Passing through Kansas, we stopped in Lindsborg for lunch and met this heavenly, beautiful boy. I just had to take his picture. My own nephews, of course, are equally beautiful, but they don't live in Kansas.
Betty
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Most Beautiful Boy in Kansas
Passing through Kansas, we stopped in Lindsborg for lunch and met this heavenly, beautiful boy. I just had to take his picture. My own nephews, of course, are equally beautiful, but they don't live in Kansas.
Betty
Recycling tip
This actually appeared on my Gmail page this morning:
You can make a lovely hat out of previously-used aluminum foil.
You can make a lovely hat out of previously-used aluminum foil.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Memories
It's Memorial Day and it's early in the morning. There's something different about today -- oh! We jump out of bed. Are those drum beats we are hearing? Daddy's gone and that can only mean one thing: the parade is almost here. We dress quickly. Shorts and a shirt. Shoes and sneakers -- the Keds kind; Nikes haven't happened yet.
Eat something! Mommy cautions. No, no, too excited. Okay, but bring a sweater. It's chilly outside, she says. She never once in all those years missed saying the sweater thing.
We breeze out the door on Dale Avenue and head for the corner, past three houses and the vacant lot where we play, making forts and once even making a trap we hoped to lure Jackie Fennelly into, a playmate/enemy long dead now in a motorcycle accident.
At the corner, we claim our spot. We crane our necks down Greenwich Street towards Roosevelt. Nothing yet. Across the street is the Bartender's Union building, a converted house with a new facade. Our neighbor Mr. Leckie was head of the local union until some nefarious doings by unnamed union members cost him the job. This is all speculation on our part. We're kids; what do we know? It's just gossip but we love the story. It makes the building we are facing scary. We don't walk on that side of the street.
Mommy joins us. She has our dog on a leash. Skippy, first. The later, Kelly, a dolorous Bassett Hound Daddy surprised us with one day. Daddy was always bringing home strays. Even with five kids, home wasn't home until there was a dog firmly in place.
Then we hear the sound. Drums! The parade has arrived! Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, the Hempstead High School Band, the Our Lady of Loretto Knights of Columbus with their capes and swords and plumed hats. But the highlight of the parade every year was at the very end, when the Hempstead Fire Department marched and the highlight of the highlight was Truck 2, of which Daddy was a member.
There he was! Resplendent in his blue uniform, he was the handsomest fireman of them all. Daddy, we screamed! He teased us, didn't look, but then turned his head and waved. Oh heaven! What a day! What a parade! What a great beginning to what promised to be a perfect day.
Reluctantly we turned away from the parade, from the vendors with their birds on a stick whose feathers would turn in the wind, the pinwheels, pins, medals, plastic-headed dolls that bounced on rubber bands and so flimsy their heads would be crushed before the day was over, cap guns, balsa swords, and of course flags of all sizes. WE longed for these prizes, but there were five of us.
We came back home, bellies grumbling. It was now almost eleven o'clock and we were ravenous. Mommy always managed to have the bacon cooking as we entered the door, and Daddy often left the parade before its conclusion, so he'd walk in on our heels.
Happy Anniversary! we'd all yell together. Then we'd proudly present them with their gift. The strawberry shortcake we'd chipped in for and purchased secretly at the bakery in the Bohack Shopping Center.
Breakfast and dessert. I told you Memorial Day was special.
Betty
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Tetons & Yellowstone Park
On the road to the Tetons -- look hard. They're in the background.
Oh. My. God.
A view from the Colter's Landing Marina
Left to right: Middle Teton, Grand Teton, Mt. Owen, from the Marina
Close up of Grand Teton
Still there the next day as we head to Yellowstone.
The Snake River with the Tetons in the far background.
The South Entrance to the Park. The guy in the blue car took 20 minutes to pay.
The first of many beautiful waterfalls and gorges.
Female elk. The males don't socialize. Our first wild animals in the park. Note the many dead pine trees. The mountain pine beetle is deforesting much of our most beautiful land.
Male buffalo, also a solitary type.
Females crossing the road! Check out the dog in the car ahead of us.
Is that RV trying to sneak ahead? That's a no-no.
The women are very social, obviously. Lots of little babies in this picture.
Coyote crossing the road, calmly, and in broad daylight.
The approach to Old Faithful. It erupts every ninety minutes. In the interim, it blows steam. As it gets ready to erupt, the steam gets denser and bigger.
Cameras ready?
The first eruption of water in the middle of the steam. 3:06 p.m. precisely.
At its peak. Right in the middle of the picture. It's 90 feet high. Measure against the trees in the background. The ground is covered with hardened minerals from below.
I've learned since not to turn the camera when I take a movie.
The anticlimax. Cigarette, anyone?
Well of course we hit the gift shop!
There are over 300 geysers in Yellowstone. Here I am at the approach to one of the best groups of gushers. The steam in the background is the water flowing into the river. Way hot meets icy cold. Check out the colors in this next group of shots.
Leaving the park. This is the way it should all be.
This is the way it is in a lot of the park. Sad.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Moth & the Badger
Rock Spring, CO
When I was a little girl, I remember these big brown moths that seemed to have nothing to recommend them. They weren’t pretty, they were kind of dumb, and they left a powdery smear if you tried to hold one of them. My mother told me they were Miller Moths, and I haven’t thought about them in years, although I have seen them pretty often. I ignored them, and they ignored me.
But two nights ago, we held a party in the camper for Miller Moths. I let one out the window, and his twin brother appeared about fifteen minutes later. John zapped him with a rolled up magazine, and we continued on with our evening. We had dinner, we watched some TV, we checked our e-mails and we headed for bed.
No sooner had I created my nocturnal cocoon – one pillow under me, another propped up as a book rest, my current favorite novel, my book lamp adjusted just right, and my covers snugged around me and covering my recumbent self up to my ears – than I was dive-bombed by another Miller Moth. Yikes, I screamed.
What, what! Said John.
Another f*#king moth, I said. My ladylike demeanor deserts me when I am physically threatened.
So kill it, he said.
With what? I said. I only have my book.
The moth continued to dive-bomb me. I turned off my book light and plunged the room into darkness.
Kill it, I said in my little-girl voice. I won’t be able to sleep if I know it’s in this room. I covered my head.
John put the overhead light on, and went forward to grab the fly swatter. A fly swatter, in case you were wondering, is one of the RV necessities that nobody tells you about, but which you buy pretty soon after you get your RV.
Our fly swatter is a wuss. It’s soft and pliable, effective only if you can flick it so that it whips the insect to death. After about fifteen ineffective swipes at the now-terrified moth, John grabbed a towel and started swinging. Actually, that worked.
We were both pretty wide awake after that, so we once again created the read-a-book-in-bed scenario. Muscles began to relax, eyes began to droop and we headed towards dreamland.
Then the second squad entered, heading straight for the book lights. Three of them, this time. Oh no, I yelled, get them!
John jumped up, grabbed his towel and beat those suckers into submission. Are you counting? That was five moths so far.
What did I do? I got up and Googled Miller Moths of course. We had no bug spray, but I wouldn’t have used it anyway. It smells horrible. According to Google, Miller Moths are the Spring scourge of Colorado. The larvae burrow into the ground in Kansas and Nebraska and hatch in the Spring, at which point they head for the Rockies. They navigate by the moon and stars, which is why they are attracted to the light. They get into anywhere there is light, including towns, including homes, including, obviously, motor homes. Then they desperately try to get to the Rockies, where there are succulent flowers for them to dine upon.
Google's advice on how to get rid of them once they are in your house was this: You suspend an electric light bulb above a bucket of water. They come to the light, drop into the bucket and drown. Right. This sounds like one of those it-might-work solutions. And anyway, we don’t have a light bulb on a cord. We do have a bucket, but we weren’t inclined to set up this death trap, especially at eleven at night.
The total number of moths we got that night was an amazing fourteen. It was like they emailed each other and decided our bus was the place to meet. You should have seen John with his terrible towel and his wussy fly swatter. Me, I was under the covers, playing the delicate maiden card.
Finally we gave up and turned off all the lights.
Then came the smell. What is that horrible smell? I asked on returning from my Google search. It was definitely coming in the window right over my pillow. Right into my delicate little Irish nose. It was not something anyone could sleep through. I tried, believe me.
The last time I smelled anything this bad was in the monkey house at the Bronx Zoo. But I seriously doubt if any monkeys were hanging around our camper. Coyote? Wolf? Bear?
No, I learned the next morning, it was a badger. And in case you are wondering, badger smell is almost as bad as skunk smell. And it was strong, then it was not so strong, then it was strong, then it was gone, then it came back again, then it stayed around ….
Do something, I said to John. I won't be able to sleep.
I already did, he replied. I killed fourteen Miller Moths. This is your baby.
So I did what any smart woman would do. I got out my Pueblo Bonito Spa home spray, which I purchased in Mexico. I doused us both with its lovely scent. I closed the window. And I went to sleep.
Of course I did. If I wasn’t going to confront a moth, there was no way I was going to confront a badger.
Betty
When I was a little girl, I remember these big brown moths that seemed to have nothing to recommend them. They weren’t pretty, they were kind of dumb, and they left a powdery smear if you tried to hold one of them. My mother told me they were Miller Moths, and I haven’t thought about them in years, although I have seen them pretty often. I ignored them, and they ignored me.
But two nights ago, we held a party in the camper for Miller Moths. I let one out the window, and his twin brother appeared about fifteen minutes later. John zapped him with a rolled up magazine, and we continued on with our evening. We had dinner, we watched some TV, we checked our e-mails and we headed for bed.
No sooner had I created my nocturnal cocoon – one pillow under me, another propped up as a book rest, my current favorite novel, my book lamp adjusted just right, and my covers snugged around me and covering my recumbent self up to my ears – than I was dive-bombed by another Miller Moth. Yikes, I screamed.
What, what! Said John.
Another f*#king moth, I said. My ladylike demeanor deserts me when I am physically threatened.
So kill it, he said.
With what? I said. I only have my book.
The moth continued to dive-bomb me. I turned off my book light and plunged the room into darkness.
Kill it, I said in my little-girl voice. I won’t be able to sleep if I know it’s in this room. I covered my head.
John put the overhead light on, and went forward to grab the fly swatter. A fly swatter, in case you were wondering, is one of the RV necessities that nobody tells you about, but which you buy pretty soon after you get your RV.
Our fly swatter is a wuss. It’s soft and pliable, effective only if you can flick it so that it whips the insect to death. After about fifteen ineffective swipes at the now-terrified moth, John grabbed a towel and started swinging. Actually, that worked.
We were both pretty wide awake after that, so we once again created the read-a-book-in-bed scenario. Muscles began to relax, eyes began to droop and we headed towards dreamland.
Then the second squad entered, heading straight for the book lights. Three of them, this time. Oh no, I yelled, get them!
John jumped up, grabbed his towel and beat those suckers into submission. Are you counting? That was five moths so far.
What did I do? I got up and Googled Miller Moths of course. We had no bug spray, but I wouldn’t have used it anyway. It smells horrible. According to Google, Miller Moths are the Spring scourge of Colorado. The larvae burrow into the ground in Kansas and Nebraska and hatch in the Spring, at which point they head for the Rockies. They navigate by the moon and stars, which is why they are attracted to the light. They get into anywhere there is light, including towns, including homes, including, obviously, motor homes. Then they desperately try to get to the Rockies, where there are succulent flowers for them to dine upon.
Google's advice on how to get rid of them once they are in your house was this: You suspend an electric light bulb above a bucket of water. They come to the light, drop into the bucket and drown. Right. This sounds like one of those it-might-work solutions. And anyway, we don’t have a light bulb on a cord. We do have a bucket, but we weren’t inclined to set up this death trap, especially at eleven at night.
The total number of moths we got that night was an amazing fourteen. It was like they emailed each other and decided our bus was the place to meet. You should have seen John with his terrible towel and his wussy fly swatter. Me, I was under the covers, playing the delicate maiden card.
Finally we gave up and turned off all the lights.
Then came the smell. What is that horrible smell? I asked on returning from my Google search. It was definitely coming in the window right over my pillow. Right into my delicate little Irish nose. It was not something anyone could sleep through. I tried, believe me.
The last time I smelled anything this bad was in the monkey house at the Bronx Zoo. But I seriously doubt if any monkeys were hanging around our camper. Coyote? Wolf? Bear?
No, I learned the next morning, it was a badger. And in case you are wondering, badger smell is almost as bad as skunk smell. And it was strong, then it was not so strong, then it was strong, then it was gone, then it came back again, then it stayed around ….
Do something, I said to John. I won't be able to sleep.
I already did, he replied. I killed fourteen Miller Moths. This is your baby.
So I did what any smart woman would do. I got out my Pueblo Bonito Spa home spray, which I purchased in Mexico. I doused us both with its lovely scent. I closed the window. And I went to sleep.
Of course I did. If I wasn’t going to confront a moth, there was no way I was going to confront a badger.
Betty
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Lulled by the Laundry
Salina - At the Laundromat
The size of our washing machine – miniscule – and the capacity of our water tank – challenged – led me to choose to drive to the laundromat, always an interesting experience.
I had a blog to write, so I took my computer along, and planned to stay the whole boring time instead of returning to the Bus-On-Blocks. I’ve been to laundromats before, but I never stick around. I don’t watch grass grow, wait for pots to boil or sit around until the ice melts on that lake in Goshen – which, by the way, is an actual, annual event in those parts of Connecticut.
I loaded my four machines, dropped in my obscene number of quarters, soaped up, pushed the button and got to work on my blogging. Almost half an hour later, I put my head up and realized I had done the impossible. I had finished a chapter on getting marooned in Kansas, and I had also gotten my white pants clean of the oil that was a by-product of the breakdown that got us here in the first place. Talk about your full circle.
Then I noticed that the two other people in the place had not moved in half an hour. Both of them, a “man of the fields” by his appearance, and a “mom of sixteen” by hers, were staring fixedly at their respective washing machines and had been doing so the whole time I had been there.
I folded my fluffy towels, neatly arranged my shirts in a flat pile for their future hangers, tucked my undies into my purse, and started on the job of taking my pristine piles out to the car. Of course, I didn’t go directly to the car. I took a left and detoured around the aisle to see what was so darned compelling about the machines on that row.
I stood for a few minutes staring at the two busy washing machines. Soap, suds, duds. Yep. No cats, dogs or other errant items of non-wash that might have landed in the basket by mistake. No strange behavior of soap, like color changes or oversize bubbles. No odd behaviors of laundry, like unacceptable shrinkage or dangerous shredding. There were no laundry events of note, of any kind. And yet they sat and stared.
Uh. Okay. I finished stacking the back seat of the car and decided to re-dry the jeans, always the rebels of the load who demand extra attention. I returned to my computer for another half hour.
I finished another blog, turned to the dryer, pulled out those jeans, snapped them into shape and folded them neatly along the press lines. I was done.
Field man and mom were still there. Neither had moved. I took the long way around again, and discreetly held a mirror under each nose. The mirror fogged, so I knew they were alive. But maybe they were under a spell put on them by the evil light-bulb changer who had been up on the ladder when I arrived but who’d beaten a quick retreat once I got going with my laundry. Whatever.
More likely they were just using the time to relax and chill, lulled into an hypnotic state by the slosh slosh of the water and the thump thump of the clothing. Maybe this laundry time was the only time they got to themselves. Just maybe, it was keeping them sane and helping them to deal. Maybe it was a New Age technique. Why not. Kansas isn’t Oklahoma, after all.
All I know is, they looked really peaceful just sitting there and watching their stuff go round and round. Maybe next time I won’t bring my computer. Maybe I’ll just join them in their pleasant fog. But first I’m going to have to get some more interesting laundry. I need the intellectual stimulation.
Betty
The size of our washing machine – miniscule – and the capacity of our water tank – challenged – led me to choose to drive to the laundromat, always an interesting experience.
I had a blog to write, so I took my computer along, and planned to stay the whole boring time instead of returning to the Bus-On-Blocks. I’ve been to laundromats before, but I never stick around. I don’t watch grass grow, wait for pots to boil or sit around until the ice melts on that lake in Goshen – which, by the way, is an actual, annual event in those parts of Connecticut.
I loaded my four machines, dropped in my obscene number of quarters, soaped up, pushed the button and got to work on my blogging. Almost half an hour later, I put my head up and realized I had done the impossible. I had finished a chapter on getting marooned in Kansas, and I had also gotten my white pants clean of the oil that was a by-product of the breakdown that got us here in the first place. Talk about your full circle.
Then I noticed that the two other people in the place had not moved in half an hour. Both of them, a “man of the fields” by his appearance, and a “mom of sixteen” by hers, were staring fixedly at their respective washing machines and had been doing so the whole time I had been there.
I folded my fluffy towels, neatly arranged my shirts in a flat pile for their future hangers, tucked my undies into my purse, and started on the job of taking my pristine piles out to the car. Of course, I didn’t go directly to the car. I took a left and detoured around the aisle to see what was so darned compelling about the machines on that row.
I stood for a few minutes staring at the two busy washing machines. Soap, suds, duds. Yep. No cats, dogs or other errant items of non-wash that might have landed in the basket by mistake. No strange behavior of soap, like color changes or oversize bubbles. No odd behaviors of laundry, like unacceptable shrinkage or dangerous shredding. There were no laundry events of note, of any kind. And yet they sat and stared.
Uh. Okay. I finished stacking the back seat of the car and decided to re-dry the jeans, always the rebels of the load who demand extra attention. I returned to my computer for another half hour.
I finished another blog, turned to the dryer, pulled out those jeans, snapped them into shape and folded them neatly along the press lines. I was done.
Field man and mom were still there. Neither had moved. I took the long way around again, and discreetly held a mirror under each nose. The mirror fogged, so I knew they were alive. But maybe they were under a spell put on them by the evil light-bulb changer who had been up on the ladder when I arrived but who’d beaten a quick retreat once I got going with my laundry. Whatever.
More likely they were just using the time to relax and chill, lulled into an hypnotic state by the slosh slosh of the water and the thump thump of the clothing. Maybe this laundry time was the only time they got to themselves. Just maybe, it was keeping them sane and helping them to deal. Maybe it was a New Age technique. Why not. Kansas isn’t Oklahoma, after all.
All I know is, they looked really peaceful just sitting there and watching their stuff go round and round. Maybe next time I won’t bring my computer. Maybe I’ll just join them in their pleasant fog. But first I’m going to have to get some more interesting laundry. I need the intellectual stimulation.
Betty
The Wetness of Water
Almost six days into this enforced vacation in Salina Kansas, I am reflecting on the relative importance of those things necessary to survival in the wild. And by wild I mean someplace without a decent restaurant.
I would say that the basic three are food, water, and electricity. Food is a no-brainer. When the zoo’s deviled eggs make you sick, and the Mickey D food begins to taste like the cardboard it is, you need some decent food in your refrigerator. Lettuce and tomatoes, for starters. This simple salad can taste like manna from on high if you’re sufficiently deprived. Yogurt. This acidophilus-containing tummy filler will combat those nasty zoo eggs and get you regular in a pinch, if you get my drift.
Electricity is another no-brainer. How else can you watch the Idol finals if you don’t have electricity?
Water, of course, sustains all life, washes your dishes if you’ve been dumb enough to run out of the paper variety, cleanses your body and your clothes, and is an important part of that which will not be mentioned in the water closet. Which is why, of course, they call it a water closet.
But get stuck in a tow yard and even if your water needs are met courtesy of the hose they so generously have hooked up to their faucet, you end up with other life-altering decisions to make.
I have already been told not to abuse the electric by using the iron, hair dryer, microwave, and curling iron. Sheesh. All the fun stuff.
And now it appears I may not be able to do something else unless we are fixed and mobile very soon.
Here’s the deal with the water. It comes in, but it doesn’t go out. You have your holding tanks – one for fresh water, one for grey water – that’s the effluence of your showers, washing machine, kitchen and bathroom sinks – and another for “black” water. Which of course is that which shall not be mentioned.
There are gauges that tell you just how full or empty each holding tank is. Our grey water tank was 95% full, so John crept out at midnight last night and pulled the plug on our soapy, skin-cell polluted grey water and let it flow down the driveway of the repair station. By morning all was dry, and nobody was the wiser.
But you can’t empty a black-water tank just anywhere. So I’m sitting here waiting for John to tell me my bathroom privileges have been suspended. In which case, you may reach me at the local Best Western. It won’t have all the comforts of home, but I can wash my hair, and if I’m lucky, the TV will work and I can find out if it’s Kris or Adam on Idol. As if. Adam will walk away with it. He’s the bomb.
Betty
I would say that the basic three are food, water, and electricity. Food is a no-brainer. When the zoo’s deviled eggs make you sick, and the Mickey D food begins to taste like the cardboard it is, you need some decent food in your refrigerator. Lettuce and tomatoes, for starters. This simple salad can taste like manna from on high if you’re sufficiently deprived. Yogurt. This acidophilus-containing tummy filler will combat those nasty zoo eggs and get you regular in a pinch, if you get my drift.
Electricity is another no-brainer. How else can you watch the Idol finals if you don’t have electricity?
Water, of course, sustains all life, washes your dishes if you’ve been dumb enough to run out of the paper variety, cleanses your body and your clothes, and is an important part of that which will not be mentioned in the water closet. Which is why, of course, they call it a water closet.
But get stuck in a tow yard and even if your water needs are met courtesy of the hose they so generously have hooked up to their faucet, you end up with other life-altering decisions to make.
I have already been told not to abuse the electric by using the iron, hair dryer, microwave, and curling iron. Sheesh. All the fun stuff.
And now it appears I may not be able to do something else unless we are fixed and mobile very soon.
Here’s the deal with the water. It comes in, but it doesn’t go out. You have your holding tanks – one for fresh water, one for grey water – that’s the effluence of your showers, washing machine, kitchen and bathroom sinks – and another for “black” water. Which of course is that which shall not be mentioned.
There are gauges that tell you just how full or empty each holding tank is. Our grey water tank was 95% full, so John crept out at midnight last night and pulled the plug on our soapy, skin-cell polluted grey water and let it flow down the driveway of the repair station. By morning all was dry, and nobody was the wiser.
But you can’t empty a black-water tank just anywhere. So I’m sitting here waiting for John to tell me my bathroom privileges have been suspended. In which case, you may reach me at the local Best Western. It won’t have all the comforts of home, but I can wash my hair, and if I’m lucky, the TV will work and I can find out if it’s Kris or Adam on Idol. As if. Adam will walk away with it. He’s the bomb.
Betty
So Marooned We’re Almost Purple
Salina Kansas
It’s five days after the turbo event, and we are still parked on blocks in front of the Auto House Towing & Car Repair garage. The world is going on around us, but we are stalled here, at the mercy of the gods.
First there was the weekend, during which only emergencies were attended to. We were triaged, but didn’t make it to emergency status. After all, we were still breathing and we had water and electricity. No matter that the high-end restaurant in Salina (Sal-eye-nah) was a tossup between McD’s and a Sonic. No matter that there was no movie theater, library, museum. There was a zoo and we could damn well go see some wildlife yah.
To be fair, we did discover a movie theater out of town at the obligatory mall, so life wasn’t as tough as I’m making it out to be. But we are down to our last can of clams, and unless I can Google a Walmart in the immediate area, dinner tonight may well be clam dip on rye bread.
We thought we’d get our part on Monday, but there were no turbos in the area, so it had to be Fedexed for Tuesday delivery. Then the part arrived, but the mechanic didn’t. Turns out that while we were bemoaning the fate of our home on wheels, this poor guy took a sharp stick in the eye, literally, and being a tough, homespun Kansas type, ignored it until it turned into a threat to his sight. So he had to see the doctor, who wasn’t available until Wednesday (talk about emergency service!) and might have to have an operation to save the eye, after which god knows how long, he could fix our bus.
Is there a second mechanic in this town? Apparently not. So we held a private prayer service inside the bus, making even Zeus get own on his knees with us, and petitioned God for his speedy recovery.
It must have worked, because he’s supposed to be back on the job tomorrow. Meanwhile the weather is amazing. Even when it gets up past 80, it’s fabulous because the wind blows constantly, and although my hair has assumed some very interesting positions as a result, it is wonderful to be outside and enjoying things like… the zoo. Yes we did go, and while we both got really sick from the deviled eggs we had for lunch (never, ever buy egg anything when you are at the zoo) we had a good time. We took ourselves to Abilene and visited the Eisenhower Museum and family home, which was very well done and incredibly interesting, especially Mamie’s jewelry – look, you research what you like and I’ll research what I like.
Later, we’ll go back to Abilene for dinner. There’s a restaurant there that is said to have the best fried chicken in Kansas. So what if it’s another 50-mile round trip. It’s either that or clam dip on rye. What would you do?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Marooned in Kansas
Ellesworth Kansas
It’s 3 in the afternoon on Friday, and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with a burned out turbo.
I had almost completed the second leg of our 4 hour trek from Oklahoma to Kansas when, wonder of wonders, there appeared before me a slight rise in the road, what in Kansas would be termed a hill.
I put the bus into a lower gear and proceeded forward, watching with concern as the speedometer went from 65 to 45 and still headed downward. A pedal to the metal didn’t make an ounce of difference. We crested the hill; I breathed a sigh of relief and put the van back into drive gear. Then I looked in the mirror.
The entire road was filled with white smoke, our tow car was invisible, and it seemed to be coming from the bus. Oh God, I cried, we’re on fire! Either that, or we just elected a new pope. It sure looked like we were on fire. I pulled over and John grabbed the fire extinguisher and went to investigate.
The good news was, we weren’t on fire. The bad news was, we were spewing oil and smoke from our exhaust, and the car, newly washed yesterday, was covered with oil. I mean it was black!
A kind motorist pulled over and asked if we were okay and said his wife had called 911. The fire trucks arrived, several other cars stopped, and the police were not far behind them. Everybody stood around looking at the tail pipe. We were encouraged to drive two miles further to an exit and safer parking at a local gas station.
We caravaned: bus, car, two fire trucks and one police car. But for the smoke, you could have figured it for a giant drug bust with extra help in case there were also contraband fireworks in the evil bus.
I have never seen so much smoke. The road was blanketed on both sides for the whole two miles. The Jeep, bad enough at first, was now one big oil slick. We pulled in to a parking lot next to the gas station to wait for help. Gas stations, let me inform you, do not work on RV’s. You need an RV mechanic. Fortunately, the cop had a friend who showed up and diagnosed our turbo as deceased, so at least we knew what it was.
Now we just had to wait for the Good Sam Club rescue guy to show up. John spent a good 45 minutes with them on the phone, telling first this one, then someone else, all our information – our VIN number, date of purchase, place of purchase, etc., plus his weight, social security number and years of military service.
With nothing else to do, we filled a bucket with dish detergent (a great suggestion from our friend Geno) and set to cleaning the Jeep. Half an hour later, we’d gotten most of the oil off the car… and onto my new beige pants and shirt. John’s new shorts were ruined as well.
I changed into clean clothes, got as much of the oily dirt off my hands and face as I could, then decided, apropos of nothing, to take a bike ride. It is a beautiful day and I could use the exercise. I got on my bike, drove into a curb and fell into the dust and gravel. I gave up.
My clean clothes are dirty, my dirty old clothes are soaking, my hands are scraped and I’ve decided never to drive a Jeep, RV or bike again. I’m going to get an elephant and one of those little houses (howdahs?) that sits on its back and I will employ slaves to lift me in and out of it.
I wonder if they even have elephants in Kansas. And do they come with VIN numbers? John’s giving the VIN to our would-be rescuers for the seventh time in an hour. I’d better go give him some moral support, like, for instance, a cold beer.
Betty
It’s 3 in the afternoon on Friday, and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with a burned out turbo.
I had almost completed the second leg of our 4 hour trek from Oklahoma to Kansas when, wonder of wonders, there appeared before me a slight rise in the road, what in Kansas would be termed a hill.
I put the bus into a lower gear and proceeded forward, watching with concern as the speedometer went from 65 to 45 and still headed downward. A pedal to the metal didn’t make an ounce of difference. We crested the hill; I breathed a sigh of relief and put the van back into drive gear. Then I looked in the mirror.
The entire road was filled with white smoke, our tow car was invisible, and it seemed to be coming from the bus. Oh God, I cried, we’re on fire! Either that, or we just elected a new pope. It sure looked like we were on fire. I pulled over and John grabbed the fire extinguisher and went to investigate.
The good news was, we weren’t on fire. The bad news was, we were spewing oil and smoke from our exhaust, and the car, newly washed yesterday, was covered with oil. I mean it was black!
A kind motorist pulled over and asked if we were okay and said his wife had called 911. The fire trucks arrived, several other cars stopped, and the police were not far behind them. Everybody stood around looking at the tail pipe. We were encouraged to drive two miles further to an exit and safer parking at a local gas station.
We caravaned: bus, car, two fire trucks and one police car. But for the smoke, you could have figured it for a giant drug bust with extra help in case there were also contraband fireworks in the evil bus.
I have never seen so much smoke. The road was blanketed on both sides for the whole two miles. The Jeep, bad enough at first, was now one big oil slick. We pulled in to a parking lot next to the gas station to wait for help. Gas stations, let me inform you, do not work on RV’s. You need an RV mechanic. Fortunately, the cop had a friend who showed up and diagnosed our turbo as deceased, so at least we knew what it was.
Now we just had to wait for the Good Sam Club rescue guy to show up. John spent a good 45 minutes with them on the phone, telling first this one, then someone else, all our information – our VIN number, date of purchase, place of purchase, etc., plus his weight, social security number and years of military service.
With nothing else to do, we filled a bucket with dish detergent (a great suggestion from our friend Geno) and set to cleaning the Jeep. Half an hour later, we’d gotten most of the oil off the car… and onto my new beige pants and shirt. John’s new shorts were ruined as well.
I changed into clean clothes, got as much of the oily dirt off my hands and face as I could, then decided, apropos of nothing, to take a bike ride. It is a beautiful day and I could use the exercise. I got on my bike, drove into a curb and fell into the dust and gravel. I gave up.
My clean clothes are dirty, my dirty old clothes are soaking, my hands are scraped and I’ve decided never to drive a Jeep, RV or bike again. I’m going to get an elephant and one of those little houses (howdahs?) that sits on its back and I will employ slaves to lift me in and out of it.
I wonder if they even have elephants in Kansas. And do they come with VIN numbers? John’s giving the VIN to our would-be rescuers for the seventh time in an hour. I’d better go give him some moral support, like, for instance, a cold beer.
Betty
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Oklahoma. Yow!
Cedar Valley RV Park
Guthrie Oklahoma
If Texas is cowboy country, Oklahoma is even cowboyer. We weren’t three miles across the border when I saw a horse farm. Then another. And another. This is truly horse country. And while I didn’t see one cowboy hat in Houston, I have seen three since I got here. Including the one on the old geezer sitting behind the desk at this campground. I’m only calling him that because he stuck us next to the dumpster. Ornery old cuss.
The corn isn’t as high as an elephant’s eye, yet, but it’s here and growing. And I’m sure that tomorrow morning there will be a bright golden haze on the meadow.
This is very pretty country. Rolling hills, lots of green, little wildflowers by the side of the road, fewer road signs than I’ve been seeing, thank goodness. And the temperature is in the 90’s but the wind is so strong that it feels more like a luxury spa than a sauna.
Just outside of Oklahoma City, I passed my very first ever Horse Shoeing School. The building was red, the campus was big, and the horses were numerous, and presumably in need of shoeing. I wonder if it’s a four-year accredited institution. Do you get a degree in shoe? What other courses might they offer? Something to consider.
We’re on our way to Yellowstone in Wyoming, so these are just one-night stopovers. Nevertheless, there’s something new and different everywhere we go. And if there isn’t, you can just make your own fun if you feel like it.
For instance, I just nailed the dumpster shut. Should make for an interesting evening, don’t you think?
Betty
Guthrie Oklahoma
If Texas is cowboy country, Oklahoma is even cowboyer. We weren’t three miles across the border when I saw a horse farm. Then another. And another. This is truly horse country. And while I didn’t see one cowboy hat in Houston, I have seen three since I got here. Including the one on the old geezer sitting behind the desk at this campground. I’m only calling him that because he stuck us next to the dumpster. Ornery old cuss.
The corn isn’t as high as an elephant’s eye, yet, but it’s here and growing. And I’m sure that tomorrow morning there will be a bright golden haze on the meadow.
This is very pretty country. Rolling hills, lots of green, little wildflowers by the side of the road, fewer road signs than I’ve been seeing, thank goodness. And the temperature is in the 90’s but the wind is so strong that it feels more like a luxury spa than a sauna.
Just outside of Oklahoma City, I passed my very first ever Horse Shoeing School. The building was red, the campus was big, and the horses were numerous, and presumably in need of shoeing. I wonder if it’s a four-year accredited institution. Do you get a degree in shoe? What other courses might they offer? Something to consider.
We’re on our way to Yellowstone in Wyoming, so these are just one-night stopovers. Nevertheless, there’s something new and different everywhere we go. And if there isn’t, you can just make your own fun if you feel like it.
For instance, I just nailed the dumpster shut. Should make for an interesting evening, don’t you think?
Betty
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Bison in the Backyard
Houston, Texas
On the road to Austin
This is Texas, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. And this is life, so I guess I shouldn’t be impressed, appalled or amused by the things people keep in their yards. Like gnomes, signs warning adulterers off, dead cars, airplanes, junk, grottoes, goats and children, all of which I have seen on this great exploration by bus.
But a Texas Longhorn as a pet? That’s a new one on me. Near the campground we last visited, on a block of suburban homes featuring the usual two-car garages, neatly tended lawns and gardens, little white fences and the like, there is another well-tended ranch home, different only in that it has a huge bale of hay in front of the garage, several impressive mounds of poop scattered here and there, and in the middle of the lawn, as disinterested in my honking as ever a bored mammal could be, the biggest cow I’ve ever seen, with the biggest horns I’ve ever witnessed.
And on looking, discreetly, I discover that it’s not a cow at all, unless there are boy cows. No, this giant is a steer, most definitely. And each of his horns is the length of one of my legs. Which means that he’s about my height, sideways. And he sleeps on his back or his belly, unless he’s got one heck of a flexible neck.
How did he come to be a suburban pet, I wonder. Did the dog die and the people decide to trade up? Did Junior happen upon him in Petsmart and throw a tantrum until Mom and Dad relented and dragged Mr. Horny, as Junior has already named him, through the checkout? Did he have a barcode on his hide instead of a brand?
Is hay cheaper than KenLRation? Do they even make pooper scoopers in behemoth size? Did he come with a leash?
When he gets a bath do they put his hair in a little topknot with a pink bow? Does he get a bandana for around his neck? Does the vet give him a little bison bone when he’s finished his exam?
And most importantly, is there a Cesar Millan for him? A bison whisperer? Because otherwise, those folks are in for a rough time if he isn’t taught some proper behaviors like sit and stay. Heel, I wouldn’t worry about. A person could get poked if this guy walked too close.
Check it out. Swingset, trampoline, and longhorn steer.
On the road to Austin
This is Texas, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. And this is life, so I guess I shouldn’t be impressed, appalled or amused by the things people keep in their yards. Like gnomes, signs warning adulterers off, dead cars, airplanes, junk, grottoes, goats and children, all of which I have seen on this great exploration by bus.
But a Texas Longhorn as a pet? That’s a new one on me. Near the campground we last visited, on a block of suburban homes featuring the usual two-car garages, neatly tended lawns and gardens, little white fences and the like, there is another well-tended ranch home, different only in that it has a huge bale of hay in front of the garage, several impressive mounds of poop scattered here and there, and in the middle of the lawn, as disinterested in my honking as ever a bored mammal could be, the biggest cow I’ve ever seen, with the biggest horns I’ve ever witnessed.
And on looking, discreetly, I discover that it’s not a cow at all, unless there are boy cows. No, this giant is a steer, most definitely. And each of his horns is the length of one of my legs. Which means that he’s about my height, sideways. And he sleeps on his back or his belly, unless he’s got one heck of a flexible neck.
How did he come to be a suburban pet, I wonder. Did the dog die and the people decide to trade up? Did Junior happen upon him in Petsmart and throw a tantrum until Mom and Dad relented and dragged Mr. Horny, as Junior has already named him, through the checkout? Did he have a barcode on his hide instead of a brand?
Is hay cheaper than KenLRation? Do they even make pooper scoopers in behemoth size? Did he come with a leash?
When he gets a bath do they put his hair in a little topknot with a pink bow? Does he get a bandana for around his neck? Does the vet give him a little bison bone when he’s finished his exam?
And most importantly, is there a Cesar Millan for him? A bison whisperer? Because otherwise, those folks are in for a rough time if he isn’t taught some proper behaviors like sit and stay. Heel, I wouldn’t worry about. A person could get poked if this guy walked too close.
Check it out. Swingset, trampoline, and longhorn steer.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Suppose They Gave a Flu ... And Nobody Came
Houston TX
Rayford RV Resort
We just spent seven days in Cabo San Lucas, which is at the very bottom of the Baja California Peninsula in Mexico. It was notable for two things: the absence of both people and swine flu.
Swine flu is one of those nasty bugs that originates among animals, mutates and jumps happily to humans, in this case from pig to person. It has occurred before, most notably in the mid 70’s, when a vaccine was developed to combat its spread. Some 40 million people including President Ford were vaccinated then, and a bunch of them died, not from the flu but from the vaccination.
(Ironically, the 1918 influenza epidemic, which had a devastating effect on the population, killing, among others, my own grandmother, appears to have jumped from humans to pigs and not the other way around. I’ll bet those pigs were annoyed.)
In 1998, there was another outbreak of swine flu among pigs, this time from a strain that combined both human and bird viruses. It begins to beg the question: who is more of a danger to whom, pigs or people?
So here we are in 2009, with our vast array of medical knowledge and tools to combat illness, and what are we doing? We’re once again freaking about a pig virus that appears to have originated in Mexico and is busy visiting countries around the world. A virus, by the way, that ends up to be milder than we ever expected. Have you seen the pictures of the guys in hazmat suits taking people’s temperatures in Japanese airports?
People! We’re talking about a virus! A teeny eeny weeny virus, so small it can walk through the weave in a 600-thread-count sheet! What is a big white suit going to do except make it hard to walk, talk and pick up the pen you dropped? Nevertheless, I’ve seen people with masks walking around the airports in both Cabo and Houston (more masks in Houston). Are they trying not to get it? Or trying not to spread it? Hard to say. But I myself definitely used the hand sanitizer more than once.
To all those dear and wonderful family members and friends who warned us not to take this vacation, I send my thanks and love for their concern. I was a little concerned myself until I went to the CDC page on the Internet and got the real story, devoid of media glitter and rant. The flu, it turns out, is not that big a deal.
But poor Mexico is taking the rap big time. There were all of 27 people on the plane coming down. This despite the fact that Cabo is across a big stretch of water, the Sea of Cortez, from mainland Mexico. There have been no cases of flu there, and everybody seems to be in the best of health. You would be too, if you slowed down, adapted the Mexican rate of respiration, worried less, slept more and spent whole days in the warm and nurturing sun.
Cabo was deserted. No tourists. No cruise ships. Nobody but the Fittermans and a couple of expats who seemed not to have heard the buzz about the bug. It was heaven for us, but hell for the Mexicans who derive 98% of their income from the tourist trade. The pool was quiet, the restaurants were empty, the shops were reducing their prices by the minute. In one place, the owner reduced his price twice after I said I’d buy his $8 shell necklace. I ended up paying $5, but only because I insisted that his $3 counteroffer was too little. I got out of there before the poor guy ended up paying me to take the darn thing off his hands.
On one particular night, a good-looking and jovial fisherman approached us with, “Tourists! Thank God! Thank you for coming! We appreciate it!” We all laughed and continued on our way, but it struck me that this flu fear has really hurt both the Mexican and the US tourist business at a time when we can least afford it.
And now, having thumped my chest in commiseration for all those financially hurt by what is turning out to be a big to-do about a little bug, let me honestly tell you this: that week alone, with nobody bugging us, with restaurants begging us to take a seat, any seat at all, with the quiet, the sun, the weather, and especially with the empty airport and easy pass through security, my friends, that was one of the best vacations of my life.
Call me a swine, but I had a ball.
Betty
Rayford RV Resort
We just spent seven days in Cabo San Lucas, which is at the very bottom of the Baja California Peninsula in Mexico. It was notable for two things: the absence of both people and swine flu.
Swine flu is one of those nasty bugs that originates among animals, mutates and jumps happily to humans, in this case from pig to person. It has occurred before, most notably in the mid 70’s, when a vaccine was developed to combat its spread. Some 40 million people including President Ford were vaccinated then, and a bunch of them died, not from the flu but from the vaccination.
(Ironically, the 1918 influenza epidemic, which had a devastating effect on the population, killing, among others, my own grandmother, appears to have jumped from humans to pigs and not the other way around. I’ll bet those pigs were annoyed.)
In 1998, there was another outbreak of swine flu among pigs, this time from a strain that combined both human and bird viruses. It begins to beg the question: who is more of a danger to whom, pigs or people?
So here we are in 2009, with our vast array of medical knowledge and tools to combat illness, and what are we doing? We’re once again freaking about a pig virus that appears to have originated in Mexico and is busy visiting countries around the world. A virus, by the way, that ends up to be milder than we ever expected. Have you seen the pictures of the guys in hazmat suits taking people’s temperatures in Japanese airports?
People! We’re talking about a virus! A teeny eeny weeny virus, so small it can walk through the weave in a 600-thread-count sheet! What is a big white suit going to do except make it hard to walk, talk and pick up the pen you dropped? Nevertheless, I’ve seen people with masks walking around the airports in both Cabo and Houston (more masks in Houston). Are they trying not to get it? Or trying not to spread it? Hard to say. But I myself definitely used the hand sanitizer more than once.
To all those dear and wonderful family members and friends who warned us not to take this vacation, I send my thanks and love for their concern. I was a little concerned myself until I went to the CDC page on the Internet and got the real story, devoid of media glitter and rant. The flu, it turns out, is not that big a deal.
But poor Mexico is taking the rap big time. There were all of 27 people on the plane coming down. This despite the fact that Cabo is across a big stretch of water, the Sea of Cortez, from mainland Mexico. There have been no cases of flu there, and everybody seems to be in the best of health. You would be too, if you slowed down, adapted the Mexican rate of respiration, worried less, slept more and spent whole days in the warm and nurturing sun.
Cabo was deserted. No tourists. No cruise ships. Nobody but the Fittermans and a couple of expats who seemed not to have heard the buzz about the bug. It was heaven for us, but hell for the Mexicans who derive 98% of their income from the tourist trade. The pool was quiet, the restaurants were empty, the shops were reducing their prices by the minute. In one place, the owner reduced his price twice after I said I’d buy his $8 shell necklace. I ended up paying $5, but only because I insisted that his $3 counteroffer was too little. I got out of there before the poor guy ended up paying me to take the darn thing off his hands.
On one particular night, a good-looking and jovial fisherman approached us with, “Tourists! Thank God! Thank you for coming! We appreciate it!” We all laughed and continued on our way, but it struck me that this flu fear has really hurt both the Mexican and the US tourist business at a time when we can least afford it.
And now, having thumped my chest in commiseration for all those financially hurt by what is turning out to be a big to-do about a little bug, let me honestly tell you this: that week alone, with nobody bugging us, with restaurants begging us to take a seat, any seat at all, with the quiet, the sun, the weather, and especially with the empty airport and easy pass through security, my friends, that was one of the best vacations of my life.
Call me a swine, but I had a ball.
Betty
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