Family, Friends, and Calamari

 

            I didn't want to start using my blog as a diary, where I "share" our personal life with our kids, grandkids, and friends and blather about what I had for breakfast, how Gayle was fixated on the Triple Crown Saturday and our latest vacation adventure.  Well, I'll skip breakfast and just touch on the horse race and our latest "vacation."

            As everyone knows, American Pharoah (misspelling is intentional) won the Triple Crown Saturday.  He's the first horse to pull that off since Affirmed did it 37 years ago.  It's assumed that this great horse has the ability to earn hundreds of millions in stud fees. But there's concern that an injury could jeopardize such a glorious future. You may remember what happened to Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro at the Preakness in 2006.

            Thoroughbreds love to run. Gayle and I owned a couple once. If the choice were left to Pharoah, would he trade running around an oval for a pasture full of mares?  I know that's not how the stud thing works, but it's still a heck-of-a-retirement program.  The latest news indicates that Pharoah will run a few more races before he retires.

            The day prior we drove the six hour trip back home after attending grandson Seth's graduation and spending a week with our families and friends.  We knew we were almost home when a chubby little bear cub shuffled across the road just ahead of us.

            On one of the days Gayle and I had lunch with my brother Tom and his wonderful wife Sharon at Aldo's on the wharf in Santa Cruz.  We spent much of the time bragging about our grandkids, but I won't subject you to a re-run of that.  Needless to say, our grandkids are all perfect.

            As mountain dwellers, years removed from the bay area, we are always amazed at the frenetic bee hive of activity in civilization; the race tracks that are called freeways, the crowds and traffic jams that are considered normal.  The scene reminds me of San Marco Square in Venice, Italy, where pigeons blanket the pavement and flock to the corn tossed by tourists.  Kids sprinkle corn on their bodies and within seconds they are clothed in hungry pigeons. This frenzied activity of human beings is similar to those pigeons frantically fighting for kernels of corn in San Marco Square.  The corn in Silicon Valley is money. 

            I spent most of one day in Carmel and Monterey with my old buddy of almost 70 years, John Chaffin on his birthday.  We hit a favorite restaurant on the wharf for lunch.  I ordered an appetizer of deep-fried calamari and the main course of calamari steak.  How's that for a diary entry?

            I had a lot of catching up to do on my consumption of calamari.  I had calamari for dinner once in a Los Gatos restaurant.  I had calamari for lunch on the wharf in Santa Cruz.  I had the calamari appetizer plus a calamari steak in Monterey.  I think I had another dose of calamari somewhere else, but I can't remember where at the moment.  For some reason I became fixated on calamari last week.

            I have yet to taste any calamari that can match what I used to get at the Race Street fish market in San Jose 50 years ago.  Maybe that's why I keep searching and tasting.

            The combination of calamari and the Monterey bay brings back memories of the good old days when we fished using squid as bait in those ocean waters.  Now squid has become calamari and is known as a "poor man's abalone."  When I was a kid, my dad dove for abalone and we had stacks of abalone for dinner.  We had so much, we piled it like pancakes and actually tossed abalone to the dog.  Today it's rare.

            All my experiences with calamari or squid are not positive.  I may have told this story before, but I remember well one day of fishing with some buddies when the sea was rough and the fog obscured the horizon - a lethal combination when fighting sea sickness.  Beginning to turn green and fighting to hold my breakfast, I grasped the rail searching for a glimpse of the horizon.

            Just when it looked like I might win the battle, my late prankster buddy, Glen Dennee tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned to see a squid, dripping slime, hanging out of Glen's teeth just inches from my face. That was all it took.  I sent a stream of everything I had eaten since the third grade in a straight-line trajectory at least a half-mile out to sea.   

            Despite that experience, I still like to eat those strange creatures.  Is this rambling what they call a stream of consciousness?  I sure got off the subject.  I don't think I had a subject. Once I start typing, I never know where it's going.  This stream of consciousness, like most streams, is obviously going down hill.  I'm going to quit while I'm ahead.

 

A Christmas Story

December 25^th is the date Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.  The reasoning behind the choice of this date for celebration is not as important as what it represents to Christians.  It’s unlikely that December is the month of Jesus birth based on a number of factors, but the fact of his birth is historically indisputable.  The calendar is based on the birth of Jesus, separating history into BC and AD.  Celebrating the birth of Jesus is Christmas to Gayle and me.

            There was another birth that occurred on Christmas Day, but much less than 2000 years ago.   Little Gayle Cross, my wife, was born on December 25^th and although she wasn’t born in a manger, it falls on me to remind her occasionally that the celebrations aren’t for her.

            I can understand why, when she was a child, all the colorful lights, the joyful music, people celebrating and exchanging gifts would cause little Gayle to think that this was all for her birthday.  But to wake up on Christmas morning, peer out her window and not see camels, shepherds and kings bringing her gifts must have been a tremendous disappointment to her as she grew up.  I think it may have been some time in her thirties when she stopped looking for that bright star and finally got rid of her “swaddling clothes.”

            To say that there has been no residual effect of these delusions of grandeur would be to ignore the fact that she still waits for a wise man to bring her gifts.  She’s had to settle for a dumb guy with bad taste.  Actually, when I married her, I thought I could get away with one gift that would cover both Christmas and her birthday, but that idea died a quick and merciful death the first year we were married. 

            I’m lousy at buying gifts for women.  Always have been.  Early in our marriage I bought Gayle a ring that had a beautiful artistic design.  I liked it and she loved it.  A few years later I bought her another ring.  Unfortunately, this ring was almost identical in design to the previous ring.  That may have been the beginning of a change in our emphasis on gifts.

            We’re finally at a point in our lives where gifts to each other have evolved into travel, special restaurants, or items for the house. The initial requirement of two gifts at Christmas has evolved or dissolved.  We are more practical now.

            Dr. Walter Williams, the well-known economist and one of my favorite writers, takes the gift thing a step further than even I have taken it.  He buys his wife things that are practical.  For example, I once heard him say that he bought his wife a pair of golf shoes so that she wouldn’t slip when she washed his car.  In another magnanimous gesture, he bought his wife a small snow shovel so that she wouldn’t strain her back when shoveling the snow in his driveway.  I think he bought her a chain saw one Christmas. Now there’s a thoughtful man.

            So here we are – a day or so away from Christmas and Gayle’s birthday.  When my kids and grandkids were little I dressed up as Santa Claus.  Since Gayle and I have been married, I have to appear outside the kitchen window on Christmas morning dressed as a shepherd with a donkey from the ranch and a goat.  Talk about embarrassing . . .

*  *   *

            Gayle and I wish all of you a wonderful Christmas. 

P.S. - Gayle wanted me to tell you that she doesn't really think she's God. 

Three Generations of Santa

That's me delivering gifts to Dwight Klassen's grandchildren.

            Christmas is just around the corner.  Yes, “Christmas.”  Some people seem to be offended by the word, "Christmas."   When the true meaning of Christmas is discarded, all the "holiday" amounts to is a shopping spree.  No one will ever hear me say, “happy holidays” or refer to a Christmas tree as a “holiday tree.”  You'll notice that "Christmas" is a word that has dropped out of America's vocabulary almost entirely. Years ago I predicted that after Christ was taken out of Christmas, the next to go would be Santa Claus.  It's already begun.

            Since I got personal in my Thanksgiving post and my "tongue in cheek" depiction of men in the kitchen, I thought I’d give you a glimpse into another tradition in the Higgins family.  This goes way back to a time when I was just a few years past the fetus stage.  In other words, I was just a little tike.  Unfortunately I don’t have photographic evidence of those early years.  Cameras hadn’t been invented yet and the cave paintings we left on the walls are buried under a shopping mall, but I’ll describe the scene.   

            On Christmas Eve my brother Tom and I would anxiously anticipate the arrival of Santa Claus.  My mother had briefed us on the fact that if Santa heard us or saw us, he’d leave without dropping off our presents.  We scurried around the small house on 24^th street in San Jose looking for a hiding place and waiting for the sounds of reindeer hoofs on the roof.  My dad would say that he had to leave the house to get a loaf of bread, but promised he’d try to be back in time to see Santa. 

            Time passed slowly, then we heard it.  The sound of sleigh bells ringing from somewhere outside.  My mother hurried us into our hiding places where we could see without being seen.  Santa was coming to our house.  I could hear my heart beating like a jack hammer.  My little brother wet his pants.

            Suddenly the front door creaked open – we didn’t have a chimney – and slowly a guy with a huge white beard and a red suit crept into the living room.  Lit by the lights on the Christmas tree, the scene was well staged and it was very effective.  Very dramatic.

            Santa looked around to be certain the kids were asleep.  He moved silently to the tree and slid the big sack off his back, slowly placing colorfully wrapped packages under the tree.  Occasionally he would quickly turn his head as though he heard something, but would then go back to his task.

            When all the packages were under the tree, Santa turned and left the house, darting furtive glances over his shoulder to be sure no one was observing.  After we heard the sleigh bells again, we knew that Santa and his reindeer were in the air and on their way to the next house.  At that point it was pandemonium. We rushed the tree as our mother tried to control our brutal attack on the presents.  She tried to save the wrapping paper, but her efforts were futile.

            So that’s what Christmas Eve was like when I was a kid.  Years later, my brother Tom and I used the same formula and took turns being Santa for our own kids.  By the way, Tom didn’t wet his pants as previously reported. 

            Tom and Sharon have two daughters, as do I.  I’ve included a photo of the four girls peeking over a barrier at my parent’s house in Los Gatos as one of us played Santa.  My mother made the costume, which we still have.

Daughters Kimi, Shannon, Juliane, Keri waiting for Santa

            I always enjoyed playing the role of Santa and I remember the excitement when I began the charade.  Fear of my cotton eyebrows falling off and trying to see through the antique glasses that belonged to my grandfather were challenges.  The kids would leave cookies and milk out for Santa, so I had to try to eat and drink through my phony beard.  If you’ve never tasted cotton mixed with chocolate chip cookies and milk, you don’t know what you’ve missed.

  

My brother Tom getting help from our mother

                                                                          

A younger me getting ready

 Then came the grandkids.  By this time I was pretty good at playing Santa and I actually resemble him with my beard and “jolly old elf” ways, but it was shocking to discover that I didn’t need a pillow to pad the suit anymore. 

      So far that tradition of enacting Santa’s visit has spanned three generations, just as it was started by my dad back in the ‘40s.  He was the best.  I did the Santa thing for Gayle’s grandkids, as well as mine, and the grandchildren of my old buddy Dwight Klassen.  I only have one little granddaughter left to entertain. 

Johnny, grandson Gabriel, daughter Juliane spying from our balcony

            Whether anyone picks up the ball to carry on the old Santa ruse is a question, but if not, this mini-drama entertained three generations of kids. 

         I know the kids enjoyed it, but not as much as my dad, my brother, and I enjoyed being Santa and seeing their reactions.  But I could have done without trying to eat a cookie through a milk-soaked cotton beard.

 Standing for inspection by Gayle

  

Skeleton Soup and Thanksgiving Residue

Now that Thanksgiving is over, there are packages of sliced turkey, frozen turkey soup, home-made cranberry orange relish, and all kinds of things to munch on for a week or so.  Gayle says she doesn’t like to cook, but when pressed into it, she does a great job. 

            I always add some personal embellishments, like my world-famous turkey skeleton soup and my mother’s cranberry orange relish, which is fantastic.  The problem with Thanksgiving dinner is that you get full before you want to stop eating. I hate that.  Now that it’s over, I’ve vowed to never eat again.  I think I may have said that before . . .

            I’m always hesitant to “get in touch with my feminine side,” which Gayle doesn’t think exists.  I doubt that I could change her mind even if I rode a horse side saddle or spent time blow-drying my hair or getting a pedicure.  Estrogen looks good on women and that’s where it should stay.

            Despite all of that, my wife is better at some home repairs than I am.  I’ve mentioned I melted a screwdriver while changing an electrical outlet with the power on.  I think that’s when she lost confidence in me.  And no matter how I hang the Christmas lights or load the dishwasher, it’s never right.  I shouldn’t be loading the dishwasher anyway.  As my Indian friend, Rajinder Singh would say, “That woman job.”   The lines in Indian culture are clearly defined.

            Gayle can scamper up and down a ladder and hit a nail without including her thumb, so maybe I should trade jobs and spend more time in the kitchen.  Gayle doesn’t like to cook anyway and I love to eat, which is the primary reason that “buffed” weightlifter from yesteryear is buried so deep inside of me that I can no longer hear him screaming to be let out.   

            Don’t get the wrong impression here.  I’m not pulling a Bruce Jenner.  I’m just trying to rationalize the fact that I’m about to give you a recipe for my famous “Turkey Skeleton Soup” and “Cranberry Orange Relish” when only women share recipes. But I’m doing this without wearing an apron or having my nails done. In any event, don’t tell anyone.  That would destroy my image.

            Neither of these formulas is unique and I’m sure you can find identical recipes online, but, unfortunately, these were my only contribution to our annual Thanksgiving dinner.  I will admit to brutally carving the dead turkey like a rabid Cossack while holding a turkey leg in my teeth. During this type of radical surgery my dog is always by my feet, snatching flying pieces of meat and membrane right out of thin air.  

            Here’s the deal – After the turkey has be decimated - torn limb from limb and ravished by carnivores - you take the skeleton, clean off the usable turkey, break up the bones in sections, and put the bones in a huge pot with plenty of water.  As the cook, you’re free to chomp down on tempting leftover flesh, but do so in moderation or you won’t have any soup. 

            Boil that sucker until the remaining meat falls off the bones.  Using those “clamper deals” reach in the boiling water and pull out individual bones and scrape off the remaining meat. Chop up the meat in small pieces.  When all the bones are squeaky clean, put the meat back in the pot and toss the bones in the garbage.  (Never give a dog turkey or chicken bones.)  Check to be sure that there are no bones or pieces of bone in the water.

            Add seasoning “to taste,” as they say.  I add chicken or turkey broth and a few other things, but don’t over-season.  Chop up raw vegetables, like celery, including the leafy part, carrots, mushrooms, and other stuff and toss it all in the pot.  Add a small package of barley then boil the hell out of it for a few hours.  That’s all there is to it.  Behold!  Skeleton soup.

            Now to my mother’s old cranberry orange relish, which goes great with turkey.  You need one of those “food chopper” things, because you have to chop up a lot of stuff.  Start with a package of fresh cranberries.  Chop those suckers in the “food chopper” and dump them in a bowl.  Quarter a couple of oranges, take out the seeds, decimate the oranges in the chopper thing, and dump them in with the berries.  Oh yeah…don’t peel the oranges.  That’s what gives it the “kick.”  Chop up a handful of walnuts and toss ‘em in the bowl too. The next step is sinful, but after thanksgiving a lot of people pray for forgiveness anyway.  Add two cups of sugar then mix it all up real good.

            Don’t cook it. It has to be raw and fresh. Chill this concoction for several hours in the ice box…oops, the refrigerator and it’s ready to go.  You’ll love it.

            I know those two recipes are nothing new.  I also know you can find similar things online, but I just wanted to demonstrate my sincere attempts at reaching deep inside me to “get in touch,” as it were, with the “feminine” in me in order to prove that I’m “well rounded”. . .wrong word.  A Thanksgiving dinner can make an anorexic “well rounded.” How about “well balanced.”  Wait a minute - Aren’t the best chefs men?  Wow. I feel better already.

Gayle's art

      I've received many emails complimenting Gayle's pencil sketch of me, so I've decided to brag a little on my wife's artistic talent. Since my personal talent as an artist never got past the stick-figure level, I'm always impressed by Gayle's talent and ability to capture the "personality" of the subjects in her paintings or sketches, giving them life.

          I'm posting a "mini" art gallery of a few of her creations.  Most are pencil sketches, but some are water colors or gouache, which is an opaque type of water colors. Some of the horses depicted and the two Australian Shepherds were ours.  The first portrait is our Thoroughbred, Tanny, with Gayle jumping, which was her "thing." Gayle is sometimes commissioned for her art work on a variety of subjects.

The end of a Chisholm Trail cattle drive.

                              

                                                                              

                                                                  



                                                                      

                                                                                        

Granddaughter Emily after she rode the pinto depicted above.

Glen Dennee

                                                                                                                             

Merry Christmas from our home to yours

I would like to personally thank all of you who read my posts.  Gayle and I want to wish you all a wonderful Christmas!

Some of you may remember the old comic strip by Stan Lynde called “Rick O’Shay” and Rick’s buddy, the rough gunslinger, “Hipshot.”  The cowboy said very simply, "Happy Birthday, Boss." That was Christmas for old “Hipshot” in his church without walls.  

Enjoy the Christmas season.  It’s a time for family and friends and a peaceful oasis for reflection, for love, and all the good stuff.  Fyodor Dostoevsky said, "Man only likes to count his troubles, but he does not count his joys.”   

Christmas is a perfect time to count our blessings and joys.

Merry Christmas!

Ralph & Gayle Higgins

higgins@digitalpath.net

Turkey, Stuffing, and Cell Phones

 

     Thanksgiving is a great time of the year for spending time with family and friends.  I’ve never understood why turkey is only eaten on holidays, but I guess it’s just tradition.  For example, every Thanksgiving the President pardons a turkey as a gesture of goodwill or something.  In Obama’s case his pardon was a gesture of professional courtesy.

            Gayle and I just returned from staying with my daughter Shannon in the house she and husband Steve just bought with an extra bedroom for us. Being centrally located, we were able to spend a lot of time with our family, the importance of which can’t be overstated.  Many of our trips to civilization are too quick and frantic, trying to see our expanding family and many friends, but this trip was an exception.

            There’s always cultural shock when entering the Bay Area and dealing with the persistent symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder upon returning home.  But what struck me this time was the fact that everyone, especially the younger generation, is on a cell phone.  I mean everyone. Even my own flesh and blood. 

            Our grandkids have thumbs that move faster than a. nervous chipmunk.  Teenagers are known to text each other while sitting across the table from each other.  Face to face communication has been replaced by isolated electronic communication. So far I haven’t seen two kids using their laptops with cameras to see each other on the screen while sitting across from each other, but it will happen.

            I would like to outlaw all cell phones.  We can’t get reception where we live, so that may color my reaction to hyperkinetic thumbs.  It’s a leap from smoke signals in Plumas County to the magic hand-held devices used by yuppies and even baby yuppies. My 2 year old granddaughter joined everyone in the room staring at one of those things while I stared at a football game on TV.  I may become a missionary to spread the word that there is a big world outside of a demonic cell phone, iPad, smart phone, or whatever they are.

            My buddy John Chaffin and I took my grandson, Gabriel, 13, to his first football game where San Jose State, my alma mater, upset Fresno in a big game at Spartan Stadium.  I made a rule that Gabe could not use his cell phone during the game, which must have been like going through detox, but he’s a great kid and was soon yelling with the rest of the crowd. That’s when I decided to go to the mission field and drive out the demons in those hand-held devices.

            Fisher-Price has a new product called the Apptivity Seat, a child's seat for newborns on up to toddlers with an iPad mount.  New research has found that more than half of gadget owners worldwide admit to suffering anxiety when they can’t use their smart phones and being without them was as stressful as a trip to the dentist or even their wedding day.  They call it “technology addiction.” There is treatment now for this addiction with a significant number of people hooked.  My solution is to take the addicts to a football game.

            We’ve now returned to the land of smoke signals and Gayle is whistling along with Christmas music while changing the decorations from fall to Christmas.  She loves that stuff.

            Since Gayle was born on Christmas day it took the first year of our marriage to convince her that all the pretty lights and celebrations weren’t for her birthday. I told her that there were no mangers in Michigan when she was born, camels are in the zoo, and if there were three wise guys hanging around with packages they were most likely Mafioso. She still runs outside Christmas Eve looking for the star.  Now there’s a real challenge for me.

  

My Big Fish Story

     Fishing in the mountain lakes and rivers of Plumas County is a popular form of recreation, but I’ve only been fishing once since we moved here.  I guess I’m all fished out.

            When I was a boy, my father took my brother and me fishing regularly in Monterey.  He had a favorite boat captain named “Sam,” who had a couple of fishing boats and guaranteed a good catch.  He always kept his promise and I remember coming home with gunny sacks full of fish.

            Much later, I would go fishing most weekends with two buddies who owned a fishing boat in Santa Cruz.  It was an old diesel thumper that required ether to start the engine.  Combined with the smell of diesel fuel, I was always on the verge of sea-sickness before we left the harbor. Despite the woozy feeling, I never got sick, no matter how rough the sea.  Never - except once.

            That “once” was during a particularly rough sea on a foggy morning.  When you can’t see the horizon, you become more vulnerable to getting sick and turning green.  I actually saw a guy turn green once.  I don’t know if I was green that day, but I spent a significant amount of time hanging on the boat railing straining to see a horizon line.  I was on the verge of losing it.

            Some of my “good buddies” are very skilled at pranks.  As I was struggling to keep my breakfast down, I got a tap on my shoulder.  The late Glen Dennee, a friend since high school, was a foot from me when I turned around.  He was grinning with a slimy squid hanging and dripping from his mouth.

            I have a fairly well developed diaphragm from playing the trumpet most of my life.  When I spun back toward the ocean and let loose, I swear I sent everything I had eaten since my tenth birthday party straight at Japan.  And I mean “straight.”  The trajectory defied gravity and shot in a straight line as far as the eye could see. I felt a sense of pride at my power. It was like hitting a high C on my trumpet.

            More recently, I did some halibut fishing in Alaska.  Reeling in a large halibut is like pulling a minivan up a hill. But the largest fish I have ever seen was right off the deck of our previous home in Discovery Bay.  Right in my own back yard. 

            We had decking that extended out over the water and you could fish right off our deck.  I was working on the deck railing when I heard a commotion by my dock.  When I looked, I saw two ducks under the boat lift and one seemed to be very agitated.  I thought he was just in love until I suddenly saw a monster fish come out of the water in an arc and take that full-grown duck in one swallow.

            That would require a huge mouth.  I was startled at the length of that fish.  It was six to eight feet long with a head over a foot across.  Hitting Japan with an abdominal purge may have been slightly hyperbolic, but this description is accurate.  The fish I saw was even bigger than the one in the photo below.

            At the time of this incident, I was writing a weekly column for the newspaper and asked my readers if anyone in the delta area had ever seen a fish that size.  I was amazed to get reports of other sightings that confirmed what I saw.  It was a relief to realize I wasn’t delusional. 

            I don't know where the fish in the photo was caught, but you never know what lurks below the surface - even in the delta.  Well that’s my fish story for today.  Some of you may have even better stories.

   

Culture Shock

            I doubt that most people want to read about someone else’s kids or grandkids, so I’ll make this brief.

            Two of our granddaughters spent a few days breathing clean air, seeing stars in a clear Sierra sky, and smelling authentic horse manure here in Greenhorn Ranch.  It took over seven hours for Vanessa and Emily to drive from San Francisco to our home, due to Bay Area traffic, but they agreed that it was worth it.

Emily, Grandma, and Vanessa

            We are part of a real western-style guest ranch, with an atmosphere reminiscent of the Lone Ranger days.  This is quite a contrast to the lifestyle of San Francisco, where both girls live and work.

            This isn’t the first time they’ve been here, so they weren’t shocked by the fall colors and cowboy hats.

 

            Both girls were here when we had horses and they were the size of a horse’s head.  Well, I may be exaggerating, but they were not too small to ride the horses.  We have photos of them when each looked like a little circus monkey on a Clydesdale.

Emily, Grandpa, and Vanessa

            Vanessa ( 26) graduated from the University of Oregon and works as a journalist in San Francisco.  She has traveled to Paris, Puerto Vallarta, and other places for work assignments, but had traveled to other parts of the world prior to here current job.  Both girls are well traveled.  Vanessa described her weekend with us in her blog http://vanessabrunner.com/.  She has some great photos along with a well-written description of life here in the mountains.  Click on it.  It’s very well done. 

            Emily (24) graduated from her sister’s football rival, the University of Arizona, and works as a graphic designer, specializing in logos and product branding.  If you happened to see the pink headphones worn by NFL football players and coaches for cancer awareness last week, you now know who designed them.  This is a famous and expensive brand called, “Beats” by Dr. Dre.  Emily travels to L.A. weekly to work with Dr. Dre on various designs.

Ranch owner and cowboy, Ralph Wilburn, falls in love with Emily while Vanessa cracks up.

            So that was a sample of a great weekend with our “city slicker” granddaughters.  Be sure to check out Vanessa’s blog at http://vanessabrunner.com/.

A Quick Road Trip

     

Crater Lake

     Gayle and I got home last night after almost a week of allowing our dog, Dakota, the opportunity to “mark his territory” from California to Oregon.  He’s very particular on the spots he chooses to honor with his markings and business cards, which I’ve never completely understood.  He has to sniff around to find the exact spot that deserves his consideration.

            So now Crater Lake and the Burney Falls area have been notified of his presence.  Kind of like the marking, “Killroy was here,” if you are old enough to remember WWII.

            I sometimes get so “rummy” driving for hours that the female voice on my GPS begins to sound seductive.  You can pick the voice you want on those things.  Like most married men, I’m accustomed to being given instructions in a female voice, so a woman’s voice seems natural.  I also like one with an accent.  But when she says, “recalculating” it’s too much like Gayle telling me I loaded the dishwasher wrong again. I hear the recalculating thing a lot, because I’m not good at following directions. 

Burney Falls

            Watching for deer and elk is one thing, but watching for morons texting while driving is an even greater hazard.  Some people must be incredibly lonely to find it necessary to “let their fingers do the talking” while careening down the highway at 80 mph.  I don’t get that texting thing anyway.  I’ve been with people having a great conversation while someone sits there texting, reading emails, or whatever else they do with those hand-held demons from hell.  This affliction is most prevalent in young people.  I think it’s rude and somewhat pathetic. They are more interested in reading nonsense on facebook than interacting with human beings.  But getting back to road trips…

            I remember when I was young, it was no big thing to hop in my car and drive straight to Canada without a break.  I can’t count the times I made that trip when I was in my twenties.  I remember one trip when I actually left at 3 am and was stopped by the highway patrol going 120 mph.  At least that’s what he said. 

Crater Lake

            The poor cop was shaking so badly he told me he couldn’t write the ticket.  He said, “Look at my legs.”  They were actually quivering.  Somehow we developed a rapport.   He thought I was a criminal on the run, evidently, and had been trying to catch me for several miles.  He asked me where I was going and when I told him I was going to Canada, he said that if he gave me a ticket I’d probably never return to California, so he let me go with a warning.      

            When Gayle and I got back last night, we were shot.  Today is catching up on things, including emails…oooops.  Come on – even old guys get emails.  But I still don’t know what “texting” is all about and I consider my ignorance in that regard a blessing.

           

On the Road Again

     Remember the old story about Little Red Riding Hood?  Little Red walked through the forest to visit her grandmother.  Gayle and I emerge from the forest to visit our grandkids.  Seems a little backward, but all of our kids work and even a couple of grandkids work, and our mountain retreat is 6 or 7 hours away.  Consequently, it’s too far for a weekend visit for our kids.

            So Gayle and I pack the car and brace our nervous system for our entrance into the frenetic Bay Area.  Classical music and the drive through the Feather River canyon is the lull before the storm.  There’s a lot to do and many folks to visit within a few days.  Prep time.

            We hit the checkered flag and the dog-friendly hotel in Los Gatos in the afternoon, after the NASCAR  race track on Highway 17, where you evidently save fuel by staying in the draft of the BMW ahead of you.

            Gayle went off to her daughter Carrie’s for dinner and I went for Chinese food with my old friend Al Borges.  Al is one of the most gifted musicians I’ve known.  He and I played in clubs up and down northern California, back in the day. 

            Normally, a visit to Los Gatos wouldn’t be complete without visiting my life-long pal Dick Whitaker, but his recent death leaves a sad space in my schedule.

            The next day was taken up by the graduation of our grandson Luke Brunner from Los Gatos High School - the same school Gayle and I graduated from back when land first appeared after Noah’s flood.  He’s the third grandkid to graduate from L.G. High.

            It was a record-breaking turnout on a record-breaking heat wave and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in the sun and listen to speeches. I planned my escape.

            Gayle went to the ceremony and I took Dakota and visited my friend and former coach, Pietro (Pete) Denevi.  Pete is the author of the book, “Pietro,” in addition to being the best athlete to ever attend Los Gatos High. He’s now 86 years old and looks 60.

            At 8:30 we had dinner for Luke and our family of eleven at Palacio Restaurant in Los Gatos.  New comers to Los Gatos don’t know that the restaurant where they enjoy their steak was originally a mortuary. 

            The next morning we visited Frank and Ruth Nelson, old friends and classmates, but left at noon to meet with my two daughters and their families for a barbeque.  We had the “maturity” to sit while our grandkids never stopped moving.  My daughters are great cooks and it was good to let their husbands do all the work.  It’s part of the senior discount program.

            We headed to San Mateo after dinner to meet with Gayle’s son, who was celebrating his 50^th birthday.  We couldn’t find a parking place at the restaurant, so Gayle could only run into the restaurant to greet Greg and the group while I drove around and hid in “no parking” zones until she came out.  Very sad for Gayle and her son, but we had too much packed into one day and got there late.  Greg and Teri came out to the car, I congratulated him, and we drove off.

            We escaped the congestion in San Mateo and headed for Discovery Bay, where several friends awaited our miraculous appearance.  Obviously drained, we spent the evening with our good friends Jay and Carla Cross (no relation to Gayle).  Jay anticipated our arrival and had a gin and tonic ready for me.  He knew I’d need it.

            The next day we had lunch with Dwight and Lynnette Klassen, life-long friends and I met Dwight later that day for a beer. Then came the finale. 

            Four old friends had a fantastic dinner hosted by Jay and Carla, with Gene and Dannette Kreps and two tired mountain people.  This was a stimulating experience with great conversations among the six of us.  Jay is a retired steel company executive, Carla is convention speaker and member of Mensa, Gene is a brain surgeon and is on the Executive Committee of the Republican Party.  His wife, Dannette, is a brainy woman and a nurse and when you toss in my intelligent wife, the conversations were fun and enlightening. 

            Fortunately we were all on the same team in terms of religion and politics, although Gene is a solid Republican and I’m more of a “Conservative/Libertarian” combination.  But there wasn’t a single issue that he and I didn’t agree on, which was interesting.

            The next morning was involved in moving furniture, hanging pictures, and other “decorative” stuff, engineered by Gayle and Carla.  Finally we packed the car and drove the many hours back to Greenhorn Ranch. 

            All of the above is just typical of every trip we make to see our kids and friends. I guess I wonder if we’re nuts.  Is this type of behavior normal for grandparents in today’s world?  Are there too many cars and too many people back in “civilization” or have I lived in the mountains too long?  Today is my first morning back.  I just took my dog Dakota for a hike in the mountains and it felt reeeeeal good.