How Dare They? An EZ saga of a table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

How dare they? 

All I wanted was a quiet cup of herbal tea and a sweet croissant while gazing out over the ocean. But they stole my table. How rude! I felt cheated, disrespected, and a little angry. 

I was tired. I love travel and I love Glenda, my wife. But traveling can be tiring and traveling with another, regardless of how compatible you are, can be more so. In our case, advancing age and my beloved’s failing vision and fading memory add more weight to the tiring equation. She can no longer see well enough to read directing signs and her short-term memory has no room for such details as cabin number and location. She can’t read menus or labels. As you can guess, that means that I accompany her any time we are out. We had enjoyed our morning of being out and about on this, our third day at sea, but now she wanted an afternoon nap. Even though tired, I don’t usually nap, but her napping means she gets the rest she needs. I get a few minutes on my own without feeling guilty. 

Perfect timing. It was afternoon tea time. I’ll take my notebook and write a bit about the trip as I watch the Adriatic slip by beneath us.

Our ship, the Costa Deliziosa, offered an afternoon tea. Along with a variety of beverages, it included pastries and small finger sandwiches. I guess it’s not acceptable for their guests to experience any hunger between the sumptuous luncheon and decadent dinner they provide. Afternoon tea was offered in the buffet dining room located aft on the 9th deck, three decks above our stateroom.

Aft Deck Costa Deliziosa in Port. Photo by author.

The Deliziosa is a beautiful ship of the Panamax class—the largest ships that can pass through the locks in the Panama Canal. She sails at 93,000 tons, 965 feet long and 106 feet wide. She has 11 decks and carries a crew of near 1,000. Just mature enough for the blush of newness to be worn away and replaced by a patina of familiar comfort, she can accommodate nearly 2,300 passengers in luxury suites, premium balcony mini-suites, window staterooms, and mid-deck economy cabins. Her offerings include casino, theater, shopping, lounges, discotheque, pools, spas, and gymnasium as well as dining, outdoor recreation, sunning, and promenade areas. Government restrictions due to COVID-19 meant our seven-day voyage from Trieste Italy to Greece and back provided passage for only about 1,400 passengers, leaving the ship’s facilities uncrowded. This provided some additional level of luxury. For instance, there was rarely a wait for an elevator. Buffet lines were short.

The elevator ride from our 6th deck mini-suite to the 9th deck took moments. I strolled the carpeted hallway to the buffet dining area at the back of the ship.

A young and attractive uniformed hostess greeted me, “Good day, sir. Are you joining us for afternoon tea?”

I nodded.

“Welcome. Please let me verify your Costa identity card, and I will check your temperature.”

Holding the small touchless infrared fever thermometer near my forehead, she said, “Very good, sir. Normal. Where would you like to sit?”

“May I please have a window seat?”

“Certainly, sir.”

She escorted me to a window table, starboard near the middle of the dining area. As we approached the table, I noted there were no other unoccupied window tables. 

“Will this be OK?” she asked.

“Certainly. Thank you,” I said, smiling.

Perfect, I thought. I was already feeling better looking forward to a few quiet moments at the table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

Glad I arrived when I did, I left my notebook and pen on the table and went to the buffet line where I selected some hot herbal tea and a sweet roll.

Upon my return, I found my table occupied by three women I didn’t know, and my notebook casually moved to an inboard, non-window table. They were deep in conversation. One of the women was probably close to my age, slight with a full head of white hair. The others were younger, perhaps in their forties. One, Rafaelian with long blonde hair, the other darker complected, her brown hair worn in a short cap style, slighter in build. No. I didn’t know these women. I stopped and stared in disbelief. They had taken my table. Well, it was a prime spot. Looking around I verified no other window tables available. I sighed and went to retrieve my notebook. I guess I can sit somewhere else. But on top of tired, now I’m feeling pissed. I wanted that table!

As I retrieved my notebook from the adjacent but less desirable table, I turned toward the women, hoisting my colorful notebook for all to see, and said loudly, disgust dripping from my voice, “Really!” As they gazed agog, heads swiveled my way at the loud interruption, their conversation on mute, I slapped the notebook onto my tray and stomped away to a table out of sight of these thieving women. How dare they? Why can’t I have what I want?

As I settled in at my second-class table, the taste of the hibiscus tea was unexpectedly bitter. The croissant dry. I wondered why. These foods had been truly delightful yesterday. As I pondered the situation, it occurred to me I had been churlish. My taste buds were telling me I had no need of complaint. So what if I’m not at a window table? Big deal. I’m on a luxury voyage and in complete comfort. I have a treat of pastry and tea and some quiet time. The deep blue sea is still visible out the slightly distant windows. 

I must have blushed a bit from deserved shame at my reaction to a trivial and non-personal slight. Those women did not deserve the wrath I directed at them. They may not even have been guilty of moving my notebook. It could have been the action of a busser or steward, anyone, leaving an unoccupied table for them to find. My feelings were muddled. I had so recently felt righteous indignation. Now I felt contrite embarrassment.

Stewing in my state of confusion, I opened my notebook, reviewing the last couple of pages with the thought of penning a few words to settle me and assuage my feelings. As I glanced down the lines a shadow fell over the pages. The older of the three women from the stolen table had approached.

Before I could speak, she said, “We took your table. We are so sorry. Let us trade places and you can have the window table.”

“Oh!” I said apologetically, looking up from my inferior position. “Thank you, but no. I’m the one who should be sorry and must apologize. I should not have overreacted the way I did. It’s really nothing. Please enjoy your teatime. I’m fine here.”

“But we moved your notebook. We should have realized it meant the table was occupied but instead we just assumed someone had left it behind. Please come take the table you wanted.”

“That’s very kind of you. I do appreciate it. But I feel bad I acted the way I did. I’m fine, now, really.”

On that note, she nodded then walked away. I returned to my notebook. Before I could settle my feelings enough to concentrate on the written words, three shadows fell across my table.

“No,” spoke the blonde woman forcefully. “You are not going to sit here by yourself while we enjoy your window table. You take that table, and we’ll move over here. We insist.”

“That’s right, you tell him, Victoria,” said the dark-haired table thief. Turning to me she said, “We can’t enjoy the view knowing we took it from you.”

“No. No! I’m fine.” I insisted. “Really. It’s not a problem and I shouldn’t have been so upset. It’s just I was already feeling frustrated and tired, but that should not excuse my behavior. It was wrong.” 

There was a slight pause.

“All right,” said blonde Victoria. “Then at least come and join us at the window table so that we don’t have to feel guilty all afternoon. You really don’t want to be responsible for ruining our entire afternoon by allowing us to wallow in our guilt, do you? Kristi, Norma, do you agree?”

“Oh, yes!” Exclaimed the older lady now identified as Norma.

“Positively,” said younger dark-haired Kristi. “It’s a win-win. You’ll be at a window table. We can feel we’ve done our penance. Oh, wait. I didn’t mean that sharing a table with you would be, somehow, penance, an unpleasant task…”

With that, I had to laugh. “Ok, ok,” I said, waving my hand in defeat. “I will be honored to join you at your table, and besides, now I feel obligated! By the way, now I know your names, you should know mine. I am Dan.”

And so, with that, I gathered up my tea and croissant and my notebook and moved to what was now their table. After such a painful introduction, the conversation flowed surprisingly well, thanks to the ice-breaking laugh Kristi conjured. All had a story to tell. Victoria and Kristi were sisters, traveling to gain some normality after the loss of their mother. Norma a new friend of theirs met onboard the Deliziosa. And all were booked on the same 7-day post-cruise tour of Italy Glenda and I would be enjoying after completing the cruise—booked through the same travel agency. I quickly realized I was glad they had insisted on extending, and my accepting, the invitation to join them. Without this chance to smooth over the ruffled feelings, meeting up repeatedly during the 7-days in Italy in our small tour group may have been awkward indeed after my childish behavior.

My moveable notebook. Photo by author. 

Kristi and Victoria spoke of their struggles during their mother’s last months, of their homes in cold climes and their children (left behind with spouses), of the pleasure of the sun-drenched Adriatic and the luxury of the ship.

I told them a little about Glenda and myself. Upon mention of our home in Mesa, Norma exclaimed, “Oh! I’m almost your neighbor. I live in Gold Canyon just up the 60 from Mesa.”

“That is close,” I commented. “How did you wind up on the Deliziosa and booked on the tour with us?”

“Well, that’s a story. I never travel. I never have. This is a first for me, and I wouldn’t be here now if my friends hadn’t talked me into it.”

“So,” I said, with a smirk, “You have other friends on the cruise, too. I can hardly wait to meet them. Should I leave my notebook in other places?”

Laughing, Norma said, “No. They didn’t make it to Italy. That’s the story I mentioned.”

“Well, do tell,” I said. “How did they not make it?”

“Before I tell that story,” Norma said, “tell me how you feel about the travel agency we all booked with. Are you satisfied?”

Looking from face to face and seeing the same critical look in six eyes, I replied, “Not really. The company is good at putting together a vacation package and then marketing it. Their ads and offers were attention-getting and made this all seem wonderful. When we first called, they were the personification of polite professionalism. While we were considering the purchase, they assigned a company representative by name and gave us their direct number. They always answered on the first ring and had all the right answers. But then they got our money. Big change in service after that. The direct number never got answered but went directly to voice mail that promised a call back in ’24 to 48 business hours.’ Note, that’s three to six calendar days! A long time to wait for answers.”

Assessing my audience’s reaction to what was becoming a rant, I noted knowing nods, so I continued. “And then, they didn’t ever call back. You couldn’t get an answer to a question to save your life, by phone or email. One week before we were to leave, they sent us the wrong trip itinerary that didn’t align with our air travel at all. It almost gave me a heart attack! We had booked our air travel separately from their tour offering. I was frantic trying to get ahold of someone. It wasn’t until late in the day that we got another email apologizing for sending out an incorrect itinerary and promising the correct one shortly. Which we never did get.”

“We got the wrong one, too.” Said Victoria.

“Yep,” Kristi said. “And we couldn’t get anyone to answer the phone. So we drove to their offices and pounded on the locked door until we were let in.”

“Drove to their offices?” I asked. “Yes. Their offices are in downtown Salt Lake City, and we live nearby.” Victoria replied. “Once inside, they agreed they had made a mistake. Like you, though, we never did get a correct itinerary.”

“Well, we’ve shared that experience,” I sighed. “We flew from Phoenix to Milan not knowing if anyone in Italy knew we were coming or if anyone would meet us, or what. I wasn’t overly worried, as I knew the sailing port and date for the Deliziosa, and I had all the documents for the cruise. I’ve traveled internationally a fair bit. We had passports, cash, and credit cards. One way or another, we were going to be OK. And, when we got to Milan a guide did meet us and all was in order, so good!”

Knowing eyes and agreeing nods all around the table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

“But at least,” sighed Norma, “You had your experience and knowledge and the comfort from that. I had none of that.”

“Right,” I said. “I got carried away with my story. You said you haven’t traveled much. Your traveling companions didn’t make it to Italy? But you are here safe. Tell us what happened.”

“Kristi, Victoria, you both know this story. Do you mind if I tell it again for Dan?” 

Kristi and Victoria both murmured ascents. Norma continued, “My friends, sisters like Victoria and Kristi, convinced me to come on this trip with them. It’ll be fun, they said. We’ll do it together, they said. Fly to Italy, cruise the Adriatic, then tour Italy before returning home. So, we booked it with that agency out of Salt Lake City. Yeah. Mistake. We experienced the same lack of service. Then, disaster. Our air routing was American Airlines from Sky Harbor in Phoenix to LAX and from there non-stop to Rome on Alitalia Airlines. We all got to LAX. When we checked in with Alitalia, the agent discovered the travel agency had misspelled the girls’ names, so their Alitalia tickets didn’t match their passports. They weren’t allowed to board.”

“What? No!” I exclaimed. “What did they do?”

“Well, I’ve heard from them, and they did get home safely, but they may be some time trying to get the travel agency to set things right financially for them. I closed my eyes, held my breath and boarded the plane alone. And here I am! Like you, I was relieved when the company guide met me at Leonardo Da Vinci airport in Rome. And I’m thankful for people like Kristi and Victoria for adopting this green traveler.”

“Wow!” I said. “Horrible for your friends. And brave of you. It seems we’re all involved in a magnificent adventure. It may not be normal to toast with herbal tea, but,” I said as I hoisted my cup, “here’s to new experiences. May we be bold and blessed by guardian angels.”

“Here, here!” Was answered by all around the table by the window as ceramic cups clinked together. We parted this meeting as friends and enjoyed congenial company together over the remainder of the cruise and the following tour. Glenda was quickly accepted into the circle and my new friends took her under their wing, improving the trip for both of us. 

I am so glad Norma, Victoria, and Kristi stole my table by the window aboard the Deliziosa.

How a Mere Gondola Ride Redeemed Venice for Two Weary Travelers

I was sorry our gondola ride on the canals of Venice had come to an end. For many reasons, some of which may not seem obvious.

The gondola ride, unlike other parts of the journey, was everything I could have hoped for.

• The boat: Beautiful, flat-bottomed, made of various types of beautiful (and beautifully finished) wood, highly decorated with the traditional “Dolfin” at the bow and the standing platform at the stern for the gondolier.

• The colors: Black lacquer and gloss white with gold trim.

• The gondolier: Strong and capable.

• His attire: Traditional, with straw boater hat and navy woolen jacket over a white sailor’s shirt.

• His voice: Booming and full as he executed traditional, soaring operatic pieces.

• The cost: Fifteen Euros each. This seemed reasonable considering the Euro and U.S. Dollar were within twenty percent of equity at the time of our visit to Venice.

Gondolas in Venice. Photo by author.

After our rapid and tiring 30-minute walk from the water taxi stop at Venice’s waterfront docks, standing still while waiting our turn in line was a relief. The guide had advised us our tour group of 20 would need to hurry, as we were running a bit late, and the gondoliers stopped taking on new passengers at seven in the evening. But he didn’t tell us just how intense that walk would be. It seemed like a marathon with us striving to not fall behind the young and vibrant guide through crowds as we traversed cobblestones, steps, ramps, bridges, and uneven surfaces. All the time, we were scanning the rapidly dimming walkway ahead to keep the guide’s small, purple flag in sight. There was no time for looking at the gawdy souvenirs hawked by the young immigrants all along the way. I felt near panic. What would happen if we got separated? Would we be lost? Would I wish I spoke more than just a few words in Italian? I was breathing hard and only rewarded with the smells of Venice: Food, canals, water-fowl, cigarettes, and people. The city and the sea. The challenge of the walk seemed a constant reminder of our advanced age and our jet-lagged state. It had taken us two days to get to Venice. Two days on airplanes, buses, and trains with one too-short night in a hotel in Milan. When it seemed I could walk no further, our group paused for us stragglers, then took a right turn into a dark and narrow alley, which led us past St. Mark’s Square to the canal landing where the gondolas operated. Finally in line, we shuffled slowly toward the landing waiting our turn to board the gondola. The opportunity to sit down for a while seemed like a heaven-sent gift.

Ride or no ride, I wanted a rest.

Our ride began after 6:30 in the evening on October 24th. It was dark, damp, breezy, and cool. The boarding process was. After paying our fee (cash only!) we were escorted down four steep (and slippery-looking) steps to the edge of the canal’s water. After the gondolier positioned his craft, we were handed across the gap and over the gunnel with one, rather large, step down to the deck, the gondola rocking through the process. I felt a real sense of apprehension about the dark and likely cold waters under the boat. Once aboard, we were directed to our cushioned seats. We managed sitting without falling into or out of the boat, we were settled but still out of breath, and the ride began. We were pleasantly surprised there was no stale canal rotten-egg odor. Rather we noted a slightly sweet, salt-water smell. Our gondolier explained the canals in Venice are not stagnant but are flushed with tidewater from the sea twice each day by natural action and the canal water levels were managed by a series of ingenious dams and weirs.

With strong and steady exertion, the gondolier pushed his steed away from the landing and into the middle of the murky canal, the dark space only slightly wider than two of the shiny craft, stone and brick buildings on either side. We soon passed under a bridge and into a more open area. Here, the moonlight penetrated better, and we were relieved from the oppressive darkness of the earlier narrow stretch of canal. With greater light, we could appreciate the beauty of the buildings and the narrow walks along each side. As the gondolier, deep in his rendition of a barcarolle song, pushed us on with the boat’s rémo (pushing pole) we glided peacefully past the historical sights of Venice: palaces, churches, museums, and hotels.

Our gondolier, Enrico, told us it takes four years of training and apprenticeship, followed by a difficult exam, to qualify for a gondolier’s license. Venice limits the licensed gondoliers to a maximum of 400. In olden days, licenses were passed from father to son, but that is no longer allowed, and each must stand for exam on his (or her) own. Yes, there are female gondoliers. The gondola itself is a true work of art. Each new one costs about 50,000 Euros. Enrico said he loved his job and especially loved singing for beautiful women from around the world. Glenda averted her eyes. Was that a slight blush in her cheek?

Soon, the walkways opened a bit, accommodating café seating. Diners, mostly couples, were enjoying a meal or a drink under the moonlight as we slid past and entered the Grand Canal. Some waved to us as we glided past. Within moments, a noisy powered police boat sped past us running under siren and leaving a wake that rocked our gondola. Without cars, the old part of the city depends on fast speedboats to get police, fire, and other emergency services where they are needed. The next vessel was a stately funeral barge, returning from its day’s work transporting the dead to Isola di San Michele, the island that is Venice’s largest cemetery. The barge, painted a brilliant blue, was also powered, but running at a much more sedate speed, creating no visible wake. Powered vessels are not uncommon on the Grand Canal, Venice’s watery main street, as the commerce of the city must go on, even for departed souls. Unlike the gondola, powered vessels always run with lights at night.

Rialto Bridge. Photo by author.

We soon passed under the Constitution Bridge, Rialto Bridge, the Ponte dell’ Accademia, and finally the covered Bridge of Sighs over the part of the canal system called the Rio di Palazzo. Each bridge is unique and presents its personality expressed in architecture, size, construction materials, and color. Our gondolier explained the story of the Bridge of Sighs: It was the last part of Venice you would see if you were being shipped off to prison or otherwise banished from the beautiful city.

Too soon, it seemed, we had slipped across the glassy canals and had returned to the landing. Still, after the peace and beauty of the ride, I was refreshed, almost feeling like I was awakening from a dream. I was sorry the ride had come to its end. One reason was that I feared the fast-walking torture would recommence.

As stragglers, we had been among the last to board a gondola and among the last returning to the landing. We soon learned our group had gathered in a convenient gelateria and enjoyed the typical sweet, icy treat while awaiting the last of the group’s return. But sorry, not enough time left now for gelato. We must be on our way. A real visit to St. Mark’s would have to wait until tomorrow. At leaste the return trek wasn’t so hurried. As the noisy and smoky water taxi pulled away from the waterfront, I felt a wave of nostalgia for the sound of the gondolier’s singing voice and the sweet-salty smell of the canal. 

I’d go back to Venice. 

Without the comforting gondola ride, I’m not sure that I would say that.

Sunset over a restful ride. Photo by author.

An UN-EZ Day

October 5, 2021.

It was like a kick to the gut. I was beyond angry all the way to sick and actually felt like I might vomit. I told Glenda this is the kind of angry that makes a man drink and then commit violence. 

Our calendar says that we have nine days until our scheduled departure on October 14th for a trip that includes a tour of three Italian cities and a 7-day cruise in the Adriatic and around the Greek Isles. A trip we have anxiously awaited. A trip we have planned for months. A trip we booked and paid for in May of this year. I had slept poorly the night before, out of excitement and apprehension for the trip. We have made lists, shopped, located all essentials for travel, practice packed. Still, my mind wouldn't stop going over the lists and the mechanics of the travel. 

The Email in my inbox from the travel firm said, "Here's your updated itinerary!" Cool. Except upon examination, it proved anything but cool. 

This 'updated' itinerary was a major change. Nearly every aspect of the trip had been changed. The date of arrival in Italy was changed--meaning the date of our departure was changed to an earlier date. The city of arrival into Italy was changed. The date of the cruise ship's departure was changed. Its departure port was changed. The city and country of departure for our return flight to the U.S. was changed, along with its date. Nearly every detail of the two-week vacation was different than the one we had planned. And the changes were problematic. 

My mind boggled. I felt clammy, my breath rapid and shallow. My hands were sweating. The 'updated' departure from the U.S. was now only five days away--on a Sunday. 

Italy currently requires a negative Covid-19 test within 72 hours of arrival. A Sunday departure and near 24 hours in transit means we would have to have the quick-turn test done on Saturday next. Does anyone do that? Can we get an appointment? We have an appointment for the tests a week from tomorrow, Wednesday the 13th. We would have to cancel that one. 

That assumes that American Airlines can and will change our air reservations. We are booked to fly to Milan and then return from Rome 14 days later. The new itinerary calls for us to fly into Rome and return to the U.S. from Athens 11 days later. Does AA even serve these routes? We paid for upgraded seating--will AA have that available on new flights at short notice? What will the change cost us? (We booked our air travel separate from the main group because of our departure city and the fact that we had nearly $3,000 of flight credits with AA from an earlier Covid-related cancellation that needed to be used before the end of this year--so the travel firm is not, cannot, make changes to the confirmed air reservations for us.) 

An 11-day tour and cruise instead of a 14-day tour and cruise? Will we get a partial refund from the travel firm?

Sigh. Airport parking. I have a pre-paid reservation for airport parking in Phoenix for two weeks starting 9 days from today. Will I be able to change that?

And our furry best friend. The pet-sitter is expecting him the afternoon of Wednesday, October 13th. Can she accommodate the change? Will that impact the cost?

There's a hotel glitch, too. The original tour group was to wind up their visit so as to depart the Rome airport for the U.S. on October 27th. AA could not accommodate us at our required level of service on the 27th, so our return from Rome is booked for the morning of the 28th. As a result, we have a reservation at the Rome Airport hotel for one extra night. Pre-paid, of course, to the tune of $250.00. So many changes to be made! I didn't even think of the scheduled USPS mail hold.

But, of course, I can't make any of those changes until I speak with the travel firm and confirm that what they sent me is correct. So I called them. Three times. All I could do was leave a voice mail each time. I Emailed both the customer support team and the travel assistance team. 

Their voice mail recording said, "We'll get back to you within 24 business hours." It's Tuesday now. That means, at best, not later than Friday afternoon. For last-minute flight changes on an international agenda. For changes in parking, pet sitting, and a myriad list of other things.

Each Email elicited a prompt, automated response. "We have received your query. We will get back to you as soon as we can." Yeah, right. 

I wasn't feeling any better. But all I could do was wait. Or wait and pray. Probably the same overall impact, but quiet time might calm me down. After some solitary reflection (checking my Email every two minutes), I told Glenda, "Well, we have a roof over our head, food in the pantry, and a little money in the bank. We are OK."  After that, I decided I had other errands and I had better do them.

Bidding my bride farewell I headed to the grocery store three miles away. On my way, cruising northbound at the 45-mph speed limit, a traffic signal turned from green to yellow just as I entered the intersection. For some reason, the driver of the southbound red Mustang decided that was his signal to turn left. In front of me. Despite my full-panic stop and evasive maneuvering, our cars kissed, clipped ever so lightly. A piece of chrome trim was torn from his taillight trim. He didn't stop. When I stopped, after a few moments of shaking, I examined my car. I could see no sign of any damage at all. No dents. No scratches. No missing pieces. No sign that another car at speed had been so close. All the lights and accessories operated as normal. I resumed my drive and completed my shopping. The trip home was uneventful.

Waiting at home for me was a response from the travel firm by Email, "Hello Dan, The previous Email regarding a new itinerary doesn't apply to your upcoming vacation. That Email was sent to you by mistake. So sorry!"

Relief battled exhaustion. I think exhaustion won. 

It Was EZ to Go Down in History!

September 15, 2021

Over this past weekend, our grandson, Tyler, took on the project of sorting and rolling all of the coins I have carelessly tossed into a quart jar over the past couple of years.

In San Antonio, our credit union, RBFCU, had an electric coin sorter that could be used by CU members at no cost. We haven't found such here in Mesa, so the rolling seemed to be the best way to deal with the bulk coins. In a couple hours, Tyler had sorted and rolled over $58 worth of coins. But wait, there's more!

Amongst the coins, Tyler found an old, soiled brass token. I do not recall ever seeing it before, nor do I have any clue how it came into my possession. But it made me curious. The token, a little larger than a modern quarter, was imprinted 'L&B Co. General Merchandise the Store of Quality 1915 Hazelton, Idaho.' On the inverse was 'Good for 10¢ in Trade.' 

I was intrigued. Knowing that Hazelton, Idaho resides in Jerome County, I researched the Jerome County Historical Society and, finding an email 'contact us' link, sent the following:

---------------------------------

From: Dan's Gmail <dan.g.moyes@gmail.com>

Date: September 11, 2021 at 12:30:51 PM MST
To: info@historicaljeromecounty.com
Subject: L & B Co., Hazelton, 1915

My grandson is rolling coins for me from my loose change jar. He found a brass token from the subject business. [picture below]

I grew up in Hazelton and graduated Valley HS in 1968 but have never heard of L&B. I see a similar token on sale on eBay for $25. What can you tell me about L&B? Would you want this token (at no cost)? TIA.

Dan Moyes
Mesa, AZ
(210) 413-7743.

---------------------------------

In return, I received the following:

Hello Dan, 

I am always excited to find items of Jerome County. I had not seen this token before, but am very glad you have it. I did some researching and got even more excited when I found where the token was used!  

At the Jerome County Historical Society Museum we have a book that Hazelton City put together in 2011 for their 100 year celebration. I am attaching the pages in that book that pertain to this token. The L&B Company had me stumped at first. The name of the company is Longenberger & Belmont--no wonder they shortened it to L&B!  They first started in Milner and when Milner ceased to be a community, they moved over to Hazelton. They were a farm implement dealer. In 1946 it became Stokes Market then in 1960 became Mike's Market. That is probably what you remember. it was sold several other times and in 2011 was a health massage clinic. I will check to see what the building holds at this time.  S

Go to Jerome Idaho Public Library website to North Side News Digitized. You will be able to search for about five early instances of the Longenberger Belmont company. 

We  would love to receive the token if you wish to send it to us. It will be put into a locked cabinet that originally had Timex watches in it so people can look at it, but not touch it and will fill out a donation paper for you.    

My Dad grew up at Greenwood and graduated Hazelton High in 1932. Grandma and Grandpa Helms moved to Hansen in 1947. Dad came back to Jerome to farm after WWII in 1945. 

Linda Helms, Curator, Jerome County Historical Society Museums
------------------------------

So, I am going to mail the token to Ms. Helms at the Jerome County Historical Society Museum. It will be displayed, per her note above, identifying me as the donor! There you go. I will be named as a benefactor in a museum!

Ms. Helms also sent me copies of some pages from the book prepared by the city of Hazelton in 2011 to mark their first century and showing history of the L.& B. Co. Next time I'm in Idaho, I will surely visit the museum.

Along with the token I will include a letter explaining the connections of the Dille and Baum families to Greenwood and to Hazelton, as well. How about that?

Road trips aren't supposed to be EZ.

In the U.S., we have a tradition of ‘road trips’ that reaches back over 100 years. Zócalo Public Square, a magazine of ideas published by Arizona State University, as reported in Time magazine, calls the road trip the signature all-American adventure⁽¹⁾. Indeed, it has long taken an adventurous motorist to complete a truly epic road trip. Such trips were long much more arduous, uncomfortable, and dangerous than the drives we normally complete today.

A proper road trip can be made alone but most often includes friends and/or family members. The road trip is the embodiment of the ‘hero’s quest,’ which is an essential part of Western literature. The drive, regardless of length, may provide adventure, awe, great fun, hardship, suffering, despair, fear, and joy. All on one trip! A good road trip will build character. As with the hero’s quest, there should be a reward at the end.

It has long been my belief that there ‘must needs be opposition in all things.’ In other words, you have to experience discomfort to truly appreciate luxury.

My eldest son, Derek, along with his wife, Jillian, and their son, Ian recently completed a road trip that surely includes the primary essential elements listed above and fine-tuned their appreciation for the finer things of life, such as air conditioning, comfortable seating, and quiet transport. Their quest was to return Jillian’s father, Manny, to his home in Silver Springs, Nevada after his weeks-long visit in San Antonio. The nearly 1,700-mile trek was part of the second half of the story, as they had made the reverse trek after flying to Reno from Texas several weeks earlier, driving Manny, in his early-‘90s Ford Econoline van, to their home for an extended visit with his family and old friends in Texas. You see, Manny won’t fly. As Manny is a senior citizen, his family doesn’t trust his ability to drive great distances alone.

The earlier trip to Texas in May had involved all the normally expected inconveniences of a long drive, plus some minor adventures, with the van showing a tendency to overheat, but the intrepid travelers were able to overcome that problem and thought they had accomplished a permanent fix. The old van may not have proved the most comfortable way to travel, but the trip was accomplished with a minimum of difficulties and in an expeditious fashion. The trip in July to return Manny to Nevada was going to be a bit different, as the vehicle’s air conditioning had recently failed. Their schedule did not leave time for repairs before the trip.

The portion of the journey that brought them to our home in Mesa, Arizona, was accomplished safely. The adults took turns driving and sleeping, so the total elapsed time was a little less than 20 hours. Twenty hours without air conditioning. Twenty hours with the windows down at 60 mph, wind whipping against sweaty skin and roaring in tired ears. There would be a shower, a meal, and a night’s sleep in cool quarters for them on their arrival in Mesa, and, Boy! Did they ever need it!

From Mesa, they made the decision to drive the remainder of Arizona at night hoping it would be a bit cooler. They also decided to change their route from the most direct route to one that would take them to higher altitudes and cooler temperatures by going north to Flagstaff and then west on IH-40 to Nevada. That routing choice may have been less advantageous than expected. The route from Phoenix to Flagstaff is a gentle climb of over 5,000 feet in less than 150 miles. The van didn’t like the climb and overheated several times during the cool, night-time, climb up to Flagstaff.

I’ll let one of the road-trip participants, my son, Derek, tell you a bit about the trip in his own words:

15:11 July 5, 2021 – We made it safely to Silver Springs. We didn’t think the van would overheat in the cold weather, we were more worried about climbing the hills near Tonopah (Nevada) during the day. Turns out that having to stop a few times while climbing up to Flagstaff made the 5 hour trip to Vegas take about 8 hours. The weather was good while we were up there, though. I got some sleep after getting to Kingman, maybe 4 hours of broken sleep in the van while Jill was driving. We made Vegas by sunup, and then we swapped drivers again in Tonopah. We did also have to baby the van up the hill to Tonopah, and the rest of the way to Silver Springs, though, and that was not fun. We had to run the heat in the cabin to keep heat off the engine, and turn off the engine and coast down the big hills to help the coolant stay cool. Turns out, the internet says 100% engine coolant^* boils at about 388°. We did that twice. All this while driving across the desert without working A/C. Still, all in all, a safe trip, although long and tiring.

* Note: Most mechanics recommend a 50% coolant/water mix for optimal cooling.

 The road-trip is something that my family has been well-trained into from their youth. We have endured many at my hands. Some we may have enjoyed. Without fail, they yield awe and adventure. The best ones leave us all feeling a bit like we’ve completed an epic quest.

  

(1(1) Blodgett, P. J. (2015, August 15). How Americans Fell in Love with Taking Road Trips. Time. https://time.com/3998949/road-trip-history/. Accessed July 6, 2021.

Therapy begins easily

I took Glenda to her first appointment for the Mind for all Seasons Enhance Protocol today at the Summit Memory Clinic on Signal Butte Road in Mesa. We earlier had her blood and urine collected for the laboratory panel at LabCorp in Queen Creek. 

Glenda on Light Therapy device.

Glenda on O2 saturation test machine.

I think it went very well. They did some more comprehensive cognitive testing (we get results with roadmap in a week or so), we've had the specimens all collected for the lab panel, she did very well, indeed, on the exercise machine with O2 monitoring -- Robeson Flynn, her memory coach, was impressed at how well she did on that test. She had a bit of anxiety with the chilling in the chair with the optic therapy headset, but once she understood that all she had to do was relax for 30 minutes and I put on some soft music for her (I sat in the room with her), she was fine. Afterwards she said it was good. We may take her earbuds next time so she can listen to a book during that 30 minutes.

The daily EZ, August 11, 2021

Cool and rainy today. Unusually cool and rainy. Today's high will be in the 80s with lows in the 70s. We have had over an inch of rain today by 9am. Yes, it is the monsoon season in Arizona, but this year is proving to be exceptionally cool and wet. That's OK, the first two years we lived here proved to be exceptionally hot and dry. Essentially no rain at all during the 2020 monsoon season. We'll gladly take this.

Today I will meet with Mr. Robeson Flynn at the Summit memory care facility near our home. 

They are offering an outpatient program called the Enhance Protocol which shows promise of delaying age-related memory loss or even allowing improvement for some already experiencing cognitive deficiencies.

The purpose of the meeting is to enroll Glenda into the Enhance Protocol. The program is not inexpensive, and will likely involve some additional expense in the form of dietary supplements for hormonal and vitamin balance, and so on. But we (the family) are hopeful that the treatment will extend the time that Glenda and I can live independently in our own home. 

Pray for us and wish us luck.

Family loss is never EZ

While we were enjoying our travels and visit to Moscow, Idaho, I got a message from my Niece, Jeannie Newman. Her sister, Karen, had suffered a massive heart attack and was in the hospital ICU near Blackfoot, Idaho, where Karen resided. She had been revived but was on life support. Having been without oxygen for many minutes, the doctors were reporting that she was essentially brain dead. The family, her siblings and children, were being asked to make a life or death decision for her. 

In the end, they decided to remove the life support and Karen passed at about 10:20pm local Thursday, August 5, 2021. 

Karen and Jeannie were daughters of my eldest sibling, Sarah Leane. Jeannie is the youngest of six. Karen was a middle child, and is the second of her siblings to pass. Her eldest sister, Lauretta, was killed along with her husband Bruce Thain and an infant, Jeremy, the result of a horrible car crash in July of 1975. 

Jeannie and her remaining siblings, Michael Jensen, Jolinda Cox, and Keven Jensen are making plans and arrangements for Karen's final needs. I may, or may not, travel from Phoenix to Idaho to be in attendance. The family will need financial help and it may make more sense for me to send them the money I'd spend on travel.

R.I.P. niece Karen.

First air travel in the time of COVID was almost EZ

We left home Wednesday, August 4, 2021. After driving from home to Pre-Flight Parking near the airport, we rode by shuttle to Sky Harbor where we boarded a Southwest Flight to Spokane, Washington, by way of Las Vegas with a plane change there. In Las Vegas we met up with Glenda's sister, Carolyn, who was flying to Spokane from Boise with a similar plane change in Las Vegas. In Spokane, we got a rental car and the three of us drove to Moscow, Idaho, to visit with Glenda's sister Jannie, who lives there at 919 Orchard Ave. Carolyn lodged on Jannie's couch, but Glenda and I had an AirBnB reservation for the two nights of our visit at Paradise View bed & breakfast, hosted by Mike and Lynn McCollough. Our lodging was on Moscow Mountain, about five miles north of town, and truly beautiful. The lodging was clean, private, and comfortable and offered a stunning view of the Moscow valley below. Lynn provided pleasant conversation over an outstanding light breakfast. Highly recommend. 

Paradise View BnB, 1005 Joyce Rd, Moscow, ID 83843

The three sisters had a very pleasant reunion catching up with each other. Laurie, the fourth sister, was missing as she had just spent a week helping Carolyn pack to move from Idaho to Pennsylvania later this year so as to be able to care for Mark's mother there. Laurie didn't feel up to making the trip north from Twin Falls. 

Much gabbing was done, several meals were enjoyed, and hugs around. A morning journey to the countryside let Jannie share the presence of her horse, Sonny, with us. 

Jannie, Sonny, Carolyn, Glenda, Dan at Sonny's boarding near Moscow, Idaho.

We left Jannie's Friday morning, August 6th to return to Spokane and fly home. All went well, except...as we were exiting IH-90 to take the Spokane airport exit, as I slowed, a truck flew by us in the near lane. As he passed, a rock flipped up from the highway which broke the windshield of the rental car. Oh, well. There goes $600.

The rest of the trip was pretty unremarkable. Of course, due to Covid, we were in face masks all the time in the airport and on the plane – same as during our earlier travel north from Phoenix. Our flight was a 2-hour direct non-stop to Phoenix. Southwest had routed Carolyn to Boise by way of Phoenix, so we were all three on the same flight out of Spokane. At Sky Harbor, Carolyn generously treated us to dinner at Zinc Bistro before we left for home. We were home by 4:30pm, retrieved our dog, Dak, from Chandra Buchanan who kept him for us, and relaxed. Carolyn reported later that she made it home safely, as well.

 

How are you? Fine, thanks. That's the EZ answer.

Today I realized that 'fine' is a very subjective concept.

As Ms. G ages and has had various health challenges, family and friends often ask how she is doing. Often, my response is, "Fine." And most days she is fine, based on the current subjective definition of 'fine' in the objective situation we live in.

A fine day for G means that she woke up feeling good and relatively alert. After arising, she walked safely to the kitchen. Hungry, she ate from the breakfast prepared for her. On a fine day, she can (and will) shower and dress herself and take care of her dental hygiene. She can get her morning medicine from the daily dispenser with only needing help to remember what day of the week it is. She will want to listen to the audio version of her scriptures for at least 30 minutes on a fine day--she can't read them anymore due to failing vision. A fine day may find her spending most of an hour in our community gymnasium working on the stationary bicycle and the exercise machines, after safely walking the 100 yards from our front door to the community center. Later, on a fine day, she may enjoy the lunch prepared for her and then an audio book before a nap. She may call her sisters or one of our kids. On the occasional days that she is better than fine, she may unload the dishwasher or fold a basket of laundry. 

On a fine day, she doesn't ask what city we live in, or what year it is. Or how many children we have or if her father is still alive. She doesn't faint from orthostatic hypotension on a fine day, nor stumble and fall while walking. On a fine day she doesn't sleep for 18 hours, or get lost in our yard. 

Not all of our days count as 'fine.' But most do.

EZ to be exceptional

I note this morning that there is good news and bad news. 

First the good news: American exceptionalism is being proven, clearly, and is on display for the entire world to see.

The bad news? Americans are dramatically proving to be exceptionally stupid.

An EZ Invitation

This is an invitation to all my rugged individualist friends: Hey, good buddy, let’s go hunting out in the wild. Bring the camp gear. Bring the guns. Let’s get some game for the freezer and maybe a trophy for the wall. Let’s have a great, old-fashioned good time!

But we want to be safe and practice the things we’ve learned about being rugged individuals, including weapon safety, proper hydration, careful orienteering, and dressing for the weather. There are other things to consider. As we go into the untamed wildlife habitat to stealthily stalk creatures, keep this in mind: Lyme disease is everywhere in the wild where we would be hunting. It can make you really sick, with skin and nerve problems, or even a fatal heart ailment! You get it from a tick bite, and those little bastards, the size of a poppy seed with a painless bite, are opportunists. But don’t get worked up about it, it’s pretty easy to protect ourselves from Lyme disease.

To be safe, just make sure to slather on a good DEET-based insect repellent while we are on our trip. You can also get hunting gear and clothing that is impregnated with DEET to give a little extra protection.

Yes, using an insect repellent is a pain, and, yes, there are some reported side effects (even a couple of deaths!) from using insect repellents. Some people have medical conditions and can’t use them at all! But if you don’t have those issues, what the heck. In the vast majority of reported cases of adverse reactions, the discomfort or illnesses are mild. Nearly 90% of reported adverse reactions to DEET don’t even require hospitalization. In any case, such negative effects are nearly always much less severe than Lyme disease.

Even with DEET and proper coverage with special cloth, there is still a chance you may get a tick bite resulting in Lyme disease. Sorry. Nothing’s perfect. There is no 100% sure way to prevent the spread of the illness. Careful use of insect repellent won’t guarantee you won’t get sick, but it does greatly reduce your risk and nearly everyone who can safely use DEET agrees the risk-benefit calculation favors careful use of the repellent. Using the repellent and distancing yourself from the brush where you may be exposed to ticks followed by a careful inspection of your skin, when applied together, greatly reduce any risk. After all, we are here for hunting and fun, right? Don’t want a preventable illness to spoil that!

Wait. What’s that you say? You won’t use the repellent? You feel like you are being manipulated by my warning? My warning is some evil political ploy to ‘control’ you and your behavior?

Well, you certainly have your rights. If you don’t want to use insect repellent no one is going to force you to do that. After all, it is your body and your decision to make, and we can all respect that. If you get sick, you will be the one suffering and incurring huge medical bills. And you won’t likely be spreading Lyme disease to your friends, family, and strangers you meet. No. It’s not as if it were a respiratory virus or something where there would be a personal responsibility to protect others from your infection. Nope. Not like that at all.

 

For more information, see:

 

Lyme Disease Treatment Guidelines. Lyme Disease Association. https://lymediseaseassociation.org/about-lyme/medical/treatment-guidelines/?gclid=CjwKCAjwgISIBhBfEiwALE19SYtP3TDQwgRa5jbpbnChAJIpgGjreBhFm0B0Pxq81ZuOVMUp7UfFAhoCn8YQAvD_BwE. (2017, February 3).

 

Schwartz AM, Hinckley AF, Mead PS, Hook SA, Kugeler KJ. Surveillance for Lyme Disease — United States, 2008–2015. MMWR Surveill Summ 2017;66(No. SS-22):1–12. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.15585/mmwr.ss6622a1

 

Can One Die of Lyme Disease? New Health Advisor. https://www.newhealthadvisor.org/Can-You-Die-from-Lyme-Disease.html. (2019, September 1). 

De-escalation made EZ.

This is my earlier write-up of an event that happened on July 16, 2018: 

Naked people give nudists a bad name! At about 9 this evening we heard loud screaming coming from out front. With my Monday night bowl of cantaloupe pieces in hand I went out front to investigate. Just outside the front door Mrs Brown ran up to me from her house and babbled something about a naked young man on her front porch. Why was he on her front porch? Because he’d been pounding on her back door and she wouldn’t let him in. A few more neighbors gathered as the naked young man walked toward us in the glow of the street light. He was loud and abusive and was waving his arms and shaking...various parts...he was told to back away but didn’t. He approached me talking loud nonsense but I did not retreat. After I was assured 9-1-1 had been called I engaged him in small talk to keep him busy until the police 👮 could arrive. He told me his name was Elliott and he was 19. I asked about medication and he said no. I asked about self medication and he said well yes, obviously. For 45 minutes we engaged him briefly between demonstrations of physical prowess that could have passed for modern interpretive dance or simulated sex with asphalt. Or both. Now that I think of it, wouldn’t that make a grand name for a punk band? Finally an officer arrived and cuffed Elliott. It took a second officer on scene to convince him to cooperate and get into a cruiser. At that point he told the officers that he had been receiving treatment at a hospital about a mile away. As the cars pulled away my eldest son FINALLY showed up with the popcorn. I hope Elliott gets good and effective treatment—he needs it. Points scored: after the fact I told the wife, “See, there was nothing sexy about that nudity.”  She agreed.

Coincidence? That would be too EZ.

 Vacationing near Lake Havasu in Arizona, we started our morning, as per our routine, with morning prayer. In that prayer, I asked that, if it be God’s will, that he use as as tools in his hands to provide service in some way to his children here on Earth. 

Around 10am we drove out to take care of a quick errand with a plan to leave the hotel at around 11am to drive to our next stop, a La Quinta Hotel near McCarren Airport in Las Vegas. The errand took us to a part of Lake Havasu City that we would not have gone to simply in our drive out of the city. Coming back to the hotel, we spotted a gas station with an attractive price of less than $3.00 a gallon posted, so we chose to stop and fill our car for the drive.

At the pump on the other side of the island was a couple close to our age filling a pickup truck and a beautiful blue and white ski-boat. In a pause, I complimented him on his boat and how well cared-for both the boat and the truck looked. This led to a conversation. He noted I was a veteran (from my Arizona affinity license plates). I noted he was a retired fire-fighter from stickers displayed on his pickup truck. We chatted and compared notes on a few items of mutual interest. He introduced himself as Richard Reichle. When his wife joined us he introduced her as Nancy. They were from Dana Point, California.

In the conversation, it came out that they were preparing to drive Nancy to McCarren Airport so she could fly home through John Wayne/Orange County airport. As a nurse, she had to be back to work in a day or so. Richard planned to stay a bit longer to do some boating so would be returning from Las Vegas to Lake Havasu. Hmmm, I said, “That’s where we are going today—our hotel is next door to the airport.” We exchanged information, including snapping photos of drivers licenses and sharing mobile numbers.

And so it came that Nancy rode with us from Lake Havasu City to McCarren Airport. She was lovely company, and picked up the tab for lunch at a Carl’s Jr in Needles, California. Richard was saved the round trip drive to Las Vegas with the attendant cost and time involved. The kicker: Both Richard and Nancy claimed to be prayerful people, Christians, and we have no cause to doubt them. They told us that they had, that morning, prayed for God to bless Nancy’s trip to the Las Vegas airport and to make it as simple and stress-free as possible. 

You may recall we prayed that we could be of service. Richard and Nancy prayed for some help. We were placed together and discovered a painless and cost-free way for us to be an answer to their prayer. 

Events such as this, you may call a strange coincidence. I call it a faith-building experience. We bid Nancy goodbye at the curb in McCarren Aiport. Our hotel was two minutes away.

EZ's Luck

Do you believe in miracles, or do you call it fate? When the inevitable is unexplainably avoided, Is it luck, Karma, grace, or just the roll of the dice?

In the mid-1980s, we set out to drive as a family from San Antonio, Texas to Las Vegas, Nevada. That’s 1,295 U.S. miles (2,084 kilometers) by the most direct route. At that time the national speed limit in the U.S. was 55 miles per hour on the open highways and less in built-up areas. Luckily, there weren’t that many built-up areas there. With gas and rest stops the drive was planned to take about 28 hours of otherwise continual driving. My wife and I planned to take turns driving while the ‘off-duty’ one slept—our car was equipped with a big, reclining seat for the front-seat passenger to make sleeping a bit easier. Our three kids would have the back seat with pillows, blankets, snacks, and Mario Brothers and Donkey Kong on a crude hand-held Nintendo to occupy them. And fighting. They always had fighting amongst themselves for entertainment.

We left San Antonio just after sunset on a Friday evening planning to drive across the West Texas flatlands in the cool of the August night. The gas stops are laid out across that stretch of Interstate Highway 10 West to allow stops every couple of hours and there’s always food and coffee as well as restrooms available at the gas stations. I had enjoyed a long afternoon nap, so I felt fresh and took the first driving shift. Even after our second gas stop, I still felt great and wanted to continue driving. I had a cold Diet Dr Pepper (heavily caffeinated carbonated beverage) and my ‘tunes’ to help me. I had wired a headphone jack into the car’s audio system so that I could listen to Men at Work, Toto, Bonnie Tyler, and Spandau Ballet on the car’s built-in stereo cassette player while the family dozed with only the highway sounds to lull them.

By two in the morning, we were a few miles east of Fort Stockton, Texas; 300 miles and six hours from home. The wife was curled up with her seat reclined, a huge pillow between her head and the passenger’s side of the car, another pillow wrapped in her arms. It had been silent in the back seat for many, many miles. There wasn’t even a green glow of a Nintendo screen visible in my interior mirror. Traffic had become as sparse as lakes in the West Texas desert. The car’s engine hummed; the tires smoothly sang their highway song. The cruise control was set at 55 mph. I planned to make a fuel stop in Fort Stockton and change drivers so I could sleep. I sipped my Dr Pepper and sang along silently to Total Eclipse of the Heart for the seventh or eighth time. I congratulated myself on planning such a stress-free family car trip. All was well. I thought.

A sudden and very loud WHACK got my attention. My eyes popped open (when did I close them?) We were no longer safe on the smooth pavement of IH-10. The passenger side wheels were in the gravel on the road’s shoulder. My training as a driver allowed me to avoid panic—fortunately—I did not slam on the brakes. Statistics and studies show that is the worst thing to do when a car’s passenger wheels leave the pavement. Rather I quickly but gently touched the brake pedal to cancel the cruise control. Then, steering very, very slightly to the left to avoid going further off the road but not to lurch the car back onto the paved surface, I began to apply the brake gently but in earnest. The car came safely to a stop. I couldn’t see ahead of the car from the dust thrown up by our wheels as we ground to a halt. I put the transmission in Park, killed the ignition, and turned off the headlights. The stop, and the WHACK, of course, awoke the family. By the time we were stopped, everyone was like, “What?” “What’s going on?” “Why are we stopped.” I couldn’t answer. I was too busy shaking and trying to breathe, wondering why we were all still alive and not broken and bleeding out on the harsh desert floor.

After explaining to my wife and the children that I had dozed and run off the road, but we were stopped and all safe, so not to worry, I stepped out of the car with my flashlight, a 3-battery MagLite, to survey the situation. I first looked at the car for damage. There was some: The passenger’s side door mirror was gone—just gone! I could see no other damage. No dents, no scratches. Walking back alongside the road about 200-300 feet, about 60-100 meters, from the way we had come I found an upright steel roadside marker post, its reflectorized top badge bent in the direction of our travel. Shining the flashlight around further from the road, I could see fragments of broken mirror on the desert floor. A miracle! We had apparently left the paved roadway at just the right time and at just the correct angle for that roadside marker pole to wipe the passenger side mirror off the car, make a huge WHACK sound to awaken me, and do no other damage. I momentarily marveled that we had not only survived unhurt but still had a sound and usable car not having rolled across the desert floor or shattered on boulders. As I walked back toward the car, I raised my MagLite beam to shine ahead to see if we had an easy route back onto the paved highway. What I saw caused my heart to stop and I fell to my knees. My breath just wouldn’t come! I thought I had been frightened and shaking when I first controlled the car to a stop. Now I was in shock. Not twenty feet (<4 meters) in front of the car was a solid concrete abutment making up the base of a highway overpass to allow a secondary road to cross over the top of IH-10. Miracle, indeed! If…if…

If our car had drifted off the highway a second or two later…if the highway roadside marker had been six inches further from the roadway…if…if… We would have gone head-on into that concrete abutment with the cruise control set at 55 mph. While we were seat-belted, automotive airbags had not yet been invented, and in any case probably could not have saved us from certain, sudden death. I don’t know how long it was before I could stand and return to the car. I didn’t tell or show my family the truth of the situation, but I did tell them we were very ‘lucky’ that the roadside marker had awakened me and done minimal damage to the car. Apologizing to all for my failure and assuring my wife I was now more than wide awake, and that I’d drive the very few miles into Fort Stockton, after which she could drive, I started the car, engaged the gear, turned on the lights and left flasher and bumped back up onto the roadway.

Call it what you may. We must surely owe our lives to some type of intervention.   

 

  

Camping is not EZ

 In 1990 my family and I were living in Okinawa, Japan, as part of my military assignment. 

The military had a ‘retreat’ at Okuma Beach. Okuma was truly beautiful. On one occasion, my wife and I left the family in our eldest daughter’s care (she was 18 and a high-school graduate by then) and went to Okuma Beach for the weekend. We took a small pop-up tent and not much else as this was intended to be a real ‘get away’ for us. We had a great day and dinner at the club. Our campsite was all set up in the crowded campground. Night fell and we crawled into the low tent and retired to our sleeping bags by about 10pm. Okinawa is hot. And very often, humid. This night must have been trying to set a record on both counts. Dead still, not a sign of a breeze, the temperature hovered around 100F and the humidity was so high it felt like a sauna inside the tent. This tent had a removeable ‘fly’ at the top, which we had taken off to allow us to view the heavens through the screened open top of the tent. The flaps were all open and tied back in an attempt to capture any vestige of moving air. There was no moving air. There was no idea of getting INTO the sleeping bags, rather we lay on top trying to sleep. Pajamas were abandoned for underwear. In the sticky heat, that clothing was soon clinging to our sweat-covered bodies and even that light material was too much, so was removed. Finally, probably around midnight, despite the discomfort of the heat, we drifted to sleep, skyclad, as my Wiccan friends would say. 

FLASH! CRASH! BANG! Then SPLASH! Thunder, lightning, then torrential tropical rain awoke us, fierce wind shook the tent—a severe thunderstorm had moved in. What was it, 2:30am or so? Remember that open ‘fly’ at the top of the tent? It now served as a direct conduit for rain to drench in as if through a funnel—and the rainwater felt cold after the earlier steamy heat we had experienced. Looking outside through the tent-door-flap screen, I could see that all was in total darkness—the electricity must be off, as all of the security lighting around the campground was out. My wife, muttering, had pulled a sleeping bag over her nakedness to fend off the rain. Well, there was nothing for it but to try to get that ‘fly’ fastened back onto the top of the tent to protect us and our belongings from the rain. I told her, “Zip up all of the side flaps to keep the rain out!”

Fortunately, the fly was inside the tent and I knew exactly where it was. Unzipping the screen flap, I grabbed the fly and forged out, on hands and knees, onto wet sand and into the driven rain. Desperately holding the flapping nylon fly material in the wind, I stood and felt for the loops to which secure the flap with its clips. FLASH! BANG! The world was briefly illuminated by lightning as if it were noon. That meant I could see the first of the clips. It also meant, that if anyone were looking, they could see me. In all my glory. In the wind-driven rain. Fighting with a piece of nylon tent material. Snap. One clip done. FLASH! BANG! With each bolt of lightning the world was daylight again for a second. Snap. Two clips. Snap. Three clips. FLASH! BANG! Finally, I finished fastening the fly, dropped to hands and knees, and with one final FLASH! I crawled into the tent. 

As I pulled the door flap shut and zipped it, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The storm moved on to the east, but it had, at least cooled the temperature and left a gentle and steady breeze in its wake. We were able to once again open the side and door flaps, with screens in place, and while wet, we were comfortable enough to get some sleep, awaking to a gorgeous sunrise.