Live Your Dream ~ That's My Theme

With thanks and a tip of the hat to blogging friend Kirk Jusko, [He doesn't post his picture, so I can't either.] for the title, it occurs to me that really is one of my strong life themes. I want everyone to land on their dreams and achieve them. I've had some lofty dreams of my own and on the odd occasion, I've found myself existing in my dream just as I dreamed it. Maybe I should have bought that bracelet for myself, or at least a matching one. I wonder if the catalog . . . . maybe . . .

I lean toward being generous and pretty engaged/engaging, so if I find out that you have a dream, likely I'll cheer for you at some point. If your kid wants to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, I'll walk her around the neighborhood, sit with her in front of the store, buy some cookies myself and take her to lunch to celebrate after the sale. If you need a 12-step program, I'll take you there and stay with you. If you want a meal or a drink, I love providing those things maybe more than any other. I'm not shy about asking others to support you, either. If I watch you chase your dream and fail to reach it, I'll love you and keep hoping. If I watch you chase your dream and grab it, I'll holler right out loud.

Those who come here often, know the Badger had an important two-stage race last weekend. Not for the first time, I asked other bloggers to join me in some collaborative effort to cheer the man on with words - show our support and humor and admiration. I was pleased and touched once again to see the work of those who commented "I'm in!" Bloggers are creative, of course, but I never cease to be amazed at the generosity we show one another.

It is not for me to tell you all about the two-day race and how it was the most difficult thing he has ever done on a bicycle. It's not my deal to tell you about the dead rattlers and what the weather and road gradient were like. It isn't my job to explain that he found the experience transcendent. Click on the link and read the last few posts of his good blog. You'll get the picture! I will share the words I'd never heard him utter before. As he stepped out of the car for the pre-race course test, he e-mailed, "I don't know if I can do it." I wasn't sure whether to e-mail this: ;~} or this: "How serious are you, since I can't see your face?" He was serious. He didn't know if he could propel that Cervelo up those hills.

No, my job is to present the works of my wonderful blogging friends. Here you are, Badger, applauded and encouraged from spots all across the globe and blogosphere. In absolutely no order whatsoever, behold the offerings. Congratulations on your first place, you climbing old mountain goat. Transcend and do it again! Ride on and live your dream!

I used the offerings as stand-alone poems this time. One will see why! Each was that good.

From my dear friend Rachel Fenton, a published author in Auckland, New Zealand, comes wonderful poetry she constructed using some of the language from my prompt in the original post:

His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3. A hound
with an orange saddle and handmade wheels.
Encircled: the heart monitored, wrist bound
by Garmin to give data, feed the needs he feels.

Erin O'Brien - yes, we all know she's Hot in Cleveland! - also a published author, rang in again:

The weather sure did make it hard
he did not end the Boulevard.
But upon the Callville Stage he stood
wearing proud a winner's hood.

He needs no introduction to you, Badge, but you knew friend Tag would play. His offering was dropped into my e-mail account, so this is the first public viewing:

Dead rattlers on the road
where Badger dares to fly
on wings of sinew and steel,
pushing to the summit
toward verging indigo sky.

All right, here we go. She hails from Sugarhouse, Salt Lake City, Utah. She is a poet, a fact recognized by many, many bloggers and readers. She is classy and sassy. She is Kassie. Her offering follows. I bow:

Listen, dear bloggers, and you shall hear
of Badger Morehouse with passion clear.
On a fine day in May he took his Cervelo R3
down to the floor of dry Death Valley.

Who remembers his spokes and tooth low gear?
Who remembers the miles he’s logged this year?
He says to friend, Les, “I’ll attack upslope,
I’ll ride with the wind, chase the ringer and hope.

Hang a bottle of water off of a tree,
one on the land, and two that I’ll see
on the opposite side of the valley.
Ready to ride, chains over the cogs,
I’ll attack the headwind and slide through bogs.”

Then he sees decayed asphalt and muffles a cry,
stands up out of his saddle and lets fly
a clatter of swearwords aimed at the sky.
His wheelness illness is evident now;
he’s careened with something left by a cow.

A paceline perfectly is formed,
under his slicker, his heart is warmed.
He’s mastered the switchback, he’s leading the pack;
he thinks of the past and takes a look back,
remembers the shot in his upper left thigh;
thinks of his death, of how he could die -
a punch in the kidneys by a teen upside down?

“I’m third in the nation,” he says with a frown.
I’ll not pass on in a way that is lame,
I want a sure victory, I must win this game.”

So laying a finger aside of his nose,
(Oh no, I’ve muddled, I’m in the wrong prose).
Let’s see, where were we, we’re talking of Jim
and how he cycles on more than a whim,
but now his heart is much like a wheel;

He won’t let go, his ambition is real.
His derailleurs will never derail his dream;
he’ll win this race, or so it would seem
to one who is waiting at his door,
with words that will echo forevermore!

For borne on the night-wind of the past,
through all their history, to the last,
in his hour of darkness and peril and need,
stands one without malice, corruption or greed.

Her heart will waken, she’ll welcome him home,
she’ll hand him the print-out of our collaborative poem.
He’s bound to listen and then he will hear
the resounding love of his cheerleader dear -
a love he can count on as simple as cycling -
it’s Leslie who’s waiting to announce, “You’re my King!"

And what does anyone have to say about that?

I didn't write any poetry this time. I'm not good with it. But I know it when I read it! My written offerings this time were my post, the endless e-mails as he traveled, prepared, and awaited the results. The Andy Griffith Show was my white noise - the episode where Thelma Lou's "dog" of a cousin, Mary Grace, comes to town and dazzles Gomer Pyle. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. It comforts me when I pace while absentmindedly getting dinner organized. I got an e-mail. "Outskirts of Las Vegas." I sent one back. "Would you like me to organize a parade, come out there and carry you, the Prius and your mighty steed into the city on my shoulder so you can bow and wave?" "Oh, no," came the reply. "That won't be necessary." He's modest, too! Enthusiastic, but modest.

In my ears right now: This is fun music. I was 22 years old.

Something that charmed me: This entire endeavor charmed me. The outcome charmed me. The 60-year-old dreamer charmed me. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one.

Photo credits: Good folks, I ask indulgence. I had to go a lot of places to get the pics. I'm going to take a flyer here, hoping that if you visit here to read, it means you've got a soft spot for me and you'll forgive me just this one time. Please. I don't mean to steal or offend.

OK, Who Wants to Have Some Fun? Join Me!

Perhaps the most fun I've had in my blogging life has been organizing collaborative efforts to produce fan poetry and virtual parties. Friend Kass has turned her hand to poetry collaboration that makes me drop my jaw. Both she and friend Tag have become brilliant at composing poetry by using words from the Comments section of their blogs, and they can make poetry from nothing, to my amazement. I'm not a poet or even poetic. I'm not that good. Or maybe it's just not what I want to do. But I'm a woman who knows how to tell a story and how to have a good time and how to ask for help, all while connecting with others, which - to me - is the most fun to be had anywhere, any time.

I'm not a cyclist, but I collect them like some people collect Hummel figures or Lladro pieces. I follow their blogs and I speak their language. I know about stage races and criterium races. I understand the categories into which the racers are placed. I get the flavor of the angst when a racer writes, "I worry that my 39x27 gearing might not be low enough for the challenge." I know how and where to buy the best clothing and accessories for the cyclist and I behold the beauty of the lost art of handmade wheels. If I were a churchgoer, I'd worship at the Church of the Big Ring, and all of this is saying something, because my own bicycle experiences and adventures have tended to be unpleasant ones.

I know one of the collected cyclists better and for longer than any of the others. We met in 1968. I know the provenance and the history of his single-minded fascination with the bicycle and racing with it. I know that he was dubbed The Badger by a racer who couldn't shake him back in the day . . . that ferocious tenacity hasn't diminished over 30 years, either. Badger is an appropriate appellation. With this cyclist, I made my bones as an official racing supporter and all-around cheerleader, hander-up of water while running, hander-up of water from a moving vehicle, waiter at the finish line. For this cyclist, I have driven his personal follow vehicle at the Skull Valley race two years in a row, driving 12 feet off of his back wheel for most of the 58 miles (obviously, I had to drive ahead and get out of the car to hand up water). At one memorable race, the cyclists were gathered at the starting line as the promoter was loudly promoting and hollered out, "Could we get a volunteer to drive my van and transport the race officials . . ." I was very surprised to hear my voice exclaim, "I'll do it. I'm experienced, too!" The Badger was pretty startled when I ran to the starting line to say, "I'm driving the Official Vehicle!" I followed him at very close quarters throughout that race, while pulling cyclists out for penalties whenever the official sounded the bullhorn. If it intrigues the reader, I've written many times on this blog about cycling races and one would look for the post label "races".

I won't try to tell you what cycling means to him. He does that very well himself on his own grand cycling blog. [One does not want to miss his fine photography blog, either.] A quick look at his last couple of posts will reveal that he is about to race in the granddaddy of all races, the Mt. Whitney Stage Race. Since the 1980s he has wanted to race this course of more than 50 miles at 10,000 feet of elevation. It finishes on the uphill, which will require him then to descend on some 180-degree switchbacks, but at least not at racing speed. And if all that is just a little too much about cycling, I'm nearly done going on about the race. Although it runs a bit long, the Fly By video will give one a tiny bit of insight into what is required for this endeavor. Simply follow the link and click on "Watch Course Fly-By Video". Drag the button a ways into the video and watch the drops off the sides and the switchbacks! Yes, those are running rivers - at one point he'll race across a bridge. Have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

The first epic race of this season - the dreaded/much anticipated Boulevard Road Race - was causing the Badger some anxiety. I wanted to have some fun and enlisted other bloggers to help me collaborate on a poem or a song or a whatever it turned out to be. The contributions began to pour in and it was wonderful to string snippets of words into a poem, crediting all the bloggers with what they had sent me. The result was a thing of great fun and beauty. His Wi-Fi was so erratic in the motel, he couldn't watch the poem develop on my blog. I read it to him at various stages on the phone and he finally got to take it in deeply when he arrived home. In his own words, the Badger stated it was "one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me." That production was simply a "Rah!" theme for a racing cyclist. I'm feeling playful again, and I have a little more experience than on my maiden voyage. So, who's in? We're going to have some fun!

Once again, I'm not sure what we can cobble together ~ a poem? An ode? I'd love to write a really good/bad country song if enough words are sent my way. It might even find its way to YouTube! So, here it is: all contributions will be accepted and used with joy. Send four rhyming lines, or two, or a repeating chorus or stream of consciousness. It doesn't matter. It will be received with gratitude. We'll need a title! Everyone will be credited. I will not edit, except to correct misspellings. Of course, we want to "Yay!" him to the finish line, but there's another theme I'd like to touch on - the ubiquitous shitty race weekend motel room. Imagine your own worst motel experiences and square them. Typically, these races aren't held in locations where fine lodging is available.

This time, I'm going to provide a few factoids that might help the reader form some thoughts:

• His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3 with an orange saddle and handmade wheels. Encircling his chest will be the heart monitor and on his wrist, the Garmin will give up all the data he needs.
  
  
• He'll be wearing his Paramount racing kit as seen in the photos, black Rapha knee warmers, a Galstudio handmade winter racing cap, a red helmet, red SiDi cycling shoes, Assos jacket and full-fingered gloves. (It's cold at 10,000 feet!)
  
  
• At races he wears a leather bracelet that says "Live Your Dream" on a silver plate and sports a tiny pewter badger.
  
  
• Names of races run this year: Boulevard Road Race (Did not finish - stopped by weather after 45 grueling miles), Callville Stage Race (2nd place in his category), Howard Hughes Ranch Road Race (4th place in his category), UCLA Road Race (17th place, but judged with everyone age 45+), San Diego Omnium (3rd place in his category).



• Crappy motel annoyances: no stopper for the bathtub (the man likes to soak in Epsom salts after riding hard), Wi-Fi that shimmies in and out like a hula dancer, rarely any cell phone signal, coffee-making devices or not, microwave or not, sagging chair seats, holes in the walls, paper-thin walls, insufficient heat or air conditioning, no paper products, no drinking glasses, no pillows.



• He has often commented that he nearly drove the wheels off of his Prius the first three months he owned it from chasing after races.

So, bloggers, let's do it! Certainly make comments on this post, as usual. But please drop your wordy offerings in the e-mail attached to my Blogger Profile. I'll start compiling the goods, and I'm certain we'll come up with a marvelous collaboration . . . . . If anyone wants to see the work-in-progress, let me know and I'll share it by e-mail.

It is a wonderful tech-forward age we live in. As he drove west across Nevada and California, we e-mailed frequently. He always "takes me" to the races. "I'm on the floor of Death Valley now." "If I'd raced that one contest I considered, this course would have broken me in two, now that I've seen it!" His mother and I e-mailed in the same time period, churning about the altitude and climb in this race. He mentioned yesterday his concern that he'll blow out a knee. I often get an e-mail just before the gun goes off - "We're off in 30 seconds!" Or, " *%&#, it's snowing and sticking to the ground here at the start!" I never fail to get the e-mail or phone call at the end of the race: "I think I took second - they haven't posted the results yet." Today will be a long wait. Once he runs the race, he'll have the long, frightening return. Who knows if there will be signal on the mountaintop? Reader, I can attest: it is far better to go to the race, where one can always find some occupation, than to sit home and w-a-i-t.

Yesterday we were communing deeply and he wrote, "I sometimes wonder why I am doing this kind of thing. Not in the sense of not continuing, but what is it that has appeared after all these years driving me to do things that have nothing to do with survival?" I laughed out loud at my desk. I typed a response to the effect that I had some thoughts on the matter, but couldn't possibly put them in good order for presentation on e-mail. That is a conversation that will take an hour. But I - the wordy woman - can encapsulate it! "Because that's just what you are meant to do, Badger." Does anyone besides me enjoy watching ice on fire? Flaming passion tempered by steely, cold consideration? I thank the reader for his or her indulgence today. That man deserves a party! And have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

In my ears right now: Friend Tag reminded me of the Beach Boys yesterday. They're era-appropriate to me and I liked them well enough. Their best known tunes were OK enough. But I prefer their take on things that have nothing to do with surfing or racing cars.

Something that charmed me: One e-mail I got yesterday contained an assessment of the race course, once he'd viewed it, and his ability to ride it. The words startled me because I've never heard him utter anything remotely similar to what he had to say about this course. I paced awhile. Soon came the next e-mail. He was steely. "I'm going to do this!" Well, sure, Badge. That's what you went there for.

According to my watch, he's been pedaling for 38 minutes. I've seen the pictures of the road. I imagine by now he's been up out of the saddle (pedaling while standing up) a time or two . . . . he'll have to do that a lot today and tomorrow.

Dispatch from the Front Lines (Through an Interpreter)

I've been asked to play Charlie McCarthy to the Badger's Edgar Bergen. He's off at the first race of the season, the onerous Boulevard Road Race. From the requisite shanty racing weekend motel, he was able to post to his blog last night, but this morning the internet connection flits in and out like a small rodent popping in and out of its hole. He's tried to e-mail, he's tried to post to his blog and he's tried to comment on this blog, all to no avail. The reader should know he has thoroughly enjoyed the poetic tribute in my last post and he will be commenting to all the contributers either when he can get his words out of Boulevard or when he returns to Las Vegas. In the meantime, he has asked me to post an update and the race results once we know them this evening.

The cyclist's own accounting of his passion for road racing should not be missed and his blog is replete with writing about cycling in general and some very specific races. I am not a cyclist. I am an observer of his preoccupation as I am an observer of all things human. But I know about cycling and races and the equipment and the garb. I know what 53:11 means and I know the ins-and-outs of embrocations because I pay attention. If it's important to him, it's important to me.

A year ago this weekend he raced at Boulevard for the first time. He did not possess the confidence he has earned over last race season. Conditions there were miserable the entire weekend and he sent an e-mail from his BlackBerry at the starting line. "*#&!, it's snowing and sticking to the ground." 380 miles away, I was his support team. I could see the gun would go off in three minutes. I knew how deeply he'd had to reach within himself to even be on that starting line. I had to reach deeply within myself to take a hard stance with him, likely the only time I've ever done it. I e-mailed back:"You know what to do!" He rode that race and during it he had his epiphany that formed his training program over the past year: he doesn't lose races on the climbs, he loses them on the descents partly due to his fear of the fast downhills. He was 59 years old, riding in a group of age 45+ riders in a field where people were dropping like flies. The rain and snow rained and snowed. Riders weren't properly dressed for it and had to pull out. He finished 14th in his category. He was the last cyclist to complete the race. The photo is him at Boulevard in 2009. It must have been early in the race, because there is daylight. When he finished, it was almost completely dark.

Fast forward to the 2010 event. Last year, rain was pretty much guaranteed, with the mostly likely precipitation predicted for the time he'd be on the race course. Ditto today. 30% chance at 11:00 a.m., 80% chance at 1:00 p.m. when he goes off and throughout the afternoon. Last year the radar showed a massive wall of water aimed at San Diego County. Check! Same thing today. There are mudslide warnings, with a chance the crumbling, ancient race course road will be mud slicked. A few minutes ago he e-mailed from the start: "Pouring." I sent back my hard line statement. "You know what to do." Earlier this morning, in one e-mail he told me, "I feel compelled to go do this whatever the conditions are now." I like observing a mad dog.

So for those who like the minutiae: On his skin he's applied a double layer of Mad Alchemy's medium embrocation for some protection against the rain and cold. There is nothing medium about this stuff - it is hell for hot. He's wearing 3 underlayers beneath last year's Paramount Racing Club kit and knee warmers. He has put on his red Assos jacket and topped it off with his rain jacket. On his head he wears the cycling cap I gave him as a Solstice gift and his helmet. When he mounts up, he'll be in the saddle on his favored Cervelo R3 upon which he has put rain tires.

Phone call from the starting line, 29 minutes to go: He's all checked in and has given my phone number in the event of emergency. He holds the phone up to the roof of the car so I can hear the pounding rain. It sounds like rocks hitting the roof! His fellow cyclist, John Rubcic, has just gone by on a motorcycle (he's doing rider support this race). Rubcic is soaked to the skin and reports that the road has running streams of water throughout. In some places the water is deep enough to have come up through the cattle guards. The Badger is watching a rider out the window. The man sits in the saddle in cycling shorts, a jersey and arm warmers - nothing against the rain and nothing on his legs. Incredibly, given his lack of attention to weatherproofing himself, he's got shoe covers on. I guess he values the shoes. "So are you going, Badger?" He says he'll start the race and weigh it lap by lap. "Can I do anything for you?" He asks me to check the hour-by-hour weather and the radar. Serendipity! When the gun goes off, there is 100% chance of thunderstorms. However, by 2:00, there's only a 75% chance of light rain and by 3:00 and 4:00 it says "cloudy". The radar shows the storm is breaking up somewhat. If he can get through the first hour or two without mishap or hypothermia . . . my computer says 1:01 p.m. He's off!

Now I pace or work distractedly for 4 or 4 1/2 hours or maybe 5. When he dismounts, he'll have to wipe down the bike and put it in the car, wipe down himself and put himself in the car, and then the phone call will come. I already have some interview questions sketched out. I'll update this post as soon as I can and we'll have it in his words when he finally busts out of Boulevard.

At the (at least) halfway point: 3:00 p.m. No phone call announcing emergency. No phone call from him to say he has had to pull the plug. The radar looks significantly better, although the hour-by-hour says it's still raining. Two hours into it. Up to two hours left to complete it. The speed will certainly have been affected by bad road conditions. No way to guess how much it has slowed the pace.

He's had to pull the plug - 3:40 p.m.: He is not hurt, nor is the bike. He made two laps - 45 miles. The wind and rain were so remarkable he barely had his wits about him to speak of it. More details on his blog or here when he gets warm and dry.

In my ears right now: The Rolling Stones. Start Me Up. Good starting line music. Good music to which to pace quickly (and dance just a little).

Something that charmed me: He called on me to help get his story and experience out. I found I knew how to tell about a cycling race. I like both of those things.

Surrealistic Sunday ~ The Field Trip, Chapter 1

"What do you feel like doing?" "I don't know, what do you feel like doing?" "Oh, I'm not sure. Let me bubble on it." It didn't take me long to land on it. "I'd like a field trip. It's been more than two years." "OK, that sounds like fun. Let's each take a camera." Good idea! I wasn't a blogger last time I made this trip.

I have a long association with Las Vegas, with some sizable gaps. I arrived here to live on the Bicentennial Day (July 4, 1976), remained 7 years, stayed away 18 years and have now been back for 7 years. I've worked at or been closely associated with real estate sales, escrow, construction, mortgage lending, land purchases, property management and now in a service industry catering to the general populace. I know the place pretty well. It is an unusual city in that it takes on new appearances seemingly overnight. When I returned in 2003, I was stunned that so many new buildings I knew from the 1970s were gone. But not entire city blocks of them. Piecemeal. So that one can't quite get comfortable. There's the old Alpine Inn, but I can't quite place the buildings on either side of it - they're new. Tall buildings mixed in among short, squat ones. There are tracts of land that have never been developed since the city's birth in 1905 - some of these vacant places completely encircled by development.

The route to our destination took us ten miles along a major east-west artery of the city. We weren't two miles from my place when we began to take in the most amazing sights. Neither of us uses this boulevard very frequently. The first stunner was that two favored restaurants situated next to one another had gone out of business. One was boarded up, the other had changed hands. A "WTF?" look was exchanged between us. Soon we noticed entire professional plazas that appear now to have only one or two businesses open where there used to be 50. My god. Several major chain grocery stores had gone down, now empty or housing the latest indoor swap meet - oh, they're thriving. I'm not sure I can count high enough to tell the number of huge car dealerships now out of business. Dear readers, yes, we do read the news and we do know there's a recession in full bloom. We know that from the neck up and from the effects that has had on our personal finances and lifestyles. The impact of the ghost town, however, was not intellectual. It was visceral. This is bad. And it's going to take a long time to revitalize. We, great communicators since 1968, were very quiet in the car.

We arrived at the intersection we'd aimed for. On one corner is the Sahara Hotel & Casino, directly across from the enormous lot that's never been built upon. Another corner is home to a vast one-story building, vacant and painted entirely black - walls, windows and awnings. Near our corner were some old familiar sights and some startling new ones. A block east sits one of the most venerated eating establishments in Las Vegas. The Golden Steer has remained in the same location since 1958, gradually annexing all the space in the commercial building it occupies. It looks exactly as it did when I dined there on my first wedding anniversary in 1978 when it was already 20 years old. But strolling eastward, there's something new. Where once squatted the tattiest wedding chapel of them all - the one with the pink plastic posies stabbed into the ground on approach to the place where one enters marital nirvana - soars all 41 stories of Allure. Finally, on the corner, hunkered at the heel of Allure, our destination.



"If it's in stock, we have it!" Yes, that's the way I've always heard it goes.

I can recall no change in the appearance or ambience of the Bonanza Gift & Souvenir Shops since I first spotted it in 1976. It is tacky, trashy, objectionable, wrong and funny in most every way. From its location to its merchandise, my field trip subject is wrong. And just as I enjoy venerable things and the beautiful desert, wonderful music and some intellectual writing, I like knowing about the wrong contained in the Bonanza. Yes, I do want to peruse the wares in the Bonanza's Naughty Town. I want to see the T-shirts that surely no tourist would buy. I want to pick up things that must have been invented or created by people crazier than I. I want to shock my companion and make him laugh out loud. I want him to point out the wacky stuff he sees before I do. Just about once every two years.

The fun begins in the parking lot. It's filled with people who have come from near and very, very far and it's loud. All that's missing is calliope music. As the photographer bent into the car to get his camera, he recoiled from a resounding roar and the sound of people scremaing. "No worries. It's the roller coaster on top of the Sahara." He regained his composure and set about getting the exterior shots. I had trouble concentrating on photos as I was drawn to watch the certifiables' circus. I saw a man in bad thrift store clothing riding a bad thrift store bicycle, circling and ringing a bell for all he was worth. He had an adequate jacket and he was the happiest man I have seen in a long time, kicking his feet off the pedals and shaking his legs in the air. He greeted everyone he encountered as he circled and I greeted him, "Happy new year, happy home dude." Of my companion, I asked, "Do you think he's a serious cyclist?"

We aimed for one of the many doors, each featuring a uniformed armed guard. "Do you think they have a prohibition against cameras and photos?" I never had considered that! If they did, mine could easily be slipped into my purse or coat pocket. His requires a sizable case. We stepped up to the same door we always use (come on folks, we're orderly!). "No shirt, no shoes, no service." We had on shirts and shoes. "No smoking." We don't. "No public restrooms." We went before we left my place. As we crossed the threshold, my reaction was the same as always. My pulse picks up a little and I get ready to laugh. The big grin spreads from one side of my face to the other before I see any of the goods. We always follow the same route through the store - hey, we're hikers and campers, we follow maps.

We first encounter all the Elvis stuff, and there's a lot of it. I'm not an Elvis fan. My mother (who shares the king's birthday) and Ex were big fans. I'm fried on Elvis. We don't even stop in that football field-sized department. Glass shot glasses, ash trays, ceramic bells and vases celebrating fabulous Las Vegas? Nope. We don't slow down for that. Miles of racks of jewelry similar to that found in any 99-Cents Store? It doesn't even register on our radar. Finally, less than 10% of the way through the establishment ~ the T-shirt section. Now this bears some attention! There must be 1,000 T-shirts of every imaginable description. Some are lame, some go beyond naughty all the way to obscene. Some are simply hard to understand. What, someone is going to come visit Las Vegas and buy a T-shirt with a rebel flag or the ocean on it? OK, whatever. The cowboy and southwestern themed shirts make sense to me. A lively debate was held surrounding what a particular T-shirt depicted. It was gray with black line drawings. I thought it was a monkey's face. He thought it was a big, fat guy's chest and abdomen. Regardless, it was stupid and ugly. And we were ready to move on.

We stepped into the 100 Acre Woods that whets my appetite for this peculiar trash cruising. No, we weren't in Naughty Town yet, although I could see it just a few miles off. We had entered the area of "small stuff". Magnets, desk accessories, stationery, soaps, snacks, purses and things that defy description. Racks, bins, baskets and rows of these things. I need to handle them all. Lest the reader think my companion becomes bored or testy as I cruise, be assured: he's touching and checking things out, too, calling my attention to things as frequently as I say "Hey!" or "Look at this!" to him.

Some of my favorite hits this time:

Bacon stuff! (Here we go again with bacon!) Bacon placemats and bacon wallets - I know I'd enjoy pulling that out at Bath & Body Works just to watch the reaction of the cashier as I purchase Warm Vanilla Sugar bath products. Bacon bandaids and bacon mints. Mints? Are they minty or bacony? Look, while I don't eat it, I understand that people love it and enjoy it with eggs or in a BLT. But who decided it was funny? Who decided "We'll make bacon funny stuff and people will buy it"?

Toast bandaids. For those who don't care for bacon, I guess.

Safety measures for all the bacon and toast preparation workers, I imagine. Who'd buy these? Who'd put these on their refrigerator door? Oh, I can stand in the shop and laugh like a donkey, but I wouldn't buy this stuff. It's pricey. Shockingly pricey. And stupid. And funny. And wrong.

So, is the Bonanza the world's largest gift shop, as the sign proclaims? I don't know the answer. I'm not in charge of that. But it's large, no question. And we'll visit it again soon in Chapter 2 before I go away this weekend.

In my ears right now: In the continuing theme of "wrong", it doesn't get more wrong than this. It's so wrong it makes me ashamed I was alive in the 1970s. I challenge the reader to watch it all the way through. Better yet, watch it, make a list of how many wrong things you see and tell me the number. I'll send a prize! Not to be missed: Bowie's black bodice that moves independently and separately from his body when he shakes his narrow booty. It must have been made from cardboard!



Something that charmed me: The Electronic Yodelling Pickle. I worked hard to think of some meaning it might add to my life, for I certainly wanted one. It was loud and it was stupid and it was pretty wrong. Alas, I left it behind. I couldn't think of anything I'd actually do with it. There's a recession on and I'd just driven through a deserted city. Electronic Yodelling Pickle notwithstanding, one wants to be mindful of expenses.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

R.I.P. ~ Remembering Tiny Tears

I have repeatedly revisited the photos Kass took of my old neighborhood, seemingly taking in something new each time. I've zoomed in for a closer look and mentally organized the placement of the houses on either side of my duplex, piecing together which way was north, which south, and which direction I would have walked to the mom-and-pop store with Lorri to buy my hoppy taws. Someone else pointed out to me there is crusty snow on the ground on the parking strip. I'd missed that! I'm simply trying to take in too much information and imagery at one time.

And so, it was only today that I saw it in the photo above. Although I have erroneously referred to it as a telephone pole in a previous post, it appears that the huge spike at the end of the driveway is actually an old wooden light standard. However, there can be no question about it. Pedaling along the driveway on the bike, it is surely that very pole I needed to avoid when I executed my right hand turn onto the sidewalk. Of course, I didn't make it. I whacked into that post with my front tire, thereby ejecting Tiny Tears into the street and cracking her head.

I have a certain fondness for the memory of Tiny Tears. It seems she was an important member of our small family. Granny-O had made her a doll quilt to match my quilt, and dresses to match some of my dresses. She'd traveled with us from L.A. to Salt Lake City in the backseat of the car with me, not in the moving van with other toys. I wonder if my carsickness bothered her as much as it bothered everyone else. She never said anything.

My daughter will turn 20 in January. I remember the toys she played with ~ how carefully we selected them and what learning we hoped each toy would foster. For Amber's toys had purpose. At age 3, the child pushed a wheeled cart filled with clunky, toddler-hands-friendly plastic Fisher Price food around the house for 6 months. She carried a crayon and a waitress' order pad (I bought those pads frequently~ this child had a lot of customers who looked only like Ex and me or Grandma or Grandpa) and served us plastic meals of chicken legs, grapes and corn on the cob. She wore an ancient apron made by my Granny who had died 3 years before Amber was born. She sported a name tag Ex found. Her waitress name was Esther. I liked her name and her game. I felt it taught her about diet and nutrition and what people did for a living. She had a crude working knowledge of customer service, because she called her dad "Sir" and always made sure to wipe the table and fold a napkin. We gave her play currency and she returned play coins that we left on the table for a tip. Fun and games with purpose in grown-up Limes' home. That's how we approached parenting. Provide toys and activities as realistic as possible, considering her age, safety and what we hoped she would learn.

I compare this to toys when I was a child. Little 1950s girls were expected to be future mothers and housewives. We needed babies and tea sets and plastic high heels and pop beads to play with and dysfunctional families to emulate when we played house. Tiny Tears was a study as a faux baby. I'm sliding a whole lot of slack to the American Doll Company for the lack of technology during the period of time they produced Tiny Tears. Lots of points for "Hey, it was the 1950s." But Tiny Tears could well have been the cause of many serious future parenting disasters. For Tiny Tears' operation and configuration was, um, odd.

Her head was hard plastic with a molded wave of baby hair thought attractive in the day. Her eyes were revolutionary! Instead of snapping shut like other dolls' eyes when one tipped her baby back into a reclining position, Tiny Tears' eyes fluttered shut in a more natural way. The American Doll Company's tagline was "rock-a-bye eyes". The long, bristly black nylon lashes were attractive, too. On her face, between her eyes and the bridge of her nose were two tiny holes that make me think of a reptilian face. These were not her nostrils - they'd be in the wrong location. These were the holes from which her tears would flow. Her nostrils were in the usual location and had no opening. Hard, solid pink plastic. Her pink rosebud lips appeared to have a perfectly symmetrical hole drilled between them - this to accommodate her baby bottle and other accessories. Tiny Tears was a girl who could do many things! Of course, she wet her diaper - lots of dolls could do that.

But Tiny Tears' coup - oh, the poetry of it! - was something that no other doll could do. Her body was made from soft, pliable plastic. It needed to be soft and pliable for a girl to cause Tiny Tears to execute the coup. Any of the waterworks tricks began with filling Tiny Tears with water. One did this by means of the baby bottle. So after a feeding, Tiny Tears could be expected to expel the liquid by wetting her diaper if one simply fed her and let her be. If a girl wanted to create tears, however, she would feed her baby and then squeeze the doll's abdomen hard to make her cry. I would likely cry, too, if loaded with water and then squeezed hard. But the coup ~ ~ Tiny Tears came complete with her layette and a bubble pipe! And, yes, the girl could blow bubbles. After a young lady convinced her parents to allow her a drop of diswashing liquid for the pipe, she then had to bottle feed Tiny Tears, remove the bottle from her mouth, pop the pipe into her mouth and squeeze the abdomen again - hard. While the squeezing to produce tears could be less extreme, I squeezed so hard to produce bubbles, I could feel my fingertips touch through Tiny's middle - I'd squeeze her to about 1/2 inch thickness. The reader can imagine that a girl's playroom could get pretty wet and sudsy as she worked through her busy day learning to be a mother. That didn't sit well with the real parents, either.

I'm going to credit my own and other 1950s parents with wanting to achieve similar goals to those of Ex and me: Provide toys and activities as realistic as possible, considering her age, safety and what we hoped she would learn. I must state that imagining Tiny Tears' insides conjures up images of very bad plumbing schemes and the rituals of "feed her, let her wet", "feed her, squeeze out some tears", "feed her, squeeze her extra hard for bubbles" gave me some very strange ideas about babies and mothering. But I sure-as-shootin' got the message that parenting was hard work and required one to be able to juggle a lot of balls at one time. That lesson was good and true.

I didn't enoy getting the sharp side of my parents' tongues for whacking my bike and my doll in one fell swoop. I wanted a little sympathy for having whacked myself, too. I was pretty banged up. I think I'll close this post with the three Nows standing on the sidewalk you see. Young parents a little tightly twisted and echoing much of the tender upbringing (yes, that is sarcastic) they'd suffered. Scraped up and bewildered kid who had some damned funny ideas about taking care of babies, who knew she needed a few more practice rounds turning out of the driveway, who knew her Tiny Tears was toast, and who knew she had experienced a small trauma and felt - oddly - guilt and shame for it. On another blog over the past days, I've participated in some commentary about feeling guilt and shame in situations where those emotions don't seem appropriate. This was one of the first times I remember feeling misplaced guilt and shame. It wouldn't be the last. And I am not ending the post on a downward tone. I'm telling what happened and how it was for me. That's the purpose of the exercise, remember?

Photo credit with gratitude for the shot of my childhood home: Kathryn Feigal

In my ears right now: I wanted to end this post with a giggle and some noise. I knew just what to go find. There is so much wrong with this, I couldn't possibly complete the list. And - yes - I really love it! It started my birds chirping loudly and it made me jump up to dance. Too bad I'm not nearly as narrow as either Mick or Bowie!


Something that charmed me: Writing about one's family can be difficult. One doesn't want to have her stories stamped "whiner". In the blog I mentioned, where there was discussion of parental behavior and its effects children, the blogger was so level and balanced in her refusal to be critical of her parents. She said, "I'm just telling what happened. There was plenty to counter-balance anything bad that happened." I hope I can come across in just exactly that way as I write about my life and my family. I have to tell it the way I feel it. I try not to judge harshly. I still don't have the means to understand some of it. One might want to look at that blog. The post would be The Chalk Line, December 2, 2009.

The Secret Order of the Sugarhouse Hoppy Taw Society

The first morning in our new home, we spotted Lorri Christensen in the back yard as we ate breakfast. I asked why a girl was in our yard and the finer points of duplex living were shared with me. OK, I didn't mind sharing. "Limes, she looks near your age. Why don't you go out and make friends?" I was a child who wouldn't look a parent in the eye and say "no", but I did all right at simply remaining seated, saying nothing. My father knew I could use a little help in the ice breaking department and took me outside. Dad started a conversation I joined within moments. Lorri and Limes became fast friends very quickly.

She showed me around the back yard where her father had installed a swing set complete with slide and seesaw, a sandbox, a spot for a wading pool and a painted-onto-the-black-asphalt-driveway hopscotch course. We talked about the things we liked to do. She had a little pee wee bike upon which she was a hellion in the neighborhood. I said that I was getting a bike this summer. She had Mr. Potato Head and I had Cootie. She owned a ViewMaster, while I claimed a record player and all the Mickey Mouse Club records, including the Davy Crockett theme. She loved a toy accordion and I was proud of the piano Uncle Ralph and Aunt Martha had given me. We liked jumping rope and we loved to Hula Hoop, but the activity that could eat up entire afternoons in the sun was hopscotch.

Lorri asked me that first morning how many hoppy taws I owned. I didn't understand the words. I looked at my dad and he didn't seem to understand, either. Lorri got a little heated, saying, "Hoppy taws - for hopscotch!" We were still drawing a blank. "Wait here!" She huffed off into her side of the duplex. She reappeared, carrying a small flannel bag with a drawstring. From it, she pulled some articles that resembled hockey pucks. These were round, real rubber (not plastic) disks about 2 1/2 to 3 inches in diameter. They were rather flat and they were wildly patterned with swirls and whorls of many colors. Dad and I still didn't understand. I managed to squeak out, "I don't have any of those." She gaped at me. "Well you're going to need some." She stepped up to the hopscotch course with one hoppy taw in her hand. With a small flick of her wrist, she landed it in the square marked "1". She hopped scotch exactly the way that I did, but she used her hoppy taw in place of the rock or crumpled paper or small plastic toy I'd always employed. She moved the hoppy taw along with her hand, by tossing it, or scooted it ahead with her toe, just like the rules of hopscotch required. My father and I caught on pretty quickly to how the hoppy taw was used, but we still didn't understand that it was a requirement where we now lived.

Lorri seated us on the back porch and proceeded to teach us the ropes of hopscotch culture in Sugarhouse, circa 1958. If a girl had no hoppy taw, no other girl would want to play hopscotch with her. If a girl owned one hoppy taw, she was barely alive. Lorri seemed certain that three hoppy taws were the best number to have, and I noticed that she had three. A girl was highly regarded if she had a drawstring bag in which to carry her hoppy taws, but was regarded as a dabbler if she carried them loose in her hands or her lunch box. Dad asked why a girl needed more than one hoppy taw, and Lorri replied that maybe she would switch them each day or use one hoppy taw for "evens" and one for "odds". Maybe one favored hoppy taw would be a girl's good luck charm, or certain ones might be used only for school or only for after school. Then Lorri let us know that girls who carried five or more hoppy taws were just show-offs and usually delayed the games with little rituals of using all their disks in every game. Excessive hoppy taw use was not considered good form. A few minutes with 5-year-old Lorri had put us in the know!

My dad is a practical man. Where did one buy hoppy taws and was Lorri certain three was the correct number and were the drawstring bags purchased along with the hoppy taws? The hoppy taws could be purchased at the mom-and-pop store down a very long block of 6th East. No street crossing was involved in getting there. The hoppy taws cost 10-cents each and no two were alike. One's mother had to make the drawstring bag and that gave Dad and me a little pause, because my mother didn't . . . well, let's get the hoppy taws first. I was given the princely sum of $1. Lorri and I walked that long block to the store with wooden floors and spent a proper amount of time and consideration selecting three hoppy taws sufficiently different from one another to give me legitimacy. There was enough money left in change to buy two bottles of YooHoo which we enjoyed on the long walk back home. Mrs. Christensen had quickly sewed me a drawstring bag while we were on our shopping expedition, and I was in business!

There followed many, many months of hopscotch. We played it at school, we played it at other girls' homes, we hosted tournaments in our own backyard at which we sold lemonade and cookies. I became good at hopscotch because I played it incessantly. I tore chunks out of my bloodied knees from falling on burning asphalt and frozen asphalt alike. I got good at more things than simply navigating a simple course by hopping on one foot. Hopscotch is the first activity I can remember that called upon me to strategize, to size up an opponent, to predict what another player would do (after observing her through many, many games), to learn the strengths and weaknesses of other players. It was the first arena in which I spotted cheaters with my own eyes and I concluded that some people had to win - it was all that mattered to them. My father is a man who believes a person should pursue any activity he or she takes on with total spirit, total commitment. He believes we learn from every single thing we do and, therefore, every single thing we do is important. He talked to me about hopscotch. He coached me at hopscotch. He encouraged me to chase after something I loved, and to be good at it, drawing every lesson I could from it.

These are the things I learned about myself on the hopscotch court, something I recognized decades later: I am fair and honest and big enough to lose if someone else beats me. I am not aggressive, needing to win and also crush my opponent. I am a keen observer of people and situations. If I am quiet and absorb what is happening, I can draw on that information later. I can be cautious and aware that others in a situation are bigger or more experienced than I, but that doesn't give them the win. I can look the dragon in the eye and roar back. And I learned that a kid with Father Now's DNA was never, ever to fold. For any reason. Bad weather, nasty tumble on the asphalt, too tired, bored. Uh-uh. You don't walk away or stop trying about anything that's important.

In my 30s and 40s, I was a kickin' labor union rep, a position I landed upon by defying seemingly all odds. I was not educated or experienced to do this work. I had to work hard to win the privilege. The employers of our members always, but always, hired attorneys to meet with the union for contract negotiations, disciplinary hearings before the school boards and other matters of labor relations. I have seen grown men blanch at the thought of going up against this shyster from that law firm or a fabled hired gun. Trust me, reader, I have qualms about many things, but meeting a giant in the board room never terrified me. Because I'm fair and honest and big enough to lose if someone else beats me. I'm not aggressive, but I'm unfailingly assertive and I'm still a keen observer of people and situations. I still absorb information and draw on it later. I'm cautious and keenly aware of an opponent's strong points, but that still doesn't give them the win. I can look the dragon in the eye and roar back. And I never, ever fold. I won far more hearings than I lost. I settled contracts that people said would never be settled. I'm not a braggart, or even particularly remarkable. I'm simply saying that what I learned on the hopscotch court helped me to be successful in life. You see, The Secret Order of the Sugarhouse Hoppy Taw Society really did prepare young girls for future life.

True story: I lived in Salt Lake City in two separate residencies with some L.A. in between, and never after age 13. For decades, in California and Nevada, when adult women friends talked about their childhoods, the subject of hopscotch would come up. I never failed to ask about other womens' hoppy taws. I never failed to get blank stares. Not one friend had ever heard of such a thing. What, did that old man of the mom-and-pop store whip hoppy taws up in a laboratory behind the house and only sell them out of their tiny store? Were Sugarhouse girls the only kids in the world to have known about such things? I began to think I was delusional and eventually stopped bringing it up. One doesn't like to feel others think she's just a bit odd. I've not asked anyone about hoppy taws since before the age of the internet. I decided to try one time in the privacy of my own office to research online about hoppy taws before writing this post. No one would know. I didn't have to be embarrassed.

The information highway is a wonderful thing! Guess what I learned? Hoppy Taws, LLC, is a Salt Lake City business, operating for many, many years. No wonder I didn't connect with others who knew about them. I wasn't mingling with Salt Lake City women. It pleases me that hoppy taws can be purchased online everywhere now. Maybe the word will spread and before I am doddering, I can say "hoppy taw" to another woman whose eyes will light up at the memories. By the way, hoppy taws cost upward of $4 each online. I'm no John Maynard Keynes, but I'd say that's quite a lesson in economics from a 50 year perspective.

In my ears right now: Still the Rolling Stones, "Waiting on a Friend". I posted the lyrics on my blog sidebar. I'm planning a short post to tell why something I found on YouTube charms me, as related to this song. When Justin came in from his route yesterday, he said, "Limes, that same song was playing when I left here this morning!" "And all day long, Justin."

Something that charmed me: I have a new Salt Lake City friend. More specifically, she is a Sugarhouse friend. I have $1 that says she knows about hoppy taws, and her daughter(s) and her granddaughters.

Cup of Sweetness in Sugarhouse

I've been writing stories from my early life and I put the cart before the horse, saying the name of the place, Sugarhouse. That grabbed the attention of friend, Kass, who immediately wanted to know specifically where in Sugarhouse. While I slowed the story-telling in order to lay a foundation, she patiently awaited the release of my address. I posted it Sunday.

Yesterday she went out with her camera, and I don't think that's much different from many of her days, even though we are of short acquaintance and she hasn't told me her schedule. The bloggers were pretty quiet Monday, but just as I was about to lock up the office and call it another long day, she popped up. I hurried to Old Sugarhouse and when the first image came up, I had to push the chair back from the desk and take a very deep breath.

For there, right before my eyes, was the red b rick duplex and the long asphalt driveway. Exactly as I remembered them. I'd been typing about that driveway 15 minutes previously. It's the stage upon which Tiny Tears and I played out a bicycle drama. There was the pine tree, a behemoth now, but after all, it's been 51 years. She took photos of the neighboring houses and various items of interest throughout the neighborhood. We now know we grew up in very close proximity to one another. Later in the evening, she let me know she'd PhotoShopped a sepia image of my home, and that gives it a distinct 1950s flavor, even though the picture was shot in 2009.

Looking at these places I remember (yes, that's a Beatles song I love) at the same moments I'm writing of them feels surreal. I am struck by this blogger's kindness, energy and creativity. Last night on her other blog, she commented: "Since I bought my little, inexpensive digital camera, I am in LOVE with taking pictures." I would say so, Kass! We can see that you do! Please keep doing it. Thank you for sharing what you see in the world with your own creative spin.

Photo credit with sincere thanks: Kathryn Feigal

In my ears right now: Rolling Stones, "Waitin' on a Friend". I've always loved the song and I'm playing it now in the spirit of making and keeping new friends.

Something that charmed me: Well,l what do you think? That travelogue through Sugarhouse and the pilgrimage to 2503 S. 6th East!