Psychos on the Road; Quaint Flagstaff

Two anecdotes to get to before I try to move on with the holiday work. The first:

Psychos on the Road

In the very first thing I put up here about this trip, "Cass Explores the American Southwest," was about sitting in the car in the cold after midnight while Corrie checked into the hotel. But what wasn't discussed was the weirdness that happened when I took over driving.

It was just after 9 pm and Corrie had driven for a few hours, from the Farm after dinner and darkness falling to Santa Rosa, New Mexico. She pulled into a gas station and went to the john as I pumped gas. 

As I stood there in the chilly breeze, a large camper towing an old Korean hatchback pulled across eight open parking spots right in front of the stations doors, and parked. Zero fucks to give, it seemed.

The driver jumped out and he was a caricature. He had a cowboy hat on, a scuzzy mustache, chewing a toothpick, and some kind of jacket over a dirty wife-beater. He stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, and when Corrie returned from the bathroom, he stared at her for an equally uncomfortable amount of time.

I finished up with the gas and had to use the can as well, as did this guy, and his companion who had been riding in the hatchback. I hadn't seen the other dude before, and it was Corrie who told me about him getting out of the hatchback.

I was using one of the urinals when the weirdo cowboy guy and another dude came into the bathroom. Try and imagine a useless goon from any animated cartoon show. That's this guy. Big, doofus-looking, duh-face, an air of both menace and indifferent violence about this new guy, so much so that I wasn't shocked when Corrie said they were together: the pair had a storybook look and feel about them.

Anyway, the weird cowboy stared at me the entire time we shared the urinal wall, but seemed to ignore me as I ordered coffee. On my way back to the car, he said this to me:

"So, that's what California girls look like?" as he nodded towards our station wagon, plainly referencing both my blond wife and our California plates.

Another good reason not to be armed, am I right? Maybe the opposite of that? I dunno, but what I do know was the flood of images that barreled into my head at that moment, the vast majority of which have no place here. I simply smiled and tried to appeal to both his inner chauvinism and cowboy status:

"Well...mine does. But she's from Texas, so there you go..."

Quaint Flagstaff

On the last day, after leaving Grants and driving for a while, we made it to Flagstaff, Arizona, a quaint mountain and college town.

My own memories of Flagstaff were basically unpleasant, but from the POV of an eleven year old who'd just picked up lice in Tennessee or Arkansas, our shitty little motel room at the end of a long trip was just that: shitty, dingy, and beset by vermin of both the insect and train whistle varieties.

This time, as a place to grab a bite and a beer (since the bite was grabbed at a brewery) and to run the boy around for a while before strapping him into the car again for a few hours, it turns out we got a much more pleasant experience of the town.

The streets are narrow and cute, the vistas are likely incredible in the snow, and with Route 66 running through the center of town like the aorta, there's a steady stream of tourist attention and dollars.

Typical Flagstaff corner, not on Rt 66

I made a realization about this locale during this trip: There are two Arizona's. One is Sonoran Arizona, teeming with life despite the lack of rain and blistering summer heat, red boulders and saguaros and ocotillo that looks like a snapshot of an undersea plant waving in the current. Phoenix is the capital and Tuscon is the Chicago.

The other is the pine forest and ski town Arizona, and Flagstaff is the heart of it.

Flagstaff is worth the visit.

Birthright Reflections

Magic Time at the Farm, Part Four:

Birthright Reflections

In my family there exists a cabin in the mountains. The Cabin, we call it. My mother visited it during her childhood, spending time with her grandparents, cousins, and other close relatives. When she was older, she brought her own kids there, sharing the Cabin with us, where my brother and I would spend time with our grandmother and our cousins.

And now, this past summer, we got to share the Cabin with our own son, making him the fifth generation of our people to visit. It was Cassius's first visit.

In Corrie's family there exists a farm in the plains. The Farm, we call it. Her father spent many a year there as a child and young adult, spending time with his grandparents, siblings and cousins. When he was older, he brought his own kids there, sharing the Farm with Corrie, where she and her siblings would spend time with her grandparents and cousins.

And now, this past fall, we got to share the Farm with our own son, making him another addition to the fifth generation of our people to visit. It was Cassius's first visit.

Dusk over the Texan Plains

In a random bit of symmetry:

1. My first trip to the Farm was in 2004; 
2. Corrie's first trip to the Cabin was in 2004;
3. Cass's first trip to the Farm was my third trip;
4. Cass's first trip to the Cabin was Corrie's third trip.

Cass playing with cousin Colton

 There's something very "white person problem" about a boy like our Boy having claims on two separate familial homesteads. The Cabin lives on the edge of the National Forest way up in the north and eastern corner of California. The wilderness right around the spot, and the mountain and volcano hikes can't be beat, and for the solitude and smells and sounds of it all, it's incredible.

But the Farm has open spaces, and land, and a recognized edge and border that across which nothing can bother. It has various dwellings, tractors to ride, weapons to shoot, and a proud history that is special to be a part of.

Both the Cabin and the Farm have things that each other doesn't have, and both are deeply special and inviting and more important to the respective families than any pricetag.

And Cass is the connective tissue with claims to both.

Uncle Robbie and Cass

Farm Visit Epilogue: Happy Ending 

Remember back when we arrived and a random mama-dog and her puppy greeted us with barks and near aggression? Eventually the mutts warmed up to us all, and the puppy took quite a shine to Cass:

When the day arrived for Corrie's brother Peter and his wife Sherri to leave, they decided to take both dogs home with them. They have an older dog and a backyard, and it sounded like the initial wrinkles ma have been worked out between the newest family members.

People's best guess was that one of the neighbors had a runt they didn't want, and once it ended up pregnant, they drove it to another spot on the collection of sections and tossed her out of the car. She'd been living under the farmhouse for a time. 

Now they have a new home. And isn't that special.

Coyotes in the Distance

Magic Time at the Farm, Part Three:

Coyotes in the Distance

Wednesday night on the Farm and Corrie and I were busy doing prep work for dinner the next day.

Thanksgiving Day: I roasted a turkey and Peter deep-fried a turkey. We made a nice-sized dinner for the guests, the second time this year we made a dinner for more than a dozen folks. 

After all said and done, Corrie and I retried to the darkness of the outside, in the shadow of the shop. Like most farms, there is a towering farm-light near the center of the building complex that stays on all night, and behind the shop is dark enough to check out the generous starlight, the Milky Way splashed over the night sky.

It was back there, the two of us sitting on some lawn chairs, basking in the darkness, that we started hearing it.

Close enough to make out the different yelps, a pack of coyotes, happy and content just as we were, started howling into the night air.

They howled, they yelped, the night was filled with the sounds of celebration. Near the end the strangest thing happened, and I could see why all aboriginal American groups that lived near coyotes felt they were magic.

The yelping and howling slowly morphed into what can only be described as laughter. A family pack unit of coyotes turned into a group of laughing humans right before out very ears.

The next day, after a fine time shooting a 9mm with Rob, Cass and I were returning from the shop and the coyotes started up again, this time with the sun still out. I screeched to a halt and picked up the Boy, "Listen!" I pointed in the direction of the howls and yips, and laughter.

He quizzically peered into the middle distance. 

Not that he'll remember, but I will...

City Boy and His Son Drive a Tractor

Magic Time at the Farm, Part Two:

City Boy and His Son Drive a Tractor

For a boy growing up in the urban environment of Long Beach, California, Cass has an unmistakable affection for tractors, buses, and trains. But tractors especially.

And seeing how the Dolmans recently purchased a tractor for the Farm, we knew Cass would love the experience of being close to, and possibly even riding, a tractor.

"Enjoy" barely begins to describe it. He freaking went ballistic.

And then they had me drive it.

With Cass in my lap.

At first the rumblings were hypnotic as I performed some grass-cutting duties. Cass, in my lap, was having a good time, laughing and carrying on.

I came back in, and mentioned that I could keep going, if they didn't mind.

Ron laughed and sent me back out.

For what could have been an hour, I drove the tractor in looping circles around the property, concentrically mowing a swath of grasslands. Cass, a city boy's boy and one himself, fell asleep on my lap, safely buckled up.

Take a six pack and a doob and you've got a helluva zen afternoon.

The Horror! Sluggish Hornets Invade!

Magic Time at the Farm, Part One:

The Horror! Sluggish Hornets Invade!

They hibernate in the wood. Wood hornets, they should be called. Maybe they are, at least by me. They look like this:

When we arrived at the farmhouse and kicked on the heaters the masses were awoken. And the invasion, however slow, had begun.

The drive to Clarendon from Amarillo was breezy and quick, and by breezy I mean the wind sweeping across HWY 278 treated our station wagon like a sail. Upon arrival, we were greeted by two dogs.

Whose dogs were these? It was a mother and puppy, waking from a spot on the concrete walkway and barking angrily at us.

Shooing them away wasn't too hard, but it was a little nerve wracking, especially since we wanted to let Cassius run around. Dog-centered violence wasn't on the menu for this trip.

Inside, after getting the electricity and heat back up and running, found me in the kitchen getting dinner ready. Until---

---On the wall! Oh shit! Crawling slowly now on the ceiling was a great big red hornet. I freaked out a bit, expecting it to start flying at any minute. I made sure to keep Corrie and the Boy out of the kitchen for the time being, and made a makeshift hornet killing device: a water spray bottle and a rolled up newspaper.

They had wasp spray, but it was of the canister variety, the kind that rockets out a foam spray up to twenty feet on a line. No way I'm using that stuff in a kitchen.

Surprisingly this hornet didn't seem interested in flying (later I learned "interested" would be replaced with "able to"), and I blasted it with water and beat it to death.

Then we ate dinner and tried to figure out bath-time as the Dolmans slowly began to arrive.

The next morning we were awoken to an odd scratching on the window pane next to the bed. Pulling back the blinds yielded---

---Oh shit! Two hornets! Later on Cass was on the floor and, like usual, he was banging something hard on the floor. After calming down from the window pane hornets, we had a chuckle and told Cass to chill out. I hopped down to scoop him up and bring him into bed before we went out to make French Toast. Right next to Cass's banging device---his water bottle---WAS A HORNET!

Was he trying to smash a crawling floor hornet? Is he, like his mother, allergic to hornets? Less than twelve hours at the Farm and poppa's freaking to eff out...

People started making fun of me for my freaking out, "Aww, is that another hornet for ya?" followed by laughter as I cursed and stormed off to find another flyswatter---I destroyed four separate old-school swatters in that first twenty-four hours.

"Your daughter is the one who's allergic!" I would shout as I went searching...sometimes daughter was replaced with sister, but still.

Each day there were more and more hornets. Walls, window sills, the back of the couch, the bathroom. I was living through a horror film.

I was getting through to someone at least, as my niece came and found me on one of the last days at the Farm: "Uncle Pat, can you come and kill this hornet?"

The weird thing was, they were all pretty sluggish and tired. Having just come out of hibernation, the hornets weren't really able to fly or be aggressive. It was just warm enough for them to wake, but still cold enough to hinder normal activities. That made them easy to dispatch.

Corrie was saying that this was one of the main issues facing the Bunkhouse, one of the dwellings on the Farm property that is used for sleeping during the large family reunions: the hornets had made it a nesting spot and needed to be dealt with each summer. It looks like it could end up being the ultimate downfall of the Bunkhouse.

And now this issue may be plaguing the farmhouse itself.

The farmhouse is actually two or three separate buildings, brought from different places and bolted together over the years, and it now may need to be razed.

Well, it's needed to be razed for some time now, but that won't happen for at least another decade.

Near the end of the trip it all had become passe, and I think that's the real ending of the "invading horde" horror film: you just deal and go about your business.

Lagging Hiatus

Things got busy and I lagged. I wanted to get the posts about our Thanksgiving trip all finished up, but sometimes "wants" turn into just that, wants.

Anyway, in the interim, I walked through Little Tokyo in downtown LA and saw LA's finest Shinto Shrine:

That was just over the "famous" 1st St Bridge, connecting one side of the LA River to the main DTLA area. This route is seen in many movies and photo-shoots, mainly due to the iconic shape of the bridge and the skyline beyond, only I was on the wrong side to highlight the arches of the bridge, and only got a picture of the skyline itself:

We got a tree and had the help of our snazzy toddler to decorate:

How you doin'?

Cassius's daycare had a visit from Santa, and we went to that. The Boy was one of the few kiddos that didn't freak the eff out when placed in Santa's lap. He did, though, have the "I'm over this" look he wore during the Thanksgiving Trip when being passed from family member to family member:

In his pajamas due to the late hour of Santa's visit.

Corrie and Cass later went to visit Grandma Kate in Orlando for grandma's office party voyage. They visited the parks, and Cass had his first Disney-place trip:

I even had time to go for a walk and find a nice street mural that I had only seen from the freeway:

We went to a Holiday Party at a friend's place and the host humored the Boy by letting him try on his motorcycle helmet:

Later on that night, Corrie had both Cassius and his little buddy, Ari, in her lap for story time:

Those boys are growing up homies, which is pretty cool.

Now that our extended Winter Break is upon, I should be able to finish these posts up, just in time for newer stuff to get back-burnered...

Petrified Forest; WTF Fliers in NM

The plan was to drive to the Petrified Forest, get out and do some hikes with the Boy on his own feet---just to tucker him out---and then get back into the car and keep going. If we could make it past Albuquerque, we'd be in good shape for a short drive into Amarillo and on to the Farm.

We found a couple of short hikes on the maps, and headed out from Scottsdale. Corrie drove a diagonal north-by-east through what started out as rocky mountains but what slowly turned into pine forest. It was beautiful and serene, and reminded us of our own little slice of mountain town heaven way up north in California.

216 million years prior, the area had an earlier type of pine tree, one that lived on the shores of creeks and rivers frequented by many kinds of reptilian fauna. Early dinosaurs were fluttering around the feet of the more established critters, so it was a ways back, before dinosaurs came to power.

Sometimes these pine trees would fall, and occasionally they would make it into the river. There the branches and bark would get washed away. Soon the silt would build up and completely submerge the great tree trunks. Over the course of a few million years, minerals would slowly seep into the logs, replacing each cell of the tree with minerals. The mineralization process is slow, obviously, but in the end, the result is spectacular.

Eventually the creeks go dry. Millions more years go by. Erosion begins to beat the sand and silt away, and soon enough these great trunks get exposed. The silt upon which they sit is uneven, and because of the weight of these mineral deposits, the trunks crack on pretty clean lines. Quartz and silica do that---wood doesn't.

They look so cool, feel so cool, and are heavier than I ever imagined. Holy cow, they're heavy.

We started on the first tiny hike---where we took those pictures---and had Cassius walking around. Eventually he was far more enamored with the steps that had been sculpted out of concrete and left for tourists than with anything else, and soon had to call it a day.

We were also starting to lose the sun:

I drove out of the park, and a few hours later we stopped for dinner. I took the following picture of our little potato man: fries in his mouth, two in his left hand, and he's searching for more:

Corrie took over driving after here, and we sailed into Santa Rosa before hitting the sack. At breakfast the next day, before going to a park to run the Boy around a little before a short (two hour) drive into Texas, I stopped by one of those displays that has all the fliers for the cool touristy shit that's offered within a hundred miles of whichever place it is. A font very similar to one from my childhood called to me with words that seemed in juxtaposition:

This whole thing is too weird and probably should get its own...yeah, you know what? Meow Wolf will get its own post later. Santa Fe...weird shit is going on in Santa Fe...

Day Zero; Scottsdale; Great Grandparents

The driving post summed up the end of the driving pretty well, but the beginning was pretty chill, if a stuffed freeway all travelling 80 miles an hour can be chill. After a long week, or, rather, a long few weeks of little sleep and research paper writing, I was running on fumes for the last hour into Blythe. My eyelids were fighting me.

Cass had been asleep for the majority of the drive when we switched, but he was quiet and smiley when I took my spot next to him in the back seat. I might've said something silly, but immediately after put my head onto one of our pillows against the window and was done. When I came to, and what felt like just a few minutes had passed, I could see that we had already left I-10 for Phoenix's outer loop, AZ 101, and were on our way for the hotel, the one my mom puts people up n when they visit and arrive too late for normal people. It was nearly 3 am local time, our trip taking from 8 to 2, Friday night into Saturday morning (Arizona is an hour ahead of California this time of year).

Saturday we got to see my Grandma Lorraine and her new elder care facility. She's close enough to walk to a bookstore! She had books for Cassius! She seemed to be getting along okay, and was sure excited to see Cass. He's so much bigger than the last time we were out and she got to see him, which I believe that was last October for Grandpa Tom's memorial.

Anyway, she paid us one of the best compliments we ever heard: she said our boy has "such good manners." What toddler has good manners? Way to impress you 90+ year old Great Grandma, Boy!

The next day we hung out with my mom and went to the Train Park. Cass got to run around and play, which was necessary for the next day's needs: in the car for long stretches:

The picture above is from a miniature southwest style prison and sundries market, which was kinda cool.

Below, grandma loved "riding" the merry-go-round with the Boy:

And eventually I couldn't help myself with an artsy shot of Corrie and Cassius at their facsimile of a grand station house:

Maybe that's not what it was, but I never found out its true purpose, so that's what it was in my memory.

The next day we left for the Petrified Forrest, a national park, and Corrie drove through a part of Arizona I easily forget since I'm usually driving from LA to Phoenix.

Thanksgiving Trip: Some Driving Numbers and Thoughts

After returning home, and trying to settle down before going back to work, I started to crunch some driving numbers, with the help of Google Maps. The numbers of hours are a little off, since we drive a little faster than their algorithm alots, but the mileage seemed decent enough.

Last week I typed up here about the email I got from a boss about resting nicely, and I'd been wanting to respond to that email for days before getting back to work and seeing the other recipients. I never did, but one thought running through my head was like: I hope you all had a relaxing time that didn't involve strapping a toddler into a car-seat for forty hours.

That forty hours always seemed like a guesstimate, like twenty there and twenty back. We made the drive to Austin for Grandma June in something like 20 hours, but it turned out to be more like 22 because we gave up the hours. Austin is further than the Harrison Farm in Clarendon, but it's more of a straight shot across I-10, and then up. Amarillo and the Farm is on/off I-40, further north.

Anyway, I started the drive in Long Beach and went all the way to Blythe when Corrie took over; she finished the first night's drive at the hotel in Scottsdale. The next leg was her driving from Scottsdale to the Petrified Forrest in northern Arizona. I left from there and drove the leg to dinner that night in Grants, NM. She finished off that long travel day heading into Santa Rosa, NM, east of Albuquerque. The next morning I took the last quick leg from Santa Rosa into Amarillo for lunch, and Corrie drove us that last hour out to the Farm.

On the way home Corrie drove out of Clarendon all the way to Santa Rosa, and I took over from there and went the next 200 miles to Grants, where I sat in the car and read an email as she ran and got the key. The next day I drove the first leg, Grants to Flagstaff, Corrie drove from Flagstaff to Needles, in California, and I drove the rest of the way home, Needles into Barstow and down into the Southland.

My only Texas drive was that first hour from NM to Amarillo, and Corrie's only California drive was Blythe to the AZ border, and later the AZ border to Needles, a combined 20 miles. Weird when we put it together like that.

So, crunching the numbers got a little unwieldy. Observe:

According to Google Maps, the trek there was 1130 miles and the trek home was 1140 miles, give or take on both, and the time was around 35 hours. Corrie drove more getting there and I drove more getting back. I drove LA both times. It was neat to drive I-40; here is a reasonable two-lane freeway without much traffic. Cruise control works well, and with a 75 mph speed limit, the cruising is genuine.

When I took over in Needles, it was dark already but early, and a little later when I-40 ends in Barstow and you merge onto I-15, I realized that we'd just made it back to "LA."

Barstow is 55 miles north of San Bernardino, which itself is 70 miles away from us in Long Beach, but whereas I-40 is the direct opposite of nearly every drive I've ever made up or down I-5, switching over to the 15 was essentially being in LA again.

Freeway Inventory: Coming home I tried to take roads I don't know very well...like the 15 to the 60 or the 91 and over to the 710 I know quite well; I know what that drive is. Sometimes shitty, sometimes cool, and this was a Saturday night. Instead I left the 15 early for the 210 west into Claremont and Laverne, heading along the base of the mountains towards Pasadena. From there I took the 605 south, all the way into Long Beach, on the east side of town, and surface streets home.

I-605 is a funny highway. Not quite as fugly as our own "home" freeway, the 710, it lacks something nearly every freeway has around these parts: a destination marking that is the de facto name of the freeway.

Consider:

• I-710: Long Beach Freeway
• I-405: San Diego Freeway
• I-10: (in LA area) the Santa Monica Freeway
• I-5: Golden State Freeway
• CA 91: Artesia Freeway
• CA 22: Garden Grove Freeway
• I-210/CA 210: Foothill Freeway
• I-110: Harbor Freeway
• CA 90: Marina Freeway
• CA 57: Costa Mesa Freeway

Generally the names are the remnants of the old scheme that was done away with in the sixties for the current numbering scheme, and the names generally had to do with final destinations. I've noticed that neither the 105 nor the 605 have any kind of destination naming scheme entry, and for the entirety of southbound 605, every sign just said "THRU SOUTH".

Tangents aside, the Boy did quite well in the car for nearly an entire work week, only really freaking out the last hour or two, as I sped home. The last jaunt on 605 I had no more fucks to give, beyond making sure my wife and baby were going to remain living, and maneuvered through traffic (dense at 8:30 on a Saturday night) like Norm and I were headed to downtown Sac in my Datsun.