Drowned.Rat.

"Would you like to go to Harvest Festival with me?"  She said she'd like that.  "Have you been there before?"  She had - once, like I had.  I don't know why they call it Harvest Festival, as it is held in late summer in the desert.  Except for the merchandise in some of the vendors' booths, there is nothing remotely harvest-like about it. It is simply the Promised Land of craft shows, the presenters required to jump through a few hoops to prove the quality of their goods before being allowed a spot on the selling floor.  On my prior visit, I'd come out with a haul for my friend's approaching birthday and a few trinkets for myself.  This time, I was on a mission.  I knew what I was after.  I paid $4 to park Lucy Sue and $9 to walk through the door, this for the privilege of going in to spend even more of my money. Later, a companion laughed at me over that at dinner. "What? You paid how much to be allowed to spend more?"  "Oh, it's a girl thing.  I'll probably go back next year and pay for the privilege, too."

Click image for larger size.

I was searching for Chinese charm bracelets, a little item that mightily pleased me a couple of years ago.  These confections consist of a slim black cord decorated with a gemstone figure, one temple bell and two charms. The gemstones and charms represent all manner of good things that might come one's way. Whenever the temple bell rings, which is approximately every time one breathes, one's prayer will be answered.  I was a rookie last time at Harvest Festival.  The bracelets are laid out on long tables in deep piles.  There may be a million or so.  Oh, yes, I saw the little code-breaker, telling what everything meant.  But it was a bit overwhelming and I ultimately just bought 5 of them for the price of 4, some for birthday girlfriend and some for me, and made my way home.

Click image for larger size.

The next day at work, my home dudes helped me translate the charms and gemstones into an understanding of my next karmic gifts to be expected.  They also had to help me, with a good deal of chin rubbing and furrowed-brow studying, learn how to operate the bracelet on its cord through the beads that tighten or loosen it.  "Hey, Les, do they all have a bell?"  I said they did.  "Prayers answered."  Great!  Who doesn't seek that?  "Anything like a yin and yang?"  I had one - balance and harmony.  "Do you have the money bag?"  Sure did - riches!  The cleverest of the group asked me about a fish. I didn't have one.  He asked again.  I said I didn't.  The third time around, I queried, "What's up with the fish, Homey?"  Freedom, prosperity and good sex.  Damn!  There were a million lying there.  How'd I get away without a fish?  I wore my bracelets on wrist and ankle until they fairly rotted off of me.  Sure I could have gone online to order more, but there is something about running one's hands through the pile . . I bought nothing else there this time.  My mission was accomplished.

It may have been sunny somewhere,
but certainly not where I was!

When we'd arrived it was a hot, late summer monsoonal afternoon.  I'd cracked the windows of the car and put the shade in my windshield so we wouldn't melt when we left the place.  Walking out, she needed a cigarette.  I don't care for this, but I don't hammer.  We've had the serious discussions.  She knows how I feel about it and what the rules are regarding how close that activity may be performed to my person.  I strive for tolerance.  As she puffed, I watched the sky go a funny color and thunderclouds roll in faster than I can type it.  "Smoke fast, please."  But the thunder started to boom and the rain fell in sheets.  We were placed nominally under an awning, but within seconds the pounding rain began to pummel us sideways.  "Shit!" I bellowed.  Mothers pushing strollers began to scatter, kids screamed, men repeated my sentiment loudly.  The hail hit and when it began to pound me in the head and ear, I knew I couldn't just stand there.  I was wearing sandals not fit to go anywhere near any form of liquid, but I moved along pretty smartly without face-planting.  We (and 100 others) charged the door of the Cashman Center and they let us back in.  "Lady, you can run like nothing I ever saw," said the ticket-taker.  "Your dark hair is all full of hail stones."  I was so grateful to receive that information.  Soaked to the skin, water dripping off of us from everywhere, the air conditioning nearly froze us. I can attest that a small pair of jeans weighs a ton when fully saturated.  If I hadn't worn a belt, I may have lost my pants.

The crowd milled around, listening to the thunder roll and watching the water come up over the curbs, hail piling up against the side of the building. And then the sun burst through, as suddenly as the storm had come in.  The entire show took about 7 minutes.  The aftermath was more lasting.  Our choices for getting to the parking lot were few: 1) Walk  on the sidewalk to Utah and circle around, or 2) ford the river and take our chances. We stepped into the current, twigs and debris swirling around our legs, mud collecting in my sandals, finally cresting the hill and spotting the car. Ah, the car. There was an inch of water in the cup holders, hailstones arranged in a pretty little tableau on  the dashboard. The upholstery spewed a geyser when we sat on the seats. Hair product streamed down my neck and forehead, condensation forming on the lenses of my glasses.  "Nice relaxing day out shopping, eh? Want some Starbucks?" She did. Teeth chattering, we drove off.

As I drove along, a text message dropped in. "Want to go for pizza? I'm hungry!" I sent a reply saying that I would enjoy pizza but explained I would need to go home first and fix myself up from the skin out.  "I'm sure you look great. It's just Metro Pizza." I averred that I looked anything but great. "Oh, come on. How bad can you look?"  I said I can actually look pretty bad under certain circumstances. Finally I sent the phone cam pictures. "Oh. OK, see you in an hour or so. Take your time."  Well!

So this time I got a gemstone cat (for protection), a bamboo charm (strength and resilience), a Chinese coin (riches) and the temple bell to ring all my prayers to truth. I got a heart (love and fulfillment) and a yin/yang (harmony). And - oh, yeah, I got a lovely green jade fish (freedom, prosperity and good sex). I'll let you know how that works out for me.


In my ears right now: Because I love it.

On the Glorious 4th, A Story of Some Americans

I moved to Las Vegas 35 years ago today. My god. Oh, certainly, I went away for about 22 years between that first residency and the current one, but it can't be denied that I have a long history here. I don't care for the place much. Not the first time and not now. Yet, recently, when a friend commented that I have the luxury of portable income and would I consider relocating somewhere that more suited me, I pondered that and said, "No, I don't think so. Not now."

Last evening I went to a birthday gathering at a local restaurant. I was not enthusiastic about any part of this enterprise. Unlike my old, drinking self, however, I worked out my resentments ahead of time and was able to arrive with a smile, a gift in hand, an appetite and a readiness to enjoy whatever came my way. I was seated so that I could see out through the broad expanse of plate glass windows, looking south. Earlier this week, running errands on various days, I noticed cloud formations that made me realize the monsoon will soon be upon us, that cloudy, humid stretch that mingles with the 100+-degree days just to make summer fairly insufferable. Yes, the storms do ease the humidity for a few minutes. Oh, we get booming thunderstorms with remarkable shows of lightning and sometimes serious flooding in the streets. Our valley is shaped like a large bowl lying on its side. I live on the downside where all liquid ends up when too much of it is applied to the desert floor. Sitting at the table in the diner, I saw the clouds finally form something serious after teasing us all day. I'd been hit with 7 or so raindrops on my windshield earlier - just enough to annoy. The winds kicked up and a few splats hit the windows. "Storm coming," everyone muttered. And then it began in earnest.

Leaving the eatery, running through actual rain now, I grinned at my friend, "You don't want to see me in a rainstorm, Girlie. All that crap I use to give my hair that just-rolled-out-of-the-sack look starts running down my forehead and neck. It's pretty bad!" We laughed, leaped gratefully into our chariot and I drove us into the mouth of hell. The storm got worse by the minute, the road and the sky taking on the same color, water hammering us. The gutters and storm drains were immediately overtaxed, deep water snaking across all lanes of the boulevard. The windshield wipers did little to improve conditions and I observed, "I can't see shit." "I noticed that," Jenn replied. I toyed with the notion of pulling over, but I feared we would be washed downstream. "Keep moving, slowly, with lights," is the advice I've always been given. We became awfully quiet for a duo as communicative as we usually are together and I finally deposited her in her driveway, watching her run up the hill with her go-box from the party and her Bath & Body Works haul we'd made earlier. "Text me when you get home. I don't mean to sound like your mother!," she hollered. "Will do!"

"Well, driving uphill ought to be better," I foolishly surmised. "And it's only 3 miles." Yow. I have never maneuvered a car or anything else through such conditions. The sidespray, when I finally thought "screw it" and drove right down the middle of the road, shot high above the roof of the car. Chunks of tree limbs washed up onto the hood, the wipers yelped "Uncle!" and I was pretty concerned about the evident strain of the monster mobile to work uphill against the torrent. As I passed through intersections, the screaming wind T-boned me, actually causing the car to sway. Had I been in my Nissan, I may have ended up in a ditch. I remembered that July of 1976, which was also tremendously stormy. It had taken Ex about a week to make friends to join in the bars at night, so I was home alone quite a lot. Once, at 2:00 a.m., I called my mother to come and collect me, terrified at the thunderstorm that shook the timbers of our home. I was 23. The memories washed over me now. With my most recent progress in AA, the continual working of my program, I have had some pleasant and poignant recollections about him and I've even managed some forgiveness for Ex.

In connection with a project I've recently embraced, I have been doing some research. The general subject is acceptance of racial and ethnic diversity which leads, often, to stories about past discrimination and bad treatment of some classes of human beings.This is material that draws me, deeply. I was appalled to learn that I am nearly completely ignorant about the struggles of some of the world's populace. Oh, I grew up in that O'Farrell clan hearing about the oppression of the Irish by the British and I certainly didn't miss any of the U.S. Civil Rights movement that played out right under my nose during my teens and early adulthood. Beyond our borders, though, I am unschooled. But there is a group of indigenous people I have learned about - just a little.

When Ex and I were very young and had just set up housekeeping, I began - at his request - weekly letter-writing with his grandmother on the reservation in Sacaton, Arizona. Ex's parents were young and modern-minded Pima Indians who worked hard to get off the reservation, and though their life was not good in the mean streets of L.A., at least they were "off". Those of us who are not natives and are not induced to live on a reservation, even if no longer forced, may not understand the drive to "get off". Ex and his siblings had never visited Arizona and knew little about their culture. They did know they were full-blooded Indians and that made them rare, if not "special". They'd all grown up being mistaken for Mexican, very common in southern California, and saying to people, apologetically, "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish." I learned from the encyclopedia and shared with Ex that his people were the Akimel O'odham, "river people", who subsisted by farming, hunting and gathering, though they are largely know for their expertise in textiles and for the production of intricately beautiful hand-woven baskets and woven cloth. It is thought the name "Pima" came from the natives' frequent invocation "pi mac" to European settlers. "Pi mac" means "I don't know". They didn't understand the language of the "visitors".

Ex knew that, though tiny, his tribe had a hero to brag about - one Ira Hayes. Hayes was born in Sacaton in 1923 and was said to be a shy, sensitive and quiet young man - almost "distant" - who read at a very young age and easily mastered the English language that escaped many of the Pima. After Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1941, Ira set his sights on becoming a United States Marine. After the War, the much-decorated corporal was often portrayed in art and film, for he became an American icon on Iwo Jima when he and 5 other Marines planted the U.S. flag atop Mt. Suribachi on February 23, 1945. His return to civilian life, though he was revered and much-celebrated, was troubled.  Asked by a reporter how he liked the pomp and circumstance after President Eisenhower declared Hayes a hero, he hung his head and said, "I don't." Attempting to return to a normal civilian life, Hayes racked up 52 arrests for public drunkenness and spoke often of his "good buddies who were better men and wouldn't be returning". He  was found dead, choked on his own blood and vomit in January, 1955. He had just turned 32, and died of alcoholism and exposure.









I knew a bit about the Ira Hayes story, and had seen pictures of him, but researching last week, I saw a photo that took my breath away. It would seem to be the type of picture taken when a recruit graduates from boot camp. I'd never seen this photo before. It looks so much like Ex at a similar age that I burst into tears and they slid slowly down my face for a long, long time. Ira lacks only the long braids worn by the young man in 1971. Ex wanted to enter the Marines like his tribal and American hero. I was a war protester and convinced him otherwise. Today, just for today, I am rethinking that. Maybe . . . Despite their physical resemblance, Ex was not related to Ira Hayes, as far as we know. If the family had any claim to those bragging rights, I'm sure we would have heard it at some time. Nevertheless, in a population so tiny that six degrees of separation is likely reduced to two degrees, I am reflecting today on some of the tragedy and pathos that befell these two men who tried to assimilate and never completely succeeded, despite their mighty efforts.

I asked Ex early in our time together why his last name (which would also become mine) was so English-sounding. He had been taught that if one's name looked something like this "daghim 'o 'ab wu:sañhim"   and you were the census taker on the newly established reservation, you might also say, "Yep, sounds like Smith to me."  Would the reader join me in a tip of the hat to some Americans who may not seem so very American?

In my ears right now and I'd be pleased if it was in your ears, too:



Blog post dedicated to the memory of Anthony Curtis Goodwin

Cartwheels

I cannot turn a cartwheel. Yes, I know any child can execute a beautiful cartwheel, but I could not do it as a child and I cannot do it now. I can perform other acrobatic stunts considered more difficult, including a flip (or at least I could in 1967), but the cartwheel eludes me. I can hula hoop until hell won't have me any more. Funny, because I cartwheel across that imaginary plane of free association so effortlessly. Want to come along? OK, join me.

I just looked it up. The comedienne Rita Rudner is almost precisely one year younger than I. That makes her 57. A Virgo, like me, she would be meticulous, diligent, a perfectionist, if one puts any stock in astrology. I see billboards for her Las Vegas show whenever I take the Desert Inn Road flyover to avoid the traffic at the Strip when bisecting the town east to west or vice-versa. What the hell is Rita thinking with that splits thing at her age? Yeah, I know she is a trained dancer. But those splits! I wonder if she has to be assisted to rise from the floor after the photo shoot. I wonder if her good-looking trousers withstand the strain without giving way and whether the photographer's assistants have to artfully drape the legs of those trousers so she looks more . . . natural. Natural?? I've never seen her show. She is really good looking and when I have heard her interviewed on local radio or TV, she seems like a regular, good citizen who drives her kid to school and worries about some of the same things that bother me. She seems to be an older mom, as I was/am . . . but those splits!
Readers must tire of Las Vegans continually bitching about the wind, and I promise that I sicken myself in that respect, too. However, I'm not sure I recall anything like last weekend, just when we'd been enjoying promises of warm, relatively calm days. Those who are more tightly wound than I in a literal sense may pick this to death, but I read the Severe Weather Alert. We had an airport watch in effect, with winds sustained at 34 knots and gusts to 47 knots. It was damnably windy. On Saturday, my hair was nearly torn from my scalp as I went in to an AA meeting. Coming out of the Wynn casino at 2:30 Sunday morning, I observed, "Well, we've been in there for 10 hours. Maybe the wind . . " With that, the skirt of my dress was tossed over my face and the rest of my comment was garbled. Throughout the day, the screaming blow only amped up, rendering the air a dull brown with flying dust and grit. I have experienced stronger winds, once in the desert, camped in a gale we later learned was likely 75 mph, for a shorter, overnight duration. It scared me. I was not scared this time in the house, listening to things - some of them remarkably heavy - being tossed around and into the pool. But I am driven nearly insane by it. If it were possible to die from allergies, I might just do that, eyes and nose streaming, lips and tongue adhering to my teeth from too many antihistamines. I am reminded of an Anais Nin essay I once read wherein the characters were driven nearly psychotic because of the scirocco. I comprehend that. The essay was not really about the wind, but she depicted it as a vivid character, an important part of her story. And though I am seated in the wrong part of the world for a real scirocco, I deeply felt the sense of madness approaching. The windchimes created a hellish din, and I remembered that a Scirocco is also a Volkswagen . .

An AA acquaintance has been grounded by the courts for a short time and I have been providing rides. AA places great emphasis on the many benefits of alcoholics helping other alcoholics, considering even the simple act of making the coffee for a meeting a "service". From my perspective, giving rides to someone who lives halfway between my home and AA is easy. It is my pleasure to help where I can, and I am grateful that my fat is not in the fire for once, driver's license revoked and possible jail time in the future. We make our way along some of the older, more congested and always-under-more-road-construction thoroughfares of the city, along the Boulder Strip. People get fidgety in the gridlock, and so do I. "You handle it pretty well," observed my companion. "I'd like to just start flipping them all off." My gut clenched, I broke into a sweat and began to babble, "No, no. No. Don't do that, please. No." I drew a pretty strange look as I sat, miserable in the driver's seat, recalling the last time I flipped anyone off except in jest in the privacy of my own home. July, 1976.

My Volkswagen was not a Scirocco, if those even existed at the time. Mine was the ubiquitous Beetle of the proletariat, 1972 model, yellow, with not the tiny or the huge tail lights of the earlier or later models but the mid-sized ones, regular old, beloved stick shift, not that silly Automatic Stick Shift thing Volkswagen offered at the time. That bug and I were well-suited to one another and I'd had many an adventure behind its wheel. Flying - oh, yes, way too fast - around the curve of one of the cloverleaf configurations of the LA freeways, I once came quickly upon an overturned truck that had deposited many dead cows in the roadway. Although quite distressed, I downshifted my little chariot, got onto the brakes and neatly, but narrowly avoided any cow collision. My timing was less fortuitous the time I got behind the semi-truck full of oranges that had spilled onto the Golden State Freeway, but oranges are less deadly than cows in a collision. I squeezed fresh OJ for about 10 minutes and went on my way. The VW had moved Ex and me, four kittens and all our worldly possessions to Las Vegas only a couple of weeks earlier. To my disappointment, it took Ex only about 14 seconds to find people to drink and play pool with. I was on my own in the evenings a lot.

It was monsoon season, something I'd never experienced. Hell for hot and humid enough to make it rain indoors. I drove to the 7-11 nearby and got an obscenely huge cold drink - it would have been the fully sugared stuff in the day, lots of ice. On the way out of the store, a man made a remark to me that I didn't care for. Given that this became such a life-altering event, one would expect me to remember the exact words, but I do not. It had to do with my appearance, in words I instinctively knew he thought were complimentary, but which I did not appreciate. Without giving the notion sufficient forethought, I flipped him off. Oh, it was a gentle flipping off, not truly intended to call the man out. If I'd chosen words instead of gestures, they would not have been the words typically associated with flipping off. The man ignited. He set his jaw and started to walk across the parking lot in a resolute way. Scared, I jumped into my car, started it and went out onto the street. He was on me in a minute, Barney Fife in the patrol car, chasing down a perpetrator. All he lacked was a siren. I knew how to handle my car and exhibited some fancy moves, spurting forward, dashing between other cars. He never missed a beat. I took parking lots at a fast diagonal following sharp, last-minute turn-ins. He was right there with me. Pouring sweat now, I was 23, shaken, didn't know the streets and we'd been at this for 20 minutes or more. There would be no cell phones for decades.

Appearances count for much in Las Vegas. We don't like to scare the tourists away. One of Metro's finest pulled me over on the Strip, probably for driving unbecoming a local or some such infraction. The angry man stopped and waited for me to get my ticket, apparently so that we could take up our chase again afterwards. Mortified, I told the officer my story. He went and had words with the angry man who finally moved on. "Are you new to Las Vegas?" I said I was. "From California?" What, was it stamped on me or something? I already had Nevada plates on the car. "Come on, honey. I'll see you home. I'd advise you not to flip people off in Las Vegas. They don't care for it." I've never done it again. It's the last time I felt kindly toward a traffic cop.

Something that charmed me: My fragile, ancient VHS videotape of "Enchanted April" has played as white noise and flashing gray/black/white/soft color distraction for days on the equally ancient 19" TV retained for the very purpose of playing those old tapes I'm not ready to toss. Enchanted April is . . narrow, I suppose. It doesn't appeal to hordes of people, but it is a firm favorite of mine. Ex tolerated it a few times a week and Amber became as dedicated a fan as I. Once a man who loved me agreed to sit by my side and try to watch it. Within 10 minutes, his book was open on his lap, but he stayed beside, hand occasionally patting my thigh, remaining together despite Enchanted April.

Anyway, the opening scenes take place in an impossible-to-fully-describe sodden, gray morning in London just after World War I. As Lottie rides in the bus, crushed in with disabled veterans and heavy clouds of cigarette smoke, one can feel the damp chill, smell the wet wool uniforms, lunches carried in baskets, shopping items perched on laps, some passengers standing in the aisles. The rain pounds on from a solid gray sky. Lottie sees an advertisement in The Times on the back of the newspaper being read by a man seated across from her. She dreams of "letting" (leasing) the vaunted villa on the Mediterranean just to escape London in April . . . The first 2-3 minutes of the video bring my words to life. Skip through the opening credits, if you must. And, yep, the first strains of the lead-in music are like nails scraping a blackboard. It's still worth that visual of 1916 London in April.

I didn't intend to do an Enchanted April snippet until a quote grabbed me: "It's easy to understand why the most beautiful poems about England in the spring were written by poets living in Italy at the time." [Philip Dunne, 1908-1992, American screenwriter]

And now, I shall cartwheel myself to a hot bath followed by sleep if I am lucky tonight, for tomorrow is to be busy and I need to be on my game. I surely do thank the reader for company during my mini-vacation for which I only had to travel as far as the confines of my own head. Have I mentioned I am pretty easily entertained?

Skull Valley Redux ~ We're Ba-a-ck

The Badger didn't get behind on his writing, so he's long since posted his telling of the Skull Valley Race 2009. I'm going to take just a slightly different approach, because - after all - for me, it's not about the bike.

I have had the good fortune to take many road trips in the company of the Badger. This is something we do well, whether our destination is a campsite in the desert, Daughter Badger's wedding, Mother Badger's home, a vacation at the beach . . . it simply doesn't matter. When you put the two of us in a car, there's going to be some fun. Yes, he always forgets at least one important thing. Yes, I always overpack. Yes, the car inevitably groans from the weight of its contents and looks like adolescents have taken over in a coup. And we have fun! We solve the world's problems in the ways we know would work. We laugh irreverently at some things that probably should remain sacred in the view of most decent folks. We rail at the things that outrage our sensibilities. And suddenly, we're just there. We can while away some miles.

Last year's drive through hell to Prescott with no air conditioning was a dim, grim memory as we set out under gray skies, looking forward to temperatures 20 degrees lower than what we "enjoy" at home. Because we set out early in the morning, we served no sentence in stopped-dead traffic over the Hoover Dam. Soon we were in Arizona. "Bathroom needed in Kingman, Badger!" "OK!" It was after Kingman that he spotted the dead badger in the road - the first badger in any condition of health that he'd seen since leaving Wyoming. After he commented on it, we both got a little hinky about that omen, brown eyes looking into blue, a little alarmed. Then the rains came. And came. And came. The Prius has a perky little icon that lights up to say "We're hydroplaning and I'm trying to correct it!" I didn't care for that icon much. It rained so long, so hard, from a sky so gray that we missed the turnoff to Skull Valley and went far out of our way (which we didn't know until later on). The Badger, not known for tolerating nonsense, began to get crabby about not being able to ride the course that afternoon. There were pools and rivulets of rain all across the desert floor. Surely the course would be in bad shape, too.

When we exited the highway, we were stunned to see a small, old settlement of houses and a few tiny businesses. What the heezy? Last year there was nothing between the highway and Skull Valley. How could an old settlement spring up in a year's time? We're pretty quick on our feet, though, and soon realized we'd become not lost, but diverted. "Limes, what did you do about feeding us lunch?" "Not a thing, Badger. This is your rodeo." Uh-oh. We were on our way to a l-o-n-g, strenuous ride and breakfast was a l-o-n-g time gone. "I have one Clif bar in the car, Limes." "You eat it, Badger. You'll need it more than . . . general store on the right, Badger!" We walked through a creaking wooden door into the oddest emporium. An ancient commercial business space was outlined with some 50 small coolers one might expect to dispense soft drinks. There seemed to be a little tiny bit of everything imaginable for sale in the place, from ant poison to diapers and white bread to Kraft mac 'n cheese. Except that we couldn't find anything we were willing to eat. Not one diet anything in the place. Coke and Pepsi have a sure market if they over-produce their fully sugared concoctions. No produce. Not a fruit or vegetable to be found. We finally landed on a meager meal: turkey jerky for the Badger, string cheese for me. The clerk had me go back to one particular cooler to determine the price of the string cheese for him. He was unfamiliar with putting a purchase on a debit card, but came through with flying colors. As we walked out the door, the Badger and I snapped our heads to look at one another. "Did you see . . . . ," we said over the top of each other. For behind the wooden counter of that store was the oddest sight. If the local citizens want to buy Tylenol there, or Advil, it is purchased in tiny packets of two tablets. Toiletries and sundries are available in small, hotel-freebie-sized containers. But also behind that counter were about 5 gallons of really bad, cheap wine for every man, woman and child in the county. More wine than the law allows . . . as they say.

We arrived at the race course to sunshine, dry roads, pleasant temperatures. The Badger needed to ride part of the course, imprinting that sharp, fast descent to the turn-around point. I needed to drive the course to remind myself of the landmarks and check out where I'd hand up his water. "I'm off, Limes." "No. The Prius does things I don't understand. I need a primer." He taught me the ropes and pushed off for 29 miles. I drove to the turn-around point and a little beyond. It's a tight, narrow space to manage a pack of cyclists. Narrower than I recalled, even. I drove back to the place where we'd agreed to meet after his ride.

I had choices. I could read. I could listen to music. I could take a nap. I could put some extra miles on my feet for the day. Hmmmm . . . extra miles. I was in the mountains with some steep rollies at hand. I walk on flat ground every day of life. Walking hills would be different. There's only one highway with no turnoffs nearby. I'm wearing the red Nike shirt - he can't possibly miss me if I'm walking between the car and the direction from which he'll approach. The decision was easily made. There were even mile markers on the highway for me to measure my progress. The shoulder isn't very wide, but neither am I. I set out on foot with plenty of water and the car keys. What happened in the next hour is interesting to me. I am not sure I think it would happen where I live. No fewer than four vehicles stopped and the drivers asked me if I needed assistance. It amused me a little. I think I look like someone who walks on purpose. I wear the cool girl pants and very serious shoes, and - hey! - I'm just out for my walk. Why couldn't these people figure out I'm doing my walk? Of course, it probably seemed an odd location to find a lone woman hoofing it fast in the heat. I'm not sure I'd experience the same thing if I were walking, say, in Red Rock. I think drivers there might just plow me down and not notice the bump as they ran over my body. I enjoyed scoping all the roadside debris and found an interesting bleached bone that still had some sinew and hide attached. I did not enjoy seeing rabbit roadkill.

The Badger pulled up minutes after I completed 5 strenuous miles on foot. "How'd you do, Badge?" "Good! I'm really ready for it. I felt good enough to ride a little longer than I'd planned." Out near the crossroads to Bagdad (Arizona, not Iraq), he'd been treated to the sight of a large flock of buzzards. "They probably heard there's a race tomorrow, Badger. Mmm . . . cyclist! A little stringy, but the bones are good to peck." We jumped into the car and headed for Prescott . . . . .

which turned out to be infinitely easier to get around in than last year. Maybe simply because we'd been there once before, but whereas we'd had a terrible time navigating it in 2008, now we were like natives. I'd Googled a different place for us to stay than the official race motel and it was certainly a cut above the typical race weekend dive. It had faux art deco furniture! And a fully loaded kitchenette so we could dine in if we chose to do that. It was clean and more than serviceable and cost about what was paid for the dive last summer. The Badger soaked his bones in epsom salts for awhile. Then, "Limes, didn't you say you wanted some shops?" Yep. Limes always wants the shops! And the Badger's always good enough to do that for awhile. We went to pick up his racing packet at the dive that was last year's and this year's official race motel. Yep, my little faux art deco place was a way better deal. We headed for Prescott's historic Whiskey Row.

Whiskey Row is old, kind of charming, picturesque. Courthouse Square had live music playing across the street and the Row itself is a mish-mash of crappy souvenir shops, rather serious art and artisan offerings, coffee houses, and saloons. Lots of saloons. Many saloons with lots of alcohol being served. The streets teemed with people ranging from tourists to children to locals to faux cowboys to patrons of those lots and lots of salooons. We first encountered a young woman sitting on a bench, sobbing and screaming into her cell phone at someone. People were giving her wide berth. Yow. From her vicinity we veered sharply into an indoor collection of lovely little art shops and a wonderful used book store. Moving on down the row, we spotted the souvenir shop that housed the badger who had met with taxidermy. I saw this one, folks! He looked a little bleary. A little worse for wear and tear. Trip treasures were found in that shop and carefully carried home. We finally landed in a most interesting artists' co-op displaying the creations of only local artists. As we are launching a line of the Badger's photos for sale, we carefully studied how other artists present their wares. The place was a find - paintings, decorative gourds, every manner of jewelry, woven articles, cards and more. We had a good time.

Strolling back to the car, he spotted a likely looking Mexican restaurant. "Limes?" Yes to Mexican food, any time! We enjoyed a good meal. He had wine. I had iced tea. I felt a little funny. I felt a little bad. I felt really bad. I needed to put my head down on the table. "Oh, no, Badger - was that real sugar I put in my tea?" It wasn't. "Oh, Badger, I'm going to get sick right here." He asked if I could get to the restroom. I couldn't. "How can I help you?" The color was draining out of my face and I was feeling awfully low. It was about to get embarrassing. And the good man stayed with me. Some would have bolted. Just as quickly, the spell passed. "Let's go, Badger. I'm OK." Not sure what that was about, but I wouldn't like to go through it again in a public place. We made a grocery market stop and headed to our home for the night.

Just to prove we really do know how to have a good time, we ended the day with a bang. One begins operating the Prius by inserting a chunky black object (that resembles everyone else's car remote) into the dash. Embedded within this remote is a small, oddly shaped key. The key is removable, but it takes purpose. It does not easily slip out of the remote. In fact, he has never removed it from the remote since he owned the car. One just doesn't. He'd left something out in the car and I offered to go after it. I went down the stairs to the car I'd operated all day long and now understood, reached out to open the door . . . no remote. Funny little key, but no remote. Back up the stairs. "Badger, where's the remote?" Keystone Kops comes to mind. Down the stairs into the black night in the pines, looking for a black remote on blacktop. He had a weak little flashlight. Nothing. Back up the stairs. Tear into the room and everything we'd brought into it. It was found with relief, finally. When he carried his bike upstairs, he must have jostled the key loose because his hands were so full of things. We each allowed it had entered our heads, although neither had uttered it: "How many days might it take to get the necessary item to Prescott, Arizona?" Because that car can be entered, but not driven, without the clunky black object.

Our neighbors arrived at the room next door about the time our heads hit the pillows. They were not partying or behaving objectionably. They were simply talking. Four of them. We could hear every word, and I swear, I could hear them exhale. My sweet lord, the acoustics! I turned our A/C down to 60 and we suddenly had white noise. It would be a frosty night, but no voices in our heads. Damn, there's a race tomorrow. Be at peace. The charlie horses hit my feet and legs about the time I stumbled on the white noise solution. For I am not used to walking 5 miles fast in mountainous terrain. Damn, there's a race tomorrow. Be at peace. I only got up about 14 times to do stretches. And then we slept.

In my ears right now: Emmylou Harris singing Lucinda Williams' "Crescent City". It's a favorite. Emmylou nails it better than Lucinda does.

Something that charmed me: Four drivers stopping to see if I needed assistance. I don't think that's so common any more. One man took pains to say, "This is my wife right here beside me." Taking care not to alarm me. There are still good people in the world who would help a stranger.

Monsoon Season Has Come Early This Year

Flat, heavy gray skies and unfamiliar humidity . . . temperatures are fully 10-15 degrees below normal and my favorite woman meteorologist says this may be the first June since the weather has been recorded where we may not have one day that reaches 100. Driving to work on a north-south street, I was able to rubberneck at Red Rock. It was rather surreal because all the rock formations that are so familiar were right there. But all the vivid hues had left and only gray remained. Blech!

Mother Badger e-mailed throughout the day yesterday. She's cleaning out "stuff" again and has many things to send to me when the Badger goes to Phoenix next week. He doesn't know it yet, but she intends to fill the Prius for the return trip with everything he takes down (includes bike and everything cycling), a set of dinnerware for 8, a set of water glasses for 8, various and sundry other items . . . and an upholstered chair. Badgers not being known to tolerate nonsense, it may be awhile before I see those gifts.

Mother Badger also found a venerable thing to send me - a 1930s-40s salt and pepper set. She is a good woman who has treated me well always, and she listens to me. She pays attention to what I like. She offers good advice, but doesn't tell me what to do. She does not try to run me. Thank you, Mother Badger.

I took the heart monitor for a walk today. It would be inaccurate to say I actually used it. I'm not frustrated (yet), but I know I need to familiarize myself with it. I made the momentous decision to leave the iPod back for awhile. I have other things that require my attention on the walk now. The iPod can go along once in awhile. Once I have balanced the intricacies of walking, heart monitor, Garmin, BlackBerry, keys, and water I plan to start walking some parts of the marathon course. There are parts of the city I'm not as familiar with, and I can't begin to envision all those miles on the Strip. It will be closed to car traffic, of course, but what about all the human traffic? It's bustling there 24/7.

I issued an invitation that was accepted - the Badger will join me for a long walk tomorrow. I hope for some sun, as I am rather a hothouse flower. At some times of the year, I walk in darkness, go to work in darkness, go home in darkness. I am craving some sun on my skin. When we walk, the miles zip by - we're pretty harsh on odd people that we see, and we solve the world's problems, at least in our own minds. On Sunday walks we almost invariably see a middle aged couple who ride motorized bicycles. Their legs move, but one can hear the motor humming. The Badger has much to say about motorized bicycles. Some of his remarks are unprintable.

There you have it: a meandering stroll through my cluttered head this morning. I need to get busy. We hired a new, young home dude yesterday - business is hoppin'!

In my ears right now (an echo, it's not happening live): A hideous TV ad I saw yesterday. Cheap Trick is coming to town to concert Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, backed by a full orchestra. The tickets are "bargain priced" at $65, $80 and $95.

Why I like it: I don't. Call me a purist, but I'm thinking that nobody needs to touch Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It's already been done, and admirably. John Lennon said it couldn't be done live. He would know.

Something that charmed me yesterday: The hour I spent on the phone with a rep for QuickBooks. He helped me install a new version and extract all of my old data, placing it into the new version. He was a young Scottish man, talking to me from Dublin. I kept asking him questions so I could listen to the accent in his replies.