historic Tombstone, Arizona. 

Mike was able to stand outside the O.K. Corral and go all Doc Holliday.

We later found out the actual line Val Kilmer was supposed to say was "I'll be your huckle-bearer!" (pall bearer) but the actor got a little carried away with the dialect he was using for the Doc. Next up was Bisbee, another old historically preserved town, but very artsy-fartsy full of itself. We stayed in Sierra Vista that night (motto-we're sprawled all over the damn desert) and visited more friends.

Tuesday, we pushed on to Lake Havasu.

Some years ago, someone got the bright idea to buy the London Bridge (they were building a new one) dismantle it and move it to the middle of the desert. Despite wondering what they were smoking, you have to admit it was a successful endeavor. It drew millions of tourists and a bazillion sunbirds to the area. A local recommended La Vita Dolce for Italian food and Carolyn once again satisfied her unquenchable hunger for great Italian food. 

Our beloved Garmin (We nicknamed her Geraldine) guided us to a lovely off ramp in Fresno. After escaping with our lives, we moved two more ramps up the road and found a less seedy place to spend the night. We have profound hopes that our lives will never send us back to Fresno. Ever. Ever, ever.

Getting the "We really want to be home" bug we made it to Ashland, had dinner with Mike's niece Jodi and her spunky daughter Megan and looked forward to our last two days on the road. We detoured to the Oregon Coast via Elkton and Arlene's Cafe. Mike first came here with his father when he was 8 or 9 years old. The chocolate cream pie (we split one piece, honest) is to die for. After chowder and clam strips at Mo's in Lincoln City (burrrrp!) we had to detour around much of Tillamook because of standing water. Slow going but we made Astoria, our final stop before zipping home the next morning.

Mike and Carolyn click the heels of their ruby slippers together. 

(in unison)

"There's no place like home! There's no place like home!" 

In closing, let me say our journey was made easier by the master packing job, my wife and traveling companion Carolyn did. She planned for every eventuality. She helped me get rid of a year's worth of badly worn underwear and socks, left knotted in the wastepaper baskets of motels across the Southwest. I can only imagine the conversations by the maids of those places the next morning. But, bottom line, we had everything we needed and more. I'm not sure why she packed a pressure washer and half a dozen hand grenades, but I've learned not to ask. 

It was a great trip. Mission accomplished. 

Lullabies That Didn’t Lull Me

 

Carolyn J. Rose

When I think about the events in my life that led me to want to describe places, characters, and emotions, to write books, and especially to write mysteries, I recall the days of my early childhood and the techniques my grandmothers used to lull me to sleep.

 

My parents didn’t go out often, but when they did my grandmothers were called on to ride herd on me and my year-younger brother. While we viewed the occasions as opportunities to eat more dessert and stay up late, they attempted to adhere to established dietary and bedtime rules. They aimed to get us fed and to sleep so they could do whatever grandmothers did back in the 50s—tat or embroider or, mostly likely, sigh and clean up the mess we’d made.

 My mother’s mother read to us from a huge volume of poetry and short stories. There were tales about giant squids and shipwrecked sailors. It was pretty exciting stuff, the kind of stuff that held sleep at bay and filled dreams with chases and fights and crashing waves. I’d wake up determined to be a better swimmer, learn how to build a raft, catch fish with my bare hands, and invent a dozen ways to signal passing ships.

 My father’s mother, however, would often sing. 

She had a soft and sweet voice, but the songs weren’t sweet at all. In fact, every one of them involved injury and/or death. While the night birds cried, Red Wing wept for the man she loved, a man killed in battle. As for Clementine, well, thanks to the fact that the person who referred to her as his darling couldn’t swim, she went under. The song about Red Wing made me sad. The one about Clementine made me mad.

 And then there was that classic lullaby, the one about the baby rocking in a cradle in the top of a tree. When the wind blew the cradle rocked, but then the bough broke, and that cradle plummeted to earth. There the song ended, leaving it to me to imagine blood and broken bones and even the cradle being exchanged for a coffin. I wondered who would put a baby in a cradle in a tree and why? What was the back story? And what happened afterward? Did someone call the police? Was there an investigation? Were charges pressed, jail time served?

 I wonder how my life would have turned out if one grandmother had read a lovey dovey romance and the other had wailed “Walking on Sunshine” or Good Vibrations” or “My Girl”. Then I stop wondering and think about how I’ll kill off an unsuspecting character and I get to the keyboard and set another mystery in motion.

 

How Stuff Works

 

 

By Michael Nettleton

I’m no dummy.

No, this not a debate topic. (Sit down, Carolyn.)

But I’d be the first to admit . . . (Carolyn waving hand frantically to get my attention.) Okay, okay, I’d be the second to admit that figuring out technical and mechanical stuff is not my strength.

It took only about fifteen minutes of my freshman calculus class to send me skittering to another building to relaunch my scholastic career as a liberal arts major. I may not handle multi-level equations very well, but I can analyze the crap out of Shakespeare. You need to know how not to bump into the furniture on stage? I’m your guy. Great Hadron Collider or how to fix venetian blinds? Not so much.

Once, while working as a substitute librarian, I was shelving books in the science section. My eye fell upon a soft-covered volume called Quantum Physics for Dummies. I scooped it onto my soon-to-be empty cart and took it to the front desk, bravely entered my library card number, and checked that puppy out. How hard could it be? This book would lay QP out step-by-step. I felt my inner Stephen Hawking rising to the challenge. I could even swallow my pride and overlook the For Dummies part of the title. (Reference opening sentence.)

Later, at home, having spent a quality two hours trying to make my way through the opening chapter, my loving life partner Carolyn tapped me on the shoulder.

“You want I should call and have them bring the Jaws-of-Life?” She queried.

At that point, all I could produce, vocally, was a pathetic mewling that might have contained the words ”what?” and “for?”

“To twist your head around and get it facing the right direction on your shoulders,” she said, trying her best not to smirk.

Which brings us to LED lighting.

Recently, we had a fluorescent light in the garage flicker, then give up the ghost. Now I kinda-sorta understand how fluorescent lights work. A fluorescent lamp generates light from collisions in a hot gas ('plasma') of free accelerated electrons with atoms. Simple, yes? Okay, okay, I looked it up. But I’m within the general area code of understanding it.

Carolyn decided to replace the gassy/lighty thinggummy with an LED fixture. More energy efficient, longer lasting, better for the environment and blah, blah, blah.

 She had our neighbor Mr. Tool Belt install it, and it worked great. In fact, it was so bright, the first time she turned it on my immediate reaction was to yell “I’ll buy the negatives.” (If you’re younger than say, 45, there’s no chance you’ll get the joke. Unless you’re a fan of noir movies.)

Later, we were talking about our new light source and both admitted we had no idea how LEDs work. The odds of me not knowing something Carolyn also doesn’t know are astronomical. Right up there with picking 6 winning lottery numbers. This called for a drink and a quick trip to Wikipedia. Here’s what it says:

A light-emitting diode (LED) is a semiconductor light source that emits light when current flows through it. Electrons in the semiconductor recombine with electron holes, releasing energy in the form of photons.

“Electron holes. Photons. See, that would have been my guess.” I nodded.

“Ly-uhhh!!!” Carolyn crowed. “And what’s your definition of a photon?”

“It’s . . . err . . . um . . . A facsimile you use when you can’t afford a real tawn.”

“Brepppp!” She hit the B.S. buzzer. “What else does it say?”

The attainment of high efficiency blue LEDs was quickly followed by the development of the first white LED. In this device a Y₃Al₅O₁₂:Ce (known as "YAG" or Ce:YAG phosphor) cerium-doped phosphor coating produces yellow light through fluorescence. The combination of that yellow with remaining blue light appears white to the eye. 

“Oooh-kay! Of course,” I tried to sound assured. “Now it’s perfectly clear.”

“Breppppp!” Carolyn hammered the buzzer a second time. “Tell you what.”

“What?”

“How about we settle on a simple one-word explanation?”

Sensing my chance to stop dangling in the wind, I nodded. “Sounds good to me. What do you suggest?”

“I was thinking magic. We just agree it’s magic and move on.”

“You are the brains of the operation, aren’t you?”

She beamed. “I do my best. Do you have anything to add?”

“Well, there’s this. If you plow into the couch on stage and tumble ass-over-teakettle on top of the people sitting on it, stay in character and pretend you did it on purpose. The audience will never know.”

 

         

         

 

The Lure of the West

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

My father, who was born and raised in the Catskill Mountains and lived there until he died, loved the West. As a child he read Zane Grey’s novels and other western adventures like those of the X Bar X boys. I still have a tattered copy of The X Bar X Boys Lost in the Rockies. It carries the scent of mildew now, but when I first opened it, perhaps 60 years ago, I was certain I smelled sage and pine, campfire smoke and scorching bacon.

 

There were always paperback western novels stacked on my father’s nightstand, books by Max Brand, Louis L’Amour, and others. If a western played at the local drive-in theater, we went. And he’d watch the programs TV had to offer in the 1950s—although he’d often point out the sameness of Hollywood-back-lot scenery. 

I don’t know if he’d ever intended to pull up roots generations deep, head west, and try his luck on the open range. Perhaps he did. But Pearl Harbor changed the trajectory of his life. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps and was sent east instead. He landed in the China-Burma-India Theater where he maintained planes and, as was required to insure the job was done right, went along on supply missions. Those missions took him over The Hump—the east end of the Himalaya Mountains. To say those missions were dangerous is a gross understatement.

 When he wasn’t flying or fixing, he lounged in his tent, swatting mosquitoes and trying to put aside fears about being shot at and shot down. He often imagined he was on the other side of the world, out on the plains, in the mountains and canyons. He passed the hours of boredom between flights by mentally living the kinds of adventures he’d read about. I imagine he saw himself herding cattle, shooting rattlesnakes, joining a posse, or simply gazing into the depths of a canyon or at the peaks of the Rockies.

 

He didn’t get to see the country he read so much about until the early 60’s when he packed us into the family station wagon, stuffed a small trailer with tents and camping gear, and headed that way. In six weeks, we saw the Mississippi River, the Great Plains, the towering Rockies, the Grand Canyon, and the geysers of Yellowstone. We saw the Painted Desert, Bryce Canyon, a cattle drive down the main street of a Wyoming town, and the Grand Tetons. We saw tumbleweeds and redwoods, bears and coyotes.

 

Oddly, the day we mounted up and went on a trail ride in the Rockies, the man who had imagined himself living a cowboy kind of life as World War II went on around him, didn’t come along. Instead, he waved us off and waited at the car.

Looking back, I like to think he recognized that riding a hired and tired horse with a dozen other tenderfeet would degrade or even demolish his dreams. So, he turned his back. And he preserved the images.

Me and Ma Nature

By Mike Nettleton 

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with nature. Which is to say it both amazes me and scares me (bleep)less.

Once, while staying in a cabin on the property of Carolyn’s mother and father in the Catskill mountains of New York, a sound from outside the window made me sit bolt upright in bed. It was a loud, electric, hummy-chirpy-buzzy sound that seemed to envelop the whole structure.

“Relax, town boy,” my wife reassured me. “It’s just katydids. Go back to sleep.”

“Katy-whoozits?” My teeth chattered as I asked. “Are they predators?”

“No, silly, they have no desire to break in here and eat your brain.”

“Y . . . you’re sure?”

“It’d just be a light snack for them, anyway. They’re bush crickets. Insects. And this time of year, they’re in love.”

“Oh,” I said. “So, the sound they’re making is just katydid talk for ‘Hey baby, what’s your sign?’”

She snorted, punched me in the shoulder, and went back to sleep.

The other day, a coyote walked down the middle of our street, big as you please, and spent some time casing the neighborhood. They’re impressive-looking wild dogs and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to encounter one while perambulating about. I made a note to myself to try not to look like a rump roast the next time I took a walk to the park and back.

I decided knowledge is power, so I Googled up “fun facts about coyotes” and came up with a sampler.    

• Coyotes are omnivores. Which means they don’t just eat small critters like rats, birds and schnauzers but are also partial to berries, vegetables and fallen fruit. So, if you’re worried that you might encounter one of these wild dogs, you might want to carry some broccoli with you.

• They’re monogamous and mate for life. Which makes coyote prenup agreements unnecessary paperwork. 

• They are fassssst! They’ve been clocked at 35-43 miles-per-hour. Contrary to what the cartoon would lead you to believe, they’re almost twice as fast as a roadrunner. However, it is true that they’re prone to ordering products from the Acme company that will blow up in their faces or fall off a cliff and brain them.

• Coyotes are, by far, the most vocal wild mammals in North America. Researchers have identified 11 different growls, huffs, woofs, yips, howls, whines, and yodels coming from the beast. (You can tell the ones that yodel, they’ll be wearing lederhosen.)

• And finally, this. Coyotes adapt well to city life. The one we saw on our street is not unique. Urban coyotes are less shy and more likely to eat cats, pet hamsters, and human-made food than their rural cousins. They’ll also munch ornamental fruits and seeds from non-native species like figs, grapes, and palms. Reportedly, (and this is especially timely with Christmas on the horizon) they are one of the few creatures on the planet that will voluntarily devour fruitcake.

 Well, it appears the coyote is still in the neighborhood. A quiche that was cooling on a windowsill has vanished and there are reports of yodeling in the vicinity. A neighborhood posse has been assembled to look for a neighbor’s missing duck. The pitchforks and blazing torches are a nice touch.

I’ll be honest, the idea of a renegade coyote in the vicinity spooks me a little. But at least no one has reported hearing any katydids.  

Close Encounters With an Invasive Species

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

 

When I hear the term “invasive species” I don’t think about murder hornets or hogweed or gypsy moths or pythons. Nope. I think about the folks who work in the medical suite labeled “gastroenterology.” I think about the folks who perform colonoscopies, and I try not to think about those who conduct flexible sigmoidoscopies. In my opinion, if that procedure had been around in medieval times, there would have been no need for the rack or thumbscrews.

When I turned 50, my doctor informed me it was time to have a look at my large intestine. Thinking this meant some kind of a scan or X-ray, I nodded agreement. Then she uttered the words “flexible sigmoidoscopy.” It was a term I’d never encountered, but the flexible part sounded okay. Bending and twisting was becoming more of a chore very year, so flexibility was a good thing. The sigmoidoscopy part puzzled me. The first part of the word made me think of Freud. Maybe I’d emerge from the procedure with insights into my actions and relationships. The experience might be emotionally painful, but worthwhile. That left the oscopy portion of the word. While I was puzzling over its derivation, the doctor explained the procedure.

 My brain let out a long shriek of dismay. My mouth followed suit. “They do what? They put a camera where?”

 She explained in greater detail, assuring me it was no big deal.

 Easy for her to say. “I’ll be asleep, right?”

 “No”

 “But I’ll get drugs to relax me, right? Valium or something, right?”

 “You won’t need anything. You’ll do fine without drugs.”

 As a rule, I’m in favor of passing on meds unless they’re absolutely necessary. Others may be more rigid about the meaning of “necessary,” but this situation met my definition. So I begged. I pleaded. I sniffled.

She didn’t relent. So, a week later, after hours of fasting and more hours of quality time on or near the porcelain throne, I went to meet my fate. Two young men positioned me on a gurney with all the padding of an interstate highway. Then they prepared to shove a tube up a part of my anatomy where the sun doesn’t shine. As I knew they would, they told me to relax.

I laughed in a grim way and asked if either of them could relax if the situation were reversed. They didn’t answer. I took that for a resounding “NO.”

As a child I had been cautioned against passing wind in public. My sphincter muscles are always on alert, ready to clamp down on an emission that might make a telltale sound and/or carry with it an embarrassing odor. But the sigmoidoscopy procedure involves pumping in air to inflate the colon. And air that goes in also comes out. So the sphincter got a workout. And so, apparently, did the equipment. It broke down. I was informed I’d have to reschedule.

 This was back before texting was so prevalent so I didn’t say “WTF?” I laid down the complete words. And more than once. Then I called my doctor and asked if the test was absolutely necessary. When she said she felt it was, I demanded drugs for the retake. She didn’t tell me to suck it up and stop whining but, once again, she refused. She claimed I’d have no problem relaxing because I knew what to expect.

That, of course, was exactly why I wanted drugs. So, after abandoning the idea of shopping for pills in a gritty part of town, I recalled I’d been allowed to sip clear liquids. With that in mind, I went for a muscle relaxer I had on hand. I filled a half-quart bottle with gin and tonic and started sipping on the way to the procedure.

 My stomach was empty. My intestines were cleaned out. The gin hit like a hammer.

 I sipped in the waiting room. I sipped as I slipped on one of those gowns with rear ventilation. I sipped as I clambered up on the gurney. When they stuck the tiny camera up my butt, I gave up on sipping and swallowed the remainder of my drink.

Embarrassment no longer mattered. Passing wind no longer mattered. Whether the equipment might break down again no longer mattered. I was relaxed. So relaxed that when I got off the gurney I wobbled into a wall. So relaxed the technicians called my long-suffering husband in to help me get dressed.

Years later, about to be put under for my first colonoscopy, I told the anesthetist about my flex sig experience. “I’ll put you deep,” he assured me. And he did. I had a great nap. I never knew the invasive species were there.

 

THREE DAYS OF ROCKIN', ROLLIN' AND ROAD FOOD

 

I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them is to travel with them.

                        Mark Twain.

    

All things considered, Carolyn and I travel remarkably well together. We've been to Australia, England, and on dozens of excursions on America's highways and never once has a serious death threat been issued. 

Recently, we packed up Big Red, backed out of the driveway and set out for Northeastern Oregon on a "make-good" three day trip. Here's a view of what we mostly saw as we drove the mountainous roads on the March adventure.

With high hopes we wouldn't end up mid-blizzard again, we set out. I'm proud to say we logged hundreds of miles without a wrathful word being spoken. There were several dozen incidences of general good-natured snarkiness, but no real anger. 

    First stop, Pendleton for lunch. We ate at Joe's Fiesta, a Mexican restaurant with big portions and an owner with an even bigger personality. Across the street was my favorite business sign of the trip. 

Correct pronunciation would make it Mo Fuh. But you get the idea. After lunch we rolled down the road to Joseph, with only a short stop to say hello to Holly at the charming little library in Wallowa.

The last time we were in Joseph in March it looked like this.

This time was mo' bettuh (as opposed to Mo Pho)

Joseph has a lot of 'old west' style charm, with many well-restored original buildings and lots of artsy-type stuff to look at and buy. 

We stayed at a classic American-style motel, the Indian Lodge, which was built by legendary character actor Walter Brennan "back in the day." 

The motel featured reasonable prices, comfortable beds and showers with enough water pressure to send your skin cells dashing for cover.  

Favorite story from Joseph. In the morning we wandered down the seven or eight blocks of main street to have breakfast. We came to the Cheyenne Cafe and encountered a codger, all five-foot nothing and 95 pounds of him, hobbling along on a cane toward the door. "Best damn breakfast in Joseph," he croaked. We thanked him and went in. As we ate, we watched a table loaded with grizzled old-timers swapping lies and hooting and hollering at a table by the wall. The codger we'd encountered sat by himself on table down from them. Now, the walls of this place were festooned with all kinds of memorabilia and humorous (depending on your politics) signs. After enjoying what was a very good breakfast, I sidled up to the register to pay. I pointed at one sign that read WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO STORMY.  "Who's Stormy? I asked. With a rueful sigh our waiter pointed at the codger we'd met at the door. I know there must be a story there, but I didn't ask. 

    Next we drove up to the Hell's Canyon Overlook on a narrow, twisty highway. We averaged maybe 25 mph. But when we got there it was well worth it. The view was glorious.

 We drove back to Pendleton for our final night's stay. After being told the "Working Girl's Hotel" a refurbished Bordello downtown was booked for months in advance, we settled for a Best Western. We ate at Sister's Cafe, opting for salads to offset the steady stream of road food we'd poured into our bodies. Cheetos and Jerky are tough on the digestive system. Great meal, after we got them to turn down the ear-splitting country-western music so we could hear our food. 

We capped our trip off with a tour through the Pendleton Underground.

Exit Stage Right Pursued 
by Bear

      

After escaping the predator in the lobby, we followed our tour guide Cricket (honest that was her name) through the winding tunnels and into the historic saloons, card rooms, Chinese laundries candy stores and brothels that have been restored     under the streets. 

We drove home along I-84. For my money this is one of the most spectacular Interstate highway stretches in America. The Gorge is (wait for it . . . wait for it.) Gorgeous. 

Oh, and for the record, I love all the windmills on the clifftops. I'm not among those who believe they spoil the natural beauty of the place. 

All in all, we chalk this one up as a successful excursion. Lots of great country we hadn't seen before, sing-along tunes on the mp3 player, road food and no need to hit the speed dial for a divorce lawyer.