On the road!
Mountain View, Arkansas
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Illinois: Lots of relatives
Chillicothe
After seeing so many Midwesterners who looked like they had spent their entire lives eating at what seems to be the only restaurant in the Midwest- McDonalds- I was thrilled and humbled to see the beautiful and always stylish Aunt Maje. Aunt Maje is so fabulous and she and Mom are in such great shape. Her house is perfect as always. We heard a lot of interesting stuff about Sally and Kay and Mark and Joanie, most of whom are now my Facebook friends. Kay's son has just survived law school. Mark lives on a fabulous farm in Wisconsin, where he did carpentry work at one time.
Then the Hawleys- all gorgeous. Just look at Bill and Margaret! What is their secret? I was the only fat guy in the room and I don't even eat at McDonalds. Here I pose with two beautiful women, Amy and Angela. I didn't see Christine this time but she and her hubby and family are among the very beautiful people too. And the Hawley folks are so smart and accomplished!
Barbara, the nun, is about to become Mother Superior somewhere. I remember Barbara from the DQ. I was just a kid and thought the DQ was a very cool place to work.
Amy remembered everything about the farm, the Indian fire pit, arrowheads, the invisible mushrooms, it was great. Bill told me that Grandpa Frank Hartzell was public info officer for the railroad, which I never knew. He never knew that Uncle Albert had dated Aunt Pearl before she met Uncle Gene. Old gossip still has value!
Our next stop was the nursing home in Chillicothe, where we met Pauline, who seemed great. That home is sooooo much nicer than it used to be.
Mom also met Pauline's dinner companion, Darlene Brasch, who had stories to relay about Grampie (Mom's father), who rode to work with her late husband Eddie for many years. She called Grampie "Big John" and was amazed at his even bigger grandson she had never met.
We also visited cousin Lucille Mundy, who has a living doll house that mom toured with glee. I went and got a hotel, a very bad one! Lucille looked great and was gracious about our sudden arrival.
Next, we saw the twin sister of Pauline, Meg Farley and her son Jan Farley, who now really looks like his dad. Their house is really fun as they have collected items like a trunk from the Lusitania , and Meg has made saws and other items into decorative art, creating paintings on saws and making a lamp from a meat grinder and strainer. Here, we look at a train themed centerpiece. Jan tore down the old Bradford train station and salvaged the decorative items, which are made into a history plaque and more art.
Also, here is a neat picture of Grandaddy Sturm from Meg's wall. He was, well, one of the more colorful members of the family, and was my great grandfather.
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Take me out to the ball game
June 21, Kansas City
Leaving the Kansas City Royals stadium early because of the 102-degree heat, Mom and I were walking with two Kansas City fans.
"That one moment was worth the price of admission," one guy said to the other.
There was no doubt the moment was the grand slam of Cardinals slugger Albert Pujois?
I asked him if it hurt to see the Royals lose.
"Taking nothing away from the Royals or the rest of the Cardinals, this is a guy they will talk about someday like we talk about Babe Ruth," he said.
Mom and I were some of very few people not dressed in red or blue. But this rivalry was no Crips or Bloods death match. Nor anything like Red Sox-Yanks or Giants-Dodgers. Nor was this the true bad blood of Michigan vs Ohio State. I've lived in all those places and Ohio State was the most extreme, perhaps more than the Crips!
In Kansas City, most people applauded both teams. There was a couple wearing opposite colors. When St. Louis scored two in the first the man, having had a few beers already, hollered in his girlfriends face. When KC scored 3 in the bottom of the inning, the guy next to her said to the yeller, "You seem quiet, are you OK?"
The real enemy was the 102-degree heat. That first inning lasted 37 minutes. When the bats started up for the Royals in the bottom of the 2nd, we left our seats for good, heat stroke knocking for both of us.
There were people being treated for heat stroke, people on the floor of the bathroom. We ordered frozen yogurt and watched from the shade. I could see, being tall, and Mom watched the TV.
We watched Pujois hit one homer before we left our seats.
When he came up in fourth with the game tied 4-4, the entire stadium was on its feet, anticipating a great moment. An older lady in a Royals shirt who couldn't see and was watching the TV next to me said "I'd hate to be that pitcher right now."
Pujois, who always tingles and fidgets at the plate, was practically electrified as he swung. He never loses his balance for a second, unlike the Babe, who often fell down, then got up to hit a homer.
The grand slam home run Albert was hit so hard I lost it as did those around me. I got to see Bonds hit one in the world series, but even that wasn't gone that quick.
The line drive went through the hands of the fans in left field bleachers,too.
I filmed the entire at bat, video which was great to the point of the lost ball, as i scan madly around, then back to the guys running the bases.
As the man said, it was worth the price of admission and even the horrible heat.
I got some good almost photos. Here is one of a KC outfielder making an incredible over the wall steal of a home run in the first inning. Only his hand got cut off.
I became a St. Louis fan when living on the farm with Steve, listening to a little radio.
Lou Brock was in his last year then. Pujois tied Stan Musial with his 9th career slam and gave his manager Tony La Russa his 2500th career victory.
If he continues to remain steroid allegation free and continues to play like this, he could easily pass Ruth, Aaron and Bonds as home run king. He is obviously the best player in the game over the past 5 years. The 29 year old Dominican is also active in working with the developmentally disabled and has started a foundation for that purpose. He is an atypical Dominican, being so tall and massive.
I wonder why and if I am still a Cards fan, because I watch the Giants now, as they are on and I like them. But I feel the rooting for St. Louis deep in my gut, even when they play the Giants. Loyalties made when young seem wonderfully invulnerable to the vagaries of later life.
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Mystery of the Mysterious Mister Williams
New Mexico
By day, he is Mr. Williams and she is Mrs. Williams, the substitute teachers known to all the students of the Alamogordo Public schools.
What I hear is that is why Conroy says his last name is Jones, and Camille goes by Smith, when mom and dad are teaching.
But Mr. Williams is an entirely different story, according to his homeland security file. There has been an investigation for two years of Mr. William's association with a nighttime militiaman known as Severns Sannar. Homeland Security even tortured the manager of Kmart for more, only to find out they had the wrong store. The manager did confess to secret fantasies involving Martha Stewart and the underage assistant manager.
Authorities believe Severns may be seeking to corner the market on plastic BBs, possibly preparing for a plastic machine gun attack on the nation’s passenger pigeon infrastructure.
He may have also been masquerading as an angry white male in order to gain the trust of good flag waving rednecks.
Worse, Severns seems to have a secret plot involving junk cars, which he may be planning to use as anchors for his house when terrorists flood Southern New Mexico, in the final great plot of takeover the United States flushed out by the Bush Administration.
Once Homeland Security cracks the connection between the evil Severens and the secretive Williams, the nation can once again feel safe.
Despite his well documented diabolical intentions, Williams poses as a family man with a fun loving son and a bright daughter. Homeland Security knows better. Mrs. Williams speaks funny foreign languages, including Korean, so the bomb can't be far behind all this. In fact, it may be in the trunk of one of those junk cars!
He can’t fool Homeland Security! Of course Williams is a common name (part of his diabolical plot no doubt) so when agents came to search, they ended up in the wrong place twice, chased by the Stevie Williams junkyard dog on the first occasion and, on the second occasion, finding another Mr. Williams was off with somebody named Mr. Smith, and Mrs. Williams was off with Mrs. Jones. This really confused and traumatized the agents, who had to return to headquarters to gain fortitude by listening to Rush Limbaugh, who sadly enough had just found a new drug dealer named Mr. Williams.
But is it any wonder that these two shadowy figures both live in Alamogordo where they and the rest of their cell can get their hands on giant, unarmed nuclear missiles from the 1950s. Be vigilant!
I finish this with a little poem:
On the road I met critters three:
One round, one thin, one quite hairy
One would hide in his shell when earthquake and hurricane came
One couldn’t fix his Chevy pickup but felt no shame
A third lunched on a scorpion, then acted quite tame
From the Southwest we fled and from these critters dread
Yet we miss the travelers now, and hope back to them we are led!
Scotty gives his version
After reading the various allegations reported by the liberal media, I feel obligated to respond. It is just this sort of reporting that drove me out of journalism, that and the need for food and shelter. It had been 28 dog years since I had last seen Frank when he came to my compound, I mean residence, under the guise of paying a visit. I had know idea he was going to poke around in my armory. Upon laying eyes upon Frank for the first time in four years I told him he was as handsome, thin and tall as I remembered. Okay, one out of three isn’t bad.
I had mapped out a number of potential activities for Frank and Betty (Frank’s angelic mother). Hey, anyone who has put up with Frank for that many years. Anyway, the activities list was hindered a bit by the fact that Frank and Betty had already visited Alamogordo. If you have never been to New Mexico (and the statistics presented by the New Mexico Department of Tourism suggest you haven’t) there are many beautiful things to see–none of which are located in Alamogordo.
Most of our first hour was spent explaining why we have seven cars, four of which run. I’ve honestly tried to sell off the three non-working vehicle, but since the economy has taken a down turn the market for such vehicles has gone south and I can’t see taking a loss, when the market is sure to rebound in seven to ten years. In the mean time I am renting them out as mini-storage units.
After a delicious barbecue dinner, we spent our final hour or so outside the Space History Museum, which is located at the foot of the Sacramento Mountains, overlooking the lights of Alamogordo. Like nearly everything else in Alamogordo, the museum closes at 5 p.m. due to a ten year government study released in 1952 that determined 90 percent of all monsters come out after dark. Despite the museum being closed, by looking at the building from the outside we were able to get some idea of what might be inside. We spent our time outside the building talking amongst the various rockets ceremoniously pointed toward the night sky. This area is officially called Rocket Pathway, but is more commonly known as Phallic Park. A radical feminist group (the Daughters of the American Revolution) unsuccessfully attempted to have the park closed some years back.
Like Frank I would like to close my post with a poem, but I will keep my promise to the English Department at New Mexico State University. We would just like to close by saying it was great to see Frank and we’re sure in another four years we’ll be ready to see him again. Betty, you're welcome anytime.
More Scotty pics
With his family and a strangely short Mom. As usual, click for a bigger view. Use the browser "back" button to return.
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Eats, Arguments, Bad Radio, Tornado
June 21
Mom had a Damascus Road Conversion in Texas, and has been a no beef or pork vegetarian now for 24 hours.
Driving along through the night on Highway 54, we suddenly smelled a very foul odor. First it was south of dog farts. Then far, far worse, worse than Sturmz farting in the back with the dead seagull parts he snuck into car (yes that happened.)
Then mucho, mega, munga worse. (Copyright notice to Robby Krostag- your claim on the word Munga that you asserted when we were in the 3rd grade has expired. Wouldn't it be funny if he read this and knew what I was talking about?)
Death. Urine. Harsh chemicals. All cooking in a soup sure to repel buzzards.
Mom and I gasped for air. For a minute we couldn't get our breath and both rolled down our windows. Big mistake. We could see a fog of particles come in the window. Air was gone. Mom was quite scared. I was laughing and gagging at the same time, something I am prone to but when I couldn't breathe for that long two second, yes I felt fear...
We agree now it was by far the worst smell we had ever experienced.
"Think of the men in the factory," I said.
"They are all wearing gas masks or dead." Mom said.
It was that bad. This was a mega-mega corporate slaughterhouse, we soon figured out.
The stink permeates Dalhart, Texas. It also got in our car. Mom has been promising never to eat beef and firing Lysol at the car, as the smell re-emerges when we move stuff around.
"I'd like to sue them for attacking me like that," Mom said. "How can that be legal?"
"You are not a very good Republican" I said.
"Be quiet," she said.
Mom sobbed when cows in the back of a truck were looking out.
"Imagine what the inside of that place must be like. Just think of what must go on.."
She wondered how the psyche of slaughterhouse workers could be intact.
"Do any of them go onto be serial killers?" she asked.
We thought it was a cattle slaughterhouse. There are many of those in that area.
Apparently this is a pig slaughterhouse, one of the biggest and most automated on earth. But I couldn't find out much more. A big slaughterhouse factory operation like that is a horrible invention of capitalism. I covered one for chickens in Ohio that was run by an alleged former Nazi who was banned from owning animals in his native land. Ameria's worship of private property allows such scoundrels to come here when third world countries would stop them.
The Republican top lawman of Ohio toured the 40 million chicken hellhouse with our newsteam and told us number one, he would never eat chicken again and number two, had changed his mind about the sanctimony of deregulation. (He didn't change parties, though.)
Such operations have precipitated disease in food and many scientists say much worse is likely if people don't wake up to true issues like this. Corporate farming will be the literal death of us, if corporate banking doesn't kill our national economy and corporate retail doesn't kill every small to medium sized local economies.
Local economies are the key to everything, in my view.
We tried a hotel with a nice blonde lady just up the road, but when she repeated to Mom the old saw "that's the smell of money," Mom left.
Our Indian hosts at the next hotel told us a mega corporation was putting in these slaughterhouses of disgusting scale and they had one planned for California! Ha!
Everybody thinks we are from Disneyland.
Not to play Scrooge, but the sixth day of the trip was the worst of times and the season of incredulity.
It rained most of the day, negating our plan to attend a farm auction. We made 525 miles, crossing parts of Texas and Oklahoma, all of Kansas and ended up in Missouri and managed to make quite a few stops.
One stop we made was at a restaurant in Oklahoma. We used the grampie-rule and picked the one with all the cars. Breakfast looked and tasted delicious. The waitress told us her town too had a slaughterhouse that made people "hurl" when the wind was just right. It had compelled her to leave town and go to Alabama. But she came back.
We ate the breakfast and a few hours down the road my stomach was tight. I didn't want to tell mom as we were sure we weren't going to get sick at restaurants in the Midwest this time. Then mom said she had to go the Dollar Store right now! And boy did she.
But only the restroom.
Now we are running scared on food.
We got boxed salads at Quiznos (mom proclaimed it safe when she saw the teens were wearing gloves) and fruit and cheese from Save IT, which turned out to be an oddly named grocery store chain in Kansas.
Next was the tornado. Of course. We were listening to Janet Evanovich's book on tape about how to write books, a terrific and fun work even if you don't love bounty hunter Stephanie Plum and her two competing beaus.
A natural disaster is a lot of fun in a story but hurricanes and earthquakes tend to ruin the tension of a good plot.
Then, the tornado appeared off to our East. It looked like a tornado black, red with lighting but the cone was pointed kinda vertical, not down.
We decided to listen to the radio for information. But corporate radio is the greatest corporate crime of all. Stations that once had staffs to report such events now plink automated tunes, whether sunshine or Armageddon is going on outside. Our nation's airwaves are community property. But Mom's favorite leading man, Ronnie Reagan, allowed all rules about community responsibility to be flushed and allowed giant corporations to buy up nearly every radio station in the nation, fire all the staffs and channel automated plinks.
They are called the River, the Bob, the Steve, the Frog, the Cat, The Lion.
They threaten your life in times of disaster.
After much dialing of the radio (Mom and I argue as mom hates the digital scanner and wants to dial the radio with the knob) we found a local station.
We had turned off the freeway at that point and had stopped in Emporia, Kansas to visit the home of William Allen White, the eccentric politician-journalist who turned the Emporia Gazette into one of the nation's best papers. I picked up a copy and noted a lot of silly stuff from hometown folks now like a gritty crime report on the theft of digital cameras in town and "pats on the back" for Former Emporia State University pitcher Trent Lare, who joined a Class A farm club of the New York Yankees, the paper gleefully reported.
Another pat went to The City of Emporia and the Emporia Recreation Commission, "which have finally reached an agreement for sharing responsibility for maintaining and operating the Jones Aquatic Center."
YahoooOOO!
White would have loved this stuff, which others took credit for inventing as community journalism later. FDR read the Emporia paper and saw in it the real people of America. (White was a Republican but not a party liner.)
While the paper seems to still be in touch with the community, it lacks the national voice for the common man as far as I could tell from one issue anyway.
Anyway, we were driving in Emporia when we found that local station. The emergency warning system was activated and the local newsman was reporting on the touchdown of a tornado somewhere in the area, a little too much in the voice of the Hindenburg radio report. Ok, that's an exaggeration, but he was reporting on the matter using a flurry of small towns and counties, none of which we had ever heard of, despite driving through dozens of them all day. One we had passed through was Greensburg, Kansas, which was wiped off the map in May 2007, when a twister killed 9 and flattened the entire commercial district and the houses in town.
I fell asleep and forgot to tell Mom I wanted to visit Greensburg.
But this was now!
Where in Oz is Henderson County? Is it near Kansas City? Wichita? Emporia? I grabbed the map. Dang! There are soooo many counties in Kansas. That must make for some awful local government, I told mom. Imagine finding a qualified district attorney in like a 100 counties in Kansas. Judges too! Yikes! California has a horrible time and the counties are way bigger, much fewer, its not bloody Kansas either and...
"Let's get back to the Tornado. I think its right over there,' said mom, pointing at a flashing black , blue and red blotch on the horizon.
Then the man said Topeka.
"It's in Topeka, not here," Tom said triumphantly.
"The man said it was headed toward Topeka. That could be here," Mom said.
'Where's Topeka from here?" she asked.
"Seems to be north,"I said.
"We should go South," Mom said.
There were several more tornado reports and lots of disconcerting black horizons, including one that seemed to pop up when we headed for Kansas City, instead of Topeka.
"Goodness," Mom said.
"It will be dark soon and at least then we won't have to see that," she said.
Then mom and I argued about whether tornadoes strike at night. We weren't sure about that.
Mom is still refusing beef and pork but feels safe now from tornados after we decided Kansas City was somehow safe, or at least we had never heard of such a strike.
We are staying near Royals stadium, and will see the Cards-Royals play. Id love to see a Cardinals game but it seems everybody in Missouri had that idea. I'm still waiting for Scotty's story, so dueling stories from New Mexico are tomorrow!
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The Open Road
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Our cross-country trip, made almost entirely on small highways, (not the Interstates) has been a wonderfully lonely trip back in time.
We started on Highway 20, which we took across California. After a brief jaunt on Interstate 80, we drove US-95 the length of Nevada. It was so empty of humanity, or much other life.
It was a trip back in time, as was our subsequent trips on Route 66 and other highways. We drove through much of New Mexico today on Highway 54, ending up in Texas.
Mom first made the Route 66 trip in 1942, with her high school friends. Mom and Dad came to California by some of these roads, also pre-Interstate 80. I did it in the 1980s and 90s several times.
There is far less traffic than 1998 on the same roads and rural settlement has lessened, which is the opposite of what I expected. The dying small towns are now dead in many places. Every homestead along 95 we saw was abandoned. Several towns were new, true ghost towns. Nobody is left.
Army bases are the bulk of the activity.
The area has gone back to the way it was when mom first came in 1942 and in some places, very old towns are much less than then, or so it seems.
Why there is less traffic, so many miles of empty horizons, it is hard to say.
It's peaceful, but gas stations are also gone in some places, and we nearly ran out.
I pose here in front of another dying way of life, the newspaper. This was a place where a little man with linotype put out a paper, it appears. Newspapers are now phantom produced for towns like this (and much larger) by somebody who may have never been to the community, I know having been that editor myself.
The open West features fierce and tiny thunderstorms that you can see coming for miles, big rainbows, big skies and great colors, especially these Arizona reds.
Next, Scotty and I will submit dual and maybe dueling blogs about our visit there.
Las Vegas Lights
June 16-18
Sitting in the half-sized Eiffel Tower while overlooking the overstated but truly amazing Las Vegas, I realized there was once a place this wasteful, this ornate, this ridiculous, this fabulous.
The real Paris, under Louis XIV, the Sun King.
Mom and I were awed by Versailles, the Invalides, and how such splendor could be created in such a short time. He spent like there was no tomorrow.
But there was, as subsequent Louises found out while chasing their heads on the other side of a guillotine. Louis took the French empire, arts and imperial government to a place in the world never seen again, not even under Napoleon I.
Vegas, though, has to be a bigger sin. I hate to call such fun by that particular pejorative, which is so often used by religious fanatics to condemn people for doing what they secretly wish they had the guts to do.
Sin? Not those disgusting people handing out cards of nude women, willing to come to your motel room for $25 and up. The cards are immediately thrown down by most people, resulting in an X-rated sidewalk along much of the Vegas Strip, fodder for any kid of any age.
I don't refer to the Mafia, who built this town. A shrine to Bugsy Siegel among the flamingos and swans acknowledges his vision to create the world's greatest resort out of a mirage in the desert. But it fails to mention organized crime and suggests unknown gunmen sadly murdered him.
Vegas, like the Paris of Louis XIV is a sin because nothing about it is sustainable and everything so wasteful. A bigger sin because we now know about global warming, pollution and the effects of conspicuous consumption.
Vegas is surrounded by people suffering the worst foreclosure rate in American history, but you would never know it.
Like the French peasants, they make not a peep. The Vegas strip is in the midst of the biggest boom in its history. Those casinos built at the height of the real estate boom, like the gold-encrusted Trump, the full sized replica of the Great Pyramid and the $3.1 billion Wynn?
They are nothing compared to the "city within a city" being built in the middle of the strip and being sold everywhere. There will be more million-dollar condos than you can imagine built among casinos designed to make Donald Trump and Steve Wynn blush, if they don't own it all. (which they probably do).
Vegas on a Monday and Tuesday was so packed with people it was impossible to walk the strip without bumping and grinding. These buildings, like Imperial France, were worth seeing, if you could get to them.
We stayed at the Mirage, supposed to be the best of the older casino hotels and a steal at 79 bucks.
But we had to walk 400 yards, measured by my steps from the car, past at least 1000 slot machines, high roller rooms, poker tables etc to get to our room.
And the staff were cold fish, or downright rude. I bought a $14 hamburger takeout and the total was actually 14.01. The straight-faced girl hassled us for the penny!
The fancy hotel had canceled its volcano fountain show for the week, preparing for the arrival of Jay Leon on Friday. But the staff knew nothing of this and required investigative reporting to find it out. This attraction was what I booked there for, which is of course the plan.
The room was perfect, the hamburger actually worth $14, a delicious mix of expensive cheeses, real fresh portabella mushrooms and first rate beef. Security was also very good. It reminded me of a place run by a military type boss, who dispirits the entire staff but demands perfection.
Our favorite was the Paris, which gave us world class service which reminded us both of the kind of service we got in the real Paris (despite all that BS that the French are rude that people told us beforehand.)
The soft spoken waiter overheard mom say she couldn't eat the mouth melting pastry appetizer because of sprue and came to whisper to her that it was made from Tapioca and was fine for people with gluten allergies.
We were amazed at the conspicuous wealth of the beautiful people who seemed to have escaped from some TV fantasy of real life. A line of several dozen women in micro, micro minis (mom thought they were bikinis and were lined up for the pool) were in line for the super hip and jarringly loud nightclub inside the Mirage.
They admired about 10 cool guys and ignored 300 goofy guys in line. All of them presented a sound and physical barrier to us Hillbilly roomers.
This was red state America, but having ditched the angry fundys to holler at gays somewhere.
There were not too many gays visible in Vegas, other than a few prancing male couples. This was a town for straight couples, especially for men to show off their women.
Those angry fundys, who are such a joke before God in my eyes because they FAIL to address the real sin of our culture- greed, over consumption, worship of the rich, and corporate power rather than God... All of that is in all of us. But they chose to rail ONLY at gays and poor women getting abortions. The main pew sitters have no sin, by the standards of the Southern Baptists.
Dr. Dobson said the only two things in the last election of importance were gay marriage and abortion. He will stink to high heaven someday.
I don't want to be a fundy myself and point at those dirty people over there in order to make myself seem wonderful.
I partook in Vegas. I overeat and I don't think enough about what my dollar goes to support. I avoid Walmart, good start yes, but maybe the Mirage is no better for our nation's future.
But I had to enjoy gawking at all this, the recreation of the sinking of the Titanic, the pirate ship fight outside the Treasure Island, the hubris of "reproducing" the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Grand Canyon, Venice, Eiffel Tower, Great Pyramid, and the sinking of the Titanic on a couple of miles and mostly pulling it off.
The Grand Canyon reproduction is a flop from my view and the Gondola Captains look like they are working a long swimming pool at the Venetian, but the rest is really well done.
We never played ay slots until the last day when we each took $5 at a tiny casino with a terrific and cheap breakfast. I won $5 on $1 at blackjack, then quit. Mom lost $3 and then won it back and quit.
But we did contribute to the tremendous waste of electricity and a scene that so effectively answers the question 'why do they hate us?"
Of course, Vegas and Louis' Paris were not the only examples in history.
No figure is more appropriate than the giant Julius Caesar smirking in his toga while overlooking the modern orgy of Caesar's Palace.
Something compels empires to transfer the good will and life savings of the people on gladiators, mistresses, or in our case to the giant corporations our red states worship in place of Christ.
So go to Vegas and see it so one day your grandchildren can take the tour of the ruins and shake their head and say
"Why?"
First Day
June 14: Mom wanted to start our trip at The Broiler in Willits, located in a pasture with no advertising anywhere, but packed to the rafters. She ordered the petit steak, which wasn't.
But it was really, really good.
We passed the petit mountain range, the Sutter Buttes, about three hours later. The Chamber of Commerce was always thrilled to announce Sutter County was home to the world's smallest mountain range. 
My friends and great reporters Paul Elias and David Weidner were censored in their efforts to prove it wasn't really the worlds smallest, not to mention having the world's smallest anything is a dubious honor.
A petit bald white guy did try to sell us drugs on Highway 20 in Marysville, managing to succeed with the car in front. I thought of taking a photo, but then remembered drug dealers are required by law to be armed at all times in Yuba County.
We turned left instead and I posed at the spot when my reverence for journalism was at its all time peak. I found myself one morning in 1990 at 6.a.m locked outside that door of the Appeal-Democrat. To my surprise, fellow Humboldt graduate Preston Gobel was locked out with me. We peered through the front door, worried and finally decided it must be a test of our reporting skills. If only. 
They had, after all been smart enough to steal me from the Gridley Herald, my first step up that corporate news ladder. It only took about half a day for Preston and I to realize that they had simply neglected to tell us to go the back door. We all discovered as reporters that the key question in our interview with editor Milt Carland had been "when can you start."
But in front of this door, I could dream of a newsroom full of smart editors, planning hard hitting stories for the day!
We had some misery between Grass Valley and 1-80 where a line of trucks went between 10 and 25 mph for over an hour, then went about 100 when they hit 1-80.
We had decided to stay in Truckee, Big MISTAKE.
There are only 2 motels in all of Truckee, which has gone from Texas north to Aspen east and rooms were in the mid triple digits. Stuck up Truckee! That's fun to say. We got horribly lost in the dark of kitschy shops of Truckee, and then fled to Reno, at the advice of the desk clerk. There went into the Sands, which is doing its part to waste as much energy as say, Venezuela.
The Sands 7th floor room was $39.99 but mom noticed the pillows were on the outside. Then I saw the beer bottle, then the bathroom, Yikes, and mom saw the jacket on the chair. Plus ciggy smoke. A member of the staff living there?
They gave us another room, which is themed tastefully in art noveau.
Hmmm, mom said, I wasn't born yesterday, no matter what you think.
Reno had never been part of the plan, but it is bright.
Off to Vegas tomorrow.
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Invasive Plant Removal
Fort Bragg kids got involved in removal of invasives in Otis R. Johnson Wilderness Park on Wednesday, June 10. Helene's Middle Schoolers were hard working. They filled my pickup with plants they removed at the bottom of the park, plus they got a lot of ivy at the top shown here. This is funded by Salmon Restoration. Thanks to Terri Jo and all those who helped. We are back in park tomorrow with the high schoolers. (Photos in the Gallery.)
Beach Clean-Up June 28
Help Clean-up Noyo Beach on Sunday, June 28th from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m.
The City of Fort Bragg, the Mendocino Coast Dog Owners Group (MCDOG), and the California Coastal Commission invite you join us on Sunday, June 28, 2009 from 10 am to 2 pm for "Sweep the Beach", a group project to clean up Noyo Beach. Gloves, trash bags, interpretive information and bumper stickers will be available for folks participating in the beach clean-up.
Noyo Beach, at the mouth of Noyo Harbor in Fort Bragg, is a City-owned, leash-free beach where dogs and people are free to frolic. There are likely to be dog helpers and their owners picking up litter side-by-side. Prizes will be placed around the beach to reward those picking up trash and their canine sidekicks. The City of Fort Bragg will be responsible for hauling away trash picked up during the day and will be providing trash and recycling cans for this purpose.
Join us for a great day on the beach and help to beautify your town!
Questions should be directed to City of Fort Bragg Water Project Manager Teri Jo Barber at (707)961-2823 ext. 119.
Living Laboratory in Otis R. Johnson Wilderness Park
The City of Fort Bragg and Jug Handle Creek Farms proposes that Salmon Restoration Association consider partnering in the environmental restoration of Otis Johnson Wilderness Park beginning immediately and possibly extending through December 31, 2011 via Fort Bragg youth. Salmon Restoration Association would fund Helene Chalfin of Jug Handle Creek Farms Native Plant Nursery in educating youth and leading them in plant propogation and perhaps non-native plant eradication at Otis Johnson Wilderness Park which students would adopt as a Living Laboratory....(more)
The proposal, park information, plant lists, photos, park history here: Otis R. Johnson Wilderness Park.
MendoPower
Frank directs a non-profit agency that provides jobs to the Mendocino Coast, including jobs for the disabled.
The following is the MendoPower Mission Statement:
MendoPower Employment Services has a dual mission, providing a full range of employment services for the disabled and creating jobs for the Mendocino Coast community. MendoPower generates jobs appropriate to people with disabilities and provides employment opportunities, such as a temporary service and on-site manufacturing opportunities, run by MendoPower or contractors. MendoPower also seeks to empower the disabled to start their own businesses and thus also generate employment opportunities for the community.
Critters
That's a Northwestern salamander (Ambystoma gracile) from Otis R. Johnson Wilderness Park. Thanks to Matt Goldsworthy for id'ing. More photographs from Otis R. Johnson Wilderness Park, a bit of the redwood forest and a hidden gem right in the city of Ft. Bragg.
The Dungeness crab (Cancer magister) Northern California fishery (north of the Mendocino/Sonoma line) season is December 1 to July 15. An article on the crab (PDF file) by the department of fish and game describes the history and the state of the fishery. The number of crab seem to be down this year although the crab population regularly rises and falls.
Watch the ocean
Sneaker waves are more prevalent with the current warm weather. Don't turn your back on the ocean while walking on Mendocino Coast bluffs and beaches. Ever.
