Words from The Crone

Damn spam. I wonder what software engineer sat up nights dreaming up ways to be sure the right spam messages got through to the target market. Well, whoever he is, he failed miserably at hitting the mark. And, I know this for certain because just this afternoon I got a “spam it” for a testosterone booster! Not to mention all the times I have gotten those emails for enlarging body parts that I do not have, nor never did have, nor ever plan to have. And, I won’t even go into the ones that want to enhance my sex life doing ridiculous things my mother would have locked me in the closet for even thinking about.

In reality some of my spam might actually be something I might find of interest, in a vague sort of way. For example, today there was also something on auto insurance and investing in a RothIRA as well as a pitch for satellite tv. Lately, I’ve been getting a spam thing called “DealChicken” which offers coupons for a variety of things. Today it was $99 for three laser hair removal sessions. Geez, too bad I’ve just about lost all of my hair, or at least the kind of hair one would have removed voluntarily. I think that comes under category one above.

The ones however that really get my goat are the ones insinuating that I am old, over the hill, or on my way to heaven (or maybe hell). Today my spam in this category was for burial insurance. Last week there was one for an anti-wrinkle cream. Another time there was one for a procedure to lift my boobs. Honey, my boobs are so far south now that it would take a Mack truck with a big crane to keep them up, not some simple procedure.

I think I’ll stay up nights dreaming up ways to be sure people get spam that is age appropriate, spiritually uplifting (and I’m not talking about boobs), and makes one feel good about themselves and the cards life has dealt them. I’d be sure those “Spam its” were re-routed to my “Inbox” and not in that spam folder with the “Delete Forever” button. We hardly need a bunch of morons reminding us that life is short, we’re not perfect, and if we use their idiotic product we’ll be so much better off. Please! Go away. Ah, but there is good news. I have a “Spam” folder and a “Delete” button.

In the past couple of weeks three people in my life, some close, some not so close, are anticipating their own death by a fatal disease. Of course, we all know that our own death is inevitable, but not knowing exactly “when” that may be why we rarely dwell on what that would mean. I am trying to imagine what these people who are anticipating death in the very near future might be feeling. I am trying to imagine what I would be feeling and thinking in that eventuality. It is confusing, uncertain, and very scary. In fact, just the thought of it give me goose bumps. Yet, there is also a strange sense of comfort.

I remember Ginny some twenty years ago who was sent home with a body riddled with cancer to await her death. It was nine months before she died, but in that time she held court with all her friends and acquaintances to say good-bye. I was one of those friends and for over an hour we reminisced, hugged, and said our final farewell. Ginny was so dignified and a real role model for me when my time comes.

One of those folks I know went out and bought a pair of sneakers in order to have some time to wear them. This same person said that one of the blessings of a cancer death is that you have time to do some things you wouldn’t be able to do with a sudden death. The Psalmist prays to God to save us from a sudden death, presumably because there will be no time to put our house in order or say good-bye. A sudden death was also seen as a punishment and the psalmist often petitioned God to curse enemies with such a death. So many people say they want to die quickly, to go instantly from whatever strikes them. I used to think that way too, but no more. It is harder on our family and robs us from bringing a kind of sweet closure to our final days here on earth.

Another one of the people who will surely be dying soon is in denial; refusing to accept that the body will soon give out. That is such a sad place to be for this person will never say good-bye, never reconcile with those they have alienated, never ask forgiveness for hurting others, and never share final memories, tears, and love with those close to them. None of us wants to suffer in pain as we die and that is perhaps why some go into denial. They simply don’t want to face the painful experience. I wouldn’t want that either, but today’s palliative care is such a godsend that one rarely dies in horrible pain. Dying is so much easier these days.

I guess, as I think about the anticipated death, I pray that I will have a reasonable amount of time to do a few things I’d like to do with my girls, my soulmate, my family and friends. I’d like to say good-bye, share our good memories, forgive our bad memories, hug, kiss, laugh together, and finally draw my last breath with a smile on my face and a clear conscience. Please, God give me that.

The miracles of our road trip have been rumbling around in my head all week. So, I’m dumping them out on my blog so I can make room in my brain for other things to cogitate upon. These aren’t angels talking to me miracles or people being healed of cancer miracles. I guess you might call them minor miracles, but to me they are miraculous at various levels.

For starters, let’s begin with the mundane. Whenever we needed to do laundry, there was a laundry facility where we stayed. Granted, K was not too happy to drag a wagon full of dirty clothes down three hallways and up the elevator to the 2nd floor, but the facility was there. Another lower-ranked miracle was having breakfast provided by all but four of the hotels we visited. That doesn’t seem like a big deal, but it was a savings of some $25/day. And, miracle of miracles among the mundane was the fact that three people shared a bathroom in harmony for 40 days. Other miracles include only two incidents of serious disagreement, only one flat tire, one burned out headlamp, and one toothbrush charger that died. Oh, and getting that flat tire changed by AAA on Labor Day in 30 minutes. Pretty miraculous.

On a trip that spanned 40 days one would have expected Murphy to pop up more often with a bagful of things that would go wrong. We traveled 8,656 miles, visited 21 states, over a dozen National parks, stayed at 22 different hotels/homes, ate over 100 restaurant meals, packed and unpacked the van 23 times, drove around 2,000 hairpin curves (okay, maybe only 1000) on mountain roads, ballooned to 1,000 feet high, slept on 22 different beds, and spent 170-plus hours in the van on the road! All of this is miraculous in and of itself.

A really big miracle is that we departed as planned, arrived at every destination as planned, made every deadline, and arrived home as planned. No flat tire, two trips to the emergency room, bad weather, accidents, or incidents got in our way! But, for me the miracle of miracles is that a van that started out with 198,806 miles never broke down once in 40 days! Our “Minnie” just hummed along and with almost 208,000 miles on her frame she is still going strong! God bless her. Maybe I’ll rename her “Miracle.”

As many of my readers surmise, I am a wonderer. I wonder about this and I wonder about that. Today I am wondering about the value of telling the truth. I was raised to tell the truth and not to tell a lie. You were too, weren’t you? Sure. We all were told that lying was not a good thing to practice. But, then as we grew up those occasions arose where a lie was really a necessity. We call them “little white lies.” I even remember reading a book in seminary titled “Lying,” in which it described the art of lying and solidified the belief that white lies were okay. We all do it from time to time to keep from hurting people’s feelings or, as the book pointed out, to prevent a disastrous outcome. The example I always remembered was about a woman in a car accident whose two children had been killed. In order to keep her stable and recovering doctors told her that her children were “being taken care of.” A partial truth, but not the whole truth.

But, what about those truths we don’t speak and maybe should. In biblical times truth-tellers were called prophets and often were run out of town. In the case of Jesus his town folk tried to run him over a cliff for telling the truth. In many situations it is difficult to tell the truth without upsetting someone. And, in some cases telling the truth hurts someone’s feelings or worse yet, embarrasses them. If you want to see someone embarrassed tell them they have bad breath. Truth, yes, necessary, maybe if you happen to live with that person, but maybe not if you rarely see them. Telling the truth takes a modicum of situational judgment.

What bothers me about telling the truth is that sometimes when I do tell the truth some people look at me as if I had two heads. Sometimes I think it is because they don’t want to hear it or are in denial. Or maybe they were totally unaware of the truth and are sincerely surprised to hear it. Other times I believe that they know the truth but want to hide it to cover up some advantage they have if the truth isn’t told. Those are the worse folks because most often they are lying to take advantage of the already disadvantaged or trying to cover up a crime.

What also bothers me about truth-telling are those times when I should speak up and say the truth but don’t. An example would be when I see a parent abusing a child in a public place such as a supermarket, department store, or even in a parking lot. We’ve all seen it at one time or another when a parent yanks a child around, yells at them, or even hits them. I really want to go up and ask that parent if they are having a bad day and gently let them know that it isn’t right to take it out on his or her child. But, like many, I don’t. Worse yet, I don’t know why I don’t because I always feel guilty about it. Maybe in this violent society I’m afraid they might punch me in the face, or pull a gun out and shoot me. Something keeps me from speaking the truth.

Yes, truth telling is not as black and white as it would seem. There is a lot of gray in between and it takes a lot of discernment to know when to tell the truth and when to lie, or even when to be silent. I do hope however, that in the name of mercy and justice, we all learn to speak up and speak the truth for the betterment of our human society. There are issues of racism, discrimination, unfair practices, and bad governance when it becomes necessary to stand up and tell the truth. God help us if we don’t.

On the one hand, I have always found that leaving home for vacation has been filled with sweet anticipation of the coming pleasures of being away from the routine of our everyday life. The planning and waiting may have taken months or moments, but for me at least, it was fun and exciting and I was eager to leave. As I look back I realize that not once did I ever leave my home for vacation wishing I was staying home. In fact, I was eager to go.

Leaving did take a certain amount of preparation however, like holding the mail, turning off the water, unplugging electronics and appliances, stopping the daily newspaper, taking my plants to a neighbor’s house to be watered, and making sure everything was locked and secure at the moment of departure. I will say that taking our beloved dog, Prince, to the pet sitter for our vacation did always tug a bit on my heart, until that first place where I was so happy we didn’t have him with us. And, of course, I like to change the sheets on my bed so I can come home to the freshness of clean sheets. But, I have never regretted leaving for some fun somewhere else.

On the other hand, I have always found that coming home from vacation has also been filled with sweet anticipation but, of a different sort. It is the sweetness of remembering how welcoming and warm my home is and how much I miss the comfort of my own bed and my own bathroom. I miss knowing where everything is and where I can find what I need. Arriving home to a fresh bed and the sound of my own alarm clock is somehow comforting. There is a wonderful sense of peace and calm as I walk through the door of the place where I live and love and share my life with my family. There is that sweet anticipation of having a home cooked meal again, of entertaining friends, and of just basking in the familiarity of home. We call our home “The Nest” and we do indeed nest there and make everything comfortable, warm, and we hope welcoming to all who enter. Coming home is like getting a much needed hug at just the right time.

And so, as we end our almost six-week great American road trip (GART), I can’t wait to get home. To be in that familiar, secure place where I can be myself and veg out. Where I don’t have to pack and unpack anything, eat in a restaurant, and where I can hug my dog every day. Being away from home brings the unfamiliar, the attention to being among strangers, of adapting to customs and cultures that are not my usual ways. Being away means there are different considerations for others, more frequent demands to get up, move on, or be somewhere on a schedule at inconvenient times or in strange places. Being way means adapting. And while I absolutely loved our trip and the sights and friends we visited, I am happy to be coming home. For now, I am content to be home with our vacation memories, photos, videos, and souvenirs. Until…next time a vacation far away from home beckons.
Life is like that, isn’t it?

Our entire family spent months and months planning our Great American Road Trip (GART). One would have thought that between the three of us we would have thought of everything. I guess you could say that we did think of all the big thing like hotel reservations, special tours and event tickets, and asking my brother if it was okay to camp out at his place for nearly a week, or spend three days with my cousin. We thought a lot about the cost of this 40-day sojourn and budgeted so much for gasoline for the van, so much for lodging, and so much for food. So far, we’ve been a bit under budget. All of this is good.

In many other respects we over-thought things. Like I over-thought the clothes I would need and with only about a week to go, I have six outfits I’ve never worn, and two outfits I’ve worn once. K over-thought her electronic needs and as a result we shipped home 25 lbs. of excess equipment in California, My admonition that we all could bring one bag and one computer was violated before we even packed the car to begin our journey. In total we have over 15 bags of one variety or another.

We also thought it would be a great idea to picnic our lunches on the road, but we over-thought our needs, packed a bunch, and didn’t dream that it would mean lugging a 28-quart cooler, a sweater box with paper goods, and a large grocery bag of non-perishable foods to the not-close-to-the-road picnic tables. And, we didn’t plan of there not being picnic tables out in the desert or up in the mountains. Ah, well.

I’ve learned too that we hadn’t thought of everything. Batteries, for example. Who knew that my little point and shoot camera would go through two AA batteries a day! We finally switched to the lithium batteries and they are good for three days. Of course, I’ve also learned that I have “shooter’s finger.” I take on average about 300 pictures a day and then every night I dump 275 of them. Being an amateur I’ve been told to take a lot of shots and you’ll get one or two good ones. True, very true. But, cameras are not the only thing that needs batteries. Both of my computer mice have needed new batteries. The battery charger for my toothbrush battery died. The camcorder has a battery. The three other cameras have batteries too. We also found that the remote control in one hotel room needed batteries. And, we couldn’t forget that we had to charge our smartphone batteries each night. I don’t think I’ll total up the cost of batteries on this trip – I might faint.

I’ve also learned that three diverse people can survive 24/7 in a mini-van and one hotel room sharing a bathroom. After a few attempts things fall into a rhythm and the morning and evening dances work in unexpected ways, but work nonetheless. Yes, we’ve had our moments, but overall they were truly only moments. I’ve also learned that in spite of taking too much of most everything, a van can be packed like a can of sardines and over time that too is like putting a jigsaw puzzle together that gets easier with practice. However, having our separate rooms while visiting family was a very welcome luxury.

I’ve learned that after almost six weeks on the road, packing, unpacking, seeing the sights, driving for hours on end, eating, sleeping, sharing, laughing, praying, taking photos, sharing our experiences, it will be a very good thing to be home. There truly is no place like home.

There are experiences that words cannot describe like an experience of God or the first moment you hold your newborn baby. There are experiences that photographs cannot capture such as the vastness of a million stars on a moonless night or standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon at sunset. The Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta is that kind of experience. You might imagine what it feels like to literally be in the middle of over 500 hot air balloons as they are all launched within two hours, but words and photos cannot describe the experience. It is called a mass ascension and it is indescribable. It is magical, mystical, surreal, and downright awesome with a capital “A.” Within an hour and a half I took 535 digital photographs, threw out most of them, and never did fully capture the experience.

As with many exquisite experiences, this one did not come without a certain amount of inconvenience and hardship. For starters, we had to get up at 4:00am in order to leave for the park at 5am. Okay, we can do that. What we didn’t imagine was that a 4 mile drive would take over an hour. The traffic was unreal. What we also didn’t imagine was that the handicap parking would be full and we would be forced to park a half mile from the park entrance. I had my scooter so it was not much of a problem for me, although the parking lot was hard, rocky, packed dirt and my scoot and I bounced and banged around a bit. But, R (even with the walker) and K with a badly sprained great toe found the distance and uphill walking arduous. Another issue was the lack of strategically placed port-a-potty’s and of course their lack of cleanliness. Old women who have delivered babies need such facilities.

On the other hand, the weather was perfect and we found a great viewing spot right in the middle of all the activity. This is one of the few events where people can gather around the balloons and their pilots, have a conversation, help out a bit, touch the side of the balloon, take your picture next to it, and clear the way as it inflates, or more importantly, deflates. The balloon gondolas are spaced about 40 feet apart on an over 300 acre field with over 500,000 folks roaming around, sitting in lawn chairs, sprawled out on blankets, chasing kids around, or taking photographs.

And that was the early morning experience. After breakfast, a nap, a trip to Old Town for gifts, we ventured back to the park for the evening experiences. We decided to try for the south handicap parking. “Thank you Jesus,” it was a lot closer, but there was still a steep hill to navigate. Having already paid our $10 parking fee, we stayed and set off to the park. In the evening a fair number of the balloons gather all over the field, tethered down, inflate and blast very bright bursts of light from their burners into the inflated balloons. It is called the “Glow.” It was as magical and mystical as the morning ascension, but a completely different experience. As the crowd would count down, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6….at 1 all of the balloons would light up simultaneously. Unbelievable. In the intervals between countdowns, various balloons would light up like a swarm of lightning bugs. No one person could take in the entire experience at once. My photos dim by comparison, but when I look at them again they will at least recall the memory of that night.

Up at 4:30am the next day for our own ride in a balloon. K and I launched with Captain Frank at 7:00am for an hour-long flight with three witty, wonderful women from Virginia and North Carolina. We had the experience of soundless flight between blasts of the hot air burners that kept us aloft. We floated and glided over the morning landscape and soaked in the experience of what it must be like to be a bird in flight. Ah, the perfect cap to our balloon experience.

And so, the pinnacle of our road trip was over and it was time to see a friend in Denver and head on home. My advice to anyone who will listen, and a few who won’t, is to put the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta and a hot air balloon trip on your bucket list. And, if you don’t have a bucket list, make one and put it on it!

“I am ballooned out,” said my daughter K after two days. “Me too,” I replied, although I must admit that a certain song about a balloon keeps roaming around in my heart.

Up, up and away

Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
We could float among the stars together, you and I
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon
The world’s a nicer place in my beautiful balloon
It wears a nicer face in my beautiful balloon
We can sing a song and sail along the silver sky
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon
Suspended under a twilight canopy
We’ll search the clouds for a star to guide us
If by some chance you find yourself loving me
We’ll find a cloud to hide us
We’ll keep the moon beside us
Love is waiting there in my beautiful balloon
Way up in the air in my beautiful balloon
If you’ll hold my hand we’ll chase your dream across the sky
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon
Balloon…
Up, up, and away…..

“The People” as in “We the People” has been on my mind ever since we began driving across the Indian Nations on our GART. At one of our many stops we picked up an Indian Country map since we would be driving through many reservations on our trek. In addition to the maps there was a section talking about the various tribes. As part of our trip I read out loud the sections from different guides on the area to which we are going. And so I read about the Indian tribes.

As a child growing up we were taught to call the natives who inhabited this country before the white man, “Indians.” We were also taught that Columbus named then this because he thought he had discovered India by sailing west. Later we were taught to call them Native Americans, American Indians, or some variation thereof. It was only later in my education that I learned they had actual tribal names such as Sioux, Ute, Hopi, Navajo, etc.

Reading from my Indian map however, I learned that the tribes prefer to be called either by their tribal name or simply “The People.” The similarity between “The People,” and “We the People” was striking, at least in my mind. Here were the founders of our country referring to the new citizens of the new America in the same terminology as the authentic ancient Native Americans who preceded them by hundreds of years.

We the People. I have often said that although our appearances may differ, our souls are all the same. The heart of who we are as a people spans time and space, the energy and vastness of the universe. We are all “The People” no matter what tribe or clan or nation we represent. And at the soul of the people is love, generosity, caring, and compassion.

Along our many travels in the past five weeks we have met many people. I would have to say many of them didn’t speak English, many had darker skin or lighter hair, some were short, some were tall, some were young, and many were old. Some like us were travelers, others were natives of the area we traversed, And, without exception all of them were helpful, polite, courteous, generous, and kind. Not a single person said a harsh or angry word to us. Not a single person wasn’t willing to help us open a door, give directions, or help us in one way or another. They were incredible examples of the loving soul of the people.

Yes, “We the People,” are all of one tribe, the tribe of God, however you define it. We share the same heart and soul. I want other people to see me as I see them and so I plan on always making a conscious, serious effort to be loving and caring, kind and helpful, and to put on my Sunday best attitude. I may fail from time to time as we all have, but I will continue to try. Maybe if we all were conscious of our attitudes and behaviors with and toward others we could eradicate hatred and anger. I’d love to say we could end all wars and find universal peace, but I fear there will always be a few who haven’t heard the unifying message I heard of “The People.”

Ah, California! Having been raised in Southern California, I have a fondness for the place and even returned for a year of college at the University of Redlands before marrying my high school sweetheart and raising a family. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then, but I always look forward to my trips here, especially San Francisco. Lucky for me my brother settled in the Piedmont area of Oakland so I could visit him and one of my favorite cities at the same time.

My brother, F, has a lovely home on the hillside overlooking the SF bay and the city of Oakland. Our first couple of days here were, as F said, perfect and we had to agree. The temperature was in the high 80’s with an almost clear view every day from his deck. We enjoyed refreshments on the deck, morning coffee on the deck, and even had dinner on the deck one evening. Sweet. The relaxing and conversation were all good.

One day we took the ferry from Oakland to SF and enjoyed a few hours of sightseeing, lunch, and walking around the marketplace. Nary a sign of fog, smog, or smaze. Smog, of course is a combination of fog and smoke coined in the 1950’s in southern California. Smaze is now a combination of smog and haze to describe any and all manner of visible air pollution. It is this really yucky yellow, brownish, green gauze of atmosphere that drapes itself over hilltops and into valley crevices. It is not pretty and is a sad testament to the damage we have done to God’s creation.

On our last day we visited the Maritime National Park on the waterfront in SF. It was a nice sunny day, a mere continuation of days before. As we walked out the pier to see the ships, off on the left, far in the distance were the twin peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge. And, that was all we could see – the very tippy tops of the suspension bridge peaks. There was this long fog shawl reaching from the west side of the bridge, across the bay, wrapping itself like a ribbon around Alcatraz Island ( formerly a formidable prison), and drifting on eastward into nowhere. Was that all we were going to see of the bridge we wondered?

The line to catch the cable car up to the cable car museum was unbearably long so we decided it might be more fun to drive over the GG bridge in the fog. And it was a trip. Our ribbon of fog was not stationery, but moved back and forth as if someone was playing tug-o-war with it. As our cameras clicked away there would be fog, then no fog, then fog, then…you get the idea. In its own way it was surreal and we were in the middle of it.

As we exited the bridge going north we came upon the “Vista View” overlook. We stopped to look back at the bridge for a final fog-draped view. This is the famous vantage point where one can look across the bay and see the SF skyline. Hah! Not this day, not by a mile. Markers pointing to Coit Tower and other SF landmarks pointed into the foggy nothingness. Ah well, but it was fun crossing the bridge in the fog and getting pix of the famous SF fog.

Fog, smog, and smaze shrouded our final evening and morning at my brothers and the warm, mild weather gave way to temperatures in the 60’s. Time to move south to warmer climes. It was a welcome break in our hundreds of miles daily driving on our GART; my brother and his wife were gracious hosts, my bro was an excellent tour guide, and my sister-in-law was a very capable cook of vegetarian fare! Thanks to both of you for a fabulous visit.

I have never been in love with Las Vegas. I was there once in November of 1978 and have never had a desire to go back. However, it was the best place to stay in order to take a tour of Hoover Dam and while I had seen it before, K never had and I thought it was one of the wonders of this country that she should see. And so it was in the land of oz and lala that we arrived on Day 13!

The best part of the journey to LV was our trip through Zion National Park. The worst part of our journey to LV was our trip through Zion National Park. It was the best for some spectacular scenery that cannot be described in words or even photographs. While in Bryce you overlooked everything from above (for those not hiking as were we) and looked out over long vistas. Zion on the other hand is a trip down into the canyon where most of the time you are looking up – a long way up. The trip was not as bad as our trip over the Big Horn Mountains, but close. I think too that there were more switchbacks (“S” curves) but not as steep. Nausea was my constant companion and my heart has now found a permanent place in my throat just behind my left ear (I’ll explain later). Really too hairy a ride for my taste.

The worst part of the day’s journey to LV was that somewhere along the way from Bryce to Zion, K lost her National Parks Passport Book. This is a special 3” x 6” booklet that is divided in regional sections and has places where you get a “Stamp” at each National Park you visit. We had stopped at the Zion visitor center for her stamp and she couldn’t find it. She had it stamped in the morning at the Grand Staircase Escalante Park and that was the last time she remembers holding it. A thorough search of bags, purse, car, bodies yielded no Passport Book. A bummer of major proportions! K took the car and retraced the drive while R and I waiting in the center. I bought her another Passport book to continue the journey, K returned without book, signed a “lost and found” form, I called the GSE center, no luck. The rest of the day was very quiet. Until………….

We hit LV – lala land and the land of oz! OMG, our hotel, and all the others I’m sure, are a city within a city with a huge casino. It was full of people, hectic, confusing, and I had a “get me out of here quick” feeling. It was crazy and we were tired and all I really wanted to do was go to bed. We grabbed a quick pizza in the food court and tumbled into bed early. Next morning, Hoover Dam, that afternoon we wandered around the casino people watching, but not gambling. Just not our thing. That evening we went to Margaritaville for a light supper and a short walk on “The Strip.” I think having the best Margarita was my highlight in LV. Leaving was probably the very best! California here we come.