Leavin' On A Jet Plane

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go
I'm standing here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say "good-bye."
But the dawn is breaking, it's early morn,
The taxi's waiting, he's blowin' his horn,
Already I'm so lonesome I could die.
--John Deutschendorf (AKA John Denver)

To see John Denver sing this song with Peter, Paul and Mary, click here.


NOTE: Click on any photograph to view it full screen in a new window.

Not the jet plane on which we left

Saturday morning, March 26th, we packed our bags, loaded them in the car, and headed to the airport. I'm always a bit melancholy at the end of a trip, filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I'm glad to be getting back to the kids, home, my own bed, but on the other hand, there's a wistfulness about all the things that didn't get done while on the trip. This time was especially fraught.

In my last post, I talked about the frustrations we faced upon our arrival in Phoenix and the subsequent drive to Visalia, California. Those frustrations continued through the whole week. Monday morning, after checking out of our motel, we had a very good breakfast at the Main Street Café in Visalia, then drove to the Tulare County Court House so that I could add one more governmental building to my portfolio. We had a good meeting with the folks at BWGS, one of the companies we hope will agree to supply our new Hydroponics Warehouse in Phoenix, and then headed south to Los Angeles. Crossing Tejon Pass, the official dividing line between northern and southern California, we again drove through a snow storm--one so severe that it dominated the LA news. Why, oh why, does the snow seem to be following me everywhere I go?

In Los Angeles, well actually in Ontario, east of LA, we met with the Arizona representative for Sunlight Supply, another hydroponics supplier, perhaps the largest in the country. Art was very informative, but couldn't tell us whether he would accept our account--not until he had done his own research to make sure we weren't encroaching on anyone else's territory.

Having concluded all the meetings we could in California, we turned the Ford east on I10 heading back to Phoenix. Kevin had never been to Palm Springs, so we turned off the interstate onto California 111 and drove into the gayest city in the world. Appropriately enough, a giant rainbow appeared in the sky as we approached the city. Of course I photographed it, and posted the picture on Red Bubble.

Prickly Pear cactus in bloom at the Phoenix-Mesa Gateway Airport

Rainbows, of course, also indicate the presence of rain, and since it was raining so steadily, and since neither Kevin nor I are bar people, we just drove on through Palm Springs, gawking as tourists do, but not stopping. Kevin wanted to get further down the road before stopping for the night, and I had no interest in staying at a clothing-optional resort in the rain. I had noticed a road sign directing traffic to Mecca on our drive west, so I asked Kevin if we could take a brief sidetrip. He agreed, and now I can say I have been all over the Arab world, in a manner of speaking. I've now been to Baghdad (Oregon), Tunis (Montana), and now Mecca (California). None of them were noteworthy, and I feel no compunction to turn toward Riverside County when I say my prayers. East of Mecca, however, was another story. Rand McNally had marked the road with green dots, signifying a scenic drive, and the Painted Canyon we drove through was certainly that. Kevin stopped repeatedly so that I could take pictures, and I posted a few of them on Red Bubble as well.

We stopped for the night back in Blythe, but found a different motel this time, one of the nicest places we've ever stayed. The next morning we crossed the Colorado River, entered Arizona, and drove back to Phoenix, arriving at the Royal Villa around eleven a.m. This gave us plenty of time to head downtown to the city's governmental complex, where we got our city tax forms filed, then on to the building we want to rent where we met our business partner, Gary. We were supposed to meet with bankers the next day, but that didn't happen, and we haven't heard back from Gary, so I don't know what is happening on that front. Yet another frustration.

On Wednesday, we were supposed to meet with the doctor we are contracting with to screen prospective medical marijuana patients, but he called and cancelled. I can't help but wonder if he's just too busy to do what we need done. Still more frustration.

Downtown Phoenix, as seen from I17. Quite the mix of squalor and grand architecture.

Thursday, our extemely handsome realtor picked us up at the Royal Villa and took us to six different homes for our consideration. I fell in love with the very first house we saw (also the most expensive, of course), and number two was also great, in my opinion. Number 3 did not appeal at all to me, but was Kevin's favorite. Go figure. Turns out Kevin doesn't want a two story house, no matter how much I felt the upstairs lofts would be perfect for my weaving studio. Another thing that caught my attention: the two story houses had the laundry room on the second floor. At first I was taken aback, but when you think about it, where is most of the laundry generated? You can carry your napkins and placemats upstairs, or you can carry all the clothing and bedding downstairs. I'd rather have the washer and dryer close to the heaviest loads.

One of the cacti growing at the Royal Villa, Phoenix

House 4 was another two story that I liked (another loft for my weaving studio) but Kevin didn't, and that brought us to house 5. This one was closest to our proposed hydroponics warehouse, meaning the shortest commute, and was an older home in a well established neighborhood. It backs up to a golf course, and has absolutely no privacy in the back yard. We'd also have to make the open fencing dog proof so that the kids wouldn't get out and bother the golfers, but much to my surprise, I fell in love with the house. It felt like "home." No large space for my weaving, no privacy, no pool, but still. I had to admit to the realtor that the house had nothing on my wish list, but I could live there quite comfortably. The next door neighbor told us that he, aged 55, was the youngest person in the neighborhood, and that's when the realtor found that the house is in a seniors only area. I guess, much as I hate to say it, that Kevin and I both fit that bill. House 6, however, if I had the money in hand, would be mine now. On a single level for Kevin, with a completely private back yard and a built-in pool, new paint, new carpeting, new appliances, new roof, and in our price range. The only problem is that we still don't have the go-ahead for either of the ventures we're hoping to start in Phoenix. We drove back to the Royal Villa with my frustration level at the tipping point.

Friday, we spent most of our time at the Royal Villa, with me naked by the pool for most of the day. In the evening, the doctor called, and we met him at a Glendale Hospital at 8 pm. Maybe, just maybe, things will work out, but I'm still not convinced.

Saturday, as I mentioned above, we packed up and headed to the airport, arriving three hours early. I know Kevin didn't understand my mood, and I'm not sure I can explain it to him. Now that we're home, I'm glad to be back in my own house, with the kids on my lap, but at the same time I miss the blue sky, sunshine, and warm temperatures we had in Phoenix. Not to mention all the time naked at pool side. Oh well, life does go on.

Still not the jet plane we left on, but one parked at Phoenix-Mesa Gateway Airport

For John Denver singing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" with Cass Elliot, click here.

Cranes & Cows & Plains

Latecomers entering the theatre.
(Appropriately late, as this post is being submitted 8 hours later than usual.)
Why is it that the people in the center always get there after the people on the aisle are seated?
Smith River, California
1/8/07

This is a column about frustration. Even the typing has become frustrating as for whatever reason unknown to me, Word 2003 is refusing to show me what I’m typing. All I get is a white screen with a moving cursor. When I highlight the space I’ve just covered, the words are there, just not visible.

There should be a lesson here. Today (and I’m calling it today, even though at this point it’s technically speaking yesterday) I have felt as frustrated as at any time in recent memory. First a payment I was expecting did not come through in a timely fashion, which meant that I needed to go into Crescent City to move funds at the bank—again. Then you’ll remember, if you’ve been reading along, that Charter Communications was supposed to send a technician out to check my cable modem wiring. That meant staying home all morning, even though the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and my camera was singing “Use me, use me!” There will be other sunny days, I promised it. After all, as Annie taught us, “The sun will come up tomorrow.” That said, there is no promise that the sky will be blue tomorrow, or that conditions will be good for photography tomorrow. Just ask Carl’s photographer friend Richard who flew out from New York City to work on a project documenting Del Norte County and was able to work about half the time he was here. The sky just didn’t cooperate with his large format camera.

Well, Lord knows there’s much work I need to get done at home while I’m waiting for Charter, so sun or no, I’ll make the most of it. Mother’s been gone for 6 weeks now. I should get her life insurance questions resolved. Open up the important papers box, find a policy from a company called Reliastar, and call the toll-free number. Oh, you get a recording that tells you to enter your social security or tax ID number then waits. And did I mention that either the name of the company has changed, or the toll-free number has. I never did catch the name given by the recorded message, but it wasn’t Reliastar. Looking through the important papers box I could not find Mother’s Social Security number. Now I know it’s here somewhere, but where? I was able to find Father’s number, so on my third call I entered that. “I do not recognize your response,” the recording answered. I did finally get through, somehow, and yes it is the right number. I still don’t know what the company’s new name is, but I guess I will find that out when the paperwork gets here. By that time I will have found the 12 copies of the Death Certificate I ordered from the Court House. They’re here. Honest they are.

Somehow it’s now time for lunch, and I still had to get to the bank, so… After fixing lunch and cleaning up the kitchen, and still no word from Charter, I gave up, grabbed Gypsy and the cameras and headed out to Crescent City. Yesterday, driving home from watching the surfers, gulls and starfish, I passed a field populated by large white birds. No, they weren’t domestic geese. I’d never seen so many cranes in one place, but as there was no shoulder and also because a California Highway Patrol car was right behind me, I drove on, making a mental note to return. On the way to the bank, I took the same back road, and sure enough, the cranes were still in the field. Even more than I had noticed on Sunday. Still no place to pull off the road safely, but it is a back road, what in Montana would be called a Farm to Market road. Throwing caution to the wind, I tried snapping a few shots through the passenger side window, but that was unsatisfying. Leaving Gypsy in the car, and the flashers flashing, I left the car half on the pavement and slowly approached the fence line. No good. The birds spook very easily. Keep trying; you never know what you might get. And after deciding that I wasn’t going to get anything terribly good, I reached in my pocket for the car keys and … No keys. They’re still in the ignition. Gypsy is in the car. Now picture this mentally as I have no photographic record of my panic. If you’ve tried to get a key made for a late-model car, you know it’s no longer a matter of running into Ace Hardware and handing the “friendly hardware man” your key. Volvo keys are particularly expensive and have a chip embedded in them that has to be programmed from Sweden. For this reason, I have only one key. It’s in the car. With a dog who can lock me out simply by jumping against the door. This is close to my worst nightmare. AND I HAVEN”T BEEN TO THE BANK YET! Fortunately, Gypsy had been just inside the tailgate watching me, and I was able to get back without her jumping against the door lock button. All controls in a modern Volvo are buttons on a flat surface, and Gypsy has managed to lock the doors, unlock the doors, roll down the windows, shift the car into winter driving mode, turn on the flashers. She has turned on the radio, changed the station and ejected the CD. She means well, and usually she’s very well behaved, but a trip in the car? Well, Daddy, I have to be able to see out, and—oh, you’ve turned on the turn signal, something must be happening. It’s so exciting! This is why her travel crate is always in the back of the car.

My Flat Cat (Hommage to Walter Hook)
http://www.rvpress.com/portfolio/hook1.html
One of the feral cats living in my backyard
(when Gypsy isn't out)
Smith River, California
1/8/07

Another hundred yards down the road and, Oh My GAWD! There’s a great blue heron right at the side of the road, not moving, looking very intent on staying hidden in plain sight. And I have nowhere to pull off. Have I mentioned that it was a frustrating day?

Once at the bank, I put Gypsy in her crate, did my banking, and headed home. Still no safe place to get off the road, and no GBH in sight this time, but the cranes are there. Once more I ease the car half-way off the road and hope that it will be safe while I try, again, to approach the cranes. I don’t want to get too close—just close enough for my 200 mm lens to pick them up clearly. But no luck. They are extremely skittish. The photograph submitted to Eyefetch I titled “Fly Away, Fly Away” as each time I came close to getting the birds in range, they rose up on their great wings and moved just a bit further on.

Home again, and no messages on the machine from Charter. I step out in the back yard, and there is one of my camera-shy feral cats, just lying on the top of the patio screen. He reminds me of Walter Hook’s series of flat cats. For copyright reasons, I won’t share my inspiration with you, but if you click on the link below my cat portrait, you’ll see what Dennis Kern and the Rattlesnake Valley Press produced as part of the Montana Centennial Portfolio, a project I was honored to be part of. While you’re looking at Walter’s “Fancy Feline,” take the time to check out Rattlesnake Valley Press. Dennis has done a lot of very good work.

By the way, Charter never did call—and if the guy called while I was away, he didn’t leave a message. My frustration level was so high that I couldn’t bring myself to work, to write, to look for those damned death certificates. But just like the words on this screen, they’re here somewhere. As is the answer to my frustration. If only I can find the button to push so that it all becomes clear.

Cranes, and Cows, and Plains
Thank you Burt Bacharach for putting that thought in my mind
Smith River, California
1/8/07

I tried to find a poem about cranes to share with you, but I have no thematic index. And if you do a Google search on cranes + poetry, you get lots of stuff on Hart Crane, Stephen Crane, and a few sites looking to sell you anthologies of Chinese poetry. I did find one lovely poem by Marilyn Peretti who has dedicated herself to saving cranes. I have reproduced the poem here, taking it off her web site:

http://www.pagesbyperetti.com/cranebook.html

It’s now 5:15 a.m., and in an hour I leave to take the Volvo in for service. Blessings and peace to all who have hung in there this far—and to those who haven’t as well. There’s enough blessing and peace for all, if we only accept it.

Birds in brMarsh Beds

Marsh Beds

Birds in branches
for the night
do not mock
long legged cranes.

Gravity pulls us all
to our own beds
for respite from
day’s winged work.

Trees of leaf
do not hug marshes
but leave them to the sky,
to wane and swell,

like black wet mirrors,
waters soaked with beds of
grasses, shallow, where
tall cranes stand, and sleep.

Marilyn Peretti

A little blood with your lime, sir?

Definitely not smooth sailing. Morning high seas at Pebble Beach
Crescent City California
December 15th, 2006

It was my intent, when I started this blog project, to write a 1000-word column daily. I would get up, read the papers, and set myself to writing. As a morning person, I felt that writing first thing would probably be best. So far it hasn’t happened on a consistent basis. Oh, I’ve written every day, but as I sit typing this out, it’s 7:45 p.m.—hardly first thing in the morning. On the other hand, writing in the evening gives me a whole day’s activities to reflect upon.

I find myself living close to my dream life. There are no clocks that I have to punch. No bosses demanding that I be in the office on time—or even early. If I want to take a nap at 1:30, I can. Gypsy isn’t going to stop me. Not at all. She’s very happy to join me. If I want to sit in the barcalounger with my current read, I can do just that. It’s practically ideal.

There are, however, a few nasty intrusions that have to be dealt with. I have to pay bills. I have to monitor the bank accounts. I have to eat. Today was a day for all of the above—and a frustrating day it has been. Oh it got off to a good start. I got up, logged into my bullion account and found that Ron had paid me almost $3,000 from his 917 Horsepower program. That was nice, but not unexpected. I spent roughly an hour and a half working my on-line money-making programs. Once I finished with them, I knew I had to bit the bullet, as it were, and pay some bills. That meant that I had to move some money from savings to checking. No problem, I’ll just log into the bank account and take care of that.

Frustration number 1: Banking sites that don’t give clear instructions on how to locate your accounts. Currently I have eight different bank accounts at four different institutions. I don’t say this to brag. There are valid reasons why my finances are spread around. After all, I currently have three different addresses. I’m beginning to feel a bit schizophrenic. All I wanted to do was move money from a savings account to a checking account—both at the same institution. Back in August of ’06, working with my personal banker, I simplified the situation my mother had set up. Prior to the simplification, I got a paper statement monthly from the bank which showed all of the accounts—and there were a lot. I could also access these accounts on line with no difficulty. After the simplification, I started getting two separate statements, mailed at different times, and they didn’t show all the accounts. No problem—the main account that was missing on paper did show up on line. However, two other accounts did not. Neither savings account was now to be found when I logged on. This morning I could have driven into Crescent City and asked for a transfer—a relatively simple and painless transaction that would have taken all of five minutes in the bank, plus the 40 minutes or so driving there and back. No, I said. I’ll do it on line. This turned out to be a bit difficult since, as I have already mentioned repeatedly, the savings accounts were not available on line. I spent a good bit of time clicking here, going there, logging out and back in, and could find absolutely nothing to show how to access my invisible accounts. In a fit of desperation, I called the bank’s customer service number—well, one of their customer service numbers.

Still not smooth sailing. Evening high seas at Sunset Beach
Coos County Oregon
December 19th, 2006

This particular bank has branches in most parts of the country—heck in most parts of the world--but not in Montana. To call customer service, you first have to determine which division will be of most help. No problem—online banking was the obvious choice. Next, you have to determine whether the account is in California or somewhere else. Again, no problem, it’s in California. Dial the number, get a recording, “If you want x say or hit ‘1’ now, if you want ………………….. [silence]. I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your response. If you want x, say or hit ‘1’ now. If you want ………………… [more silence].” Since I didn’t want x, I had no idea what to do at this point. Finally, the third time listening to the menu, I was able to determine that I should probably say or hit “2.” Eventually I got through to a real person who was confused because my question involved “online banking.” Well, yes. That’s why I dialed that particular number in the first place. He transferred me to someone else who was confused because I should have called the California number. Excuse me, but I did. By this point, my frustration level is beginning to soar. Rather than ask me to start all over, the nice woman at non-California customer service transferred me to an equally nice man who could, and did, help me. Now all I have to do is log out, log back in, and everything will be on the screen in front of me. And indeed, once I did just that, it was. Relax. Breathe. Move funds. Good. Life is definitely good, but quite a chunk of the morning is now gone.

There were other frustrations during the morning, but by 1:00 I had the bills paid—well all but Linens N Things who wants you to use MyCheckFree to pay your LnT bill online, but won’t allow you to add LnT to your regular MyCheckFree account. No, you have to have a separate MyCheckFree account just for LnT. Rather than let my frustration level grow any higher, I decided to not pay LnT. Or rather to ignore LnT altogether. I do get a paper bill from them and last bill there was no balance due, so…..

Lunch time was uneventful. Salmon salad using Costco’s Kingsland canned salmon, mayo, dill pickle, celery and Fred Meyer’s pico de gallo. It tasted great and left me in the mood for a nice nap with Gypsy. See, I told you that I can take a nap at 1:30 if I want to. I can also read should I want to, so after a brief nap, I opened Paul Theroux’s My Other Life and continued reading where I had left off. Later, back in my study, trying to catch up with the reviews my photographs have received, and also with the e-mail, I grew tired of sitting in front of the computer. There was one interesting item in the e-mail, however, an Emeril Lagasse recipe for Yucatan Lime Soup. That sounded like a perfect dinner, so into the kitchen to determine what I’d have to pick up at the store. Chicken breast, tomatoes, Serrano peppers, cilantro, limes, avocados. I had all the spices necessary—but one of these days I have to reorganize the spice rack(s). Now is where things really get interesting….

Home from the store, I start cutting the chicken breast into 1 inch cubes. My friend Carl had given me a new Ginsu knife at Christmas, even though I’d been told that you should never accept a knife as a gift. Pay them at least one cent or you’ll be in trouble. I had completely forgotten to pay anything to Carl, and was happily cutting away when I sliced into my left index finger. It wouldn’t stop bleeding, no matter how long I held it under cold water, so I grabbed a paper towel and wrapped it around my finger.

At this point, the olive oil in the pan on the stove decided it had reached its limit, and burst into flame. Figuring that this was a “grease” fire, and therefore not likely to respond well to water, I covered the pan with its lid, and the flames went out. As soon as I lifted the lid, however, the flames shot up again. It’s an electric stove. You can’t just turn off the heat. Removing the lidded soup pot from the hot burner, I almost lost it due to the acrid stench of burnt tortillas and olive oil. Let’s see, spurting blood, flaming oil, how exciting can this recipe get? To curtail an already too long story, the finished soup was excellent. Should you wish to try it yourself, go to www.foodnetwork.com and search for “Yucatan Lime Soup.” I recommend omitting the blood and flaming oil.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tackle “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” and/or the Massachusetts Legislature. For now, I think I’ll just ride off into the sunset—or the surf—or … oh you get the picture.

Oh screw it all. Let's just ride off into the surf.
Seven Devils State Park, Coos County Oregon
December 19th, 2006
(I don't know why, but this scene makes me think of France.)